“What is wrong?” asked Ewa. “You look terrible.”
“I am,” Wanda replied. “Jurek is dead.”
Wanda ranted and railed about how strong Jurek had been, about what an exceptional climber he had been, all the while knocking back glasses of the clear, potent liquid. “If Jurek can die in the mountains, any of us can,” she concluded. Jurek the strong one. Jurek the dependable one. She slammed down the empty glass, wiped her tears, left the apartment and roared off.
Voytek was angry when he heard about Jurek’s death. He blamed the tragedy on Jurek’s blind trust in God, which prevented him from heeding obvious dangers. “And that attitude was definitely, I’m 100 per cent sure, responsible for this tragedy,” Voytek said. “Jurek hardly ever failed, and when he did, it shook him to his core. Deeply religious, he would demand of his God, ‘Why did you do this to me? I never did anything wrong in my life. I followed your way. I didn’t deserve it. Why? Why?’”
On the other side of the world, in Mexico City, Carlos mourned the loss of Jurek, for he had become his close friend. “He talked so much with me,” Carlos said. “He was so tough and direct—a bit like Šrauf. Nobody was as tough as Jurek.” Then softly, with a slight tremor in his voice, he added, “Later...he was not so tall, he was losing some hair, he had a little stomach. When you saw him in the street, you would not guess that he was the best climber in the world. He was the best in the history of Himalayan climbing.”
Climbers around the world were stunned that the indestructible Jurek was dead. For a while, Polish climbers lost heart and their confidence wavered. Artur stopped climbing. The entire country mourned.
All Souls’ Day, November 2, 1989. It was a cold, grey day with a thin, steady drizzle. The Katowice Cathedral was packed with mourners. Hundreds of people—family members, climbing partners, friends and strangers—gathered to pay their respects to Jurek Kukuczka, symbol of bravery and courage for countless Poles. The pure harmonies and clear voices of the Requiem Mass reverberated off the soaring stone walls, warming their hearts, moving them to tears. When the service ended, the echoes faded and silence settled over the church. Just then, a mournful brass salute filled the vaulted space as a small group of trumpeters from Jurek’s family village, Istebna, played their last farewell. Quietly and reverently, everyone filed out of the cathedral.
Celina needed to be practical. She had to cope with a life after Jurek. They had never really planned for the future. “We didn’t do that in Communist times,” she explained. “There was no point. We just lived.” But now the future was here, and she was alone with her two boys, aged nine and four. Because a body was required for Jurek’s life insurance to be paid, the official report stated that the team had found him and buried him in a crevasse. She had the insurance money plus a bit of rental income, but she was thankful they had never developed an extravagant lifestyle. The children were her main focus; they were her responsibility, and they gave her strength. The climbing community quietly supported her, but their respect for her privacy sometimes left her feeling cruelly alone. Celina was strong. She had learned how to build a life for her family during all those years Jurek had gone to the mountains. But this was new: now she had to learn how to mourn. There was no one to teach her that.
She smiled at her memories of their 14 years of marriage. Fourteen years isn’t a long time, and she knew that their physical time together was much less—maybe half that. “When we were actually together, the time was very good. It was good times for both of us,” she said.
Schools began calling her from all corners of the country to come and help them celebrate when they renamed themselves after Jurek. She chuckled when Polish citizens were asked to vote on the name for a particularly important school. There were two choices: Pope John Paul II or Jerzy Kukuczka. They chose Kukuczka. These occasions brought her a quiet pride: hundreds of freshly scrubbed faces gazing up at her, asking her questions, thanking her for their hero Jurek. Even Katowice named an entire city district after him. His memory would never fade in Poland—she was sure of that.
