Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (7 page)

The newspapers were also let down. They had hoped to write about “The Fight of the Century” only to have one man turn the other into haggis in seconds. The writers turned to the celebrities in the crowd, asking for their take on the evening’s events, hoping for some new angle. Most of the interviewees had little to say, except perhaps that “the fight was a disappointment” – not what one would call a “unique take.”

Then the press turned to Junk. After a year of relative silence, the man was on fire. This may have been partly due to the fact that he had thousands of dollars riding on Piano. “Piano was the better man! He won fair and square. Although I wouldn’t bet on him against some of the palookas I grew up with.” This got a laugh from the crowd. “You may have noticed Piano favors his right arm, and gives off the impression he is a righty. In fact, Piano is a southpaw. The opponent begins to follow a false premise. Then out of nowhere, the left arm approaches and makes contact like a hod of bricks. The secret to winning, you see, is holding your cards close and then playing them at the right moment.”

The opening was obvious. “So when are you going to play your cards, Mr. Junk?” This got a big laugh as well. Even from Junk.

“
Good question. I see my pal William Hoyt is not here tonight. I guess he gets nauseous at the idea of two real men fighting fair.” More laughs. “So why don’t you, the esteemed members of the Fourth Estate pass this message along to him.” Pens went to paper. “I am actually appreciative, William Hoyt, that you got me into the mountains. Climbing has become a late-found love of mine. I can think of no better escape from city life than to grab a rope and ascend toward the Heavens. But my appreciation ends there. William Hoyt, you are no more than a glorified bounder. Your piety is false. Your behaviour in New Hampshire was far from saintliness. It was devious. Underhanded. I know racetrack touts of better character. Mark my words. No matter what mountain you choose to climb, I will climb it too, but faster. No matter what route you choose up that mountain, I will show that route to be for novices. If you climb a ridge, I will climb a face. If you climb a face, I will climb a steeper face. The history of mountaineering will forget you. Your pride will be broken moments after it’s puffed up. You are nothing, Hoyt. And you will be less than nothing when this is all done.”

A writer from The Sun, in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood back up: “Mr. Junk, can’t you guys just settle this quickly so we in the press can all just move on? There is an election to cover, you know?”

“
Hmm. Maybe I’ll suggest pistols at dawn. Or instead of pistols, maybe I’ll be chivalrous and suggest silver spoons. I’ve heard Hoyt’s pretty handy with those!” The crowd broke out in laughter, as did Junk.

It was true William Hoyt was not present that night. However, William’s wife Wizzy was not only present - having a night out with her father - she was standing almost on top of Junk. Having never met the woman and only viewing one or two photographs of her, Junk had no idea that she was in attendance.

After the tirade and jokes at her husband’s expense, Wizzy had two options. One was to spill a drink on Junk and the other was to slap him. As evidenced in the photos from that night, Wizzy chose to do both. The photo in the New York Times shows a man’s face in profile, still recoiling from a strike to the cheek, eyes squinted and mouth off at an angle that would be impossible without external help. The long hair that crowns his bald head is fanning out in all directions. Closer inspection reveals droplets of liquid jumping from his hair into space. Wizzy’s vodka stinger.

“
I was angry, but I knew better than to get into a shouting match with a woman, let alone strike one,” said Junk in his journals. “I would handle this the right way. You do not hurt a woman. You hurt a woman’s man.”

The society pages again were going wild. A staid, mountaineering New York bread magnate and the Boston bad-boy playboy were out for each other’s blood. The story tapped into issues of new versus old wealth, city pride, and that uniquely American lust for any story other than one’s own. Over drinks at the Algonquin, in the cheap seats at Fenway Park, in the offices of senators, and on the floors of shirt factories, the well-heeled and the baseborn alike prattled on about what would happen next. “Is one of them going to kill the other?” “I know William, and he has never been this out of sorts.” “Are the likes of those two maroons able to strike a bargain?” “I saw Aaron at last night’s performance of ‘The Mountebanks.’ He promised me Hoyt would pay for withholding the New Hampshire money.” No one could talk about anything else.

