The Edge by Roland Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

devices, hexes, nuts (not the kind you eat), water, and energy bars. Gotta love gear.
    Ebadullah and Elham had a short conversation with each other as we slipped into our heavy packs. Ebadullah wandered over to the film crew, fifty feet away, and squatted down to watch their gear sort, which was probably more interesting than our sort because they had camera and sound equipment in addition to the climbing gear. Elham said something to me in what I guessed was Pashtun.
    â€œI think he’s offering to lead us to the others,” Mom said.
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    TRYING TO KEEP UP WITH ELHAM was like trying to keep up with someone riding a dirt bike. He moved upriver over the loose rocks, or scree, effortlessly, with his hands locked behind his back, like he was floating instead of walking. We almost had to jog to keep him in sight.
    â€œHis backpack is tiny,” Mom pointed out.
    â€œI don’t think it would make any difference. He’d still walk the pants off of us.”
    Elham took a sharp left onto a narrow, twisting animal trail and headed straight uphill. His rapid pace didn’t alter, and soon he disappeared. We stopped to drink water. I don’t think Elham was even carrying water.
    â€œBet you a dollar that when we get to the trailhead, Elham is napping in the shade of a tree,” Mom said.
    â€œYou’re on.” The only reason I took the bet was that I was pretty certain there wouldn’t be trees at the top of the trail. Trees and bushes need water, and what lay ahead was as dry as any landscape I had ever seen.
    Mom took the lead and set a pretty fast pace herself . . . a pace I could have kept up with, but didn’t, because I didn’t want to rush. I wanted to enjoy the feel of Afghanistan under my old boots.
    Â 
    It isn’t long before she vanishes like Elham. I’m climbing alone. The rocks slip and crumble under my boots. In several places I have to use my hands to catch myself from skidding backwards on the scree. After one of these skids, I pause to catch the view, but what I’m really doing is catching my breath. I see something move a couple hundred feet above me along the cliff face. A flash of dusky white. Elham? His pants and kurta are white, a soiled white, but he couldn’t possibly be this far ahead, nor could he be traveling horizontally on a sheer cliff in sandals. I wipe the sweat from my face and shade my eyes against the glare of the setting sun. I wish I’d thought to bring sunglasses and binoculars, both of which Plank provided. I catch the flash of white again. It isn’t Elham. It isn’t Mom. It’s a
shen
. A snow leopard. It makes an impossible leap. Twelve feet. Maybe fifteen. Up the sheer rockface. Landing on a narrow shelf as if it’s lighter than air. Impossible. A hallucination, a flashback caused by altitude, dehydration, sun, jet lag, or a combination of all four. But it isn’t. The cat pauses on the narrow ledge and looks down at me. I see its thick tail clearly, flicking back and forth . . .
    Â 
    â€œYou okay?”
    Mom had backtracked to check on me.
    I pointed up at the cliff. “Did you see him . . . or her?”
    â€œHim or her what?”
    â€œThe . . .” I scanned the wall. There was no sign of the
shen
. “I guess I just imagined—”
    â€œI saw,” a familiar, but completely out of place, voice said.
    Now I really thought I was having an audio hallucination. I turned toward the sound of the voice to confirm that I had officially lost it. Standing up the trail just past Mom was a man.
    It wasn’t Elham.
    Mom turned and looked at the man. “I don’t understand. What did you see?”
    â€œA
shen,
” Zopa answered.
    I translated. “A snow leopard.”

The Climb Master
    Seeing Zopa in the Wakhan Corridor is less likely than spotting the
shen
on the cliff. As far as I know, he has never been out of Nepal and Tibet, where I last saw him