Beneath the Sands of Egypt (4 page)

The floor of the burial chamber of KV 60 as encountered in 1989. Note the mummy in the foreground and a large coffin fragment near the wall.
PLU Valley of the Kings Project

It was eerily quiet, and I was conscious of both my breathing and my heartbeat. The air in the tomb was warm, still, and relatively odorless. Although my research had taught me what to expect, I was not prepared for the sight that greeted the limited beam of my flashlight as it scanned the floor. A mummy, flat on its back, rested there, as if stiffly napping in an eternal closed-eye stare at the ceiling. It was a woman and was no doubt the uncoffined female that Carter had described and Ayrton had abandoned. The wrappings had been stripped off most of her body in an ancient grab
for treasure. Even the toes had been bared in a search for the golden caps that often covered such appendages in elite burials. It was an almost embarrassing sight to witness, tragic in its indignity.

The mummy's face was quite striking. The embalmers had done an extraordinary job. Her nose had been packed with linen to preserve its shape, and her slightly parted lips revealed well-worn teeth. The ears retained their shape, and a smattering of reddish blond hair lay on the floor at the base of her nearly bald head. It was readily apparent that his individual had been quite obese in life, and a pampered existence was suggested by fingernails painted red and outlined in black.

The mummy encountered on the floor of the burial chamber in KV 60. Her bent left arm and clenched left fist suggest an Eighteenth Dynasty royal female.
PLU Valley of the Kings Project

While the quality of mummification was indeed remarkable, the most striking aspect of this noblewoman was her pose. Her right arm lay rigid against her side, but her left was bent at the elbow with a clenched fist as if grasping a scepter or other ceremo
nial object. This is a rare pose that seems to be confined primarily to royal females of the Eighteenth Dynasty.

The striking profile of the mummy from KV 60.
PLU Valley of the Kings Project

Mohammed and I spoke little as we spent a few more minutes examining everything around us, and we soon decided that it was time to return to the land of the living. We carefully retraced our steps, and as we emerged into the light and fresh air, we were bombarded with questions from the others, who were anxious to hear the
news. “Give us a minute or two to regain our composure, please,” I requested as El-Bialy and I took seats in a couple of wooden chairs, drenched in sweat and breathing in the fresh air. The whole experience had been overwhelming, and when we were ready to talk, we expressed both our wonder and our dismay. We were saddened by the violent treatment this burial had endured. On the other hand, we were intrigued by the perplexing archaeological puzzle that the tomb now presented. What was the
real
story behind this simple little tomb, and who might this regal lady be who lay so undignified on its floor? Little could I imagine at the time that such questions would soon prove to be both provocative and disturbing. Or that years later the solution would become a world sensation.

A plan of KV 60.
PLU Valley of the Kings Project

O
NE DOESN'T JUST ARRIVE
in the Valley of the Kings and begin to unearth mysteries. My activities there are the result of a long journey. I grew up in the town of Covina in Southern California, a pleasant place not far from the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains and a short distance from the Pacific Ocean and downtown Los Angeles. With parents who traveled the world, I was constantly exposed to foreign lands and cultures. I eagerly awaited their return, the accompanying stories, photographs, and, of course, souvenirs.

My first sparks of a serious interest in the past can be traced to
The How and Why Wonder Book of Dinosaurs,
which provided no end of fascination to me when I was in first grade. Not only were these bizarre creatures captivating, but the notion of the discovery and reconstruction of their remains was equally compelling. More books followed, and my growing collection of plastic dinosaur fig
ures often posed as actors in prehistoric, action-filled scenarios, complete with enthusiastic sound effects. My attempts to successfully assemble plastic scale models of dinosaur skeletons were usually quite miserable, so the little faux bones would often be buried in the yard for systematic excavation a day or two later, an early taste of the thrill of a dig.

Repeat visits to the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County fueled my interest, and I was one of the younger members of the Museum Alliance that supported that institution. I was especially grateful when my handwritten letter about digging up some old cow bones in my backyard was personally answered by one of the curators. Dr. J. R. MacDonald, a prominent vertebrate paleontologist, not only encouraged my interest but invited my father and me for a private tour of the museum's fossil collections.

Luckily, in another part of Los Angeles there was another site of equal allure, the famed La Brea Tar Pits, located in a park right off Wilshire Boulevard, in one of the busiest parts of the city. The tar pits are sticky black oil seeps where untold thousands of prehistoric creatures became literally stuck in the muck, only to be exploited by other hungry creatures, which in turn became entrapped. Excavations there in the early twentieth century recovered millions of bones, including those of my favorite extinct beast,
Smilodon californicus,
the famed saber-toothed cat.

