Kurt stepped in, held his hand out for Mitch. “Hey, Mitch. I’m Kurt Calder, Dean Calder’s son. I heard you got evicted from ICU. I came to introduce myself and see how you’re doing.”
Mitch gaped at him as if staring at a dead man.
“He’s Dean’s son—Kurt. He’s a chaplain here at the hospital. He came to visit you several times in the ICU.”
Mitch’s gaze moved from Megs to Kurt, and he smiled. It was clear he understood—though he probably wouldn’t remember.
Megs brought Kurt up to date on Mitch’s prognosis and told Mitch that she’d read Kurt parts of his journal that had involved Dean. “I told him you wouldn’t mind.”
Kurt thanked Mitch. “I got to see a side of my father I’d never seen. I’d be interested in anything you feel like sharing. I know my sister would, too.”
“Do you have time for me to read another entry now? Mitch, would that be okay with you?”
“I would love that.” Kurt pulled over a chair.
Mitch nodded.
Megs reached for the journal, looked for an entry featuring Dean. “Oh, hey, here’s the day we summited Mt. Everest.”
Megs began to read.
May 11, 1978
Camp 4, South Col
Mt. Everest
Mitch checkedhis crampons to make sure they were tight, their headlamps bobbing in the starlit darkness of Camp 4. Dean stood beside him, ready to move on. Megs was still inside the tent, taking extra care with her feet, which had become painfully cold on yesterday’s ascent from Camp 3.
A few minutes later, she joined them. “Let’s move.”
Mitch insisted on checking her crampons first.
“Did I tie my shoes right, Daddy?” She put on the mask that would warm air before she breathed it.
Mitch did the same. “Yes. Good girl.”
Megs hadn’t said anything, but Mitch knew she must be feeling the pressure. If they were successful today, she would be the first American woman to summit Mt. Everest—and the first woman to summit without guides or supplemental oxygen.
The three of them had chosen to tackle the mountain without oxygen, believing that climbing with oxygen could make a person overly confident. Without the artificial boost, they would know exactly how well their bodies were handling the altitude—and would have to be honest about their ability to climb. As for guides, how could they say they had climbed any mountain if someone carried their gear and went ahead of them to make the path safer and more accessible?
It was probably all ego and bullshit, but it sounded good to the reporters.
It was 9 PM. when they started their summit attempt, the sky full of stars. Their goal was to be off the summit well before 2 p.m. tomorrow so they would be back at Camp 4 by late afternoon, well before any sudden storm could move in.
They were in Everest’s Death Zone now—above 26,000 feet—so none of them had the energy or breath to spare for conversation as they started up the steep Triangular Face toward an area called The Balcony. Mitch and Dean had talked it over privately. They had agreed that Megs should lead and set the pace. She was tougher than either of them, but she also had a shorter stride and smaller lung capacity.
Still, she set a brisk pace through the bitter cold, the three of them finding a rhythm, syncing their steps to their breathing.
Step, inhale. Step, exhale.
They took each step with care, each of them carrying an ice ax in case they needed to stop a fall. One slip, and they could easily plummet to their deaths.
Step, inhale. Step, exhale.
And so it went for hour after hour.
When they reached The Balcony, they stopped to hydrate and get some calories before tackling the Southeast Ridge Slabs—a steep section along a stone ridge with fixed ropes. A slip in either direction would be fatal.
