Morning at camp 3.

Morning at camp 3. photo by
Dan Zokaites

I tented again with Pal at camp 3. It was another difficult night for him. Pal’s cold was in full swing and he fought to clear the congestion in his lungs, coughing and hacking in a cadence only broken by want of blowing his nose. I felt bad for Pal, but after two nights of broken sleep I was starting to also feel bad for myself.  Pal was taking various cold remedies gathered from team members and nothing more could be done for him.  I, however, needed sleep if I was going to keep up the grinding pace of our trek. As well, I most sincerely did not wish to acquire Pal’s cold. It had been suggested by Jason, our now-departed Lead Guide, that team members rotate tent partners regularly to keep a fresh dynamic going. I resolved to renew this idea at day’s end.

Our tent had been pitched on a slope sufficient to gather myself and sleeping bag in a fetal position at the downhill wall several times during the night. Again I rose with a troubled lower back. I pulled on my cold wet rubber boots and trudged down to the cook tent. Raymond, the cook’s assistant, had gathered our wet clothing the night before and prevailed upon the Porters to dry them on a wooden rack over the fire in their long tribal tent. “Good morning, Mr. Dave,” he said, offering up a broad smile. Like Jaimie, our head cook, Raymond is vastly tattooed. Images of fish scales, spider webs and vaguely ominous symbols share space across his shoulders, back and chest. When I ask about them Raymond eludes to his mis-spent youth. He is now studying to become a Pastor with the Calvinist church back in Jakarta. “Making up for past life,” he explains in a tone of regret.  The Blogger in me would like to invite further comment, but I do not wish to risk prying. We are a climbing team first, the chemistry of which must be guarded at all times. My brother in-law Ty, an Emmy winning news journalist, would cringe at my cowardice.

I gather my stiff smoky clothing and head back to my tent with a hot mug of Starbucks & Milo Mocha (“Stilo”).  After gobbling a handful of Ibuprofen I begin the long process of stretching out my back. The sun has just risen. Warmth comes with the first rays of light to touch me. It is a Zen-like moment. I imagine my Yoga instructor, Loren, speaking soft words as I move from pose to pose. Two boys from the tribe come to watch as I contort oddly. I have come to know one by the name “Tatoosh.” He is 12 years old and likes to hang around me at the camps. Tatoosh and his friend have figured out that I am having difficulty. They breakdown the tent Pal and I had used and package it up neatly. As they resume watching my Yoga I pause to demonstrate the Mr. T device. Much celebration results. I let them play with the device as I finish stretching, the calming voice of my Yoga instructor now replaced with “I pity the fool!” 

Pal (in orange), Me, Tatoosh and his friend. Photo by Dan Zokaites.