"Mount McKinley offers a unique challenge to mountaineers, but its ascent will prove a prodigious task. It is the loftiest mountain in North America, the steepest mountain in the world, and the most arctic of all great mountains. Its slopes are weighted down with all the snow and ice that can possibly find a resting place. ... The prospective conqueror of America's culminating peak will be amply rewarded, but he must be prepared to withstand the tortures of the torrids, the discomforts of the north pole seeker, combined with the hardships of the Matterhorn ascents multiplied many times."
Dr. Frederick Cook
McKinley explorer, 1903
"I remember no day in my life so full of toil, distress and exhaustion, and yet so full of happiness and keen gratification."
Hudson Stuck
First McKinley summit, 1993
May 29, 1998
Ran a 5:22 mile with Jeff Lilley on the Fairfax High track. My last workout before leaving for the McKinley climb -- feeling strong. Emphasis has been on the mental more than physical aspect of training, especially in finishing a workout after point of apparent exhaustion. Mental fortitude, I believe, will be the key to success on McKinley.
Ever since climbing Elbrus in 1993 and Kilimanjaro in 1994, I have had an interest in Aconcagua and McKinley. Aconcagua, the highest peak in South America at 23,000 feet, was the next likely target. My partners in the two previous climbs, my wife Mary and former Moscow roommate Chip Strait, had researched an ascent of Aconcagua a couple years ago. Chip took a job as a photographer for Ski Magazine and the trip fell through.
I first inquired about a possible ascent of McKinley in February 1997. Peter Cooley, a business school friend who had worked on McKinley for two summers during college, recommended Alaska Denali Guiding as the best guides on the mountain. He spoke of Brian Okonek with encomiums bordering on reverential awe. When I called ADG this spring, one spot remained open for the traverse. The rapport with Diane and Brian Okonek was immediate. When Mary supported my interest in the expedition, I signed up without hesitation.
The traverse of Denali is a unique mountaineering challenge, a throwback to the challenges confronted by the mountain's early explorers. Today more than 90% of all summit bids are made via the West Buttress. Even with the aid of flights to the base camp on the Kahiltna and the opportunity to cache food and equipment along the West Buttress route, most summit bids are made in some three weeks. The traverse follows the West Buttress to the summit and then proceeds down the Harper and Muldrow glaciers and on to Wonder Lake via McGonnagall Pass. The traverse adds 50 miles to the trip and requires that all gear, in our case more than 100 pounds of equipment and food per person, be transported over the 18,200 Denali Pass. Moreover, the second half of the traverse is more isolated, descend s along the spectacular Karsten Ridge and crevasse-ridden Muldrow Glacier, and retraces the classic routes made by Denali's early explorers. It was along this route that the Sourdough Boys made the first ascent of North Peak -- then considered to be the highest mountain in North America -- in 1910; where Browne and Parker had ascended to within 200 yards of the peak before being turned back by ferocious winds in 1912; and where Stuck, Harper, Karsten's and Tatum made their successful summit bid in 1913. Since that initial summit, more than 10,000 (and now increasing at a rate of about 500 per year) have climbed Denali while less just three to five groups per year attempt the longer, more involved traverse.
Moscow is not an ideal place to train for any sport, least of all mountaineering. I have often wondered how Russia produces great athletes with a generally inactive population residing in large, environmentally disastrous cities. Centralized planning had an answer for this as for a battery of other issues -- political, economic and philosophical. Choose the body types that are likely to produce the best athletes for any given sport at a young age, send them to specialized training institutes, enforce rigorous training regimes and weed out the lesser athletes ruthlessly, and give the best prospects all the State has to offer. The logic of many of the political and economic answers began to erode in the 1970s but the athletic program remained intact until the early 1990s. After contract ing bronchitis while training for marathons during my first summer in Moscow, many of my training solutions went the way of socialism. So I relegated my mountaineering training to the friendly confines of the stairmaster and stationary bike. For similar reasons, I delayed other preparation -- such as purchasing equipment, packing and handling medical issues -- until I returned to the U.S. one week before the trip began. With a mad dash on the final lap, I checked off the items on the packing list, filled out the paperwork and was ready to go.
May 30, 1998
Mary dropped me off at the Baltimore Washington International airport for an afternoon flight to Anchorage via Denver and Seattle. I gave her my wedding ring to wear on her necklace until my return. Both of us agreed that a metal ring could be dangerous in such cold weather. She was more insistent on the exchange than me. It was an emotional departure. The potential ramifications of such expeditions are usually underestimated until such moments.
