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

as it might appear on an overcast night, with misty tendrils of light dispersing in myriad directions from central points. The colors of these fireworks did not vary. They remained constantly orange.

After only a few seconds, all became clear in the minds of these adventurers. There were no fireworks. There was no war zone. They were hearing and seeing Fumu expel its boiling innards in short, explosive bursts from random locations clustered miles in the air around the summit. Then as the men descended further, Qila Pass rose up in their fields of vision and blocked their view of the inevitable. With a heavy grunt and a few hurried steps over rocky terrain, Hoyt and his men had arrived at Fumu.

Upon lighting his torch in the frozen nowhere, the first thing he saw was corpses. These were souls who had lost their lives falling down the Qila Pass. Most of them looked to have been exposed to the elements for years. The exception was the one at Hoyt’s feet, the one strapped mysteriously to a large plank of cracked wood. He appeared to be only about one week dead. And his face was familiar.

PART TWO: THE ASCENT

Chapter Nine: The Qila Pass

Almost one month earlier on July 12th, Junk and team had picked up their five high-altitude Sherpa, the remaining twenty-five Sherpa, and sixty porters in Calcutta. Headed by the sardar Pasang Dolma, the five high altitude Sherpa were well-seasoned and game for the summit. Junk had paid top dollar for the best. If his support was going to be a small group by traditional climbing standards, he wanted that support to be of the best quality. Pasang Dolma was well-known and well-respected. He had an uncanny ability for finding the best routes up mountains upon which he had never trod before, and he also had a knack for surviving terrible conditions. Climbing with George Mallory many years earlier on Annapurna, he had survived an avalanche while all else around him had been lost. Junk did not know the other four high altitude Sherpa, but he trusted Pasang Dolma’s ability to choose good men.

The trip by train to Darjeeling had been drenched in monsoon rains but otherwise pleasant. An unexpected and wonderful coincidence occurred when they stepped off the train. They ran into none other than Gilford Taylor and Philip Zeigler, the men who had climbed with Hoyt on Everest and found the bruised and bloodied Junk on the Western Ridge. At that time, Taylor and Zeigler had bonded with Junk over their disdain for Hoyt. Now here they were at the Darjeeling Station. They had been living in the Indian city of Shillong ever since the Everest climb, rich American expatriates who wanted nothing more than to spend their wealth hiking around the Himalaya and climbing whenever the opportunity arose. Of course, the war had put a damper on their plans. There were no expeditions on which they could tag along. On this particular morning, they were returning from a hike around the base of Kanchenjunga. There had been no ascent, just hiking and camping at the bottom. That had left Taylor and Zeigler thirsting for an opportunity to climb again. Junk did not hesitate to invite them on the expedition to Fumu. They would have to collect more supplies in Darjeeling before setting out on the hike to Qila Pass, but that would be no problem. Supplies were relatively cheap there, and adding two able-bodied men to his anemic team was worth anything to Junk at this point.

The night before setting out for Fumu, Junk approached River Leaf and asked her to continue with the expedition. He had been impressed with her recommendations for fashioning a device for pulling men and supplies up the Qila pass, a device they had come to call “the Qila elevator.” He had been equally impressed with her gutting of a pirate. She clearly had the tough core and keen intellect required for the Fumu ascent. In her usual, passive style, River Leaf agreed without an argument.

Junk was beginning to feel confident about the ascent. His team had just expanded by three people, all of whom were strong and bright. He did not suspect Hoyt would have a much better group. Junk celebrated the night before they left Darjeeling by drinking gin and tonics, gambling deep into the evening with McGee, Morrow, Cole, and Fenimore, and then bedding the wife of a British soldier visiting from Vauxhall. One of the porters commented to McGee “Sahib can’t control pants.” This primitive parody was unfortunately true. Junk could no more control his lust for women than he could his lust for money and alcohol. But he was more than happy to begin his hike with no sleep and a blinding hangover. It was a feeling he had known since his youth. It was as familiar and as comforting to him as the sound of the radiator pipes banging to life on a cold winter night in his childhood bedroom in Boston.

By eight the following morning, they had collected the “Qila elevator” which they had commissioned from a local carpenter upon arrival in the city. It was beautiful, its oak planks planed and nailed together just as River Leaf had specified. With the elevator placed on the backs of several porters, they set out for the mountain. Eight American climbers, thirty Sherpa, (five of them high-altitude) sixty porters, and a subcommittee of yaks moved slowly through the lush and lovely foothills of the Himalaya.

Three weeks later, the environment had grown rockier and the air thinner. The team’s endurance was being tested well before they even arrived at the mountain. Blisters sprung from heels anew. Sunburn set in. Gastrointestinal tracts made the unpleasant adaption to new foods and water sources. A sting in the lungs became as omnipresent as the music of the spheres. Only Taylor, Zeigler, and the coolies were spared.

When they reached the monasteries ringing Fumu, they