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

One could hardly see her because she was protected on all sides by the smaller-but-still-humbling giants, Mitya, Abel, Lata, and Asha. Junk consulted the map and spoke with the porters. They explained that it was a terrible mountain called Fumu. Junk was struck with fear. He had heard of this beast and its perils. The mountains in front of it were bright white. But behind those mountains, taking up what seemed like the whole sky, were rock faces living in an entirely different weather pattern. Overcast. No sun, at least not where they could see. Near the top, just below the ash cloud, snow squalls passed across her face. There was a distant rumbling. Elihu Twist swore he saw an avalanche accompanied by black rocks come spilling out from the cloud at the top. But the others did not make it out. There was a faint smell of sulfur in the air, even at this distance.

The team was sincerely upset by the sight. “Each one to the man, including the porters, confessed later that their hearts were racing. Even in the cool air, they were sweating under their layers. Fumu was not their destination, but certainly they must have thought if Everest was taller than this giant, then Everest must be terrible indeed.

Little did anyone on Junk’s expedition know that at the same moment, Zachary Hoover, Chhiri Tendi, and about twenty other men were halfway up Fumu, looking up in terror at the same landslide above them. Luckily, they were climbing along a ridge. The falling snow and rock would bank to the left and to the right of the ridge, sparing the climbers. Chhiri Tendi was trying to lighten the mood by saying the mountain’s snow was looser than Mae West.

One more thing caught the attention of Junk’s team. They had seen an occasional Buddhist monastery on their way. In front of them now was not one monastery, not two nor three, but a monastery every one hundred yards or so, trailing off into the higher elevations to the northeast and into the lower elevations to the southeast. He could easily see fourteen, each one draped in colourful flags blowing in the gentle wind. The monasteries looked as if they may be ringing around Fumu. But that would be impossible, Junk thought. The ring would have to be hundreds of monasteries long. No white man knew of these monasteries, seeing as Nepal was forbidden to outsiders. He asked the porters about the structures. They pleaded ignorance, but Junk knew there was no way they were in the dark about such a massive architectural feat. He chose not to press it, wanting to keep the porters on his good side.

Junk wanted to understand this beautiful vision, this Shangri La. He had researched Nepal and focused on the peoples who inhabited the higher elevations in the North. In that time, he had never heard anything about this mysterious string of buildings. In a quest to learn, and to be the first white man to uncover their secrets, Junk chose to approach one of the monasteries with Oldhusband in tow. Junk wanted Oldhusband with him so Oldhusband could make some field recordings. The more research completed, the better justified their trip. He also asked Ang Kikuli, the Sherpa sardar, to join them but he refused. When pressed for a reason, Ang Kikuli responded, “Because they are unbalanced people.” Apparently, the porters did know about the monasteries. “They are not Buddhists. Nor are they Hindu. Nor Jain. I don’t what they are.” Junk chose to let it go.

A village of small huts and penned animals had grown up in between and in front of the monasteries. The two travelers walked proudly and briskly past on-looking villagers. Oldhusband lugged a cylinder phonograph on his back with two cylinders tucked into a pouch on his belt and the horn held in his left hand. They approached and then ascended a long series of wooden steps, straining their lungs in the sparse air, At the top they opened two heavy wooden doors, slowly and with much effort. The doors were massive, having the effect of making the climbers feel like children walking into their parents’ room.

“The transition from the bright day outside to the darkness inside caused green blotches to overwhelm our fields of vision,” wrote Oldhusband. “The smell inside was that of burning wood and warm milk. More colourful ceremonial banners hung from the high rafters inside. Candles dotted the room in apparently random locations. We had to plan our steps carefully.”

There were dolls everywhere. Girl dolls, boy dolls and ambiguous dolls. Some dolls were big – maybe three feet tall - and incredibly detailed, with wooden hands carved to the point of detailing knuckles and freckles. Other dolls were smaller, just a collection of sticks tied together with a stone for a head. An occasional doll had hair made of grass. The temple guests made every effort not to step on these dolls for fear they played some sacred role in the monks’ lives.

From somewhere nearby, they heard what they thought to be throat singing, low and guttural. Junk and Oldhusband’s eyes finally adjusted enough to expose two monks sitting on the floor in front of them and across the room. As they moved closer, it became clear these monks were the source of the music.

Oldhusband greeted them in what he thought would be their mother tongue, Nepali. But the monks told Oldhusband not to bother. They understood the Queen’s English quite well. Oldhusband tried to show kindness and diplomacy right away by apologizing for interrupting their singing. One of the monks said they had not been throat singing. They were simply hung over and discussing what they would have for breakfast.

“My eyes continued to adjust to the darkness and only then did I notice other people sitting around the periphery of the room,” wrote Oldhusband. “They were dressed in white loincloths and all were in various states of what could