Climbing Lessons from the School of Tomaz Humar (Cont.)

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Outside Magazine June 2002

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Climbing Lessons from the School of Tomaz Humar (Cont.)

TOMAZ'S ASCENT OF DHAULAGIRI WAS, as mountaineers say, not a climb for a married man. One day I sat with Tomaz and Sergeja in the family living room, surrounded by the spiritual tokens of their lives—crystals, Buddhist sculptures, figurines of the Virgin Mary, a picture of Indian guru Sai Baba. Tomaz interpreted when Sergeja had trouble finding the right word in English, and, being Tomaz, he jumped in with questions of his own.

Sergeja is, if anything, more spiritual than Tomaz. She has walked on burning coals, which Tomaz won't do. She speaks in a dreamy, Sissy Spacek way, and when I asked what seemed a natural question—isn't it rather difficult to be married to Tomaz?—she replied that it was hard in the first few years but now it's different.

"Tomaz is my therapy." His wife says. "Hard therapy. I choose him as Jesus chose the cross. By carrying this cross, I grow spiritually."

"I need this," she said. "He's my therapy. Hard therapy. I chose him as Jesus chose the cross. By carrying this cross, I grow spiritually. I can't grow without it."

Surely life would be easier with a normal guy?

"I would die," she replied. "I would rather not be married."

Sergeja sees things before Tomaz does. She knew, after Dhaulagiri, that a disaster was in the offing. Tomaz was a hero: The phone rang constantly, and Tomaz, who sees life as a big candy store, could never say no. Everyone wanted to know what he would climb next. Sergeja feared for his life, knowing he would push harder on the next climb. There is a law of nature in the climbing world—no individual or nation can remain the best forever, because the more you try to accomplish, the more likely it is that you will die. Sergeja knows this. The man she lived with before Tomaz, Danilo Golob, was killed climbing.

When Tomaz fell into the construction pit, he didn't imagine any good would come of it. Sergeja knew better. It forced him to stop and think. Among the surprising things that have happened, his bond with his father has changed from spite to admiration, because Tomaz realized that the salt-of-the-earth stubbornness he despised in his father is the same thing that gets him up a mountain face.

"The fall was a gift for Tomaz," Sergeja said. "On the third day when he was in the hospital, I told him that it was a gift. He didn't understand. But we both knew it would happen. He had to fall into darkness to see the light again."

"Yes, yes," Tomaz said.

He turned to her.

"What do you think? Will I climb again?"

"Certainly," Sergeja replied.

She looked at me.

"He must go. He must live for this. If you really love something, you must be ready to die for it."

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