Jerzy Kukuczka
Challenge the Vertical
C hal l enge the Verti c al
Jerzy Kukuczka
C hal l enge the Verti c al
Jerzy Kukuczka
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Challenge the Vertical by Jerzy Kukuczka
Contents
Original title Mój Pionowy Świat
© Copyright Cecylia Kukuczka
© Copyright for the English translation Danuta Holata-Loetz, 2015
© Photographs from the family archives of Jerzy Kukuczka
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic,
mechanical, or other means, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Translated by Danuta Holata-Loetz
Edited by Tony Marson
Book design Mateusz Solecki
Cover design by Marta Musiolik
Typography and layout by Tony Marson
Published by The Great Man Foundation, Katowice, 2015
All trade inquires: [email protected]
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www.kukuczka.net
official website
Second English-language edition
Manufactured in Poland, 2015
ISBN 978-83-937896-7-2
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www.jerzykukuczka.pl
virtual museum
In My Memories
7
The World Gets Vertical
9
The Lower Neighbour: Lhotse, the NW Face: October 1979
12
Polish-ed Everest: Mount Everest, S Face: May 1980
30
My Lucky Plastic Ladybird: Makalu, NW Ridge: October 1981
42
A Stolen Mountain: Broad Peak, W Face: July 1982
60
A Mountain on Instalments: Gasherbrum II, SE Ridge
Gasherbrum I (Hidden Peak) SW Face: June-July 1983
72
A Run-over Snake: Broad Peak, Traverse of Broad Peak
North and Broad Peak Central: July 1984
87
8,167 Metres Worth of Snow and Fog: Dhaulagiri, NE Ridge:
January 1985
101
Final Rungs on the Ladder: Cho Oyu, SE Pillar: February 1985
118
Nanga, the Unforgiving: Nanga Parbat, SE Pillar: July 1985
130
A Rucksack on a Mountain Slope:
Lhotse, Attempt on the S Face: October 1985
148
Eternal Rest: Kangchenjunga, SW Face: January 1986
155
Stick To Your Guns: K2, S Face: July 1986
166
It’s Nothing: Manaslu, NE Face: November 1986
186
Infernal Frost: Annapurna, N Face: February1987
202
Peking Duck
213
Fourteen Times Eight: Shisha Pangma, W Ridge:
September 1987
224
The South Face of Lhotse:
September 1989: Unfinished texts
238
238
From the diary of Jerzy Kukuczka
242
Climbing Record
253
In My Memories
Cecylia Kukuczka
In my life, I was given something grand, beautiful and unique — it was my good
luck to have been married to Jerzy Kukuczka and to have shared nearly twenty
years of his life. I was witness to his great achievements but also to his failures
and despairs, to times of happiness as well as to tough moments on the path
of life he had chosen to tread. Though so many years have elapsed since his
demise, the pain over my loss has not abated.
Whenever asked to talk about him I just say he was my husband, father of
our two sons and the mainstay of our family life. Throughout our time together
I kept discovering ever new valuable traits of Jerzy’s which had bound me closer
to him. The core of his character was his good and honest heart. Similarly
constant was his modesty; though successful and world famous he remained
an approachable and unpretentious person, shunning public pomp or private
ostentation. Although, rather loath to express emotion, he loved our sons,
Maciek and Wojtek, unconditionally. I can still see something of Jerzy in them
— Maciek’s strong figure and Wojtek’s strong character. Our family retreat, a
tiny log house in the mountains, with its tress and garden was his hobby. He
never tired of repairing or improving something, though truth to tell, strapped
for time, he sometimes left projects for me to finish. Myself, our parents, in-laws
and other relatives all feel the same, we were just an ordinary family.
The region, the Silesian Beskids, was Jerzy’s home ground, he knew and loved
the local people — Gorals, spoke their dialect and we observed many of the
regional traditions. Naturally sociable and friendly, he was in his element when
surrounded by guests at a New Year party in our log house or when singing folk
songs around a campfire. Yet it was among the high mountains where he was
at his best, as they were his passion. Climbing was his inner quest, something
he did fueled from within. When asked why he so willingly exposed himself to
the hardships and dangers of mountaineering, he used to reply: “In one month
7
of intense living in the mountains you have lived through a few years. Mountain
climbing is for those who are greedy for life. You never have enough of life”. This
ardour of his, together with his willpower and perseverance, made him truly
successful. This character trait to follow his heart no matter what, connected
Jerzy to his folks — hardy and proud Gorals.
Through his achievements Jerzy fulfilled not only his but also our dreams.
Don’t we all at times cherish a wish to reach what seems unreachable and have
a hope to conquer what seems insurmountable? He proved to us that one can
overcome and that one can always reach further.
Yes, it was simply fascinating and inspiring to be near him. He was proud of
what he had achieved as a mountaineer and our pride swells at the thought
that one from our midst accomplished so much and shared his victories with
us. Mountains were his life and the mountains claimed his life. There he
remained. Could it have been otherwise?
8
The World Gets Vertical
I first touched rock on a Saturday afternoon, 4th September 1965. Since then
nothing else has mattered. I even gave up my hiking tours in the Beskidy
Mountains, which had been my way to escape from our drab Silesian reality —
a small taste of greenery and freedom, if only on one day a week.
Brought to Podlesicie by a friend of mine, I saw 20-metre high limestone
outcrops where people climbed even the vertical walls. I touched it, pulled
myself up and felt that I could not only somehow keep my balance on the rock
but also possibly conquer it. That was how I discovered for myself a completely
new vertical world.
A year later, after an 11-day-long climbing course, I remained in the Tatra
Mountains to do a climb on Zamarła Turnia, still shrouded in an old myth of
extreme difficulty. With Piotrek Skorupa on the following morning we decided
to tackle a route considered the most difficult in the Tatras — the left pillar of
Kazalnica. After the first four pitches, to my intense frustration we had to rope
down because my home-made hammer had broken.
Soon afterwards Piotrek and I took an extra week of holiday and returned to
the Tatras, since the Kazalnica pillar had never once left our minds. And we
conquered it! In a space of one and half days we had joined the elite of Polish
Tatra climbers.
Following this achievement we were invited to take part in a mountaineering
course for promising young climbers preparing for the Dolomites and Alps. But
it was never going to happen for me. I considered the military draft to be a nonstarter, since for two years I would be torn away from what had become the
whole essence of my life — the mountains. So back in civvies again, we decided
to make a winter attempt on the Kazalnica Direttissima. It was considered at
that time, despite repeated attempts, to be the biggest unsolved problem of
the Polish Tatras.
