Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (38 page)

“
Then I heard it. Some kind of rare bird ascended to this great height? Perched on someone’s head? The most glorious song I ever heard. Short… only a few notes. I turned to find the source of the sound. River Leaf looking at me and covering up a smile. Her cheeks plump garden tomatoes. Goggles hide her eyes, but it doesn’t matter. It was clear. River Leaf had had a second of weakness and had laughed at something I’d said. The fact she didn’t laugh before had made her attractive, but that I could break her down…boy oh boy the challenge!

Yes, she laghed [sic] at material of shitty caliber. But not because she has a bad sense of humor. She just knows any joke told with almost no air and a stomach full of fear is something of a feat.”

Junk hiked next to River Leaf and tried to carry on a conversation with her as they approached the second step. Single words had to do. He started it off.

“
Scared?”

“
No.”

“
Tired?”

“
No.”

“
What then?”

“
Alive.”

This was apparently enough conversation for Junk to be happy. Even if she was no longer smiling, he knew the potential was there and that was dandy by him.

The team stopped again at the foot of the second step. The thing was tall, steep, and covered with ice. Even the granite rocks protruding from the frozen whiteness were covered in a slippery sheen. Perhaps there was a way around. Junk, Cole, and Pasang Dolma tied off to one another and went along the eastern side of the step, out over the edge of the ridge. Using ice axes, ropes, and ice screws, they carefully made their way a few feet along the steep drop-off, thousands of vertical feet over the scree and moraine below. No alternate route presented itself. They climbed back onto the ridge. Moving to the other side of the ridge, the side facing the Icy Bellows, they tried again. If the other side of the ridge had been no better than climbing the step, then this side was far worse; an impassible overhang covered in partially-melted snow from the day’s sun. No option was left but to go straight up the second step.

A decision was made to set up Camp Two A so the team could rest up for what they hoped was the last bit of technical climbing before the summit. Tea was made by the Sherpa and canisters of dinner were consumed rather joylessly. Only Junk remained animated. He made a decision that they would stay at this new camp for a few days and perhaps even climb down to the first lip. Cole, who was generally a rather timid fellow, balked. He wanted to get things moving. Each day they lingered was another day that a storm could come and end their designs for victory. Zeigler was of a similar opinion. He generally did not like their current position, very exposed on the lip, at the mercy of the wind and cold. However, both Zeigler and Cole were good climbers and knew the decision was ultimately Junk’s. They would stop and rest.

“
Sun is setting, notorious Bellows wind is beginning to howl and it’s very cold” wrote Junk. To be certain, night time on the lip around the Bellows can be brutal. If possible, the tent needs to be set up leaning slightly off the outer edge of the lip or else the wind may tear the tent to shreds. But if one pitches the tent too far away from the center of the ridge, one can end up on a cornice that comes loose in the night, sending the tent and its inhabitants falling several miles down to their deaths.

McGee had gone totally silent at this point. Every laboured breath was being used to stay alive and focused. Playing cards, smoking a cigarette, and even taking a sip of scotch were things of the past. All attention was on simply existing and ignoring. Junk shared a tent with his old chum. If he was worried about McGee’s fate, he did not let it on to anyone. He must have sincerely felt McGee’s overall toughness, compounded by the allure of a one million dollar payout, was enough to see the old street thug through.

Cole was in an uproar. Somewhere along the climb he had lost several books, scientific papers, and “important sketches.” The altitude had clearly made him as forgetful as the next man. He demanded he be allowed to down climb, even if it meant going all the way to Advanced Base Camp to find it. He had been looking at the documents only the night before, so it was likely he would not have to climb that far. However, he may have to go off the side of the ridge and recover the materials if the wind happened to blow them in that direction, a more than likely possibility. Junk was adamant Cole could not leave. All hands were needed. They could not spare him nor the Sherpa resource he would require. “But those things are my security blanket” Cole complained. “I cannot be up here without them.” Junk calmed him and explained they were all giving up their comforts on this climb. Junk wrote that night “Told Cole that on a climb of this size, exposure to the elements is not just physical, but emotional too.” Cole listened to reason and acquiesced.

