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

go away. Everest still looks to be slightly below us. On Hoover’s command, we decide to ignore what we have seen. The naked eye is not a reliable tool for such a task.

As if on cue, an American military plane flies at eye level over the ridge we have just ascended, likely on its way from India to China (“Over the hump” as the Brits would later call it when the war came). The roar of its engines could not be heard until it cleared the ridge and now it is all we can hear. The plane is not in good shape. Fumu has apparently spit a vast amount of lava at its left wing and now the entire aircraft is wobbling. Hoover and I watch as it pitches and rolls off into the distant blue, trailing black smoke and gradually losing altitude. We watch for several minutes, mute. Then we see the plane make contact with the Hillary Step on Everest and spin off behind the mountain, out of sight.

That plane had been losing altitude. And after many miles, it had hit a point near the top of Everest. There is now no question left in my mind about Fumu’s height.

Hoover speaks.

“Chhiri. We’re…”

Those would be Hoover’s last words. The cliff next to him shoots out a high-pressured, horizontal geyser of black smoke and ash, which cleanly detaches and jettisons Hoover’s head far out into the rarefied Himalayan atmosphere. His corpse remains tied to the wall. I do not have time or breath to scream before the wall around the steam explodes into a flood of lava. The sound hurts my ears. It removes Hoover’s body from the ledge and creates a hole in the ice wall about the size of a train tunnel. As the ice evaporates, the hole grows larger, quickly. I have to backtrack to get away from the ever-growing danger, but now I have an additional handicap. Somehow, the hemp rope attaching me to Hoover manages not to break, which speaks well of the rope manufacturers, but puts me in an unpleasant situation. Hoover’s headless body is hanging four yards below me, on fire.

For a moment, Ifeel myself give up. I stop moving and shut my eyes tightly. There is no way a person can live through such a scenario. Hoover’s corpse is pulling me off the ledge as if asking me to join the dead. I am attached to the wall, but the presence of the lava flow is causing the air to warm up and the ice screws in the wall to lose their purchase. I am suffocating, my hyperventilation being arrested by my regulated oxygen supply.

Raw emotion is tamed by reason. You see, I have a family, and I wish to return home to see my wife, son, and daughter. I decide that my only option is to cut the rope that attaches me to Hoover and the wall, discard my equipment except for some food and water, and run for safety.

Things become more complicated before I can execute my plan. Several yards down, the tank of compressed oxygen that is still attached to Hoover’s body explodes, obliterating what is left of Hoover, as well as the part of the ledge upon which I am standing. Now I am hanging by my waist, and the ice screws that hold me are popping out of the melting ice wall one by one, each dropping me down further. I look around helplessly at the scene of destruction. The lava flow has subsided somewhat, the hole now billowing black smoke and still growing larger. The ledge above me is gone. Hanging from my rope, I feel like an abandoned marionette.

Finally, I catch a lucky break. When Hoover’s oxygen tank exploded, it gouged out a man-sized part of the cliff right near me, complete with flat ledge and depth for a backpack. I patiently begin to swing over to the absence. Once I’ve gathered enough momentum, I’m able to land on the newly-formed shelf, gather my wits, and plan me next steps.

After about an hour of catching what little breath is available to me, I remove my backpack and stuff my pockets with food and water. I then manage to rappel down to a nearly horizontal couloir below me that leads back to the ridge where the day had begun. The rappel is treacherous because I’m low on oxygen, and the experience an hour previous has placed me in a state of shock.

Over the course of the day, I descend to the nearest camp, Camp Four, with almost no equipment. Each breath feels pointless. Just a lot of pain in my chest and no pay-off. Movement has to be slow, even though my mind keeps urging me to hurry before frostbite, hypothermia, or hypoxia finish me off. When I reach the camp, I collapse into my tent and sleep for an entire day. My dreams are full of death and fire. After eating a meal the next morning, I descend to Camp Three, where several more members of the expedition are waiting. I share with other expedition members the news of Hoover’s grim demise and the failure to reach the top. Camp after camp we descend, gathering more men and equipment. The team members at Base Camp are waiting as the miserable line of souls come down from the mountain. “A funeral march” as one climber put it.

Chhiri Tendi goes home to his village and basks in the presence of his wife and children. To this day, he has not shared the details of what happened on the mountain with them.

Chhiri Tendi is now 51-years-old. He is basking in the warmth of the Arizona sunset, looking down at the pipe he is tapping on the edge of his ashtray. He has been kind enough to share all of these recollections with me even though his countenance betrays a man who would prefer to remain in the present. Although his hair shows a dusting