Although she had often pleaded with Jurek to take her to a base camp of one of his mountains, it wasn’t until 2009 that Celina finally made that trek. She journeyed to the South Face of Lhotse to pay homage to her husband and others who had died on the great face. Their son, Wojtek, now 30, was overwhelmed at the size of the face. After spending a night at base camp, gazing at the wall in various lights and watching the tiny figures of climbers through his binoculars, he better understood Krzysztof’s assessment of Jurek’s death: “He died a mountaineer’s death in classic circumstances: a very steep wall, a fall, a severed rope and the final drop down the precipice.”54
As for the South Face of Lhotse, Krzysztof had completely lost interest. “There is no more unknown on the South Face of Lhotse,” he said. “I know every inch of it.” Ryszard agreed, and besides, enough Polish people had already died on the face. But the final word came from the expedition’s deputy leader, Ryszard Warecki, with his sad but accurate statement: “Also, from the stock of best climbers, only a few are left in Poland.”
14
CARAVAN OF DREAMS
If I am a legend, then why am I so lonely?
—JUDY GARLAND, ATTRIBUTED
WANDA’S SUCCESS IN THE HIGH mountains didn’t come easily. For every Himalayan giant she climbed, she was forced down twice as often, sometimes because of bad weather and dangerous conditions, but most often because of illness and persistent injuries. It happened again on Makalu in 1990. When illness once more eroded her overall conditioning, she began to doubt her abilities. And doubt soon spiralled into depression and fear.
Dear Marion, 30 April 1990
...I’ve been feeling very depressed, with my usual uncertainties about the mountain, exacerbated by doubts about my health. Writing to you helps because I know that you understand these things....
She didn’t make the summit and wondered if her luck had turned. She decided to change her strategy. Instead of going to the Himalaya once a year for one or two expeditions, she decided that, with her particular physiological makeup, it would be better to do them all as fast as possible. But this would take money—and superb fitness. Her equipment was tattered; her tents were too small; and her boots didn’t fit properly. She needed to find an exceptionally generous sponsor. And she needed time to train.
But at the moment she was in Asia, so, instead of going home to recover from Makalu, she headed east to Pakistan to join an expedition to Gasherbrum I. At 8068 metres, it was the highest of the Gasherbrum group, and she wanted it badly.
When Wanda first arrived at the mountain, she appeared uninterested in the other climbers. She was completely focused on her own goal and seemed to lack basic understanding of her teammates’ aspirations and abilities. Communication with them was minimal, which limited her judgement of the situation, since she refused to consider any opinions other than her own. On Gasherbrum I, her uncompromising style seemed to contrast even more than usual with her personality off the mountain, which was much less obstinate and even somewhat shy. To climb with Wanda, one had to be exceptionally thick-skinned, as well as clear-minded about one’s own goals. Otherwise, it was easy to be manipulated into serving her ambitions. She was so focused and driven.
But this expedition was special for Wanda because she had fallen in love with a German neurologist and long-distance runner, Kurt Lyncke. He had joined a team nearby on Gasherbrum II, mainly to be near her. Their relationship was fresh and passionate, providing endless entertainment for the other climbers as the two lovers exchanged endearments on the radio. Wanda radiated joy and energy. She even confided to her friend Ewa that she and Kurt were “preparing for old age together,” a highly unusual concept for Wanda.
When Wanda summited Gasherbrum I, it was her sixth 8000-metre peak. Hoping to capitalize on her fitness and acclimatization, she marched over to nearby Broad Peak, taking Kurt and two others, with the intention of racing up the mountain in three days. Th
is would give Wanda her seventh 8000er—and all of the Pakistani peaks that she would need for her collection.
Things didn’t work out as planned. On their very first day on the mountain, Kurt slipped and tumbled 400 metres. Wanda saw it happen. By the time she reached him he was already dead. She was completely shattered. She had finally found a man with whom she felt she could share her passion for the mountains, and the rest of her life. It had been difficult for her to find someone in total harmony with her—someone free and independent. She claimed to have been ready for a third marriage, believing that this time it could be for life. “He stimulated me, released me from my natural introversion and helped me to blossom,” she said of Kurt. It’s difficult to say whether, over time, their mutual infatuation would have faded, or if her need to climb would have exceeded her love for Kurt. But it had looked promising.
Back in Poland, she visited her friend Ewa, who broached the subject of Kurt. “Are you going to be able to cope?” she asked. Wanda looked away and thought a minute before she answered.
