The rescue was an epic in itself, featuring political intrigue, the presidents of two countries, villains, and heroes. After a couple of false starts and increasing pressure from President Musharraf to succeed, two Pakistani helicopter pilots managed to perform the highest high-angle technical rescue ever done. It was a happy ending for Tomaž, his family, the brave Pakistani pilots, and the team at base camp. But Tomaž was vilified by climbing journalists and by his peers. He had transgressed, broken the code of alpine honour. He should have been braver. Dying would have been the honourable thing to do.
Back home in Slovenia, the reaction was completely different. For ten days, Slovenian citizens had been glued to their television sets, watching the evening news to see what was happening to their favourite son. When he was plucked from his ice coffin on the Rupal Face, he became a national hero. Many Slovenians urged him to run for president. He probably could have—and won.
In the meantime, North American journalists kept calling me, asking for his cellphone number. I reached him in Croatia, where he was recovering from the ordeal.
“Do you want to talk to the media?” I asked.
“Absolutely not. Now it’s time to write the real story. If you can find a publisher, you should do it, Bernadette. I will talk with you openly and freely.”
And so began a two-year odyssey. Somehow I had to discover the truth about this man who elicited such strong emotions within the climbing community. Of course I was impressed with Tomaž as a climber, but I was even more intrigued by his character. Despite his public persona—the overconfident superstar—I sensed greater complexity. What sort of past had created this passionate, focused, spiritual, and incredibly funny alpinist? When I talked with friends about the idea, their responses were polarized. Some encouraged me, but many told me not to waste my time: he would never open up. They pointed to a quote from the Slovenian newspaper Delo: “I will not let anyone know me completely.” Yet I was hopeful. Tomaž seemed to trust me. I knew that writing his story would be an adventure, but a personality this volatile could also explode, destroying everything in its presence. I would be in that line of fire.
ON MY FIRST visit to Slovenia to interview him it looked like my chances of getting to know the “real Tomaž” were slim. He had offered me ten days of his time. I had anticipated quiet hours sitting together with a tape recorder, capturing stories with specific dates and places. Instead, I waited patiently while he lived his frenetic life. Not satisfied to work on one computer, he navigated three—at the same time. He would check his email on one, and do some research on the second while organizing his slides or videos on the third. Phones rang, the fax machine purred, printers printed and scanners scanned. From his tiny corner at the foot of the Kamnik Alps, he connected with the world of climbing as well as with his crew of workers out painting the telecommunications towers of Slovenia—Tomaž’s business and main source of income.
The days passed. I continued to wait.
Gradually, I became part of the Tomaž whirlwind, racing around the country in his car while he inspected his towers and took phone calls, interspersed with stories told—frighteningly—with both hands. On foot, I chased him up trails at speeds my lungs couldn’t quite handle. I got the stories, but they lurched drunkenly from his youth to Ganesh V to gossip about the labyrinthine Slovenian Mountaineering Association, all within the distance of one switchback. I went back to my room after a day of chasing Tomaž around the mountains, intent on transcribing the hours of tape I had recorded. To my horror, the most audible sound was my own rasping breath. He was uncapturable.
But slowly, as we spent more time together, a picture began to emerge. Tomaž’s first climbing experiments had taken place at the age of eighteen—in the basement of the family home, where he leapt about from beam to beam. Soon he was venturing out to the local crags near his Kamnik home, clad in his first harness: a discarded Fiat seatbelt. He joined the local mountain club in 1987 and within that highly structured system he trained to become an elite alpinist—one of the world’s best. But there were occasional clashes with the club, usually because of Tomaž’s disregard of the Climbing Commission rules.
But it wasn’t until a warm sunny day on my second visit to Slovenia that he described an experience that had changed his life. We had been out climbing on a local crag and I had backed off a route, unable to finish leading it. He lowered me down to the ground and climbed it with no problem, but reassured me (and my bruised ego) that it was difficult for its grade. We climbed a few more routes and returned to his car. “Now I will tell you about Kosovo,” he said. Out came the tape recorder. And for the next two hours, sitting on the tailgate, he unburdened himself of the horrors of war.
