Wanda Rutkiewicz at K2 in 1982, still on crutches
Wanda Rutkiewicz at Nanga Parbat base camp
Krzysztof Wielicki (left) at Broad Peak base camp with the “highest film team in the world,” Austrian Kurt Diemberger and Julie Tullis from England
Voytek Kurtyka and Jerzy Kukuczka in K2 base camp, 1982
Artur Hajzer at base camp on Annapurna winter expedition
One of the magic teams of the Golden Age of Polish Himalayan climbing: Jerzy Kukuczka and Artur Hajzer
Voytek Kurtyka and Jerzy Kukuczka arrive in Gasherbrum base camp after having completed their new route on Gasherbrum I.
Voytek Kurtyka on Gasherbrum II, East Summit
Loading up the bus en route to K2, 1986
Voytek Kurtyka getting in some last-minute training in Kathmandu (or perhaps it’s just the exuberance of youth)
Shining Wall of Gasherbrum IV
West Face of Gasherbrum with the Kurtyka/Schauer route
His amazing strength, good health, and physical fitness allowed him to achieve just about anything he set out to do, regardless of how much help he received from his friends. His record of success in the mountains was so amazing that people just assumed he would achieve his goals without exception. His rare failures were met with disbelief and shock. Even then, he didn’t complain. There were occasional angry explosions, but only for a moment. Having Jurek on an expedition brought confidence to every single person on the team. Jurek climbed mountains—all the way to the top. That’s just what he did.
The Dhaulagiri team headed off without him. But Jurek had his own sources of funding, and it wasn’t long before he was in Nepal. He met up with the Cho Oyu team in Kathmandu and disclosed his plan. He would go to Dhaulagiri first, climb it, then rush over to Cho Oyu and try to catch up with the team before their climb was done. Some members of the Polish–Canadian Cho Oyu team, including Jurek’s friend Zyga Heinrich, protested that this wasn’t fair. All the hard work of putting in the camps and equipping the route would be done by the others, whereas they had been counting on him to help. By arriving late he would just be a burden on the team. After all, it was a winter expedition. There would be an enormous amount of work to be done, in conditions of severe cold. Every member counted, and Jurek was one of the strongest.
The debate continued. Finally, there was a vote: it was an even split. Everyone looked at Andrzej, the leader. He stared back at his “Zawada Boys.” Each one of them had worked hard, to be on this expedition. They had painted smokestacks, trained hard, and said goodbye to their wives and children with the full knowledge that they might not return. They deserved a fair shake. Then he looked at Jurek—the amazing überclimber. Jurek’s eyes shone with anticipation, his face was unflinching and his body was strong and able. “I’ve made up my mind,” Andrzej declared. “Jurek can go to Dhaulagiri. We’ll wait for him at Cho Oyu. It is a grand idea, rather wild. But it might come off.” Andrzej could see beyond the scope of this climb and this team. He knew that Jurek was special. He was a visionary. He was attempting things nobody else had tried. He was setting new standards. Poland was setting new standards. Andrzej wouldn’t dream of holding him back. It was a classic case of the student surpassing the master, and Andrzej was mature enough to accept—and celebrate—that reality.
Jurek packed up and climbed aboard the first bus to Pokhara, the largest town near Dhaulagiri. It was December 20. He marched over to the ticket office and bought a ticket for a short flight on a 20-seat Fokker to take him to Jomsom, a village even closer to Dhaulagiri. But the conditions had to be perfect for the Fokker to lift off.
Two days passed. No flights. On the third day a few passengers piled into the plane, ready to go. That flight, too, was cancelled. By the 24th, Jurek’s spirits began to sink. There he was, stuck in Pokhara in a cheap, cold, bare room, no friends around, bad weather, and it was Christmas Eve, the most important night of the year for his family. His thoughts turned to home, to Celina, to his two sons, and the warmth and light and love of the family celebration that he knew was taking place without him. He could almost taste the delicious traditional prune soup. There would be Christmas goodies and gifts. Alone, he lit a candle, boiled up a packet of soup, opened a can of sardines, read a passage from his Bible, and ate a consecrated wafer, as his faith dictated.