National Geographic
magazine introduced me to ancient Egypt, and stories of discoveries quickly became a favorite of mine. Articles with such alluring titles as “Fresh Discoveries from Egypt's Ancient Sands” and “Yankee Sails the Nile” were read and reread. My father had a subscription, but we set out to collect all the back issues, searching weekend swap meets for the yellow-bordered volumes.

There were children's books as well, one favorite being Hans
Baumann's
World of the Pharaohs;
and at a very early age I read Howard Carter's
Tomb of Tutankamen
cover to cover, its accompanying photographs begging me to imagine what it must be like to discover and examine such a place. The book
Kon-Tiki
by the Norwegian explorer Thor Heyerdahl likewise had a profound impact on my youthful dreams, which, like my fascination with the Valley of the Kings, would fortunately play out years later. After a while ancient Egypt and paleontology became side-by-side obsessions.

As a teenager I developed a passion for mountain climbing, which provided me with a physical outlet for my yearning for adventure and helped me to overcome the curse of asthma. Given climbing's potential hazards, my parents tried to increase the odds of my survival by sending me through a comprehensive mountaineering course up on Mount Rainier, which taught me the skills to climb steep snow and ice and ascend glacial slopes. The fresh mountain air and a new driving motivation to exercise changed me from a bookworm who lived vicariously through others' adventures into someone who had the potential of being actively involved.

 

T
HERE ARE MANY WAYS
one might choose a university. Sometimes it's by price, by proximity to home, or by a reputation for excellence. I perused the various catalogs, some offering programs in anthropology and archaeology. But ultimately I wanted to be close to the Cascade Mountains—Mount Rainier in particular, where I had learned to climb and where I hoped to mix my college career with a life of adventure. Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, Washington, proved to be a wonderful choice.

After a summer of climbing and hiking in the mountains of the Northwest, the transition to university life was dramatic. My
first weekend as a freshman, I was asked to assist in leading a hiking excursion up to Mount Rainier's high camp—from then on I was involved in outdoor leadership at the university. I averaged about two weekends per semester on campus over the next four years. The rest of the time, I was either leading student outdoor excursions or involved in my own mountaineering challenges. I even organized an expedition to climb the highest peak in North America, Mount McKinley/Denali up in Alaska.

That first weekend at the university also set the stage for the future. Assisting that trip on the slopes of Rainier was a girl named Sherry from a small town in western Montana, whom I would marry four and a half years later. Apart from my action-filled lifestyle, I actually attended classes. The university required that students take a variety of courses in different fields to expose them to a breadth of knowledge, the hallmark of a liberal-arts education. I enjoyed
something
in nearly every subject, but the anthropology courses at the time were uninspiring. There was also no archaeology offered, and at least one of my professors was more intent on discussing contemporary radical politics than anything resembling a survey of cultures. At one point we were urged to “declare a major,” and, having been disappointed by anthropology, I chose political science, as I had taken courses in that department taught by an outstanding professor of international relations. The classes, covering everything from American foreign policy to international organizations, were extremely challenging and as a result forced me to elevate my standards of scholarship until they finally met the excellence demanded by my professor.

Touching on history, geography, philosophy, foreign cultures, and languages, the study of international relations was a fascinating and wonderful avenue for a broad-based education, but during my senior year a visitor came to town who revived my interest in
the past. In nearby Seattle, King Tut arrived in the form of a block-buster exhibition that has yet to be surpassed. Sherry and I waited in a long line and eventually were led into a magical display of some of the most exquisite pieces of ancient art imaginable. At the centerpiece of the exhibition was the gold funerary mask of Tutankhamun, arguably the most enchanting and stunning surviving piece of art from Egypt, if not all of antiquity. Gazing into its face was a revelation that completely reinvigorated my long interest in archaeology and in Egypt particularly.

Ancient Egypt, the Valley of the Kings, and Tutankhamun's tomb…A flame was fanned into a fire. The question then became, what do I do about it? Surprisingly, I found it relatively easy to convince another brilliant member of the PLU faculty to assist me in my interests. Dr. Ralph Gehrke was a professor of religion, well versed in the Old Testament and the ancient Near East, and he was able to facilitate a rigorous independent study of ancient Egyptian history and culture for me. The reading list was extensive, often intense, and it laid a nice foundation for future study on the subject.