He took me back to 1989, when Slovenia was still a part of the former Yugoslavia, a country which did not die a natural death. Rather, in Tomaž’s view, it was systematically and brutally destroyed by ambitious men who had everything to gain and nothing to lose from thwarting a peaceful transition from socialism to democracy. Of these men, it is Slobodan Milošević who is most often blamed, for deliberately harnessing the rise of Serb nationalism in the mid-1980s to prevent that transition. He wanted to create an enlarged Serbian state, swallowing as much of the former Yugoslavia as possible. Kosovo was his launching pad, the place where Tomaž served when he was conscripted into the Yugoslav People’s Army. Alongside Serbian soldiers, Tomaž’s job was to guard ethnic Albanians trying to escape Serbian rule in order to create their own republic. Countless people died, on both sides, and there were systematic rapes and other brutal atrocities.
“I discovered the bottom of humanity,” he said.
After Tomaž had tried to desert several times, his disgusted superiors finally released him, with nothing more than the rags on his back and an empty Kalashnikov over his shoulder. “I returned home less a person than an animal,” he said. His belief in the goodness of humanity was shattered. His behaviour changed; he alienated his friends and shunned his family. He became suspicious of his fellow climbers and authority figures alike, a trait that only intensified throughout his life. He lived alone; he lived rough, and he spoke even rougher. Almost certainly, he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.
He coped by fleeing to the forests and the mountains. And he climbed. His emotional and spiritual lifeline was climbing—facing risk, head-on. He became increasingly bold, soloing routes that many referred to as “sick.” He began making waves within the Kamnik Club, climbing in a style that was frowned upon by the club elders: winter climbs, solo climbs. Inevitably, his boldness aroused envy amongst his peers.
I listened silently to this tale of horror. Later, back at his house, we sat at his kitchen table with a bowl of pistachios between us. As the shells flew from his restless hands, Tomaž talked, faster and louder as his enthusiasm grew.
Tomaž was twenty-five when he was invited on his first Himalayan expedition to Ganesh V. Stane Belak, known by all as Šrauf, was the leader, a legendary veteran of the highest peaks: Makalu, Dhaulagiri, Everest, Gangapurna, Aconcagua, and K2. Tomaž admitted that, “for me, it was like climbing with a god.” But it was Tone Škarja who had actually orchestrated the invitation. Škarja was the single most powerful man in Slovenian climbing and was head of the Mountaineering Association’s commission for expeditions. He was the one who decided which climber went where, and with what funding. Škarja was considering Tomaž for Annapurna the following year and, curious about how he would perform at altitude, had offered Ganesh V as a test.
Tomaž and Šrauf succeeded in reaching the summit, although Tomaž very nearly died on the descent. Ganesh V was deemed a success, and Tomaž was on for Annapurna in 1995. Škarja’s vision was to place Slovenian climbers on the top of all fourteen 8,000-metre peaks, by new routes as often as possible. His record was impressive, but now he needed Annapurna.
It was clear to everyone (except Tomaž) that Tomaž was not regarded a likely summiter. He was there to carry loads, to break trail, and to help se
t up the camps. Tomaž put his head down, worked the route, and bided his time. He felt sure he would summit. Finally, he was at Camp 3 at 6,500 metres, together with three team members and the Sherpas. Radio messages flew back and forth to base camp; the others were instructed to continue up and Tomaž was ordered to descend. A very bitter Tomaž headed down.
By the middle of the next afternoon he reached base camp, where Škarja greeted him.
“Tomaž, great to see you. What a fantastic job you have done in breaking trail and helping to set up the camps. Here—take some tea.” Tomaž threw the cup on the ground. “Why did you order me to descend when I was climbing so strongly?”
Škarja was shocked at this insubordination from a junior climber. He was behaving like a spoiled brat. The next day, the others summited and Slovenia had successfully completed all fourteen of the 8,000-metre peaks: the expedition was an unqualified success. But not for Tomaž—not yet.
