Each of these stars had his or her own idée fixe. For Wanda it was to be the first woman to wear the Himalayan Crown; for Jurek it was Lhotse’s South Face; for Andrzej and Krzysztof it was all about winter climbs; and for Voytek it was the West Face of K2. They, and the army of climbers who joined them, created a powerful Himalayan legacy. With the exception of individual stars, such as Messner and Habeler, the Poles ruled the climbing world in the 1980s and 1990s. Their determination and pride and ability to suffer allowed them to excel, just as the British had in the 1970s and the Slovenians and Russians would in the decades to come.
Russian artist Wassily Kandinsky had a theory about colour and people that he wrote about in his 1911 work Concerning the Spiritual in Art. It was as if he knew these Polish climbers. “Orange is like a man, convinced of his own powers ....The power of profound meaning is blue...it is concentric motion ....Red rings inwardly with a determined and powerful intensity. It glows in itself, maturely, and does not distribute its vigor aimlessly.” Wanda. Voytek. Jurek.
They were geniuses. They knew how to live with uncertainty. They manipulated an impossible system so well that they were able to realize their dreams. They travelled, saw the world, and lived lives of adventure and intensity. They had the perseverance of pioneers and the values of patriots. Their dynasty has crumbled, but for 20 golden years they were the best in the world.
EPILOGUE
Do not forget those who stay in the mountains, keeping vigil by campfires, guarding high passes. The passes you wanted to cross. Their haughty persistence, you may call it madness. But think back to those days when you had dreams, too...Be not hasty to forget those who stayed in the mountains, those determined to last. Maybe they still tread the nebulous path that you abandoned.
—TRADITIONAL POLISH SAYING
IT IS DECEMBER OF 2009, AND I am at yet another mountain film festival, this one in Warsaw. The theatre is full, but the energy differs from the Katowice gathering more than 15 years before. The audience jostles and chats as they enter the cinema. I watch the hustle and bustle and ask my Polish friend what they are talking about. Their animated conversations are about their jobs, she explains, their careers, their weekends at the crags, and the mountain-bike trail they discovered last week.
I catch sight of two older women with weather-beaten faces and a special look in their eyes. “Who are they?” I ask.
“Ah yes, it’s Anna and Krystyna, two Himalayan veterans from Wanda’s generation,” my friend replies. “And over there is Leszek, talking with Krzysztof, both here to introduce a film.” They stand out in sharp contrast to this young, urban crowd.
I spent the next weeks traversing the sub-zero, wind-scoured country, meeting with climbers and historians as well as with surviving family members of those who had died in the mountains. Hours and hours in kitchens and living rooms, peering at historic photographs, and devouring the stories from another era. I learned that, now, in the first decade of the 21st century, Poland still claims a host of climbers, but few are active in the tallest peaks. Most are interested in rock climbing or climbing in the Alps and the Tatras.
The shift is due, in part, to the loss of experienced climbers from the golden years. An astonishing 80 per cent of the best high-altitude climbers died in the great ranges during that era, raising the question of whether there wasn’t an underlying appetite for annihilation amongst that generation. Despite a few still-active Himalayan climbers from the previous generation, such as Krzysztof, Artur, Anna Czerwińska, and Piotr Pustelnik, there are only a handful of young tigers now. Perhaps the Golden Age climbers left an imprint of suffering and martyrdom that the younger generation didn’t want to accept. Or perhaps not enough of the veterans remained to coach and nurture the next generation. Where are the great partnerships, such as that of Jurek and Artur, or Zawada and his “boys”? There remains a dearth of deep experience in that magic combination of organization, fitness, and high-altitude miles.
The climbers of the past became as strong as they did by climbing in the highest peaks, year after year, for months at a time. This they accomplished despite—and even because of—the political and economic upheaval that existed at the time. Polish climbers manipulated the Communist-style system and made it work for them. They created a black-market economy that financed their climbing lifestyle. They didn’t enjoy the same standard of travel as other expeditions. There was no money for Sherpas. They used trucks instead of planes and did not rely on foreign supplies. But after each expedition the climbers would split the balance of the remaining cash and return to Poland better off than when they left. “We were rich guys in Poland after the expeditions,” Artur explained. That business model no longer works, because with democracy came inflation; prices in Poland are now much higher than in Asia.
