Now it was Zyga and Jurek’s turn. Four days after arriving at base camp, Jurek was faced with a thousand-metre vertical climb, some of it difficult and technical, in order to reach Camp IV. To add to the danger, some of the fixed ropes that the team had previously placed were now missing because they had been needed higher up the mountain. Due to the great elevation gain, the difficulty of the route and the shortness of the winter day, Zyga and Jurek ended up at the most difficult section when darkness fell. Once again, Jurek dropped his headlamp.
For the last 160 metres, Jurek climbed by Braille. Methodically, he drove each ice axe as firmly and efficiently as possible into the hard, steep ice, listening for the recognizable thunk that signifies a good placement. When both axes were securely in place, he would move one cramponed foot up, slam it into the ice, test it for stability, then move the other foot. Over and over again, he would initiate the movements, ensuring that each point of contact was sure. There was no room for a mistake.
Jurek was belaying when Zyga fell, penduluming across the steep, icy face. Jurek held him, but it took some time for Zyga to get back on his feet and continue up. Jurek had no idea what had transpired, only that their progress had ground to a horrifying halt. “What happened?” he demanded when Zyga staggered up. “I came off on the traverse,” Zyga gasped. “I’ve had enough.”
There was now no question of continuing on to the relative comfort of the tent at Camp IV; they needed to stop and set up some kind of shelter. They hauled out the bivy sheet, dug out a small indentation in the snow, sat on their packs, rolled up together and waited. The winter temperature dropped and the wind tore at their flimsy tarp, chilling them dangerously.
Morning revealed a cruel sight. The tent was just 60 metres away.
They crawled out of the frozen snowhole and staggered to the shelter, where they crept in, collapsed in a heap and brewed some tea. Just a short rest, they thought. Maybe an hour, and then we will go to the summit.
An hour passed. Then another. They drifted off in the warmth of the sleeping bags. Drank more tea. The day passed, as did the night.
They awoke early on the morning of February 15, the last day of their climbing permit. There was no discussion. The only direction was up. After several hours it was clear that, despite Jurek’s confidence in his acclimatization and his strength, he was actually climbing quite slowly. Zyga too was having problems. It was 4 p.m. and they were nowhere near the summit. ffering
“What should we do?” Jurek asked. “If we reach the summit before sunset, that will be great, but we will certainly face a descent in the dark, plus, the possibility exists that we will need to bivouac again.” He didn’t typically go down until he reached his goal, so it was a strangely worded question, almost an open invitation for Zyga to say, “It’s too late, it’s too dangerous, let’s go down.” Jurek knew that Zyga was a more conservative climber and had often chosen life over summits; his answer would almost surely be to go down.
“We are too close to the summit ...We go as long as we can,” Zyga rasped.
Jurek was astonished. Wow, is this Zyga? What just happened here? He turned around and kept plodding up, sure that they would need another bivouac, probably near 8000 metres. He was so used to high-altitude bivouacs by now that they barely caused a second thought.
At 5:15 p.m. they were on the top. The sun’s red orb slipped behind the ridge, and the summit plateau was suffused with a warm purple glow. But it was far from warm. The temperature plunged the moment the sun disappeared, and after a few photos they began descending.
The next few days were horrifying. Fatigue, frostbite, the altitude, and the cold all took their toll. Jurek fell off a steep sérac, and when Zyga rappelled down to him they decided to stop before they pushed too far. They spent that first night in a bivouac at 7700 metres. It was the coldest night of the entire trip, recorded at base camp as –33° Celsius. Then they took a full day to rehydrate and rest in Camp IV. The next day they barely made it to Camp II. The following day they planned to descend at least as far as Camp I, but their extreme fatigue caused them to start very late. When they finally reached the glacier on which Camp I was located, they saw tiny dots coming toward them. It was their team coming up from base camp to help them down. Relief flooded Zyga and Jurek as they thankfully joined their mates and descended all the way to base camp—once again travelling in the dark.
The next day they broke camp and headed out. Even Jurek could now barely stand upright. His feet, which normally fared quite well in his oversized boots, had deteriorated even more, and within days he was in a hospital in Delhi being treated for frostbite.