Cole Porter even wrote a song about the rivalry called “Snow-Blind Fury.” It was never published nor was it performed for the general public, but he banged it out on the piano at any little get together to which he happened to be invited. Given he was Cole Porter, he was invited to many. His friends learned it and their friends learned it, and it made the rounds at cocktail parties across the country. Although they never heard it firsthand, Hoyt and Junk both knew of it by word of mouth. They likely did not approve given the playful, mocking nature of the music and lyrics. An example:

“
Climbing up big objects

shouldn’t cause this much ado,

Just ask the window wipers

high above Park Avenue.

The Southey with the mouth he’s

sparring with the pompous saint.

I swear a pair of mountain lions

would show much more restraint.

An Eskimo gal once told me

after a night of rubbing noses,

Those mountains hold no answers

unless your mama named you Moses.”

William Hoyt had no time to care about such things. He quietly split his time between his family, his church, his job, and climbing. Granted his mother was still very much alive and crazy and living at the state hospital. Visits to her were no stroll along the Coney Island boardwalk, but they were only once or twice a year as of late. Also, funding her was no problem. Hoyt had enough money to pay for ten crazy mothers.

He was getting older and he knew it. This drove him to climb harder and faster. He signed on for American expeditions to Mount McKinley, Petit Dru in the Alps, Aconcagua in the Andes, and even Mount Everest. Between 1936 and the 1939, Hoyt estimated he was part of nine expeditions. He was the expedition leader on many of them.

Nine expeditions in three years seem like an idyllic fate for William Hoyt. But things were far from good.
He was literally being stalked by Aaron Junk. Of the nine Hoyt expeditions during the late 1930’s, Junk ran simultaneous expeditions at the same mountains on the last five of them.

The first stalking incident was harmless. Autumn of 1937, Hoyt and a small team climbed Mount McKinley in Alaska with little drama. The weather was favorable, the terrain forgiving, and the team worked together flawlessly. Everyone made it to the top unscathed. The down-climbing was also by the book. But as they started to descend, another party was coming up. The proper etiquette at such a moment is to stop and speak at least briefly to the like-minded people who have chosen such a similar path in life, both literally and figuratively. Despite his difficulties with interaction, Hoyt had every intention of striking up a conversation. But when the approaching team leader removed his goggles, Hoyt yelled back to his men “Carry on!” Hoyt began to walk again, as did his team. Hoyt didn’t say another word on the descent. “I can tell when William is angry,” recalled Douglas Astor, a regular member of Hoyt’s expeditions. “It is usually not in his words. His mouth is closed and he moves his lower jaw around as if he’s chewing on something tough, stringy, and unwilling to break. That day on McKinley was a perfect example.” Junk’s presence on the mountain was clearly no coincidence, and it enraged Hoyt. But he had every reason to believe this experience was a one-time thing. True, Junk had told the press he intended to climb every mountain Hoyt climbed,
but not at the same time
. If he had known this would continue, his anger would have been exponentially greater.

Hoyt would not actually
see
Junk again on the subsequent expeditions, but he would always find out sooner or later that “this new shadow I cast, darker than the absence of light” was nearby. On the next climb, Hoyt made it to the top of Mount Rainier solo. Not only did he make it solo, but he did so in record time following the route that was his namesake. Hoyt returned home to New York full of pride. He celebrated with Wizzy and his sons at Delmonico’s in Lower Manhattan, ordering the largest steak on the menu. At that dinner, he ran into
H. Adams Carter, a world-class mountaineer in his own right.
It was unlike Hoyt to brag about his climbing successes, let alone even talk about them. But he was giddy, and shared his good news with Carter. Being a gentleman, Carter congratulated him, but also let him know Aaron Junk was at Rainier at the same time as Hoyt. Although he had not set any record in terms of ascent, Junk had taken a route along the Russell Cliff in the north, and had done it solo. No one had ever climbed Rainier via the Russell Cliff before. Everyone considered it a path of too much resistance. Put simply, Junk had just established himself in the climbing community as a force to be reckoned with. His name was known before, but more as a curiosity for pestering Hoyt. Now he had shown himself to be worthy of praise in his own right while also stealing Hoyt’s thunder. Now Hoyt’s new Rainier record was not of much interest to anyone. If a god performs a miracle, people yawn. Junk on the other hand was a human, and he had just turned water into wine.