“You know, I feel like I don’t have anything holding me back anymore and now I’m going to fulfill my plan to the full.” Ewa shrugged slightly, then looked down in resignation, for she knew what was coming.
Wanda threw herself into her work: lecturing, travelling, marketing herself and her dreams, and, crucially, finding those all-important sponsors. Marion worked full time to raise money for the growing expenses. Unlike many other Polish climbers, Wanda didn’t paint factory towers. Her strategy was different. She knew the value of her charisma and the uniqueness of her ambitions, and with Marion’s help she learned how to make it pay.
Wanda’s judgement again appeared suspect as she presented her public rendition of the Gasherbrum I expedition. According to her press release she had climbed it with one woman in light expedition style. She mentioned a Polish Gasherbrum expedition whose base camp she had used, and she gave some credit to a “group of men” with whom she had shared the route up to 6000 metres and who had set up her Camp II. But that was it. From that point on it was as if Wanda and her partner, Ewa Panejko-Pankiewicz, had been on the mountain alone. This was not the case. Although her unsuspecting sponsors were impressed, many climbers were puzzled by her revisionism.
Throughout the confusion, Marion remained her perfect friend and manager. She was fascinated by Wanda’s powerful personality, and she wasn’t threatened by her climbing achievements, in part because she wasn’t a climber herself and didn’t completely fathom what was involved. She simply saw an attractive, intelligent woman who lived on the edge, a woman well acquainted with death, highly motivated and ambitious—a woman with enormous needs. Some were financial, but not all.
Marion’s goal was to help Wanda realize her potential, but her most important contribution was in providing Wanda with a sense of stability. She organized her lecture tours, negotiated her contracts, found her sponsors, and arranged her travel. A large, matronly woman, she assumed a kind of motherly role even though she was actually younger than Wanda. Their relationship was clearly unbalanced, but Marion wasn’t the only one giving. Marion’s life was enriched by the excitement and variety that Wanda’s adventures brought. Some observed that Marion was enchanted, even in love, with Wanda. Many wondered about the nature of their relationship; although it was never completely clear, Wanda took great comfort in Marion’s loyalty. Ultimately, her friendship with Marion was probably the only long-term relationship Wanda could have tolerated. As Wanda herself once stated in a lecture in Vienna, “I cannot resist the mountains, and that is why I have chosen the single life.”
After Kurt’s death in 1990, Wanda distanced herself from deep personal commitments. A former climbing partner observed, “Nobody loved Wanda...a woman like her, beautiful and brilliant, reaches the age of 50 and... she still has no one in her life.” Although not yet 50, it was true that Wanda had never been so emotionally bereft. But her situation was certainly not unique. Devoting their early years to climbing leaves many middle-aged alpinists somewhat solitary, alone with their photographs, their memories, and the occasional climbers’ reunion.
Still, there were people who cared for Wanda. Alek Lwow was one. “Personally, I loved Wanda....She was like an older sister to me,” he said. “When I started climbing I was very young—16. And she was already famous....Of course I understood that we were not equal. She was aggressive. She was complicated. But I loved her.”
However, Wanda’s loss of friends to the mountains was staggering. In a televised interview after returning from Broad Peak, she reminisced in a flat, emotionless tone about the many partners she had lost through climbing, people with whom she had gone on expeditions or who were members of her close circle of friends: over 30 of them were now dead. “That’s a tragic amount,” she intoned. “Many times I contemplated...why...why I endure all of this. I know what life is. I’m fearful when climbing.” She looked straight at the camera and added, “I know the value of life, and not only of my own.” Then she seemed to lose confidence, dropping her eyes as she continued. “Every one of us has his own other life. We have our loved ones, but ...climbing has become a part of my life. A passion that engulfs everything so that I can’t quit it, just like I can’t quit my own life.”
From 1987 to 1992 Voytek continued to search out futuristic lines, including three more attempts on K2, two of them on its West Face—his second obsession, after Gasherbrum IV. But his efforts weren’t limited to K2. With a Swiss climber, Erhard Loretan, Voytek succeeded on an extremely difficult, 29-pitch route up the 1000-metre East Face of Trango Tower, and then headed to Cho Oyu and Shishapangma with Erhard and another Swiss partner, Jean Troillet.
