Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain by Jonathan Bloom (freenovel24 .TXT) 📕

the remains of Rauff’s Maw. When the slack in the rope attaching him to Hoyt was gone, it snapped taut around Junk’s harness and his fall was arrested. Hoyt, being the consummate professional, had instinctively laid flat on the ground the moment his partner had begun to slide. Hoyt gripped whatever features of the ground he could in the heat of the moment.

Now Junk hung in thin air roughly forty feet below the top of the maw. Both men had given out yells of shock and pain when the event had happened, but perhaps due to the wind, none of the Sherpa at Camp Three heard what had happened. They were all inside their tents, possibly preparing the space for ailing Sahibs.

Hoyt tried to pull Junk back up by scurrying forward on the rocks, away from the cliff. Because the terrain was mostly exposed rock, his axe was useless. He was able to dig it into a crag and pull, but it would always lose its purchase moments later and that would send Hoyt sliding back to his original spot, and in some awful cases, sliding back even closer to the maw than he was before. He remained still, straining against the weight that wanted to pull him over the precipice.

And there they remained for what must have seemed like generations, but may have only been a few rotations of the minute hand. The sun had now set and the world was growing dark. After regaining his composure, Junk attempted to secure two short, thin ropes to the larger rope by use of Prusik knots – friction knots that could slide along the larger rope and then hold steady when weight was placed upon them. The unused end of one small rope would then be secured to Junk’s harness while the unused end of the other would form a loop for his foot to fit through. Junk would be expected to raise his foot creating slack in the short rope, and the associated Prusik knot would then be moved up the main rope. Once it was taut, Junk would then do the same with the knot on the newly slackened harness rope. Then the process would be repeated. Using this time-tested strategy, Junk would theoretically be able to self-rescue.

Even under the best of conditions, the Prusik move is difficult. But at altitude with a beaten body, the move is almost impossible. Junk yelled out in pain as he tried to tie knots with failing fingers. Blowing warm breath onto his hands (he had placed his mitts in his pockets), he tried multiple times to get the rope tied around the carabiner on his harness to no avail. Switching to the foot rope, he experienced quick success.

The temperature dropped to minus 10 degrees Celsius. The time passed and Hoyt remained on the rock above, holding on with everything he could muster. The natural athletic talents that had blessed him since childhood were now on display. Despite cold and increasing wind and the weight of Junk, he did not budge. His eyes were probably affixed to the tents of Camp Three disappearing in the darkness. Still no one came out of them. They must come out soon! They must start wondering about the Sahibs’ delay.

Junk finally caught a bit of luck. Before the sky became pitch black, he got the second rope secured to his harness. He lifted his right leg, moved the associated knot up, and stepped up the new stair he had created. He was on his way to safety. He advanced two “steps” upward, shortening the distance between himself and the lip.

Then he dropped. Was Hoyt finally giving in? The rock on which he held fast was after all freezing in the dropping temperatures. Junk heard a voice from above. It was loud to beat the wind, but quite collected. “How are you proceeding down there?”

“Better than before. Hold on a little longer. I’m on my way up.”

But Junk’s optimism was misguided. The air had become too cold and so the Prussik knots no longer worked. Their strength lay in friction, and friction was no longer possible as the main rope froze. Each step Junk took upward slipped back down. He was back to where he had started, and then Hoyt slipped again.

Climbers are often faced with terrible decisions; decisions of a magnitude usually only faced on the field of battle. One always hopes that the teachings of John Stuart Mill will run through the panicked mind and that it will try to come up with a solution benefitting the most individuals. But rational thoughts rarely fructify in the inhospitable climes of peril. Most often, when faced with mortality, a man forgets all others and can only think he does not want to die. To expect anything more of him is to expect the unlikely.

“Fuck it. Cut the rope” Junk bellowed to Hoyt. He had obviously remembered the knife with which Hoyt had jabbed him at the summit. “Save yourself, faggot! Cut the rope!”

“No” came the reply from on high.

“Listen to me. Cut the fucking rope you fucking piece of shit!”

“No.”

“You’re mother was a good lay! Cut the rope!”

“No.”

“That thing you call your wife looks like Churchill. Cut it!”

“No” Hoyt repeated.

“Compared to you, the Hebrews are-“

“I will not cut the rope on you. A good man once told me about bushido. The way of the chivalrous warrior. And I am going to follow bushido now.” A long pause followed. “When you get back to the States, Aaron, tell Wizzy I love her so much and I am so sorry I walked away.”

This seemed like a rather odd thing to say given where Hoyt was and given where Junk was. Yet Hoyt continued from above, unseen by Junk but quite audible. “My two boys. My two wonderful, handsome boys. Let them know their father was always proud of them despite his distance, physical and otherwise.” Sherpa’s heads appeared out