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

found them to be empty. There was no sign of any people or their livestock. Doors were closed and windows covered with blankets. Junk was mildly disappointed. He had not expected to see Mano because the expedition was approaching the southernmost portion of the ring instead of the west, but he had hoped to at least run into some of Mano’s cracked colleagues. He vaguely remembered being annoyed by Mano, but also fascinated. Unsure what to do, he left a note for the man-children, assuming they could read and would not scribble over it. The note, according to Morrow, was a simple salutation, no more.

As they set out for the mountain again, Morrow wrote:

“I could have sworn I saw one of the high altitude Sherpa, a short, crooked employ of Pasang Dolma’s, spit on the monastery. I know Junk saw it as well because he turned to me with a questioning look. Sherpa tend to be very kind, gentle souls. Thus it was hard to understand why he would do such a nasty thing. We were unsure whether the Sherpa spoke English and we were in no mood to turn sour a relationship with someone who might save our life soon, so we chose to ignore the act.”

While Hoyt was still fumbling across the globe, Aaron Junk and his team were looking up at the Qila Pass. Its beauty was undeniable, but so was its treachery. Morrow wrote that God must have had a moment of true inspiration when cobbling together this landscape, but He must have been collaborating with a similarly inspired Lucifer. The three thousand foot amethyst incline before them was a deep, gorgeous purple picking up yellow, sparkling highlights whenever sunlight rose over the horizon. The face was rugged, with surfaces changing angles in haphazard directions. Upon closer inspection, between the angles, the surface was smooth and flawless, leaving no room for handholds or the hammering in of pitons.

Strewn about the base of this gorgeous spectacle was a generous smattering of decayed corpses clothed in mountain climbing apparel; fools like themselves who had chosen to enter Qila of their own free will to conquer the Monster inside (Such thoughts made Junk agree with his fellow climber Cole, the physicist, that free will was an illusion. Determinism made the pile of carnage before them easier to grasp). Most of the corpses were broken apart, with arms far from torsos and heads. This grotesque detail pointed to a crucial fact about the pass: It gets harder as it gets higher. Most of these men had reached an impressive height before falling and giving up the ghost. Had the corpses been in tact, it might have suggested that the accidents occurred almost right away. The climb begins as a hike, even a jaunt. It is hard to kill oneself at the outset. Then the pass narrows and steepens and travelers begin to realize they are damned fools for being where they are. It is then a foot slips or a piton gives way. The drawn out, dreadful feeling of freefall begins, and soon thereafter ends in a quick flash of anguish with no rememberer to remember it.

Hardly a “pass” at all. More like the giant, flowing cape of some pagan god of suicide. Nonetheless, to the best of Junk’s knowledge, the top of the Qila Pass was the lowest elevation and least steep approach into the domain of Fumu. Just to be sure, Junk sent two parties out at sunrise to check for alternative entry points into Qila. One party went east along the ridge toward the mountain the locals called Abel. They found nothing but a relatively featureless wall of loose rock. There was no variation in its steepness, its shoddy structure, or its height. The height of the ridge also increased as it moved toward the summit of Abel. The other party, which had moved west toward the mountain called Asha, found more of the same. The parties returned by dinner and shared the bad news with Junk. Regardless of the fear roiling the gut of every expedition member, they needed to brave the Qila Pass. They would begin climbing the next morning.

Despite their prayers, morning came. With the exception of the handful of porters who would remain at Base Camp, Junk’s team left the foot of the Qila Pass with the intent of mounting it, descending the other side, and setting up Advanced Base Camp One (there would also be an Advanced Base Camp Two when they reached the north side of Fumu). The hike started out peacefully as expected. The bottom of the pass was a gently sloping basin holding little snow. Walking over the uneven amethyst was at times slippery but by no means difficult. They walked in single file with most of the Sherpa and porters in the front, led by Pasang Dolma, and the Americans in the back. Cole led the Americans with Morrow and Fenimore close behind. River Leaf was behind Fenimore. She practically disappeared into her clothing and equipment which were designed for a man’s frame. The collar came up to her ears. Her mitts could not be seen within the sleeves of her coat. Only her boots fit properly. Junk took up the rear. He chose to be there because of McGee. He did not want the man out of his sight. Before the pass became steep, McGee was already stopping regularly, wiping his brow, and breathing heavily. Nonetheless, he kept up fairly well only falling behind a few hundred feet. Base Camp had sat at about thirteen thousand feet above sea level. The top of the pass was at sixteen thousand five hundred feet. The team made it to fifteen thousand feet within a few hours.

When the first person slipped and fell (it had been Taylor), Junk sent word up the line that the increasing gradient now called for the Elevator. The Sherpa would continue to climb, bringing several lengths of rope with them. The