Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore)

by Bernadette McDonald

  The Polish appetite for the Hindu Kush reached epic levels in the next few years. In 1976 there were 13 Polish expeditions and 151 climbers. In 1977 the numbers rose to 22 expeditions and 193 climbers. They climbed 102 summits that season and made 29 first ascents. The Hindu Kush was now firmly established as the Polish school of high-altitude climbing.

  Voytek was also part of Andrzej’s 1974 winter attempt of Lhotse, but the big national expedition scene didn’t suit him. His aversion was verified the following year when he was included in a K2 Northeast Ridge expedition led by another prominent expedition leader, Janusz Kurczab. The team came within 200 metres of climbing a new and difficult route along the airy crest, but Kurczab’s leadership style was “excessively democratic” in Voytek’s opinion, with endless discussions and secret ballots about who would go where, when and with whom. Even though Andrzej was more spontaneous in his approach, Voytek felt stifled by the unwieldy and hierarchical expedition-style atmosphere, and he instinctively knew that he needed to discover a new way for himself.

  Voytek continued to climb abroad, and in 1977 he returned to Afghanistan, this time with a young British climber, Alex MacIntyre. A product of the flower generation, Alex was a wild-looking creature with an unruly head of curly black hair, sparkling blue eyes and an appetite for hashish. Together with Anglo-American climber John Porter, they were part of a climbing exchange that Andrzej had arranged between the Polish Alpine Association and the British Mountaineering Council. Since climbers from both countries increasingly rejected the ideological barriers between them, the next logical step was to go climbing together. Besides, high unemployment in Britain and low salaries in Poland gave none of them much incentive to stay home.

  The climbers met in Warsaw and headed off by train to Moscow. For five days they rolled along the endless plains, across the Volga to Orsk, then slipping down between the Aral and Caspian seas to the ancient city of Termez on the Amudarya River, which formed the border with Afghanistan. Their expedition budget was minimal since prices in Afghanistan were as low as they were in Poland. But still, some foreign money was required. The Poles provided the train tickets, equipment, food and organizational experience. The British brought hard currency. The system worked for everyone.

  As the train rolled along, they exchanged climbing terminology and off-colour jokes, all the while enjoying an impressive array of Polish delicacies. There was one small problem: the foreigners lacked permission to travel to Termez, where the Russian invasion of Afghanistan would be staged in just 18 months. In order to get past the frequent checkpoints, Porter—now called Porterwich—and MacIntyre—known by all as MacIntyreski—were ordered to keep their mouths shut and to simply nod their heads in response to any questions.

  The subterfuge worked well until they reached the Afghan frontier, where the border guard demanded their passports. Neither John’s nor Alex’s contained the required stamps. The guard exploded in a froth of spittle and demanded that the two “British spies” be incarcerated. The discussion continued for several days, and it looked like the international climbing exchange was over. The Brits would need to go back to Moscow in order to clear this thing up, and the Polish Alpine Association would need to do some serious fence-mending when they all returned to Warsaw.

  Exasperated by the delay, Voytek motioned the guard aside. “Look, let’s consider some possibilities here,” he began. “If you report this indiscretion, you will have days and days of paperwork and you will probably be severely reprimanded by your superior.” The guard nodded his head. That would certainly be the case. “Why not just forget the whole thing,” Voytek appealed. “All you have to do is approve their passage and we will go on our way and you can have a nice day here, with no problems.” Weary from arguing, the guard weighed the two options for only a few moments before concluding that Voytek’s solution was best. With a scowl on his face, he provided the necessary travel documents and waved them onto the ferry, with a stern reminder to keep their heads down and their cameras safely stowed, as well as to avoid looking at absolutely anything.

  They piled into the trucks waiting on the other side, giddy with relief at their victory over officialdom. With renewed energy and optimism, they began hatching a plan for a fierce objective—the Northeast Face of 6868-metre Koh-e-Bandaka in the central Hindu Kush. The face, which John described as “massive—ugly, yet compelling,” had already repelled a Polish team the year before.

