Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore)

by Bernadette McDonald

  Near the top they came up against a steep section of mixed rock and ice. Jean and Erhard chose the most obvious weakness through the difficulty, but Voytek spied a more interesting possibility. Although it was a steeper line, he thought it would provide a shortcut to the col between the West and Central summits. He was buoyed by the Cho Oyu climb and felt strong and confident. Besides, this shortcut looked “interesting.”

  It was more than interesting and, after a few moves, Voytek was stuck. When he looked up for a way out he saw that it became even more difficult. He felt that he might fall. He tried again, a little to the left. Just the same. He moved up a bit more and then realized that it led nowhere. He would have to downclimb this technical ground, which would be a much greater challenge than going up. After 100 metres he made it down, albeit somewhat shaken. Chastised by his bad decision, he headed over to the original line, which Erhard and Jean had already climbed. They were now more than an hour ahead of him, and he later described his mood at this moment as “alone and sad.”

  The three reached the Central Summit of Shishapangma just six days after Cho Oyu. The team had climbed new routes on both peaks. Both ascents had been non-stop and were done in alpine style. A new standard of climbing in the Himalaya had been set. It was Voytek’s farewell to the 8000ers, and it was an achievement of the highest class. “After finishing a climb like this you feel a sort of catharsis,” Voytek explained. “You are just a happy creature.”

  Despite his euphoria, Voytek was destroyed by Erhard’s attitude toward him. During their end-of-expedition Swiss fondue feast, Voytek tried to express his happiness and gratitude for what they had done together. Jean was close to tears. Erhard was very quiet. It’s not uncommon to experience tension during an expedition, but Erhard’s expression of it seemed excessive and, perhaps, final. Voytek couldn’t understand why, for he harboured no hard feelings toward Erhard. Years later Erhard expressed a change in attitude when he publicly stated, “I would go to hell with Voytek: if Voytek calls me, I will go with him anywhere.”

  Voytek remained puzzled. “It is funny. Before—and later. But not during.” Voytek later wondered if he had been too pushy on that trip. He had specific ideas and ambitions, and he had tried to convince the Swiss of them. Maybe he had pushed too hard.

  Cho Oyu and Shishapangma were Voytek’s last great climbs in the Himalaya. His departure from that arena was elegant in several ways: he managed to save a friendship; he pushed the concept of lightweight climbing to an unusually high standard; and he survived.

  Voytek’s safety record in the mountains was impeccable. Despite his penchant for extremely difficult and dangerous climbs, he avoided accidents and tragedy. It wasn’t because he had a particular aversion to death. “I think we should accept death more. Touch it even,” he said. He had certainly touched it, but he had also been able to step back from it. He wasn’t afraid to turn away from a climb. His 30-year career was studded not only with outstanding triumphs but also with hasty and strategic retreats.

  Many climbers commented on Voytek’s almost mystical decision-making process, and they sometimes laughed at his seemingly illogical decisions to leave a mountain. But they might have been succumbing to that potentially deadly mountaineer’s illness: a gradual dulling of sensitivity to risk, combined with a sense of immortality. This desensitization can take a climber beyond the barrier that separates life and death. Voytek guarded that sensitivity fiercely, relying on it to alert him to important emotions, particularly fear.

  Voytek’s son, Aleksander, said that his father attributed his avoidance of accidents to being “the biggest coward in the world.” Voytek readily admitted fear, defeat, and retreat. Although he sometimes termed it basic cowardice, in moments of reflection, he wondered if it could have been wisdom.

  His safety record held for his partners, too. Dozens of the best alpinists from Voytek’s generation ended up dying in the mountains, even some of his closest partners. But never while climbing with him. With so many climbers attempting such ambitious targets, a certain amount of indifference to risk permeated the community. Yet altitude paid no attention to attitude, and the tragedies mounted, sometimes because the climber’s objective and his ability were not equal and sometimes because of simple mistakes with equipment or technique. Nonetheless, fatalities almost always occurred when climbers stayed too long at altitude. Most who died were solid, experienced mountaineers, often around the age of 50, and with decades of experience.

