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 GIRL
WITH A POPULATION OF SEVENTY-FIVE thousand and an altitude of only 790 feet, Appleton, Wisconsin, situated on the Fox River, is about as far away from Sichuan, in southwestern China, as one can travel. The nearest significant mountains are the Rockies, a thousand miles and several tanks of gas to the west. The paper industry, including Kimberly-Clark (the personal care company that produces big-name brands Kleenex and Huggies), provides thousands of jobs in the community.
Aside from the river, perhaps the most noteworthy natural feature in the community is High Cliff State Park. Ten miles from Appleton, High Cliff sits on the shores of Lake Winnebago, a vast body of water in the middle of northeastern Wisconsin. Dotted with limestone cliffs perfect for bouldering, the park became Chris’s destination of choice on trips home to visit her family. Strapping on a heavy backpack to add to the demand on her body, she’d run the ten miles there and back, training for summits of 8,000-meter peaks on the other side of the world.
Proximity to Canada gives Wisconsin natives a distinctive accent. Nasal, sharply articulated phrases are a novelty to those outside the Midwest. Drinking fountains are “bubblers.” Stoplights are “stop-andgo-lights.” Deep-fried cheese curds are as common as french fries and are paired with Friday night fish fries and bottles of locally brewed beer. Chris’s Wisconsin accent never left her, a tribute to the fact that she’d lived in Appleton all seventeen of her formative years. Long after she’d moved away, her love for Wisconsin Danish kringle and the Green Bay Packers remained, as did her strikingly friendly disposition that caused her to drum up conversations on all manner of trails and rocks. Engaging others in pleasant chatter marked Chris as a Midwest girl, while Wisconsin’s frigid winter months left their mark for future climbs by preparing her to endure subzero temperatures.
Winters give Appleton and Wisconsin a bad rap, say locals. Yes, the temperature can cause massive, temporary migrations to Mexico. The salt dumped on roads to melt ice eventually makes them appear to be made of white concrete. But April through November are a delight. The town is full of blooming flower beds, and kids zoom all over on bikes, eventually stopping at one of many ice cream parlors. Why would anyone ever leave?
Downtown Appleton in the late 1970s and early 1980s—Chris’s childhood years—boasted Conkey’s Bookstore, a cocktail lounge called Cleo’s, and the brand-new