Chapter 9

The Snow King, 9 August. It is all over, our expedition in ruins. We reached here to find the place a tourist resort, thronged by numerous parties. Admission for would-be summiteers is by turnstile only. Ahead of us was a group of Bolivian monks, intent on making the ascent clad in their habits. My companions were bitter, arguing that such frivolity would shame our more traditional approach. After much vituperation, our campaign disintegrated, leaving it to me to record the last throes.

Though no gossip columnist, I must report that Flatpole and Pugh are to wed. They left us two days ago, Pugh saying that he had long wished to grow coconuts, and that he and his betrothed were to proceed two thousand miles due north to realise his dream. I pointed out that this would place them in Siberia, not an area known for tropical produce. Pugh thanked me, but said that this was a mere technicality.

Gannett resigned yesterday, irate over complaints about his cooking. The last straw was his preparation of an ibex which Flatpole had throttled. Our quartermaster neglected to skin the creature before boiling a chunk of it. The result was disgusting. Gannett flounced off, festooned with clattering kitchenware. Unfortunately, his burden made a din which started an avalanche that buried him. I fear we shall not see him again.

Thoroughbrace then proposed a vote of no confidence in the leadership. Naturally, I abstained, so the motion was carried by the vote of my only remaining companion. He left, using the last of his money to buy a camel. I did not like the look of the beast. My fears were confirmed when it promptly collapsed, pitching my erstwhile comrade into a mile-deep abyss, from which he will surely not emerge.

I shall return home to plan an attack on the Dogtooth Peak in the Andes.