Chapter Two

Trekking to Everest

The Sherpa say that Everest is the goddess of heaven, sometimes called the mother goddess; in their language, she is known as Sagarmatha. For centuries before the Europeans came, the childlike Sherpa gazed in wonder and awe at the imposing goddess mountain. They made devoted offerings, burned musky incense, erected brightly colored prayer flags, knelt in prayer, and trembled in terror at the very thought of breaching her divine flanks.

In the three decades since the conquest of Everest, only a handful of highly skilled climbers attempted to summit, some succeeding, most not. But with improved technology and greater access to the approaches it became increasingly a feat for celebrities. In 1985, businessman Richard “Dick” Bass climbed Everest—–the first person to climb each of what became known as the Seven Summits. Five years later, the first married couple, from Slovenia, summited together. By the time of the Sodoc expedition, hundreds of Westerners and a like number of Sherpa had climbed the mountain.

So the question is: Why all the hype? Derek was not the first to climb Everest. He was not the first to climb the seven highest mountains on each of the world’s continents. And he and Tarja would not have been the first couple to summit together. What was the big deal?

The answer is contained in a name: Michael Sodoc.

Unable to lure his headstrong son into the family business, Sodoc decided to publicize his every endeavor. Doubtless this was an insidious plan to seduce the boy, but we’ll never know, though it certainly proves what can be accomplished with enough resources. It also demonstrates just how much news is generated by the media that is produced rather than reported.

Everest cannot be conquered in the winter. It is too cold, and the storms are too violent. It is impossible even to reach the approach routes of the mountain. Summer is just as bad; the monsoon sweeps in, heavy with moisture, producing thick snow as well as violent storms. There is no passage to the peak.

For these reasons, it is possible to climb the mountain only two times during the year. These brief windows of opportunity exist when the weather patterns switch from winter to summer, then from summer to winter. One occurs about May in most years—the other, briefer one in the fall. But even those periods are inherently unstable and dangerously unpredictable.

For a short period—sometimes measured in as little as days, rarely more than a few weeks—it can be just possible to climb Mt. Everest, though in some especially violent years even these windows do not appear. This is not to say that when these periods do emerge the weather is either predictable or benign. Sudden violent storms are routine. Deadly fronts sweep in, outstripping prediction. Equally deadly storms form from the mountain’s microclimate, springing up from below without warning. During these windows, few storms last long—yet, for the period of their existence, they are extraordinarily violent and deadly.

Derek elected to attempt the summit of Mt. Everest during the month of May. For that reason, his enormous expedition set out from Kathmandu in early April. Tarja arrived first, accompanied by a well-known Parisian model with whom she’d been sporadically involved for the last year. The two were seen everywhere together. There is little nightlife for Westerners in Nepal, but the pair was seen at those that did exist.

“Their behavior was shocking,” a local reporter confided in me. “We do not accept such behavior in the kingdom. I have traveled, and I know it is common in the West for women to dance together, pretending to be lovers. Even that would have been too much for us. But these two . . . they did more than dance, you understand? Did I tell you the other woman was African with very dark skin? It was scandalous.”

The pair made no secret of the true nature of their relationship. Maids told local reporters what the pair was up to in private, but the newspapers refused to run such articles. Two days before Derek arrived, the model was put on a plane and returned to France. If Derek voiced any objection to his bride’s shenanigans, or even knew of them, it has never been publicly disclosed. Tarja soon had him busy enough.

“Tarja discovered a new kind of hashish in Kathmandu and introduced Derek to the stuff,” a member of the expedition later wrote. “Given his history of drug use, this was a catastrophe. His friends had been careful to respect his wishes since his last time in a rehab center. We all knew he could be tempted.”

For some three years, shortly after college, Derek had used cocaine heavily, according to those who knew him best. Sick of himself and the life he was leading, he spent a summer detoxing in a remote Alpine cabin outside Zürich. It was there that his interest in mountaineering was rekindled. But there had been the inevitable relapses—the last just before he’d gone to South America. Now, in Nepal, his new wife was encouraging his return to drug use. It was a problem that would nag the expedition.

It’s been said that the first landing of a man on the moon received less coverage than did the Sodoc Foundation Everest expedition. No longer must the world await dispatches from remote regions to receive news. With modern communication, it is possible to have images, video, sound, and the latest stories almost as they happen. Now the public sees reality, no longer spoon-fed to them by publicists, and reality is truth, truth the rich and famous often don’t want you to know. But when the world’s most dominant news source picks its storyline, controls access, and edits every release, truth is often the first casualty.

