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

The Sherpa were another story. The porters were now at lower camps and only the five high-altitude Sherpa and ten other Sherpa remained. They seemed lucid and game. Had they not been there to tend to the Americans’ every need, the expedition would have come to an end as soon as it had started. Pasang Dolma toiled under the weight of other people’s equipment but did not show signs of exhaustion. Occasional heavy breaths were the extent of it. “The rest of us may fall over dead, but Pasang Dolma will be able to cary [sic] my corpse to top [sic]” Junk joked.

Junk likely had different feelings about the four dyspeptic Sherpa. If everyone else were to die, those men had a look like they would happily use half the American bodies as kindling while cooking the other half. They were undoubtedly gifted at their jobs, climbing and porting without rest, but their social etiquette would not do should they ever find themselves at tea with the Queen. They ate alone. They conversed alone. They kept entirely to themselves except when their services required them to engage. In fact, they rarely even spoke to Pasang Dolma despite the fact he was their sardar. Pasang Dolma seemed to have regrets about his selection of high altitude Sherpa. They had not acted this way until Base Camp so he could not have known he had picked poorly.

Despite the glum, exhausted, and badly deprecated state of his team, Junk remained ebullient. In his journal, his letters became bigger and more crooked. “We’ve suffered, but we’re still moving. The mountain of my dreams is with me, and the girl is more than half-conquered.” Clearly, his ability to make sense was waning.

They arrived at the first step. Technical climbing such as this could be easily managed by these individuals at sea level. It is quite another story to do it miles up in the atmosphere with scant air and frostbite lurking. The only positive was that Hoover’s expedition had left ice screws in the step years ago. The team tied off and began to ascend. Junk went first attached to Pasang Dolma. He was followed by Cole and Zeigler. Progress was slow and careful. McGee waited at the bottom for his turn, panicked. Junk took the time to stop, turn around, and smile down at his old friend. “Remember. One million dollars!” As you may recall, Junk had bet McGee one million dollars McGee would not make it. The words acted like a magical incantation. Junk settled down and began to focus on nothing but making it up the step. He began climbing quite self-assuredly, not looking down and not stopping for anything. River Leaf followed behind, tied to McGee, and then the Sherpa brought up the rear.

When Junk had reached the top, he squatted down and admired the view. They were high up now by anybody’s standards. They could see Everest clearly. Its southern face, which had smashed Junk’s hopes of retaliation only two years previous, loomed before them. To the east of that was Lhotse. Far off in the west was Manaslu, a 26,000-foot behemoth. Beyond Everest and Lhotse lay the Rongbuk Glacier and Tibet. Junk had the sense that Hoyt’s information was right. The mountain they were on now was taller than Everest. But only time would tell. Given this was a privately funded expedition with no scientific studies being conducted, they had no instrument to measure the height of a mountain. Their naked eyes would have to be their instruments.

They all reached the top but they were exhausted. McGee lay on his back breathing heavily. According to Cole’s writings they all knew at that point McGee would never make it to high camp. The question was: Would he have the foresight to climb down, or would the mountain dictate his fate? Exhaustion had gotten the better of him. Cole quietly inquired whether Junk would ask his friend to begin climbing down. Never, came the response. Junk felt his old chum was stronger than the mountain and that he would surprise the whole team. River Leaf was next to ask. It was no use. There would be no change in plans. McGee would see high camp.

No one asked McGee for his own opinion. They knew he would follow Junk to the end of the world, or even to the top of it.

Before setting off for the second step, which lay about one hundred yards further up the lip, Junk said to his team “Whoever decided to call these things ‘steps’ was rather tall.” He was probably in the mood to make quips because of the foul moods around him. His team seemed to be questioning his decision on McGee. Anything he could do to return everyone to positivity would be helpful. Nothing happened. The team continued to put on their packs and prepare to trudge on yet again. McGee was still panting, not seeming rested at all. Cole was rubbing the place on his face where frostbite was gaining ground. He also looked confused by Junk’s comment, because being of a scientific leaning, he took everything literally. He did not understand jokes as anything but flawed logic. Zeigler and the Sherpa acted as if they heard nothing at all. Junk wrote that night. He used phrases more staccato and awkward than usual, likely due to altitude:

“Then I heard it. Some kind of rare bird ascended to this great height? Perched on someone’s head? The most glorious song I ever heard. Short… only a few notes. I turned to find the source of the sound. River Leaf looking at me and covering up a smile. Her cheeks plump garden tomatoes. Goggles hide her eyes, but it doesn’t matter. It was clear. River Leaf had had a second of weakness and had laughed at something I’d said. The fact she didn’t