Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (23 page)

After an hour of radio silence from Chinese forces, the following transcribed transmission was picked up by Japanese radio men in Kyoto [translated from Chinese]:

Operation Barrymore and its Japanese “counter-play” were both disasters. Serving no more purpose, the American actors, writers, and directors were released. Of course, given that the crew of the
Auxesis
was being held captive (they would not be released until 1945), the entertainers would need to sail the ship back to America themselves. Ultimately, they did get back to America, pulling off possibly the greatest “performance” of their lives: Negotiating the storms and swells of the tumultuous Pacific and returning home to tell the tale.

Fifteen years have now passed since the botching of Operation Barrymore. The American government’s gag order on the operation and its subsequent fallout has finally been lifted. Of the twenty-five actors aboard the
Auxesis
on that fateful journey, twenty-five are preparing to publish their own accounts. Reviewing the manuscripts, one does not see a single mention of the mountain climbers who passed through their lives, shared life-altering trauma, and then moved on.

The climbers were taken by jeeps to an airfield outside of the village of their imprisonment. Yuudai sat next to Hoyt in the first jeep. Nothing is known about that short ride, but one can only imagine they said nothing to each other and likely avoided eye contact entirely.

The team boarded a cargo plane that carried them over the Sea of Japan, over the hostile enemy territory of inland China and India, and now was crossing over into Nepal. Fumu was getting closer. It was practically on the horizon now. Months of preparation, perils, and death were behind them. Now the Goal was approaching. It was so close but still slightly distorted, just as the oxygen-rich sky awaits beyond the rippling water’s surface after a dive into deep water. Ferguson wrote: “I could not stand the suspense any longer. Enough already! This has gone on too long. Get us to the damned mountain!” He would have his wish soon enough.

Inside the plane, Yuudai approached Hoyt. He sat next to him. Over the hoarse roar of the engines, he apologized to Hoyt. He apologized for the actions of his father. His father was a hard man who did not suffer any challenge to himself or his country. The choice between killing or imprisoning the captain of an enemy ship was no choice at all. Death was mandatory. Yuudai leaned closer until he was apparently an inch from Hoyt’s ear. “I am not my father” he said.

Hoyt’s fog dissipated instantaneously at this utterance. He turned and looked directly at Yuudai without blinking. “Rubbish. What exception are you? I am my father. Chatham over there is his father. We are all but vessels of our parents’ will, and we can no more change that than we can tear off our own skin. Now go and have a seat, yellow scoundrel!” Yuudai returned to his seat, saying no more for the rest of the journey. Ferguson wrote that everyone who could hear the conversation had put their heads down in order to avoid the awkwardness. How could the expedition go well when such animosity existed between team members?

Before Hoyt’s first official entry in his journal on September 1 - the one in which he addressed the journal itself and told of the long hard journey to arrive at Fumu – Hoyt had entered a more “unofficial” entry, one having no date or context. However, it was clearly written somewhere between meeting Yuudai and reaching the base of Qila. Hoyt wrote: “My brother is dead. This Yuudai character seems to think I am mad at him. I am not. I am not even mad at his father. What these Japs do not realize is that this is all the fault of another man. He shoulders responsibility for the series of disasters that have befallen me. His name is Aaron Junk, My Stepfather. My Nemesis. For his undoing, I have forsaken my family. The battle will commence soon.”

At approximately four in the morning on August 20
^th
, Hoyt and his men jumped into the unbroken darkness of low cloud cover. Ferguson wrote later from Base Camp that he had been terrified during the airdrop. No one on the expedition, including Yuudai, had ever skydived. They had all been reluctant before the plane door opened and the deafening wind and engine throb had greeted them. Now they were dropping. Ferguson said that despite his experience with death-defying adventures, the feeling in his stomach from freefall and the stinging cold on his face had made him cry for a moment.

While still in the clouds, the monstrous mountain to their north could not be sensed. When they descended below the ceiling and pulled their ripcords, things changed. Their descent had now slowed and they could take in the world around them. The sounds of the plane and the rushing sound of freefall had dissipated. Now another sound took their place. It seemed to be coming from several miles away, but had the structure of thunder claps occurring right outside one’s window during a summer storm. Explosive. Gun fire perhaps? Had they dropped into a war zone? Visually, the world was still dark except for one patch of sky. The scene looked like a fireworks display as it might appear on an overcast night, with misty tendrils of light dispersing in myriad directions from central points. The colors of these fireworks did not vary. They remained constantly orange.

After only a few seconds, all became clear in the minds of these adventurers. There were no fireworks. There was no war zone. They were hearing and seeing Fumu expel its boiling innards in short, explosive bursts from random locations clustered miles in the air around the summit. Then as the men descended further, Qila Pass rose up in their fields of vision and blocked their view of the inevitable. With a heavy grunt and a few hurried steps over rocky terrain, Hoyt and his men had arrived at Fumu.

Upon lighting his torch in the frozen nowhere, the first thing he saw was corpses. These were souls who had lost their lives falling down the Qila Pass. Most of them looked to have been exposed to the elements for years. The exception was the one at Hoyt’s feet, the one strapped mysteriously to a large plank of cracked wood. He appeared to be only about one week dead. And his face was familiar.

PART TWO: THE ASCENT

Chapter Nine: The Qila Pass

Almost one month earlier on July 12
^th
, Junk and team had picked up their five high-altitude Sherpa, the remaining twenty-five Sherpa, and sixty porters in Calcutta. Headed by the sardar Pasang Dolma, the five high altitude Sherpa were well-seasoned and game for the summit. Junk had paid top dollar for the best. If his support was going to be a small group by traditional climbing standards, he wanted that support to be of the best quality. Pasang Dolma was well-known and well-respected. He had an uncanny ability for finding the best routes up mountains upon which he had never trod before, and he also had a knack for surviving terrible conditions. Climbing with George Mallory many years earlier on Annapurna, he had survived an avalanche while all else around him had been lost. Junk did not know the other four high altitude Sherpa, but he trusted Pasang Dolma’s ability to choose good men.

The trip by train to Darjeeling had been drenched in monsoon rains but otherwise pleasant. An unexpected and wonderful coincidence occurred when they stepped off the train. They ran into none other than Gilford Taylor and Philip Zeigler, the men who had climbed with Hoyt on Everest and found the bruised and bloodied Junk on the Western Ridge. At that time, Taylor and Zeigler had bonded with Junk over their disdain for Hoyt. Now here they were at the Darjeeling Station. They had been living in the Indian city of Shillong ever since the Everest climb, rich American expatriates who wanted nothing more than to spend their wealth hiking around the Himalaya and climbing whenever the opportunity arose. Of course, the war had put a damper on their plans. There were no expeditions on which they could tag along. On this particular morning, they were returning from a hike around the base of Kanchenjunga. There had been no ascent, just hiking and camping at the bottom. That had left Taylor and Zeigler thirsting for an opportunity to climb again. Junk did not hesitate to invite them on the expedition to Fumu. They would have to collect more supplies in Darjeeling before setting out on the hike to Qila Pass, but that would be no problem. Supplies were relatively cheap there, and adding two able-bodied men to his anemic team was worth anything to Junk at this point.

The night before setting out for Fumu, Junk approached River Leaf and asked her to continue with the expedition. He had been impressed with her recommendations for fashioning a device for pulling men and supplies up the Qila pass, a device they had come to call “the Qila elevator.” He had been equally impressed with her gutting of a pirate. She clearly had the tough core and keen intellect required for the Fumu ascent. In her usual, passive style, River Leaf agreed without an argument.

Junk was beginning to feel confident about the ascent. His team had just expanded by three people, all of whom were strong and bright. He did not suspect Hoyt would have a much better group. Junk celebrated the night before they left Darjeeling by drinking gin and tonics, gambling deep into the evening with McGee, Morrow, Cole, and Fenimore, and then bedding the wife of a British soldier visiting from Vauxhall. One of the porters commented to McGee “Sahib can’t control pants.” This primitive parody was unfortunately true. Junk could no more control his lust for women than he could his lust for money and alcohol. But he was more than happy to begin his hike with no sleep and a blinding hangover. It was a feeling he had known since his youth. It was as familiar and as comforting to him as the sound of the radiator pipes banging to life on a cold winter night in his childhood bedroom in Boston.

By eight the following morning, they had collected the “Qila elevator” which they had commissioned from a local carpenter upon arrival in the city. It was beautiful, its oak planks planed and nailed together just as River Leaf had specified. With the elevator placed on the backs of several porters, they set out for the mountain. Eight American climbers, thirty Sherpa, (five of them high-altitude) sixty porters, and a subcommittee of yaks moved slowly through the lush and lovely foothills of the Himalaya.

Three weeks later, the environment had grown rockier and the air thinner. The team’s endurance was being tested well before they even arrived at the mountain. Blisters sprung from heels anew. Sunburn set in. Gastrointestinal tracts made the unpleasant adaption to new foods and water sources. A sting in the lungs became as omnipresent as the music of the spheres. Only Taylor, Zeigler, and the coolies were spared.

When they reached the monasteries ringing Fumu, they 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.