Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (37 page)

Facts had to be faced. They were not getting up this mountain without doing some rather technical climbing up this wall. Wilde also decided they would pull Chatham up the face in a sleeping bag tied to ropes. “His injuries are all superficial. Cosmetic. He will be better by tomorrow.” Apparently he was better sooner than that because Chatham did not stop talking about his past exploits while they pulled him up in the sleeping bag. “This reminds me of the time I was spun up into the web of
arachnida prepostera
. She was seven feet in diameter she was, and nastier than a bear in spring!”

The team made it up the cliff using more traditional methods, and the going was brutal. They decided to stop for the night only one hundred feet from the previous camp. The distance was paltry, but with the cliff behind them, the accomplishment was massive. Ahead of them lay a relatively easy, straight, but rather long shot to the Eastern Ridge, with the Maw to their right the whole way. There would be no need to cross it until they were making their way down.

Chhiri Tendi looked around for Hoyt and Yuudai the whole time they progressed. It was unfortunate that even with such sweeping vistas, there was no sign of their fellow climbers. Chhiri Tendi had to assume the two men had used common sense and climbed down to Base Camp; and Hoyt was nothing if not bloated with common sense.

The sun had set an hour earlier. Hoyt and Yuudai were at the base of the Eastern Ridge wall, close enough to it to be protected from northern winds but far enough away to avoid any cornices falling from on high. The two men had just split a can of sardines, their second to last meal (the next morning’s breakfast would consist of biscuits, marmalade, and coffee…and then that would be about it). Fuel for the Rob Roy was also dwindling. They were not sure if they would have any in the morning to make coffee or tea. And Hoyt felt once they were out of coffee, all bets were off. Even the competition with Junk would no longer matter.

Hoyt was despondent. The adventure had come to naught. He would be climbing down in defeat within twenty-four hours. Junk would take the prize and Hoyt would live out the rest of his life in reclusive humiliation. He would retire immediately. He would take a vow of silence, eating nothing but stale, leftover bread from his former company, washed down with water hand-scooped out of the East River. Or perhaps he would go crazy like his mother, ranting about the Jews using mind control to steer President Lincoln’s decisions in office. No matter which path he chose it did not matter, because inside he would already be dead.

Tomorrow was quite simply do or die.

Yuudai walked out of the tent at about seven at night. Dinner was done and it was time to have a go at sleep. It was then a chink in Hoyt’s emotional armor gave way. He followed Yuudai out of the tent:

To Hoyt’s surprise, Yuudai aimed the gun into the air and fired. A red flare rose hundreds of feet into the sky above them, lighting up the side of the Eastern Ridge
as they climbed. When they finally arced, fell back to earth and fizzled, the silence must have been deafening and filled with one thousand awkward thoughts. The two men quietly went to their separate tents and retired for the night.

The rest of Hoyt’s team did not recall ever seeing the flare that night. The location of their camp should have provided them with an uninterrupted view of Hoyt and Yuudai’s location. Chhiri Tendi has no explanation for this, except perhaps they were all in their tents at the time.

However, other eyes did see the flare. First was Junk. His fellow climber Zeigler wrote that “Junk saw something shoot up – just barely - over the Eastern Ridge. It seemed too low to be a magma eruption, although it lit up the sky in a similar fashion. Junk probably would have danced around in the dark had there been enough air to support such behavior. Instead, he simply blurted out a loud, forced ‘Ha!’ and commented that the ‘abstemious, joy-retardant faggot’ appeared to be having problems. No action was taken to set up a rescue. Zeigler was unsure in his writings whether no action was taken because Junk hated Hoyt that much, or because their distance from the flare and the existence of the Eastern Ridge made rescue impossible.

But still even more eyes had seen the flare. About eight of them in total. These eyes were much closer, only a few hundred feet further up the base of the Eastern Ridge from Hoyt. These eyes were angry, insane, and situated in the heads of men who wore stuffed cobras around their necks.

Chapter Thirteen: What Happened To McGee

Junk finally took pen to paper on September 7th. He did this for three reasons. First, seeing as practically everyone else on the expedition was writing, he felt it was about time he did the same. Should not his own perspective be documented once this journey came to an end? What if Hoyt was keeping a journal, which he undoubtedly was? Some document needed to exist to counter whatever falsities he concocted. Second, the lack of air was making him feel sillier than usual. As his brain reverted to a more childish state, he found himself to be more playful and creative (at least in his opinion). The urge to produce became overwhelming. Deep sea divers will sometimes experience rapture of the deep. Junk was experiencing some kind of rapture of the skies. Thirdly, he was smitten. River Leaf had captured his heart. Junk was quite explicit in his explanation as to why. “River Leaf does not laugh at my jokes. I told a classic rib-tickler about a Polack and a Mick fishing with the Pope and she didn’t even crack a smile. She speaks only when there is something needing to be said, unlike me, who finds the availability of carbon dioxide in my lungs a sufficient excuse to say something. She can commit acts of extreme heroism or extreme violence if the need arises. Mother would have loved her. They’re two of a kind.” River Leaf had become Junk’s muse.

The commencement of his journal coincided with the expedition striking out from Camp Two, half way up the eastern lip of the Icy Bellows, on their way to Camp Three where the lip meets the Eastern Ridge. The journey from Camp One at the Rakhiot Glacier to Camp Two had been painless. The wind from the Bellows had been relatively calm for no understandable reason and the lip had not presented any technical challenges; no steps, no narrows, just a gentle walkway to the skies. This next stretch to Camp Three would not be so simple. The lip became rather nasty right away. Two steps, the first about twenty feet high and the second slightly taller, blocked their route. The air would also be thinner. Other than these challenges, the route remained relatively wide and gentle and certainly less challenging than the southern route which Hoyt had chosen, with its scree and its maw. Although Junk had to admit the Rakhiot Glacier and Qila Pass had taken far more of a toll on his campaign than he had expected. Perhaps the steep slopes and unpredictable rocks of the southern route would have been preferable. Then again, they had seen Hoyt shoot off a flare. Not all was right on their side either.