Christmas morning found him back at the Pokhara airport, seated on the plane. Another cancellation. It was obvious that his timesaving plan had seriously backfired. He could have walked the entire distance to Dhaulagiri in those five days.
On Boxing Day he returned to the airport and the ritual was repeated once more. But this time they took off. The little plane headed straight up the long, narrow valley, gaining elevation and bucking headwinds the entire way. As it tossed and heaved like a frisky bronco, Jurek prayed.
At Marpha he found a young porter to go with him to base camp, but at twice the summer rate. Jurek was happy to pay because the porter seemed fit. He claimed to know the route, and he even offered to cook. Winter travel would be tough and their route crossed two passes that were higher than 5000 metres. The situation deteriorated almost at once, however. The porter did not know the way, could barely make tea and lagged behind Jurek, even though Jurek was breaking the trail and carrying most of the load. The porter had become a liability.
They reached base camp after four days. Jurek sent his “guide” back down to the village and joined up with his team, which by now had only managed to set up Camp II. There was still a lot of work to be done. The climbers had been at altitude for three weeks, so Jurek’s first concern was his lack of acclimatization. He not only had to keep up with them, he had to contribute to the effort of setting up camps and fixing lines.
He monitored his body closely, careful not to go too high too quickly. For the first couple of days, his pulse hovered at 70, his normal sea-level rate. As the days passed and he climbed progressively higher, it dropped, finally bottoming out at around 48. Most people experienced the opposite, but Jurek’s body seemed custom-designed for altitude; it became increasingly efficient the higher he went. It was as if the mountains provided him a level of calmness from which he could extract his highest level of performance.
Up and down the mountain they went, long days of wading through waist-deep snow with the constant threat of avalanches wearing them down. They set up Camp IV at 7000 metres, hoping it would be their last before attempting the peak. Andrzej Czok, Janusz Skorek, and Jurek started off the next day, but by noon they had only reached 8000 metres. They knew they wouldn’t make the summit that day, so they descended all the way to base camp.
The winter storms continued, with snow falling most days. Although their route up the Northeast Ridge was not technically difficult, and their camps were now established, the huge volume of snow buried both their tracks and their tents. Visibility rarely exceeded 15 metres. At night the bitterly cold winds destroyed their camps, carrying gear as far as 500 metres and stripping the tents from the poles, leaving the stunned climbers exposed to the elements, huddled in their sleeping bags.
Bilczewski, the leader, selected two summit teams, with Jurek on the second. The first team got no higher than Camp IV. Jurek and Andrzej Czok were poised at Camp II, so they now began to move higher up the mountain in anticipation of their summit attempt. When they reached Camp III it was completely buried by snow, so they kept on climbing, arriving late at Camp IV in bitterly cold temperatures. From their previous experience, they knew they had to move Camp IV higher in order to make a serious bid for the top. But the next morning an avalanche landed on their tent, threatening to crush it—and them. They burst out of the flattened tent in a panic, gasping for air. Amazingly, the tent poles were only bent, not broken, so after digging out the tent, straightening the poles and packing up, they moved everything up to 7700 metres. Now on a ridge and subject to the full force of the wind, they were cold and tired but poised for the summit, and that was all that mattered.
Andrzej was strangely quiet in the crowded t
ent. He turned away from Jurek and massaged his legs and feet, vainly trying to rub some life back into them. They had begun to freeze, but he showed no sign of turning back.
The next morning they crawled out and started up. Snow continued to fall. Each time they reached a summit, another loomed just a bit higher. They inched along the summit ridge, peering into the murky half-light. Then, out of the fog, the ridge reared up steeply, taking them completely by surprise. Now they had to concentrate. They couldn’t stop to set up a proper belay, for they would have frozen in place. Instead, they placed running belays and climbed together. This method was not as secure, and it presumed no falls, but it seemed the only option.
They arrived at another high point and discovered a bamboo wand. A bit confused, they looked around, but there was nothing higher: they were on the summit. They barely spoke. Ice encrusted their faces. Jurek took a few quick pictures and they headed down immediately, not even bothering to call base camp on the radio until 4 p.m.
