Keeper Of The Mountains Read Free Page A

their hotels, or unpacking their bags, or jumping into the shower, when they would receive a call from Elizabeth Hawley asking to set up a meeting as soon as possible. I found this to be encouraging – maybe she’d be eager to meet me too. But the difference was that they had something she wanted – information about a climb – and I didn’t. Yet she had something I wanted – her life story.
    I left my home in the Canadian Rockies and started the long journey:Calgary, London, Frankfurt, Bangkok and, finally, Kathmandu. A couple of days of bad meals, long lineups, important bits of paper, cramped seats and ever-rising temperatures. The Kathmandu airport was crowded and steaming. I crammed myself into a taxi and rumbled off to my hotel, located conveniently near Elizabeth Hawley’s residence. I was in the hotel just long enough to unpack my suitcase and brush my teeth when the phone rang – it was her! I took it as a good omen.
    She gave me directions to her house and wanted to meet immediately, so I stuffed the whisky into my briefcase and headed out. I didn’t follow her directions well enough, though, and ended up walking an extra hour in the late-afternoon monsoon heat. The streets were packed with postage-stamp-sized shops selling everything from bathroom fixtures to silk fabric to aspirin, while vendors crowded the sidewalks hawking fresh vegetables and roasting corn. The pungent smells were overwhelming – a sensation intensified by unrelenting traffic and billowing clouds of black diesel smoke. Two narrow driving lanes were choked with rattling buses and sleek SUV s, as well as what seemed like thousands of clanging motor scooters, all pouring into town with horns blaring. The sidewalks presented an obstacle course of unexpected drop-offs and ankle-bending steps, piles of rotting garbage, and giant open sewage holes. Attractive, traditional, three-storey brick buildings stood juxtaposed to four- and five-storey cement monstrosities. Beautifully carved, ancient wooden doorframes leaned into the street, providing stark contrast to their aluminum and concrete neighbours. It appeared a cityscape in transition, from the traditional to the modern, from medieval times to the twenty-first century. It bordered on mayhem.
    At last, I came to a gated black iron fence on the north side of the street. To the right of the open gate was an official-looking brass plaque reading “Himalayan Trust, Miss Elizabeth Hawley, Honorary Consulate of New Zealand.” The sign suggested order in a world of chaos. I walked through the gate, greeted the guard, wandered down a slight incline and found myself in a courtyard surrounded by flowering trees and shrubs and a small plot of green grass. Everything was suddenly, unbelievably, quiet.
    Within the courtyard were several houses. Elizabeth Hawley’s home for more than 45 years occupies the central position. A ground-floorentrance leads to the headquarters office of the Himalayan Trust, an organization founded by Sir Edmund Hillary to provide educational and health support to the Sherpas of the Khumbu region of Nepal. I walked around to the left and up a short set of stairs leading to an unlocked screen door adorned with a string of bells, presumably to announce visitors.
    On the other side of the screen door, a steep set of stairs ascended to a small landing, from where it was possible to see into a neat, orderly office. And there she was, at her desk playing solitaire on the computer.
    Glancing over her reading glasses, she turned her head to greet me: “Did you get lost? Don’t worry, everyone does.” She rose from her desk and strode over to shake my hand, still peering over her glasses. She was smaller than I expected, thin and well groomed. Her 80-year-old eyes were clear and dark, never wavering as she looked me over. We moved to the sitting area, where she offered a cool drink. Within the first