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

were immediately ignited by his mellifluous take on the American crooning style of Frank Sinatra (This popularity came despite the fact that Mr. Sinatra had just rekindled his career by starring in From Here to Eternity). Performances at nightclubs grew in attendance with each engagement. Today he can be heard over the airwaves of the Japanese Broadcasting Corporation. His voice is a soothing balm for a people deeply wounded – a good people who, like so many other good people throughout history, were dragged into the heat of battle along with their wives and children because of a small elite’s appetite for conquest. Any of them within earshot is temporarily healed by Yuudai’s blending of American jazz, rhythm & blues, and a touch of traditional Japanese enka. I was fortunate enough to catch one of his performances upon my recent visit to the Orient. He performed his most popular song The Train to Her Heart. Words cannot describe the beauty of that experience. It was standing room only in a smoky room full of clinking glasses. The audience was rapt. When he finished for the night, the applause was more than just deafening and relentless – its din contained a joyful declaration of optimism. Yuudai was finally receiving the approval he deserved for his kind, gentle ways. I chose not to speak to him afterwards, preferring to keep this wonderful, heroic, poetic man a mystery.

“Twas beauty killed the beast.” The code words were not uttered by Gary Cooper, but by some other half-remembered swarthy scoundrel from The Souls At Sea. The pirate mumbled in broken English, “Captain Cooper sorry, not here for return trip.” Apparently months back, Cooper had wanted to sneak into Los Angeles for the premiere of “Sergeant York” but had missed it in order to get Junk and his team to India. He was not going to allow the return trip to get in his way a second time; he was currently sneaking into Los Angeles for the premiere of his hero’s follow up film “Ball of Fire.” That it co-starred Barbara Stanwyck only trebled the temptation for the captain. The last time the shipmates had seen Captain Cooper, it was just after dusk off the coast of Malibu and they were lowering him and his young lady friend into a rowboat. He was dressed in an immaculately fitted dinner jacket and she in a glittering formal gown many sizes too large for her frame. We cannot be certain whether they were able to sneak into the premiere that night, but according to the following day’s Los Angeles Times, “an unidentified oriental man” was arrested for creating a public disturbance after offering Ms. Stanwyck a negligee “for later” and then punching out Gary Cooper when the actor came to her aid. The remainder of the captain’s life is a mystery.

The sun was setting as Junk paid off the temporary captain for the extra passengers. He also paid the remaining porters and Sherpa and let them go, thanking them profoundly for their assistance. When it came time to bid Chhiri Tendi farewell, Junk kept it light and to the point. “You’re a top-shelf Sherpa, Mr. Tendi” he said. “I hope our paths cross again. If you’re ever in the States, pay me a visit.” Little did Junk know his offhanded remark would in fact come to pass.

When the time came several hours later for the ship to cast off, River Leaf was nowhere to be found. Literally tons of climbing equipment had been stowed away. The passengers were waiting on deck. The sailors were playing cards and yelling at each other. In a manner rather patrician, the temporary captain threatened Junk: “Five minutes and we leave without her.” Junk was beside himself. He barked out orders to everyone. “Search the docks! Check the bars! We can’t leave without her!” The investigations turned up nothing. River Leaf had held to her declaration on the mountain; she was going to have a try living in India. The ship cast off two hours behind schedule at roughly 11 p.m. Standing at the stern, watching the lights of Calcutta disappear down the Hooghly, Junk was silent. He wrote in his journal later that night, “Hoyt was my enemy, my son, and in the end, for less than a day, my dear friend. When he died, much of my motivation for living went with him. But then she was my hope. I could again be driven by someone outside of myself, and this time, for the right reasons. Not for vengeance or wrath, but for love. Now she’s gone too…the greatest woman…no…the greatest person I’ve ever met. And I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to either of them.” That was the last entry in Junk’s journal from the expedition. Not the high note one would have hoped for.

The voyage home was uneventful despite the war going on all around them. The captain chose a route through the Indian Ocean, south around the African continent, and then northwest to Chappaquiddick. The risk inherent in this route had been the hurricane season, but they were spared any such cosmic mischief. McGee took up vomiting again. Junk joylessly played cards with the crew. Thornton kept to himself and read books from Cooper’s library; predominantly a collection of primers on film making, the Kama Sutra, and German military weaponry. Chatham remained in his bed the entire journey, saying little to anyone. As it would turn out, Chatham would stay ill for the remainder of his short life. His adventures were over, save occasional nurse-assisted outings to the loo. His body never recovered from the excessive damage dealt by Fumu, save one exception. His mouth fully rebounded by the time he was situated in his home in Dallas. He would spend the next three years torturing his nurses with seemingly infinite tales of cannibalism, lava, and crazed yaks, all of which the nurses passed off as the ravings of a madman. He finally succumbed