Winter days are short. Within moments it was dark and Jurek and Andrzej were lost on the endless ridge. Wandering in circles, they realized they were in danger of stumbling onto treacherously steep terrain, so they stopped. A bivouac in winter at over 8000 metres is a frightening prospect, but they had no choice. They dug a small hole in the featherlight snow and sank down onto their packs. It was –40° Celsius. They had nothing to eat or drink. Jurek concentrated on one thing only: staying awake. Occasionally he would slip into a dreamlike state, only to wake with horror a few minutes later, thinking that hours had passed and he must be frozen in place. The night dragged on. They beat on each other to keep blood moving to their arms and legs. They spoke quietly, giving each other encouragement and hope. They focused on breathing, on living.
Dawn crept over them. They unfolded their frozen arms and legs from their crouched position and began to move. In half an hour they reached the tent, where they radioed in again, to the immense relief of base camp. Someone asked about their physical condition, at which point Andrzej admitted that he could feel absolutely nothing in his feet.
They spent the next few hours brewing tea and rubbing Andrzej’s feet. It was 2 p.m. before they left the tent, yet they were confident it would be easy going ahead, with a straightforward descent to Camp II or lower. But they had miscalculated how tired they were. Their downward progress was so slow that it looked unlikely they would even make it as far as Camp III. Another bivouac loomed.
Jurek sat down in near defeat. Each subsequent high-altitude bivouac was becoming more difficult for him. He sensed that he only had a few more winter bivouacs left in him; he dared not carelessly spend all of this priceless currency called survival. At that moment, Andrzej disappeared from view. Jurek forced himself to get up and follow Andrzej’s tracks. Then they vanished.
Jurek panicked. He began to traverse over to where he thought Camp III should be. He could see nothing. He shouted. No response. He backtracked to the ridge and shouted again. Completely confused about the route and his location on the mountain, he started down the ridge, all the while convinced he was going the wrong way. But which way was right? And where was Andrzej?
When darkness fell Jurek was still on the ridge, plunging blindly down. That’s when he realized he would be faced with another night in the open. He was still confident that he could last the night, even though he was completely shattered. But he wanted warmth; he so badly wanted a warm drink. His confidence wavered. Maybe this night would end badly—he could die. At that moment the ground dropped out from under him and he was falling. He slammed into the ice with his axe, slowed his fall and ground to a stop. He knew it was time to stop moving, so he dug a small niche in the slope to escape the wind and opened his pack to retrieve his headlamp. It fell. “I sat down on my rucksack and the great battle for survival began all over again.”34
That night he hallucinated wildly. He was in a well-lit village 4000 metres lower, drinking and eating, warm and safe. In and out of consciousness, he spent the night sitting upright, stiffly, so as not to drop anything else. The wind tore at his body, draining what little warmth remained. He slipped into a stupor.
A vision of his favourite alpine hut in the Morskie Oko valley drifted by. Six guys sitting around the table, the soft glow of a candle, a big pot of tea. Talking, laughing, telling tales. Late in the evening, they lower their voices. Someone asks, “Have you touched the looking glass yet? Have you taken a peek?” Jurek looks sideways to see the reaction. Some look blank, not understanding the question. But a few exchange knowing glances with Jurek before looking down. They have taken a peek. So has Jurek. They know what it feels like to approach the thin red line. And they know they’ll go back, to repeat the experience of the greatest possible adrenaline rush. He pours another imaginary cup of tea, warming his cold hands.
At dawn, Jurek was still alive.
He staggered down to Camp II and called out in a hoarse voice. His teammates burst out of the tents, relieved to see him. Andrzej was there, too, safe, except for his feet and fingers. They packed up and headed for Camp I, happy to be together and confident in their plan for the day.
They didn’t reach Camp I. The snow was so deep and the going so slow that they were forced to bivouac one more time, Jurek’s third in as many days. But with a stove, slightly warmer temperatures, thicker air and some soup packets, the experience didn’t feel quite as cruel as the others. They finally reached the security and comfort of base camp in the late afternoon of the following day.
