Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore)

by Bernadette McDonald

  Suddenly, this country, tragic in so many ways and invisible to most of the world, was on the international stage. Their economy was a mess; their politics, a sham; but where it really counted—their deep religious faith—they were leading the world. The surge in Polish self-confidence was enormous.

  Because their big days coincided, it was arranged that Wanda and the Pope would meet during his visit. When she presented him with a small rock from the summit of Everest, he responded, “It must have been God’s will that we should both be set so high on one and the same day.”15 The two joyful and uplifting events marked a turning point in Poland, as people rediscovered hope and strength.

  Outside Poland, too, confidence grew. Based on its shiny new profile, thanks to Pope John Paul II’s election, the vast community of Poles living abroad was now more aware of Poland and its problems, and this expatriate community was throwing its support behind the people, not the ruling party. Poland was suddenly visible. The new-found support prepared the country for the next decade—the 1980s—and the most overwhelming changes they could imagine.

  Wanda had climbed Everest, becoming the first Pole and the first European woman to do so. But Andrzej was more ambitious than that. He wanted to stretch the boundaries of what was considered possible: he dreamed of climbing the mountain in winter.

  Polish climbers have always found good training ground on the multi-pitch cliffs of the Tatras, where winter climbing is almost as popular as rock climbing. “Who did the first winter ascent?” is a question as common as “Who did the first ascent?” Routes in the Tatras are primarily mixed climbs, requiring a constantly changing palette of rock and ice techniques combined with devilishly canny route-finding skills. The climbs are difficult, both technically and psychologically, because there are few opportunities for climbers to build safe belays, the method used to secure a climbing partner to the wall.

  With heavily mittened hands, a winter climber in the Tatras first clears off the light, feathery snow to reveal whatever weakness might exist on the rock beneath—perhaps a small ledge that might hold a cramponed boot. Then he reaches up and swings one of his ice axes—thunk—and it finds its mark, a narrow fissure between the rock and frozen earth. Another swing, but this one bounces off a rib of stone hidden by a small drift of snow. He struggles to maintain his balance and then reaches up, swings again, until he finds a reliable purchase. Now he needs to move up and away from his last secure crampon placement, carefully stepping onto the cleared-off stance. He redistributes his weight between his arms and legs, never losing his balance. Straightening his legs to gain maximum height, he repeats these moves over and over, inching his way up the snow-covered terrain.

  This is winter climbing in the Tatras—priceless experience for winter ascents in the world’s highest mountains.

  An equally valuable sub-skill that Polish climbers acquire in the Tatras in winter is how to survive a bivouac (an unplanned night out on the mountain, often without shelter). Bivouacking became so commonplace (and popular) in the 1970s that top climbers began to compete with each other to see who could do it most often. Specific rules developed: bivouacs inside tents didn’t count; using a bivouac sack subtracted one point; sticking one’s legs in a backpack scored the highest points. The eventual leader of the “bivy competition” was Andrzej Heinrich, a notoriously tough Himalayan climber who boasted hundreds of bivouacs.

  With all of their winter training in the Tatras, plus their climbs in the Hindu Kush, Poles seemed ready for more. And although a lot of interesting things had already been done in the Himalaya, not one 8000-metre peak had been climbed in winter. Andrzej knew from his winter success on Noshaq and the near miss on Lhotse in the winter of 1974, where they had reached 8250 metres before being turned back by a ferocious storm, that an 8000-metre summit in winter was possible. He craved a new accomplishment on a world-class scale, and he knew that Polish climbers could pull it off.

  But the Nepalese authorities were not so convinced. They forced Andrzej to wait two years, until 1979, for his winter Everest approval. The permit finally arrived in Poland on November 22: they were scheduled to begin climbing on December 1! They would have to leave almost immediately. The next weeks were pure madness as Andrzej scrambled to get enough funding from the Polish Alpine Association to fly all the climbers to Kathmandu; there was no time to travel overland by truck. The pressure was fierce to get to the base of the mountain.

