Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore)

by Bernadette McDonald

  By the time Wanda went to Kangchenjunga she knew she was not invincible. Jurek’s death had shattered the illusion that she could keep returning to the mountains forever. “Every road has its beginning and its end,” she had said. But it’s unlikely she had lost her will to live. She had wanted to be on Kangchenjunga, and she had been happy and content while she was on the mountain, climbing with the young Carlos. When she needed to show real strength, however, not just in getting up the peak but in admitting defeat, she couldn’t do it. Her stubbornness and pride and ambition defeated her in the end.

  Most Polish climbers gave her full marks for her brilliant climbing career. A few thought she had been “lucky,” but they also admitted that not all of her luck had been of the good variety. Despite her sometimes difficult personality, climbers felt an enormous emotional loss at her death. They had cared more about Wanda than they realized. It was clear to most that her mountaineering accomplishments were years ahead of her time. When Elizabeth Hawley weighed in with her opinion, she was unequivocal: “Wanda Rutkiewicz will go down in history as one of the greats of mountaineering.”

  Still, not everyone agreed, particularly those who had come too close to Wanda’s burning flame and been singed. Wanda’s former husband, Dr. Helmut Scharfetter, was bitter and blunt in his assessment. “Wanda was both a child of her time and a climber of her time. Mountaineering has moved on, but Wanda was a product of the Eastern bloc system of those days ....Her ‘Caravan of Dreams’ project was like jumping off a high wall: a sure recipe for the kind of death that Wanda had always wanted. The kind of expedition climbing that she knew was as dead as she is. And she could never have bourne [sic] to live with herself as an ageing, unattractive ex-climber.”56

  If he was right, she certainly wouldn’t have been the only Himalayan climber to fear old age more than pain or hardship. Perhaps she had prepared herself—and others—for this day by limiting her ties. She left few personal effects and no emotional baggage. Wanda had travelled lightly on the earth.

  Krzysztof felt that this was the real flaw in her life. “Wanda did one mistake,” he said. “She left husband; she left family; she left friends. She had no one to come back to. She had no job, no profession, no garden, no other interests. She had no fallback position. She had nothing. She was completely alone and there was nobody to help guide her.” It’s true that Wanda could walk the streets of Warsaw and be recognized by everyone; but there was nobody waiting for her at home.

  Her words of advice to those mourning Jurek a few years before now seemed appropriate for her: “We should not presume to judge those who seek out danger on the world’s highest places or demand to be told the meaning of what they do,” she said at the time. “Simply, when they pay the ultimate price for their passion, we should remember them...”

  16

  THE LONELIEST CROWN

  The unhappiest people I know these days are often the ones in motion, encouraged to search for a utopia outside themselves.

  —PICO IYER, THE GLOBAL SOUL

  I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now.

  —JONI MITCHELL, “BOTH SIDES NOW”

  POLAND’S FIRST REAL ELECTION TOOK place in October 1990. By December 22, Lech Wałęsa—electrician, protester, prisoner, and Nobel Peace Prize recipient—was now President Lech Wałęsa.

  By 1995 Poland’s massive foreign debt was paid off. But political reorganization hadn’t lived up to expectations, and Wałęsa, who had galvanized his country and performed brilliantly as a leader of Solidarity, functioned less well in government. There were too many meetings, too much consultation, too much compromise. He was defeated in the 1995 election and replaced by a Communist candidate.

  The outside world was stunned. But it didn’t surprise the Poles, and it didn’t particularly worry them, because an elected Communist government was a far cry from the previous regime that had been forced upon them. They expected results from their elected officials; the Solidarity party hadn’t delivered. They searched diligently for the right leadership, electing seven different governments in as many years. It was almost as if they were revelling in a glut of free electoral votes. Progression to a fully functioning democracy was not easy. It had been decades since the Poles had been given any responsibility for choosing their own government, and their roster of experienced governors was limited; most had fled abroad. It isn’t surprising that there was a shakedown period while Poland felt its way as a fledgling democracy.

