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

Thornton would return to Columbia University to continue his linguistics work. At one point he attempted to write a book about the Fumu expedition, but Junk came after him and threatened him with physical violence should he do it. Everyone else had gotten the word, why not him? Junk wanted absolutely no written or verbal dissemination of what had happened. Junk would tell a few famed climbers about Fumu, and that was to be the extent of it. All of the deceased and missing were to be declared lost on either Hoyt or Junk’s respective (and completely fabricated) Alaska or British Columbia expeditions. Families would also be told their loved ones “fell nobly” protecting the others from bear attack. In this way, they would all be left with a sense of pride and with very little motivation to go looking for a body. Thornton never published his book and continued to live the lie like every other expedition member.

The Souls At Sea arrived in Chappaquiddick on the evening of December 10th, 1941. These weary, battered men were done waging their own war and now returned to find their nation just beginning its own. A sour welcome home to be sure. The world spiraling out of control around them must have been difficult to piece together. Was it all real, or was it some nightmare of the recent past working its way into waking life? Regardless of whether the disturbance was made of whole cloth or the gossamer thread of dreams, it would remain in their lives for another four sad, uncertain years.

Junk and McGee returned to Boston and – after surgery to remove four of Junk’s fingers and four toes - more or less continued their lives as if nothing had happened. They were given odd looks at parties, Junk due to his hobbling about on a cane, always favoring his left foot, and both of them due to their cracked and burnt faces. But that was about the extent of the differences as compared to before the journey. Legitimate and questionable business concerns alike flourished thanks to an infusion of cash from both Junk and McGee. Only a half year previous, many of these businesses had been on the brink of insolvency, but now their real estate holdings company, their craps games, their chain of department stores, their protection rackets, all of them thrived. So actually, that was another difference from before. Junk and McGee could still be seen out and about, attending parties, gambling at their own establishments, running meetings with shareholders and the like. But Junk’s spoke less now, choosing to hold his tongue unless some dialogue was absolutely required. When he did speak, his voice had lost its stentorian punch. The old Junk could only be heard was when he was inebriated and cornering some young filly at a bar; in other words, every night at around eleven. His savage hunger for women had escalated since their return. McGee rarely saw his friend after midnight. And then in the late morning, he would see his friend again, often wearing the same clothing as the night before and a look of utter detachment. None of these women ever appeared with Junk in broad daylight. Come to think of it, almost everything had changed since their return from Fumu.

Not long after their return came the day Junk had dreaded for over a month. He took a train from Boston’s South Station to New York’s Pennsylvania Station. The cab ride to the Upper East Side must have been horrid; nerves like a muddy bog in the stomach, awareness of looming unpleasantries, and the only solace the promise of a stiff drink on the other side. He arrived at Wizzy’s flat late in the afternoon. “She answered the door in her nightgown, just before dinner” Junk wrote to McGee. “Her nightgown, McGee. She may as well have been wearing a black dress and veil.” Wizzy did not greet him graciously. She did not invite him in. “She wasn’t looking at my eyes, but a few inches beyond my eyes. She saw it already. She knew before I even told her. But I had to tell her anyway. It was more difficult to relay Hoyt’s death to his widow than it had been for me to experience Hoyt’s death firsthand. She punched the door the way a female punches things. She simultaneously gave out a wail like I have never heard before. Then she just stood there, hands cupped over her face, crying.” Junk tried to put a comforting hand on her shoulder but she recoiled immediately.

Junk had time to say only a few things before the door was slammed in his face. “We were friends before the end, Mrs. Hoyt. He told me to tell you he loves you and the boys and that he made a mistake leaving. I certainly understand if you never forgive me. And being his wife, it makes sense if you never forgive him. But as a fellow climber, as the one who introduced him to his mistress in the first place, please forgive him.” Whether she did or did not, we cannot know.

Wizzy held a memorial for her husband. Few attended other than his family and several business associates who had something to gain from their appearance. No mountain climbers. No fellow church congregants. Eulogies steered clear of reviewing Hoyt’s demise given that no one was quite sure what had actually happened. Wizzy would not speak of it and the rumour going about was that he had been killed by a bear in northern Canada. Junk stayed away from the services out of respect for Wizzy. McGee lurked in the back for reconnaissance purposes, holding his hat in one hand and blowing his bulbous, pink nose with the other.

All around was war; sibling rivalry writ large. Gun barrels ripe with fire aimed at the skies. Windows blackened at night. Materials of all kinds hoarded. Air-raid