Together with Sherpa Arjun, he disregarded orders and climbed back up to Camp 4 at 7,500 metres in a full-blown storm. They hung on through the night but, in a terrified state, called base camp to explain the situation. They were ordered down at the first opportunity. Tomaž refused, and turned off his radio—for six long hours. This single act of defiance forever altered Tomaž’s relationship with the Mountaineering Association of Slovenia. He later understood Škarja’s motivation for ordering him down; but as a climber, not the leader, his mind was set on the summit.
The next day Arjun turned back but Tomaž plowed on alone through deep snow—sometimes waist-deep. After five hours he reached the base of the summit couloir and called base camp. When they realized where he was, and that he was alone, their tone shifted from anger to concern, for he was still at least two hours from the summit. He continued up. At seven P.M. he called again, to report that he was very close to the summit and that he was surrounded by an absolutely splendid sunset; the clouds had lifted, revealing a magnificent view to the west. Base camp thought he was hallucinating. But he managed to make those last steps to the summit, where he was quickly overtaken by darkness. He stayed just long enough to take some photos, including the self-portrait that had first caught my attention, that image that had seemed so infused with terror.
Despite his subversive behaviour, his Himalayan career was launched.
IN 1996, Tomaž’s wife, Sergeja, was expecting their first child, but the Himalaya was calling. He went back to Nepal and, together with Vanja Furlan, climbed a difficult new route on the northwest face of Ama Dablam, a beautiful peak on the way to Everest. Their climb won both of them the prestigious Piolet d’Or—the Academy Award of climbing—but, tragically, Furlan wasn’t there to celebrate. Just three months after the expedition, he fell to his death in the Julian Alps.
The climb and the prize catapulted Tomaž into alpine prominence. But, as the French say, il faut payer. Tomaž summed it up succinctly: “Ama Dablam gave me the chance to become a Himalayan climber, but the cost was my family. That was the deal. I didn’t know it at the time . . .” Sergeja’s delivery had been difficult, and she had been alone, something for which she never completely forgave Tomaž.
Less than six months later, Tomaž was back in Nepal, this time for a 6,808-metre peak named Bobaye. The idea had originated with Šrauf, but now Šrauf, too, was dead, killed in an avalanche the previous Christmas. Furlan and Šrauf—in less than a year. It would have given other climbers pause, but not Tomaž. The following year he was back again, this time with popular Slovenian climber Janez Jeglič on Nuptse, a spectacular peak in the Everest group. Many would eventually regard it as his finest climb. It was certainly tragic.
Jeglič and Tomaž began climbing Nuptse on October 27. On the night of their third bivouac, Jeglič confided: “If we climb this, Tomaž, we’ll be happy the rest of our lives, and if we don’t, we’ll make half of Slovenia happy!” This statement, from one of the country’s top alpinists, summed up the highly competitive state of climbing in Slovenia. They were back at it by four A.M. on October 31. At one P.M., Tomaž saw Jeglič waving, apparently from the summit. He waved back, and fifteen minutes later stood on the summit ridge—where he was assaulted by a gale-force wind. There were Jeglič’s footprints in the snow, leading in the general direction of Peak WI. Tomaž followed them a bit, and then they ended. All that remained was the radio that Jeglič had been carrying. He had simply disappeared.
It was three P.M. before Tomaž calmed himself sufficiently to begin his descent. First he lost his goggles. Then his headlamp batteries failed. He fell repeatedly and began to hallucinate. Upon finally reaching his bivouac tent, he accidentally set it afire. By the time he stumbled into camp in the early hours of November 2, he felt like he’d returned from the dead.
Back home in Slovenia he was praised for the climb, but something else was brewing—blame. Jeglič had been close to other climbers, much more so than Tomaž. Emotionally and physically crushed, Tomaž came to feel that “the wrong man came back from Nuptse.”