On the flight I read about telecoms until my head ached. I will bring a telecoms dictionary on the climb. While not the most scintillating reading, it is dense and will last me for the entire trip. Novels would be a better companion on storm days but would likely last no longer than an afternoon. A book exchange among the other climbers would be ideal. I will reserve that as an option but cannot rely on their taste.
As we flew to Seattle, we passed the north face of Mt. Rainier. The glaciers glistened forebodingly on the precipitous slope. The mountain looked august and austere, quite different from my benign recollections of the mountain, admittedly on the gentler, balmier south side. The math is not computing well; Denali is both 40% higher and further north.
Sarah Kean met me at the Anchorage airport. It was nearly a year ago that the Mud, Sweat and Gears trip left from the same airport. I rarely visit a travel destination twice, but McKinley is a destination unto itself. Alaska is much as I remember it. The serene peaks, pristine wilderness and wholesome lifestyle have left an indelible mark that, irrespective of my travel code, will likely be burnished again from time to time. I feel at home and at peace in this country.
Mitch, Sarah's husband, is a great guy. Down to earth, thoughtful, easy going. The people in Alaska in general have made a good impression. Alaska, like other distinctive destinations such as San Francisco or New York or Moscow, draws like minded people. In this case, people who are willing to leave the mainstream for a more adventurous, slower paced, life in the out-of-doors. In Mitch's case, he enjoys fishing and golf.
Did a final round of shopping for the trip. Seems that much of the last week has been a buying spree done with shop-til-you-drop fervor. Alaska has more appropriate gear than I found in New York. I had done much of my shopping in New York reasoning that the prices would be cheaper. In fact, my information about Alaska pricing is vestigial, based primarily on lore from my father's visits in the early 1970s. While prices may be moderately higher, I would have been better off shopping exclusively in Alaska.
June 1, 1998 - Day 1
It is 10:30pm, it is still light and its raining. While reminiscent of Moscow, I find myself 12 time zones away in Talkeetna, Alaska. Set at the confluence of the Susitna, Chulitna and Talkeetna rivers that drain much of the southwest side of the McKinley range, Talkeetna was founded in 1906 and derives its name from the native word meaning ‘where three rivers meet'. Though a launching pad for most climbing expeditions on Denali, Talkeetna retains the austere feel of an outpost village. One road accesses the town, a 15 mile tributary to the highway connecting Fairbanks and Anchorage. The pavement ends midway through the town shortly after the post office and a dirt path frequented more by pedestrians than vehicles leads to the remaining cluster of shops, inns and restaurants. The inns and restaurants are rustic without pretension, the last living relics of the wild west. The airport is appropriately located at the heart of the town, providing lifeblood to its arterial establishments. In keeping with the climbing ethos of the village, mountaineering shops outnumber stoplights and most other urban amenities 2-0. Perhaps its spartan demeanor is a fitting introduction to one of the great mountaineering challenges outside the Himalaya.
Earlier this morning at 8am, the trip began when eight climbers met Diane Okonek at the Snowshoe Inn. The number had already been reduced by one climber, felled by a leg injury less than a week before the trip. When I arrived at the appointed time, most of the gear had been packed atop the van. I threw my backpack and sled bag on top and blithely introduced myself to each member of the group. Recognizing that our fates would be inextricably intertwined over the next four weeks, I quickly assessed each person during the introduction. I was pleased that a good balance had been struck -- I matched up well and the other climbers seemed to be a healthy, hardy lot.
After the initial euphoria of meeting the other climbers and getting underway, much of the rest of the day seemed to be an exercise in seasoning our eagerness for the venture with a dose of reality. As we drove into Talkeetna, we passed the Denali cemetery, a memorial to those who had died while climbing the mountain. Similarly ominous was a slide show at the ranger station warning of and depicting the dangers of McKinley. Two slides showing victims of frostbite and pulmonary edema were particularly harrowing. Other than a $150 registration fee due at least three months before the start of the climb, the National Park service has no ability to prevent McKinley summit attempts yet is fully responsible for any mishaps on the mountain. Given the momentous responsibility and minuscule arm or, the temptation to deploy scare tactics is great. We left the National Park headquarters sufficiently forewarned of the ardor and risks of the climb.