The one thing lacking, though, was instruction in the ancient language. Although Professor Gehrke could effortlessly read the Scriptures and ancient texts in Hebrew and Greek, he had not formally studied Egyptian. This was something I would initially have to investigate on my own. I soon became acquainted with one of the classic works on the subject, Sir Alan Gardiner's
Egyptian Grammar
. Gardiner's hefty tome became a persistent companion, its blue covers with a gold embossed title on the spine guarding the secrets to ancient Egypt's language and hieroglyphic script. I was intrigued by the hieroglyphs and their picturesque quality, challenged by the unfamiliar grammar, and I tackled several of the book's initial chapters on my own.

Graduating with my degree in political science, I had no particular plans other than taking the ambiguous “year off” before graduate school to dedicate to climbing. I got a job at a local store selling outdoor equipment. I eventually worked for some mountaineering schools and guide services, where I spent my late-spring and summer days teaching all manner of people how to climb rocks, ice, and glaciers. I was naturally enthusiastic about sharing my favorite outdoor activity
and
getting paid to do so. Plus, I loved the challenge of taking folks into a potentially dangerous environment and bringing them back safely and happy for the experience.

The mountaineering crowd I hung out with in the late seventies and eighties was a wild bunch. A number of them boldly proclaimed that if they were still alive by age thirty, they hadn't lived life extremely enough. Money was of little concern, other than for facilitating their climbing habit, and living for months at campsites, in vans, on floors, and even under overhanging rock outcrops was not uncommon. Levels of difficulty were being continuously pushed in those days, and impressive new routes up peaks and rock walls were being established at a steady rate.

Some of us participated in the high-risk game of climbing unroped—“free soloing”—that required utmost audacity, confidence, and focus. The consequences of failure were dire, but the rewards of successfully surviving the experience were intense personal satisfaction and, occasionally, status among one's climbing peers. But it was addictive. I recall one particular day when mind, body, and spirit perfectly coalesced into an almost trancelike state during which I found myself free soloing a dozen rock climbs, some of which had previously scared me even when accompanied by a partner and a rope. It was magical, but when it was over, I shook in awe and fear for hours.

My obsession with climbing nurtured certain traits that are
useful in archaeology. It developed a physical toughness required for fieldwork, especially in remote locations where accommodations are often minimal and the environment unpleasant to humans. In fact, I learned not only to tolerate such situations but to savor them. Years of searching for the next hand-and footholds also bring an eye for subtlety, and an explorer will always benefit from a zeal to see what lies behind the next corner or over the next ridge. In practical terms, too, mountaineering offered me a skill set that can enable one to explore places where the average scientist or archaeologist cannot or will not go, whether it's up, down, or sideways in dangerous terrain.

While my climbing fanaticism lasted for years, I eventually toned it down a bit. As I eventually began doing serious research in archaeology and Egyptology, I found that scholarship had its own form of satisfaction, even without physical adversity. I loved studying in libraries and exploring archives and museum collections where new discoveries lurk in exciting, unexpected places. It certainly couldn't replace the joys of the outdoors, but it came in a close second.

I was also becoming disenchanted with the realities of big-mountain expeditions. I had been invited on a few in the Himalayas, but circumstances at the time didn't allow me to participate. I have no regrets. The price tag for such expeditions sometimes reaches hundreds of thousands of dollars, with little gained other than a few minutes on a summit such as Everest, a mountain that has now been climbed by several thousand people and has turned back many more due to weather or illness. Or if you're really unlucky, you don't return alive. And it's usually all over in less than three months.

As I began putting together my own archaeological projects for a fraction of the money required for mountaineering expedi
tions, my enthusiasm for giant peaks waned. More important, I was thrilled to have something to show for my more academic efforts. Scholarship and scientific projects provided something to share, and occasionally inspire, in the form of original contributions to human knowledge rather than just a good feeling and a hook for motivational speaking. (“Pursue your dreams, whatever they may be, one step at a time, just like when I was the 2,467th person to climb Everest,” etc.)

Finally, the birth of my son, Samuel, also convinced me to tame some of my more reckless activities. My child needs his father, and though I'm still physically capable, I now use a rope and take a climbing partner more often than not. I've also replaced some of the physical and mental addiction of mountaineering with other activities that are much safer, like long-distance running on wilderness trails, mountain biking, and the occasional game of croquet.

The author climbing with his son, Samuel, on a peak near Mount Rainier.
Sherry Ryan

In retrospect, archaeology probably saved my life. Anyone who has participated seriously in climbing for a decade or more can recite the names of several acquaintances and friends who didn't survive the experience. I personally quit counting after two dozen. Of eight people I worked with at one climbing school, only half of us are still alive, including one who had a leg nearly torn off by a falling rock. None were killed while working as professional guides, where our attention to client safety is foremost. Each perished pushing his own personal limits, often extreme, all of them doing what they loved to do.