Whiteout: 2 (Lopsang)

2. Lopsang

     Two days earlier we had arrived in a small farming village right at the base of the mountain. The scene was chaos; goat shit in the streets, prayer flags molding and rotting in every corner imaginable, and the omnipresent smell of incense mixed with cheap mountain wine. The town was well known for its Sherpa crews that would help take climbers up the mountains every spring, but this was autumn, and business was slow.

     Luckily, we weren’t there to climb. A week prior I had received an interesting letter at my office. It was a single scroll of parchment and a plane ticket to Lukla. The message was simple ‘We have a problem, we’re willing to pay you much money to fix it.’  I was intrigued by the destination, as well as the potential to receive ‘much money’. At the least I could go there, reject their offer and get drunk in a Nepalese climbing lodge. There wasn’t a downside.

     The kid managed to buy his own ticket with the money from a run-of-the-mill lake monster we had disposed of earlier that month, and soon we were both in a plane that had no right to be in the sky. Corrugated metal and oval shaped pieces of plastic were the only things separating us from the 20,000 foot fall to the valley below. It would take about 5 seconds to reach the bottom, but what a ride it would have been.

     Arriving at the town was a bit like a scene in an adventure movie, where the entire comes out to kiss Indy’s feet for saving them. It was a little less glamorous than I had expected. I had been to Nepal twice, just killing dire wolves and dispelling rumors of sorcery, but the welcomes had been warm, and the parties even warmer. The only way to keep out the bitter chill from the mountains above is with a constant line of mountain wine and smoke.

     The village itself was simple. Two rows of medium sized wood buildings with a trampled pile of mud and shit in the middle. It was better than most. On the outskirts were small shrines of stone and plank, barely standing against the mighty wind that seemed to blow always. In the distance there were rice paddies and jungle valleys, and above there was nothing but the mountain.

     It stuck out like a sore thumb, dominating the rest of the landscape. It was the watcher, always reminding the village of who its true master was. The early snows of fall had already blanketed even the lowlands, bathing the mountain in pristine white. At the top where the winds were too strong for fresh powder, glaciers graced the sides like angry sores. There was no escaping its presence, it was everywhere.

     “Hello, hello, you must be Dr. Venter!” Said a young man running through the streets, waving his arms like a madman. For some reason they always assume that you’re a doctor. People in my field are generally assumed to be educated on some level. I on the other hand have a bachelor’s in political science (fat lot of good that ended up doing me). Surprisingly my textbooks had less to do with hunting mythical creatures and more about slowing down progress to a rate where government was manageable. If only I had figured it out earlier…

     “Just Nick thanks. You are?” The man standing in front of me was short, not freakishly short, but well below the average height, even compared to the other residents. He wore a thick fur coat and a pair of black goggles strapped to the top of a brown woolen cap. He was a guide, his gear and stature fit the part perfectly.  

     “Lopsang! I wrote the letter. I knew you’d come. They said you wouldn’t, but I knew you would.”

     “Uh, yeah, of course.” It was strange to see someone having faith in me when I had little faith in myself.  

     “Who is this?” He motioned to James, bundled in a bright orange coat and carrying all of our bags.

     “My apprentice, James.” He never liked that term, said it made him feel like a wizard. If only…

     “Manchester?”

     “You’re telling me that you’ve never heard of The Manchester?” He shakes his head as though the name means absolutely nothing to him. He’s willing to pay thousands of dollars but doesn’t know the best in the field? “You’re that new to the hunting game?”

     “The only thing I’ve hunted for is quail.”

     “You’re a curious man.”

     “So are you. Who was Manchester?”

     This man is more than he seems. “Look, I had killed my fair share of beasties, but never anything like him. That guy took down The Loch Ness Monster in a night. A creature that historians and biologists had been hunting for centuries, and he took it down in a night. He didn’t even need a team. Just him, a sword and a dingy.”

     “You sound like you admired him? Was there no rivalry there?”

     “People would always ask if I competed with him, truth was there was no competing. He was far better than I could have ever been. That being said, I did have a bit of a youthful vengeance about me, but we’ll get to that later. Can I continue?”

     That night we stayed in one of the large lodges meant for mountaineers. For the most part it was empty. There aren’t often people brave enough to try the mountain in the fall. It’s too unpredictable. Feet of snow can come in a matter of hours, the whiteouts are blinding, and other things occupy the mountain. Fall is hunting season for all manner of reasons. Most people think the Sherpas won’t go up there because of the avalanches, but they could climb well into winter if they wanted to.

     They’ve lived in peace with that mountain for a long time, and there’s a reason. Once the fall comes, they stay well away from those tormented slopes. Fortunately, I was just dumb enough to take a job with them.

     That night we met Lopsang down at a small bar in the lodge. It was more of a man standing behind a wooden counter passing out hot wine, but it was the closest thing we had. We sat at a corner table with a thin window looking out into the darkness. A light snow had begun to frost the mud outside. The only light came from the temples, and even that was soon extinguished.

     We drank and told stories of previous adventures. Lopsang had summited the mountain earlier that spring with an American climbing team. He was one of the most experienced guides in the village, but when I asked him about the job I saw fear in his eyes. When a man who can look up at a lonely peak, 29,000 feet in the air and see a trail feels fear, that’s the time to turn tail and run the other direction.

     “Come on Lopsang, what are we hunting up here? What’s going on around here?” He looked distressed.

     “I will show you. Come.” We donned our jackets and thick boots to head into the dark. From a post on the inside of the lodge door Lopsang pulled a small torch and led us out into the street. The mud crunched under our feet as we walked. Small flakes fell sporadically, giving rise to a white mist that mingled with our breath as we walked.

     “Should we be going out at night?” asked James timidly.

     “We’re not hunting vampires here pal. Wait, we’re not right?”

     “No.” Lopsang continued forward to the edge of the village where a low picket fence surrounded a small cemetery. There were four fresh graves adorned with white mountain flowers. “This is my brother’s.” He said motioning to the first mound in the dirt. “He was just guiding a group to base camp; they weren’t planning on going any higher. They made it there just fine, but something happened to them that night.

     “When they didn’t return for a week, we went after them. All we found was torn canvas and blood. No bodies were left whole. We only found pieces.” Silence fell over the graves. I had seen it before, but for James things were still new. I could feel his fear. It had no place there; I should have just left him…