Halfway through our second day of climbing it was an ice-covered rope that
caused it all! Piotrek Skorupa, climbing below me, fell to his death. For the first
9
time I had to face a tragedy in the mountains, the death of a friend, and feel the
total shock of it all. After a return to Katowice and a painful meeting with his
family, came the funeral. I asked myself, was it worth continuing? Did any of it
make sense? The mountains continued to call to my heart but my head said
forget it.
Three weeks later I was back in the Tatras and after a few first winter ascents,
I had shaken off all my doubts.
In 1971, during a mountaineering club camp in the Dolomites, I got together
with Janusz Skorek and Zbyszek Wach to tackle the Direttissima on Torre Trieste
and then put up a new route on Cima del Bancon. Years earlier I had read
Dorawski’s book Człowiek zdobywa Himalaje [The Conquering of the
Himalaya] — a tale of mountains that were rather unreal for me, almost a
fantasy story. Now increasingly the daring thought crossed my mind that
maybe one day I’d get a chance to climb the world’s highest mountains myself.
During a Silesian expedition to the mountains of Alaska, at an elevation of
just 4,500 metres, I succumbed to mountain sickness. It was only through
dogged determination that I managed to scramble to the top of Mount
McKinley, a mountain of six thousand metres. On the descent I got frostbite,
came back to Poland and went straight into hospital.
This experience really hit my confidence, and my mountaineering lifestyle
got stuck in a groove. I felt I didn’t belong anymore, though I managed to get
places on some climbing trips organised by the mountaineering and students’
clubs. Together with Wojtek Kurtyka I even put up two new routes in the Alps,
one on the north face of Petit Dru and the other on the north face of Grandes
Jorasses. But the way to the highest mountains was still barred to me.
Then at last in 1975 I took part in an expedition organised by the
Mountaineering Club of Gliwice to go to the Hindu Kush, a true foretaste of the
Himalaya. Again luck wasn’t with me and at the very beginning of the expedition I fell ill and couldn’t be included in the summit push to the top of Kohe Tez.
On the day after their successful ascent, Janusz Skorek, Grzegorz Fligiel and
Marek Łukaszewski slipped on the descent and fell several hundred metres.
They were badly battered but lived, so the expedition ended up being a
successful rescue action. Before we left the area I soloed the normal route to
the summit of Kohe Tez at over seven thousand metres.
In 1978 my own Mountaineering Club of Katowice organised an expedition
to the Himalaya, with the aim of ascending Nanga Parbat via its east pillar.
Standing at the foot of these five thousand metres of a mountain face … we
nearly shat ourselves. The ascent was by the normal route but at a height of
more than eight thousand metres a rock barrier stopped our progress and
forced us to retreat.
10
We began our descent in beautiful October weather, crossing a thin woodland painted yellow and gold by the autumn. I kept walking and tried not to
look back to the wall of the great mountain — which I had failed to climb —
and which dominated the landscape, illuminated by the setting sun. This view
created in me a feeling of terrible regret, I had so nearly reached the summit…
It was my only consolation that one day I would be back in these great mountains. I had to return. And I did. Afterwards I wrote this book.
I have never felt the need to define my reasons for climbing. I have gone to
the mountains and conquered them. That’s all.
11
The Lower Neighbour
Lhotse, the North-West Face
October 1979
‘This sort of work would normally be done by a huge and specialised company
like the Metallurgic Repair and Maintenance Company. Ever heard of it?’ The
director was apparently trying hard to maintain his authority.
It was 1978.
On the wall of his office hung a copy of the national emblem, a puny fern
plant stood next to his desk, whilst several dusty volumes of Lenin’s Collected
Works inhabited a shelf in a glass cabinet. Through the window the view was
dominated by a massive old chimney stack, and it was because of the chimney
stack that we were here.
Having heard the director’s statement, we rose from the chairs in which we
had hardly had time to get seated.
‘Yes we see… Maybe another time.’ We moved towards the door, but the
game was not over yet.
‘Oh, hang on. Why don’t we talk this through?’
He knew that a mammoth enterprise such as the Metallurgic Repair and
Maintenance Company could do anything in engineering, including the
construction of a complete steelmaking furnace. They had action plans for all
of their activities, enormous quotations and even worse, lots of extras. But it
was jobs like renovation of chimney stacks that the MRMC seemed as a rule to
never have time for. Though still quite wary of not tarnishing his authority in
the process, the director insisted on our staying in his office.
‘It would be interesting to know how much time you need for this,
gentlemen?’
The massive chimney stack, badly weathered and peeling, loomed behind
the window. Looking appraisingly at it we shook our heads, our facial
12
expressions bearing a slight disdain, ‘Perhaps two weeks. Maybe we’d manage
in one if things went well.’
‘A week?’ The director, obviously amused, shifted his weight in the armchair.
‘One week is not even enough to put up scaffolding!’
‘But we paint without scaffolding.’
‘How then?’
‘Roped.’
It went very quiet while the director’s mind teemed with all sorts of thoughts.
Two young, and at first glance rather insolent men, were standing in front of
him; behind the window stood the damned chimney stack. For years rust had
been eating into it, though it should have been treated and painted very year,
or every two years at the most. Such were official regulations. But who could
do it if there were no contractors for such renovation jobs? A few more years
and the stack would most likely just crumble down to pieces. And then? He’d
rather not continue with that particularly gloomy train of thought. The concentration on his face became more intense, but all of a sudden he switched into
a grimace of benevolent interest, ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Doesn’t matter. We don’t want to be a nuisance.’
Normally at this stage an important CEO of a huge steelworks, would press
a button on his desk. Were he less important, he would reach for the phone.
And if he was just a manager of a very old steel mill, he would get up from his
desk, go over to the door and keeping it slightly ajar would ask: “Could you get
us two coffees please?” He would then return to his desk or put down the
receiver.
Whatever he then did, he would say something along these lines: “I’ve
already had three coffees today and two meetings. Can’t drink any more, you
see.”
His hand would make a distinct wave towards his heart and his face would
turn serious in mock suffering. Were we not aware of this heavy burden of
responsibility weighing down upon his directorial shoulders? All those urgent
matters that only he was entrusted to deal with, as if the steelworks had no
other staff?
But we knew our situation — the director’s resolve was crumbling.
