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

PART THREE: THE DESCENT / ASCENSION

Chapter Twenty-One: The Tragedy

On September 15th, 1941, the United States was girding itself for inevitable conflagration. One week earlier, the U.S.S. Greer had been accidentally destroyed and sunk by a German U-Boat. Hitler had ordered the invasion of Leningrad. Despite the Neutrality Act, Roosevelt and his generals deemed it legal and imperative to send armaments and other materials to the British fighting in the Pacific Theatre. The World was witnessing the Tsunami of War growing and reaching its crest.

Hoyt and Junk knew nothing of this. They were helping one another down the mountain. They were both crawling. Tied off to one another and in single file, they likely looked nothing like newly-minted victors, but rather like a defeated and captured military column on their way to the camps. Hoyt was in front, and at times he was dragging Junk down. Then Junk would awaken and aid their progress as best he could.

They had had no problem getting out of the cloud thanks to the advice of Chhiri Tendi. To be sure that is good news. However, the cloud had had its own cruel benefits in terms of promoting human survival. If one did not get lost in the cloud and slowly suffocate or die of necrosis, and if one was able to dodge a disintegrating shower of lava to the face, then one was protected from the killing cold by the killing heat, and vice versa. Not ideal to be sure, but still something upon which to be appreciative in the center of Hell. But now they were out of the cloud and so the relentless cold had returned unfettered. The sun that shone provided no solace. It was too distant and its effect impotent. The frostbite on Hoyt’s face had blackened him and swelled him so he no longer looked like an aristocrat but rather like a bushman. His fingers were now frostbitten and they swelled up like bangers on the cooker. Swallowing the pain, Hoyt continued to use those hands to move them forward. The snow was easily four feet deep, so Hoyt had to leverage the routes he and Junk had made on the way up. The oxygen they had received from Chhiri Tendi was long gone. Each breath must have been like a garroting.

They reached Junk’s high camp just after sunrise. But what could they do now that they were there? They were too weak to do anything other than sleep in the nearest tent; but things being as they were, sleep at this point only meant death. But sleep they did. If only a single Sherpa were there to attend to them, to pamper them, to save them.

As fate would have it, Pasang Dolma was there to do just that. It seems Pasang Dolma had had no intention of darting off at the behest of the Nepalese Cobras. He had walked down to Camp Three but he had turned around and made his way back up in the hopes of surprising the Cobras and saving his charge. The high camp had been empty upon his return. Any attempt at heroics had passed. But now, only minutes before he had planned to climb down the lip of the Bellows again, this time for real, he discovered Hoyt and Junk returning from the summit. Overjoyed, he lit his cooker and melted snow to make tea. A container of foie gras performed the role of breakfast. These comforts went a long way to revive the two helpless creatures. After preparing the meal, Pasang Dolma suggested they all go down immediately. There was no time to lose as each moment spent at this altitude would continue to chip away at their condition, and Hoyt and Junk were now only slightly further from death after Pasang Dolma’s kind repast.

Now able to walk, albeit slouched over, Hoyt and Junk and Pasang Dolma lashed themselves to one another and climbed down again. However, because of the dire condition of the Americans, Pasang Dolma chose to take the southern route down. It was more challenging, but it was shorter, and according to Hoyt, his team’s equipment would still be set up and that would facilitate their descent.

They made rapid progress now, passing the location of the cannibal attack (Hoyt had to avert his eyes) and proceeding down the snowless spine that now defined the top of the western wall of Rauff’s Maw. The going was easy and the increase in oxygen was reviving the men. Even the weather was on their side, with the sun strong and little wind. Snow to their left and right melted. The rock upon which they walked was wet, but featured enough to prevent slippage. They still walked with laboured steps, their shoulders still slouched, and they still needed to stop every few feet to rest (and cough, and moan, and grit their teeth, and spin their arms in futile attempts to revive circulation). Pasang Dolma was patient with them. He brought up the rear and spoke words of inspiration. “We are almost at Hoyt’s next camp! Food and shelter and Sherpa await!” And only hours after passing Camp Four - the sight of the cannibal massacre – Camp Three came into sight below them, resting on the precipice of the cliff where the “magic rope” had failed.

Nearing the camp, Pasang Dolma finally became restless. He detached his rope from the others and walked briskly ahead. “I wish to prepare the camp for your arrival” he said to Hoyt and Junk. “This ridge is not technically difficult. You should be alright.” And with that, Pasang Dolma scurried past the sahibs, waving his hands in the air, hoping to grab the attention of the Sherpa below. He mixed brisk walking and glissading to improve his pace. Within two minutes he was one hundred yards ahead of them.

Now alone