Seven Summits (41 page)

Jennings told the others he would see them back at the hotel, then followed the interpreter as they left for the hospital. It turned out to be a depressingly drab building with bare bulbs lighting gray-green walls. An elder heavyweight nurse escorted them to a room, and soon a doctor came in and made a lengthy examination, asking Jennings for particulars about Borneo. He left, and Jennings was transferred to a gurney.

“What did the doctor say?”

“He said they will have to make a cut in your ear to clean it. But it will be only a small operation.”

Another heavyweight Russian woman wearing a babushka then wheeled the gurney to a bare-walled room with a concrete floor, and left. Jennings was alone, and worried. He knew he was within walking distance of the hotel. He got up and went to the window. It looked like he was up maybe three or four floors. The window opened.

Thank God, he said to himself. A fire escape.

Meanwhile the others had returned to the hotel with no idea of when or where they would next see Jennings. They were still awake when he walked in with a big grin, telling everyone about The Great Moscow Hospital Escape, and that he would be quite happy to put up with his earache, confident the best strategy was to let it heal itself.

It took some patient diplomacy to calm the interpreter as well as the hospital staff the next day, but with everything in order they caught the flight to Mineral Vody, where they began the drive familiar to Frank and Dick up the Baxan Valley to the base of Elbrus.

As was the case in Moscow, their itinerary was planned down to the least minutia. They met their guides as well as a distinguished gray-haired Moscow physician who was in charge of the Elbrus summer camp sports programs to which the Seven Summits group was assigned. He gave them a briefing:

“This morning you will first have your physical examinations. Then in the afternoon you carry your equipment on the ski lift, then hike a short distance to the hut. There you will leave your gear and return to sleep here. This will help your acclimatization.”

With raised eyebrows Emmett glanced at Morgan. Formulized mountain climbing was something new to them, but the Russians really were doing it all in a concern for their safety.

“Then the following day you return to the hut and sleep. The next day you spend at the hut to acclimatize, and the next you start early and climb to the summit.”

Emmett thought it made a very long summit day but again the Russians were so polite it seemed out of place to suggest anything contrary. Besides, Emmett rationalized, they probably had some residual acclimatization from Kilimanjaro, that is other than Morgan and Jennings. But then Jennings’ earache was still bad, so he was probably sidelined from the climb anyway. That meant only Morgan would have to gut it out. None of them felt too bad for Jennings, however, who had been assigned a personal female doctor to look after him. She was an attractive, big-bosomed woman, but at the same time rather serious and professional.

“We'll get her turned around in no time,” Jennings grinned. “Wait till I lay a couple of black lace bras on her.”

Luanne accompanied them when they left next morning on a short bus ride to the small, rickety aerial tramway that took them from 7,500 to 10,500 feet; then a single-chair ski lift took them all to 11,500, the summer snow line. Now they continued on foot, hiking up moderate snow slopes for about 1,800 vertical feet to the metal-sheathed hut, the one they recognized from their previous climb and which looked like a huge Airstream trailer. Here they saw the Russian Olympic ski team at their summer practice. Luanne, wearing pink on white tennis shoes, stepped out smartly, staying up with Frank, who was huff-huffing with his habitual pressure-breathing. When they got to the hut at 13,300 feet, she said, “So that's all there is to this mountain climbing business? Big deal!”

The next day they returned to the hut although Luanne, as planned, remained at the lower hotel with Marian.

“One day is all I need to get a taste of mountain climbing,” she said, “Besides, staying down here watching Jennings is sure to be more entertaining.”

At the hut they were scheduled to have an additional acclimatization day, so Steve Marts, knowing that the actual climb of Elbrus was for the most part a boring slog up a long snow slope, took advantage of the “rest day” to film a climbing sequence on a steep, rocky serac on the glacier near the hut. As had happened on Kilimanjaro, Emmett would lead the hard section, with Frank and Dick following. And again, Dick got up okay, but Frank slipped and was held by Emmett's belay. Morgan stood on the sidelines, watching.

“What kind of documentary is this?” Morgan asked.

“A new genre,” Emmett answered sarcastically, “called a ficumentary.”