The international media boisterously clustered at the starting point of the expedition once the buses and trucks were left behind. Every minute of video recorded of Derek was eagerly sought. News outlets from more than a dozen nations dispatched crews to snag those interviews—often including an attractive reporter to persuade him—to make those minutes of interview available by fair means or foul. Once the expedition set out on foot it was joined by other expeditions, each clamoring for video shots and interview time.

The approach trek that year proceeded more like a Mardi Gras procession than anything associated with serious mountaineering. Porters carried loads on their backs interspersed with the slow moving yak, which carried their own burdens. The expedition stretched like a great snake along the trail, winding through diminutive valleys, across tranquil streams, through cultivated fields and orchards, and over the rounded passes of the lower elevations. All along the route, Sherpa turned out in droves to witness the spectacle.

All who were on the Sodoc Foundation Everest expedition admit it was an exciting time. The event had been anticipated for months. But it was more than merely a story. There is always an air of excitement as you prepare to enter the great unknown, to lay your life on the line, for no other reason than you want to. The same air permeated the entire expedition—from humble porter to skilled climber. Everyone knew this climb was different.

And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. No athletic achievement in history has been covered in more detail. There were moments when the cameras and microphones outnumbered those being interviewed. Even the most mundane moments were captured on camera. “It was like living in a zoo,” a climber said. “People gawking, filming, and recording at all hours. It was very distracting. That’s probably why so many died.”

The expedition was enormous. Nothing like it had been seen on Everest since the days of the first mammoth British surveying expeditions, when hundreds of climbers and porters had taken to the mountains. Some sixty yak—the animals used by Sherpa to portage supplies to Base Camp—were interspersed with the climbers, bells tinkling, grunting from time to time in their distinct way. Each yak was led by a herder.

The group also included at least one Sherpa guide for every Western climber. For safety reasons, no climber would be unaccompanied above Base Camp. All these, plus the porters and kitchen help and the five Sherpa assigned to the SNS staff, brought the number of Sherpa alone to more than ninety. Ten Westerners formed the core of the Sodoc Foundation Everest expedition, but this did not include the same number, and half again, who were part of the other expeditions marching in tandem with the Sodoc group.

Consider another expedition of considerable size was marching just ahead—and that the Sodoc expedition was followed by both Italian and Japanese camera crews—and you have some idea of the scope of this endeavor. Every camera shot seemed unique, but cameramen were jockeying for a position that excluded a view of the others. It was not easy.

The expedition in front was from Nepal. Led by Girija Dahal, it was an effort of the national university. Its stated purpose was the study of the impact of so many climbers on that mountain region. Nearly fifty in all were on that expedition. Interestingly and significantly, Dahal had been one of the escorts for one of the nation’s living goddesses, known as the Kumari, the previous summer.

Without the yak, those beasts of burden, there would be no conquest of Everest. The British at first used small Mongolian ponies, but over the years the yak had emerged as the second preferred conveyor of every necessity, and every luxury, needed for an expedition. The first choice is, of course, the backs of the Sherpa themselves. The poorer and more desperate they are, the more they are compelled to carry, until, finally, they are broken and discarded. But unlike the yaks, they are not eaten, merely abandoned.

Every essential—from tents to bedding, food, and portable potties—was in tow, along with every imaginable bit of media technology. The quantities were amazing. These included satellite phones, computers, solar panels to recharge batteries, the latest in portable radios, and lightweight digital cameras, to name a few.

And there was also an enormous quantity of luxuries. These included gourmet foods, alcoholic drinks of every kind, comfortable camp chairs and recliners, additional changes of clothing not required by necessity, beds, video screens—not needed for SNS but for evening DVDs—and an endless list of personal and unnecessary vanity effects.

All of these were portaged through the foothills, then up that mountain, on the backs of the yak and Sherpa porters. Tarja, for one, had five yak assigned to her alone, and she sported a different designer outfit every day for the first three weeks of the trek. She also brought her own manicurist/hairstylist, though this woman became ill with mountain sickness and turned back after just one night at Base Camp.

Since the progress to the Base Camp was so slow, both to allow for acclimatization and because of the enormous quantities of everything being hauled, Derek recorded near-daily bits to be beamed to New York. At every picturesque vista he could be seen being carefully lit before Rusty Landon, Derek’s cameraman, began to film. Some of these clips were for use later on his own show, High Adventure!, while others were meant to air on the evening news or the frequent SNS specials covering the expedition.

