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

Yes, she laghed [sic] at material of shitty caliber. But not because she has a bad sense of humor. She just knows any joke told with almost no air and a stomach full of fear is something of a feat.”

Junk hiked next to River Leaf and tried to carry on a conversation with her as they approached the second step. Single words had to do. He started it off.

“Scared?”

“No.”

“Tired?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Alive.”

This was apparently enough conversation for Junk to be happy. Even if she was no longer smiling, he knew the potential was there and that was dandy by him.

The team stopped again at the foot of the second step. The thing was tall, steep, and covered with ice. Even the granite rocks protruding from the frozen whiteness were covered in a slippery sheen. Perhaps there was a way around. Junk, Cole, and Pasang Dolma tied off to one another and went along the eastern side of the step, out over the edge of the ridge. Using ice axes, ropes, and ice screws, they carefully made their way a few feet along the steep drop-off, thousands of vertical feet over the scree and moraine below. No alternate route presented itself. They climbed back onto the ridge. Moving to the other side of the ridge, the side facing the Icy Bellows, they tried again. If the other side of the ridge had been no better than climbing the step, then this side was far worse; an impassible overhang covered in partially-melted snow from the day’s sun. No option was left but to go straight up the second step.

A decision was made to set up Camp Two A so the team could rest up for what they hoped was the last bit of technical climbing before the summit. Tea was made by the Sherpa and canisters of dinner were consumed rather joylessly. Only Junk remained animated. He made a decision that they would stay at this new camp for a few days and perhaps even climb down to the first lip. Cole, who was generally a rather timid fellow, balked. He wanted to get things moving. Each day they lingered was another day that a storm could come and end their designs for victory. Zeigler was of a similar opinion. He generally did not like their current position, very exposed on the lip, at the mercy of the wind and cold. However, both Zeigler and Cole were good climbers and knew the decision was ultimately Junk’s. They would stop and rest.

“Sun is setting, notorious Bellows wind is beginning to howl and it’s very cold” wrote Junk. To be certain, night time on the lip around the Bellows can be brutal. If possible, the tent needs to be set up leaning slightly off the outer edge of the lip or else the wind may tear the tent to shreds. But if one pitches the tent too far away from the center of the ridge, one can end up on a cornice that comes loose in the night, sending the tent and its inhabitants falling several miles down to their deaths.

McGee had gone totally silent at this point. Every laboured breath was being used to stay alive and focused. Playing cards, smoking a cigarette, and even taking a sip of scotch were things of the past. All attention was on simply existing and ignoring. Junk shared a tent with his old chum. If he was worried about McGee’s fate, he did not let it on to anyone. He must have sincerely felt McGee’s overall toughness, compounded by the allure of a one million dollar payout, was enough to see the old street thug through.

Cole was in an uproar. Somewhere along the climb he had lost several books, scientific papers, and “important sketches.” The altitude had clearly made him as forgetful as the next man. He demanded he be allowed to down climb, even if it meant going all the way to Advanced Base Camp to find it. He had been looking at the documents only the night before, so it was likely he would not have to climb that far. However, he may have to go off the side of the ridge and recover the materials if the wind happened to blow them in that direction, a more than likely possibility. Junk was adamant Cole could not leave. All hands were needed. They could not spare him nor the Sherpa resource he would require. “But those things are my security blanket” Cole complained. “I cannot be up here without them.” Junk calmed him and explained they were all giving up their comforts on this climb. Junk wrote that night “Told Cole that on a climb of this size, exposure to the elements is not just physical, but emotional too.” Cole listened to reason and acquiesced.

The lanterns in the tents of the Americans went dark and the team fell into a troubled, bitterly cold sleep; a sleep portending a troubled and bitterly cold day.

The only tent remaining active was that of the four dyspeptic Sherpa. “They’re more chatty than usual tonight” Junk wrote before retiring. “Wish I could understand what they’re saying. I also wish I could fire them. A little tricky here. Shame. They seemed really nice on the approach to Advanced Base Camp (aside from one spitting incident), but became obnoxious once we really needed them on the assent [sic]. I’m going to pay them less than promised when this is done. I’ll also give Pasang Dolma more than promised. Other than picking those four dopes, Pasang Dolma has been exceptional, as have all of the porters and cooks he hired. I sleep now and hopefully dream of River Leaf.”

The team tried to sleep late the next morning but it was impossible. Everyone was awake before dawn. The wind had picked up to such a degree the noise was deafening