Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain by Jonathan Bloom (bookreader TXT) 📗

and guttural sounds of problematic digestion. But through all of these visions, one thread remained consistent – a voice telling me it was time to go down. There was no question at this point. No summit was worth this. It was time to go down. I slowly realized that consistent voice was Chatham’s. I opened my eyes and saw him lying next to me. He was practically dead, but he was croaking out the word like an incantation that might have the power to transport, ‘Down…down…down.’

“I don’t know how much time passed after that before I heard two familiar voices outside getting louder and closer. The talk turned to yells as they came upon the sight of our corrupted camp. When these people came through the tent flaps, I could not identify them because they were replaced in my head by hallucinations. One was the choke mechanism I had designed for the 1938Buick Y-Job. The other was a carrot. The carrot came to me and called my name. The choke mechanism went to Chatham and shook him. I responded by simply saying “Down.” The carrot understood immediately. “They need to descend. They are in shock.” The choke mechanism slapped Chatham to clear his head, but the strike to his burnt face caused more than consciousness. It caused him to scream and flail wildly. To my hallucinating mind, Chatham was now Al Jolson. Jolson screamed and convulsed in anguish. I began to cry again.

“The carrot, now an ivory bishop from my childhood chess set, boiled tea outside and returned to administer sips to me. My head came back. It was Hoyt and Chhiri Tendi. They had returned! They were alive... frostbitten on their faces, but otherwise alive. I caught my breath as best I could and explained the events of the morning. I did not realize it, but the entire day had almost passed. The sun was setting outside. I grew terrified. What if more of these ghouls were coming?

“Time was now of the essence. Chatham was very sick and I was not much better. The lack of air and the bitterly cold temperatures were slowly killing us. Hoyt knew this and set about tying up Chatham in his bivvy sack. Once ropes were secured around him, Hoyt handed the end of the rope to me. ‘Chhiri Tendi and I are going to continue to the top. You must go down with Chatham.’ He seemed disinterested in doing the noble thing and giving up the climb to aid us. He pointed the way down the mountain (as if I didn’t know which way was down) and went about setting up his tent for the night amidst the puddles of frozen blood.

“Down we went, Chatham moaning while I lowered him. I was trying to let out the rope for him with hands reduced to useless ice claws. I descended through the night, not stopping for rest. I would let out the rope and drop Chatham into the darkness, hoping each time the ruined Texan would come to rest on some sort of ledge before the entire rope had been exhausted. We were lucky. He always did come to rest on something. When we came to the cliff where my “magic rope’ had failed (we missed Camp Two entirely), I lowered him down with the utmost patience and care. When the rope slacked and I knew Chatham was at the bottom, I rappelled down . The sun rose. We saw Camp One. The Sherpa there waved to us and I collapsed in relief.

“All of my efforts with Chatham had paid off. He was still with us. The surfeit of air at this lower altitude had filled him with fresh life. He started to talk to the Sherpa telling them the trip down the mountain in the sleeping bag reminded him of a mudslide he had once experienced in the jungles of Peru. For once, I was thrilled to hear his voice.

“The Sherpa tended to us masterfully, seeing to our frostbite and wounds as best they could. Looking down at myself, I realized my return to society would not be pleasant. At least half of my body was ravaged by frostbite. Surgery would be required to remove much of me. The cannibals had not touched my flesh, but Fumu had eaten his share. I will be a cripple.

“Now I sit here at advanced Base Camp at the bottom of the scree, two days after the slaughter. I look up at Fumu and see the clouds are rolling in yet again. I cannot even imagine what is happening to Chhiri Tendi and that bastard Hoyt right now. For Chhiri Tendi, I pray for only good things. May he reach the top unscathed and then descend safely. For Hoyt, I pray the mountain’s ridges pull up from their earthly shackles like great arms and strangle the man to death.”

Chapter Seventeen: The Eastern Ridge

September 11th. Misery held sway on the Eastern Ridge. Junk and Cole trudged forward with inexplicable effort. There was no way of accounting for the energy reserves they were now consuming. Had they tapped into some heretofore unknown inner well of Hope or Delusion or Wrath that made their current actions possible? Were they moving forward now like automata, their bodies advancing out of habit even though consciousness had jumped ship long ago? We cannot know. All that is available to us are the facts surmised from journal entries, local descriptions of the day’s weather, and our own personal experiences facing improbable adversity.

What the storm of the past several days had deposited on the Eastern Ridge must have felt less like snow and more like a frigid swamp. It lay in drifts up to their waists. Junk, who led the way at this point, would make efforts to clear it with his hands and axe, but this proved too tiring. He needed to basically fall forward with each step