Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (33 page)

River Leaf and Cole half-walked, half-ran down the glacier to Morrow. They must have known he was dead before they reached him as the body was “motionless and impossibly bent.” Upon reaching Morrow, they verified he was deceased and glumly pulled his corpse down the route upon which they had ascended, the terrain under their feet now slippery with fresh ice.

The ice was too hard and thick to permit burial so the team simply took a blanket from Morrow’s pack and wrapped him in it. No one wept. They were too tired and perhaps too shocked to weep. Junk took out a pack of playing cards and placed it inside the blanket along with a copy of William James’
The Principles of Psychology
and a naked photo of Mimi Eisenhower found in Morrow’s sleeping bag. Zeigler, River Leaf, and Pasang Dolma took turns praying over the body.

Three deaths and not yet permanently situated at Camp One. If this mortality rate kept up then the summit would be out of their grasp. Low on men, out of funds, and dangerously short on morale, Junk began to waver for the first time since the expedition began. Junk was also wracked with guilt. It had been his decision not to use ropes on the glacier, a decision that had doomed Fenimore. Had he been tied to Morrow, Junk, and Pasang Dolma, the young Fenimore would have been with them now. Morrow’s death had then been a direct result of Fenimore’s. In Junk’s opinion, all responsibility for the horrid events of the day fell to him and him alone. Now he spoke to the team about the possibility of retreat.

This must have surprised everyone. Junk the Invincible, Conqueror of Boston, Viscount of the Long Shot, was talking about playing it safe and avoiding defeat. River Leaf said nothing. Pasang Dolma said he was at Junk’s disposal and would do whatever Junk wanted. Cole and Zeigler both suggested they at least try for the Eastern Ridge before considering retreat. McGee said nothing, but was likely torn. He had lost everything to make this happen, so having a go at the top against the odds made perfect sense. But then again, all indications suggest he was also terribly scared. The acrophobia must have plagued him every waking moment.

Cole wrote, “I mentioned to Junk that Hoyt was probably giving up too. The other side of the mountain was almost certainly experiencing bad weather due to the monsoon and that would make Hoyt’s ascent even more challenging. All it took was me mentioning Hoyt’s name and Junk’s whole demeanor changed. ‘Who said anything about retreat?’ he asked, clearly offended. ‘We are going up, you pansies!’ So in the end, it was Junk himself who made the argument to press on.”

After one more descent to Base Camp, the team climbed the Rakhiot Glacier for the last time. They shed several Sherpa at Camp One, leaving only fifteen. They turned eastward at the hot pools and began to make their way up the lip of the Icy Bellows.

The four dyspeptic Sherpa mumbled their way toward Camp Two. Pasang Dolma was fearless and strong, carrying more than his share of equipment, helping in the setup of camp and the preparation of meals, and making climbing recommendations to Junk when called upon. Zeigler proved a solid replacement for Morrow when it came to knowledge of the terrain and the moves of previous expeditions up the northern route. Cole was consistent and trustworthy in his climbing expertise, although his frostbite problems seemed to be more widespread now. His toes had become a problem. Perhaps the poor sot had bad circulation. Whatever the reason, he was in pain. But being the brave, reliable gentleman he was, he never let the pain get in the way of his impeccable climbing technique. McGee fought not just acrophobia now, but agoraphobia was well. The dizzying open spaces, the lack of enclosure on any side, made him close his eyes as he walked.

River Leaf moved forward without a misstep, without complaint, and without a moment’s hesitation. Junk hiked behind her much of the time now. Her figure must have blocked Junk’s view of the summit at times. But if her body did obstruct the view, he apparently did not mind for he never asked her to move.

Interlude: Winter, 1920

Chhiri Tendi was ten years old when he saw the colossus that was his father begin to crumble. The harvest had been a good one for the village of Thame, as it had been across the entire Khumbu region. Families gathered and celebrated in each other’s homes, drinking, dancing, and making boasts. Chhiri Tendi and his parents were attending one such occasion at the home of their neighbor. It was late. Possibly after midnight. No one owned a timekeeping piece and no one particularly cared how late it was.

