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

And still more rocks came rolling down the scree.

Hoyt climbed in front, likely still smarting from the loss of a brother and separation from his wife, neither of which he had time to ponder at this moment. He had also stopped writing about these topics in his journal. By the time they were ascending Fumu, it seemed his tone was actually becoming softer intermittently, the sharp splintery edges occasionally sanded away. He wrote sympathetic words about those around him – even feeling sorry for Chatham after the violence in the cave at one point, and then swinging back to vitriolic words condemning Chatham: “He is as unpleasant as sand in the teeth and his handiwork with falsehoods is almost mesmerizing. If lies could be considered a form of wordplay, then Chatham is the Shakespeare of our time.” He wrote kind words about the young climbers, Thornton and Ferguson, lauding them for reliability far exceeding their ages. He would then say they were mere children who knew nothing yet acted like they owned the world. Hoyt still had no good words to say about Yuudai. And there was one topic still capable of bringing about the old Hoyt ire fully formed and unrepentant: “I dreamt last night I found Junk alive but lying on the mountain,” Hoyt wrote. “I started kicking him repeatedly and he did not try to get up or fight back. I simply delighted in kicking him like a child delights in playing with a scab. But with every kick, I felt the pain. And I continued to kick anyway.” In his writings, Hoyt was certain Junk was making better progress due to optimal weather conditions and an easier route. It was September first, the same day Junk was beginning his first ascent up the Rakhiot Glacier. The two men were actually in a tie.

More rocks came rolling down the scree.

Chatham was not deterred by the weather, nor by his third-degree burns, nor by the contusions on his head he sustained from the yak in the cave. He continued to prattle on to those near him on the slope about potentially made-up exploits in exotic destinations. This time it was a narrow escape from premature burial in the Great Pyramid of Khufu. “He says his escape came down to teeth” Thornton wrote in his notes. He claimed he was rescued by his top left incisor, which had come out during an accident opening a hidden sarcophagus in the lower chamber. When he saw the exit of the pyramid closing on them, likely due to tampering by angry locals, he allegedly had the clarity of mind to throw the tooth under the rock. The little space made by the tooth between the door and the bottom of the entrance was enough for them to jam a piece of their equipment in and lift the door. “I am quite confident that story never happened” Hoyt wrote. “The man’s stories are mere flights of fancy. In addition, his climbing abilities are mediocre at best. He is too slow. In sum, Mr. Chatham has offered nothing to this endeavor, save the hot air he expels.”

More rocks.

Yuudai climbed near the back with Chhiri Tendi. All of the American expedition members remained adversarial toward the quiet Japanese fellow. Wilde would berate him for taking too long to organize his pack before leaving camp, a crime that would have gone undetected had it been any other person. Both Wilde and Chatham bumped into him whenever they overtook him on the way up and also when they sauntered by him in camp. He was doing a smashing job of climbing and not getting in the way of others, so no one could find fault with him there. But no matter what he did, he remained the son of the man who had killed Hoyt’s brother and a citizen of a nation at odds with the United States. William Hoyt was not of the school that believes camaraderie is essential to a climbing expedition. Only allegiance to the leader and skill were required. He did not intervene in the overt animosity toward Yuudai, but based on his journal entries he clearly detested the man.

Possibly sensing he could do nothing to change the situation, Yuudai climbed in silence, read books, smoked cigarettes, and said nothing. He preferred to stay near Chhiri Tendi and the other Sherpa because they held no grudge against him. To the Sherpa, Yuudai was just another member of the team. They were not necessarily friendly to him, but they were not cruel to him either.

Rocks rolled by them, too close for comfort.

Everyone was feeling the effects of the brutish weather. Wind howled, making a concerted effort to knock them down. Snow whipped sideways. Chhiri Tendi was already experiencing frostbite on the fingers of his left hand. Hoyt had a touch on his forehead and nose, and his amputated toe’s stump stung him no end. The wind and blindness slowed down their progress. It would be well after dinner by the time they made it up the scree, even though they had started the climb before sunrise. And that time of arrival assumed they could even make it up the scree. The odds seemed low.

An absolutely giant boulder was heard cracking free of its supporting earth and coming loose up ahead. It banged and rolled and banged again. It was coming closer. The dark outline of it was seen barreling toward them mere seconds before it arrived, easily twenty feet in diameter and moving at the speed of a freight train. The men did not have time to yell or to ponder their pending flatness. It was upon them.

And then just as suddenly as it had appeared, the boulder was compromised by a smaller (but certainly not small) boulder in its way. The big one cracked and turned west. One small remnant of it, the size of a musket, continued to move forward. It bounced at Wilde