Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore)

by Bernadette McDonald

  Voytek was delighted. He grabbed the telephone and called him to thank him for acknowledging the idea and for mending a potential tear in their relationship. He was painfully aware that one of the biggest challenges on climbing expeditions was the management of egos and ambitions. “We were all stars at Broad Peak: Jurek, Krzysztof, and me,” he said. “In this case I was really proud. We came out of this trip without losing our friendship. We managed our egos. We each managed to do something interesting.”

  Although Krzysztof was criticized by some for his mountain racing style, his defence was simple: he wanted to climb the mountain in an original way, so that is exactly what he did.

  Jurek and Voytek’s Broad Peak traverse was their last great climb together. Immediately following the climb, the tension between them began to build until it finally exploded. They had been eyeing the West Face of Gasherbrum IV for a couple of years. Most people believed that the massive, steep, and technical face was impossible for a two-man team, but Voytek had convinced Jurek that there was a plausible route. Once Jurek was convinced, he wouldn’t let it go.

  There are multiple—and conflicting—versions of the blow-up between the two. Some climbers in the area reported that the weather was deteriorating; others said it was perfect. Some thought Voytek seemed overly anxious about the face, while others felt Jurek had lost interest because Gasherbrum IV was shy of the 8000-metre mark. Amidst the confusion and strong words, it’s certain that Jurek told Voytek about his emerging plan to climb all the 8000-metre peaks, a goal he and Reinhold Messner held in common, and it’s equally certain that Voytek lost respect for Jurek’s aspirations at that point.

  Voytek expressed his disdain for 8000-metre-peak collecting in Mountain magazine, where he wrote that peak-baggers were “pathological victims of emotional consumption.” He was disappointed that Jurek would fall for such a trap. His irritation approached the absurd when he taunted, “I am sure one day some crazy guy will do all of them in one year. All you need is one helicopter and good luck with the weather. Look, idiots, it’s easy.” He proved the possibility with Swiss climbers Erhard Loretan and Jean Troillet in 1990 by racing up new routes on Cho Oyu and on Shishapangma’s Central Summit in just six days. In theory, that would leave 359 days for the remaining 12 summits. He admitted he was just poking fun with his comments, but he insisted it was theoretically possible.

  On a more serious note, Voytek tried to give some perspective to the painful split with Jurek: “By 1984, Jurek and I were a bit tired with each other. We still had good relations, but the main problem was very simple. He was in competition with Messner with the race for all 14 of the 8000-metre peaks.”

  But it wasn’t just the 8000-metre plan that bothered Voytek; it went much deeper than that. Jurek had often said that climbing was a kind of sport, and that in sport you have to prove you are the best. This should not have been surprising, since Jurek had been a weight-lifter in his youth. But competition was totally alien and distasteful to Voytek, at least in the mountaineering context. For him, if you had to prove you were the best, you were already lost as a human being. The competitive aspect inherent in a “sporting” approach worried him because it seemed the inevitable precursor to suffering. Not physical suffering—he was no stranger to that. He was referring to emotional and intellectual suffering. For Voytek, ambition and ego always led to suffering. Climbing helped free him from his admittedly strong ego.

  Voytek was motivated by what he called the “classical opposition of the urge for self-preservation and the need to test mortality.” For him, climbing was a complex and unique way of living the interwoven elements of sport, art, and mysticism. Success or failure depended less on brute force than on inspiration. Harnessing that inspiration was the challenge. “It arises and vanishes like the urge to dance and remains as mysterious as the phenomenon of life itself,” he said. He likened the collecting of summits to a kind of profane materialism, where the climber needs to possess the mountains rather than accept—and be accepted by—their mysteries.

  The two climbers finally agreed to disagree. Jurek would climb 8000-metre peaks and Voytek would search for interesting lines. Voytek admitted that at least Jurek was completely honest about his ambitions. He even wondered if this could mean that Jurek’s intentions were purer than his, for he himself constantly struggled to understand and articulate his motivations. It was an interesting consideration. But the battle between the two stars was fierce and, sadly, final. They never climbed as a two-man team again. Although they remained friends, Voytek summed it up with, “Our climbing partnership was like a broken marriage; we no longer found each other attractive.”