Although SNS dominated coverage, allowance was made for the other crews joining the expedition, though these were carefully orchestrated and use privileges meticulously negotiated by the SNS producer, Crystal Hernandez. Those were the rules of the game. Tarja basked in the ceaseless attention, clinging to Derek’s side whenever the cameras were directed at him. She possessed, it is reported, a sixth sense for spotting a camera lens—no matter how distant.

Initially, it wasn’t necessary for her to take advantage of her famous husband, since there was as much attention directed at Tarja, the new bride, as toward Derek, the great adventurer. And why not? She was beautiful, athletic, and famous in her own way. While her beauty and athleticism can be attributed to genetics, her fame was entirely her own creation.

It’s not possible to have read a magazine or newspaper, or watched a television celebrity show, and not know Tarja Sodoc. The only daughter of college intellectuals, she’d excelled at winter sports. It was thought that she’d represent the United States in the Olympics, but the flirtatious, stunningly beautiful athlete had very different ambitions. With an inheritance from her grandmother, she moved to Manhattan and was soon working the cocktail circuit, meeting the rich and famous.

The story is well known in all its lurid details. In Manhattan, she made the rounds of countless cocktail parties, gaining access with her looks and new friends—to one of whom it is said she paid $100,000 for access. What followed was a campaign of relentless intensity. She came to the attention of the city’s most important, influential, and wealthy men. Age didn’t matter, nor did appearance. Money was its own aphrodisiac. And marital status? Perish the thought. The richer, the better in her mind, and, since divorce has a way of reducing wealth, few of these men were unmarried.

So it was she came in contact with seventy-two-year-old Lewis Scarbrough—perhaps New York’s best known real estate developer and philanthropist. It is said that he served as the model for the younger Donald Trump—in more ways than one, it would seem. Scarbrough was an easy enough catch for Tarja; within hours of meeting they were performing the horizontal mambo.

Tarja hired a publicist, and before Scarbrough could work up a good story about their relationship, it was on the front page of the New York tabloids. For the two torrid years of the steamy relationship, Tarja was the stuff of tabloids. Publicly branded “the other woman,” she was famous for nothing so much as her bed-hopping. When Scarbrough was out of town the young nymph was seen dancing the night away in nightclubs.

“You have to see her nude to believe it,” one former, lucky lover told me. “She has the figure of a goddess, skin like fine porcelain. Those breasts are all real, the nipples firm and rigid when you run your hand over them. Once she gets going, she pants like a steam engine; body heat rolls through her in waves. She’s like another creature altogether. But don’t look her in those cat’s eyes she’s got. They’re cold, man, cold.”

Tarja was often seen on the arms of other rich men, though none seemed to take. Perhaps there was something about her that they could detect—a predatory nature behind that dazzling smile and jutting breasts. Still, with her fame, such as it was, she landed several product endorsements and even sold a memoir, Getting It, though it found more use as a doorstop than it did on the bookshelf or bedside table. As trashy books go, it’s a window into her soulless mind, scandalously portrayed by her anonymous ghostwriter.

Tarja thrived in the fever swamp of Manhattan, from all appearances never objecting to being branded ‘the other woman.’ Carrying on an affair with a man three times her age, she was seen gracing the covers of magazines and newspapers nearly every day of the week. She successfully turned adultery into her own personal cottage industry.

When it ended, Tarja coerced a settlement from Scarbrough, then fled New York and has not since returned. Good riddance there. She was connected for a time to various European playboys: Italians Giorgio Balla and Umberto Chirico, Brazilian Jose da Silva, and Spaniard Pedro Luis Rey, allegedly nursing Rey through a heroin overdose. But when the paparazzi stopped following her and the magazines no longer ran her photos, she left Europe, embarking on her ballyhooed campaign to climb the Seven Summits. Her mix of beauty and athleticism proved simply irresistible to a certain kind of media, encouraged by her publicist. It was during one such expedition to Antarctica that she stalked, and landed, Derek Sodoc. It was a media frenzy from that point on.

Until the moment of his son’s death, the senior Sodoc was working to have the marriage annulled. Derek was expected to follow in the steps of his domineering father, not squander his life with a round-heeled, blonde bimbo. That’s clearly what Michael Sodoc wanted, and there are stories galore to tell you that whatever the senior Sodoc wants, he gets. But not this time, not with Derek, and that failure must surely have eaten at him.