  But the Poles persevered, for that was their tradition. Much of their history had been a struggle for survival. The preceding 50 years had been most brutal, fighting two wars and providing the battleground for a third. Their battered nation had been handed over to the Soviets as a gift, but they outlasted both their invaders and their masters. Somehow, without violence, Poland had become the first Communist state to emerge as a free nation. Poles would then watch the Berlin Wall fall and Czechoslovakia emerge from domination with their 1989 “Velvet Revolution.” It would take two more years for the Ukraine.

  It was during this hopeful time that Krzysztof Wielicki reached his full potential as an alpinist, spending more time in Asia than in Poland. In 1992 he attempted Gasherbrum I and led a successful expedition to Manaslu. In September of 1993 he climbed a partial new route on Cho Oyu, following the West Ridge all the way to the summit with Italian Marco Bianchi. Krzysztof felt so fit that he considered going up the mountain again, this time alone, in a day and by a new route. He was just about to start when his climbing partner came over to his tent, put a hand on his shoulder and asked, “What are you looking for? What do you want to prove? For us, you are already the best.” Krzysztof was unnerved by the discomforting questions. He reconsidered, and stayed in camp that night.

  Immediately after, he headed to Tibet, for another 8000er: Shishapangma. Fresh from Cho Oyu, and feeling somewhat confused and frustrated by the difficult questions raised by his teammates, he needed to challenge himself. The South Face seemed a likely candidate. Krzysztof started up alone on October 7, 1993, and 20 hours after leaving base camp he reached the summit.

  Shishapangma was Krzysztof’s 10th 8000-metre summit. It was now clear to him what he had done and what he could probably achieve: all 14. Four peaks remained, all in Pakistan.

  He’d already been to K2 twice before, but in 1994 he returned with Voytek, New Zealander Rob Hall and American Carlos Buhler. Their objective was the West Face. They reached 6800 metres but had to turn back because the conditions were too dangerous and their fixed lines had become coated with ice. They tried again on the easier Basque Route on the South-Southeast Spur. Voytek, who was fixated on the West Face, decided that the Basque Route was not to his liking so he went down. The other three continued. Hall, who was using oxygen, reached the summit, but Carlos and Krzysztof, who were not using supplemental oxygen, finally turned back, unknowingly just a maddening few dozen metres from the summit.

  Frustrated by K2, Krzysztof secured permits a year later for both Gasherbrums I and II. Now a full-time professional alpinist, he was with other international high-performance athletes: Ed Viesturs from the US, Rob Hall, Carlos Carsolio, and a fellow Pole, Jacek Berbeka. Krzysztof climbed like a finely tuned instrument, and he expected a perfect performance each time. He wanted to climb Gasherbrum II in a day, as he had done so many times before. But even Krzysztof’s body needed to acclimatize, and on GII he needed a bit more time. Still, he summited just four days after his teammates, alone. Next it was on to Gasherbrum I, the highest in the group at 8068 metres. Since the base camp was the same as for Gasherbrum II, the two peaks made an efficient double objective. He and Carlos, both now perfectly acclimatized from their Gasherbrum II ascent, reached the top of GI on July 15. Only 17 days had passed since their arrival in base camp, and they had already climbed two 8000-metre peaks.

  Krzysztof obviously needed K2 for his 8000-metre quest, so 1996 found him back, for the fourth time. This time he approached it from the Chinese side, hoping to make a complete as
cent of the North Buttress, including the top part, which had yet to be climbed. As the route was covered with loose, unstable snow, the team changed plans and moved over to the Japanese Route. That summer’s monsoon had been even worse than usual, resulting in horrendously dangerous snow conditions on the mountain. If they had been prudent, they probably would have gone home. But they didn’t.

  On August 10, five climbers headed up from their high camp at 7800 metres. Two gave up, but three continued on: the two Italians—Marco Bianchi and Christian Kuntner—and Krzysztof. At 8200 metres the snow became soft and deep. Krzysztof was out front, breaking trail for three long hours. He would lift one leg, push the snow forward, plunge down with his foot, trying to consolidate the powdery snow enough to hold the weight of his body, then thrust his ice axe as deep as possible and repeat with the other leg. Over and over again. After a few steps he would lean over his ice axe to rest his heaving body for a few moments, trying to stabilize his raspy, shallow breathing. He would straighten his back and begin again. There was no point in thinking about this endless suffering. Just keep moving up. It wasn’t until 8 p.m. that the three stood on the summit of the second-highest mountain in the world.