  After Jurek and Voytek fought about Gasherbrum IV in 1984, they left the area via different routes. In a burst of frustrated energy, Jurek ascended the unclimbed 6700-metre Biarchedi on his way out. Then he headed for the Masherbrum La, a seldom-crossed col. He had been assured that it was passable but that he might want to bring a 10-metre length of rope just in case. After navigating the maze of crevasses at the top of the glaciated pass, a dangerous manoeuvre for one person, Jurek could see a tantalizing meadow at the base of the glacier. But between him and that soft, appealing carpet of green was a tumbling icefall: hundreds of house-sized blocks of ice leaning against each other in a haphazard and precarious mess. He tiptoed his way through the chaos and finally reached the last block. He threaded an ice screw, attached his rope, and tossed the end down. It was five metres short of the glacier ice below.

  He took off his pack and threw it down to the glacier. He snapped his rappelling device into place, inserted the rope, and slowly started lowering himself down the full length of the single strand of rope. Maybe it would stretch. With his ice axe in one hand, he inched down, glancing over his shoulder, straining to see if the rope was anywhere near the ice. It wasn’t. Suddenly he was at the end. He slipped off in a fraction of a second, flying through space. He landed with a thud, threw his ice axe into the slope and stopped. He had been lucky; he had landed on solid ice rather than a shaky snow bridge. He shook himself off, grabbed his pack and raced down to the meadow, where he flopped down on the grass, happy to be alive.

  In fact, Jurek was as happy as he’d ever been. The Masherbrum La adventure had given him almost as much satisfaction as the Broad Peak traverse had. No arguing, though, and no negotiating. Every decision had been his to make. He sighed, breathed deeply of the thick, oxygen-rich air, and drifted off into a contented sleep.

  While Jurek savoured his Masherbrum La experience, Voytek returned directly to Poland, where he remained a peculiar figure in Polish mountaineering. Although his name was still not widely recognized by non-climbing Polish citizens, the rest of the world considered him to be the top Polish alpinist, possibly the best in the world. He had changed the nature of Himalayan climbing by proving that it was possible to climb difficult routes on big mountains in small teams: his record would ultimately include 13 great faces in the Himalaya, six of which were 8000ers.

  Even though he was unrecognized by the general public, almost every Polish alpinist had an opinion of Voytek. Leszek Cichy, Krzysztof’s Everest partner, described him as the greatest personality in Polish rock climbing, in addition to his Himalayan achievements—a man who created a certain aura of mysticism around the mountains. The ever-practical Krzysztof described him as “less of a gung-ho type, like myself.” Another climber thought Voytek was “a bit more intelligent” than most climbers. Many referred to him as an enigma, one who avoided risk while climbing the most difficult Himalayan faces. Messner referred to him as “intelligent, sensible, and human.” All of these statements were true, making Voytek one of a kind: a man so complex that, even while resting, he was processing an enormous volume of information and ideas—intellectually, emotionally, and physically. gether or Alone

  After each great climbing adventure, Voytek’s perspective on everyday life was totally changed. The mountains worked like a giant broom that swept away all the junk, all the trivialities, all
the burdens of his daily life. Voytek came back from the mountains an immaculate and transformed person. His experience mirrored that of Norwegian explorer Børge Ousland, who explained his passion for extreme solo expeditions to the polar regions: “Because they strip me away ...I become like an animal. I find out who I really am.” In such a manner, Voytek seemed more receptive to the beauty of life and the surrounding world after an expedition. He became more accepting of life’s negative aspects: getting weaker, getting older, getting sick.

  But the feeling never lasted, and eventually he would need another adventure to cleanse himself and to repair his spiritual delamination. He struggled to find catharsis in other activities, such as gardening, family life, or nature. But ultimately it was climbing, and the force and power he sensed in the big mountains, that allowed him the mystical experience he had come to crave. He hesitated to call that force a God, because he was not a religious man; he likened it more to an animistic response. Through climbing he discovered the most elementary and basic truths about himself: who he was, what he was, where he was going. This understanding changed his vision of life so fundamentally that he articulated it in a paper he presented at the Katowice Mountain Film Festival in 1988, and subsequently wrote about in several journals. He called it the “Path of the Mountain.”