Chhiri Tendi’s mother, Pasang Lhamu, had been a little woman, no more than four and one half feet tall. Her face was a sea of wrinkles, troughs and crests summoned by life’s hard weather. The face seemed to pour into her toothless mouth and disappear. She said almost nothing and took in everything. The croaked words that did come forth were crafted to exact the most damage. Tonight she did not say a thing. She nodded her head politely and tapped her fingers on her knee as her lady friends conversed.

Chhiri Tendi’s father was
Phurbu Tawa. Completely devoid of any credentials or experience, Phurbu Tawa had become the unspoken viceroy of the village due exclusively to his charm, quick intellect, and large stature. A porter by trade, the villagers turned to him to settle land disputes, arrange marriages for their children, and consult on crop and livestock trades. He stood almost six foot tall, a height unheard of among the Sherpa people. Wrinkled to the same extent as his wife, when the two stood next to each other
,
their faces were two halves of a split open dried fruit.
Shoulders fanned out from Phurbu Tawa’s beefy neck like the high ridges of Kanchenjunga. When his mouth opened, which it did regardless of the presence of others, his voice projected far and wide. Simply put, he met all requirements for leadership. No one knew this more than Chhiri Tendi. A rambunctious lad to be sure, his clever tongue and mischievous larks stopped when his father was present, replaced almost at once with humility and respect.

As the party wore on that night, Phurbu Tawa went from dancing and slapping unsuspecting women’s rumps to telling a scandalous tale of a recent journey to Kathmandu. Those still sober enough to listen did so. Portions of the tale drew laughs from the crowd of friends while others inspired gasps. Chhiri Tendi sat at his father’s side, listening intently even though he did not understand every unseemly detail. The story’s contents were irrelevant. Chhiri Tendi was delighted just to watch his father tell a tale.

It was during the middle of this story that a group of strangers, unexpected and uninvited, walked into the celebration. There were nine of them in all. Their snow-covered military boots clomped hard against the wooden floors. They wore strange clothing that appeared to consist of odds and ends from several different nations’ uniforms. One wore the boots of a British soldier. Another wore the medals of a Turkish soldier. Another the helmet of Greeks. Chhiri Tendi remembers thinking, even as a child that their ill-gotten attire may have been poached from corpses.’ The only consistent part of their garb was a dead king cobra around each man’s neck, stuffed with some kind of material that allowed the animal’s husk to be used like an ascot or muffler. One man stood in front while eight others stood behind shoulder to shoulder.

The revelers ceased discussion just as the leader of the unwelcomed fellows began to speak in Nepali. “We are the Squad of Schismatic Gurkhas…” he proclaimed. He turned to look at one of the men behind him who looked back disapprovingly. “…until we come up with a better name.” The leader walked forward, each step slower than the last. The man studied all of the faces in the silent room. “We have come to this village of Sherpa people because we are starting a revolution across Nepal and we want to recruit you. For too long, the British Crown has held Nepal in its pale talons. They have controlled our government. They have sent us to fight in their name across Asia and Europe. And what do we get in return? Protection? We do not need their protection. We are not children. We are the Kingdom of Nepal, and we are prepared to draw blood from the British and watch their innards spill out, steaming in the cold Khumbu air. Now I know the Sherpa are lazy, unreliable, untrustworthy drunkards unlike the Gurkha people, but we are from the same country and so we are obliged to ask for your participation. Also let me add: If you are not with us…” the nine men pulled out their crooked
kukri
swords, “…then you are against us.”

A collective, audible inhalation filled the room, followed by silence. Chhiri Tendi remembers a tension in the room so great he felt the air itself would snap. The only people who did not seem terrified were Pasang Lhamu and Phurbu Tawa, his mother and father. Pasang Lhamu scowled at the strangers and whispered something under her breath, her toothless mouth moving almost imperceptibly. Phurbu Tawa rose from his seat which happened to be only feet from the man who threatened the group.

