Her Mountain Man by Cindi Myers Page A

table and watched as he pulled various bowls and packages from the refrigerator and cabinets. She noted the full spice rack, various bottles of oils and marinades and the professional-quality cookware. “You cook,” she said.
    “When I have the time. I like to eat. Mountaineering food has come a long way since your father’s day, but weeks of those freeze-dried rations really make a man appreciate fresh food.”
    She remembered a Sunday dinner: roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, sliced tomatoes, rolls and an enormous chocolate cake. “I dream about your cooking when I’m away,” her father had told her mother when he’d finished eating. Her mother had beamed at him, though Sierra couldn’t help think that it would have been far more romantic if he’d said he dreamed about her mother while he was away, and not merely her cooking.
    Paul set part of a roast chicken, a container of hummus, a wedge of Swiss cheese, bread, crackers and various condiments on the table, then handed her a plate. “You might as well eat,” he said. “There’s plenty.”
    She put some hummus, cheese and crackers on her plate. “What’s your favorite food?” she asked.
    “Cheese enchiladas. I could eat them every day.”
    She made note of this. He laughed. “You’re going to put that in your article?”
    “I don’t know. I won’t know what I’ll include until I sit down to write. I have an idea for how I want to shape the article, but you have to supply the details.” She took out her tape recorder and set it in the middle of the table. “Starting now.”
    He stared at the recorder and took a long drink of water. He set down his glass and sat back in his chair. “My first big climb was Everest,” he said. “I was eighteen, I’d just graduated high school and I hooked up with a group of tourists for a guided climb. The trip cost the equivalent of a semester’s college tuition.”
    “What did your parents think of you spending that kind of money on a climb instead of college?”
    “My mother cried. Not because she was upset about the money, but because she was worried I’d be hurt.”
    “Were you worried you’d be hurt?”
    “Are you kidding? I was an eighteen-year-old guy. There’s probably a survey somewhere that shows guys that age all think they’re invincible.”
    “Do you still think you’re invincible? Is that a quality necessary for mountain climbing?”
    His expression sobered. “Climbing makes you very aware of your mortality,” he said. “Brash climbers don’t last long.”
    Finally they seemed to be getting somewhere with this interview. “Did something specific happen to teach you that lesson?” she asked.
    “I realized later why they charged so much for that tourist climb,” he said. “We were all so ignorant. I thought I had skills because I’d climbed a lot of fourteeners in Colorado and California, but I was as green as the rest.” He shook his head. “We didn’t even make it to the top because a storm blew in. After that, I decided to apprentice myself to someone who knew what he was doing. I signed on with George Gantry. He was your father’s former partner, you know.”
    She nodded. She had memories of a large, loud man with wild blond hair like a lion’s mane visiting the house and swooping her into his arms. “How about a kiss for Uncle George?” he’d shout. “What was George like to work for?” she asked.
    “He was a tyrant. If you asked him that same question, he’d cheerfully agree. In exchange for a spot on his team, I got to be his slave—fetching and carrying and doing whatever he told me to do. But I learned a lot about climbing. George was a blowhard on flat land but on a mountain he had incredible skills. He told me your father had taught him everything.”
    “What kind of things?” she asked.
    “How to read a mountain to find the best route. How to judge weather. How to push on through the tough patches.” He leaned forward, expression intense.