Government support for the climbers has also dropped dramatically. And to make expedition climbing even less appealing, it’s now entirely possible to earn a good salary and pursue a challenging career in Poland. There is little motivation to leave those high-paying jobs for months on end in the Himalaya. There is so much more to lose. As each of the Himalayan powerhouses—Britain, Poland, Slovenia, and Russia—improved their standards of living and economic situations, fewer of their climbers were willing to commit themselves to the mountains. It would entail a vow of poverty, no longer much in fashion. In 1993 Voytek wrote in his Polish Syndrome, “Almost physically I sense in Poland the subsiding of the great mountain inspiration. I believe it is being replaced by the onerous awareness of a new era and the necessity of meeting its demands.” Adversity shapes the best climbers; prosperity is not as inspiring.
The state of Poland itself has fundamentally changed. Now part of the European Union, Poland is much less isolated. Everyday life more closely resembles what most of us endure in the Western world—the hectic schedules, the multi-tasking, and the impossible deadlines—making it almost impossible for even the most well-meaning to find time to connect with wild places. As 19th- and 21st-century capitalism shoves 20th-century socialist ideals aside, an increasing amount of Western junk fills Poland’s streets and homes, cluttering the landscape and the mind.
With growing consumerism, the influence of the Catholic Church has also waned. As has Poles’ interest in their past. When General Wojciech Jaruzelski, the man who declared martial law on December 13, 1981, went back on trial for his sins committed almost 30 years before, most Poles weren’t all that interested. They have lives to live, jobs to keep, deadlines to meet.
Anna Milewska, wife of Andrzej Zawada, the undisputed leader of the Golden Age climbers, welcomed me into her home and recounted stories for hours on end in broken French, our only common language. Andrzej had died in 2000 after a short, intense battle with cancer, and she proudly showed me the journals and photographs documenting his remarkable life. Anna protested that, after 50 years of climbing and almost 37 years of marriage, it wasn’t fair for Andrzej to have died so soon; he had enough mountain dreams for another 200 years’ worth of life.
Most of the surviving heroes of the Golden Age have created impressive and productive lives. All have published books about their climbing careers. All except Voytek, who maintains that he will write his story when he’s good and ready, when he can adequately express his thoughts, which, he feels, are equally if not more important than his accomplishments in the mountains. Krzysztof, Artur, and Janusz have built successful outdoor equipment businesses, and Ryszard is a high-altitude guide. Janusz Onyszkiewicz has served his country with honour in the European Parliament, while Voytek’s early smuggling activities have morphed into a successful import business specializing in Asian products. He still climbs regularly, and at extremely high levels, on his local rock crags. His Himalayan musings are sometimes nostalgic, such as when he cranks up Dire Straits on his car stereo and speeds along, remembering those precious days with Erhard, Jurek, and Alex. More often the musings are cerebral, about having transformed high mountain ridges into a home for extended periods of time, ab
out having become intimate with the mountains—a blessed place for him. But for Voytek, what’s done is done. “Why brood over the past when the present offers much more mystery and charm?”
Just as they are for Voytek, the old stories are a map for Janusz, a map for new and unpredictable experiences. The people, the landscapes, the diverse cultures, and the adventure—all played an important role for Janusz. So when his big climbs ended, he kept exploring on his own terms. He remembers those golden years, with their icy winds and exposed bivouacs; he looks at the photographs and feels the laughter and the tears. He recreates those days in his mind and savours the memories. But he doesn’t retreat into the past.
