The Phaselock Code: Through Time, Death and Reality: The Metaphysical Adventures of Man - Softcover

Hart, Roger

 
9780743477253: The Phaselock Code: Through Time, Death and Reality: The Metaphysical Adventures of Man
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0743477251 ISBN 13: 9780743477253
Verlag: Gallery Books, 2003

Inhaltsangabe

ONE MAN'S REMARKABLE SEARCH FOR
THE ULTIMATE TRUTHS OF OUR WORLD
For Professor Roger Hart, life truly began after he almost lost his -- in a horrific fall off the slopes of Mount Everest that he miraculously survived. This near-death experience sparked a desire in him to devote his studies to the very nature of human consciousness, in order to unlock the code of reality that binds our world.
On an adventure of discovery that would take him around the world, Hart would experience life-altering transcendental events in Tibet, Morocco, and Tierra del Fuego -- opening the door to a true understanding of the nature of man. In this groundbreaking volume, he explores the participation of consciousness in the creation of reality, challenging the traditional scientific view of time, space, and objectivity -- and describing in detail his own metaphysical journey, which has involved synchronicity, precognition, and telekinesis. It is an exploration of the very things that make us human -- and a quest that touches upon the meaning of life itself.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Roger Hart is a former research professor at the College of Ocean and Atmospheric Sciences at Oregon State University and was a member of the first American expedition to Mount Everest. He has worked as an exploration geophysicist in the rainforests of Ecuador and Brazil, had a glacier named after him in Antarctica, has lived and traveled in more than forty countries, and has appeared on numerous radio talk shows and television programs. His writing has appeared in National Geographic, Audubon, Sunset Magazine, and Oregon Coast Magazine. He currently lives on the Oregon coast.

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Chapter One: The Route Tracker

At last the meaning of these events is clear. I set out eager -- yes, brash -- in youth to explore polar ice caps, tangled jungles, and snow-clad mountains. I had visited every continent save one by the age of nineteen; I had a glacier in Antarctica named after me by the age of twenty. Then strange events in Tibet, Tierra del Fuego, Morocco, India, turned my course from explorer to scientist. I sought after the ultimate understanding of how our consciousness participates in the creation of reality. This is the adventure I share with you now -- an adventure that changed my view of the world.

My story begins, when I was twenty-one, on an expedition to Mount Everest. Tibetan legend says Buddhist monks from the Rongbuk Monastery take the form of ravens and fly among the snowcapped Himalayas. If this is true, then they must have seen us on May 29, 1962, four black specks perched precariously in the glare of horrendous ice cliffs on the North Face.

We climbed without bottled oxygen, without porters, too exhausted to think straight. Woody Sayre, first on the rope, laboriously kicked footholds; Norman Hansen, twenty feet below, struggled under the weight of his pack; lower still, Hans Peter Duttle gasped for breath. I brought up the rear, bent over my ice ax, heaving long breaths, eight of them for each step.

I heard a sharp report on the North Peak. I twisted my body to the right and focused on massive edifices of ice that had broken free, toppled, and now were careening down the slopes below the rocky peak. They shattered into pieces on a ledge, leapt free, and floated silently in thin air. The roar arrived after the vision of impact, like thunder after lightning. The chunks of ice splashed down, picked up speed, cascaded through a network of cracks, and trickled out onto white fans at the base of the rock face.

The hood of my parka reverberated steadily in the incessant wind. Slowly, one foot after the other, I kicked into the soft snow. Kick, step, then eight breaths leaning on my ice ax. Kick, step, eight breaths. The rhythm became a monotonous dirge. Norman and Hans Peter advanced even more slowly than I, and the rope in front hung limp over the sticky snow.

Above and to my left, clouds streaming north from Nepal slipped past the colossal prow of Everest's main peak. When I leaned back to study the clouds, they seemed to stop moving and the black hull of Everest plunged away from me, throwing me off balance. I threw up my arms, plunged my ice ax up to its hilt, and grabbed hold.

Don't look up, focus on the steps, I told myself. With only ice slopes and white clouds above us, it seemed as though the North Col, the ridge between the two peaks of Everest, was just over the next rise. To my oxygen-starved brain, it seemed as if we would never get there.