They got to bed early that night, as their guides promised a predawn start. True to their word, they woke everyone at 3:00
A.M
., and they were on the trail by 4:00.

It was cold, close to zero. There was wind, but the predawn sky was cloudless and promised good weather for the job. For nearly two hours they followed the trail, moving between rock and snow patch until they reached the base of a continuous snow slope where the guides motioned they should fasten their crampons. This was much lower than where Frank remembered putting on crampons that first climb, but this year there was more snow.

As he fastened the crampon straps over his boots Frank remembered how on the first climb he had been too exhausted even to do this simple chore. How things had changed. Frank felt like the ninety-eight-pound weakling who gets sand kicked in his eyes, disappears to lift weights, and comes back to take care of the bully.

Frank felt great and made good time up the slope. The guides, apparently assuming everyone was climbing well enough not to need assistance, made even better time and soon pulled ahead. Marts and Emmett were also ahead although not quite as far, when they came to the only steep part of the ascent, a back-and-forth traverse up an exposed snow slope. Marts climbed it, showing skill and agility despite his pack full of heavy camera gear. Then it was Emmett's turn. He felt confident, but moved carefully. His crampons squeaked as they bit the hard snow. This was perfect snow for cramponing, as long as you didn't pull a “Wells” and catch your pant leg and trip. Emmett looked down. It was well over a thousand feet until the slope started to ease. A slip here, unroped as they were, would be fatal.

Emmett reached the safety of a rock outcrop at the top of the section, and sat to wait for the others. Marts was perched above him, setting up his camera.

We'd better rope those guys over this, Emmett thought.

Then he realized the Russian guides had all the ropes. He looked up but they had disappeared over the rise. He yelled; no answer. All he could do was talk the guys up, and cross his fingers.

Dick came across first. Emmett noted he was in balance and seemed to climb with confidence. Then he also noted all he had in each hand was a ski pole.

“Bass, where's your ice axe?”

“Don't have one.”

“Don't have one?”

“Frank loaned his to one of the guides, so I let him have mine. Besides, we didn't take such a steep, exposed route last time.”

Emmett guessed it had been warmer when Dick climbed this face two years ago, but now with the snow this hard Emmett knew Dick's only chance of surviving a slip would be to make an arrest with an ice axe. And without an ice axe, his only chance was not to slip.

Emmett also realized the worst thing would be to make Dick nervous.

“Don't worry about it. You'll be all right.”

Emmett tensed as he watched Dick. Marts had his camera on. Dick looked good, though, and made it smoothly. Morgan was next. He was much more experienced, and had his ice axe, but he was also feeling bad, from his lack of acclimatization.

I’ll be glad when this section is behind us, Emmett thought.

Morgan got across, and now it was Frank's turn. Again, Emmett figured the best strategy was to sound encouraging.

“Slow and easy, Frank. We're in no hurry.”

Frank knew the consequences of a slip, and the unlikelihood of his being able to stop himself even though he did have Dick's ice axe. He moved as carefully as he could.

Emmett sat motionless, trying to look nonchalant but with his eyes glued on Frank's feet.

“Make sure you clear your crampons around your pant leg with each step,” Emmett said, trying to sound encouraging.

“I know,” Frank answered curtly.

Fifteen more feet … ten more feet.

Then Marts said, “Frank, could you climb over about five feet. The view below you is incredible.”

Frank snapped. “Goddamnit it, Marts, I’m trying to get across this alive and you want me to—”

“Hold on,” Emmett interrupted. “Don't start yelling, just concentrate on getting across. Steve didn't mean any harm.”

Five more feet … Frank was across.

Emmett grabbed Frank's arm, eased him up to the rock platform, and thought, It's amazing how Frank is only as good as he needs to be. The only time during all these climbs he ever falls is when he can afford to.

Still, Emmett was going to breathe a lot easier when they were not only down from this climb, but when Frank and Dick were finished with the whole project.

Above the rock platform the slope eased and now everyone could relax. Morgan was getting worse, stopping twice to throw up, but insisting he could make the top. Emmett was concerned for his buddy. Morgan's face was ashen, and he was definitely suffering acute mountain sickness. Still, they were close, and Emmett judged if they got up and back down quickly, Morgan would be okay.

