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

Chapter Three: The Stakes Keep Climbing

Madison Square Garden Bowl was abuzz on the evening of October 12th, 1936. “Gentleman” Dan Smith was taking on “Swarthy” Vin Piano in a boxing match for the heavyweight championship title. Smith had not lost a fight yet. Nor had Piano. Anyone who could get in to see the fight had done so. At ringside were notable names like Myrna Loy, Gary Cooper, and oddly enough, Carl Jung, who happened to be visiting the states at the time to give a series of lectures at Yale. Sitting next to Myrna Loy, and certainly more interested in Myrna Loy than the entertainment on the Garden’s marquis, was Aaron Junk. Almost a year had passed since the Presidentials, and Junk was not saying much. Perhaps he shared his thoughts about that disaster with McGee, but talking to McGee was as secretive as talking to himself.

Piano laid out Smith in one round. The crowd’s disappointment was palpable. People booed and threw their cigar stubs. Some of the bolder crowd members were heard to yell, “The fix is in!” directly at Piano. To his credit, Piano blew kisses to the crowd and exited the ring with his new belt.

The newspapers were also let down. They had hoped to write about “The Fight of the Century” only to have one man turn the other into haggis in seconds. The writers turned to the celebrities in the crowd, asking for their take on the evening’s events, hoping for some new angle. Most of the interviewees had little to say, except perhaps that “the fight was a disappointment” – not what one would call a “unique take.”

Then the press turned to Junk. After a year of relative silence, the man was on fire. This may have been partly due to the fact that he had thousands of dollars riding on Piano. “Piano was the better man! He won fair and square. Although I wouldn’t bet on him against some of the palookas I grew up with.” This got a laugh from the crowd. “You may have noticed Piano favors his right arm, and gives off the impression he is a righty. In fact, Piano is a southpaw. The opponent begins to follow a false premise. Then out of nowhere, the left arm approaches and makes contact like a hod of bricks. The secret to winning, you see, is holding your cards close and then playing them at the right moment.”

The opening was obvious. “So when are you going to play your cards, Mr. Junk?” This got a big laugh as well. Even from Junk.

“Good question. I see my pal William Hoyt is not here tonight. I guess he gets nauseous at the idea of two real men fighting fair.” More laughs. “So why don’t you, the esteemed members of the Fourth Estate pass this message along to him.” Pens went to paper. “I am actually appreciative, William Hoyt, that you got me into the mountains. Climbing has become a late-found love of mine. I can think of no better escape from city life than to grab a rope and ascend toward the Heavens. But my appreciation ends there. William Hoyt, you are no more than a glorified bounder. Your piety is false. Your behaviour in New Hampshire was far from saintliness. It was devious. Underhanded. I know racetrack touts of better character. Mark my words. No matter what mountain you choose to climb, I will climb it too, but faster. No matter what route you choose up that mountain, I will show that route to be for novices. If you climb a ridge, I will climb a face. If you climb a face, I will climb a steeper face. The history of mountaineering will forget you. Your pride will be broken moments after it’s puffed up. You are nothing, Hoyt. And you will be less than nothing when this is all done.”

A writer from The Sun, in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood back up: “Mr. Junk, can’t you guys just settle this quickly so we in the press can all just move on? There is an election to cover, you know?”

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll suggest pistols at dawn. Or instead of pistols, maybe I’ll be chivalrous and suggest silver spoons. I’ve heard Hoyt’s pretty handy with those!” The crowd broke out in laughter, as did Junk.

It was true William Hoyt was not present that night. However, William’s wife Wizzy was not only present - having a night out with her father - she was standing almost on top of Junk. Having never met the woman and only viewing one or two photographs of her, Junk had no idea that she was in attendance.

After the tirade and jokes at her husband’s expense, Wizzy had two options. One was to spill a drink on Junk and the other was to slap him. As evidenced in the photos from that night, Wizzy chose to do both. The photo in the New York Times shows a man’s face in profile, still recoiling from a strike to the cheek, eyes squinted and mouth off at an angle that would be impossible without external help. The long hair that crowns his bald head is fanning out in all directions. Closer inspection reveals droplets of liquid jumping from his hair into space. Wizzy’s vodka stinger.

“I was angry, but I knew better than to get into a shouting match with a woman, let alone strike one,” said Junk in his journals. “I would handle this the right way. You do not hurt a woman. You hurt a woman’s man.”

The society pages again were going wild. A staid, mountaineering New York bread magnate and the Boston bad-boy playboy were out for each other’s blood. The story tapped into issues of new versus old wealth, city pride, and that uniquely American lust for any story other than one’s own. Over drinks