So many Golden Age alpinists are dead, and only a few younger climbers are interested. But Artur hasn’t given up on his dreams for the highest peaks. epilog
Artur was the youngest but also one of the most motivated from the old guard. He had seven incredibly prolific climbing years from 1983 to 1989. But in 1990, he quit. He had lost Jurek, his partner, after all. He had given up on the South Face of Lhotse, and the new economic system in Poland made it more difficult to work the black market. With his wife expecting a baby and his knees giving out, there were ample reasons for stopping. But the most fundamental was that, after the deaths of five Polish climbers on Everest, and Jurek’s on Lhotse’s South Face, the young, brash, and talented climber realized that he was not immortal.
Now, however, more than 20 years later, he again seems willing to accept risks in order to blaze new ground in the cruel Karakoram winter. In recent years the somewhat wary and still powerfully built Artur has returned to high-altitude expeditions: Broad Peak in summer; Nanga Parbat in winter together with Krzysztof; Dhaulagiri in summer; and Broad Peak again, in winter. He summited Nanga Parbat in 2010 and returned soon after for a winter attempt of Broad Peak. He led the successful first winter ascent of Gasherbrum I in 2012. The allure of winter climbs remains for those who still remember the glorious taste of Golden Age climbing.
As Anna Milewska and I exchanged stories, I told her about the time I had met Andrzej in Katowice and had asked him why he insisted on leading expeditions to the highest mountains in winter. The tall, elegant Pole had looked down the full length of his meandering nose and declared, with a twinkle in his eye, “Because Himalaya in summer are for women!” His pronunciation of women, which sounded like “vimmen,” added to the finality of his answer. Anna laughed, “That’s Andrzej—of course you know he was joking.” Maybe so, but it seems it’s still only men who are inspired by his winter vision.
The two Himalayan veterans, Krzysztof and Artur, have not given up on Andrzej’s dream to complete the Himalayan Crown in winter. Perhaps for both of them it is as Krzysztof says, “You can change your hobbies, not your passion. With time, it fills all spheres of your life. Winter in the Himalaya is still a great challenge. At this time of year, the mountains are a mystery, and the unknown attracts.”
This is part of Poland’s legacy—eight Himalayan 8000ers climbed in winter: Everest, Manaslu, Dhaulagiri, Cho Oyu, Kangchenjunga, Annapurna, Gasherbrum I, and Lhotse. It took 32 years to do it.
Krzysztof and Artur have a plan, to climb the rest of the 8000ers in winter with a Polish team. But their plan is expensive. Climbing in winter costs more because it’s not uncommon to use helicopters to set up base camp. They have other tactics in mind, like acclimatizing in entirely different valleys to fend off the debilitating boredom of months on end in the same wintry base camp. Still, even with experience, adequate funding and helicopters, the success rate is only 10 per cent; those odds are not attractive to many.
But for Krzysztof, who already has three first winter ascents under his belt—Lhotse, Everest, and Kangchenjunga—the daunting odds provide greater interest. He maintains that the most important factor for success on a mountain, particularly in winter, is teamwork. He knows there are still a few very good Polish Himalayan climbers, but he worries about their strong commitment to teamwork: they seem more focused on individual ambitions. Some Polish climbers worry that Krzysztof, also, is too preoccupied with his own personal challenges and speed to make a great leader. Like Wanda, he wants the summits too badly. Even his friends say that he’s not quite ready; that he has too many personal goals. “Either you have to get older, or do some more climbing to get it out of your system,” they say. Ignoring their skepticism, Krzysztof sees himself as the successor to Andrzej, a man he loved and admired and whose footsteps he’s proud to follow. “Winter is for tough people,” claims Krzysztof. “For those who will walk in the footsteps of Andrzej Zawada. His standards were very high.”
Despite Krzysztof’s enthusiasm, he has recently become a father again, and his focus has shifted. He is joined by others in a serious loss of confidence in Polish winter aspirations. Some say that there isn’t enough experience in Poland, and that those who have it are either “too old” or “too fat.” Krzysztof and Artur may have to look farther afield, or mentor some of the younger Polish climbers to round out their dream team. After decades of tragedies, the death of Piotr Morawski on Dhaulagiri in 2009 was another critical blow to the nation’s cache of experienced Himalayan climbers. Only Krzysztof, Artur, Anna, Piotr Pustelnik, and Kinga Baranowska, Poland’s current favourite, remain.