As we struggled upward, the slope became steeper with a two-hundred-foot drop straight to crevasses, yawning gashes in the ice, ready to swallow whatever fell from above. Seven Tibetans of the mountain Sherpa tribe, acting as porters for the British, had died here in an avalanche in 1922. The snow is firm, unlikely to give way, I thought to myself. It was wishful thinking, since there is no way to reckon the dangers of Everest.

I lost sight of Woody over the rise of the slope. Now impatient, I unroped and, after twenty minutes of climbing, passed Hans Peter hunched sluglike in his down parka, heaving for breath, too tired to look up. A half hour later I came up behind Norman, who turned slowly to me, peered out from behind his dark goggles, caught a breath as if to speak, shook his head, and turned back to the snow slope. When I reached the front end of the rope, I found Woody was gone. My brain, functioning at the level of a reptile's, failed to understand the danger. For the three weeks since we had left base camp in Nepal, we had worked as a team. Now, in anticipation of arriving at the North Col, two of us had unroped. If one of us slipped, there was no rope anchor, no belay, to brake the plunge to the ice cliffs below.

A star burst of aluminum pitons, the spikes used for anchoring the rope, lay sprawled carelessly on the snow. Woody should have told Norman and Hans Peter that they were off belay. I continued upward.

When I stepped onto the ice saddle of the North Col, Woody greeted me with a bear hug, "We made it, Roger -- the North Col!" His smile cracked through old sunburn scabs and layers of glacier cream, and the reflection of the blazing sun slid toward the black shadow of the North Peak in his goggles.

"Goddamn, we can see all the way back to Nepal. The North Col! Twenty-three thousand one hundred and thirty feet on Mount Everest!" He spun around, dancing, arms in the air like Zorba the Greek.

Wordless, I dropped my pack to the snow and flopped down on it, gasping for breath. I squirmed out of the shoulder straps and looked up at the summit of Everest, six thousand feet above us. It seemed close enough to reach out and touch -- an easy day's hike in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. By tomorrow we could be at the band of yellow rock where the English mountaineer George Leigh Mallory had disappeared in 1924. On the other hand, no one had ever made it to the top from here, and the slopes above were haunted with the ghosts of dead climbers.

I had never expected to make it to the North Col. I had never shared Woody's dream of being the first to climb the North Face of Everest without artificial oxygen. I was along for the adventure of trekking in the Himalayas and to serve as a porter to set up a few high-altitude camps. But as soon as one camp had been set up, there had been another, and then another. Woody needed my help, not only as a packer, but he had come to rely on me as a route finder, so I'd kept climbing. I had told my father I would stay at base camp, which was twenty miles of glaciers and rock ridges away as the raven flies.

I stood up, stretched, and rubbed my aching shoulders. Below to the north I could see the East Rongbuk Glacier, the route the classic British expeditions and the Chinese in 1960 had used to approach Everest from Tibet. Below to the south, I could see the West Rongbuk Glacier, the route over which we had donkeyed hundreds of pounds of supplies from base camp in Nepal. Gray clouds reached through the mountain passes like the claws of an immense beast climbing the glaciers from the south. If the monsoon snows broke over the range before we returned to base camp, our route would be covered with wet snow hiding the crevasse mouths. We would have to wallow back to base camp in hip-deep snow with little chance of finding our food caches.

Yes, I felt good, but it was not in my nature to dance and spin like Woody. We were in a perilous place, with no chance of rescue. Neither our families nor the authorities knew we were on Everest. I pulled off my down-filled mitts, fished my camera out of the pack, and took Woody's picture against the summit. I ate some chocolate and tried to regain energy.

Shadows crept down the West Rongbuk Glacier and joined those advancing up the East Rongbuk. The tide of night surged into the lower valleys and drew down the warmth from the sunlit slopes around us. In an instant, the gathering shadows tipped the scales of heat and mass; the wind picked up and funneled with supernatural determination through the icy gap of the North Col. A raven flying frantically sidewise, rose up, and was gone before I realized it was there. Strange, a raven at this altitude. I reviewed the scene in my mind's eye. The raven was still there.

"Rog, are you all right?" Woody waved his ice ax in front of my eyes.

"Woody, we've got another load." I spoke for the first time, choking on the cold air.

"What? You can't be serious. Why?"

"The second tent is down there. The wind is...

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Verlag
Gallery Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2003
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0743477251
ISBN 13 
9780743477253
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
368
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Simon and Schuster Netherlands BV
info@simonandschuster.nl

Herculesplein 96
Utrecht
3584 AA
Niederlande

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