Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (31 page)

Junk was climbing near the front, now confident McGee could take care of himself near the rear. He walked alongside Pasang Dolma and Morrow, easily following the tracks they had forged the day before. The previous night of gambling had ended well for Junk despite the difficult confessions. He had won three hundred dollars after a streak of good luck that had included a full house, a straight flush, and four-of-a-kind. Now this morning he decided to raise everyone’s spirits by announcing another game, this one to be played while climbing. It would take very little thought or effort from the team. They would play as they hiked and the winner would collect their money that night at Base Camp. Junk’s hope was that the game would provide a distraction for everyone as they slogged over old territory. Morrow, Fenimore, Cole, and McGee said they were in on the game. River Leaf declined, as she had seen far too many Dakota men torn asunder by “moccasins” and other games of chance.

Junk called it “Icefall Craps.” Each player took a turn being “the roller.” The roller would play traditional pass line craps; he would just replace dice with humans. The roller would start by announcing a bet of a certain amount of money. Then he would approach two climbers, “the dice,” one at a time. The first and second climber would each say a number between one and six to the roller quietly. It was essential that the “dice” could not hear one another. The sum of the two numbers, known only to the roller, would now be the roller’s
“come out roll.”
He would then approach another set of climbers who would each quietly utter a number between one and six, the sum of the two being the roller’s next roll. The roller would keep doing this, moving up and down the line of climbers, until he either hit upon two people whose numbers summed to seven, in which case he lost the bet and owed everyone else a percentage of the money, or he hit his come out number again, in which case he won the bet and everyone else had to pay him a percentage of the money. The only time a roll of seven was a good thing was in the case of the come out roll. That would make you an instant winner (
In real craps, eleven acts like seven. Two and twelve also have their own special rules, but Junk wanted to keep the game simple for the uninitiated members of the team).

Junk started as the roller. Pasang Dolma had respectfully declined to play, so Morrow and Fenimore would be Junk’s first pair of dice. Junk announced a bet of twenty dollars, just to start off easily. He hiked next to Morrow and asked Morrow to whisper a number to him. “Three.” Now Junk slowed down and waited for Fenimore to catch up. Fenimore quietly said “two.” Morrow and Fenimore had now provided Junk with a come out roll of five. Junk would continue now down the line, hoping future “rolls” would sum to five before he hit upon a pair that summed to seven.

Junk stopped and rested against a large serac. He waited for Cole. Cole approached after about five minutes with a Sherpa next to him, carrying his equipment. Cole said a number between labored breaths. River Leaf, carrying her own equipment, arrived at the spot where Junk was waiting. She had said before climbing she did not gamble nor did she have any money to wager. She would provide numbers but did not want to put money on the line or be a roller. When she arrived at Junk, she muttered a number as well. Whatever Cole and River Leaf had each said – no record exists at that level of detail – the numbers summed to neither five nor seven. Worthless. Junk had not won or lost.

Junk climbed down to McGee who was huffing over an ice bridge, fearful it would give way. He was trying to tiptoe. Several high altitude Sherpa were behind McGee. They were clearly dedicated to their job, preventing any customer from getting lost behind them. Even though they were moving at half of their normal rate of ascent, they stayed behind McGee and kept a close eye on him. McGee gave Junk a number. Junk was stuck. He needed one more number for a pair, but was out of Americans. He turned to the group of Sherpa behind McGee. He knew very little of the Sherpa language, and most of the Sherpa knew very little English. He did his best. Turning to the closest Sherpa, a man with a cobra inexplicably tattooed on his hand, he said “A number please!” He counted to six while touching fingers to give them an idea of what he wanted, using slow, sing song-y prosody to indicate they were all reasonable choices.

“
I speak English, and four” said the closest one of them. The Sherpa seemed almost angry as he spoke to Junk. Junk was surprised by the negative response. Several other Sherpa around this particular Sherpa also seemed to be of unpleasant disposition. “Wait, you’re the asshole I saw spit on Mano’s monastery.”

The Sherpa was now clearly angry. “My name is Kyidug, not asshole.”