Later that afternoon each climber had a one-on-one session with one of our four guides to review the equipment we had compiled for the trip. Though derived almost exclusively from a list prepared by Alaska-Denali Guiding, my equipment aroused occasional skepticism and words of warning. Comments frequently started with "We are all on a tight budget but ..." In fact, as my receipts would show, I was not on all that tight a budget but ... The anorak did not seem sturdy enough. The double sleeping bag approach was certainly warm enough but was it too bulky and weigh to much? The backpack was the prescribed minimum size of 6500 cubic centimeters, but given the size of the sleeping bags was it big enough? Thai checked with the lead guide Brian to confirm that the glove and mit ten combinations would be warm enough. Brian offered conditional approval -- yes as long as they were loosely fitting. My equipment passed inspection but conditional approvals left an air of uncertainty hang in the air. I rushed out to a local equipment supplier and made a few last minute purchases.
Toward the end of the day, Diane Okonek invited each of us individually into her office to warn of the dangers of the mountain and underscore that ADG could not guarantee us the summit. On the table lay a piece of paper that I was requested to sign confirming acknowledgment of these assessments. The document was standard legalese but the verbal warnings compounding what we had seen and heard earlier in the day seemed a bit much. I asked what experience ADG had in previous trips. In response to such questions earlier, Brian had noted only that his groups had succeeded in summitting on 13 of 15 years and traversing on 14 of 15 years. This time Diane referred to a trip led by Colby Coombs (Was this the same guy who had broken his neck and ankle on a solo climb of Mt. Foraker? Hasn't t his guy had enough survival odysseys for one life time?) last year in which a storm suddenly arose during a summit attempt and the group had to spend the night above 19,000 feet. The group made snow caves and had all the emergency gear with them, yet two clients lost several fingers. Her response shocked me, not because the loss of fingers and toes is novel to climbing but that she did not even have to refer to another group of the distant past when evoking a tale of misadventures. As a result of the events of the day, the risks of climbing McKinley loomed large. I reaffirmed my intent to climb Mt. McKinley but stressed that ADG's first and foremost responsibility was to ensure that we returned healthy.
Before leaving the airport, Mary gave me a cache of seven notes to be opened during the climb. A couple notes were time specific: "to be opened one week into the trip", "for the night before the summit bid", "as you prepare for the return to civilization." Others are more situation specific: "for a pick me up", "for when you have had a bad day", "for a boring day". As I read the first of her notes this evening, I continued to weigh the risks and benefits of the climb. As with the other events of the day, the note continued to nudge me in the direction of risk aversion. With a loving wife and much to look forward to in life, the risk reward balance has been redrawn. The climb has not yet begun and already the mental fortitu de that I trained to strengthen in the last few months is in the balance. Determination and judgment are two sides of the same coin.
June 2, 1998 - Day 2
I awoke this morning with steeled determination. Fortunately, I will be traveling with one of the most experienced guides on the mountain. With more than 25 years climbing experience on Denali and with more than 30 successfully guided trips, Brian Okonek will be vested with most of the judgment calls about whether to camp or climb. It will be our responsibility to monitor our own health and safety. While health considerations were paramount, nothing else would prevent me from attaining the summit.
Brian set the tone well in his initial comments this morning. Noting that we would spend less than an hour on the summit of a 26 day trip, he encouraged us to enjoy the process of the climb, to make each day enjoyable. That, indeed, is the spirit of the traverse. The summit is one point along the course. Given the choice of the traverse or the summit, I resolved today that the traverse would be the greater prize.
As the day began rain threatened. There was no question that our 9am scheduled flight would be delayed. Instead we went for a two hour walk along a nearby railroad bed. I threw on my backpack for some extra exercise, the only person to do so. When we returned, we visited the model of the McKinley range. As we began to review rope and climbing techniques, the phone rang at 12:30 to announce that the planes were flying. Everyone suddenly sprang into action. I ran to the Roadhouse to cancel my reservations for the evening. Talkeetna rang with the buzz of airplanes. We gathered our gear into the vans, drove to the airport, weighed our parcels and divided them for each plane. Laden with extra food and my heavy telecoms book, my gear weighed more than that of anyone else. The extent o f the difference, however, was surprising. My backpack and sledbag weighed 102 lbs. v. 85-90 lbs for that of most of the others. By 2pm, we were in the air on a K2 prop plane.
The initial flight went over a plain created by the estuaries from Denali's glacial melt. Hidden beneath the clouds, the silt fields looked bleak and waterlogged. Indistinct tracks passed through the meadows to log cabins, presumably either weekend escapes or homesteaders' residences. In any case, they looked austere. A snowmobile here a truck there were the sole signs of civilization.
Once the foothills met the silt plain, we popped above the clouds and the scene brightened. The foothills quickly gave way to glaciers and the rocky faces of the little alps, Mt. Hunter and Mt. Foraker. The brilliant juxtaposition of the azure blue skies, black rock and newly powdered glaciers contrasted sharply with the earthen browns and gray hues of the plains we had just left. We flew along the valley following the 45 mile long Kahiltna Glacier amidst the ridges that embanked us on either side. We banked left and descended toward two sets of rivets in the snow separated by buoys indicating the onramp and offramp of the Kahiltna international airport. The plane padded to a powdery landing and turned to point downhill before the sticky snow stopped its progress.