  Jurek’s fate was one such example. Angry and saddened by his death, Voytek was quite outspoken: “He was taking too many chances, definitely. I did not think it was proper. And the basic proof is that he lost something like five partners.” He declined to say that Jurek’s death in the mountains was inevitable, but it seemed predictable. At some point Voytek became afraid of Jurek: so many of his partners had died. In fact it was only during the four-year period in which the two teamed up that Jurek kept tragedy at bay. Voytek viewed Jurek’s as a dead-end situation in which Jurek kept pushing higher and higher on unprotected ground. “There was no retreat for him,” Voytek said. “He would never back down. He was that kind of person.”

  But Voytek remains puzzled by his own flawless record. “I simply don’t know why even the smallest hair of my body did not fall off throughout a few decades of climbing...” he reflects. “When I think about it, I get cold feet.” He looks up, a concerned furrow creasing his brow: “Will I have to pay for this at some point?”

  Wanda had hinted at her 8000er plan to Ewa, and in 1990 she went public. She called it her “Caravan of Dreams.” Later that year she and Marion issued a press release to prospective sponsors and the media. “My project is to climb eight peaks higher than 8000 metres—Cho Oyu (8201), Annapurna (8091), Dhaulagiri (8167), Manaslu (8163), Makalu (8485), Lhotse (8516), Broad Peak (8051), and Kangchenjunga (8586)—in a little more than one year. No woman has ever braved such an enterprise,” she said, adding, “I shall be the first.”

  If she succeeded, she would also be the first woman to climb all 14 of the 8000ers, a plan that Carlos was convinced was nothing more than a marketing strategy—like his and Jurek’s and others’—to find funding for more Himalayan expeditions. “This was not a goal,” he said. “It was a tool.” Wanda’s brother Michael worried about the plan. The Caravan of Dreams was like a machine, and once Wanda started, he knew it would be difficult for her to stop.

  Her first target was Kangchenjunga, a mountain she’d tried before. She chose Ewa Panejko-Pankiewicz as her climbing partner, and they joined a Yugoslavian expedition in March of 1991. They nearly succeeded, but the expedition was called off when two Yugoslav climbers died near the summit. The first mountain in the Caravan of Dreams had not cooperated.

  In August Wanda raced over to Cho Oyu, sometimes considered the easiest of the 8000ers. She joined a Polish/International team led by Krzysztof Wielicki, and by September 26 she stood alone on its summit.

  One down, seven to go.

  She was back in Kathmandu by September 29 and immediately moved on to Annapurna’s South Face. First climbed in 1970 by Chris Bonington’s British team, it remained an impressive prize. On the first day of Wanda’s summit attempt a falling rock slammed into her thigh so violently that at first she thought it had been refractured. But it was just severely bruised, and, by lifting her leg with her hands at each step and taking a healthy dose of painkillers, she felt able to continue. Her climbing partner, Bogdan Stefko, thought otherwise. Both he and Krzysztof Wielicki, leader of the expedition, encouraged her to go down. She said no. So the men joined up as partners, leaving Wanda on her own. She understood their decision but was still disappointed when they left her to climb the peak alone.

  Dear Marion, 28 October 1991

  ...I never seem to be lucky with male partners. I would never want to hold anyone up or be a burden, but I was very upset ....I had no choice but to say, ‘Don’t bother about me, I’ll sort myself out’ ....It was a pity that I had no real friends among the
other expedition members and had not had time to strike up any new friendships, but that was because of my own decision to attach myself to an expedition of relative strangers and climb with instant partners ....

  Early in the morning on October 22 she met Ryszard Pawlowski on his way down from the summit. His hesitation in answering her route-finding questions appeared to betray a concern that if he gave her too much information, it would allow her to claim the summit even if she didn’t make it. She interpreted his reticence as an insult. Ryszard later insisted he was just trying to remember all the details, and added, “It’s a shame she didn’t mention that I gave her the rest of my tea and my food.”