  But first they had to convince Andrzej, because Bandaka was not on the agenda. As leader, Andrzej was responsible for the entire team, and he would face a mountaineering tribunal if anyone were injured or killed. He had already endured this interminable ordeal after two previous climbing fatalities, so he knew it was serious, particularly when foreign climbers were involved. Bandaka wasn’t even in the same valley as Andrzej’s objectives on Koh-e-Mandaras. But Voytek and the others argued their case, and Andrzej finally caved in; he could see the excited gleam in their eyes and he understood. When the trucks reached Zebak, the team split: Andrzej and his partners continued on to the Mandaras Valley, while Voytek, Jan Wolf, John and Alex piled off to begin their four-day march to Koh-e-Bandaka base camp.

  As the climbers watched the forbidding wall—2200 metres of unstable rock and toppling ice séracs—their enthusiasm cooled, only to be replaced by fear. The horrifying rumble of rockfall was so continuous that the normally laid-back Alex was driven to a near-panic state. It was the arbitrary nature of the rockfall that unsettled him the most: one millimetre to the left and it was just a whining sound near your left ear; one millimetre to the right and your head exploded.

  After a five-day acclimatization climb, Jan developed bronchitis. The remaining three team members paced back and forth at the foot of the wall. It bore down on them, dauntingly. “An affair with a big wall is never a wham-bam,” Polish writer Tomasz Hreczuch wrote, describing the process, “but always a banter, taking a vast amount of patience.”13 His patience waning, Voytek began to consider retreat.

  One evening at base camp, he left the tent to walk—and think. His solitary ramble turned into a rare experience that profoundly influenced his relationship with nature. As he wandered about, stopping to gaze at the immensity of the wall, he had the powerful sensation that the mountain landscape surrounding him was a kind of living creature. Yet, at the same time, he had the desperate feeling that there was no way to approach it. “I was so close, but it wasn’t responding to me,” he said. It was as if this special place were trying to speak to him, or maybe it already had, and he had missed it. He wasn’t sure which was true, but the phenomenon, frustrating though it was, transformed his Bandaka climb into one of great spiritual intensity.

  The three climbers studied the patterns of rockfall and icefall activity on the wall. They debated their strategy and finally, after a frank and difficult discussion between Voytek and John about the risks involved and their chances of survival, decided to head up. They spent six days on the wall, which steepened up the constantly changing rock—from rotten sandstone to a metamorphic rock cathedral—then continued on the upper half of the face with its massive slabs and arêtes, and finally the 700-metre summit icefield. They were forced to be creative in their approach. Each day, as the sun warmed the Northeast Face, the ice that glued the notoriously loose rock into place would melt, sending down a torrent of stones. So they waited until mid-afternoon, when things had settled down, to start climbing. Despite the unusually late starts, the talented trio still averaged 12 pitches of climbing per day.

  Three days up the wall, they gathered at a belay to discuss their options. They counted up their few remaining pitons, which they were using to pound into the rock fissures for protection. They had enough to go up but not enough for a retreat down the face. They could pinpoint the very moment when their options narrowed, and, at that juncture, all their tension drifted away. They were infused with an inner calm of complete commitment. The last 700 metres of ice was topped by a complex maze of leering, teetering s�
�racs, through which Alex found a way.

  Their success on the difficult and dangerous 60-pitch climb stood out as one of the most impressive routes done in the Himalaya up to that time. They had pooled their individual expertise to find the key that unlocked the face, and, more important, they had conquered their fears. The trio was spurred on to another challenge the following year—this time, in India.

  Changabang is a 6864-metre peak in India’s Garhwal Himalaya region. The geometric precision of the triangular peak offers no easy route as it is guarded on all sides by immense walls of granite and ice. Located on the rim of the Nanda Devi Sanctuary, the mountain almost eluded them because of complications with their permit. For days, the group clawed their way up the chain of command, trying to navigate the complicated web of the British-style bureaucracy so enthusiastically embraced by Indian authorities. Finally, they reached someone for whom this waste of time was just too tiresome. He gave them their permit.

