The Lion Of Khum Jung - Ronald Bagliere

Mountaineering Adventure Fiction Set In Nepal

The Lion Of Khum Jung by Ronald Bagliere

Book excerpt

Frank opened the door to his hotel room and hit the switch. He hadn’t known what to expect when he finally met the Widow and her son, other than he had been determined not to like them any more than was necessary. Yes, the tragedy on Everest involving Steven Madden had happened a long time ago, and yes, Frank had told himself he had gotten over it, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten it. Added to that was the fact that the Widow and her son were Americans, expecting folks to lay down the red carpet for them. He snorted. They’d soon find out things didn’t quite work that way on the mountain. Frank Kincaid was not a cruise director nor did he concern himself with being their personal valet.

He cleared a pile of regulatory expedition documents from his bed and plopped them on the dresser. Why hadn’t he told his front office to call the son back and cancel the American’s expedition reservation when he found out about it? And letting the mother tag along and live with them at Base Camp? Sure, the extra $10,000 from her would help in financing the classroom addition he was building with the support of the Hillary Trust in Khum Jung; and yes, he’d occasionally allowed family members to be present during expeditions. But that was generally reserved for repeat clients with enthusiastic loved ones. Greg Madden and his mother were neither of those things.

Was the need to see the son and widow of the man who was responsible for killing his best friend so long ago morbid curiosity or did he want vengeance? Frank refused to believe it was the latter because it would mean he was vindictive and self-serving. Yet, with every day leading up to this night, the anger he’d worked so hard to repress over the years had grown exponentially.

He took a long look at himself in the dresser mirror as he unbuttoned his shirt. What were the chances he’d be guiding the son of the man who’d brought so much pain to him and those he cared about? Then again, Frank had learned that karma had a way of reconciling itself. He tossed his shirt over his backpack and sat on the bed, pulling his legs into a lotus position. Lying on his pillow beside him was his satchel. In it was a tattered book of Buddhist stories he’d put down on paper over the years. He pulled it out, leafed through it, and thought of what Ang Tashi-ring would say. He already knew the answer the old Buddhist lama would give him: “. . . what lesson are you about to learn? And are you ready to hear it?”

Frank peered out the window across the courtyard toward the Widow’s room. He knew anger was a ghost, an irrational emotion that could control his life if he let it. He took several deep, measured breaths to take back control of the angst that was twisting his stomach into knots. As he did so, he realized he had a mountain of his own to climb. It was a different kind of mountain, yet no less dangerous than the one awaiting the young American client. At length, he looked down at the book in his hands, drank in the words on the page, and read, “If you light a lamp for somebody, it will also brighten your own path.”

He sighed.

***

The next morning, Frank woke early from a dreamless sleep. He quickly showered and went to work reviewing the expedition climbing permits and the shipping paperwork for the cargo and equipment. On top of the pile were copies of statements from the various alpine clubs attesting to his clients’ climbing abilities. He glanced at them one more time, and seeing the American’s halfway down, pulled it out and looked it over. Having summited the Matterhorn by way of the south face, along with Denali, Greg Madden was no tenderfoot. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t reckless either. When pushing for a summit, people often took ill-advised chances. Frank would have none of that on Everest.

Next, he took one last glance at the insurance policies for his Sherpas along with the required Ice Fall and ground transportation fees. Once he was satisfied that all the t’s were crossed and the i’s dotted, he picked up his cell phone and called his local rep, Daku, to give him flight numbers and arrival times for the client’s oxygen. Finally, last but not least, he pulled out his schedule to go over the day’s tasks.

First thing would be a short briefing with his clients after breakfast to go over upcoming details and make introductions. Afterward, he would take them to the Nepalese Trekking Ministry to file essential paperwork and pay the fees, along with having a brief meeting. From there, it would be on to another meeting to provide information for the mountaineering historical records.