Andrzej, a leader sometimes criticized for his obsession with winter and the suffering it brought to his climbers, was proud of what they had done. But this time his greatest joy came from his team’s spirit of cooperation rather than their exceptional climbing achievement. Andrzej had led enough expeditions to know that camaraderie didn’t always prevail over personal ambition. But on Cho Oyu it had.
Jurek was marooned in Delhi for 10 days, waiting for an Aeroflot flight to Poland. When he called home to Celina to explain, he could hear the boys giggling and playing in the background. The enforced delay gave him plenty of time to think. The race with Messner was real. His doubleheader winter climbs had changed the game entirely. Not only was he within striking distance of Messner, but he was climbing in much better style. All but one of his climbs so far had been a new route or a winter route, sometimes both.
But he was oh, so tired. These days he was almost always tired; now he was forced to acknowledge it. Celina and the boys were so good, so comforting, so cozy. What he really wanted to do was crawl into his bed and sleep, not to think about the Himalaya. It was hard to imagine enduring another 8000-metre bivouac. Thankfully, his toes were still intact, but what about the next time? They were more vulnerable to frostbite now. His body had taken a punishing hit on these last two climbs, and he felt severely depleted. Maybe a rest would be good?
But Messner wasn’t resting. Not at all.
Despite his need for recuperation, Jurek wasted little time. By May of that year, he was on his way to Nanga Parbat. With a large Polish team, and once again climbing with Zyga, he reached the summit on July 13, 1985, via a dangerous and avalanche-infested new route on the Southeast Pillar. But not without incident. Piotr Kalmus was swept to his death by an avalanche while crossing a couloir near Camp II. The tragedy seemed not to faze Jurek; Nanga Parbat was number nine, and by fall he was on Lhotse, an 8000er he had already climbed.
In the race with Messner, Jurek had decided that his rules of competition would include style: he would ascend the 8000ers either by a new route or during the winter. His previous Lhotse ascent had been via the normal route in the summer of 1979, so he was back to climb it again, despite his fatigue from the previous two years. He came to Nepal a month later than the team, and by the time he reached base camp they were already at 8000 metres on the massive, technically difficult and unclimbed South Face. The greatest problem with this face was that the real difficulties begin at 8000 metres. The first summit team tried a couple of options. No success. Then Jurek headed back up with Rafał Chołda to their camp in the upper cwm. Climbing unroped, Rafał slipped and fell. Another partner dead.
Jurek came down, convinced the climb was over. Most of the team felt the same way, deflated by the tragedy. But they hadn’t counted on the energy and ambition of their young, fair-haired teammate, Artur Hajzer.
For days, Artur stumbled around base camp like a drunkard, confused about what to do. He didn’t want the expedition to end this way but wasn’t prepared to be a tragic hero, either. The problem was that last steep barrier so near the top. Nobody knew precisely how hard it was; but they knew it was hard, and it was undoubtedly high. Finally, Artur came to a decision: “If anyone feels they can get across the great barrier and still keep going, I will go with them,” he said to the team. “I can follow this section, but I can’t lead it.”35 There were no vo
lunteers. Most voted to wrap up the expedition.
Then a member of a French expedition expressed his willingness to lead the difficult top section if Artur would go with him. Artur approached his expedition leader, Janusz Majer, who agreed there might still be a chance. Jurek was still high up on the mountain, and Artur thought he might want to join them on this final summit attempt.
But after 60 days of the expedition, even Artur was worn down. Like the others, his lips were swollen, his face was burnt, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was skinny and sore, the picture of deprivation and despair. Still, he felt it would be a sin not to try it. There were six stocked camps and a kilometre of fixed line, including 100 metres on the great barrier near the top. The weather was good and there remained only 200 metres of climbing in unknown territory to the summit.
Of course, a possible price was their lives. What was it that pushed them toward the top? They were well beyond the nationalistic pressures of the early Polish expeditions. Even the financial pressures had eased. If they failed they could almost certainly return another year. No, this last effort was fuelled by personal ambition, particularly that of Artur.