Blond and beautiful, Kinga is following in Wanda’s footsteps, with seven 8000ers under her belt already, including Wanda’s last mountain, Kangchenjunga, in 2009. She considers Wanda her idol and mentor and admits to wistful feelings about the early female expeditions of the 1970s. “I’ve never experienced anything like that. There aren’t enough female climbers now in Poland to make it happen.”58 But Kinga isn’t interested in winter climbs. She seems content to repeat the historic achievements of previous generations rather than create new milestones for herself.
When Artur returned to high-altitude climbing, he expressed disappointment with progress in the Himalaya in the intervening 15 years. “People climb faster, and lighter,” he said, “but nothing really new.” That may not be completely fair, particularly in the arena of winter climbs. Although the Poles scooped seven winter firsts and revolutionized the concept of winter Himalayan climbing during the 1980s, three more 8000ers only recently toppled. Polish climber Piotr Morawski and Italian Simone Moro climbed Shishapangma in mid-January 2005, making Simone the first non-Polish climber to top a Himalayan giant in winter. His critics called it luck, but he proved them wrong when he teamed up with Russian Denis Urubko four years later to climb Makalu in February. And then came their astonishing winter ascent of Gasherbrum II in 2011—the first of the Karakoram giants to fall in winter.
In Poland the momentum has stalled. Leszek Cichy, now in his late 50s and still slender and fit, shrugs his shoulders in disbelief at the changes. “In our days there was a queue,” he says with an easy smile. “There were climbers everywhere.” With over 2000 active Polish climbers at the time, it’s not surprising that the queues were long for many of the Himalayan giants. Leszek maintains that very few climbers—only 10 or 20 in the entire world—are now interested in winter ascents or difficult climbs. “The rest are on Everest,” he says. Ryszard thinks that winter climbing for the Poles is doomed—in part, he thinks, due to gender politics. “The Polish Alpine Association is only interested in supporting one climber now: Kinga. The rest don’t have a chance.” In Poland, if it’s not a new route, a winter climb, or a female ascent, there is very little support.
Still, there seems to be a minor resurrection. Piotr Pustelnik finished off his 14th 8000er on Annapurna in 2010, together with Kinga, for whom it was her seventh. In the same year, another group of Poles were on K2, and there is Artur’s success on Nanga Parbat and Gasherbrum I. And winter plans continue for the Karakoram giants.
Yet there is a palpable difference. The magic of the Golden Age is over. It seems to have passed away, along with so many magnificent climbers. But their legacy, and the magic they created to build that legacy, remains up in the cold thin air of the world’s highest pe
aks, inaccessible to those who do not want to climb that high, to take those risks, to reach for the same sort of greatness.
It’s waiting there for those who do.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AS I’VE INDICATED IN THE prologue, the seeds of this book were planted 20 years ago in Antibes, France, when I first met Wanda Rutkiewicz at a mountain film festival. They were nurtured a few years later when I met several of the most accomplished Polish climbers in Katowice, Poland. Over the next couple of decades, I grew to know a number of these climbers well, both through my work with the Banff Mountain Film Festival and at various meetings in all corners of the globe. Their history and traditions, their accomplishments and motivations, and their quirky personalities all resonated for me.
I waited for someone to write their story. No one did. With the encouragement of my publisher and a few close writing friends, I decided to tackle it. I can’t adequately thank the Polish climbers and surviving family members who so kindly supported me throughout this long and interesting process. Their enthusiasm and generosity caught me entirely off guard. It is because of their written accounts, their letters and photos, their libraries, and the untold hours they spent with me in person at their kitchen tables, on the phone and on email, that this book exists.
But I should be very clear that this is not the definitive history of Polish Himalayan climbing. I concentrated on certain personalities and specific climbs rather than cramming the details of this vast, complex, and impressive history into one book. Many significant ascents and important Polish alpinists are not included. I apologize to any who might feel slighted or ignored.
Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore) Page 28