The lanterns in the tents of the Americans went dark and the team fell into a troubled, bitterly cold sleep; a sleep portending a troubled and bitterly cold day.

The only tent remaining active was that of the four dyspeptic Sherpa. “They’re more chatty than usual tonight” Junk wrote before retiring. “Wish I could understand what they’re saying. I also wish I could fire them. A little tricky here. Shame. They seemed really nice on the approach to Advanced Base Camp (aside from one spitting incident), but became obnoxious once we really needed them on the assent [sic]. I’m going to pay them less than promised when this is done. I’ll also give Pasang Dolma more than promised. Other than picking those four dopes, Pasang Dolma has been exceptional, as have all of the porters and cooks he hired. I sleep now and hopefully dream of River Leaf.”

The team tried to sleep late the next morning but it was impossible. Everyone was awake before dawn. The wind had picked up to such a degree the noise was deafening and the air inside the tents was frigid. Climbing up the second step in such conditions would be risky. The alternative was to descend all the way back down to Camp One on the Rakhiot Glacier where the wind would be less oppressive. They could reach it within a few hours, but they would need to climb down the first step to get there, and that presented its own risks. The climb back up from Camp One would be rather unrewarding and would come with no guarantee conditions would improve. Up, down, or stationary, they were going to be challenged. Cole recommended they climb down to Camp One so McGee could begin his way back down to Base Camp (he probably also felt this would give him an opportunity to looks for his own lost academic reading material). He would not relent in his belief that McGee was more at risk than the others. Junk assured Cole that he was underestimating both the fortitude of the big Irishman and his motivation when fueled by the promise of big money. Cole was definitely not happy with the suggestion but listened to his leader.

Junk decided that if no choice offered a better situation, then continuing their ascent was the best option. “We cand wade for the wedder to me like it was on Chabbaquiddick!” Junk yelled at Cole. “We’re a the tob of the world now! Time for our meddle to me tesded! Who are you again?” (The altitude was clearly taking its toll). Junk also “reasoned” climbing would warm them up more than sitting still or climbing down.

An advance team consisting of Junk, Zeigler, and Pasang Dolma would do the second step and make their way up the remaining lip (Cole would stay behind to aid in the healing of his frostbite). Upon finding a safe location for Camp Three, they would return and get the rest of the team. The hope was that they could be back by one in the afternoon, and they could get the rest of team up before sunset. Should they be slowed down by anything, a Camp Two B could be established immediately above the second step.

Everyone ate their tins of breakfast to the din of wind and eruptions near the summit. They finished their tea and the advance team suited up. Light appeared on the eastern horizon. The second step loomed over them. Ice screws from Hoover’s expedition were nowhere to be seen, probably buried under the excessive ice and snow that covered the step. Junk went first. Whereas they were usually separated by several yards, Junk set the first and second ice screws almost on top of each other. They would take no big risks here. Unlike his usual mode of operation, Junk demanded this step be taken conservatively and by the book.

And so it went. With much difficulty, the three men ascended the step despite high winds, oppressive cold, and scarce oxygen. At the top, they hiked along the razor-thin ridge as it gently began curving to the southwest and up to the Eastern Ridge. If it is possible, the wind became worse. There was nowhere to set up tents if they ran out of strength. Zeigler began complaining after only an hour of hiking. He could not feel his feet and breathing was simply too difficult. Junk was dazed but felt physically fit. He wanted to continue. Pasang Dolma said he was alright and would do whatever Junk asked of him. Junk wrote that night, “We played it saf (sic) and went down. Try tomorow (sic).” Their decision paid off, for as they began to descend, Zeigler caught sight of a small saddle only about one hundred feet above them, right near where the lip met the northeast ridge. Odds were good it would provide enough space for a camp. That would be their destination tomorrow.