The afternoon would then be devoted to confirming flights to Lukla and overnight accommodations in Namche and Tengboche. Between these last-minute details was a phone call to the Inland Revenue Department (IRD) over back taxes they were insisting he owed, even though he had receipts to prove otherwise. Someone there had it in for him, and he had a good idea who was behind it. The problem was, his documentation proving he paid the taxes would be swept under the proverbial rug because in this instance, it wasn’t about the money—it was about shutting him down and settling a score. That it was jeopardizing his support of the school in Khum Jung pissed him off even more.

He clenched his fist and tried to put the issue with taxes behind him for the moment. It was going to be a long day for sure, so he’d best get to it. He threw his paperwork into his satchel, stepped into his sandals, and went out of his room into the warmth of the early morning sunshine pouring down into the courtyard. As he strode down an open-air stairway, he saw Toby and Jakob heading out into the courtyard with their breakfasts.

The Austrian clients had arrived the day before yesterday along with the Aussie. The two Italians, an Irishman, and two Frenchmen came in on Monday. The Widow and her son rounded out the climbing permit to nine. Frank preferred small numbers in his expeditions as opposed to one of the larger companies on the mountain. Besides, having smaller numbers allowed him to get to know folks better going up the mountain. That, and it made it manageable for his Sherpa guides. Two or three clients per team were more than enough for one guide to handle.

As he stepped off the last stair tread, he was greeted by his assistant, Sangye, a short, wiry bronze-skinned young man with a bright smile and friendly brown eyes.

Frank put his arm over the man’s shoulder and gave him a good squeeze. “Sleep well?”

“I did, and you?” Sangye replied as they walked in lockstep toward the dining room.

“I’m still kicking, so I guess so,” Frank quipped. He withdrew his arm from Sangye’s shoulder and dug his cell phone out. As he checked his text messages, he added, “You get ahold of Guna?”

“Yes, he is bringing the van around just now and will park it outside the lobby,” Sangye answered.

“Good,” Frank replied. He slipped his cell phone back into his pocket and eyed the two Austrians, who were sitting just outside the dining room in the shade of an overhanging veranda. By the look of their breakfast plates, Frank wondered if there was anything left at the buffet.

Tapping Sangye on the arm, he said, “You go on in. I’m going to go have a chat with the boys over there.” Walking over to them, he donned a smile. “Namaste.”

The men looked up as Frank snatched a chair from a nearby table. “Good morning,” Jakob replied in a thick Austrian accent.

Frank flipped the chair around so the back of it was against his chest and straddled it. “You’re enjoying breakfast, I see.”

Toby shoveled a forkful of fried potatoes into his mouth and nodded. Jakob said, “It’s not bad. Could use a little more seasoning.”

Frank appraised the large fair-haired men. They were in marvelous shape, but being large and muscular wasn’t necessarily a good thing for where they were going. “You might want to ease up on the chow. The mountain will make you pay for it.”

Both men eyed him quizzically then glanced down at their plates. Jakob set his fork down and leveled a pointed gaze at Frank. “It has never been a problem before.”

“Except neither of you have been higher than 6,500 meters. Normally, calorie intake is a good thing up on the mountain because your body works harder up there. But being large and muscular has its drawbacks. Your bodies demand more oxygen and once you’re over 8,800 meters with the air volume being a third of what it is down here, it becomes a lot more difficult, if you get my drift,” Frank countered. “Trust me, ease on up the chow. You’ll thank me for it later.”

The men darted glances at their plates and then at each other. Jakob frowned. “I had not thought of that before.”

Frank got up and slid his chair back under the table beside him. “You’ll be okay. Just need to pay attention to intake is all. All right, I’m off to get a cup of tea.” He pointed to the far end of the courtyard. There, a small round pool with a stone sculpture of a lotus flower was adding its burbling voice to the sounds of the waking city. “When you’re done, join me for a briefing over there by the fountain.”

The Austrians nodded and a moment later, Frank heard them break into their native tongue as he walked into the dining room. Grabbing a cup of masala tea off the end of the buffet table, he went over to the French and Italian clients who were sitting with the Aussie and the Irishman.

