The Descent

'Bonpo!'  one  of  the  women  barked  at  Owen.  The  coven  seemed  to  take  collective delight  in  savaging  Owen  and  Bernard,  the  other  man.  Ike  had  been  spared  so  far. They  treated  him as a harmless Himalayan hillbilly. Fine with him.

'But the Bonpo were  pre-Buddhist,' the woman expounded.

The  women  were  mostly  Buddhist  students  from  a  New  Age  university.  These things mattered  very  much to them.

Their  goal  was  –  or  had  been  –  Mount  Kailash,  the  pyramidal  giant  just  east  of  the Indian border. 'A Canterbury  Tale  for the World Pilgrim'  was  how  he'd  advertised  the trip. A kor –  a  Tibetan  walkabout  –  to  and  around  the  holiest  mountain  in  the  world. Eight  thousand  per  head,  incense  included.  The  problem  was,  somewhere  along  the trail he'd managed to misplace the mountain.  It  galled  him.  They  were  lost.  Beginning at dawn today, the sky  had changed from blue to milky  gray.  The  herders  had  quietly bolted  with  the  yaks.  He  had  yet  to  announce  that  their  tents  and  food  were  history. The  first  sloppy  snowflakes  had  started  kissing  their  Gore-Tex  hoods  just  an  hour ago,  and  Ike  had  taken  this  cave  for  shelter.  It  was  a  good  call.  He  was  the  only  one who  knew   it,  but   they   were   now   about   to   get   sodomized   by   an   old-fashioned Himalayan tempest.

Ike  felt  his  jacket  being  tugged  to  one  side,  and  knew  it  would  be  Kora,  wanting  a private  word.  'How  bad  is  it?'  she  whispered.  Depending  on  the  hour  and  day,  Kora was  his  lover,  base-camp  shotgun,  or  business  associate.  Of  late,  it  was  a  challenge

estimating  which  came  first  for  her,  the  business  of  adventure  or  the  adventure  of business. Either way,  their little trekking  company was no longer charming to her.

Ike  saw no reason to front-load it with negatives.  'We've got a great  cave,' he said.

'Gee.'

'We're still in the black, head-count-wise.'

'The itinerary's  in ruins. We were  behind as it was.'

'We're  fine.  We'll  take  it  out  of  the  Siddhartha's  Birthplace  segment.'  He  kept  the worry  out  of  his  voice,  but  for  once  his  sixth  sense,  or  whatever  it  was,  had  come  up short,  and  that  bothered  him.  'Besides,  getting  a  little  lost  will  give  them  bragging rights.'

'They  don't want bragging rights. They  want schedule. You don't know  these  people. They're  not your  friends. We'll get sued if  they  don't  make  their  Thai  Air  flight  on  the nineteenth.'

'These  are  the  mountains,'  said  Ike.  'They'll  understand.'  People  forgot.  Up  here,  it was a mistake to take  even  your  next  breath  for granted.

'No,  Ike.  They  won't  understand.  They  have  real  jobs.  Real  obligations.  Families.' That  was  the  rub.  Again.  Kora  wanted  more  from  life.  She  wanted  more  from  her pathless Pathfinder.

'I'm doing the best  I can,' Ike  said.

Outside,  the  storm  went  on  horsewhipping  the  cave  mouth.  Barely  May,  it  wasn't supposed  to  be  this  way.  There  should  have  been  plenty  of  time  to  get  his  bunch  to, around,  and  back  from  Kailash.  The  bane  of  mountaineers,  the  monsoon  normally didn't spill across the mountains this far north. But as  a  former  Everester  himself,  Ike should have  known better  than  to  believe  in  rain  shadows  or  in  schedules.  Or  in  luck. They  were  in  for  it  this  time.  The  snow  would  seal  their  pass  shut  until  late  August. That  meant  he  was  going  to  have  to  buy  space  on  a  Chinese  truck  and  shuttle  them home via Lhasa – and that came out of  his  land  costs.  He  tried  calculating  in  his  head, but their quarrel overcame  him.

'You do  know  what  I  mean  by  Bonpo,'  a  woman  said.  Nineteen  days  into  the  trip, and  Ike  still  couldn't  link  their  spirit  nicknames  with  the  names  in  their  passports. One  woman,  was  it  Ethel  or  Winifred,  now  preferred  Green  Tara,  mother  deity  of Tibet.  A pert  Doris Day  look-alike  swore  she  was  special  friends  with  the  Dalai  Lama. For weeks  now  Ike  had  been  listening  to  them  celebrate  the  life  of  cavewomen.  Well, he thought, here's your  cave,  ladies. Slum away.

They  were  sure  his  name  –  Dwight  David  Crockett  –  was  an  invention  like  their own. Nothing could convince them he  wasn't  one  of  them,  a  dabbler  in  past  lives.  One evening around a campfire in northern Nepal, he'd  regaled  them  with  tales  of  Andrew Jackson,  pirates  on  the  Mississippi,  and  his  own  legendary  death  at  the  Alamo.  He'd meant it as a joke, but only Kora got it.

'You  should  know  perfectly   well,'  the   woman  went   on,   'there   was   no   written language in Tibet  before the late fifth century.'

'No written  language that we know  about,' Owen said.

'Next  you'll be saying this is Yeti  language.'