“
My name is Phurbu Tawa. Do you have a name as well.”

“
It is none of your business unless you agree to join us.”

“
I see. Well let me ask you this, and please understand that although this is my question only, I am sure all of my fellow untrustworthy drunkards would like to know. I have done my share of walking across the Kingdom so I know a few things about its people and places. And from what I know, the Gurkha people are renowned for their bravery in war. For their unwillingness to ever turn away from adversity. For their vicious skills in combat. Most importantly, they are known for their dedication. For over one hundred years, your people have been the ones Nepal and England have turned to for help, and you have never let them down. Ever.”

“
That is not a question.” retorted the stranger.

“
My apologies. Here is the question. If the Gurkhas are such a wonderful people, trusted by everyone to do their job, then is it not the nine of you traitorous donkeys who are the untrustworthy ones?”

The stranger did not move. His expression did not change. He simply stared at Phurbu Tawa. “I have served England for over ten years, and in the past four I have done more for them than you can possibly imagine. I have marched across the deserts of Iraq, protecting the oil fields of Basra from the dreaded Turks, flies on my face and broken, weeping blisters on my feet. I have cut the throats of men, women, and children in the name of the Crown. The men who stand behind me fought on the beaches of Gallipoli, a place you have probably never heard of but they will never forget. They watched as their fellow Gurkhas were cut down by machine gun fire and they fought back when all hope was lost. So do not dare say we are untrustworthy.”

Phurbu Tawa had a dreadful habit of cleaning out his nose with his finger. He had begun doing it again while the Gurkha spoke. The Gurkha was not deterred nor distracted by this behavior. He continued.

“
Then, unlike our Gurkha brothers who were not smart enough to do so, we began to question the British army. Recommendations for our decoration from British field officers were written in pencil and therefore dismissed as ‘unofficial.’ We also found it is a rule that no Gurkha can ever be promoted to officer. Correspondences between British soldiers about our battalions always referred to us as “the little fellows.” Little! Again like we were children. Since the Treaty of Segauli, we have been infantilized while risking life and limb for no return. This epiphany brought embarrassment. What is dedication when it is to an aggressor? I’ll tell you what it is. It is foolishness. All of Nepal, not just the Gurkhas, deserves liberation from these white oppressors. Now I will try to ignore your last comment, Phurbu Tawa, the one about us being ‘traitorous donkeys’ and ask again, are you and your neighbors with us or are you against us? If you are with us, you will provide us with your village’s young, healthy men.” The man momentarily glanced at Phurbu Tawa’ son, Chhiri Tendi. “If you are against us, we will do damage tonight and come back in the future to do more. We will keep coming back until you acquiesce. So, what will it be?”

Phurbu Tawa was still cleaning out his nose with his index finger, in no rush to finish and answer this man. When he had finally succeeded in cleaning out the left nostril, he admired the contents for a moment and then wiped it on the stranger’s medals.

“
Your gripe with the British military seems like a legitimate one. The Gurkhas are people, just like them, deserving of respect, good treatment, and the chance at promotion. Nonetheless, you are going about things all wrong. You are choosing to solve the problem in a bloody manner, a strategy by which the Sherpa do not abide. You talk about spilling British blood and then you even threaten us! You are behaving like those German scoundrels who sometimes come to climb Kanchenjunga. Why would you threaten us so? There has been no animosity between Hindu and Buddhist in our country. No aggression between Sherpa and, well, anyone. There is no need for abuse if we are brothers. But you choose to come in here with the force of a truncheon.”

Then Chhiri Tendi remembers his father touching the cobra around the stranger’s neck. “Sorry. We might have helped you if you had asked with kindness and if your plan was to peacefully address the issue. Alas that is not the case. You chose instead to act like Nepalese cobras.”

Finally the stranger moved, turning his head around to glance at his men. He nodded to them. Looking back at Phurbu Tawa, he said “First of all, let me thank you for giving us our name. I can’t believe I did not think of it before. The Nepalese Cobras. How obvious. I feel silly. Second, let me inform you that you are going to die now.”