McDonald - Freedom Climbers

APPENDIX
Chronology of Major Polish Himalayan Climbs

I have always said that Poles are gifted, Perhaps too gifted. But gifted for what?

GNTER GRASS

She was standing at the bar with a beer in her hand. What struck me immediately was her warmth. Surrounded by adoring fans, she was telling a story about climbing, I assumed. She punctuated her tale with weather-beaten hands, but the real telling was in her face. Deep-set espresso eyes encircled by the sorts of lines that come from laughter and high-altitude winds. A broad expanse of forehead obscured by an unruly mop of wavy chestnut hair. And a smile so wide it completely melted that strong, Polish jaw.

As I approached the bar, she glanced over. Hi. Come on. Have a beer. Im Wanda.

Of course, I knew that. Meeting Wanda Rutkiewicz was one of the reasons I had travelled halfway around the world to this mountain film festival on the French Riviera. Antibes is a lovely spot, but not in December.

We skipped that evenings film program. Instead, we stood at the theatre lobby bar, talking, laughing, sharing stories of mutual acquaintances. She spoke of Jerzy Kukuczka, Polands leading alpinist, who had died two years before on the South Face of Lhotse. This gentle giant of a man had been one of Wandas dearest friends. I had met him a couple of times, once in Kathmandu on his return from the first winter ascent of Kangchenjunga, and again in northern Italy, where we had enjoyed a three-hour lunch together. There were others: Kurtyka, Diemberger, Curran. Lots of stories. Lots of laughs. Lots of beer.

As I stood next to Wanda, I was amazed at how slight she was. It was hard to imagine her shouldering a heavy pack up a mountain. She was slender, almost delicate. Except for that jaw. And of course her hands, which were muscular and rough.

I was surprised too at how she was dressed. I expected a strong style statement from this Polish star: retro, dirtbag, elegant, I wasnt sure what, but something. Instead, she was wearing the most ordinary mismatched array of fleece and cotton. Of course, she was just back from an expedition to Dhaulagiri and had hardly found time to catch her breath, let alone dress for a party.

As the evening unfolded I revealed my ulterior motive, which was to persuade her to give the opening lecture at the next Banff Mountain Film Festival. That was part of my job as director. She enthusiastically agreed. Then we glanced over at Marion Feik, her somewhat protective manager, hovering nearby. The three of us talked and agreed that Wanda could make the trip to Canada in November 1992.

A couple of hours later, as the audience streamed out of the theatre, we were still standing at the bar. We refilled our drinks and drifted over to some tattered leather armchairs in the now empty lobby.

So, Bernadette, I want to tell you about my plan, said Wanda. I call it the Caravan of Dreams.

Sounds interesting.

I intend to become the first woman to climb all 14 of the 8000-metre peaks. You know I have done eight. I want to do the rest

Well if anyone can do it, you can.

in 18 months.

What? Are you serious? Really serious? I dont think its possible.

Yes, yes, it is possible, because that way I keep the acclimatization, dont you see? It is better to go quickly from one to another.

I put down my glass and leaned forward. Wanda, seriously, you cant do this its a dangerous plan. Have you actually talked to anyone about this? Other climbers? What do they say?

I protested as best I could. I was sure her plan was unreasonable, even though I had never climbed an 8000-metre peak. Nobody had done anything like this before. Climbers took years to collect the 8000ers, and only Reinhold Messner and Jerzy Kukuczka had summited all 14. Why was she in such a rush, I asked? What about the fatigue factor?

Marion cast me a pitying look. She had heard these objections before. Many times. I could tell from her glance that she agreed with me. But it wasnt Marion who was driving the agenda. It was Wandas plan, and Wanda was in a hurry.

Im almost 50, she said, brushing her hair off her face. Im slowing down. I dont acclimatize as quickly as I used to. So I have to be strategic and group them together. I can do it, I know. I just need luck with the weather.

I stopped protesting. Clearly, there was no point in arguing with Wanda.

We agreed to stay in touch over the next months, between her expeditions. She would keep me updated, and I would start the publicity machine to promote her Canadian appearance.

Wanda sent me an aerogram letter from Kathmandu the following spring, 1992, just before heading off to climb Kangchenjunga. This would be her ninth 8000er. She sounded confident, determined, and eager to be done with it. I wished her luck.

Wanda never returned.

Two years later I was in Katowice, the industrial heartland of Poland, where I was helping organize a film festival. It was wildly successful, with hundreds of enthusiastic people milling about, watching films and reconnecting with their friends. The atmosphere in the auditorium was electric, despite the gloomy Polish winter. The scale of the climbing community in this cold industrial wasteland astonished me; the climbers seemed hardened, rough around the edges, intense. I was intrigued.

At the end of the festival a group of climbers invited me to the local clubhouse of the Polish Alpine Association. Another dank, dingy building, windows smudged with residue from the nearby smokestacks, but inside there was warmth, light, plenty of vodka and an energy level that rivalled a rock concert.

Many of the surviving great Polish Himalayan climbers were there: Zawada, Wielicki, Hajzer, Lwow, Majer, Pawlowski and more. I knew their histories and I had the impression that these alpinists were special, even visionary. I could see it in their eyes. They were fearless about tackling new routes in the great ranges and seemed impervious to the suffering implicit in going after (and often succeeding on) unforgiving winter ascents of the highest mountains on Earth.

But there was also a palpable sadness in the room. I couldnt ignore the repeated references to those who had sacrificed their lives for the mountains they had loved. Jerzy Kukuczka was one. Wanda was another. I expressed my admiration for both of them, and my luck at having known them, albeit briefly. There were smiling nods but troubling stories, particularly about Wanda. You were charmed by her, one of them said. She had another side. Very hard. Calculating. She could be tough, like a bull.

I protested. Of course she needed to be tough in order to survive her lifestyle. Yes, thats true, another climber admitted, as he pulled at his impressive mustache. But she tried too hard. Always fighting. Difficult. Competing. We loved her, but she didnt seem to know that. She thought she was alone. She pushed us away. But we loved Wanda.

What about Kukuczka? I asked. Was he a fighter too?

No, no, Jerzy had no time to fight. He was too busy climbing. He got distracted for awhile the race you know, with Reinhold Messner. They both wanted to be the first to climb all 14 of the 8000ers. But he came back once he was done with that. He came back to the real climbing the big faces.

But thats what killed him, I countered.

Yes, thats true. But he was a real climber Polands best.

They talked of the changing times, of the crazy yet good old days of Communism, when the central government understood and supported the needs of climbers at least the very best ones. They spoke with pride of the entrepreneurial skills they had honed in order to support their Himalayan habit. Climbers had risked their lives not only in the mountains but in their jobs as well, cleaning and painting industrial chimneys and scaling the slippery, unstable smokestacks that punctuated the Katowice skyline. This was dangerous work, not only because they risked falling but also because of the toxic environment. They whispered veiled hints about smuggling how lucrative it had been. But times had changed, and now they felt cast aside from the crumbling heap of the Polish free-market economy.