What we needed to finance our expedition to the Himalaya lay in the region
of one million zlotys. To conquer Lhotse, the fourth highest peak of the world!
These days we are more used to six-digit figures, but at that time it was an
immense sum of money — in 1978 one million zlotys was the equivalent of two
hundred average monthly salaries.
For the renovation of such an 80-metre-high chimney stack, we would
usually ask for a quarter of a million zlotys. That meant that the trip to Lhotse
13
would cost us having to work on five such chimneys, or even more when such
deductions were taken into account as the percentage gleaned by the
Mountaineering Club and others, taxes, and costs of paint — which couldn’t
just be bought but had to be “organised” by greasing somebody’s palm. So call
it six chimney stacks. But firstly, for each job, a formal commission had to be
obtained, which was why we had to pay the director this visit.
‘Roped?’ It was plain to see that he could hardly believe it. Yet the spectre of
controlling commissions, which could nag him any time, was impossible to
banish.
‘We are climbers. We really know how to do it.’
‘Well, well, well…. Roped you say….’ He simply failed to image what it
involved or would look like. Yet at the same time, though he’d rather die than
admit it, he realised that we were simply a godsend, sent straight from heaven
to save his wretched, rusty chimney stack. But he still needed to keep his pride.
‘But we are, as you well know, a state-owned company. For such serious jobs
we cannot just outsource any…’ He bit his tongue and finished ‘I mean some
private people.’
‘This money has been earmarked for the Foundation for Youth Social Action.
Everything is precisely formulated in its regulations. It’s not the first time that
we have raised funds like this.’ If need be we could recite appropriate passages
from the civil code and even chapter and verse, if pushed. We were well
prepared and had done our homework.
‘OK, OK… I’ll have to let our legal department look at it anyway, just in case…
but, er, when could you make a start on that chimney stack?’ We had won. But
so had the director.
This time success, but we had to have plenty of such talks and much too
often they turned out to be shorter and to no avail. To secure a million zlotys
was not easy.
***
But why was Lhotse our goal? It was a long story. Back to the seventies we used
to climb mostly in the Tatras — a trip to the Alps was the utmost achievement.
Later we sniffed out an opportunity to make relatively inexpensive expeditions
to the Afghan Hindu Kush. With not too much money, one was able to fulfill a
dream of climbing a mountain seven thousand metres high! But the appetites
and ambitions of Polish mountaineers didn’t stop there.
In the latter part of the seventies the first Polish expeditions set out to the
Himalaya. Janusz Kurczab led his expedition to K2, Wanda Rutkiewicz led hers to
Gasherbrums and an expedition from the Wrocław Mountaineering Club went
14
to Broad Peak. These were the pioneers of Polish high-altitude mountaineering.
Between the years 1977 and 1979 mountaineering expeditions multiplied. At one
point the Polish Mountain Club (Polski Klub Górski) was granted permission to
climb Lhotse, while simultaneously applying for permission to tackle other
summits. When the news reached Warsaw that the permit had been issued for
us to climb the virgin peaks of Kangchenjunga South and Central, the Polish
Mountaineering Association (PZA) was suddenly spoilt for choice.
Since Kanchenjunga offered a more ambitious challenge, it was decided to
devote all organisational energies to that. But what of Lhotse? The Polish
Mountaineering Association felt forced to simply give it a miss. Would anyone
in Poland be willing and capable of organising such an expedition within one
year? It was the Gliwice Mountaineering Club that said yes. The man to head
this daring undertaking was Adam Bilczewski.
That’s how it all started. We hoisted ourself up and abseiled down industrial
chimney stacks but thought constantly about ascending Lhotse. In fact those
chimney stacks were not such a bad thing after all. In order to help our sponsor,
the Foundation for Youth Social Action, fill its kitty, prospective expedition
members — not uncommonly gentlemen in their forties with high academic
titles — hung roped to these chimney stacks toting oversized paintbrushes and
bucketfuls of paint. The prospect of going to the Himalaya can elate anyone,
irrespective of age and university grades. This whole campaign for “chimney
stack millions” was fought on late afternoons on Saturdays and Sundays,
because each of us had to work or study on weekdays.
Some worked long hours, some much shorter, but the latter made up for it
by doing admin or organisational work for an expedition. For example,
someone had to crisscross Poland, not a small country, in order to secure a
supply of proper down for our sleeping bags and jackets. When not hanging
from a rope, we were busy organising all that stuff a Himalayan expedition
couldn’t do without.
With nearly ninety percent of our million pooled together we received small
donations from the Voivodeship Commission for Sport and Tourism
(Wojewódzki Komitet Kultury Fizycznej — WKKF) and other and other institutions, but the real problem was to obtain dollars, we needed hard currency! At
that time it was still possible to employ the agency of the WKKF and obtain as
a tourist $150 per person per year. We never saw these greenbacks personally
as they all landed in our communal kitty, designed to pay the expedition
expenses abroad. But no matter how dogged and devout our determination
might have been to fill up the kitty, there was still not enough in it to take us as
far as we wanted. It was not until Robert Niklas became a team member that
our problem got solved.
15
He used to climb with us in the Tatras and was one of my first climbing
instructors. In 1970 or so he went to Western Germany and stayed there. Now,
since he had paid for his participation in our expedition in hard currency, our
kitty bulged to a trust-inspiring size.
***
But enough about soft money or hard currencies... the Lhotse expedition!
Inviting me to participate in it, the board of the Gliwice club turned a blind
eye to all my deficiencies as a high-altitude mountaineer. It was Adam
Bilczewski and Janusz Baranek from the Gliwice club who knew first hand how
much I’d failed in Alaska when altitude sickness cut me down at a mere five
thousand metres. They were there when it happened and saw it all but still they
invited me to join their expedition. There was a clearly defined group of six to
eight climbers within the 19-strong team who were considered a safe bet for a
successful assault on the mountain and I was regarded as part of this elite
group. But up in the mountains any of us could be confronted by that unpredictable problem — our bodies’ performance at altitude — since none of us
had had an opportunity to test themselves fully. Admittedly, I had been at seven
thousand metres in the Hindu Kush and was once, briefly, just below the
summit of Nanga Parbat, with the 8000-metre line within my reach, but there
are no guarantees where mountains set the rules.
Lhotse, the fourth highest mountain of the world at a height of 8,511 metres,
was bound to have its own agenda.