“Namaste, gentlemen,” he said, offering them a practiced smile.

“Morning,” replied the Italian named Carlo. He pulled a chair out for Frank. The Frenchman named Vicq said, “So, is everyone here now?”

Frank drank a gulp of tea and considered the short, lean man. Vicq certainly got right to the point. Though he could appreciate the man’s desire to get things moving, Vicq needed to understand folks in Nepal didn’t necessarily adhere to the schedules of the Western world. He patted the man’s shoulder. “All here. Relax, guy, enjoy the morning.”

Vicq sat back stiffly and looked out over the wrought iron rail to the courtyard beyond. Frank ignored the muttered French and turned to Carlo and Rene. After exchanging pleasantries with them, he said, “We’ll be heading to the Ministry today for final paperwork. Everyone have their fees worked out?”

“All set,” Carlo replied as the other Italian, Lanzo, came over and joined them. “So, when are we leaving for Lukla?”

“If all goes according to plan, Friday,” Frank said. “Depends on the weather. I’ll go over that in our briefing right after breakfast.”

Lanzo took a sip of coffee, and setting his cup down, asked, “And where would this briefing be?”

“Right outside. It’s pretty informal,” Frank said. He turned around and called out to Sangye. “Hey, Sangye, could you have someone gang some tables and chairs up outside by the fountain?” As he turned back to his clients, the Widow and her son entered the room.

He watched them wade through the sea of tables to the buffet. The Widow was wearing a crisp white cotton blouse and tan khakis. As she took up a bowl and perused the offerings under the domed metal lids, he got up and went over to greet her.

“Well, good morning, Mr. Kincaid,” she said without turning around. Frank was surprised. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Your cologne. It’s quite distinctive.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Frank said. He grabbed a plate and piled a spoonful of potatoes and onions onto it.

Sarah lifted the lid off the tub of scrambled eggs and spooned out a couple helpings. As she dashed salt and pepper over them, she looked up and gave him a diffident smile. “It’s nice.”

Frank sensed her ambivalence as he snatched a napkin. “How’d you sleep?” he said, offering her a friendly smile.

“I didn’t,” she replied tightly and turned toward her son, who was standing at the far end of the buffet waiting for the toaster to pop. “Greg, could you throw a couple slices in for me, too?”

Greg looked up. “Sure . . . Oh, morning, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Namaste,” Frank replied. “Going to try the porridge, huh?”

“Thought I might. Looks good,” Greg said as the toaster popped up.

“It is,” Frank replied. “They call it Halwa here.”

Sarah rolled back a barrel-topped lid and peered down into a steaming tub. “What are these?”

Frank peered over her shoulder. “Roti—it’s fried unleavened bread. It’s good, especially with honey. You should try some. The vegetable curry is good, too.”

“Hmm . . . interesting,” she muttered. She grabbed the tongs and took one out. Placing it on her plate, she went around him and scooped some mangos and pineapple up along with a banana. Shooting Frank a thin smile, she added, “I’d better get out of the way and let you boys chit-chat.”

“Nonsense, join us,” Frank insisted.

“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Sarah replied, glancing furtively toward her son. “Don’t take it personally. I just feel like being alone right now.”

Frank nodded and watched her wend her way out into the courtyard. Things were definitely going to be different up in Base Camp this year.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Ronald Bagliere

BOOK TITLE: The Lion Of Khum Jung

GENRE: Adventure

SUBGENRE: Mountaineering Adventure

PAGE COUNT: 422

“The Lion of Khum Jung is an intensely gripping read. This book kept me on the edge of my chair from the prologue to the last page. Ronald Bagliere obviously knows his stuff, both about mountain climbing and crafting a heart-poundingly suspenseful story”

— Bob Dunbar

“The perfect balance of tension, danger, feelings and scenery... Takes your breath away”

— Emma Robuck

“A great mix of adventure, romance, drama and tragedy, with a documentary account of climbing and culture of people surrounding the region and the overwhelming mountain. I truly enjoyed it.”

— Joseph R. Caezza