The Spare Ticket

Our guide Rajan paced between airport counters, speaking in rapid Nepali to the staff. Clouds gathered over the runway, threatening our departure to Everest Base Camp. Adam and I lay inside the terminal, heads resting on our backpacks, the scent of sweat and stale cigarette smoke filling our nostrils. We watched the sky through the window. I reached back over my shoulder, feeling the side of my backpack, making sure the urn was still there.

“Colin,” Adam said, with a wry smile. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“I’m just paranoid. What if he falls out, or gets scattered all over the terminal floor?”

Adam turned away to watch the clouds.

Our plane descended through the clouds, threading the narrow valley. The light craft bounced in the crosswinds; Adam groaned with each lurch. I turned back to the lone flight attendant who nonchalantly tapped her phone. The pilot, close enough for Adam and me to touch, found the precise angle needed to approach the notorious runway. As the wheels bounced on the tarmac, the group collectively exhaled.

We collected our backpacks from baggage claim and passed through the village. Hawkers bartered, bells rang on yaks, chickens clucked from wooden cages. In the midst stood an Irish pub – as incongruous as a Woolies at this altitude – where Rajan stood waving his hand, gathering the trekkers. He read through our names, ticking us off one by one.

“Michael Kavanagh?” He looked around waiting for someone to respond.

“I’m using Michael’s spot,” I said. “I’m Colin.”