On three subsequent expeditions, Hoyt would return home to news of Junk’s ongoing, obsessive retribution. He also found out Junk was taking pains to begin his ascents on the same day as Hoyt, because his plans were evolving, and soon he hoped to reach the top of each mountain
before
Hoyt. With this knowledge, Hoyt started secretly setting out a day earlier or later. But Junk was ahead of him. With the exception of Hoyt’s solo efforts, Junk began paying off members of Hoyt’s teams to send him word, usually through phone calls. When his spies were unable to slip away, they would pass notes to people around them – usually with money inside - telling them to place the phone call. They would receive more money later if the call was indeed placed.

The turning point came three expeditions later. Hoyt was climbing Aiguille de la Grande Sassière in the Graian Alps. The ascent was extremely difficult. One man, Charles Pickwick of Fairfax, Virginia, died when a bolt broke and he fell several hundred feet. Hoyt was devastated. No one had ever died on one of his expeditions. In fact, Hoyt had never seen anyone die before, on or off a mountain. “That was simply the most sobering experience of my life. Before your very eyes, a person goes from man to meat. I was thankful Wizzy did not have to witness such horror.” But as is often the case, the expedition continued despite death. There was no joy in the climb any more, only silence and determination.

On the final morning of the ascent, three team members including Hoyt had a go at the peak. A few hundred feet away from their goal, they noticed an object waiting for them at the very top. It was a flag; not the flag of a nation, nor the flag of any other organized institution. It was the flag of an individual, an unstable individual. It was constructed out of a woman’s white petticoat flying from a metal tent pole. Painted in large black letters on the petticoat were the words: “YOU LOSE, FAGGOT.”

Junk could not have picked a worse moment to insult his nemesis, given the tragic events that had so recently befallen Hoyt’s team. Hoyt later wrote in his journal:

“
My actions at that moment were deplorable. I wish I could divorce myself from the memory. I pulled out the flag, yelled like a man scorched by fire, and threw the abomination at my fellow mountaineers. I am a man of few words, and the words I do employ are of the kind one could safely wield around tots. But at that moment, at the top of Aguille, I let out a stream of ribaldry so tawdry, I washed out my own mouth that evening. By my rage-fueled account, Junk was the offspring of a she-dog who had sexual relations with the mother of the selfsame she-dog.”

Subsequent expeditions continued along the same trajectory. Hoyt would climb, making every attempt to conceal his plans, but Junk would climb and beat Hoyt to the summit. The only variation was the writing on the flag. One time it read “$100,000?” Another time “PRIG.” And another time, in smaller letters “Fat is the head that wears the crown.”

Ovaltine, in association with the American Alpine Club, were sponsoring an American team to ascend Nanda Devi in India. The Ovaltine people were growing frustrated with their sponsorship of the
Little Orphan Annie
radio program. According to an internal memo, the company felt “Advertising during
Little Orphan Annie
is bringing us a narrow audience of kids, their moms, and fairies.” They wanted to sell their drink to men, and they planned to pitch Ovaltine as a healthy drink for rugged, active outdoorsmen. This was one of the first marketing campaigns of its kind, jumping off of the billboards and out of the radio sponsorships and into newsreels and morning papers. The Ovaltine people were excited beyond all measure and promoted the trip heavily.