Summit Fever

Chapter 1: The Weight of Ashes

The small brass urn fit perfectly in Glenda Fielding's palm, worn smooth by fourteen months of handling. She'd carried it everywhere since the funeral—to the grocery store, to physical therapy, to the empty bedroom where she still slept on her side of the mattress. Now it sat in the mesh pocket of her expedition pack, wrapped in the same blue silk scarf that Margaret had worn on their wedding day.

"You're really going through with this," said Dr. Patterson, not quite a question. He'd been Glenda's physician for twenty years, long enough to know when arguing was pointless.

"I promised her."

"You promised her a lot of things. I'm sure one of them was growing old together."

Glenda looked up from lacing her boots. The examination room felt smaller than usual, cluttered with the detritus of her final medical clearance—EKG printouts, blood pressure cuffs, the cold stethoscope Patterson kept pressing to her chest as if hoping to find some excuse to ground her.

"She knew what she was asking," Glenda said. "She knew better than anyone."

Margaret Chen Fielding had been a documentary filmmaker, a woman who'd spent thirty years following Glenda up mountains with a camera and an inexhaustible supply of patience. She'd filmed the 1994 K2 disaster from Base Camp, captured the first all-women's ascent of Annapurna, and documented Glenda's record-breaking traverse of the Karakoram. When the pancreatic cancer diagnosis came, Margaret had made exactly one request.

"Take me to Everest. Not my body—just enough of me to see the sunrise."

Patterson sighed and signed the form. "Your heart's strong. Lungs are clear. Blood work's acceptable for a woman half your age." He paused. "But you're sixty-two, Glenda. Your last serious climb was—"

"Seven years ago. Cho Oyu. I remember."

"And your knee?"

"Titanium holds up better than bone."

He handed her the clearance papers. "I've written letters for a lot of climbers over the years. Some of them didn't come back."

"I know." She tucked the papers into her jacket. "I was married to the woman who filmed their memorials."

The flight to Kathmandu left in six hours. Glenda had already said goodbye to their daughter in Seattle, endured the tears and the accusations and the eventual, grudging acceptance. She'd sold the house in Boulder, donated Margaret's cameras to the film school, and reduced her life to what could fit in an eighty-liter pack.

At the airport, she paused at the security checkpoint and touched the urn through the fabric of her bag.

"Almost there," she whispered. "Just a little further."

The TSA agent gave her a strange look but waved her through.

Kathmandu hadn't changed much since her last visit—still the same chaos of motorbikes and prayer flags, the same smell of incense and diesel, the same impossible optimism that hung over the city like the Himalayan haze. Glenda checked into the Hotel Yak and Yeti, where she'd stayed a dozen times before, and spent three days acclimatizing and reviewing the expedition details.

The team would be small: six climbers plus support staff, led by a British guide named Marcus Pemberton whom Glenda had never met. The other clients were younger, less experienced, drawn to Everest by bucket lists and Instagram followers. Glenda didn't judge them for it. Everyone had their reasons for wanting to touch the sky.

She met them for the first time at the pre-expedition briefing, held in a cramped conference room overlooking the hotel's garden. Marcus stood at the front, all crisp efficiency and practiced charm, running through the itinerary with the ease of a man who'd given this speech a hundred times.

"We'll fly to Lukla tomorrow morning, weather permitting. From there, it's a ten-day trek to Base Camp, with rest days built in for acclimatization. We'll spend three weeks at Base Camp, making rotation climbs to establish higher camps and get your bodies used to the altitude. Summit push is scheduled for mid-May, during the weather window."

Glenda studied her fellow climbers while Marcus talked. There was Derek Okonkwo, a forty-five-year-old investment banker from London with the nervous energy of a man who'd never failed at anything and wasn't sure how to handle the possibility. Beside him sat Priya Sharma, a thirty-two-year-old software engineer from Mumbai who'd already summited six of the Seven Summits and approached Everest with the methodical determination of someone debugging code. The youngest was Connor Walsh, twenty-six, a personal trainer from Dublin who'd won his spot through a charity lottery and seemed perpetually stunned by his own presence.

"Any questions?" Marcus asked.

Derek raised his hand. "What about the death zone? How long will we be above eight thousand meters?"

"Ideally, no more than eighteen hours. We'll leave Camp Four around midnight, summit by sunrise, and descend the same day. The longer you stay up there, the more your body deteriorates."

"And if something goes wrong?"

Marcus's smile didn't waver. "That's what you're paying me for. I've summited Everest eleven times. I know this mountain better than I know my own home. Trust the process, follow my instructions, and we'll all be celebrating in Kathmandu by the end of May."

Glenda said nothing. She'd heard speeches like this before, from guides who'd gone on to die on the very mountains they claimed to master. The Himalayas didn't care about experience or confidence. They only cared about physics: the weight of snow, the speed of wind, the slow failure of human cells starved of oxygen.

After the briefing, Marcus approached her. "Mrs. Fielding. It's an honor to have you on the team."

"Glenda, please."

"I've studied your climbs. The '89 Everest expedition, the Annapurna traverse, the rescue on K2—"

"Ancient history."

"Still impressive." He hesitated. "I understand this is a memorial climb. I want you to know we'll do everything we can to help you complete your objective."

"I appreciate that."

"Is there anything special you need? Any accommodations?"

"Just get me to the summit. I'll handle the rest."

That night, Glenda sat on her hotel balcony and watched the lights of Kathmandu flicker beneath the stars. The urn sat on the table beside her, catching the glow of the city.

"You always said I was stubborn," she told Margaret. "You said it would be the death of me someday. Maybe you were right. But I'm not dying until I keep this promise."

The urn didn't answer. It never did. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, Glenda could almost hear Margaret's voice—that warm, teasing tone that had anchored her through thirty-one years of marriage.

"Don't be dramatic, darling. Just climb the damn mountain."

Glenda smiled and went to bed.