  Andrzej believed that good equipment was the basis of any successful expedition. But at that time in Poland he couldn’t just pop down to an outdoor-equipment shop with a credit card. Neither of those things existed. With considerable effort and some influential contacts, he was able find down clothing, fixed lines, and mediocre tents in Poland. But the gas stoves, ice axes, lightweight carabiners, oxygen cylinders and climbing ropes had to be imported, and quickly. He had designed a high-altitude climbing boot in anticipation of this climb and now commissioned a bootmaker to manufacture several pairs as fast as possible.

  If anyone could pull it all together, Andrzej could. Magnetic and charismatic, he was already a well-known lecturer capable of stunning his audiences with fantastical stories that sent a clear message to aspiring climbers: the world is waiting for you. He galvanized people and boosted their self-confidence as well as their belief in his ideas. He even succeeded in attracting the interest and generous support of wealthy Polish philanthropist Julian Godlewski.

  There were many climbers who, after an encounter with Andrzej, were convinced that they too could do something really impressive in the Himalaya. He would have no problem getting climbers for his team, but he knew he would need to choose carefully. He drew up a list of Poland’s 40 top climbers and sent them each a questionnaire, querying them on their level of interest in either the winter expedition or the one planned for the following spring, for which he had a second Everest permit. From that list, he chose both teams. Krzysztof Wielicki, an ambitious and daring climber from Wrocław, was among those slated for the spring attempt. Then three of the winter team members had to beg off for personal reasons and Krzysztof got his chance to go in winter.

  Born in 1950, Krzysztof grew up in the small village of Szklarka Przygodzicka, which is surrounded by forest. It was an environment in which he flourished. He loved the outdoors and joined the Boy Scouts. (“A beautiful little uniform,” he recalled.) Scouting became his most important influence, and for two intensive months each summer he led the scouting life. He learned about nature, orienteering, how to make a fire, camping, and fishing.

  In addition to the practical skills, he learned how to function in a group, how to prepare and share food, and how to respect personal boundaries within the confined spaces of camp. He also learned about leadership. Even the older scouts respected him; he seemed a natural leader. Scouting provided him with the best possible educational base for his future life in the mountains.

  Though his upbringing was in sharp contrast to Wanda’s, their lives converged at the university in Wrocław, where they both studied electrical engineering. They were members of the Wrocław Mountain Club, and Wanda, who was a bit older, taught him some of the basics on their climbing excursions to the crags.

  Krzysztof was a bit of a daredevil, and in his very first climbing season he fell and broke three lumbar vertebrae. The doctors stuffed him into a plaster corset all the way up to his neck. Now he faced a family crisis: his brother was about to be married and his mother didn’t know that Krzysztof had taken up climbing. In order to attend the wedding, he asked his friends to bring his street clothes to the hospital. He escaped over the hospital balcony, sliced off the top part of his cast with a knife in order to hide it and then changed his clothes, arriving at the ceremony just in time.

  His unfortunate luck continued when, three years later, he was hit by falling rock in the Italian Dolomites. The impact destroyed his helmet and he lost consciousness for a few moments. But instead of retreating, he continued up and slept out just below the summit, dripping
with sweat and blood. The next day a local doctor stitched up his head and warned him not to climb—good advice that Krzysztof promptly ignored.

  Instead, he went to the Afghan Hindu Kush in 1977 and joined Alek Lwow and Jurek Pietkiewicz to climb a new route, alpine-style, on the 7084-metre Koh-e-Shkhawr. He now felt ready for a bigger challenge. He had proven climbing skills and obvious nerves of steel, and he clearly knew how to suffer. As well, he understood how to function well within a group. Andrzej Zawada was confident he would make an excellent addition to the 1979–80 Everest winter team.

  One of Krzysztof’s teammates was Leszek Cichy, a tall, fair-haired climber from Warsaw. Leszek was a university lecturer, but his modest $20-per-month salary did little to hold him back in Poland: he jumped at the chance to escape to the Himalaya, even if it was in December. Leszek was young and fit, but he wasn’t a likely candidate for the summit team. That didn’t bother him. Like Krzysztof, he was just happy to be included on the expedition and to support the efforts of the more experienced climbers.

