Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (30 page)

The transition from hiking relatively flat ground to ascending the mountain proved jarring for everyone’s respiratory system. They were winded. To compensate, they hiked at a very slow pace. Any slower, and the glacier upon which they hiked would outpace them in the opposite direction and thus return them to Base Camp. Even for the most seasoned climbers, taking constant breaks and massaging cramped muscles were mandatory.

As they began the ascent, wending their way through the great maze of the icefall, McGee was complaining. He was not complaining about exhaustion any more than the others (the hike from Darjeeling and then around the base of the mountain from south to north had gotten him into relatively good shape), nor was he complaining about heights quite yet. He was complaining about glare. One thing many new climbers do not expect is the intensity of the sun at such high altitudes. Paired with the reflective snow and ice, the result is blinding. When Junk’s team was in the shade, the world was a gorgeous luminous blue. When they moved out into the frigid sunshine, vision was lost. Even with the aid of goggles, squinting was a must.

The landscape was marred by rather unpleasant touches that alerted the team to the threats that faced them at every moment. After only three minutes on the icefall, they came across a severed arm. It was devoid of clothing and colour so there was no way to identify its owner. The poor sot could have been any one of the countless individuals who had lost their lives on the northern route. The accident may have happened hundreds or even thousands of feet higher up the mountain; the glacier’s slow downward motion delivering the arm to its current location over the course of decades. After the arm, Junk’s team came across a length of rope tied to a piton and dangling off the side of a crevasse. “Fortunately, no one was tied to it” Cole wrote.

Using his uncanny mental talents to memorize the map and Hoover’s route along the icefall, Morrow led the way. His challenge was not a simple one given that an icefall is not a static thing. Some crevasses had formed anew since Hoover’s time and several fallen seracs had blocked the way. The team had to adjust their route somewhat and they proved quite adept at it. Pasang Dolma was alongside Morrow and he seemed to have a good sense of safe routes to take. Not far behind Morrow and Pasang Dolma were Zeigler and River Leaf, followed by Fenimore, followed by Junk and McGee. The remainder of the Sherpa brought up the rear. The team had made the unusual decision to not tie off to one another on the icefall. If a snow bridge or a serac gave way, Junk did not want the bad luck of one person pulling the remainder down. The unsafe nature of an icefall is usually the exact reason why a team would tie off. If one person falls, the others can arrest themselves and stop the person from dropping. But Junk the gambler felt his team was comprised of good judges of terrain and would know what routes to avoid. In addition, ropes hinder faster climbers and put pressure on slower ones. No, Junk wanted to wait until they were on steep, technical portions of the mountain before breaking out the ropes. They would play the odds on the icefall in order to make for a faster, more comfortable ascent.

Occasionally the route would come to an unexpected dead end. Once, the team had to take out pitons and ropes and climb a near vertical face some forty feet tall. It was their first experience with technical climbing on Fumu (aside from the Qila Pass where the Sherpa had done all of the hard work). Ropes, crampons, and pickaxes proved invaluable as they made their way up the wall. Those with more experience climbed beneath those with less and motivated them with compliments, advice, and distractions. After an hour, the entire team was up and unscathed. However, they were all exhausted. Junk and Cole, the two most experienced climbers on the expedition, suffered the least, but even they felt the future held nothing but discomfort. “Morrow lay at the top of the cliff panting,” Cole wrote. “I thought McGee was going to have a cardiac arrest. River Leaf sat Indian style with her head down, breathing deeply. Being young and experienced, Fenimore seemed to be like Junk and I; winded but ready to continue.” Cole went on to describe Pasang Dolma and the other Sherpa as “downright chipper.” The nasty blend of limited air and intense physical exertion means nothing to seasoned Sherpa. They are masters at their craft. Because of their fortitude, the responsibility fell mostly to them to help the Americans push on.

They reached the location of Camp One, near the top of the icefall at 19,000 feet, shortly after two in the afternoon. The lip of the Icy Bellows was only about one hundred vertical feet further ahead. Several hot pools of water bubbled on the lip, sending steam into the air to be caught by the battling wind patterns. They chose to make camp below the lip and not on it because of said troubled, raging wind. Its way of blowing one direction at full force and then coming about without warning – taking with it equipment and human lives - made it notorious. The dreaded wind would be their constant, malevolent companion soon enough. No need to hasten that relationship.

After pitching the tents, the team took a brief respite. Dehydration from high altitude plagued all of them. Headaches and nausea were experienced by some of the climbers but its victims were arbitrary. It seemed to have nothing to do with climbing experience. Junk could barely open his eyes against the pain in his temples while River Leaf seemed untouched. Junk struggled to speak, but when he did, he commanded everyone to put on their packs as quickly as possible and begin the healing climb down to Base Camp.

As you climb at high altitudes, your intelligence drops. This is a scientific fact. You assume more and more of the qualities of childhood. Your capacity to utter certain basic phonemes, make informed decisions, and store memories are all shot to hell. The lisped “s” – the shibboleth of youth – returns in full force, along with the unfulfilled “r” and the “l” masked as “w”. What’s more, the poor choices of more carefree days come back to pay a visit. The process begins above 10,000 feet and gets steadily worse. That would all be well and good, but at higher altitudes, the need to be on your toes gets greater. The risks increase. You are farther from help with each step. Your ranks thin with each camp so fewer and fewer other people are present who could possibly aid you in an emergency. To be sure, impaired judgment, compromised physical agility, and weakened communicative skills do not jibe with the necessities for survival at great heights.