Junk may have been cheery, but the other Americans were tired and despairing over their losses. Taylor, Fenimore, and Morrow, all gone. The remaining team members were all suffering from altitude sickness or frostbite or both. Cole’s frostbite had spread to his nose and other cheek. If he did not attend to the problem soon, he would have to begin climbing down. McGee was dizzy and nauseous from the altitude. His fear of heights had gotten the better of him, slowing him down to a snail’s pace. The world dropped off sharply on both sides, and that is enough to make anyone feel they are performing a high wire act. To someone with acrophobia, that terror is multiplied manifold. McGee must have also worried for his heart which had not experienced such persistent exercise ever before. River Leaf was moving more slowly and seemed to finally be feeling the effects of her surroundings. Everyone was talking less and the words that did come out were garbled. The thinking beneath the words was equally garbled. Even the more experienced climbers were starting to make bad judgments as they rose into the realm of twenty thousand feet. Junk himself had left his entire backpack behind after a brief rest and had to down climb several yards to get it. Supplemental oxygen would have to be utilized soon.

The Sherpa were another story. The porters were now at lower camps and only the five high-altitude Sherpa and ten other Sherpa remained. They seemed lucid and game. Had they not been there to tend to the Americans’ every need, the expedition would have come to an end as soon as it had started. Pasang Dolma toiled under the weight of other people’s equipment but did not show signs of exhaustion. Occasional heavy breaths were the extent of it. “The rest of us may fall over dead, but Pasang Dolma will be able to cary [sic] my corpse to top [sic]” Junk joked.

Junk likely had different feelings about the four dyspeptic Sherpa. If everyone else were to die, those men had a look like they would happily use half the American bodies as kindling while cooking the other half. They were undoubtedly gifted at their jobs, climbing and porting without rest, but their social etiquette would not do should they ever find themselves at tea with the Queen. They ate alone. They conversed alone. They kept entirely to themselves except when their services required them to engage. In fact, they rarely even spoke to Pasang Dolma despite the fact he was their sardar. Pasang Dolma seemed to have regrets about his selection of high altitude Sherpa. They had not acted this way until Base Camp so he could not have known he had picked poorly.

Despite the glum, exhausted, and badly deprecated state of his team, Junk remained ebullient. In his journal, his letters became bigger and more crooked. “We’ve suffered, but we’re still moving. The mountain of my dreams is with me, and the girl is more than half-conquered.” Clearly, his ability to make sense was waning.

They arrived at the first step. Technical climbing such as this could be easily managed by these individuals at sea level. It is quite another story to do it miles up in the atmosphere with scant air and frostbite lurking. The only positive was that Hoover’s expedition had left ice screws in the step years ago. The team tied off and began to ascend. Junk went first attached to Pasang Dolma. He was followed by Cole and Zeigler. Progress was slow and careful. McGee waited at the bottom for his turn, panicked. Junk took the time to stop, turn around, and smile down at his old friend. “Remember. One million dollars!” As you may recall, Junk had bet McGee one million dollars McGee would not make it. The words acted like a magical incantation. Junk settled down and began to focus on nothing but making it up the step. He began climbing quite self-assuredly, not looking down and not stopping for anything. River Leaf followed behind, tied to McGee, and then the Sherpa brought up the rear.

When Junk had reached the top, he squatted down and admired the view. They were high up now by anybody’s standards. They could see Everest clearly. Its southern face, which had smashed Junk’s hopes of retaliation only two years previous, loomed before them. To the east of that was Lhotse. Far off in the west was Manaslu, a 26,000-foot behemoth. Beyond Everest and Lhotse lay the Rongbuk Glacier and Tibet. Junk had the sense that Hoyt’s information was right. The mountain they were on now was taller than Everest. But only time would tell. Given this was a privately funded expedition with no scientific studies being conducted, they had no instrument to measure the height of a mountain. Their naked eyes would have to be their instruments.

They all reached the top but they were exhausted. McGee lay on his back breathing heavily. According to Cole’s writings they all knew at that point McGee would never make it to high camp. The question was: Would he have the foresight to climb down, or would the mountain dictate his fate? Exhaustion had gotten the better of him. Cole quietly inquired whether Junk would ask his friend to begin climbing down. Never, came the response. Junk felt his old chum was stronger than the mountain and that he would surprise the whole team. River Leaf was next to ask. It was no use. There would be no change in plans. McGee would see high camp.

No one asked McGee for his own opinion. They knew he would follow Junk to the end of the world, or even to the top of it.

Before setting off for the second step, which lay about one hundred yards further up the lip, Junk said to his team “Whoever decided to call these things ‘steps’ was rather tall.” He was probably in the mood to make quips because of the foul moods around him. His team seemed to be questioning his decision on McGee. Anything he could do to return everyone to positivity would be helpful. Nothing happened. The team continued to put on their packs and prepare to trudge on yet again. McGee was still panting, not seeming rested at all. Cole was rubbing the place on his face where frostbite was gaining ground. He also looked confused by Junk’s comment, because being of a scientific leaning, he took everything literally. He did not understand jokes as anything but flawed logic. Zeigler and the Sherpa acted as if they heard nothing at all. Junk wrote that night. He used phrases more staccato and awkward than usual, likely due to altitude: