Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (51 page)

Now Junk hung in thin air roughly forty feet below the top of the maw. Both men had given out yells of shock and pain when the event had happened, but perhaps due to the wind, none of the Sherpa at Camp Three heard what had happened. They were all inside their tents, possibly preparing the space for ailing Sahibs.

Hoyt tried to pull Junk back up by scurrying forward on the rocks, away from the cliff. Because the terrain was mostly exposed rock, his axe was useless. He was able to dig it into a crag and pull, but it would always lose its purchase moments later and that would send Hoyt sliding back to his original spot, and in some awful cases, sliding back even closer to the maw than he was before. He remained still, straining against the weight that wanted to pull him over the precipice.

And there they remained for what must have seemed like generations, but may have only been a few rotations of the minute hand. The sun had now set and the world was growing dark. After regaining his composure, Junk attempted to secure two short, thin ropes to the larger rope by use of Prusik knots – friction knots that could slide along the larger rope and then hold steady when weight was placed upon them. The unused end of one small rope would then be secured to Junk’s harness while the unused end of the other would form a loop for his foot to fit through. Junk would be expected to raise his foot creating slack in the short rope, and the associated Prusik knot would then be moved up the main rope. Once it was taut, Junk would then do the same with the knot on the newly slackened harness rope. Then the process would be repeated. Using this time-tested strategy, Junk would theoretically be able to self-rescue.

Even under the best of conditions, the Prusik move is difficult. But at altitude with a beaten body, the move is almost impossible. Junk yelled out in pain as he tried to tie knots with failing fingers. Blowing warm breath onto his hands (he had placed his mitts in his pockets), he tried multiple times to get the rope tied around the carabiner on his harness to no avail. Switching to the foot rope, he experienced quick success.

The temperature dropped to minus 10 degrees Celsius. The time passed and Hoyt remained on the rock above, holding on with everything he could muster. The natural athletic talents that had blessed him since childhood were now on display. Despite cold and increasing wind and the weight of Junk, he did not budge. His eyes were probably affixed to the tents of Camp Three disappearing in the darkness. Still no one came out of them. They must come out soon! They
must
start wondering about the Sahibs’ delay.

Junk finally caught a bit of luck. Before the sky became pitch black, he got the second rope secured to his harness. He lifted his right leg, moved the associated knot up, and stepped up the new stair he had created. He was on his way to safety. He advanced two “steps” upward, shortening the distance between himself and the lip.

Then he dropped. Was Hoyt finally giving in? The rock on which he held fast was after all freezing in the dropping temperatures. Junk heard a voice from above. It was loud to beat the wind, but quite collected. “How are you proceeding down there?”

“
Better than before. Hold on a little longer. I’m on my way up.”

But Junk’s optimism was misguided. The air had become too cold and so the Prussik knots no longer worked. Their strength lay in friction, and friction was no longer possible as the main rope froze. Each step Junk took upward slipped back down. He was back to where he had started, and then Hoyt slipped again.

Climbers are often faced with terrible decisions; decisions of a magnitude usually only faced on the field of battle. One always hopes that the teachings of John Stuart Mill will run through the panicked mind and that it will try to come up with a solution benefitting the most individuals. But rational thoughts rarely fructify in the inhospitable climes of peril. Most often, when faced with mortality, a man forgets all others and can only think he does not want to die. To expect anything more of him is to expect the unlikely.

“
Fuck it. Cut the rope” Junk bellowed to Hoyt. He had obviously remembered the knife with which Hoyt had jabbed him at the summit. “Save yourself, faggot! Cut the rope!”

“
No” came the reply from on high.

“
Listen to me. Cut the fucking rope you fucking piece of shit!”

“
No.”

“
You’re mother was a good lay! Cut the rope!”

“
No.”

“
That thing you call your wife looks like Churchill. Cut it!”

“
No” Hoyt repeated.

“
Compared to you, the Hebrews are-“

“
I will not cut the rope on you. A good man once told me about
bushido
. The way of the chivalrous warrior. And I am going to follow
bushido
now.” A long pause followed. “When you get back to the States, Aaron, tell Wizzy I love her so much and I am so sorry I walked away.”

This seemed like a rather odd thing to say given where Hoyt was and given where Junk was. Yet Hoyt continued from above, unseen by Junk but quite audible. “My two boys. My two wonderful, handsome boys. Let them know their father was always proud of them despite his distance, physical and otherwise.” Sherpa’s heads appeared out of the tents, peering this way and that, but they could not see Hoyt, who was busy holding off inevitable catastrophe for a few more moments.

Then Hoyt said “It is time to cut the cord. Finally. It is time to cut the cord.” Junk was terribly confused by Hoyt’s words, and not knowing what the outcome would be, Junk let his body go slack in total acceptance of falling.

A yell rose up from above the lip, as if Hoyt was summoning all of the energy left in his body. The rope lifted Junk ever so slightly. Hoyt had just stood up. Another yell from above and then a shadow appeared from on high, off a few paces to the south, jumping with great effort out and over the edge of the maw. Hoyt had apparently struggled to his feet, run sideways along the lip, and then sailed out into the air on the far side of a hook-like outcropping of rock. The effect was powerful and immediate. Being more than a head taller than Junk and also heavier, Hoyt’s descending heft pulled Junk up. The rope slid gracefully around the rocky outcropping for the exact same reason the Prusik knots had failed earlier; lack of friction.

The ascending Junk passed the descending Hoyt far too quickly to communicate in any fashion whatsoever. Junk was up at the lip of the maw in seconds and holding onto to the outcropping for dear life.

Hoyt was now dangling far below. Junk could not make him out in the darkness except to see he was not moving, probably resting from his earlier struggle. Junk heard the yell of Sherpa calling out to them and saw torchlight illuminating drifting snow in the sky above. It searched the world wildly for our heroes, but the threshold of the afterlife is not a place easily discovered. Junk looked at the light and hallucinated about movie premiers he had attended in Boston and prison parking lots where he had picked up newly-released friends. He thought of his mother’s candle illuminating the dark cold New England morning in their flat, as she rose before dawn to cook breakfast for herself and her son. Familiar creaks on the floorboards, heralding the coming of a new day and a new fight with his mother and the world. All of these thoughts compelled Junk to continue living, and to live well. Jammed up against the outcropping, he took his smaller ropes and tied them around it and then through his harness. He was now secured to the mountain.

Hoyt was moving below him, but the details of his movements were imperceptible.

“
Remember what I said, Aaron” called a gasping Hoyt. “Pass those words along to my family. Tell them I love them and I made a mistake. Mother too. Tell her I love her even if she has no idea what you’re saying. Tell her.”

“
I never really touched her you know” Junk called down. “I married her to get back at you but I never touched her.”

Silence from below, then “Can we change the subject?”

“
Of course. Sorry.”

The cold and wind were unbearable. The voices of the Sherpa and the lights came closer. “Hang on, Hoyt” Junk yelled. “They’re coming for us! You’ll be able to tell your family yourself.”

But it was too late. Hoyt yelled out “Today I am truly a Christian!”

Junk again remembered the knife in Hoyt’s possession. “Wait Hoyt! Wait!”

Hoyt said, “Now I fall…and rise. To my triumph!”

And with that there was a snapping sound, Junk jerked a little as all of his weight moved off of the main rope and transitioned to the smaller ropes, and the braided strands of hemp that had led down to Hoyt went slack and began to whip about in the wind.

Junk cried aloud. Sharp shards of terror and dull fists of grief brutalized his insides. Arms were reaching down for him and pulling him up but he fought back as if he did not want to be rescued. They were too much for him and he was promptly up on the rocky route to Camp Three. He bellowed his despair into the darkness as the Sherpa restrained him. He blurted out every blue word he had ever learned on the streets.

The fuel that had driven Junk for so many years was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Return to “Civilization”

Other than that, the descent went rather well. By lunch on September 16
^th
, Junk and the Sherpa were making their way from Camp One to base camp at the bottom of the scree. The temperature rose and the men had stowed their coats. Oxygen apparatuses had been discarded en route. They breathed deeply and may have even smelled distant flora in the air.

As you may recall, the two teams’ base camps were but feet away from one another. Now, overrun with Sherpa, porters, and surviving expedition members, it had transformed into a small city. Yet sadly, it resembled a city conquered by a bloodthirsty foe. Many people sat about empty of affect and slumped over in shell shock. Chatham was unconscious under a makeshift canopy comprised of sticks and tent remnants. Zeigler sat on a rock looking off across the moraine at nothing. Thornton, still splintered and buckled from his fall on the scree, moaned from inside his tent. Faces and hands were purple with frostbite. So ruined were these visages that Junk could not distinguish many of the white people on the journey from the dark people. Swollen noses, sunburned cheeks, and cracked lips made everyone appear to share the same tragic lineage. Reunions were short and muted as were introductions. No one spoke any more than was necessary. So consumed were they in their shock that no one even thought to ask Junk if he had made it to the summit.

When Chhiri Tendi saw Junk approaching, he did not run away. “I did not even think of running” Chhiri Tendi recalls. “What was he going to do? Cut out my gizzard in front of a bunch of bystanders?” Indeed, Chhiri Tendi acted with the etiquette of a Lord. He patted Junk on the shoulder and said “Welcome.” He then walked Junk aside and said “I’ve told no one about making it to the top first, and have no intention of doing so.” The Bostonian did not hesitate. He walked breezily back to the men and yelled “Chhiri Tendi reached the top first. Hoyt and I came later. Now go back to your business.” There was a short silence and lack of movement among the men as if the film projector presenting their lives had temporarily stopped working. Then everyone returned to what they were doing.

“
And one more thing” Junk bellowed. “William Hoyt is dead. He died saving me. He was a good man. I would like a moment of silence please.” No one spoke. Heads were down. After a while, Junk thanked the men and again everyone went back to what they were doing. There had been no tears and no audible gasps at the announcement. You may recall no one had much cared for Hoyt. A moment of silence in which the men could feel shame for not feeling loss was enough to do the trick.

Sleeping was the order of the day, or days, for Junk, Pasang Dolma, and the other Sherpa who had arrived with him. Seeing his tent had been burnt down (by an enraged Hoyt he was told), Junk found another quiet tent and rested. He also tended to his ailments, many of which would be permanent. He would end of up losing four fingers, four toes, and a small portion of his nose (The doctor would be “picking a gin blossom” Junk jested rather darkly).

Everyone began packing up on the 19
^th
, making ready for the long and somber journey home. Only minutes before they were to begin walking toward the Qila Pass, a porter called out. “Look” he was saying in Nepalese. “The others!” He was pointing to figures approaching from the northwest. They walked along an esker riding above the moraine like a man-made promenade. Junk put on his sun goggles to better suss out the situation. The first person to come into view was an oriental Junk had never seen. He did not have the bearing of a porter or a Sherpa. He had a swagger suggesting a privileged upbringing. “Who the fuck is that clown” asked Junk to no one in particular. Behind the stranger were porters from Junk’s northern base camp as well as – and this Junk could not believe – three of the Sherpa who had gone barmy on the Eastern Ridge. He probably wanted to hit these men, but his attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere.

It was not until the people were but yards away that the two last faces were visible. Wearing tattered gabardine and using ice axes as canes, McGee and River Leaf came into view. If he had a decision to make regarding whom to embrace first, Junk’s decision was made for him when River Leaf changed direction to avoid him.