Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain, Jonathan Bloom [best ebook reader TXT] 📗

my gizzard in front of a bunch of bystanders?” Indeed, Chhiri Tendi acted with the etiquette of a Lord. He patted Junk on the shoulder and said “Welcome.” He then walked Junk aside and said “I’ve told no one about making it to the top first, and have no intention of doing so.” The Bostonian did not hesitate. He walked breezily back to the men and yelled “Chhiri Tendi reached the top first. Hoyt and I came later. Now go back to your business.” There was a short silence and lack of movement among the men as if the film projector presenting their lives had temporarily stopped working. Then everyone returned to what they were doing.

“And one more thing” Junk bellowed. “William Hoyt is dead. He died saving me. He was a good man. I would like a moment of silence please.” No one spoke. Heads were down. After a while, Junk thanked the men and again everyone went back to what they were doing. There had been no tears and no audible gasps at the announcement. You may recall no one had much cared for Hoyt. A moment of silence in which the men could feel shame for not feeling loss was enough to do the trick.

Sleeping was the order of the day, or days, for Junk, Pasang Dolma, and the other Sherpa who had arrived with him. Seeing his tent had been burnt down (by an enraged Hoyt he was told), Junk found another quiet tent and rested. He also tended to his ailments, many of which would be permanent. He would end of up losing four fingers, four toes, and a small portion of his nose (The doctor would be “picking a gin blossom” Junk jested rather darkly).

Everyone began packing up on the 19th, making ready for the long and somber journey home. Only minutes before they were to begin walking toward the Qila Pass, a porter called out. “Look” he was saying in Nepalese. “The others!” He was pointing to figures approaching from the northwest. They walked along an esker riding above the moraine like a man-made promenade. Junk put on his sun goggles to better suss out the situation. The first person to come into view was an oriental Junk had never seen. He did not have the bearing of a porter or a Sherpa. He had a swagger suggesting a privileged upbringing. “Who the fuck is that clown” asked Junk to no one in particular. Behind the stranger were porters from Junk’s northern base camp as well as – and this Junk could not believe – three of the Sherpa who had gone barmy on the Eastern Ridge. He probably wanted to hit these men, but his attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere.

It was not until the people were but yards away that the two last faces were visible. Wearing tattered gabardine and using ice axes as canes, McGee and River Leaf came into view. If he had a decision to make regarding whom to embrace first, Junk’s decision was made for him when River Leaf changed direction to avoid him.

McGee, looking downright slim and sunburned, cried aloud and hugged his oldest friend with gleeful abandon. Junk may have been somewhat distracted by River Leaf’s rebuff, but not so much he could keep from crying as well. They hugged for minutes. Brothers, reunited at last. Nothing was said. It is likely neither man expected to see the other again, but here they were, seeing, smelling, and hearing the one thing in their worlds that gave their respective lives consistency. There was silence until McGee whimpered “I was a hero, Junk.” This summoned more tears from both men. “I’m sure you were” Junk replied, his voice muffled by the shoulder of his friend’s coat. After the embrace was done, McGee added “You owe me a load of money, pal.” This was indeed the case. McGee had survived and therefore won himself one million dollars fair and square. Junk was not worried at all. They would be passing through the lava tube shortly and after collecting rucksacks worth of gold, all debts would be settled. With toes deformed and emotions at full extension, Junk led everyone across the moraine, into the lava tube for some unprecedented American plundering, and then out of mountains on their way to Calcutta.

Yuudai had received no welcome back. He had simply rested his weary bones at base camp in silence and then begun the long hike home. Chhiri Tendi, the only person who knew of Yuudai’s heroic deeds with Hoyt and the parachute, came over and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I didn’t say anything and neither did he” Chhiri Tendi told me, “but he reached up and grabbed my hand and I think in doing that we both communicated successfully.”

River Leaf would not speak to Junk no matter the advances. When they passed the monasteries of the man-children, he asked her to join him to pay a visit to Mano. To this she shook her head and nothing more. In a huff Junk decided to just move forward and forego the visit to the odd sage. When they reached Darjeeling, he asked her to get some dinner with him to celebrate their new-found wealth. She had been separating her own clothing from the other equipment at the time. She did not look up from her task. “No thank you” was the flat response.

Chatham was taken to a doctor in Darjeeling. Even more disturbing than his look was his lack of words. He mumbled and whispered now and then, but there was no more of his outsized braggadocio. Humbled by the mountain, there was nothing more to say. Thornton was also admitted for observation, although his problems were of a more temporary nature; both arms and one rib were broken. Thanks to the quality care of the Sherpa and porters at base camp, Thornton was already on the mend by the time they were on their way to Calcutta.

Chatham