  The west side of the mountain had been climbed two years before, but Voytek, Alex, John and another Polish climber, Krzysztof Żurek, wanted a new route on the South Face. Taking just 35 pitons, three ice screws and a small selection of equipment for protection, as well as food for eight days, they climbed the imposing 1700-metre wall in one continuous push, sleeping at night in hammocks dangling in the thin air, or on narrow ledges hacked out of the icy slopes. It was exciting, airy stuff, with a number of heart-stopping 25-metre falls. After eight days of climbing, Voytek knew he had discovered his own way: there would be no more big expeditions for him. He loved the flexibility, the commitment, the creativity and the independence of a small team. Most important, he knew now what really inspired him: elegantly arching, technical lines on steep, massive geometric blocks of rock and ice. And with his financial independence, he knew he had the freedom to follow the path that made him feel alive.

  4

  THE KNUCKLE

  Love unto exhaustion, work unto exhaustion, and walk unto exhaustion....The only mortal danger for the spirit is to remain too long without it. The world is made of fire.

  —MARK HELPRIN, A SOLDIER OF THE GREAT WAR

  CELINA OGRODZIŃSKA, A DARK-HAIRED young woman, was just looking for a cup of coffee when he caught her attention. It was a damp, chilly day when she and her girlfriend wandered into a café in Katowice, only to find every table occupied. As they turned to leave, three young men rose and offered their seats. One of them was Jurek Kukuczka. The girls accepted and sat down. The men took another look and thought better about leaving. Would it be okay to join them? Yes, of course.

  As they warmed their hands on the hot mugs of coffee and chatted with the boys, the rather shy Celina remained quiet. She preferred to watch and listen. One of the three guys seemed intriguing: quiet, warm, a bit mysterious, with kind, inviting eyes. An hour later, they rose to leave. Two of the young men offered Celina a ride home. She went with Jurek. And so it began.

  On their first date to the Katowice Mountain Club, she met his “tribe.” It was immediately clear to her that this was his second home and that his heart was in the mountains. The next weekend they climbed at a nearby crag, an activity she would never repeat because of her fear of heights. But the camping, the stories, the bonfires and the relaxed camaraderie were seductive. Celina understood the draw of climbing and felt welcome.

  Like Wrocław, the Katowice club was another Polish stronghold of climbing. During the week Jurek would attend lectures to learn the theoretical aspects of the sport, and every Sunday he would learn the practical art of climbing. At the end of a few months he earned his rock-climbing certificate. Then it was off to the Tatras for a strenuous two-week course, which he also passed. Now he was ready to lead-climb. At this point in his career, Jurek was just a novice, but a promising one. A confirmed athlete, the former weight-lifter had a body that responded easily to the requirements of climbing.

  He stayed on for weeks in the Tatras, climbing increasingly difficult routes. A year later his carefree existence was interrupted when he was conscripted into the army, an event that he described as a “major disaster in my life.” The army stole two years of his life, but as soon as he could, he scurried back to the Tatras.

  Almost immediately, Jurek encountered death in the mountains. He was climbing in the Tatras in winter with a friend, Piotr Skorupa. Halfway up what was considered to be the hardest unsolved climb in the range, Piotr fell to his death. Just three weeks later, Jurek was back, making several first winter ascents.

  Jurek didn’t go often to the Alps due to his tenuous financial situation, but he managed a couple of trips with Voytek, whom he had encountered, climbing in the Tatras. Then in 1974, a regional Silesian team invited him along on an expedition to Alaska’s Mt. McKinley, where he suffered from altitude sickness at just 4500 metres. Still far from his goal, he crept into his tent and howled in agony, shocked that his strong young body could be so struck down by lethargy and pain. He eventually reached the summit, although only through sheer willpower and an amazing capacity to suffer.

  Again, in the Hindu Kush in 1976, Jurek became ill at altitude. And again, thanks to utter single-mindedness, he reached the summit of the 7000-metre Koh-e-Tez, alone.