  The idea for the path came from the philosophical and religious traditions of the East: the Buddhist Middle Path and the Samurai Path of the Sword. He drew heavily on the samurai path, noting the many features it had in common with climbing: “Confrontation with death, the requirement of courage, striving for psycho-physical perfection or the notion of style and sense of honour.”26 It represented a way of living that was defined by a code of ethics and a system of practical considerations, such as diet, meditation, and breathing. By observing these guidelines, the mountain path could help lead one to a higher level of enlightenment, even perfection. For Voytek it was mountaineering that opened the door to this kind of self-actualization, which was a combination of physical and spiritual growth.

  He treasured the intensity of what most would consider negative experiences—fear and anxiety, exhaustion, despair, hunger, and thirst—for after each extended period of adversity came a sense of calmness and confidence. A kind of peace.

  The mountain landscape was an important factor in the path because it was in this context that Voytek felt such a concentration of the truth of nature that he felt he could even sense the essence of nature. By “essence” he meant the physical diversity found in the mountains: the rocks, scree, water, ice, and all their variations. In the three-dimensionality of the mountain landscape he could fully appreciate the subtlety of nature. The view from the plains, in contrast, was only two-dimensional for him. But returning from those extreme elevations highlighted another miracle of nature: the colour green. Voytek, like so many mountaineers, marvelled at the reappearance of life after coming down from the biological void of the world’s highest places.

  It was the emotional connection he felt with the dramatic mountain landscape that articulated his philosophy of the mountain path the most. For Voytek there was power in that landscape that suggested the existence of a soul. “This impressive power invokes a desire to be a part of that soul,” he wrote. “Experiencing the mountain landscape touches our deepest selves.”27

  While Voytek and Jurek struggled with their diverging styles, Wanda was having troubles of her own. By 1985 it was clear that her heart was in the Himalaya, not back in Austria with her husband, Helmut. His idiosyncrasies had begun to irritate her. A confirmed naturalist, he eschewed many acceptable comforts (such as soap) and allowed his menagerie of pets to have the run of his house. He criticized Wanda for being corrupted by sponsorship and nagged her to be an amateur climber rather than a professional, an idea she abhorred.

  Austria had been convenient during her numerous leg operations and rehabilitation, but it felt confining now that she was healthy and strong. She had toyed with the idea of children and family life but had often confided in her sister Nina that, although she wanted kids, it would have to be after the next expedition, not now. She sometimes mused about what her life would have been if the mountains hadn’t captured her. Would it have been easier, more “normal”? Her friend Ewa found the image of Wanda with babies preposterous: “Everything was about the mountains ...if she had had a normal life... she definitely would have gone crazy.” Nina felt otherwise and was sure that Wanda wanted the same things that many women wanted: a house, a husband, and kids. But she understood Wanda’s dilemma. Wanda couldn’t afford to have a family. The price would have been too high for her.

  Helmut admitted they had both been pressured by Poland’s political situation into a too-hasty union. But after three lonely years of marriage to Wanda, his assessment of her was bitter: “No amount of tolerance could make life possible with someone like Wanda. She was an egotist, totally inconsiderate of others, and wanted only admirers around her who would unreservedly support her and work themselves to death in her causes.”28 He regretted her lack of emotional depth and, over time, concluded that she was incapable of strong emotional ties. Although Wanda initiated the divorce, he agreed immediately.

  Once again Wanda was alone. She moved back to Warsaw and earned her keep by lecturing and writing about her climbing. She was now, without question, a professional alpinist.

  She was back in Pakistan in 1985, this time for another giant, Nanga Parbat, the ninth-highest mountain in the world and the one with the cheapest permit. She was climbing with her three K2 partners: Anna Czerwińska, Krystyna Palmowska, and Dobrosława Miodowicz-Wolf, known by all as Mrówka. All but Mrówka summited.