I was under no illusions that by enlisting me for their expedition, the others
had forgotten about my earlier shortcomings. Once is enough when someone
bad mouths you — then you are branded for a long, long time. For that reason
I needed to set the record straight on Lhotse. I especially needed to impress
those who were with me in Alaska with a much better performance this time.
***
We flew to Mumbai but our lorry, a Star, and our van, a Nysa, were already there,
having been sent by sea, packed to the brim with all our equipment and
supplies. In these two vehicles we were to cross the whole of India and head
on to Nepal.
It was my first time in India. Since it was the onset of the monsoon season,
we were welcomed by a heavy downpour. In a taxi we left behind a more or
less civilised airport and got to a town quarter of seedy hotels, the only ones
we were able to afford. Our $2 rooms were dirty cubbyholes with bunk beds
16
Jerzy Kukuczka while working as a high-altitude painter in Upper Silesia
On the approach
march to Lhotse Base
Camp, 1979
Małgorzata
Kiełkowska and
Leszek Czarnecki (in
the middle) paying off
Nepalese porters
and rats freely roaming the hotel corridors. The rain never stopped and the air
was sultry and oppressively hot.
I hardly slept a wink in my first night in India. I lay on a filthy bed, dozing
uncomfortably, startled every now and again by a rattling noise against a
windowsill. A disturbing thought gnawed at the back of my mind: “so this is
what the travels of intrepid explorers look like!”
We were constantly being reminded not to eat anything of unknown origin
or of dubious hygiene standards, and were virtually banned from drinking
water at all. Scarcely anything was allowed, so how could we Europeans survive
in this place at all? Yes, we were permitted to drink coke or lemonade from
capped bottles, a sort of guarantee they would be free from amoeba. But could
we afford it?
The purse-keeper of our expedition, Małgosia Kiełkowska, kept a tight grip
on our kitty. Each of us contributed his own $150 to it but she defended the
expedition purse like a lioness her cubs. Once, just one single time during the
whole expedition, she stingily counted out for each of us just enough cents to
buy one coke. I have a vivid memory of this occasion, since we considered it a
feast. Even if some of us had secret nest eggs, we treated these paltry ten or
twenty bucks as a sacred hoard worthy only of noble purchases. When tempted,
we might finger a banknote for an anguished minute or two but then always
return it to our wallets. Self-denial born from meagre means was an attitude
common among Polish tourists abroad at that time. Skimp, skip and be happy
— foreign travel á la polacca.
In a very short time the Indian reality annihilated our preconceived theories
about it. We brought with us the notions about India that we had gathered by
reading books and listening to those who’d been more experienced in travelling
abroad. Within hours it all proved to be but a myth. One has to learn India by
personal experience, on the spot and from scratch.
Early on I had to revise for myself all that I had been taught or heard about
that part of the world. For example I was advised to always haggle but the result
was that in my “cleverness” I only quarrelled when it was least necessary. Pretty
soon I discovered, too, that those entirely different and exotic people around
me were human beings exactly like myself. The simplistic principle which had
been instilled in my mind that it’s just a mob one shouldn’t even try to communicate with, was discarded before I could apply it. Talking with those people
was what we tried to do and not only when there were formal matters to see
to. We never thought of ourselves as “white men”, so it all worked smoothly.
Nevertheless it took me some time to start feeling at ease in India.
Two days after our arrival we succeeded in retrieving all our luggage from
customs and were finally able to set out north-east across the entire Indian
17
subcontinent. I don’t think I’ll ever forget my first impressions from this part of
our trip. To get out of town, our big lorry — with an even bigger trailer — and
our van laboriously pushed their way through a tangle of erratically-moving
taxicabs, cyclists and other lorries that all followed rules of traffic impenetrable
to us. If there even were any. It was a constant stress to figure out when to give
way and when it was better not to, since the only obvious rule, or natural law,
was that the biggest and strongest had right of way. Our drivers, Wiesiek
Lipiński and Andrzej Popowicz, somehow mastered this madness and took us
and the vehicles unscathed out into the countryside.
At every step we could directly experience how densely populated that
country was. We might stop in what looked like the middle of nowhere, an area
devoid of human population as far as the eye could reach, and within minutes
would be surrounded by natives. They would flock towards our cars, looking
intensely at us, and touch whatever was within their reach, including us. We
must have been as much a novelty to them as they were for us. They weren’t
aggressive, just intrusive, and their constant presence deprived us of any hint
of privacy. While I was eating, they would stand around me and stare into my
pot until it was empty. One more move, I thought, someone would put his
finger into my pot to scrape and lick it clean. There was not a hint of malice in
it, just mere curiosity which, when directed toward me, deprived my ego of its
protective shield. They were no beggars either, as they didn’t ask to be given
anything save a chance to watch. If offered something, they would take it
without a word. The rest of the time they would just stand there and glare at
us.
We were on the road for two weeks. And so was the rain. The torrent never
stopped, so the condition of being soaked to the skin became permanent. Soon
we had no dry things to put on. Our clothing consisted of the things that were
wet and dirty and those that were wet and clean, the latter diminishing quickly.
We stayed in “hotels” with bunk beds and hordes of rats keeping us company
or slept by our vehicles surrounded by herds of natives. I couldn’t resist the
feeling that they clung to me like a swarm of aphids. I managed to stay in
control by repeating to myself, “They are not here, ignore them, they are not
here, ignore them…” I can’t say now what was more of an ordeal: the ratty filthy
hotels or nights in the open under the continuous scrutiny of dozens of zealous
eyes.
At long last we arrived in Kathmandu and with pomp worthy of a much
grander occasion we drove into the yard of the Polish embassy. The minister
plenipotentiary was Andrzej Wawrzyniak, a bit of celebrity as the founder and
director of the Museum of Asia and the Pacific in Warsaw. We greatly appreciated his whole-hearted willingness and efforts to assist us in arranging our stay.
18
Since at that time it was still something of a rare event for an expedition like
ours to come from Poland to Nepal, we were able to take up quite a lot of his
time. More recently when four or five large teams of mountaineers appeared
there every year, the enthusiasm and hospitality of the embassy understandably started to flag. In the end, even for our most devoted and duty-minded
diplomat mountaineers became a troublesome burden. But maybe to some
extent it was his own fault? He acted as, and expected to be thought of as, our
host whose obligation it was to control everything. Small wonder then that we
overstayed our welcome by making too many demands on his time and hospitality.
