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

an hour, the entire team was up and unscathed. However, they were all exhausted. Junk and Cole, the two most experienced climbers on the expedition, suffered the least, but even they felt the future held nothing but discomfort. “Morrow lay at the top of the cliff panting,” Cole wrote. “I thought McGee was going to have a cardiac arrest. River Leaf sat Indian style with her head down, breathing deeply. Being young and experienced, Fenimore seemed to be like Junk and I; winded but ready to continue.” Cole went on to describe Pasang Dolma and the other Sherpa as “downright chipper.” The nasty blend of limited air and intense physical exertion means nothing to seasoned Sherpa. They are masters at their craft. Because of their fortitude, the responsibility fell mostly to them to help the Americans push on.

They reached the location of Camp One, near the top of the icefall at 19,000 feet, shortly after two in the afternoon. The lip of the Icy Bellows was only about one hundred vertical feet further ahead. Several hot pools of water bubbled on the lip, sending steam into the air to be caught by the battling wind patterns. They chose to make camp below the lip and not on it because of said troubled, raging wind. Its way of blowing one direction at full force and then coming about without warning – taking with it equipment and human lives - made it notorious. The dreaded wind would be their constant, malevolent companion soon enough. No need to hasten that relationship.

After pitching the tents, the team took a brief respite. Dehydration from high altitude plagued all of them. Headaches and nausea were experienced by some of the climbers but its victims were arbitrary. It seemed to have nothing to do with climbing experience. Junk could barely open his eyes against the pain in his temples while River Leaf seemed untouched. Junk struggled to speak, but when he did, he commanded everyone to put on their packs as quickly as possible and begin the healing climb down to Base Camp.

As you climb at high altitudes, your intelligence drops. This is a scientific fact. You assume more and more of the qualities of childhood. Your capacity to utter certain basic phonemes, make informed decisions, and store memories are all shot to hell. The lisped “s” – the shibboleth of youth – returns in full force, along with the unfulfilled “r” and the “l” masked as “w”. What’s more, the poor choices of more carefree days come back to pay a visit. The process begins above 10,000 feet and gets steadily worse. That would all be well and good, but at higher altitudes, the need to be on your toes gets greater. The risks increase. You are farther from help with each step. Your ranks thin with each camp so fewer and fewer other people are present who could possibly aid you in an emergency. To be sure, impaired judgment, compromised physical agility, and weakened communicative skills do not jibe with the necessities for survival at great heights.

Nothing exemplifies this problem more than the drama that inevitably arises around the acclimatization process. The physical and emotional investment involved in climbing a Himalayan mountain is enormous. The thought of climbing down during ascent is almost unfathomable. You struggle up to a lofty perch, strain your body to its breaking point, and then have to give up your claim! How can one expect a child to understand and make such a long-term investment?

That is one of the distinctions between the experienced climber and the new one. The experienced climber can envision a person dying from altitude sickness - the pain, the bloody coughing, the final, failed gasps for breath. They can envision their own nausea and headaches from past journeys. These memories are enough to override any foolish passing thoughts about barreling forward up the slope. The new climber on the other hand remembers only yesterday’s climb and the success of reaching a high camp. They succumb without battle to their juvenile urge for immediate gratification. In their mind, there is up and nothing more. In light of this, one can only imagine the despair felt by River Leaf, McGee, and Morrow – the three who had never climbed at extremely high altitudes - when Junk led the way back down to Base Camp. The entire day’s work on the glacier was being erased and would need to be repeated.

The one comfort of temporary retreat is that thicker air awaits you at end of day. The headaches and dehydration that the team felt at Camp One, which stood at 19,000 feet, were now gone at Base Camp, which stood at 14,000 feet. Sleep was possible. Some intelligence and physical acuity returned. What’s more, porters and cooks awaited them with a hearty supper of canned ham, dried prunes, mulled wine, and hot coffee. They were in a fleeting Shangri-La and everyone made the best of it. They knew these pleasures would be disappearing soon enough.

Unlike Morrow and Cole, Junk was hardly writing anything in his notes. Dates, weather, routes up the mountain, camp positions, and general team health. “September 1. Excellent weather today. Cold but cloudless. Pitched Camp One shortly after lunch near the top of the icefall. Everyone tired but otherwise game.” There was nothing more in these entries. He gave no sign of writing to anyone in particular, nor did he provide any of the flourishes that often accompanied his speech. Other than the connections he kept at home for work and general social climbing, Junk probably had no one expecting writings upon his return to the states. We can only theorize that Junk was keeping barebones documentation just in case he was going to die on this journey. The journal would provide those who discovered his corpse with some idea of what he had been up to. After all, he had lied to everyone back home about where he was going. Most people thought