  By January 5, the Polish team had set up base camp on the south side of the mountain. Within 10 days, the first three camps were ready and the team began to wonder why no one had tried this before. At this point the extremely cold temperatures and screaming winds of an Everest winter set in. They retreated to base camp and waited for the worst of it to pass.

  Andrzej had earned valuable experience from his previous punishing winter climbs, and he knew how important it was for cold, tired climbers to slip into a hot bath once in a while. So for Everest in winter he had come prepared, with a plastic bathtub from Warsaw. Because of the temperatures, the plastic soon cracked, but Andrzej replaced the tub with an enormous aluminum basin bought in Kathmandu. There was no problem keeping it full of hot water, since a fire burned constantly in the kitchen, melting blocks of ice for tea and for cooking. Climbers returning from high on the mountain wallowed in the warmth as they thawed their frozen bodies.

  Dominating the camp were two 20-metre radio aerials, each made of aluminum. Climber and technical whiz (and Wanda’s first climbing instructor) Bogdan Jankowski was on hand to ensure that the aerials worked. Bogdan was also responsible for three long-distance transmitters, eight radio telephones and tape recorders used to record communication between camps, a gas-driven high-voltage generator, dynamos, and batteries. Somehow, Bogdan kept it all working.

  He also sent daily bulletins to the outside world so that Polish citizens could follow the team’s struggle on Everest. But the messages flew both ways. At the Polish Alpine Association, Hanna was inundated with important family messages that she was asked to forward to the climbers: “Zosia has got one tooth up, one tooth down ...what’s new on the mountain? Are you remembering to wear warm socks?” Bogdan’s communications centre was so effective that months later, during the spring climbing season, a parade of foreign climbers could be seen lining up to use it.

  But all the technology in the world was no match for an Everest winter. For weeks the shrieking wind battered the climbers, eroding their strength and their will. Finally, there were only four climbers who remained strong enough to function in the otherworldly conditions, including the two youngest on the team: Krzysztof and Leszek. Andrzej moved them about like chess pieces, looking for the magical combination. He was convinced it was a psychological barrier rather than a physical one that was preventing them from climbing the mountain.

  By February 11, Krzysztof, Walenty Fiut, and Leszek had reached the South Col. Leszek dropped down to Camp III shortly after. The remaining two had a sturdy American tent, but its complicated pole assembly was impossible to erect in the wind. So they made do with a simple one-pole affair that they set up amidst the debris-strewn and wind-stripped col. The tent was so inadequate that they were forced to hold it up all through that terrifying night. Base camp talked to them until dawn, encouraging and comforting them, willing them to survive. The next morning, Leszek suggested that Walenty and Krzysztof should continue climbing up since they were so near the top. His comment was greeted with howls of protest from the rest of the team. From their all-night radio transmissions, they knew that the two had reached their limit; going up would be suicidal.

  Andrzej sensed that this was a critical moment: there was an imperceptible shift in mood.

  Krzysztof had frostbite in his feet, so he dropped down to Camp II to recover. Walenty continued all the way down to base camp. Andrzej realized that the situation had spiralled out of control. “How powerless is any leader at moments like these?” he asked. “If I wanted to save the expedition, there was only one thing to do, and that was to attempt the climb myself.” Andrzej had not yet been as high as Camp III, and now he was proposing to climb the mountain. It seemed a preposterous idea, but within two days he and another teammate were on the South Col.

  Andrzej was not likely to get up the mountain, but he had to make the gesture in order to salvage team morale. After all, it had been his idea to climb this giant in winter in the first place. Increasingly, it appeared that his dream had been unreasonable, but like a good military general, he needed to lead by example if he wanted his troops to do the impossible.

