jefflong.yearzero-第29部分

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　His　progress　up　the　canyon　became　a　crawl。　The　larger　rockslides　forced　multiple　trips　back　and　forth　to　transfer　his　food；　gear；　and　bike。　The　rubble　shifted；　threatening　to　spill　him　hundreds　of　feet　to　the　river。　Every　slide　cost　him　hours。　One　day　he　covered　less　than　a　mile。　At　that　rate；　with　a　mere　12；000　miles　to　go；　he　might　as　well　have　stayed　in　jail。　〃God　damn　it；〃　he　shouted　at　the　empty　sky。　His　words　rounded　back　on　him　in　echoes。
　Every　day　was　a　fight　to　keep　his　spirits　up。　He　reminded　himself　that　the　slow　pace　was　allowing　his　body　to　acclimate　to　the　thin　air　and　dropping　temperatures。　His　aching　muscles　were　proof　of　his　convalescence。　Legs；　lungs；　and　calluses：　he　was　regaining　his　body。
　　
　AT　LAST；　after　a　fortnight　in　the　bleak　gorge；　Nathan　Lee　reached　the　high　side　of　the　Himalayan　barrier。　He　came　to　the　Chinese　highway　at　12；000　feet　above　sea　level。　It　was　a　glorified　dirt　road　running　from　west　to　east；　built　to　supply　soldiers　on　the　far　borders　and　transport　ore　to　the　interior。　Tibetan　pilgrims　used　it　on　their　overland　treks　to　the　holy　mountain　Kailas。　Tourists　rode　it　to　Lhasa。　This　morning；　as　far　as　the　eye　could　see；　the　highway　was　empty　in　both　directions。　The　Tibetan　Plateau　lay　polished　bare。　The　absence　of　people　was　beginning　to　rattle　him。　They　had　been　swept　away；　it　seemed；　even　the　animals。　Even　the　birds。　What　did　the　solitude　mean？　How　far　did　it　stretch？
　Nathan　Lee　headed　due　east；　which　put　the　wind；　in　general；　at　his　back。　During　the　first　few　days；　he　felt　weled　into　this　land　of　wind　and　light。　The　sun　warmed　him。　For　hours　at　a　time；　the　wind　would　blow　so　smoothly　from　behind　that　he　didn't　need　to　pedal。　With　his　back　and　shoulders　as　a　mast；　it　felt　as　if　he　might　sail　the　whole　way　home。　For　the　time　being　there　was　no　need　for　a　map。　Instead　of　a　magnetic　north；　he　had　the　southern　horizon　studded　with　giant　white　mountains。　He　had　memories。
　His　father's　idea　of　a　present　had　always　been　some　invitation　into　his　own　world。　For　his　tenth　birthday；　Nathan　Lee　got　a　pair　of　crampons。　While　other　kids　his　age　were　plowing　intoSilver　Surfer　orConan　orPlayboy；　Nathan　Lee　was　stuck　with　books　by　Hermann　Hesse；　Rene　Daumal；　Han　Shan；　and　other　mountain　mystics。　Like　many　American　climbers　of　his　era；　his　father　treated　the　mountains　as　a　blue　collar　shaolin　temple　filled　with　special　wisdom　and　muscular；　brooding　fraternity。　Poverty；　risk；　even　death：　they　were　all　part　of　the　vertical　Way。We're　made　in　the　image　of　the　mountains；　Nate；　his　father　would　spontaneously　declare。There's　no　hiding　who　we　are。　Our　souls　stand　out　against　the　sky。　Embarked　on　her　own　magical　mystery　tour；　his　mother　went　along　with　these　noble　chestnuts；　helplessly　in　love　with　the　man。
　Cho　Oyu　appeared；　then　Everest；　thirty　miles　off；　the　summit　plume　smoking　like　a　volcano。　Nathan　Lee's　memories　of　the　expedition　with　his　father　were　clean　and　simple。　He'd　been　a　happy…go…lucky　kid　back　then；　a　favorite　with　everyone；　helpful　on　the　trail；　guileless；　strong　as　a　yak。　Stronger；　it　turned　out；　than　his　own　father。　They　were　both　surprised　by　that。　Neither　was　quite　ready　for　it。　One　stormy　afternoon　near　the　end　of　the　expedition；　he　and　his　father　had　climbed　to　the　North　Col　to　strike　the　last　tent。　It　wasn't　high；　but　the　saddle　dropped　off　on　either　side　and　made　for　good　theater。　〃Here；〃　his　father　said；　and　gave　Nathan　Lee　his　ice　axe。　That　was　a　big　moment。　Then　they　went　down。
　He　moved　deeper　into　Tibet。　The　sky　was　so　blue　it　verged　on　black。　Night　was　worst。　It　was　so　cold。　He　had　stolen　a　tent　in　Kathmandu；　then　discarded　it。　Now　he　suffered　in　the　open。　Mostly　he　curled　in　shallow　pits　along　the　road　or　huddled　behind　rocks。　The　wind　stalked　him。　The　stars　strafed　him。
　He　came　upon　an　olddzong　or　fortress　and　sheltered　in　its　roofless　ruins。　One　night　he　found　a　meditation　chamber　cut　into　the　earth。　Monk　after　monk　had　taken　turns　here；　spending　months；　even　years；　walled　inside　the　hole；　praying　and　fasting。　It　was　scarcely　bigger　than　a　coffin；　and　he　had　nightmares　of　jail。　Another　time　he　crawled　into　a　cave　and　slept　atop　a　pile　of　hundreds　of　crumbling　clay　plaques　imprinted　with　Buddhas。
