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

carried Morrow and the spray at least twenty feet leeward. He came down with a sickening thud and slid, lifeless, down the glacier along with a cataract of hot water and the sulfurous stench of the Earth’s innards.”

River Leaf and Cole half-walked, half-ran down the glacier to Morrow. They must have known he was dead before they reached him as the body was “motionless and impossibly bent.” Upon reaching Morrow, they verified he was deceased and glumly pulled his corpse down the route upon which they had ascended, the terrain under their feet now slippery with fresh ice.

The ice was too hard and thick to permit burial so the team simply took a blanket from Morrow’s pack and wrapped him in it. No one wept. They were too tired and perhaps too shocked to weep. Junk took out a pack of playing cards and placed it inside the blanket along with a copy of William James’ The Principles of Psychology and a naked photo of Mimi Eisenhower found in Morrow’s sleeping bag. Zeigler, River Leaf, and Pasang Dolma took turns praying over the body.

Three deaths and not yet permanently situated at Camp One. If this mortality rate kept up then the summit would be out of their grasp. Low on men, out of funds, and dangerously short on morale, Junk began to waver for the first time since the expedition began. Junk was also wracked with guilt. It had been his decision not to use ropes on the glacier, a decision that had doomed Fenimore. Had he been tied to Morrow, Junk, and Pasang Dolma, the young Fenimore would have been with them now. Morrow’s death had then been a direct result of Fenimore’s. In Junk’s opinion, all responsibility for the horrid events of the day fell to him and him alone. Now he spoke to the team about the possibility of retreat.

This must have surprised everyone. Junk the Invincible, Conqueror of Boston, Viscount of the Long Shot, was talking about playing it safe and avoiding defeat. River Leaf said nothing. Pasang Dolma said he was at Junk’s disposal and would do whatever Junk wanted. Cole and Zeigler both suggested they at least try for the Eastern Ridge before considering retreat. McGee said nothing, but was likely torn. He had lost everything to make this happen, so having a go at the top against the odds made perfect sense. But then again, all indications suggest he was also terribly scared. The acrophobia must have plagued him every waking moment.

Cole wrote, “I mentioned to Junk that Hoyt was probably giving up too. The other side of the mountain was almost certainly experiencing bad weather due to the monsoon and that would make Hoyt’s ascent even more challenging. All it took was me mentioning Hoyt’s name and Junk’s whole demeanor changed. ‘Who said anything about retreat?’ he asked, clearly offended. ‘We are going up, you pansies!’ So in the end, it was Junk himself who made the argument to press on.”

After one more descent to Base Camp, the team climbed the Rakhiot Glacier for the last time. They shed several Sherpa at Camp One, leaving only fifteen. They turned eastward at the hot pools and began to make their way up the lip of the Icy Bellows.

The four dyspeptic Sherpa mumbled their way toward Camp Two. Pasang Dolma was fearless and strong, carrying more than his share of equipment, helping in the setup of camp and the preparation of meals, and making climbing recommendations to Junk when called upon. Zeigler proved a solid replacement for Morrow when it came to knowledge of the terrain and the moves of previous expeditions up the northern route. Cole was consistent and trustworthy in his climbing expertise, although his frostbite problems seemed to be more widespread now. His toes had become a problem. Perhaps the poor sot had bad circulation. Whatever the reason, he was in pain. But being the brave, reliable gentleman he was, he never let the pain get in the way of his impeccable climbing technique. McGee fought not just acrophobia now, but agoraphobia was well. The dizzying open spaces, the lack of enclosure on any side, made him close his eyes as he walked.

River Leaf moved forward without a misstep, without complaint, and without a moment’s hesitation. Junk hiked behind her much of the time now. Her figure must have blocked Junk’s view of the summit at times. But if her body did obstruct the view, he apparently did not mind for he never asked her to move.

Interlude: Winter, 1920

Chhiri Tendi was ten years old when he saw the colossus that was his father begin to crumble. The harvest had been a good one for the village of Thame, as it had been across the entire Khumbu region. Families gathered and celebrated in each other’s homes, drinking, dancing, and making boasts. Chhiri Tendi and his parents were attending one such occasion at the home of their neighbor. It was late. Possibly after midnight. No one owned a timekeeping piece and no one particularly cared how late it was.

Chhiri Tendi’s mother, Pasang Lhamu, had been a little woman, no more than four and one half feet tall. Her face was a sea of wrinkles, troughs and crests summoned by life’s hard weather. The face seemed to pour into her toothless mouth and disappear. She said almost nothing and took in everything. The croaked words that did come forth were crafted to exact the most damage. Tonight she did not say a thing. She nodded her head politely and tapped her fingers on her knee as her lady friends conversed.

Chhiri Tendi’s father was Phurbu Tawa. Completely devoid of any credentials or experience, Phurbu Tawa had become the unspoken viceroy of the village due exclusively to his charm, quick intellect, and large stature. A porter by trade, the villagers turned to him to settle land disputes, arrange marriages for their children, and consult on crop