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

and when I felt sure all of his force was moving irrevocably forward, I stuck out my elbow like an arrow aimed at his face and it caught him directly in the nose. He was down without a fight ever beginning. Idiot. And hey, I had no obligation to protect him. He was not my sahib. Had Hoyt come at me, I would have had a more awkward situation. But Junk? Fuck him. I don’t know much about Boston, but if Junk’s performance up there was at all representative of the city, it’s all swagger with nothing to back it up.”

Hoyt and Chhiri Tendi then had a rather awkward staring contest for what must have felt like an eternity. The howling winds and violent volcanic concussions did not move them. Junk lay on the ground, eyes rolling in his head, blood caking on his moustache. Chhiri Tendi felt sad. He had been through much with Hoyt. But Trust was gone. Chhiri Tendi was a dedicated Sherpa guide, but he had Dignity as well. The relationship was over. Chhiri Tendi removed his oxygen tank and mask, threw it at Hoyt’s feet and said through gritted teeth, “The top is right there.” Hoyt looked back to where Chhiri Tendi was pointing. It was only ten yards away. “When you’ve gotten to the top, look for the fat hornito with two vents at its top.” Chhiri Tendi pointed to that as well and Hoyt’s eyes followed. The hornito appeared for a moment and was exactly as Chhiri Tendi described. It then disappeared in the clouds again. “That is the direction down to the Eastern Ridge. Goodbye Mr. Hoyt.” Perhaps Hoyt should have felt regret or shame, but Chhiri Tendi recalls the man’s face remaining grim, angry, confused; not modified at all by the behavior of Junk or any realization that Chhiri Tendi had been a friend and an essential element in Hoyt’s looming success. Chhiri Tendi broke eye contact with his employer and began to walk down the mountain.

“What if I offer you ten thousand dollars to not say anything,” Hoyt exclaimed. Chhiri Tendi paused, quite nauseated by the suggestion. He turned and spoke “I’m not saying anything about you two white, pompous, swollen testicles, or about this whole trip, unless one of you decides to mention it first.” With that he turned and walked down into the clouds.

Hoyt donned Chhiri Tendi’s oxygen apparatus and began to walk up the mountain. His body probably defied him with each attempt at a step. Even with supplemental oxygen, his mind was probably damaged beyond repair. If time was still a concept of which he could conceive, then he may have noticed the world was growing dark. He had been up here all day, since before the sun rose. If he did not get down very, very soon, his life was as good as forfeited.

According to the account we have of these moments, Junk was down but not out. He grabbed Hoyt by the ankle, trying to pull the man down while pulling himself up. Hoyt responded by taking out the knife he used for cutting rope and slashed at Junk’s glove. With a scream, Junk let go. He did not have a knife on him to even out the debacle. He crawled behind Hoyt, leaving trails of blood from his nose and wrist.

It was no contest. Hoyt was now only about ten very steep feet from Fumu’s sharp pinnacle while Junk crawled turtle-like on the swirls of ash and snow yards below. If Junk was moving forward, the eye could not detect it. He was just moving his limbs in a sad pantomime of crawling.

After several very steep steps that should have had him roped off to another person, Hoyt had closed the distance between himself and the top by more than half. He was ten feet away with only a pyramidal structure of rocks ahead. But he stopped; motionless for several moments, mulling something over (assuming he could “mull over” anything at that point). Junk was on all fours, shaking uncontrollably in his straining to keep his head up. Through blackened goggles, he was returning Hoyt’s gaze. Then, knowing he was vanquished, Junk let his arms and legs give way so that his face slammed straight onto the hard rock and the rest of him was splayed out. Movement ceased.

With or without thought, Hoyt came down from his place of advantage, half-walking and half-falling down to Junk. A hand was extended to the immobile man on the ground. Hoyt was trying to say “get up” to Junk but the wind and the explosions and his useless lips hindered his efforts. With great difficulty, probably more than he could bear, Junk responded by putting out his hand. Hoyt took a length of cotton rope and tied it around his waist and Junk’s. Now Hoyt commenced to drag his enemy to the top.

The ten-yard descent to aid Junk must have been psychologically brutal for Hoyt. Who among us could attain a decade-old dream, reached through incalculable suffering and loss, and then walk away from it uncelebrated in order to help another? And what if by chance that other was someone who you have always despised, whose downfall you would otherwise welcome? Hoyt’s words written in the snow cave a few hours earlier were empty, not to mention prolix. But his actions now suggested a true change in the hydraulics of his heart.

The two moved as one and it was the greatest labor of their life, Hoyt because he was baring most of the burden of forward motion, and Junk because he was frostbitten, bloodied, and now suffering from blinding headaches brought on by the altitude sickness. They would never experience such anguish again. Hoyt gave Junk turns with his oxygen apparatus which was almost spent. Heat and Cold traded off shifts battering our heroes into submission. The mountain seemed to be fighting back with all of its rage at the last moment; inanimate indifference