Andrzej’s feet and hands were a mess, badly frozen. The team mobilized quickly to evacuate him to lower ground where he could get proper medical attention. They ate one last meal together and headed down. All except Jurek. He had another mountain to climb, and the shortest distance to it was not down with his team but back over the French Col.
It had been snowing continuously for the past few weeks, so he wasn’t surprised to encounter chest-deep snow. Despite enormous effort, he couldn’t make much headway, and he began to seriously doubt that he would make it through. One possibility was to turn around, go back over the pass, join his team, go to Kathmandu and travel to Cho Oyu the long way. But the days were passing and the Cho Oyu team wouldn’t be there much longer. If he was going to catch up with them he’d have to hurry. It was now January 25. The Cho Oyu permit ended on February 15.
He flailed in the deep snow, creating a kind of tunnel, one metre at a time. It was a mindless, wretched fight that at times brought him to the edge of tears. After an entire day’s effort he looked up and could still see his last bivouac site.
Each night he examined his feet, which were deteriorating at an alarming rate. They had become slightly frostbitten on the Dhaulagiri descent and now they were blistering. The blisters grew each day. They became infected, oozing foul-smelling pus. They had begun to rot. He cleaned them as best he could, wrapped them up in bandages and carried on.
When he reached the village of Marpha, he stumbled into the house where he had stayed on the way in. The family looked at this wretched apparition in disbelief but took him in and fed and housed him. Jurek felt as if he had arrived in paradise. He couldn’t imagine anybody in the whole world happier than he was at that moment.
His happiness evaporated, however, when he learned there wouldn’t be a flight out for three days. No option but to walk on his oozing, blistered feet. He found a porter with whom he made the seven-day trek to Pokhara in only three days. Jurek grabbed a taxi at the trailhead and arrived at the station just as a bus was revving up its motor to depart for Kathmandu. He jumped on board and was in Kathmandu by 10 p.m. He raced over to the trekking agency in charge of the Cho Oyu expedition and radioed the team.
“Polish Cho Oyu expedition. Polish Cho Oyu expedition. Come in, please.”
“Come in. I hear you. Catch a plane immediately. We are waiting for you. Over.”
Jurek bought a ticket for Lukla for the following day and then waited, frustrated, as two days’ flights were cancelled. He got out on
the third day. The pace quickened. He hired a porter who agreed to walk three stages in one day. Jurek’s feet were still numb and oozing yellow pus, but on the second day they walked three more stages. By the third day the porter had had enough and went on strike. At that moment, a runner appeared from the Polish base camp. He picked up the porter’s pack and carried on while Jurek scrambled to keep up. At 2 p.m. on February 8 they arrived at the Cho Oyu base camp. ffering
The expedition was in full swing. Despite Andrzej’s initial assessment of the 2800-metre face as “diabolically dangerous,” two-man teams had fought valiantly for weeks against the cold, the difficulties and the dangers. Now all the camps were in on a new route on the Southeast Pillar, and climbers were at Camp IV, ready for the first summit bid. Ignoring his feet, Jurek repacked his pack, changed his socks, and readied himself for an early-morning departure for Camp I.
He was joined by Zyga Heinrich, a tough, no-nonsense Polish climber who, like Jurek, was not averse to suffering. Jurek and Zyga reached Camp I with no problems. The next day was more difficult as they wove their way around teetering séracs, struggling to free the fixed lines buried beneath the collapsing towers of ice. They crawled up the mountain and waited a day as the first summit team made their attempt.
While Jurek and Zyga huddled high on the mountain, the atmosphere at base camp was electric. With their binoculars, the base camp team could see the wind howling on the summit. Two tiny dots crept across the upper icefield, just below the top. One disappeared, and then the other. Andrzej Zawada grabbed the radio. “Hello, do you hear me?” He heard only a crackling roar, the sound of the wind. “Are you on top?” The answer finally came. “I don’t know. I don’t know, but there is nowhere higher to go!” The two Maciejs—Pawlikowski and Berbeka—were on the summit, lying flat for fear of being blown down the face. Andrzej could not contain himself. “What joy! Such a climb, and in the winter!”
Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore) Page 16