I also had to ensure that things got done, since we needed to re-pack all our
equipment. It was divided into loads of 30-35 kilos and what we deemed as
unnecessary had to be deposited in the embassy. Bilczewski and Kiełkowski
lost no time and ran from office to office collecting innumerable papers with
unreadable seals, stamps and signatures. Soon everything was ready and off
we went to the hills.
The trek took us nearly nineteen days. At first we marched along Nepalese
valleys to reach shortly hilly heights covered by rice paddies. Day after day it
was an uphill slog which took us higher and higher.
Like any other climbing expedition we used the services of a local agency
when recruiting porters. Ours, Sherpa Cooperative, was responsible for organising and overseeing the whole transport as well as hiring a cook for us. Every
sirdar in charge of his expedition had the same aim of providing it with
“comfortable conditions”, which boiled down to foisting as many of his
employees on us, as he could persuade us to pay for. We would have much
preferred to forget about this “comfort” and avoid hiring any porters at all. After
prolonged negotiations we were successful in hiring just five “functionaries”: a
cook with two of his helpers, a sirdar as a mountain guide and the obligatory
liaison officer in his capacity as an official of the Nepalese government, or to be
precise, the Ministry of Tourism. Our joy at this success was short-lived, however.
The sirdar firmly insisted on having with him assistants of his choice, so-called
“naiks”, at which the agency’s employees nodded their heads in keen affirmation.
‘It certainly involves some extra expense but in this way, gentlemen, you
won’t have to trouble yourself with any issues connected with your trek to the
mountains. You’ll be walking to Base Camp without a hint of work,’ they argued
persuasively. As it turned out later it was more than one hint of work that we
had to do.
On day one the sirdar demanded money for the porters for seven days in
advance and he got it. We in turn decided that if the approach march was
19
managed by such professionals, we could take a full advantage of the leisure
the trek was supposed to offer. If we watched what was going on among the
porters, it was with mild curiosity about the local colour. However, I could never
understand why one porter walked carefree with his hands in the pockets, while
another one was toiling under the weight of a double load. The one with his
hands in the pockets must have been able to sub-hire another one. Strange
folks…
After two days’ march the whole caravan came to a halt, as the porters
demanded to either be paid immediately, or to go no further. The bubble of a
leisurely trek burst. We called the sirdar in for explanations.
‘Why haven’t those people been paid?’
‘Because I have no money left. I’ve paid it all to them,’ he beat his breast.
‘The day before yesterday you got the money for the whole week to be paid
out daily.’
‘Yes, I did,’ he admitted undisturbed.
So we took a piece of paper and did the calculations together with him. ‘As
it turns out, you should still have ten thousand rupees left on you.’
‘But I haven’t.’
‘What do you mean, you haven’t?’
‘That I don’t. I gave it all.’
‘Who did you give it to?’
‘To the naiks,’ nothing could throw the siradar off balance.
‘In that case the naiks have to pay the porters,’ we tried to put pressure on
him in these difficult negotiations.
‘Yes, they should have. But it was not enough…’
It became obvious that we wouldn’t get anywhere talking to him, he had
“given” the money and that was that.
For a comfortably-financed expedition, ten thousand rupees ($1,000), was no
vast sum, but for us it was a fortune. All our finances were calculated tightly and
precisely to the last cent, so a moment might come that the entire undertaking
would fail for the want of even a hundred rupees. We had no surplus of dollars
whatsoever. If our team had consisted of climbers from the West, each of them
in this situation would have reached for his wallet and taken out a hundred bucks
in order to pay for the porters. No big deal. But for us coming from the Eastern
fringes of Europe it was beyond a dream. Vivid memories of uncountable hours
of work on some wind-blasted chimney stack came to our minds... Those lousy
$150 sums graciously granted by the authorities… The expedition’s kitty,
guarded unblinkingly by Małgosia, that was so meagre that we couldn’t afford
even a bottle of coke… ...how many of those cold bottles of Coca Cola, covered
with beads of condensation, could ten thousand rupees buy?
20
But something has to be done.
To begin with, we fired the sirdar and all his staff. Of course we wrote a letter
to his agency explaining that the sirdar had failed to account for the money
entrusted to him, so as a consequence, we were expecting the agency to return
the balance to us. From now on the entire hustle and bustle of transporting our
loads became our own responsibility. We paid dearly for this lesson in selfreliance.
Each of us was allocated a strictly-defined range of duties. The one in charge
of the kitchen had to get up well before dawn, if he were to be able to cook
enough for all of us. One person was responsible for settling payment with
those porters who had just finished their shift, while another dealt with hiring
new ones. But it hardly ever worked smoothly. Every day a load would burst or
get torn, so its contents had to be re-packed. If something didn’t fit into a new
package or container, the leftovers had to be distributed among porters. Yet
they protested vehemently, claiming their loads were too heavy anyway.
Somehow we moved on.
In that crazy treadmill of daily chores and the coordination of transporting
loads, we were never supported by our liaison officer. Apparently there are LOs
who really and truly look after his expedition and help the team manage things.
But it was not so in our case. Quite the opposite. He turned out to be a sheer
burden for us, which is not uncommon for liaison officers. He simply couldn’t
care less. Porters were the last of his concerns and he treated them like rubbish.
He must have belonged to a higher caste, so he didn’t speak with them at all.
The nineteen days of the approach trek were a great lesson in Nepalese social
relationships. Any of our efforts to persuade porters to do something our way
was to no avail, since they had their own unchangeable habits, which we were
never able to comprehend. That’s what happened when once one of them said,
‘Tomorrow we make a rest.’
‘What rest?!’ It made our blood boil. ‘It’s absolutely out of question. You are
paid for work and not for having rests. Look, we are carrying loads, too. We’re
in a hurry!’
‘Don’t worry,’ he had delayed his reply until our vocal rage had diminished a
little. ‘You’ll have to change porters tomorrow anyway. Ours won’t go as far as
that village, since they’ll get battered there.’
Convinced that they had tried to con us again, we held our ground. ‘At no
point are we going to change porters. Just get it out of your heads.’
But the realities proved us wrong. It had come to a serious clash that endangered any further progress of the expedition. One of the more hot-blooded
villagers nearly coaxed one of our porters into a fight, and the others were not
far from joining into the fray. Soon our porters, one after another, began to run
21
away and there was nobody left to carry loads. We had to hire new porters in
that village, as deemed by a local custom. If I wanted to translate it into my
Silesian realities, I would say that those from Sosnowiec moved to our Katowice,
but we told them to beat it, otherwise they’d snatch our jobs.
