National Geographic: Return To Everest Page #3

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and a corresponding drop

in the mortality rate.

For some, the cure seemed

nearly miraculous.

Here, a boy, whose hearing has

been severely impaired since birth,

can hear the full wonder of sound

for the first time.

But as Hillary learned during

the building of

Phaphlu hospital in 1975,

preparations for errands of mercy

are sometimes of little use.

Eagerly awaiting the arrival

of his wife, Louise,

and young Belinda from Kathmandu,

he learned that both had been

killed in the crash

of their plane shortly

after takeoff.

For Hillary that day was darkness,

the beginning of a long journey

across a private wasteland

without compass or place to rest.

"I didn't really know

what else to do apart

from going on building the hospital,

and then later

we went back to Khumbu

and spent time with Mingma and

Ang Dooli and various

other friends,

and that was it. And they,

you know, they all helped a bit."

Shaken, Hillary went back to work,

building new classrooms,

adding to others.

"Thin walls. A bit bulgy."

"Yeah."

"Well, I think we had better

do a proper job of it."

"Uh, hum."

"You'll have to put a lot of

framework in, won't you?"

"Yeah. Let's measure."

Now at Namche Bazar

with his brother, Rex,

he studies the damage of time

and weather to a school

built years ago,

draws plans for needed repairs

on its structure.

"Namaste."

"I think we're going to..."

Still Hillary's trusted sirdar

or foreman,

Mingma Tsering jokes

over the division

of labor in providing the lumber

who will cut and who will carry.

"...okay, carry."

"Will they help you carry?"

"Yes. It's o. k?"

"Yeah, that's good."

"Big help."

"Those are cutting...

and they carry."

"Yep."

Drawn closer by tragedy,

Hillary and Peter each feel

a renewed awareness of the risk

that lies in every human attachment.

Now veteran climbers both,

often in personal peril,

each has seen close friends and

companions lost on mountain walls.

Even Peter was nearly sacrificed

on the soaring altar of Ama Dablam.

Struck by an avalanche high

on its icy wall,

severely injured and

climbing equipment swept away,

Peter nearly died in the two days

before he finally could

be lowered to safety.

For Hillary himself the summits

have anew and poignant meaning.

He can never again return to

those icy heights.

Several times in recent years

he has suffered critical

attacks of cerebral edema

or altitude sickness.

Twice in delirium he has had

to be led or

carried from the thin upper air

to lower altitudes to save his life.

Today,

the man who first climbed Everest

must remain below 14,000 feet.

But today with Peter and Mingma

he will press the barrier,

view at a distance the summit

on which he stood 30 years ago.

For at last Peter is ready to

answer the summons

he first felt as a 12-year-old boy

staring in awe at the mountain

his father had climbed.

Already Peter has made preparations

for an attempt on Everest

by its formidable West Ridge.

A geologic accident that

became the highest point on Earth,

Everest has long been

a challenge to Western man.

But to the Sherpas the peaks

were something else.

Migrating from Tibet

several centuries ago,

the Sherpas found an endlessly

changing world of mist and stone

where peaks and trees and streams

appeared and vanished

with magical swiftness.

Quickly their imaginations populated

the landscape with gods, demons,

and spirits of every kind.

Even the trees were sometime

believed to be

the dwelling place of sacred beings.

In a continuing dialogue

with the invisible

or disguised powers around them,

they have given prayer

a thousand forms,

a thousand means of transmission

written on hand-turned

cylinders and waterwheels,

printed on prayer flags and

banners waving in the wind,

inscribed on shrines or chortens

engraved on stone tablets or manis

even on rocks in rivers

and trailside boulders.

Committed to the elements,

it is hoped that the prayers

will reach their protective gods.

The sun diffuses the fading prayer,

rain spreads it through the rivers,

wind carries it to the heavens.

Surrounded by prayer in life,

Sherpa are followed by prayer

even in death.

Into the ear of the dead,

the dying, or those soon to die,

a monk chants passages from

the Tibetan Book of the Dead

to guide the consciousness

of the deceased in the interval

between death and rebirth.

Yet prayers must be learned and

preserved by the living.

At Thami Monastery, its greatest

library of Buddhist scripture

must be read and taught each year.

Once it was customary for one son

in each family to become a monk.

But with the growth of tourism

a young monk may well envy

the Western clothing

and wrist watch of brother

who has become a trekking guide.

First encountered as

a12-year-old boy,

the head lama again welcomes

an old friend.

With Peter and Mingma,

Hillary has come to help

preparations for Mani Rimdu,

a yearly Buddhist festival

to protect the Khumbu.

"Ah, Namaste."

"Namaste. How are you?"

"I'm very well, thank you!"

"Namaste."

In the courtyard of the monastery,

helped by barelegged monks,

Rex and the rest of

the Hillary construction team

are swiftly completing improvements

on the paved court

and adjoining structures.

With time growing short,

Hillary and Peter also

join the crew.

Soon the balcony and yard

will be crowded with Sherpas

and a few tourists who have

made the pilgrimage

over the steep mountain trails,

some from villages

many days' walk away.

With a sounding of horns

the great cycle of dances begins.

As in the religious mystery

plays of the Middle Ages,

the Sherpas act out their myths,

make theater out of faith.

Often using the symbols of

ancient beliefs in magic,

the dances again promise

the victory of good over evil.

In the Khumbu every mountain

has a spirit.

Mani Rimdu exorcises the demons

that threaten it.

Backstage in the gompa or temple,

another ritual is taking place.

Donning the sacred masks

and costumes,

decorated with an array

of mythic symbols,

men are becoming gods.

For a little while

they will become the holy figures

invented by human need.

Now, like a challenge,

a crash of cymbals demands

the attention of

the threatening adversaries.

For it is in the dance of

the so-called Eight Furies

that the climactic struggle

with the evil spirits occurs.

In it the benign gods

rise in terrible wrath

to defeat and drive away the demons.

Once again the protective gods

disappear into the gompa.

Once again the villages are safe

from demons for another year.

As always, the people form a line

to pass the rimpoche,

bring gifts wrapped

in ceremonial katas.

One by one they are blessed,

take a sip of tu or holy water

with a sprinkle on the head,

then taste a bit of torma,

made of flour and butter -

the ritual greatly similar to

Christian communion

with its wine and wafer.

Yet, watching the rimpoche

bless the people,

Hillary remembers another visit

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