Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (26 page)

Ferguson wrote:

The thought of an about face must have been deeply upsetting to Hoyt. It would mean he was done with climbing forever, he had lost the competition to Junk, and he had lost his brother and wife for no reason whatsoever. When Ferguson entered the tent, he had likely come across a man lost in self-evaluation; a man taking an inventory one only takes at the most significant of life’s crossroads.

According to Ferguson, Hoyt ambled out of his tent a few minutes later and walked to a location he had returned to repeatedly over the last nine days: the body of Zachary Taylor. Hoyt knew this man. He had climbed with him on Everest. What was he doing frozen and strapped to a board at the bottom of the Qila Pass? The only answer was that he had joined Junk’s team to get revenge on his former expedition leader, met a terrible demise, and the board was some sort of half-completed coffin. Junk must have had to leave in a hurry if he was unwilling to complete the coffin. Hoyt suspected an avalanche. That would make sense given the condition of Aaron Junk’s Base Camp. It had been hit by some breed of colossus that had flattened it entirely and then disappeared. The warm weather of the past week would explain the avalanche’s disappearance. However the events may have transpired, Taylor was now laying there, fists clenched and thrust into the air, wearing a look of complete surprise.

The day blossomed warm and sunny, as had each day since their arrival. The team had gotten into a routine. There were early breakfasts consisting of eggs, sausage, and coffee (The sausage was gone after the fifth day). After breakfast they would split into parties to explore the area, much like Junk’s team had done earlier. They found no alternative route into Qila. They would then have dinner at noon, which usually involved fish stuck in the snow to keep frozen and then grilled in chunks over the Rob Roy by Yuudai. Afternoon found them keeping in shape and warding off altitude sickness by hiking up the pass as far as they could make it without risking serious injury. At sunset, they would climb down and eat supper like paupers, bread and oleo, in order to save their rations as much as possible. By the ninth day, supper was bread with no oleo. After supper, Hoyt retired while the others sat around a campfire and drank. “They share tales of past adventures and women. No one can keep up with that loud-mouth Chatham. I have the urge to poison him or fatally punch him or both. I need to keep instinct at bay. He is apparently a top-notch climber and the expedition needs such men.”

The porters and Sherpa arrived just as the team was beginning to pack for home. They were slogging in single file across stone and ice from the southeast, with Chhiri Tendi in front. There were easily over one hundred and fifty of them. Major General Ubugai must have hired on more men to ensure the successful climb of his son. The army of support brought with them beasts of burden and huge packs on their backs, all weighed down with food, clothing, and climbing equipment. It was like a cold-climate mirage. Hoyt’s team let up a cheer and Chhiri Tendi’s hordes cheered in response. “I was not happy at all” wrote Hoyt later that day. “They were late and had caused us unnecessary anxiety. I stormed over to Chhiri Tendi with the intent of venting my spleen. All I could say was ‘Where the devil have you been’ before he had his huge arms around me, hugging me as if we were long-lost brothers. He then kissed me on both cheeks and called me a ‘handsome bastard.’” He turned to his men and spoke to them in what may have been Nepali. As he spoke, he pointed to me every few seconds. This was accompanied by occasional laughter from the crowd which I found quite insulting; but when he finished his speech the men let up a giant cheer (the cheering ended abruptly when a distant avalanche was heard and seen near Asha) and each man in turn came to pat me on the shoulder or hug me and give me a warm verbal greeting in a foreign tongue through horrible teeth. After about one hundred and fifty kind salutations, I could no longer be upset.”

Chhiri Tendi and Hoyt spoke at length
about the plans. There was likely no way to get all of the porters and cooks over the Qila Pass, so they would unfortunately have to make their current location base camp. Only the American members of the team, the high altitude Sherpa, and one cook would proceed. This made for an overall team of about thirty-five. All thirty-five would proceed to Advanced Base Camp and the four camps on Fumu, then Chhiri Tendi and Hoyt would make the push for the summit. Chhiri Tendi was very excited. He knew the route from his attempt with Hoover. Chhiri Tendi said, “Had he not been decapitated, Hoover would be honored to know we are working together, and that we are recreating his steps in our struggle for the top.”

Hoyt also explained to Chhiri Tendi that Junk’s team was over the Pass already and probably making a go for the northern route up the mountain. Their hope was that Junk and team would already be half-spent just getting to the northern base of Fumu and would not have the energy nor the supplies for a summit attempt. According to Hoyt, Chhiri Tendi added “That [expletive] is too capricious and too inexperienced to carry out such an endurance test. He is likely to fail.” Hoyt asked Chhiri Tendi to please minimize the blue talk. Chhiri Tendi apologized and said he would try. Moments later he was swearing again.

Everyone awoke at sunrise the following morning ready to take on the Pass. Gear was packed. Cigarettes and pipes were smoked. Prayers were spoken. A delicious breakfast was eaten. Packs were placed on backs and goodbyes were said to a large percentage of cooks and porters who were to stay at Base Camp. It was time to take on the Pass, glowing purple and yellow in the sunrise like a giant bruise. Hoyt wrote in his journal: “They are all jovial, but I know Death awaits at least a handful of us today.”

They had begun to walk across the basin when the unexpected occurred. A line of other people approached from the southwest. Everyone’s journals gave different estimates, but the average estimate was thirty men. As they grew nearer, it seemed the men were wearing nothing but loincloths and backpacks. Each was pushing a large, wooden box on wheels, the boxes having one corner carved out and open, but covered with white cloth. When they reached Hoyt’s team, the wheeled objects appeared to be over-sized prams. Thornton documented the interaction that followed in minute detail (In addition to being a linguist, he also dabbled in anthropology and sociology and he must have been compelled to make a record of these human anomalies):

The men were not of one race. Some were brown, others red, others white. Hoyt turned to me for my linguistic expertise but I simply shrugged. Like Hoyt, I was utterly at a loss. Hoyt lifted up his hand to greet them. “Hello. Do you speak English?” The man in front, a short, white, blond fellow with a terrible sunburn lifted up his hand just as Hoyt had. The morning was still cold and the man shivered. Then through chattering teeth he said, “Goo.” Needless to say, this confused us, but then he said quite eloquently in a German accent, “Yes. I speak English. We all can speak it.” This was quite a relief.