What made things even worse was the incessant rain. It poured like hell and
soaked our loads. A tent, that normally weighed 7 kilos, was twice as heavy
when I handed it to a porter after a night’s downpour. If the porter protested,
he was certainly justified, but we couldn’t just spread the canvas and wait for it
to dry because of the persistent rain.
On top of everything there were leeches that loved this steaming, aquatic
environment. Forcing our way through thick bushes and wading through high
grass we collected them without noticing it. They would painlessly cut our skin
and start sucking, often only being discovered as we made camp at night. We
would find them still clinging to the most unexpected parts of our body, sluggish, thick and replete with our blood.
Yet even the most arduous trips come to the end. Our caravan had stretched
on the way and took a few days to arrive in its entirety at Namche Bazaar. As
we reached an altitude of 3,200 metres, the weather started to improve. We
were in a typical Sherpa town in the region of Solo Khumbu, the country of
Sherpas. Surrounded by totally different people, we quickly forgot our earlier
problems. It felt as if we were in our Podhale (Polish Highlands) among the highlander folk of Gorals.
From here onwards all our gear was carried by yaks and all our transport
problems vanished. Simple! Even when one of these hoofed lorries happened
to scrape against a rock and tear a load to pieces, we collected the debris
without complaint — it was less annoying than remonstrating with porters.
Constantly climbing we made good progress, though more and more often we
had to stop for a rest.
In early September the caravan poured into Base Camp at the foot of Everest
and Lhotse. Rather exhausted by our trekking through lowlands and highlands,
jungles and woodlands, and more than drained by leeches (this pest of Nepal’s
undergrowth being in full season now), we finally reached our destination. So
this was the place about which I had heard and read so much. This was the spot
on the map that I had dreamed of for so long.
A few days earlier an international Mount Everest expedition had pitched
their tents in Base Camp. It was organised by Germans but there were also
French and Swiss climbers on the team as well as a good friend of ours from
Alaska, Ray Ganet. We chose an area for our camp and started putting up our
tents. Whilst the poly drums were unpacked and emptied, we were kept busy
with the unending chores of camp life at 5,400 metres. During these first three
22
days even the simplest of activities was exhausting to my body, still unaccustomed to altitude. Especially at the beginning when I was nauseous and had a
splitting headache, it felt like torture to force myself to work. Given a choice I
would have gladly curled up in the shade of the nearest outcrop and given in
to this weakness and grogginess.
However I soon discovered that the best remedy for altitude sickness is to
stay active and not shun physical effort. In this way the lungs pump more air
and the blood, forced to circulate quicker, oxygenates in the process; consequently, the body needs less time to adapt to new conditions.
At long last everything in our camp had been packed or stacked in its place
and we could take a first serious look at our mountain.
The target we had set ourselves was to climb Lhotse; but looking up at the
peaks above the camp, none of us could help their eyes wandering off to the
left and peeking at the big one — Everest. A mountain like any other, not even
particularly beautiful, but inspiring in its quality and inducing an almost sexual
craving for conquest. “As I am already here…”, my head started spinning with
that persistent thought. The satisfaction one could gain from conquering the
biggest mountain in the world was palpable and we were already here!
Otherwise, to come here again, a new expedition would have to be organised
from scratch. The hot desire dwindled to a heavy sigh of resignation.
Someone suggested we have an informal chat with the international expedition camped next to us. Maybe one of them would like to have a go at Lhotse
and in return one of us could, under their climbing permit, be “smuggled” into
their team and ascend Everest through the back door so to speak? Our timid
endeavours to talk about it came, however, quickly to a standstill, since they
showed no interest. It was our tacit agreement to pick up the talks after a
summit bid when it would be clear what had been achieved, and by whom.
It is hardly possible to determine which of the two mountains is more difficult. Their technical difficulties are comparable but Everest is four hundred
metres higher, which at this altitude meant a lot. Up to the height of 7,300
metres the routes followed the same line. In our mind’s eye we could see the
situation when the fork was reached where some climbers would turn to the
right and the other to the left, as dictated by their permits.
If we were to achieve our aim and climb Lhotse, it would be the first Polish
ascent of the fourth highest mountain in the world and the seventh ascent altogether, but all these patriotic considerations meant little to me. It never
occurred to me that I was a bit of a ringer on this trip. What I had to my credit
was a rather pathetic performance on McKinley, one ascent of a 7,000-metre
peak in Hindu Kush, a single brush with the altitude of eight thousand metres,
and a failure on Nanga Parbat. On top of that my old reputation still lingered,
23
hinting that I was not fit for the greater ranges. And there I now stood, craning
my neck, grumbling about the prospect of climbing “only” Lhotse. A cheek? No,
I don’t think so. I have that streak in me which compels me to shun playing for
low stakes. For me only the superlative counts, only this can fire me.
It also occurred to me that if we climbed Lhotse by the classical route, our
ascent would in no way contribute anything new to climbing achievements
there. Together with Janusz Skorek and Andrzej Czok we considered the possibility of going slightly to the right and thus doing the direttissima of the west
face. However, no-one else showed any interest in this, and the general opinion
was that whilst this route might be more difficult, it was, after all, merely a
variant of the classical route. There was no point, they argued, in looking for
extra problems when only a hundred metres from an easily-reachable and
much less difficult gully. It wasn’t the place to establish new routes using Tatra
techniques, no place to take chances. However, further discussions gave rise to
quite another idea — why not try to climb Lhoste without oxygen?
Initially four of us decided to give it a try: Janusz Skorek, Zyga Heinrich,
Andrzej Czok and I. But then Zyga changed his mind saying, ‘To go there
without oxygen is asking for it.’
None of us were surprised by his statement. In those days it was a widelyrecognised theory that oxygen deficiency at altitude could lead to irreparable
brain damage. Amongst ourselves we used to joke about it saying: “You’ll go
and half of your grey matter will go too. You’ll end up a moron”. We had a mental
block about it, so nobody laughed at Zyga’s comment.
Up to the very last moment, our night spent in Camp IV, which we had
reached after a month of activity on the mountain, the three of us all wanted
to make a summit bid without bottled oxygen. But at the same time none of
us had mentioned this decision out loud and we all behaved as if the use of
oxygen was a given, since we had laboriously carried oxygen bottles and equipment up to 7,800 metres. Before the summit push we went down but the
oxygen stuff waited for us up there to be used, if we chose to.