They headed up one more time, but it was ultimately Jurek who ordered them down. Artur did what he was told, based on his immense respect for Jurek, but he never completely agreed with the call. Jurek later admitted that his extreme exhaustion probably influenced his decision to call off the climb.
What Jurek really needed was a year off, a full 12 months with Celina and the boys. He was blessed to have a partner who accepted his obsession with the mountains and who was raising their family almost completely on her own. When Jurek had first expressed his interest in the two winter climbs, Celina was pregnant with their second child, Wojtek. Jurek had just returned from Pakistan in September of 1984 and had proposed to leave in November and be away for most of the winter. Many families would have rejected such a proposal, but Celina’s and Jurek’s parents rallied together to give her the support she needed and Jurek the space he so desired to achieve his goals. Wojtek was born on October 26, 1985, amidst the final stages of Jurek’s preparations to leave.
Despite the support system, Celina’s life wasn’t easy during this time. She had stopped working outside the home in order to raise their children. For her, family was number one. She praised Jurek in his role as a father but added, “When he was here, that is.” When Jurek was at home he embraced family life, played with his kids, consulted with Celina about how to raise them and how to look after their house, make repairs, and maintain it. But for the most part she functioned as a single mother, a role that the patient, loving Celina seemed to accept.
There was only one topic that never arose between them: Jurek’s climbing. Celina sometimes learned about his plans from offhand remarks by his friends, or from newspaper articles. Even his dream of climbing all 14 of the 8000-metre peaks never came up in conversation. His life seemed divided into two separate worlds: his climbing and his family. She occasionally toyed with the idea that he might give up climbing to be with them, but she knew this was impossible. Climbing was his life. The longevity of their marriage was in great part due to Celina’s acceptance of Jurek’s double existence. Many other climbing partnerships were incapable of surviving the strain—as Wanda, Voytek, Krzysztof, and others had learned. Still, a little time at home was what Jurek needed more than anything.
But the race with Messner was still on, and by late October of 1985 Jurek travelled from Lhotse to Kathmandu to meet up with the advance party for a Polish winter attempt on Kangchenjunga. Jurek was listed as an expedition member, but he was almost sick with dread and confusion. Was this not the life he had wanted? Living and climbing in the greatest mountains on Earth? Why then did he miss his family so? Why did he long, almost painfully, for the comforts of home?
Instead of joining the team directly, he hopped on a plane and retreated to his log cabin at Istebna, not far from Katowice, with a view of the soft green folds of the nearby hills. He ate, slept, and drank endless cups of tea. He played with the boys, talked with Celina, and revelled in the joys of domesticity. Their home overflowed with climbing friends who came to eat and drink and to share climbing stories far into the night.
But he knew he eventually had to leave the retreat, and on December 12 he left again for Kathmandu. The Kangchenjunga team included some of Poland’s best: Artur Hajzer, Krzysztof Wielicki, Andrzej Czok, and others. Their objective was the normal route on the Southwest Face. Jurek felt it was completely feasible, even in winter. After his Istebna holiday he felt rested and at one again with the mountains. His feet had healed and his confidence was high. If he got up this peak he would be only two mountains behind Messner. Besides, Kangchenjunga had a long and noble Polish history: first ascent of the South Summit, first ascent of the Central Summit, new route on Yalung Kang. A successful winter ascent would complete the circle.
Inevitably, on a team crammed with climbing stars, there was competition. Any number of them could be a summit contender, and all were ambitious. Finally it was time to select the summit teams. All the climbers met in the mess tent, nervous and excited. The negotiations went late into the night before the teams were selected. Artur Hajzer was on one of them, along with his climbing partner, Bogusław Probulski. It all came to nothing when, the next morning, Probulski was gone from camp. “Got away—solo—aiming for the summit,” Artur exclaimed. “My partner ran away from me and the rest of the team.”