Hoyt introduced himself and explained that we intended to climb Mount Fumu. “Why would you do such a thing?” The question came not from the German, but from inside the box. Hoyt and the rest of us were taken aback. After looking at the rest of us - possibly searching for some glimmer of understanding in our eyes and finding none – Hoyt moved to the pram and lifted up the cloth. We gathered around. Inside was a full-grown man swaddled in blankets. “Goo” he said in a strong and confident voice. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Hoyt seemed angered by the bizarre state of things. “What is the meaning of this? Stand up and address me like a man!” The supine fellow in the pram wriggled like Houdini in chains, unable to break free from the blankets. He looked to the German who quickly offered assistance. Within moments the man was standing before us, naked. He was tall and skinny with dark skin.
Running down past his shoulders were oily, matted strips of graying black hair, thinning on the top.
He looked quickly to the German. “Capital swaddle,” he said. The German smiled, bowed slightly, and went back to shivering. “Let me tell you right away who I am because the last time I met someone from the West they seemed eager to know that piece of information before talking to me. My unofficial name is Mano and this group has no name and we all live in the ring of monasteries you undoubtedly passed on your way here and we worship Fumu and we act like good children to please him and so on and so forth. Now it sounds like you are going to the mountain, as are we. Would you like to accompany us?” He seemed to have an accent. It may have been Portuguese.

Hoyt replied quite tersely, “First, we did not see your monasteries because we were dropped from the sky by airplane. Second, I refuse to speak to you further until you are clothed.” The man, who was skinny and quite tall for a local, let out a frustrated breath and then went to the backpack of the German. He pulled out an enormous white bunting and pulled it on. He looked ridiculous with his arms out to his sides and pointy hood on the top. “Is this more acceptable to you than my nakedness?”

Ignoring the answer Mano just gave him, Hoyt asked who they were. Mano sighed and explained that they worshipped Fumu which he also referred to as “the angry parent” and “the cold breast” (His names for the mountain seemed a little heavy-handed to me). Mano explained that his brethren came from all around the world. Some had been part of expeditions like Hoyt’s and had had a change of heart. Others had been locals who simply stumbled across the monasteries and seen a chance at starting life again. Now they spent their days living in the monasteries, playing well with each other and going to bed at sunset. They would continue to do so until they had pleased Him. Hoyt asked how they would know when they had please him. Mano responded quite seriously,
“When she stops bringing forth magma and starts bringing forth milk.” Mano paused dramatically and then said “And I mean that quite literally.”

A very odd thought this. A mountain producing geysers of milk. This seemed to be taking animism to a ludicrous extreme. Beyond your basic Shinto. When we anthropomorphize something in our culture, we do not expect that thing to actually mimic a living thing. If we think our automobile looks like a man, we do not expect it to tell a joke. And likewise, most people who think a flower has a soul do not think it is going to start tap dancing. Yet this fellow and his colleagues think that somehow this massive rock is going to lactate.”

Mano continued. “Our belief in this unlikely event is an expression of our hopefulness. In our temple we believe all things are possible. Surely men can get along with one another. Surely the sick can be healed. Surely there can be a place where children are safe from hunger. In fact, you might call us the ‘Surely Temple!” No one laughed at this except Chhiri Tendi the Sherpa sardar, who responded as if it was the funniest thing since the circus midget hopped onto J.P. Morgan’s lap.

After being clearly annoyed by these interlopers, Hoyt was done with the conversation. He fidgeted and looked to the Pass as if in haste. Hoyt simply walked away from the dialogue with Mano. He found his backpack and put it on. Looking back at Mano, he said,
“If you’ll excuse us, we have some climbing to do.”

“
Why are you climbing the Fumuri La?” asked Mano. I thought you were climbing Fumu.”

Hoyt’s face was red. I could see the infamous temper coming to a boil. The feeling of logic breaking down did not sit well with William. He barked, “What are you talking about? We are climbing Fumu but we have to get to Fumu first. Enough of these antics. The Qila Pass awaits!” I put my pack on my back as Hoyt had done and followed him. Everyone else on the expedition followed suit.

Having not moved from where the conversation had taken place, Mano yelled to our backs, “So tell me, sirs: When you come home at the end of the day, do you climb through a second-story window?”

Hoyt could have ignored this last statement and kept walking. Had he done so, who knows how many lives would have been lost? Who knows if we would have made it to Fumu at all? Fortunately, for whatever reason – perhaps simply God’s gracious intervention – Hoyt did not ignore the question. He turned and looked back at Mano. “Do you mind clarifying what you mean, sir?”

Mano replied. “That wall of solid rock you call a ‘pass’ is no such thing. It is glistening Death. Do not go through the high window. Go through the front door.” And with that he pointed to a spot just to the west of the basin and at just about the height where a man can no longer climb freely and requires equipment. There was an outcropping of three long, narrow boulders. They had likely arrived there during some ancient cataclysm, sharing and losing the same perch somewhere hundreds of feet above. Two had fallen in such a way they made a line, like train cars moving up the fall line of the mountain. The third boulder had fallen atop the others and cracked in the process, resting diagonally off two sides of the other boulders, one to the left and the other to the right.