of climbers, the two women with blond ponytails sticking out of their helmets came out of nowhere.
“Where’d you come from?” climbers would ask. When Chris casually answered that they’d come from the parking lot, the looks on the others’ faces were priceless. By 5:00 a.m., they’d reach the summit, taking a moment to enjoy the view before making a brutally fast descent. Chris glided over rocks and snow effortlessly. Reaching the car, the two friends would enjoy a postclimb snack—Diet Coke and a bag of SunChips.
Chris was always laughing, constantly in motion, radiant and downto-earth. She drew a crowd of admirers everywhere, though she barely noticed. Now, when she had vanished in the mountains of western China, the crowd aided the search for her from afar, wanting her back beyond measure. Friends remained awake at night. Mountain Madness rallied their overseas guides and business partners to assist. Her mother, in a quiet Wisconsin city, prayed. This level of attention would have made Chris cringe, yet here it was: unwelcome yet necessary.
THE PSB OFFICER RETURNED TO the conference room, gripping a bolt cutter. He handed it to Callahan, who turned to Charlie’s bag first. Several officers jostled forward, hoping to be the first to spot clues spilling from inside. The men leaned over one another, their body odors blending in the drafty space. Callahan reached in to clip the lock, his elbow momentarily bumped as the onlookers pushed each other closer. “I need a little room to breathe, please,” he said.
The chatter dimmed. A handful of digital cameras emerged from pockets to document the findings. An officer stepped forward, clipboard in hand to record the contents for the US Consulate. He seemed mildly nervous as he shifted on the cold marble floor.
Snapping Charlie’s lock, Callahan slowly unzipped the bag, feeling oddly reluctant. Disrespecting his hero by rifling through his belongings in a police station in rural China hadn’t been on any Christmas wish list he’d drawn up. Reaching inside, he pulled out the pieces of Charlie’s life: a sleeping pad, a pair of jeans, a small silver pocketknife, a wall adaptor, watch batteries and instructions for a Timex, a single titanium ice screw, disposable razors, rubber sandals, nine rolls of 35-millimeter film, a bus ticket from Kangding to Litang, a business card for the driver in Litang, a US one-cent coin. Charlie, you eternal cheapskate, Callahan said to himself, smiling.
Charlie wore the badge of “dirtbag climber” unapologetically from day one. Putting together jobs guiding and writing, he did what he could to minimize his consumerism and maximize his time on rocks. Presentable when he needed to be and far wiser than most people understood, this penny in his duffel would no doubt be spent on a necessity of life back in the United States. If I can just get him back there, thought Callahan.
Reward money had been offered to the driver who’d led Chris and Charlie here, but emptying Charlie’s black duffel had left Callahan with nothing more than dirty socks and lip balm. And—aside from the ice screw—no climbing gear: no ice axe, ropes, or crampons. Dammit, he thought, they took their climbing gear.
Littered among the three weeks of searching had been hopeful rumors that perhaps the pair had been abducted or thrown in a Chinese prison. Not a likely scenario, given that all the bits and pieces were pointing to the obvious conclusion: they’d gone to climb.
“What are you looking for?” asked an officer next to Callahan. Clipboard man shooed away colleagues who’d started to touch Charlie’s belongings spread out on the floor.
“Something more than . . . this,” Callahan said. “Something to tell us where they went. Definitively.”
“Are they friends of yours?” asked the officer, nodding to the door, where one of the flyers created by the search team hung, attached with masking tape.
Callahan glanced at it. “Yeah, they are.” Chinese characters spelled out the basics on the flyer:
Charlie Fowler and Christine Boskoff
Last heard from in Litang on November 7
Missed flight back to USA on December 4
If you have seen either or both of these people or have any information regarding their whereabouts, please contact us immediately.
In the photo on the flyer, Chris was offset against yellow tents in the background. She wore a scarlet-and-black down parka and a white Mountain Madness baseball cap. Smiling broadly, her cheeks were flushed deep red from high-altitude sunburn.
“She’s beautiful,” the officer said.
“Yes,” Callahan responded.
Charlie’s picture showed him in a gray polo shirt against the backdrop of a rock field: rumpled salt-and-pepper hair, leathered skin, famously not smiling, looking every bit the confident, ass-kicking climber he was. Charlie and Chris’s relationship had lasted six years. Whether they’d end up together forever was anyone’s guess, but they loved each other, and the river of respect they had for each other ran strong.
Clipboard man cleared space for Chris’s green duffel to be unpacked. Callahan looked back at the picture of Chris as her duffel was moved into place. He’d heard her voice just four months ago, in August 2006.
“Come on, Ted,” she’d whispered, “I can just get on your shoulders.” The two of them were leading Mountain Madness clients up Russia’s Mount Elbrus, the highest peak in Europe, at 18,510 feet. A night before the climb to Elbrus Base Camp, they’d stayed out too late. In the chilly Russian midnight, the guesthouse holding their beds for the night was locked.
“You’re joking, Chris. Can’t we find some other way to get in?” Callahan knew before she answered where this was headed. The glint in her eye calmed him.
“I’ll just pop in the window and open the door for you.” Looking at him with conviction, she placed her hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him lower so she could step up.
Marveling at her free spirit, he kneeled and sank a little into the soft ground. “Oh god, all right. Up you go. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I’m totally fine,” she said. “Let’s do the damn thing.”
Callahan could still feel the weight of her 120 pounds on his shoulders as he severed the padlock and unzipped her duffel. He knew what he was looking for. Reaching in, he pulled out a thin, canvas diary. It fell open to reveal pieces of the puzzle that searchers on two continents had struggled with for weeks: the climb of Elbrus in southern Russia. The ascent on Cho Oyu, on the China-Nepal border, in October with three clients. Meeting Charlie in Hong Kong. Climbing two lesser peaks in Sichuan Province, including well-known and challenging Yala Peak. A detailed account of how well they’d bargained and how cheaply she and Charlie had managed to live.
And finally, the plan. In Chris’s loopy, almost childlike handwriting, a rough itinerary put them at the base of Mount Genyen. Genyen Massif, a holy mountain rising up 20,354 feet from Lenggu Monastery on the Tibetan Plateau. Their prize.
Callahan dropped the diary back into the duffel and punched in numbers on his mobile phone, connecting him to his colleague Kara Jenkinson in Chengdu. “Hey, it’s me. I’ve got the bags open and the driver was for real. The reward money worked. It’s Genyen. My god, that’s where they are. Tell Seattle and Telluride we’re heading out first thing tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 2
MIDWEST