  To casual observers, the team’s ascent of Nanga Parbat was a landmark achievement for female alpinism. But the inside story was somewhat different. By this time there were clear signs of rivalry amongst the best Polish women climbers. They were strong, ambitious and strategic in their objectives; there were still so many “firsts” to be won. Wanda felt exploited by her partners on Nanga Parbat, complaining that she had been forced to shoulder too much organizational responsibility, leaving her little energy to climb. Her partners disagreed. They attributed her fatigue to other causes: her damaged leg, her age, her inability to train properly because of her preoccupation with raising money, not to mention the general disappointments in her personal life. Krystyna confided that Wanda appeared less strong and not as powerful as before. Nanga Parbat marked the last time this powerful team of four women would climb together.

  Another partnership at the end of its natural life.

  8

  THE THIRD MAN

  Who is the third who walks always beside you?

  When I count, there are only you and I together

  But when I look ahead up the white road

  There is always another one walking beside you

  —T.S. ELIOT, “THE WASTE LAND”

  WHILE JUREK CONCENTRATED ON HIS race with Messner, Voytek was left alone with his own obsessions, one of which was the West Face of Gasherbrum IV. The 2500-metre West Face is known as the Shining Wall because of a band of marble across the centre of the face that shimmers in the evening light. A starkly elegant triangle of ice and rock, the mountain offers no easy way to the top. Five previous attempts on the West Face had all been turned back by difficulties about halfway up.

  Voytek had memorized the wall, deciphered its weaknesses and its traps and concluded that the key to the puzzle was a huge couloir, right of centre on the face. He thought it strange that the previous five parties hadn’t used it, since the steep angling gully provided direct access to the heart of the wall. Although the couloir was an obvious catch basin for avalanches from above, Voytek felt that in the right conditions it could be climbed quickly and safely, and that doing so would allow him to bypass some of the rock sections that had defeated previous teams.

  He and Jurek had considered tackling the face, but it was Austrian climber Robert Schauer who eventually became Voytek’s partner on wha
t would be an epic 11-day effort. Born in Graz, Austria, in 1953, Robert had begun his Himalayan career in 1974 with an ascent of Pumari Chhish (7492 metres), which was followed by Gasherbrum I, a new route on Nanga Parbat, ascents of Everest, Makalu, and Broad Peak, and a winter ascent of the Eiger. Robert was clearly qualified for Gasherbrum IV. After discussing the project together with Voytek, the two agreed they would make a good team. They were initially meant to be a party of three, but the second Austrian, Georg Bachler, backed out at the last minute, citing some differences with Robert.

  Once at the mountain, Robert and Voytek studied the face from the base, relieved to see that it was relatively free of snow because of the long dry spells earlier that season. The weather continued to look promising, and since they had no access to a weather forecast, they trusted their instincts.

  Carrying only their clothing, a rope, a few pieces of climbing equipment, a bivouac sack, some food, fuel, and a stove, they raced up the snow couloir, initially climbing unroped. At mid-face, when they reached the steep, luminous marble wall, they hauled out the rope and began belaying each other. It was here that the problems began.

  The undulating waves of rock reflected the light in subdued milky hues, revealing a cruel smoothness that offered no weaknesses or cracks into which the climbers could place protection to stop a fall. Voytek searched unsuccessfully for solid belay placements. Their belays were often “psychological” rather than real, for both climbers knew that the pitons they had placed would never hold a fall. Each step up was measured and exact. No quick moves. Always maintain balance. Up and up. Voytek described the terrifying image: “How beautiful, the horrifying long rope, swinging away!”29 It began to look as if they had wandered into a deadly trap. Voytek was afraid to move up into the unknown, but he was also not yet willing to face the shame of retreat. He struggled to save his dignity by climbing higher and higher, against all reason. He was exhilarated and grateful each time he overcame his fear, but then he would have to push on to the next barrier, only to face the demon once more—it was a kind of psychological terrorism.