  A few minutes were all they allowed themselves, for it was already dark. They were not expecting to bivouac and had brought no bivouac equipment with them. But it was clear they would have to, and they were dangerously close to the summit—a sure ticket to disaster. It very nearly was. Krzysztof knew he needed to stay awake at all costs, so he silently sang every song in his musical repertoire: scouting songs, traditional folk songs, and war ballads. It didn’t take long to get through them, so he repeated the playlist, all night long. Eventually dawn crept over the mountain and they were able to move once again. They made it down, with some help from their teammates and a nearby Russian team.

  With K2 completed, Krzysztof had only one mountain left to climb: Nanga Parbat. His plan was to climb it immediately after K2, joining up with an expedition led by Jacek Berbeka. But when he called his friends on the mountain, he was horrified to learn that they were already back in Poland! Because his K2 climb had taken longer than expected, they had gone home. He would have to climb Nanga Parbat alone. Climbing friends in Poland knew what he was considering, so they contacted Krzysztof and urged him to come home; it was too late in the year and a solo attempt would be dangerous. Be patient, they advised. Krzysztof grappled with his decision: Poland or Nanga Parbat. He decided he would at least go to the base camp, just to take a look. He arrived on August 26 to find it eerily deserted. Such a lovely setting, with its lush grassy meadows, but nobody there. What should he do?

  A cautious climber would have studied the mountain, making mental note of the major features on the peak, the weather patterns, and the best possible escape routes. A patient climber would have enjoyed camping in the meadows, revelling in the peace of mind that comes with knowing that this climb is not for now but for another time. A wise climber would have gone home, probably a little disappointed, but thankful to have survived another season in the Karakoram and excited about plans for the following year.

  But Krzysztof was fully acclimatized. He had only one peak remaining to finish off his Himalayan Crown. His internal clock was racing. This was not the first Polish Himalayan Crown: Jurek had already won that honour. It wasn’t even a Polish first ascent of Nanga Parbat; that too had been done. Getting up Nanga Parbat, now and quickly, was a very personal goal for Krzysztof. He decided to head up the Kinshofer Route alone, but he didn’t know where to start. He queried some residents of the nearest village, eliciting looks of stunned disbelief: a lone climber, so late in the season, and he doesn’t know the way! But he assured them he was legitimate, explained the situation and convinced them to show him the beginning of the route.

  With one pack on his back and another on his front, he started up the Diamir Face at midnight. The lower section snaked amongst a labyrinth of steep couloirs, where he found a wide assortment of rope fragments and ladders left by previous expeditions. Not knowing which were solid, he found it difficult to choose between them. By 7 a.m. he had reached the Eagle’s Nest, a rocky tower that provides good protection against avalanches from above. He found a tent left over from Berbeka’s team and crawled in.

  Then his nightmare began. An abscessed tooth flared up, threatening to force him down to safer elevations. The pain was excruciating. He found a bottle of antibiotics in his pack and read the prescription: one pill every six hours. He swallowed four. The pain subsided, but that night’s sleep was a torment of hallucinatory dreams. He thrashed around the tent, in and out of his sleeping bag, vacillating from shivering with cold to sweating from a panic-driven fever. He had lost all sense of where he was on the mountain and was catatonic with fear at every noise. Half-awake, he relived large segments of his life: the Boy Scout uniform he had loved so dearly; his Lhotse corset; the moment on Dhaulagiri when he had crossed the “red line”; his beautiful daughter. He considered going down but knew that was even more dangerous than staying where he was until he regained control of his fears. And his loneliness. On his first climb on Everest, everybody was cheering. On this one, he was terribly alone.