　One　afternoon　he　stopped　by　a　road　sign　with　faded　Chinese　characters　that　meant　nothing　to　him。　Tibetan　pilgrims　had　tied　one　end　of　their　long　streamers　of　prayer　flags　to　the　metal　post。　Most　of　the　prayer　flags　were　stamped　with　a　cartoon　horse。　Among　the　monsters　and　gods　of　Tibet；　thelung　ta　…or　wind　horse…was　an　important　creature。　Animated　by　the　wind；　the　little　horse　flew　to　the　heavens　with　prayers　on　its　back。　Nathan　Lee　cut　down　a　flag。　It　weighed　as　much　as　a　feather。　You　could　see　right　through　the　fabric；　except　for　the　ink　of　the　horse。　He　laid　it　betwen　the　pages　for　Grace。
　The　helpful　wind　turned　mean　and　fitful。　Gusts　slapped　him　from　the　sides。　Weaving　like　a　drunk；　he　would　make　a　few　hard　miles。　Day　after　day　he　fought　the　wind。　It　bruised　his　face。　Dust　caked　his　mouth　and　fouled　his　sinuses。　Bit　by　bit；　the　green　paint　on　his　bike　was　sand…blasted　to　bare　metal。
　By　mid…December　he　still　hadn't　reached　Lhasa。　In　the　lee　of　a　shattered　monastery；　he　spread　out　his　Bartholomew's　map　of　Asia　and　pinned　the　edges　with　rocks。　He'd　traced　three　major　alternatives；　one　along　the　Yangtze　River　to　the　South　China　Sea；　and　one　boldly　to　Beijing；　where　he　fantasized　the　American　Embassy　might　take　pity　on　him。　His　final　option；　the　most　lonely；　was　to　stick　to　the　wastelands。　By　threading　the　Gobi　Desert　north　through　Mongolia；　he　could　strike　out　across　Siberia　and　try　to　reach　the　Bering　Sea。
　Looking　at　the　map　debilitated　him　more　than　the　wind　or　cold。　It　showed　him　reality。　Even　once　he　reached　Lhasa；　he　would　barely　have　gone　an　inch。　Getting　home　was　going　to　take　him　many　months；　maybe　even　years。　After　so　much　patience　learned　in　jail；　Nathan　Lee　hated　the　idea　of　being　patient　longer。
　Then　one　day　the　dirt　road　became　asphalt。　It　transformed　slowly。　Heaps　of　brown　dirt　had　drifted　across　the　highway；　and　the　asphalt　surfaced　like　an　old　memory。　Gradually　the　puddles　of　blacktop　spanned　open。　Nathan　Lee　lay　down　his　bike。　He　lifted　his　eyes　and　the　paved　road　stretched　off　into　the　distance　and　went　around　a　hill。　He　pried　away　his　dark　glasses　and　stamped　his　good　foot；　relishing　the　fossil　hardness。
　His　wilderness　was　over！　He　knew　that　wasn't　so。　Still；　America　suddenly　seemed　close　enough　to　touch。　He　got　the　bike　upright　again；　all　eighty　pounds　of　it；　and　straddled　the　seat；　and　gave　a　stroke　to　the　pedals。　The　asphalt　felt　like　a　river　slinging　him　on。　The　knobby　tire　treads　thrummed　pleasantly。
　There　would　be　a　town　ahead；　if　not　around　this　bend；　then　the　next。　If　there　were　people；　he　would　beg。　If　not；　he　would　steal。　He　would　replenish　his　food；　sleep　in　a　bed；　find　wood；　start　a　fire。　He　remembered　it　was　almost　Christmas。
　The　highway　dipped。　He　picked　up　speed。　His　luck　had　changed。　Even　the　wind　had　quit。　The　last　thing　he　expected　were　the　corpses。
　Before　he　could　safely　stop；　he　was　deep　among　them。　Big　trucks　had　careened　right　and　left　from　the　highway　and　tipped　or　else　trundled　to　lazy　halts。　Some　had　nosedived　into　a　ravine；　others　had　coasted　far　out　upon　the　plateau　and　looked　like　tiny　islands。　For　the　first　time　since　the　French　couple　spoke　about　an　apocalypse；　Nathan　Lee　saw　a　human　body。　Not　one；　but　many。　Many　hundreds。　Thousands。
　It　was　like　being　dropped　into　the　middle　of　a　battlefield。　What　had　happened　here？　The　road　was　littered　for　miles。　Everywhere；　everyone；　dead。　He　emptied　the　slight；　leather　odor　of　them　from　his　lungs　and　approached　a　nearby　truck。
　The　driver　lay　propped　against　the　window　as　if　taking　a　nap。　His　hair　was　straight　and　black。　One　hand　still　rested　on　the　steering　wheel。　It　was　covered　with　a　white　cotton　glove；　an　odd；　delicate　affectation　even　the　roughest　truckers　shared。　His　head　was　turned　away；　and　Nathan　Lee　couldn't　see　the　face。　Had　the　skin　turned　transparent？　Was　he　an　invisible　man？
　He　selected　a　second　corpse；　one　that　was　in　the　open；　away　from　the　tangled　heaps。　It　was　a　young　woman　lying　face　down。　Her　hands　were　exposed；　and　her　skin　was　not　tran