Nothing exemplifies this problem more than the drama that inevitably arises around the acclimatization process. The physical and emotional investment involved in climbing a Himalayan mountain is enormous. The thought of climbing down
during ascent
is almost unfathomable. You struggle up to a lofty perch, strain your body to its breaking point, and then have to give up your claim! How can one expect a child to understand and make such a long-term investment?

That is one of the distinctions between the experienced climber and the new one. The experienced climber can envision a person dying from altitude sickness - the pain, the bloody coughing, the final, failed gasps for breath. They can envision their own nausea and headaches from past journeys. These memories are enough to override any foolish passing thoughts about barreling forward up the slope. The new climber on the other hand remembers only yesterday’s climb and the success of reaching a high camp. They succumb without battle to their juvenile urge for immediate gratification. In their mind, there is up and nothing more. In light of this, one can only imagine the despair felt by River Leaf, McGee, and Morrow – the three who had never climbed at extremely high altitudes - when Junk led the way back down to Base Camp. The entire day’s work on the glacier was being erased and would need to be repeated.

The one comfort of temporary retreat is that thicker air awaits you at end of day. The headaches and dehydration that the team felt at Camp One, which stood at 19,000 feet, were now gone at Base Camp, which stood at 14,000 feet. Sleep was possible. Some intelligence and physical acuity returned. What’s more, porters and cooks awaited them with a hearty supper of canned ham, dried prunes, mulled wine, and hot coffee. They were in a fleeting Shangri-La and everyone made the best of it. They knew these pleasures would be disappearing soon enough.

Unlike Morrow and Cole, Junk was hardly writing anything in his notes. Dates, weather, routes up the mountain, camp positions, and general team health. “September 1. Excellent weather today. Cold but cloudless. Pitched Camp One shortly after lunch near the top of the icefall. Everyone tired but otherwise game.” There was nothing more in these entries. He gave no sign of writing to anyone in particular, nor did he provide any of the flourishes that often accompanied his speech. Other than the connections he kept at home for work and general social climbing, Junk probably had no one expecting writings upon his return to the states. We can only theorize that Junk was keeping barebones documentation just in case he was going to die on this journey. The journal would provide those who discovered his corpse with some idea of what he had been up to. After all, he had lied to everyone back home about where he was going. Most people thought he was relaxing in New Hampshire.

Junk could have spent the night at Base Camp writing like Morrow and Cole, but instead spent it on drink. No one could keep up with him. Everyone else stuck with supper and tobacco. Alcohol and altitude are a lethal pairing and Junk was inebriated moments after opening the flask. McGee shared a few sips to calm his own nerves but was in no state to revel or drown sorrows.

Cole, River Leaf, Zeigler, and Fenimore had retired immediately after supper. Junk, McGee, and Morrow met in Junk’s tent to partake in a game of cards. It must have been a pathetic affair given their exhaustion, but they were desperate for the comforts of home. They played five-card stud, no variations. This would hopefully minimize foolish mistakes.

Morrow wrote: “Junk had always been a bluffer, scaring people out of their ante regardless of what he held in his hand. That night was different. Even intoxicated and out of energy, Junk played a conservative game.” The larger stakes he was playing with Hoyt may have overwhelmed the game in the tent. But what came next provided an even stronger explanation for his behavior.

“
I’m broke” Junk mumbled to the others. They must have assumed at first Junk had gambled away the buy-in for the current game, but he went on to explain that he had spent everything he owned on securing passage to Fumu and paying for the Sherpa and porters. There was nothing left to pay for the land journey back to Cooper’s ship and nothing waiting for him personally when he returned to the States. He had spent everything just to get to Fumu and beat Hoyt to the top. What happened after the ascent was of no importance to him. What’s more, he had no more sources of future revenue as he had liquidated all business concerns to fuel this expedition. He would be on his own should he return to the United States, and he would have to start from scratch. He had no family to which he could turn. No woman he was seeing. He had also vowed never to take a red cent from the daft old woman he had married (he had married her revenge, not for money). He was indeed broke.

The news must have surprised the others in the tent. They would have to pay for Junk to get him back to America. And what of McGee, whose financial standing was inextricably linked to Junk’s? McGee must have been livid. Junk was essentially telling him he too was broke. McGee had always left issues of money to Junk. Providing muscle and companionship had been his sole focus. Now McGee was freezing, slowly falling apart on the side of the tallest mountain in the world, making impossible sacrifices for his closest friend, only to find out his closest friend had knowingly bankrupted him for selfish reasons. And how would Junk pay off on the million dollar bet if McGee survived the expedition? According to Morrow’s notes, McGee’s only response – exhausted and devoid of affect - was that he was tired and he was going to his tent to get some sleep.

Being on the north side of the mountain, sunshine did not touch them until late in the morning. It would be plentiful from ten until noon, then it would get lost behind the cloud at Fumu’s summit, and finally it would blaze down on them from one until four as it traveled just above the Western Ridge. But for now, the cold of dawn permeated everything. Ice clung to beards. Their scarce breaths burned and then escaped through bloody, chapped lips as steam. Only one day in, and the team was concerned that Cole was already experiencing frostbite around his right cheek. The telltale blackening was evident, and Cole spoke of pain followed by total numbness. Not much to be done in such a situation other than to ensure Cole covered up the area completely. He pulled his scarves tighter and continued with the others up the Rakhiot Glacier.

They moved quicker this second day. The uncertainties of the route were gone and so they climbed with more confident steps. Ropes for technical climbing waited for them, having been left in place from the previous day. No precipitation had occurred the night before, leaving crucial hand and footholds visible. The experience was still exhausting but perhaps slightly less than it had been twenty-four hours earlier. No one, however, was cocky about their mounting progress; an occasional eruption heard from the summit was all it took to sap their pride.