  The next morning he felt slightly better, so he continued up. When he came across a tent from a previous expedition, he crawled in and melted snow and drank tea until 3 a.m. Finally, agitated and nervous, he knew it was time to go. The weather conditions appeared to be stable, with only a slight breeze. He was still a long way from the summit, and although the terrain was not terribly difficult, it was complicated. He had to focus; not only did he need to get up this thing but he also had to remember the way down.

  At 10:30 a.m. on September 1, he stood on the top, 20 days after summiting K2. There were no witnesses. For the first time in his career, he felt the need to take photographs to prove it. “But you know what was most important?” he later said. “Nobody asked. Nobody asked for proof.” He gazed around at the amazing panorama: the Karakoram to the northeast, the Hindu Kush to the northwest, and farther north, in the distance, the Pamirs.

  Very carefully, he picked his way down the tricky terrain. It was more difficult now for he often had to face the ice, front-pointing over the steepest sections. In three hours he reached his last tent spot. Since it was still daylight he continued. Down. Down. Darkness came, and he kept going. When he finally slithered off the last bit of glacier, he was greeted with a rousing burst of fire from a Kalashnikov rifle. “The whole village was watching your climb, we saw everything, you do not have to tell anything,” his sirdar exclaimed.

  Krzysztof felt neither victorious nor jubilant. He had just become the fifth person to climb the Himalayan Crown, after Messner, Jurek, Erhard Loretan, and Carlos Carsolio. He had started his brilliant Himalayan career as a youngster on Everest in winter, awash with the warmth of camaraderie and Polish pride in their collective victory. This latest mountaineering milestone felt somewhat lonely in comparison. Going for the record was a different experience than going for the adventure. Just as Wanda had felt after her Shishapangma ascent, climbing all of the 8000ers was simply something “done.”

  In a small stone house, far from his loved ones, he lit a candle and made some tea. As he warmed his hands on the metal cup, he asked himself, “Has anything changed in my life?” Strangely, he felt exactly the same: no better, no worse, no happier. No real relief. “I knew only that I would be back in the mountains,” he said.

  There were so many iconic climbers in those 20 years of the Golden Age of Polish Himalayan Climbing. Each had their specialty and all left a legacy.

  The greatest export of the era was unquestionably Voytek: the thinking man’s climber, visionary and philosophical. He is remembered still for his uncompromising choice of lines. On some he succeeded; on others he failed. But his vision was always inspired. He didn’t enter the race for 8000-metre peaks like Jurek and Wanda but instead made his name on the massive frozen faces, big technical walls, and high-altitude traverses of the Hima
laya. He was motivated by beautiful lines, difficult lines, futuristic lines. He eschewed fixed ropes and big expeditions, preferring the flexibility and independence of two- or three-person teams. And it was on the international stage that he shone brightest.

  The charismatic Andrzej Zawada galvanized an entire generation of Polish climbers to expand the boundaries of what was considered possible and excel in the winter climbing arena. He made them proud to be Polish and helped them become the best in the world.

  Krzysztof was the tiger, racing up his peaks. Next, he assumed Zawada’s mantle, withstanding the cruelties of winter and leading the next generation of climbers on winter ascents of the highest mountains on Earth.

  Jurek was one who did it with grace. The mountains made Jurek, and Jurek became the best man he could be in the mountains. During those two decades, he became a symbol of courage and bravery for countless people, not just climbers. He was undoubtedly the most famous, in part because his 8000-metre quest was easily grasped by the general public, who embraced him as a national hero at a time when Poles needed one badly. What they might not have known, but every alpinist did, was that his standards were impossibly high. For Jurek, if it wasn’t a new route or a first winter ascent, it was hardly worth doing. “Jerzy Kukuczka was simply the best,” Krzysztof said. Many people asked Jurek why he climbed, but he didn’t really have an answer. “I went to mountains and climbed them,” he said. “That is all.”57

  Equally driven, and years ahead of her time, Wanda earned a record on the 8000ers that would not be matched by another woman for 15 years. Her Caravan of Dreams plan would take nearly two decades for a female mountaineer to realize. It was in the field of women’s climbing that Wanda’s efforts were the most significant.