  Wanda continued up alone and, at sunset, became the first woman to reach the summit of Annapurna by its South Face. As the light faded, the valleys slipped into darkness. She rotated slowly, in a daze, staring at an increasingly featureless black chasm. Her thoughts drifted to God and the Church and the gap that, for her, had widened between them. She instinctively knew she was in the most beautiful church in the world. She could feel God’s presence keenly. She didn’t need incense or bells or liturgy, just the sharp, thin air.

  She reached into her pack and fumbled with her camera. Although she managed a couple of pictures before the shutter froze, she was unable to get the “money” shot of herself on the summit. In frustration she threw the camera down, then she thought better of it. She stuffed it back in her pack and just stood quietly, absorbing the enormity of what she had done and what still lay before her—the descent. She did not radio base camp.

  Wanda started down in the moonlight but soon lost her way, wandering off route onto some steepening ice slopes. With an injured leg and a headlamp that no longer worked, she wisely reversed her steps up to more level ground at 7800 metres where she could reassess her options. There, she dug a bivouac platform where she spent what she later described as, “quite a pleasant night in my bivouac bag.” The next morning she continued down to Camp II, where she radioed to base camp to announce her summit victory.

  Krzysztof didn’t believe her. He had watched her through his binoculars and was sure she had turned around short of the summit. He suspected that it was an honest mistake because she was probably hallucinating. “If you say you reached the summit, I won’t contradict you, but personally I don’t believe it.” Although he later retreated from his hardline stance, he maintained his doubts.

  Wanda was devastated. This was the worst experience she had endured in all her years of climbing. They had come to the mountains as friends but were parting more like angry wolves from rival packs. Rumours of doubt about her summit preceded her back to Poland, and the media fed on them. Ewa was in the middle of the furor, her phone ringing off the hook, journalists demanding answers. She assured them that when Wanda returned she would explain everything. She defended her friend, saying, “I know Wanda well enough. This is too large, too serious of a matter for Wanda to say she reached the summit without having done so.” Polish Himalayan climber Piotr Pustelnik agreed on the seriousness of the charge, saying that it was the worst accusation a climber could face.

  In addition to this new crisis, it was obvious to everyone that Wanda was still very depressed about Kurt’s death. She confided that she felt more and more isolated. She had the feeling that everyone was waiting for her to slip up. Ewa observed that Wanda grew extremely paranoid during this time, categorizing anyone who dared to say anything negative about her as her enemy. A telling video clip of her shows a still beautiful, mature woman glancing over at the video camera, forcing a smile, then reverting immediately to a haunted, tortured expression.

  It wasn’t long after the Annapurna debacle that Ewa began working with a respected publisher called Solidarity Weekly. As Ewa’s attention shifted to her new work, Wanda sensed the loss of yet another friend and accused Ewa of abandoning her. Ewa was probably her closest friend throughout these years, but even she admitted it was a difficult friendship. “To be close friends with someone, you need to share time and opinions and ideas together,” she said. “Wanda never had time. She was always on the run.” She was isolating herself, one person at a time.

  Then Wanda developed her roll of film from Annapurna. When compared with other accepted summit shots, her single hazy image taken almost at dark seemed to prove her claim. The sports committee of the Polish Alpine Association declared that Wanda did reach the summit. Artur and Janusz were part of that committee, and both were adamant that the photo proved her claim. “That photograph means something to me,” Artur said. “I had previously been on that summit and could comment on the photo. It definitely shows that she was there.”

  Alek Lwow disagreed. “The photograph showed nothing,” he scoffed. “I saw this photograph ....It shows a dark ridge and a higher point. She was close, but not on the top.” Alek was convinced that since the alpine association couldn’t prove that she hadn’t climbed it, they had to accept her word that she had.

  Wanda was relieved at the association’s conclusion, but her shock at the mistrust brought her unwelcome, ever-present companions: anxiety, loss of confidence, and loneliness. Anna Czerwińska, who had also been asked for proof of her Lhotse and Shishapangma summits, was convinced that Wanda never fully recovered from her shock and depression following Annapurna. “There was no one around to help her,” she said. “Wanda’s loneliness really must have been beyond human strength.”