It is true the relationship between porters and sahibs on climbing expeditions has always been strained. The exploitation is obvious to all involved. The sahibs do not pay as much as they should and the porters know it. But it is quite unusual for porters to put their distaste on display unless there is a clear case of abuse. Junk could not think of such an abuse at this point. “Thanks for the number, asshole” Junk said to Kyidug. “You made my come out roll.” Junk had won and intended to play once more. Kyidug only paused for a moment before hiking again.

Junk had reached the end of the line. Now he needed to use his impressive climbing skills to race past everyone and return to the top of the line. He hiked at a rapid clip and collected pairs of numbers as he went. His come out roll from McGee and River Leaf (he skipped Kyidug this time) was three. Cole and a more affable Sherpa provided a number having no effect either way. When he returned to the front of the line, Fenimore and Cooper hit him with a one and a six. Craps. He had broken even.

Fenimore was the next roller. He bet twenty dollars. After Junk and Morrow whispered in his ear, Fenimore let out a small, oxygen-deprived laugh. Seven. He had won right away. Junk and Morrow verified they had indeed whispered “two” and “five” respectively. A quick win and a delightful distraction for the young stripling.

Morrow chose to be the next roller. He was not concerned about leaving the front of the line because his navigational skills were in less demand today. The team knew to simply follow their tracks from the day before. Morrow’s only hesitation about being the roller was driven by the fact that once he had worked his way down the line of climbers, he would have to double his regular rate of hiking in order to return to the front. Nonetheless, the distraction was what he needed.

He chose to make the distraction enormous. “One large” he announced, using the American parlance for one thousand dollars. This surprised and thrilled Junk. He told Morrow he would be good for his percentage of the winnings, should Morrow win, when he returned to the States and got back on his feet. Morrow accepted this. Fenimore also approved of the stakes.

Three and three. The come out roll was a six, and six happens to be a smashing come out roll. Other than seven, six and eight are the most likely numbers to result from the role of two dice. Such is the case because there are so many combinations of two numbers between one and six that sum to six. One plus five equals six. Two plus four equals six. Three plus three equals six. That makes three different combinations. But now try to think of combinations that sum to five. One and four, three and two. Only two combinations. Nine is just as bad. It gets worse when you try to think of combinations that sum to three and eleven. Indeed, six was a terrific roll which probably made Morrow highly confident that he would win one thousand American dollars.

Morrow moved down the line. It must have been a pleasant temporary relief to stop and wait for climbers to pass, even though he would pay when he got to the end of the line, having to hike double-time to make it back to the front. As he worked his way through Cole, River Leaf, a Sherpa here and there, and McGee, no pair of rolls summed to six. He became frustrated. When he got to the irritable Kyidug and asked for a number (Junk had not told him to avoid conversation with the four Sherpa at the end of the line), Kyidug apparently responded by asking Morrow why he doesn’t put more focus on climbing and less on gaming. When Morrow strained his way back to the front of the group, still not hitting his come out roll, he complained to Junk about the quality of the Sherpa they had secured for the expedition. “Rude.” “Disrespectful.” “Insolent.” These were the words he used in his rage. He also recalled that the Kyidug character had been the one to spit on the monastery they had passed on their way to the Qila Sanctuary. Pasang Dolma, who was in ear shot of the Junk and Morrow, apologized profusely. He took responsibility for the hiring of the four Sherpa. He had had no problem finding regular porters and cooks, but high altitude Sherpa had been hard to obtain. With the war going on in Europe and foreigners unable to visit the Himalaya, most Sherpa had taken on other vocations to survive, the majority of them humping supplies through the passes between Nepal and Tibet. They could not walk away from these responsibilities. Therefore, Pasang Dolma had to take what he could get. Most of the hires were of the best quality, he said, but four of them came without any reference but their own. He was not even sure they were Sherpa. They may have been of another Nepalese race. Appeased by Pasang Dolma’s apology, Morrow chose not to go on with his litany of complaints.