The first summit team, Janusz, Andrzej, Zyga and I, had been selected
without personal prejudice during our talks in Base Camp by our expedition
leader Adam Bilczewski, who showed a most sensible attitude in giving us a
free hand. After all, the composition of the climbing party that was most likely
to succeed was pretty obvious. Adam had no inclination towards authoritarian commands like “I’m the leader and I have a say”, but instead let us make
our own decisions.
We climbed back up to Camp IV to spend the night there and go for the
summit the following day. It was just after getting up the next morning that we
had to make the crucial decision about oxygen. Andrzej had been outspoken
24
about it from the start, so no-one was surprised when he said, ‘I’ll try without
oxygen.’
‘I want no risk. I’m going to put on the mask and switch it on immediately,’
announced Skorek.
‘Me too,’ Zyga said curtly.
I hedged a bit and delayed my decision. Without a word I shouldered the
whole equipment — a full oxygen bottle together with a mask must have
weighed some ten kilograms — but didn’t put the mask on. They looked at me
questioningly and rightly expecting some sort of explanation from me.
‘I’m taking the stuff with me,’ I said, ‘but I’m not going to connect to it yet. First I
want to see what sort of difference in performance there is between Andrzej and
myself, with the rest of you.’ My plan was to keep close to Andrzej and for an hour
or so notice whether those “on oxygen” were fairing better than I was. I was
convinced there must be a difference, since a climber whose body was nourished
by oxygen-rich blood was bound to be fitter. I knew my own capabilities pretty
well and was able to monitor closely how my body worked in the mountains, even
to the point of measuring my heartbeat during extreme exertion.
The first to set out were Janusz and Zyga. After an hour of marching they
outperformed me so negligibly that I deemed the oxygen unnecessary. ‘I’ll
dump this ballast here,’ I said to Andrzej. Down into the snow went my oxygen
bottle and I continued, lighter in mind and baggage!
Three more hours of marching up the glacier and Janusz and Zyga were an
hour ahead. We were above eight thousand metres and I realised that the
higher we climbed the faster the distance between us grew. Andrzej and I were
making slow, very slow, progress. After ten steps a rest was needed to stabilise
my breathing, my body slumped heavily on the ice-axe planted in the snow.
Another ten steps and another rest. That was my constant rhythm. I counted
out ten steps, to which I had set my inner clock, before I allowed myself a rest,
then forced myself to count another ten. The worst that might happen would
be to give up and sit down because then the clock would stop working. The
earlier painfully-gained rhythm would be lost and I would need ages to wind
up my body clock again.
After seemingly an eternity of fighting our own weakness, we reached the
vicinity of the summit ridge.
The last section was quite a deep gully resembling a chimney, open on one
side but flanked on two sides by rocky outcrops. Strong winds blustering across
from the Western Cwm channelled into this chimney, compressing and racing
up the face in a constant barrage. Clouds of wind-driven snow seemed to push
us towards our target, but at times the white-out got so thick that it obscured
all vision and we lost sight of each other.
25
Andrzej and I still had a short distance to cover when we were met by Janusz
and Zyga descending from their successful ascent. ‘You’re close now, not more
than twenty metres, but we won’t wait for you,’ they said. We gave each other
a light pat on the shoulder to confirm a mutual recognition for our efforts. We
pushed on to make the last of those hardest steps and stand on the summit.
The top of the mountain was just a huge cornice hanging as if in the air and
it was difficult to decide when and where to stop. I pulled out a camera, a heavy
Exacta, and took two pictures — one with the pennant of my first Boy Scouts’
Climbing Club and the other with a white and red flag bearing the emblem of
Katowice. It was midday. I didn’t experience even the slightest touch of
euphoria. I only knew that I had just put behind me six hours of a laborious slog
that had stretched my body to its limit. It was like a full shift of work, during
which the time mercilessly dragged on, as a result of which one’s senses
became dulled and oblivious to anything else. I can’t even remember what we
did on the summit, except taking out from the bottom of my rucksack the
chunk of cold stone that was my borrowed camera.
The only other thing I distinctly remember was the moment on the climb up
when Janusz and Zyga passed us on their way down and I still had to make
those last wretched twenty steps to the top. If that was a sharp mental picture,
the time on the summit was a blurred feeling of utter physical exhaustion and
only one clear thought — get down as soon as possible.
We climbed down the chimney but the violent wind whirling up snow
seemed set on preventing our easy descent. Having reached Camp IV we
pressed on down to Camp III where Bilczewski and Baranek were waiting for
us. The following day they would go back up to IV taking with them oxygen
bottles for the next parties going to the top. But now they were just excited
about our success. They passed to us mugs of tea and then some soup. I sat
there tuned to the intricate machine of my body, now revving down after it had
nearly seized just below the summit. With a hot mug put in my hands by my
good companions I felt the machine purring contentedly. When Andrzej and
Janusz announced that it was about time to start descending to Camp II, which
could offer nearly comfortable conditions, I was struck by resentment. ‘I’m going
to stay here for one more night. Till tomorrow morning. Is that OK?’
I didn’t tell them what was going on in my head. I only knew that the weather
was beautiful and I simply hated to leave the mountain that had taken me so
much effort to conquer. It felt good to be up there on the mountain. Cocooned
in my sleeping bag I had few words to offer, my only thought being that all this
struggle had culminated in a success. I had conquered the mountain!
The time in Base Camp was a stretch of celebrations and sweetly doing
nothing. No longer did I have to brace myself against difficulties or summon
26
up strength to fight them. Night was once more a time to be asleep and not to
doze half-awake waiting for the dawn. These were the moments of savouring
an expedition at leisure.
Only too soon did this pleasant time turn into grief, as we learned about a
tragedy that stuck the international Everest party. The day before we attacked
Lhotse they had climbed to the top. One of the members of the second summit
party was Hannelore Schmatz, the wife of the expedition’s leader, who should
have been the first German woman to climb Everest. She was climbing with
two Sherpas and Ray Genet, a friend of ours from Alaska. It was very late when
they reached the summit. During their first bivouac on the descent Ray died of
exhaustion. The following morning Hannelore was descending together with
two Sherpas, when she just sat down, never to get up again. She too was dead.
Unaware of what was going on, we had been witnessing this tragedy during
our ascent.