Frank was feeling good and strong, an incredible difference from his condition two years earlier. Soon they could see the heads of their Russian guides above them. It looked like they were sitting. A few more feet they could make out a rock cairn next to them. It was the top. With fifty more feet to go, Frank caught up to Dick and put his arm around him.

“We're doing this one together,” Frank said.

“Marts,” Dick yelled, “get your butt up there and get Pancho and me coming in on this one arm-in-arm. And this time the footage better be good.”

They headed for the top, arms over each other's shoulders.

“Pancho, this deserves a poem.”

“’Gunga Din,’” Frank said. “Let's do it together.”

“Now in Injia's sunny clime

Where I used to spend my time …”

Twenty more steps

“A-servin’ of ‘Er Majesty the Queen …”

Ten more steps

“Of all them blackfaced crew

The finest man I knew …”

Five more steps

“Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.”

The others cheered as Frank and Dick, still arm-in-arm, reached the summit and bear-hugged. With the camera rolling, they waved their ice axes, then hugged again.

“Damnit, Dick, I can't tell you how great I feel,” Frank said. “It's just so great.”

Frank was on the edge of tears. He stood on the very top, and looked around the compass. The valleys were filled with noontime clouds, the lesser peaks like snow islands in the fluffy sea. Next to him, on the rock cairn, was a small bronze bust of Lenin. It was a great summit, not as high as some of the others but great nonetheless. Again he thought how this was the first of the Seven Summits he had attempted, the first of what became a long string of failures. He had come back to have his day.

“And it's not like I just barely got up here, either,” he told Dick. “Because I feel absolutely fantastic.”

The only concern now was Morgan. He still hadn't reached the top, but he only had about twenty feet to go. He hunkered over his ice axe, and the others cheered, trying to encourage him. He made ten more feet, and hunkered again.

“You got it. Come on, buddy.”

Morgan was unsteady, but he reached the top. The others gave him hugs, then he sat half-collapsed next to the bust of Lenin and threw up. Then he smiled.

They had all made it. Dick gave out with his summit trademark.

“Aah-eah-eaahhh!”

Morgan looked up. “The only thing wrong,” he said, “is poor Lenin here. He's going to be a lonely boy. We should have brought the inflatable doll, Emmett. Where's the inflatable doll?”

Then Morgan puked again, laughed, and got up to start down.

Back at the hotel they walked into Jennings's room and found the Russian nurse sitting on his bed, draped in black lingerie and wearing a multicolored party hat. A half-finished bottle of Vodka decorated the nightstand.

“Hi, boys,” Jennings grinned. “How was the climb?”

“We made it. Looks like you did too.”

“I’m happy to announce my ear infection is cured.”

They had a celebration dinner that night and after two more days of relaxation started home. Now their only concern was getting out of Russia. While waiting at the airport in Mineral Vody they met an interesting British engineer who had been living for several years in Russia helping install western technology in Russian factories.

“It's been terrible,” he said. “No flights out of Moscow and thousands stranded. I haven't heard any news for a few days, but I doubt it has improved.”

“You won't hear the end of this,” Luanne said to Frank.

Eight hours later they arrived in Moscow, and there was the affable Monastersky, attentively waiting to take them to their hotel.

“Mikail, we understand there is a serious problem with the airline boycott.”

“Problem? Who told you this?”

“An Englishman we met in Mineral Vody.”

“Problem? Oh, yes. He is right. Big problem. No more flights now, maybe never.” Monastersky took his time to light a cigarette, letting the information sink in. Then he said, “You spend rest of your life in Soviet Union!”

The women went ashen, and Frank and Dick felt their stomachs tighten. Then Monastersky gave them a big stainless steel smile and said, “Good joke, huh?”

Actually the boycott was still in full swing, but there were a few flights out to less-frequented destinations, and Monastersky as usual had taken care of everything, booking the necessary connections. Jennings left via Helsinki, Morgan was out to India by way of Tashkent, and the rest made a connection through Vienna.