With as much care as they could summon, the three men climbed down the lip and made their way down the second step as carefully as they could. Upon reaching Camp Two A, Junk shared the good news with the team that the lip presented no more technical challenges after the step and that a protected location for Camp Three existed in the form of a saddle. But he also decided oxygen would need to be used earlier than they had hoped. He said, “I can’t count to two for Christ’s sake.” The team was relieved to hear this news. Even McGee mumbled “Thank fuck.”

Unless the weather worsened, the entire team would resume the ascent the next morning. Junk wrote, “I’ll sleep well tonight. Optimistic. Even though the rest are sad sacks. River Leaf’s asleep in her own tent. What I’d give to walk over there and offer my warmth. Perhaps another night.”

They slept until first light. The wind had calmed slightly over the evening and still few clouds were evident. Stars still shone in the western sky. This was their chance. Everyone was rested and ready to go. The day off seemed to have restored McGee’s vigor and Cole felt up to the task. The dyspeptic Sherpa moved quickly preparing the packs, grumbling all the while about God-knows-what in their foreign tongue. The only English words Junk could detect were “fools” and “snakes”. Pasang Dolma distributed breakfast containers to the team (The ten remaining low altitude Sherpa would stay at this camp). The team was not short of food which was a blessing. That is the kind of miscalculation that plagues many an expedition and can foil an otherwise perfect assault on a summit.

Cole tried to cover his face as well as possible including his frostbitten nose. However, covering the nose is a problem because the moisture in one’s exhalations collects on the covering material, thereby causing it to freeze. Junk had not planned well for maladies like these. There was no one on the team with medical experience at all. Cole himself was probably the most knowledgeable individual about such things, but was too invested in reaching the top to make a rational decision. He was also oxygen-deprived. Cole “decided” to keep going, even if it meant losing his nose and cheek when he got home.

Junk went up the step first, followed closely by Cole and then River Leaf. She climbed without complaint and never stopped for longer than a few moments in order to calculate her next axe-strike. McGee was next and Zeigler offered to follow behind him, cheering him on and providing suggestions if needed. The Sherpa carried up the rear. As the team ascended, rumbles from the summit would mix with the wind, making for a disharmonious experience.

McGee stopped half way up. “I’m done” he uttered in a voice so quiet only Zeigler could hear. He needed to go down. The height was too great. He was terrified. “I’m afraid of heights” he called out needlessly. Junk queried the people on the step below as to the nature of the delay. Word was passed up the line that McGee had given up. “Bullshit!” Junk responded. “Get your ass up here, Fatty Arbuckle! We’ll talk about your running mascara when you’ve reached the top of this thing.” The others were in shock at Junk’s behavior, but clearly Junk knew his friend well because McGee started moving again.

They reached the top of the second step without a mishap. Perhaps they would have been overjoyed were they not so exhausted. The dyspeptic Sherpa no longer stood out in their demeanor because everyone on the top of the step that day was miserable. Even Junk’s daydreams of love were not enough to keep him chipper. He moved slowly and said little. Yelling at McGee on the step had probably been enough to make him winded.

Looking around, the landscape was slowly changing. The sound of the summit - sporadic cataclysms like God sounding a tympani drum - was now as loud as the screaming wind and strong enough to move the Earth beneath them. The expedition had also reached their first streak of black ash, a three-foot-wide line scarring the lip diagonally in front of them. Whatever fireball had caused it had likely come from near the peak of the mountain and then hit the lip, careening off into the eastern sky and the moraine below. Such an event could happen again at any moment. This new threat probably sank in for the climbers and further quieted them.

Junk made the decision they would again set up an intermediary camp. The wind was still abusive and his team, made up of several amateurs, was spent. “Original plan of for [sic] camps was to [sic] optamistic [sic]. This will end up being six camps, all of them justified.” Food was still not an issue, but the extended time on the mountain would require some conservation efforts. That would likely not be difficult for the team as appetites tend to diminish with altitude. Even the repulsively corpulent McGee was looking more slender than normal.