We were on our way to Camp IV and from a distance of a few kilometres were
able to recognise black dots moving along a snow slope on Everest. I can still
see them in my mind’s eye. Three dots were moving slowly downhill, when one
of them stopped, the others stopped too. They’re resting, I thought. After a
while only two dots were on the move and I thought that the third one must
have needed a longer rest. But when one of the two started uphill retracing his
steps, my imagination failed to offer a more plausible explanation than a return
in order to take the weaker one along. I learned only much later via radio in
Base Camp that what had disrupted the movement of the three dots was the
death of one of them.
***
‘Mister Messner’s coming! Mister Messner’s expedition!’ Two heavily panting
Sherpas were running towards us. Not unlike town criers announcing the arrival
of a landlord, I thought. Pleased with our success we stopped in Namche Bazar
on our way back from the big mountains. Our tents had already been pitched
and we could at last stretch out on our backs, having shed heavy rucksacks. As
dusk fell, we were busily concocting a meal, when this two-man picket ran past
and announced a caravan approaching from below.
They put up his tent but lingered on inside, making it warm and cosy for him
— sumptuous bedding was laid out and a lamp hung. Pretending to be unimpressed we couldn’t help but watch this hustle and bustle, so unusual for a
mountaineering camp. After a quarter of an hour or so the caravan came into
view. He was coming. It was the first time I ever met the great man.
The kettle in our kitchen was boiling, when he, unpretentious and friendly,
27
took off his rucksack. We invited him to have tea and a meal with us. He sat
down. ‘Where are you coming back from?’
‘We were on Lhotse,’ we replied modestly but noticed that his only reaction
was a polite grimace of respect or appreciation. ‘And what are your plans?’
‘Ama Dablam.’
I was a bit surprised, because the mountain was merely 6,856 metres high.
The mountaineering talk was in full swing when I, the novice, decided to butt
in.
‘Two years ago, as we were doing a new variant on Nanga Parbat, I found a
torch on a small saddle near the top, close to eight thousand metres.’ While I
was talking, I noticed that Messner, though being engaged in conversation by
my older friends, had turned his attention to my story. ‘
A flashlight?’ His eyes pierced me questioningly.
‘Quite an ordinary one. I wondered how come, as there was no established
route there.’
‘Seven years earlier, my brother and I reached that saddle from the South
Face. He perished on the descent. It must have been his flashlight. I remember
that he changed batteries there.’
He did and seven years later I found his torch. This was a rare link between
us but I was more aware of our differences. I couldn’t take my eyes away from
his magnificent equipment, carried by his Sherpas, and from his clothing, lighter
than down, I thought. He addressed me directly, ‘Look, could you do me a
favour? I’ve been writing a book about my ascent of Nanga Parbat. I’d be really
grateful if you could get me this flashlight, you know, a memory of my
brother… Anyway, could you write a few words to me about how you’d found
it?’
‘Sure.’ We exchanged addresses. We wanted to take a few photographs
together with him but it was now too dark. Looking at these snaps today I can’t
make out who stood next to whom. The following morning they went up and
we went down.
***
I got home on the 4th December, the day of our Patron Saint, St. Barbara. The
following day I had a phone call from Andrzej Zawada in Warsaw.
‘Jurek, my congratulations! Now, I'd like to make you an offer... Would you
fancy joining the first ever winter expedition to Everest? We’d be leaving in less
than two weeks.’
It was an important time for me, since it meant that I had been able to
convince them that I could climb a peak of Himalayan proportions. But arriving
home I was faced by a complicated situation. Cecylia was expecting our baby
that should come at the beginning of January, but we had been warned that
the delivery might be difficult. I kept the receiver to my ear without giving
Andrzej an answer. I listened to him talking and thought feverishly at the same
time. Everest in winter! I had gazed up at it only a few weeks ago, thinking I had
no right to lay my hand on it. Such an opportunity might not come again.
Andrzej didn’t stop talking. He laid out his plans of leading a winter expedition first, but also mentioned an expedition in the following spring that would
take advantage of all their equipment having already been carried up to the
foot of the world’s highest mountain. ‘Look, I’ll give the winter expedition a miss
but count me in for the one in spring.’
‘Truth to tell, I’m not all that sure the spring expedition will take place at all.
It’s rather a vague intention of mine. If we didn’t manage to climb it in winter,
we could try again in spring. But I don’t even know whether there’ll be the
means for it.’
I guessed that Andrzej, never short of plans and ideas, was just devising a
contingency plan in case this extremely difficult winter ascent, the first of this
sort in the history of mountaineering, failed. But if they did a first winter ascent
of Everest, the expedition in spring wouldn’t make much sense. Still I wasn’t
able to do anything else but to tell him, ‘Andrzej, it’s as I said. I can’t act otherwise.’ I replaced a hot and sweaty receiver.
On the 15th December the first part of the team left the country without me.
There are things more important than the Himalaya. They are the most important things. On the last evening of that year our son was born. We called him
Maciek.
One of the Warsaw newspapers completed its story about the Silesian expedition that climbed Lhotse with a short comment: “For some time now, the ascent
of a mountain, even as high as eight thousand metres, has become no longer
a major feat.” At that time it hurt me that someone could have summed up our
efforts just like that, but as more time passed by I had to agree with this statement. Polish altitude mountaineering was on the verge of a new era, in which
climbing standards would dramatically improve beyond all expectation.
28
29
www.kukuczka.net
any climb or ascent. I am just a few steps away from the top and
know that nothing can prevent me from reaching it. I know I have
won. And what victory is it? A mountain has not been conquered
nor has the weather been defeated, since they remain the same.
But I am victorious in conquering my own fear and defeating my
own weakness. Now I can thank the mountain that has allowed
me this experience. These are the moments in my climbing life
which I wouldn’t trade for the greatest riches. If on my way to the
summit of a mountain I am faced with unforeseen obstacles and
unexpected dangers, I take up the challenge. I know that the fine
border between calculated risk and foolhardiness may sometimes
be hard to predict. I am prepared to fight against whatever dangers
lay in wait for me. I accept high winds blasting against my tent
Jerzy Kukuczka
“At last I can cherish one of those rare moments to be found during
for weeks on end, maddening snow blizzards and stupefying
frosts. Ready to follow the path to the limits of endurance, I will
Jerzy Kukuczka
ISBN 978-83-937896-9-6
www.kukuczka.net
Challenge the Vertical
fight for my reward. What I win is boundless – the joy of living.”