Tarja proved as independent in marriage to Derek as she’d ever been with Scarbrough. Dragging her lesbian model lover to Nepal was only the tail end of several affairs. She flew to Paris to tend to Rey when he relapsed into drug use, then flew to Rome, where she was seen at a nightspot with Chirico. None of this was public prior to Derek’s death.

Without her husband’s knowledge, she also secured the contract from Brides R Us and for several days in Kathmandu posed for glamour shots. She was the woman who’d landed the world’s most eligible and richest bachelor. Every woman wanted to imagine for a few moments that they were the fabulous Tarja.

She gloried in the attention. You might say she was born to it, soaking it in like a dry sponge, lapping up every drop like a greedy cat, a sex kitten. Whenever a camera was pointed in her direction, Tarja presented her dazzling smile for approval, much like a local television anchor. If she ever turned down an interview, no one’s heard about it.

It is said that her husband was pleased with all the attention given to his new wife. If true, he didn’t stay pleased for long.

Such was the interest in the Sodoc Foundation Everest expedition that once it reached Base Camp it was besieged by media crews from Spain, Germany, France, United Kingdom, Russia, Korea, and many others—not counting the Italian and Japanese crews accompanying them on the trek. At Base Camp, these filmers were there to cover climbers from their own nations, for the most part, but the presence of the international darling newlyweds was irresistible.

This was to be Derek’s conquest of the last of the Seven Summits and the final piece of a three-year effort. It had been a busy eighteen months—even apart from his quickie marriage. He’d climbed Aconcagua in Argentina, Vinson Massif in Antarctica, and Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania in rapid succession. Everest was the climax, and SNS pitched the story relentlessly, working viewers into a fever pitch. The result was that the expedition more closely resembled a traveling circus than a serious climbing party.

First was the affable Calvin Seavers, usually known simply as Doc. The two had known each other for years and were frequent climbing partners. Pals say the pair were as bonded as lovers, though there was no suggestion of anything other than a close friendship. The year before Derek’s triumph in Antarctica, Doc had been with him at Aconcagua in South America and restored him to health in the midst of a blizzard that claimed three lives.

Next was Scott Devlon, a friend of more recent vintage, who had accompanied Derek and Doc on the conquest of Aconcagua. It is said that Derek particularly wanted Scott on this climb—for reasons never adequately explained. A decorated Afghanistan war hero, linguist, and professor, Scott appeared from all accounts to be delighted about being along.

Reggie Maul owned and operated one of the most successful Himalayan climbing companies. Maul had also been part of the South American climb; in that adventure, the pair had formed a fast and lasting friendship based on a mutual love of mountains and trust. Derek placed his safety and life in the hands of the hearty New Zealander. Reggie was determined that nothing would happen to his friend—even at the cost of his own life.

Also with Derek was Peer Borgen, perhaps the world’s most gifted Alpine climber. Brought aboard to enhance European ratings for the big show, he was also expected to help on the approaches to the mountain. Gregarious, courageous, and fun loving, he was considered by many the ideal climbing companion.

But there is more to his story—much more, if you believe certain Web sites and blogs. It is claimed (though not substantiated, it should be said) that Peer was paid an exorbitant sum to rekindle his long-dormant relationship with Tarja in order to break up the happy couple. It is said, though Peer vehemently denies it, that he was paid by none other than—you guessed it—Michael Sodoc.

And then there was Crystal Hernandez, Derek’s jilted lover, SNS producer, and an amateur climber herself. Who knows what thoughts and motives coursed through her hormone-driven body? She thought she’d landed Derek, then lost him to Tarja. The blow was a profound one, from all accounts, and by almost any standard she had no business on the expedition. But Derek had faith in her, and successfully covering his final triumph would have been a tremendous boost to her career—so there she was, rage and all.

Finally, there was Rusty Landon, Derek’s cameraman. A skilled mountaineer, he was also a combat veteran of the first Gulf War and was allegedly angry that Derek had stolen Crystal from him months earlier, angrier that he’d dumped her so unceremoniously, and angriest that she’d not come crawling back.

Rusty deserves close scrutiny, for he has never been forthcoming about his role in the military. One source reports that he was in Special Forces—part of a deep desert penetration team on which he served as a sniper. Another claims that he was attached to Delta Force as a freelance assassin. Still another insists he was assigned to the U. S. military but was actually in the CIA and conducted special operations for them. Rusty has never publicly commented on any of these reports.

