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

the occasional scrappy blade of brown grass peeking up between the rocks. Raise your eyes further. There are no inclines or declines to speak of; the earth is perfectly flat for one mile ahead of you up to a scree where foreground meets background. The flatness extends all of the way to the horizons on your left and right. All of this landscape is covered in black soot come to rest after its descent from above.

Now look straight ahead. But brace yourself first. For beyond the one mile stretch of nothing lays Fumu, tall and wide and terrible. The moment your rising eyes see it, all else you have just witnessed - the rocks, the soot, the scrappy grass - is gone from memory. You grow dizzy taking all of it in. The world before you is a vast palimpsest etched in ash over snow and rock and they all say the same words: “Stay away.” There is more mountain in your field of vision than blue sky. Fumu’s white buttresses flay out beyond your peripheral vision. The eastern and Western Ridges (the western one you will have to ascend) follow the mountain’s flanks like sharp, cumbersome shoulder armor. They meet at the shrouded summit, which is the highest thing you have ever seen. Its dark cloud billows outward and is sheared flat at the top by the jet stream. Could it possibly be within the Earth’s atmosphere? Unfortunately, it is left to you to find out. There but for the Grace of God go you.

“Several of the men wet themselves immediately upon seeing her,” Thornton wrote. “I was one. Had we simply been paying a visit to Fumu’s base, it would have been a different matter. But knowing we had to wake tomorrow and begin going up – up this cold giant that was completely indifferent to our hopes, fears, and will to live – well, that was enough to seize any man’s urethra.” Thornton’s words are certainly no overstatement. The effect of seeing Fumu from the base is unsettling when paired with the knowledge you are about to scale it. The team had to take some time think about this before proceeding. They tried to eat lunch and meditate on their fate while Ferguson did his best to administer first aid to the trampled and the burned. Ankles were twisted and ribs sprained although most of those who had been in front of the yak simply had the wind taken out of them. Chatham was no delight to behold with his swollen face and lack of eyebrows. However, the beating and scorching did not stop him from prattling on about past adventures. “This is nothing compared to the damage I sustained in Yellowknife on my way to the Arctic Circle. I was caught standing between a mother grizzly bear and her two cubs. The bear already carried my colleague’s right leg in her mouth when she set upon me. The claw marks are still quite visible on my torso.” No one ever happened to see the claw marks, but then again, no one was looking.

Once bellies were filled and burns soothed, Hoyt gave the word to proceed. They crossed the moonscape of the moraine within two hours and came to the base of the mountain. There stood Junk’s Advanced Base Camp; a series of tan silk Mummery tents and prayer flags huddled together in a circle, attended to by a large team of porters. Two of the porters stood side by side and motionless watching the approach of Hoyt’s team. Hoyt wrote:

“One was holding a lowball of scotch, the other a deck of cards. Their angle of loll suggested acute inebriation. I had no question in my mind as to whose camp this was.The anger built in me as we neared the outpost. I began to hike faster as we approached the few Nepalese minding the camp. When I reached them, I did not waste a moment with formalities, nor did I ask if this was the camp of Junk. Who else’s could it be? No, I jumped right in to asking the two questions I cared about. First: ‘Did he go up or around?’ Thornton translated. The coolies pointed to the northeast. Just as I thought. Junk was gambling again, taking the time to go all the way around the base in order to take the “easier” route. Then I asked my second question: ‘Which tent is Junk’s?’ Thornton translated again. The men pointed to the tent furthest away from us. I wasted no time. Junk had been dogging me for years now and I had only returned the favor in little ways like slighting him on the Presidential hike money and having him professionally punched. I was ready to provide another small repayment (that is, until it was time for the enormous repayment of reaching the summit first). The wall in the cave could have killed several people. Junk had stepped over the limit. I calmly walked over to his tent, untied the lantern that had been attached to my pack, and spilled the remaining contents all over the place. Not much was needed, given the highly flammable material these tents are made of. The coolies began to run toward me followed by my own men – Chhiri Tendi, Thornton, Drake, Wilde, Ferguson, and the jap. They were too late to stop me. I had already struck the match I had held in my hand all the way across the moraine. I dropped it and the effect was instantaneous. Junk’s canvas tent went up in a fireball. I am a man usually drawn to cold, but at this moment, the heat on my face and the joy in my heart were turkey and stuffing on Thanksgiving.”

According to other people’s writings, no one said a word to Hoyt about the tent burning. They were deathly afraid of his temper and besides, there was nothing that could be said about it anyway. Junk’s porters scooped