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

at the Beacon Hill Tavern in elaborate detail. He, McGee, and Phelps sat at the end of the bar near the entrance. A group of five men came through the door. They were filthy and red from exposure to the sun. But they were also overjoyed and boisterous.

“This Hoyt guy and his group strutted into the tavern like an ostentation of peacocks,” Junk writes, “as if this place and the women inside were their property. They spoke loudly and relentlessly. They drank a lot and flirted with every woman present, from the young bride of a local councilman to the seventy-year-old barmaid. They bought drinks for individuals they didn’t know, but then mixed the kind gesture with snide comments. ‘Barkeep! A scotch for the Harvard man’ they’d yell as they bought a drink for Petey, the half-crazed old lush in the corner. ‘Barkeep! A brandy for Sarah Bernhardt’ they’d yell as they bought a drink for Pearl, a morbidly fat woman who had been a fixture at the tavern for decades.” So it seems that Hoyt’s team fouled the room with their cheek. Then Junk’s memoir turns specifically to Hoyt. “But in the center of this fool-storm there was an eye – a man who said nothing. I appreciated him the least. He sipped tonic water with a face wreathed in silent smugness, offending my sensibilities more than his colleagues who actually spoke.”

Junk was not the kind of man to ignore the people or situations that rubbed him the wrong way. He could not simply move to another pub or go home. Junk had to approach Hoyt and his colleagues. His plan was not necessarily to start a fight, but instead to test these strangers. “They were either going to become my good friends or they were going to be brought low.”

It seemed no matter how much he tried to leave his hardscrabble upbringing behind, Aaron Junk returned to it every day. Between fits of tending to his business concerns – legitimate and otherwise – Junk waded waist-deep in ponies, women, and scotch. He enjoyed attending parties of all sorts but did not approve unless they turned into full-fledged bacchanals. To a New York Times reporter, he once claimed, “It’s not a party until all of the bodily fluids have made an appearance.” As for mountaineering, it came for him late in life, long after the vices of adolescent city living took root. But even then, climbing would never become spiritually cleansing for him. The mountains would become yet another environment full of fresh wagering opportunities.

Aaron was not a big man, but his charisma and stentorian voice made him seem much taller. He had a habit of standing very close to people and looking them directly in the eye while speaking, never breaking his gaze. Most listeners found it terrifying but exhilarating. He slapped people on the back and laughed at everything they said, as if each person who spoke to him uttered the quips of Moliere. When Aaron spoke, despite his close proximity to the listener, he spoke with the gut-vibrating alto of a cello. He would occasionally pull his listener in even closer, bring the volume of his voice down to a faint whisper, and speak to the person as if he were passing along the true name of God, even if he were just recommending the fish pasties in the next room. Being around Aaron Junk made people feel important.

Aaron loved to be seen. He attended every event in his hometown of Boston, or if the event was far-flung, he would use his wealth to get there. He went to business colleague’s daughter’s weddings in California. He attended after-parties for New York plays. He travelled by steamer and train to Berlin in order to watch the latest performance of Mahler’s 5th. Aaron was at the ribbon-cutting for any new building wings that may have appeared at Harvard (often with his name attached) even though he never attended Harvard. Once in a while, he chartered a sea excursion to Bermuda to drink rum with the locals. The man was peripatetic nearly to the point of omnipresence.

Leaving McGee and Phelps at the end of the bar, Junk approached Hoyt’s group. He struck up small talk, asking the men where they had come from. Hoyt finally spoke. His responses were single-word sentences.

“Presidentials”

…in response to the question of where they had been.

“Yes”

…to the question of whether they had been successful in their attempt. And according to Junk, Hoyt avoided making eye contact the whole time he was answering. He looked at any other possible thing in the room except the person who was addressing him. This enraged Junk.

Junk offered Hoyt a drink in celebration of Hoyt’s success in a last-ditch attempt to make peace. According to Junk, Hoyt responded to the offer by taking the drink and placing it on the bar without a sip. He then uttered the following words: “Proverbs…‘Stay away from drunks. Their eyes are bloodshot and they have bruises that could have been avoided.’” Junk responded with a punch to Hoyt’s jaw. The blow removed Hoyt from his stool and landed him on the floor. One might have expected the other men from Hoyt’s party to descend on Junk and beat him mercilessly. But as had always been the case, Hoyt had not made very good friends with those around him. Now it seems that his bible quotation had offended the inebriated sensibilities of the climbers who had come into the bar with him. They had had quite enough of their tough and humourless leader. Junk’s assault satisfied them deeply. They paused for a few moments after the blow before cheering and hitting mugs together.

Hoyt rose slowly from the bar floor, wiping blood off of his lip with his sleeve. Junk’s chums Phelps and McGee sauntered over. Now seven men stood around Hoyt and laughed uproariously. According to some bystanders at the bar, Hoyt started to chuckle as well, raising