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

the animal to relax further. There appeared to be perhaps a few more millimeters of width nearer to the bottom of the cave than in the middle or top. If the yak relaxed then it might drop and in the process come loose. Or at least looser. Chhiri Tendi suggested they settle in for the night and not feed the animal. He believed there was enough air for everyone to breathe and enough water to drink. If they waited it out, Chhiri Tendi believed, then the yak would decrease in girth just enough in twenty-four hours to come loose. Both Hoyt and Chhiri Tendi’s plans demanded patience. Not so Chatham’s. “Kill the beast” Chatham yelled from the other side of the blockage. “Cut its throat and then take it apart.” The tallest mountain in the world was only moments away, and Chatham could not hold back any longer. Safari in the Congo, submersibles under the North Pole, snake-charming in Iraq all paled in comparison to this, the greatest prize. “I am not going to waste another minute staring at this animal’s ass. Let’s kill it and eat well tonight.”

The first to speak up against this idea were the porters, men who usually did not speak. Some came from regions where the yak was sacred, but even those who did not come from such regions knew the worth of a live yak. Its dung provided fuel otherwise hard to find at high altitudes. Its fur could be cut seasonally for clothing. The milk was good too. In their estimation, killing this yak would be hasty and wasteful. Everyone including the animal could come out of this cave alive.

Mano’s protest against slaying the beast was predictable. In the eyes of a child, all violence is bad and should be avoided. He would rather die himself than watch the yak be slaughtered. “He began to weep openly,” wrote Hoyt. “He jerked hard on the sleeve of my wool sweater, begging not to let it happen. He said his people would gladly share the gold in the tunnels with us for eternity if I would spare the yak’s life. I told him to unhand me. The decision would be based on reason, not emotion.”

Hoyt could have very easily agreed with Chatham. He must have certainly shared Chatham’s urge to get to the mountain. Losing Wizzy, a deadly journey around the globe, the murder of his brother, all for the mountain that was right there. All he had to do was snuff out a life. The yak was pinned; cutting its throat would be effortless. One swift wave of the hand is if in salutation and the problem would be past.

But then again, Hoyt did not like Chatham very much. All of Hoyt’s writings suggest that he thought Chatham an ass, and an arrogant one at that. Expeditions require camaraderie and Hoyt probably should have picked someone other than Chatham, but he had been desperate due to time constraints. Now here was Chatham pushing on Hoyt to make a decision and Hoyt probably did not like that. What’s more, Hoyt had had a red letter day overall. Some kind of Joy had seeped into his heart, and even though the blasted wall had partially squelched these sentiments, it must have still existed in Hoyt. It existed insignificant and ephemeral as a dust particle, but it was enough for Hoyt to tell Chatham “No.” They would wait for the beast to tire and drop, and then they would pull her out of the tight space.

The mandate did not quiet Chatham. If no one wanted him to kill the yak, then he would at least “give the animal some motivation.” With that he snatched a lantern from the hand of a nearby porter and held it to the yak’s hindquarters. According to Hoyt’s journal entry, “The result was immediate. The yak convulsed and bellowed, all limbs going into action. According to Chatham’s anguished recollections that evening, the hind legs bucked, finding first Chatham’s lantern and then his face, introducing the two in the process. His hair was an oily fire and his face bloodied before he even hit the ground. The enraged yak fared much better than Chatham, coming loose and stampeding forward. The fellow holding the rope around her neck knew he was no match and let go immediately. The animal trampled and knocked aside men in her path as if they were no more than pappus from a dandelion. When she reached the wall she did not slow. Horns and then skull found stone and the wall gave way without resistance. Gold, granite, and amethyst exploded out in all directions. The enraged ungulate ran away into the snow and sunshine, kicking up rubble and dropping its load in the process.

Men on the ground and against the walls of the cave breathed deeply of the fresh air and squinted into the blinding daylight. They could see nothing as their troglodytic eyes had not yet adjusted. Moans could be heard from those who had been trampled. Chatham was unconscious; his newly bald head still smoking. Hoyt had suffered only a mild abrasion when the back of his head hit the wall of the cave. Mano and Chhiri Tendi were spared entirely. The able-bodied helped gather the injured, putting arms around shoulders and picking up those few who could not walk. And then, in a stream of exhausted humanity, the expedition exited the cave and looked upon the view before them.

Imagine you yourself had just stumbled from the cave, head down, exhausted. Train your eyes very slowly skyward, starting from the ground at your feet. You would have first seen little of interest. Loose grey rubble pounded by receding glaciers lie under your hiking boots. Some of the stones around you are as big as boulders, but mostly you are surrounded by pebbles you could hold in your hand. Look up a little more. Patches of snow and ice lay about. There is almost no flora save