Death On Diamond Mountain
Death On Diamond Mountain
Death On Diamond Mountain
(USA) LLC, A Penguin Random House Company. Copyright © 2015, Scott Carney
But when risk takers fail in their pursuits, we cluck our tongues and nod knowingly
about their hubris. Failure, and perhaps even death, may be the wrong yardstick to
evaluate a person’s journey.
Ian Thorson was well known only briefly in Buddhist circles, and more so for the unusual
circumstances around his death than for any of the actions in his life. Looked at from one
perspective, his plunge toward enlightenment is an obvious case of madness. Yet lurking in
the shadows of the cave where he died are clues about the idiosyncratic reasons Americans
have adapted Eastern mysticism to their own ends. More important, Thorson’s own self-
sacrifice begs the question, How much is too much to risk for a chance to pierce the veil of
divinity itself?
Reprinted from A Death on Diamond Mountain by arrangement with Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group
(USA) LLC, A Penguin Random House Company. Copyright © 2015, Scott Carney
ing the intricate postures of couples yoga, where they would use each other’s weight to
push their bodies into impossible configurations. She certainly wasn’t the ex-wife of his
first guru and spiritual teacher, Geshe Michael Roach, who was still jealously stewing over
their controversial split. No. When he gazed out of the dimming aperture of the cave, he
would see an angel made of clear white light. Christie McNally was his lover and his lama,
the enlightened being who had seen the nature of emptiness directly, who had married him
and taken his tortured soul from a base understanding of the world to the cusp of his own
transformation.
She was also his only hope for making it out of here alive.
Even if he could stand, the cave was barely tall enough for Thorson to be on his feet
without craning his six-foot frame. During daytime, a small sliver of light filtered in through
a hole in the roof where the rocks formed a cleft. It was stuffed with all the things they had
thought they would need to survive a long haul. There were bags of basmati rice, bolts of
clothing and cold-weather gear, flashlights and jars of Italian seasoning. A small ritual
instrument hung from a hook in the rock ceiling. It was tuned like a Jamaican steel drum
and helped ease them into meditation. They had propane, and Costco brand baby wipes,
duct tape, Tibetan incense, a filtration device, and heavy black plastic bags full of junk. The
only thing they didn’t have was what they needed most: water.
Thick with poisonous snakes, mountain lions, and prickly cactus, the Chiricahua
Mountains of Southeast Arizona are prone to landslides and are unforgiving to outsiders.
Leaving the cave was an ordeal that left them exhausted and panting for breath. Since
they’d arrived a month ago, the temperature on the mountainside had been unpredictable.
One day it would be hot enough to melt the soles of their hiking boots, the next a freak
snowstorm might coat the rocks, yucca, and scrub oak with a fine layer of ice. Scorching
desert winds whisked away what was left of their moisture.