Soon he was planning his biggest project yet—a solo climb of the south face of Dhaulagiri. The plan was super-sized in all aspects: big mountain, big route, and big media partner, one which expected daily—even hourly—updates on his website. He began climbing on October 25, 1999. The conditions were bad, with seracs breaking above him, pummelling the face with ice, rock, snow, and water. Tomaž climbed mostly at night, so as to minimize the danger as best he could. But he also believed that he could communicate directly with the mountain and that the mountain, in its turn, would keep him safe: one more idiosyncrasy about Tomaž that fascinated his supporters and irritated his detractors. After eight days he was high on the face, dry-tooling up the shattered, steep rock. Then, with obvious signs of frostbite setting in, he was faced with an open bivouac, equipped with neither stove nor tent. He survived the night, and decided to traverse to the ridge and descend rather than attempt the final bit to the summit.
“Dhaula had let me have the face,” he said, “but not the summit.”
Yet Dhaulagiri had catapulted Tomaž to a level of fame almost unheard of for a climber, and the speculation and debate were unprecedented. Some said he had overstated the difficulties on the route and, worst of all, that he had sold his soul to the media devil. The facts were somewhat simpler. He had soloed a new route (yet to be repeated) in the central part of the south face of Dhaulagiri, up to 8,000 metres. He had become a national folk hero and the darling of the international climbing media.
Life after Dhaulagiri was different: more attention, more money, more fun, more pressure. And certainly more criticism.
Tomaž responded with wild emotional swings. He would rant his distrust of the climbing community and then shower the people close to him with acts of kindness and love. He would take his young son mushroom picking and have long, serious talks with his teenage daughter but refuse entry to his house to a climber he didn’t like. He would fly into a rage at a disparaging comment about him on some climbing website and, in the next moment, dismiss the media as completely irrelevant.
One of the most consistent criticisms about Tomaž was, indeed, his use of the media. But in this regard, Tomaž himself was anything but consistent: one climb would be broadcast on an hourly basis, and the next would go unreported. As he pointed out, “I decide when to have media. I’m the switcher guy.”
After the Nanga Parbat rescue of 2005, many climbers dismissed Tomaž as a has-been who had disgraced himself and the entire climbing community. Mark Twight was quoted online saying, “Personally, I think this rescue fucked the evolution of alpinism in a way that no other single act could have done.” Tomaž responded with a biblical reference: “The person who is innocent should cast the first stone. These people are trying to eat my soul. They can eat my body, but not my soul.” He added, even more dramatically, “The alpine world is much clearer now. There are no more masks.” But what I saw in Tomaž was not increasing clarity, but greater murkiness. His distrust of other climbers, his doctors, even his closes
t friends, was approaching paranoia. I found him terribly difficult to connect with and, in frustration, began to wonder if I was becoming as mad as he was. Capturing Tomaž was as elusive a goal as one of his crazier climbs.
After Nanga Parbat he retrenched, alone, in his spiritual centre—the forest—and in the Kamnik Alps. He tended his wounds and gathered his strength. In a strange way, Nanga Parbat had freed him: it brought him so low that he could finally begin to live without media hype or sponsor expectations. He could now do what he did best—climb.
And so he did. On October 29, 2007, a rumour circulated that Tomaž had reached the east summit of Annapurna the previous day, after soloing the south face. Nobody had known of his plans; many were skeptical of the news; everyone wanted to know more. Tomaž remained silent. He finally tried to explain what motivated him: “I carry out a climb for my soul. Every climb is a story in itself. You come back changed from each one. Your consciousness grows; this is the most important thing. And if you enjoy each journey, then all the rest is superfluous.” It seemed that alpinism could still provide Tomaž those rare moments of grace.
THERE WERE OTHER Himalayan summits. I knew about them only because he told me, in confidence. He had taken on a new persona—private climber. He was preparing for a landmark climb, something that would secure his place in history. But he planned in silence and in secret. And in the meantime, he went to Langtang Lirung.
His first Sat call from the Langtang Face wasn’t for a rescue: it was to his girlfriend. Alone and in trouble, he needed human contact, and to say goodbye. There was one more call: to his Nepalese cook, waiting at the bottom. “I am near the end,” he said. The rescue effort took on a life of its own despite a stretch of terrible weather, but Swiss rescuer Bruno Jelk didn’t spy Tomaž through his helicopter window until Saturday morning, five days after the first call. Of course, he was dead.
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