  Krystyna Palmowska pointed to Wanda’s leg injury from Mt. Elbrus, years before, as the main cause of her depression. “It turned out to have long-term consequences because she never let it heal properly,” she said, referring to the 1982 K2 expedition, during which Wanda had marched to base camp on crutches. Krystyna was sure Wanda’s leg had deteriorated steadily during the years of climbing. “At the same time, her determination rose, so the gap between physical ability and ambition was opening in a dangerous way,” she added. For Krystyna this raised a red flag, and she even considered advising Wanda to leave climbing. But Krystyna was absolutely sure that any warnings would have been in vain.

  Over time, several stories emerged about what might have happened on Annapurna. Nobody could say for certain exactly which day Wanda summited. The final determination was that Wanda must have lost consciousness and didn’t know herself. When Krzysztof and the others saw her climbing up, that’s likely what she was doing. But why? Either she was headed back up to get a better photo or she had forgotten she had already climbed it. She lost a day and almost her summit victory. There was no way to know which version of the story was the truth.

  There was another factor, too. Wanda had now climbed eight of the 14 8000-metre peaks. So had Krzysztof. There was no woman even close to that. Her only competitors were men.

  As her isolation intensified, Voytek was one of her few remaining friends. He and Wanda had first met at the climbing cliffs near Wrocław. She was a beautiful young woman then, and he had even been a little infatuated. They had become good friends, and although they had never climbed together, they were frequently on the same expeditions. He had watched her career, seen her develop as a climber and then as a leader. He understood her ambitions and demons, and he watched her butt heads with others in the community. He understood why people were offended by her: in part because of her strong character and her unbridled ambition. He thought her behaviour sometimes bordered on lunacy, such as the time she hobbled into K2 base camp on crutches, and he and Jurek had to carry her for the last two hours. But Voytek was a loner too, and perhaps as a result of that the two never clashed.

  Meanwhile, Wanda’s less tolerant but equally ambitious Annapurna teammate Krzysztof was on fire. He had never been fitter, stronger, or more clearly focused. He loved everything about his life: the mountains, the physical challenge, and the enthusiastic support from his teammates. The little Boy Scout had found his uniform, and it fit him well.

  In 1990 he had gone to Dhaulagiri and climbed the 8167-metre peak’s normal route on April 24. He came down to base camp with energy t
o spare. He had nothing particular to do and no place to be, so he decided to go back up onto the East Face to try for a rapid one-day solo ascent of a new line. The 2400-metre face had already been climbed by Voytek and company in their 1980 alpine-style ascent, but Krzysztof was looking at another possibility a little farther left.

  Fully acclimatized from his jaunt up the normal route, Krzysztof set off alone at 11 p.m. He took very little with him, for he didn’t intend to be up there for long. Just a couple of litres of liquid, some candies, his radio, a camera, four pitons, four ice screws, two ice axes, and a 30-metre length of rope (which he promptly dropped). The moon illuminated the night, and he made quick progress up moderate terrain. It steepened at an ice chute, but he moved up confidently and, at the top, stopped for a brief rest and a sip of his hot drink. But the higher he climbed the more difficult it became. He had no way of knowing what to expect, since he’d never been on the route before. When a particularly difficult section appeared, with ice covered by loose, unconsolidated snow, he struggled for two long and dangerous hours.

  “I had a kind of hallucination—not because of lack of oxygen but because of the situation, because of fear,” he recalled. “I felt that somebody was with me. When I tried to go right, I was looking for somebody to advise me . . . it shows that in a difficult situation you need a friend, a mother, or a lover. So I created one for myself.”

  Past the dangerous bit, he lost his way in the rocky section above, but he finally found a way out of the confusing terrain and topped out on the summit ridge at 3 p.m. He was at 7800 metres and the wall was climbed. But he was still some distance from the summit. It had now been snowing for an hour. His survival instinct clicked in, and he decided to go down, wary of a bivouac with absolutely no equipment. He found a tent that had been left by his friends and he started making tea—for two people. Even though he was in a relatively secure position now, the hallucination remained vivid.