Erhard was a favourite climbing partner for Voytek, the best since Alex and Jurek. But in 1990 on Cho Oyu their friendship was strained to the breaking point. From the beginning, Voytek was pushing to summit Cho Oyu and Shishapangma in quick succession. Erhard and Jean agreed. Their plan was to first acclimatize and then climb each mountain in one push: no tent, no stove, and almost no food. Just their clothing and a limited amount of equipment. They came to call their approach “night naked” climbing.
For three weeks they waited for the bad weather to clear at the base of the Southwest Face of Cho Oyu. Voytek was a bit distracted by thoughts of his newborn son, Aleksander. The smallest things irritated him. Even the gurgling sounds of Erhard’s water bottle drove him crazy. Erhard, in turn, seemed oddly aggressive and angry on the trip, sometimes yelling uncontrollably at Voytek for perceived transgressions.
One such explosion erupted over a discussion about pitons. Erhard wanted to take just two up the mountain. Voytek pushed for six.
“Okay, you take everything,” Erhard yelled and threw the equipment down.
Voytek retorted, “Erhard, you lost a partner on a face for just that reason.” They settled on six.
While they waited for the weather to improve, they fumed at the irritating pattern that had emerged: clearing skies at night, clear in the early morning, snow beginning by 10 a.m., then a bit of sun followed by more snow, clearing again at night. They became impatient. Finally they hatched the idea of climbing at night. The weather seemed most stable during the night, and they had no intention of being on the face very long anyway—just one continuous push to the summit. Climbing quickly throughout the night would put them in the summit area in the morning hours, when the weather traditionally broke down. Since the terrain was much easier high on the mountain, it seemed like a reasonable plan. They discussed the pros and cons all afternoon and decided to leave at dark.
They stopped at the base of the wall to cook their last meal before going up, trying to ignore the avalanches rumbling down the face. Then it started to snow. “Beautiful big flakes, coming down like Christmas,” Voytek recalled.
Jean and Erhard were intent on going, despite the change in weather pattern. But Voytek had reservations. Jean looked at Voytek and said, “You don’t look good, do you have a problem?”
“I
think it’s dangerous,” Voytek replied.
“Do you have some bad feeling about going up?” Jean insisted.
“I think so.”
“Do you think something might happen?” Jean pushed harder.
“I can’t say that for sure, but I think it’s dangerous.”
Erhard said nothing.
Voytek gave in to his instincts that night and decided to go back to camp. Jean and Erhard would go up without him. Voytek started down, sad and unbelievably tired, as if he had just returned from five days of climbing. He was psychologically and physically destroyed.
As he trudged back to camp he tried to analyze his condition. He knew he had lost the power of his imagination, but where had it gone? How could he have even imagined climbing this mountain, feeling as weak as he did? Still, in this unhappy state he knew it was better to retreat and live rather than stubbornly push on into unacceptable danger. He plodded down for two hours, slipping and sliding on the loose scree, morose yet relieved. The retreat ended abruptly when he stumbled into a yak. In his exhaustion he had confused its glistening eyes with the distant lights of the tents. A short time later he arrived at the camp and headed to the kitchen tent to make some tea. Over the hiss of the gas stove he heard rustling movements outside. Someone was coming into the camp. “Who is there?” No answer. He poked his head outside. Through the murk he saw them: Jean and Erhard. “What happened?” Neither said a word.
The next day Erhard continued the silent treatment, but Jean explained what had transpired: an avalanche had roared down when they were about 100 metres up, almost wiping them off the wall. Wisely, they had turned around.
A few days later the weather changed and they climbed their new route to the summit non-stop.
They rested just one day in base camp. The next, they walked down to the valley below. Two days by jeep, and they were at the base of Shishapangma. Their plan was to climb a new route on the South Face, just left of the Yugoslav route. The style was the same—“night naked”—one single push with just four candy bars, four bottles of liquid, 30 metres of seven-millimetre rope and four pitons. They even left their harnesses behind.
Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore) Page 24