After that inglorious start, two other summit teams began working their way up the mountain: Jurek and Krzysztof Wielicki, and Andrzej Czok and Przemek Piasecki. As they climbed upward, it was impossible to ignore Andrzej’s persistent cough, a result of the altitude and cold. It seemed surprising, considering his natural aptitude for high altitude and his astonishing strength. His record was impressive: 8000 metres on K2 by a new route, Lhotse without oxygen, a new route on Everest, the West Face of Makalu, and Dhaulagiri. Kangchenjunga would be his fifth 8000er in the winter. But Andrzej’s cough grew worse the higher they went; the dry, frigid air was taking its toll. At Camp IV it became painfully obvious that Andrzej would have to descend. Only Jurek and Krzysztof would continue up. ffering
They set off at 5:45 a.m. on January 11 with 800 metres to go, plodding along in the thin, cold air. Soon they lost feeling in their legs. At 10 a.m. the sun hit them and warmed their bodies, stimulating a bit of sensation in their extremities. Each climber moved alone, unroped, at his own pace. Since the terrain was not too steep, there was no need to belay. Krzysztof tagged the summit first, turned around and started down immediately. Jurek met him just below the summit, where they exchanged not one word. Their minds were dulled. They were robots. After a few photos, Jurek too turned down. They trudged down to the camp and radioed in their success to base camp. The response was strangely muted, for, much lower down the mountain, Andrzej was gravely ill.
Halfway between Camps IV and III, Andrzej had become so weak that he could hardly walk. They had practically lowered him to Camp III. Crammed into one big tent, they spent the night cooking up fluids for the healthy climbers on one side of the tent, and administering diuretics to Andrzej on the other side. His condition worsened by the minute. At one eerily quiet point they looked over to where Andrzej was resting. He had stopped breathing. All attempts at resuscitation were unsuccessful.
In complete shock, the expedition members buried him in a crevasse near Camp III. Jurek stood a long time gazing down into Andrzej’s final resting place, tears in his eyes. Deeply religious, he pleaded, “Why has God taken away such a good person?”
When they arrived back in Kathmandu at their regular haunt, the Tukche Peak Hotel, they were a subdued group, deep in mourning. Yes, they had climbed Kangchenjunga, in winter, but Czok had been the price. That cost was much too high. This was Jurek’s third expedition in a row that had ended in tragedy. The Polish obsession with firsts, races, and winter climbs was resulting in an astonishing number of deaths. Poland’s dominance was begin
ning to look more like a death spiral. Jurek forced himself to ignore the magnitude of what was happening around him. It was the only way to keep going. He didn’t have the luxury to pause and reflect.
10
MOUNTAIN OF MISERY
Landscapes are culture before they are nature, constructs of the imagination projected onto wood and water and rock.
—SIMON SCHAMA, LANDSCAPE AND MEMORY
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
—TRENT REZNOR, “HURT”
THE YEAR 1986 was a highly unusual one on K2. Pakistan had recently discovered the economic potential of the mountain and had issued an unprecedented nine expedition permits. There were climbers crawling all over the peak: a Polish team on the South Pillar known as the Magic Line; an international team that eventually moved to the Abruzzi Ridge; a South Korean team on the Abruzzi Ridge; a British team on the Northwest Ridge; and more. Wanda’s three climbing partners from Nanga Parbat were all there with the Polish team led by Janusz Majer. Wanda was not among them.
She had returned to Poland from Nanga Parbat victorious, full of confidence and financially secure thanks to the success of her recent films. An unpleasant surprise awaited her when the Polish Alpine Association accused her of embezzling expedition funds. She eventually cleared up the matter, but she declared she had never been so unjustly treated in her life. She immediately bought a spot on a French K2 expedition, where she would compete against, not join, her compatriots.
The three Polish women on the Magic Line team were convinced that Wanda’s decision to climb with the French was strategic: the latter were scheduled to be on the mountain before the Poles, giving Wanda a distinct advantage in becoming the first woman on top. Anna Czerwińska felt that Wanda had completely abandoned the idea of Polish women’s mountaineering. “She simply stopped. She had the perspective of climbing K2, and she adopted the tactics of trying to be the first.”
Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore) Page 17