  Throughout this time, he and Celina dated. “I liked his attributes,” Celina recalled. “He was very quiet and balanced, not too high-strung or nervous.” She watched Jurek’s increasing obsession with climbing and was aware of the hazards of loving an alpinist. “I was thinking all the time about him being in the mountains, because I knew it was possible to die there. I tried to stop thinking about that, but it was in the back of my mind that this sport could be dangerous.”

  For his part, Jurek saw a woman with whom he wanted to make a life—an attractive woman but also traditional and deeply religious. They would have children, raise a family, and grow a garden. They would thank God for their many blessings. With Celina, he could do this—and climb. Or could he? Managing both was a difficult manoeuvre, one that eluded many of his Polish climbing friends, and climbers everywhere. Wanda had already lost her first partner, as had Andrzej. The companionship of the larger climbing family was warm and inclusive, but the intimacy and pressures of a real family were different. Celina and Jurek both understood the risks. And instinctively, Celina knew that the success of a marriage with Jurek would depend on her. She would be the one left at home. She would raise their children. She knew that Jurek was a good man, but she would only have a part of him; the rest belonged to the mountains. Yet they loved each other, and after three years of dating they married on June 22, 1975.

  There had already been a few Polish expeditions to the great ranges: Wanda’s expedition to the Gasherbrums in 1975, the 1974 winter Lhotse attempt, Kurczab’s expedition to K2 in 1976, and a tragic expedition to Broad Peak in 1975 in which three of five climbers died while descending from the Central Summit. Now Jurek joined the 1977 Katowice Mountain Club expedition to the Southeast Face of Nanga Parbat. After one look at the route, they changed their plans to the Rakhiot Face, where they were turned back by the rock band just above 8000 metres. Jurek left the mountain a sad, defeated man.

  Then the Polish Alpine Association applied for a permit for Lhotse for 1979. In case that didn’t come through, they also asked for Kangchenjunga Central and South summits. Amazingly, they got all three. Now they had a problem. What to do with all these permits? Adam Bilczewski was leader of the Lhotse trip and asked Jurek to join them, despite his painful experience in Alaska and his failure on Nanga Parbat.

  Like every other Polish climber, Jurek now had to figure out how to pay for his climbing trips; his was a “made in Katowice” solution. Growing up in the industrial heartland of Poland, he was surrounded by the towering smokestacks of the steelworks. These smokestacks had to be periodically cleaned and painted, and it was here that Jurek, and an entire generation of his contemporaries, found their entrepreneurial niche.

  Jurek was good at—and proud of—his negotiating skills. He even wrote about the time he
and another climbing friend first entered the director’s office at a steelworks plant in Katowice. They were there to make some serious cash, for they were slated for Lhotse. The office wall featured the national emblem, and the bookshelves heaved with works of Lenin. Through the streaked window they could see a tall smokestack, the reason for their meeting.

  Jurek wasted no time in offering his services to paint the thing. The director jabbered on about a big company in Katowice that could do the job. At the same time, the director knew that the company in question would charge a small fortune for the work. And it would be slow. So he tossed out the all-important question: “How long do you think it would take you to paint it?”

  Jurek gazed out the window at the towering corroded chimney. He had known, even before setting foot in the director’s office, exactly what the answer would be, but he furrowed his brow and considered the situation. “About two weeks? We might be able to manage it in one.”

  The director chuckled at Jurek’s naïveté. “It would take more than a week just to put up the scaffolding,” he threw out.

  “We don’t use scaffolding,” retorted Jurek.

  “How do you do it?”

  “With ropes.”

  This was now a really interesting situation. And it demanded a decision. The director knew the chimney needed painting—and soon. Regulations demanded it. He also knew how long it would take the official painting contractor to do it: at least four times as long. He didn’t know these two young guys in his office, but they might just be able to solve his problem quickly and cheaply. It was a risk, though. He needed time to think. In the meantime, he couldn’t let them get away; he needed to stall.