  The chess game continued: up and down, sideways and diagonal. But the climbers were worn down and time had run out; their permit expired on February 15. The orders from Kathmandu were clear: no more moving up the mountain after the 15th. From that time on, their job would be to clear their camps off the mountain and descend. Andrzej knew they couldn’t climb it by the 15th, so he sent a porter off to relay a message to the Ministry of Tourism, asking for an extension. What he didn’t know was that the porter was fed up with the whole expedition: the cold, the wind, and the endless effort. Unbeknownst to Andrzej, the porter’s request to the authorities was for just two more days. Two more days and the suffering would finally be over.

  Two days is all they got. Andrzej and the others were back in base camp, so the youngsters, Krzysztof and Leszek, were the only ones left high on the mountain. “I was never supposed to be the person to go to the summit,” Krzysztof said. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.” When the news came that they only had two days, they knew there was no choice: Poland was Poland, and Everest was Everest. They had to climb it.

  Krzysztof and Leszek reached the South Col for the second time on February 16. That night, the temperature reached –42° Celsius. The sky was cloudy and the wind continued to roar. On the morning of the 17th, the last day on their permit, they started up, lightening their loads as much as possible by taking just one oxygen bottle each. Step by step, they inched up the slopes. Krzysztof could no longer feel his feet, but he kept plodding on, drawing on his reserves. The two hardly spoke. They didn’t need to. They knew what was expected.

  The rest of the team waited—and watched. From that moment on, it was impossible to sit still at base camp. “The tension was unbearable,” Andrzej said. “Hope and despair followed one another at each passing moment. As the hours passed and there was still no word over the radio telephone, our anxiety was overwhelming.” At 2:10 p.m. they radioed up. “Hello. Hello, Leszek. Krzysztof.” No answer. They began making bets: would they make it or not? They jokingly considered cutting off their digits. Maybe their sacrifice would bring good luck. Should they cut off one finger or two?

  At 2:25 p.m. Leszek’s voice boomed in over the radio: “Do you copy? Do you copy? Over.”

  “Negative, say again. Say again.”

  “Guess where we are!”

  “Where are you? Over.”

  “At the summit. At the summit.”

  “Hooray, hooray, at the summit. Kisses, hugs. A world record. Over.”

  The base camp climbers screamed and shouted, but Andrzej raised his hands to silence the commotion. He needed to be certain that they were at the true summit. His voice crackled over the radio: “Hey you, can you see the tripod?” The two summit climbers assured him that they were standing next to the tripod, and they promised to leave a maximum-m
inimum thermometer on the summit to prove they had been there.

  Andrzej fired a message back to Hanna at the Polish Alpine Association. She had been waiting for hours, anxious and worried. “Today on the 17th of February at 2:30 p.m. the Polish flag appeared on the highest point in the world. Thereby the Polish team set a record in winter climbing. Best regards from all the participants. Zawada. Over.”

  Both Leszek and Krzysztof admitted that if the goal hadn’t been Everest in winter, they would have given up weeks earlier. But the objective—and Andrzej’s leadership—had inspired them to the highest level of performance. Their effort had been tremendous. Yet the top of Everest wasn’t the end of their winter journey: they still had to get down.

  By the time they reached the South Summit, their supplemental oxygen was depleted. They could feel their frostbite deepening in intensity, and the blowing snow stung their faces and obscured the visibility. Their welding goggles proved useless in this environment. Then their headlamp batteries malfunctioned, so they were now forced to continue the epic descent in complete darkness. Krzysztof lagged behind Leszek, losing his way as he struggled to continue moving on his frostbitten feet. He tried every possible way to walk: backwards, sideways. Finally he crawled.

  After finding the tent, Krzysztof’s first priority was his feet. He spent the night warming them over the flames of his stove. Over the next days the two managed to crawl and climb down the rest of the mountain to base camp, where they were received as heroes. For Krzysztof, the moment when he and Leszek arrived in Everest base camp would mark the most marvellous experience in his mountaineering career. Around him, his friends were weeping tears of joy. Although they had not stood on the summit of Mt. Everest, they felt that his success was their own. No subsequent trip to the Himalaya could match this one for good atmosphere, strong leadership and team effort. It was quite a start to Krzysztof’s Himalayan climbing career.