Each brought his or her own skill and talents to the expedition—along with considerable baggage of one kind or another. Of them all, only Reggie had climbed Everest previously. It was not intended that either Doc or Scott would summit, and Rusty would do so only because he was filming Derek. After all, the purpose of the expedition was to put Derek on the top of the world. But in the end, many were gripped with summit fever, and in the final hours of that disastrous day, as I discovered, they placed their own personal ambitions above any commitment to friendship.

In retrospect, it seems foolish for Derek to have surrounded himself with so many amateurs and untrustworthy professionals. It was an unsavory rat pack escorting him up that mountain—men and women consumed by motives and seeking objectives we can scarcely grasp, even now. Much of it was unknown to Derek, but he surely knew a great deal. Such was the measure of his hubris in his certainty that he believed he could not fail. He’d never failed previously; why should he fail now?

In their ignorance, though, all save Reggie and Peer were utterly unprepared for the reality they would face. Before this climb was completed, many of those on whom Derek relied would be dead. Limbs would be lost. Deceit would run amok. Reputations would lie in tatters—if they weren’t already. As for Derek, he’d end up a frozen corpse near the summit of Everest.

Every aspect of the expedition was meticulously planned. No expense had been spared. Every effort was made to reduce risk and see to comfort. Everything that could be controlled, was—or so Derek thought.

What Derek could not bend to his will was the weather, but in the beginning, that seemed to make no difference. It was a delightful spring that year, all agreed—one enjoyed by few expeditions in the long decades of Everest climbs. In such lovely circumstances, it was easy to see how the myth of Shangri-La was born. This time it served as a cover for what can only be accurately described as a den of iniquity.

After leaving the trucks and buses behind, the expedition advanced on foot through portions of Nepal that are absolutely stunning in their splendor. Every bit of arable land in that region is under cultivation. Hillsides are lovingly and gracefully terraced in exquisite winding rows. Below, stretches of brown and gray rock and dirt are interspersed with the verdant green of well-tended, cultivated fields.

Accounts tell that as the expedition snaked its way through the foothills it passed lovely fields of vivid grass and bright wild flowers. Sparkling streams of pure glacier water gurgled down from the lofty peaks. Laughing Sherpa children greeted the expedition, handing flowers to the climbers as they passed. No climbing expedition has ever had a more beautiful approach trek.

And everywhere were reminders of the region’s Buddhist faith. Strings of prayer flags stretched across the hillsides, fluttering and snapping in the breeze. A rock prayer mound with strings of Buddhist prayer flags was in each pass that the expedition crossed. Daily, the Sherpa knelt in prayer.

Too bad everyone didn’t join it. Who knows, the extra karma might have spared a few lives. That’s what the Sherpa thought and whispered among themselves.

The approach to the mother of all mountains leads trekkers through an ancient kingdom, rich with tradition and a historical culture that Westerners are rapidly destroying, as evidenced by Derek’s expedition and those leading or trailing it. This cult of the mountain has at its core an uncaring desire to debase what it does not understand, all in the childish pursuit of standing on the highest point on earth, to be king of the mountain, if only for a few brief minutes.

On the far horizon, the mountain range stands remote and obscure. Only as you approach the immense peak do you realize its enormity. It makes any normal person seem puny, as nothing. It is with great excitement that you confront your destiny and begin the high adventure! So it is described by those who have been there and those who were with Derek that year—at least the ones who cared.

You are drawn by the ghosts of all the giants who have gone before you. Mallory, Irvine, Hillary, Tenzing! Their spirit calls out to you! You experience their presence every step of the trek, every inch of the trek! As it was for others, so it was for Derek and his band of adventurers.

Portions of Nepal inspired the novel, movie, and legend of Shangri-La—a valley paradise of peace, harmony, and plenty nestled within the Himalayas—a land where happy men and women live immortal lives in perfect tranquility.

The incredible beauty of this mystical land was marred only by the abject poverty and filth that the expedition encountered in every village and settlement along the route. The dirty-faced children ran, laughing, to greet the Westerners, their hands extended, looking for gifts of candy or money.

But looking beyond these experiences, with the frequent bubbling streams, spring showers, magnificent views, high snowcapped mountains, cascading waterfalls, and invigorating air, it is no wonder that this region was selected for the hidden valley of Shangri-La. Few places on earth possess such magnificent natural beauty.

But Nepal is no mythical kingdom, and the foothills of the Himalayas are not Shangri-La. It is a bitter, cold place, with death serving as the ultimate reality.