Morrow was still collecting numbers. He asked Junk for one. “Six.” There was the problem with Icefall Craps. Junk had provided a number he must have known would make attaining the come out roll impossible: Six plus any number, of course, could not equal Morrow’s come out roll of six. Junk apparently said through a laugh and iced-over beard, “I was just trying to be arbitrary in my choice. I was not trying to vex you.” Despite the inevitable fact this roll could only be bad or neutral, Morrow grunted and moved to catch up with Fenimore to get a number to add to six. Fenimore led the team about thirty feet ahead.

Unfortunately for Morrow, the way became steeper in those thirty feet, so getting that second, useless number was an arduous task; Fenimore ahead of him was approaching an ice bridge, a structure which bulged up as it passed over a rather nasty, gaping bergschrund several hundred feet deep. The bulge made the whole thing look not unlike a pedestrian bridge one sees crossing over a pond in a city park, rising to a rounded peak in the center of its span. But this bridge had no flirting young lovers on it and no lily pads floating by. It was nothing but a blinding white hill of ice and snow hovering precariously over a slit in the earth. Morrow must have strained himself quite a bit getting up to Fenimore.

According to my interview with Pasang Dolma years later, Morrow made it up to Fenimore but hiked behind him, not able to summon the energy to make it the extra three feet required to hike abreast with the man. No one could hear, but he was most certainly asking for a number from Fenimore when the bridge, possibly compromised by the expedition crossing over it the day before, gave way. Fenimore’s response to Morrow became a drawn out, screaming “one” as he fell into the schrund. The entire bridge collapsed, from approach to approach. The ends broke cleanly, so that the snow on both sides came to rest at their angles of repose, blending into the landscape around them seamlessly. “It looked as if a bridge had never been there at all,” Pasang Dolma recalled.

The only evidence something had been there was Morrow. He had been spared from a fall because he had been climbing
behind
Fenimore by mere feet, and also because his axe, tied to his belt, had become lodged in the ice. He was not yet out of the woods. The terrain upon which he now depended was loose. At any moment, he could begin sliding to the edge and then take the fast journey downward to join Fenimore, and then, shortly afterwards, God. Adrenaline exploded inside both Junk and Pasang Dolma. They rushed forward as quickly as their physical exhaustion would let them, but were also careful not to put themselves into a perilous situation. They stopped short of the edge. Junk stood a healthy fifteen feet back, unraveled the rope from over his shoulder and tied one end around his waist. He threw the other end to Pasang Dolma and then lay flat on his belly, digging his crampons and axe into the ice. Pasang Dolma wrapped the other end of the rope around his own waist until there was little slack. He moved slowly to the edge of the deep, echoing schrund. Removing his backpack and mitts with the utmost care, Pasang Dolma sidestepped down the edge of the schrund until the angle became too great for him to proceed. There he positioned himself roughly one yard above and to the side of Morrow. He rested his right hip against the ice and planted his crampons into the ice, one boot placed several feet in front of the other. Seen from the other side of the schrund he would have looked like an Egyptian illustration of a man walking. The American below him was frozen with terror. The fall had landed him in such a position his back was to the cliff, his front facing out over the chasm. An unpleasant vista. His trousers, attached to the ice axe, were riding up his undercarriage, supporting all of his weight. He was moaning now – a low, sad keening - and he was refusing to put out his arm despite Pasang Dolma’s firm commands he do so. The Sherpa did not ask for long. He took a calculated risk, bending his knees and back, moving his arms to full extension and swiping aggressively at Morrow’s jacket. His left hand found purchase and began to pull. Morrow screamed and flailed his legs. By a stroke of luck, one of Morrow’s crampons made a fruitful dig into the ice and he was able to rise several feet. With that, Pasang Dolma was able to grab the man with both hands and lift him up. Junk pulled on the rope while the other two men half fell and half stumbled backwards up the edge of the schrund. When they were up, all three fell into the snow and gasped for air.

Most of the team had caught up by now. They gathered around Morrow who remained on the ground for quite some time, crying. It was easily five minutes before his first word came, and when it came, it was garbled by chattering teeth and frozen lips.