I now sit amongst the glaciated peaks rising thousands of feet above base camp at 7200 feet. Our sense of distance is misleading. Foraker, which, like McKinley, was named after an Ohio politician with little interest in the outdoors or mountaineering, appears to extend just beyond my outstretched hand but is six miles away. Temperatures are also deceptive. While the ambient temperatures prevent the melting of snow other than on stoves, the radiant heat reflecting from this bowl surrounded by glaciers allows me to sit comfortably in short sleeves. A rimmed hat and climbing glasses are necessary for protection against the intense ultraviolet rays. Sunblock coated hands and face from morning to night.
The trip is on. Our group demeanor has soared with the altitude and weather. I am looking forward to moving these legs.
June 3, 1998 - Day 3
The telecoms dictionary was intended to be my educational endeavor for the McKinley trip. Today, having discovered that my technical mountaineering skills lagged that of the rest of the group, I was disabused of that notion. For the next few days at least, I will have to play catch up ball and learn the basics of rope management and crevasse rescue. My vocabulary words for the day are not wave divisional multiplexing and asynchronous transfer mode, but the fisherman's knot and the munter hitch. While we proceeded rapidly through the fundamentals of what we would use throughout the trip, I scribbled notes to retain a semblance of order in a barrage of information.
Brian stressed the importance of developing good habits at low altitudes so that they will be second nature when we become fatigued in stormy weather or high altitudes. In addition, safety checks by other team members will be essential before leaving camp every day. I enjoy Brian Okonek's thoughtful, methodical approach. While his style is familiar to me, Brian brings it to a new realm and a different level -- the rigor of Alaskan alpine weather requires such an approach. His communicative and supportive approach augments the effectiveness of his style. We appear to have a strong group, both physically and technically. So far we are working well together.
The McKinley pedigree of the Okonek family is long and highly regarded. Brian's father arrived in Alaska as a pilot with the U.S. army. Like many of the best bush pilots, Brian's father earned his stripes fighting in the Vietnam war -- flying amidst mountain peaks with the constant danger of lenticular downdrafts, landing on glaciers of varying and often unknown snow and ice conditions, and answering rescue calls during McKinley's varying moods requires a wartime aggressiveness tempered with a civilian sense of judgment (the debate continues as to which of these traits is ascendant among the best bush pilots). He then founded K2 aviation, one of the leading flight services operating in Talkeetna. Raised at the base of Mt. McKinley, Brian made is first ascent at 17 and has been guiding on the mountain ever since. One of the leading authorities on De nali, Brian made several first ascents of peaks in the McKinley range and is noted in most of the books about the mountain. A few years ago, he and Diane began raising huskies for mushing. They spend much of their winters on extended mushing trips around Alaska.
The highlight of the day was the crevasse rescue. We walked a quarter mile outside of camp to some nearby crevasses. Brian then asked for volunteers for the crevasse rescue. I jumped in, got at the end of one rope and was lowered into a crevasse; Doug joined me at the end of a second rope. We went about twenty feet down below and overhang. Fortunately, the crevasse was wide so the sun kept us warm during our time in the crevasse. A second rope was dropped to hoist our backpacks. Pickets were established to fortify the rope. I made a foot prussac and used the ascender to climb out of the crevasse. The crevasse rescue offered a good opportunity to combine the skills we had learned during the day. I trust I never have to experience a live crevasse rescue but hope it goes as smoothly if it is required. It is unlikely that any crevasse rescue would be under such benign circumstances.
June 4, 1998 - Day 4
We awoke at 3am and were on the trail by 6am. Our objective while approaching the mountain is to travel when the weather is cold and the terrain hard. We thus conserved our energy, reduced the amount of water needed, and most importantly, decreased the likelihood of falling into a crevasse.
Our daily routines are governed by safety considerations. We travel in four roped teams of three people led by a guide. The rope is to remain taut between us though the trail is well trodden and hard. We retain our distance during breaks with the four rope teams pulling alongside each other off the trail. The lead person is belayed out of camp upon departure from camp and the last person belayed into camp upon arrival. Before we establish camp, the guides plumb every square foot of the potential campsite to ensure it is free of crevasses. We are free to walk about within the wanded area. Areas outside the wands (thin bamboo poles have replaced the twigs used by the early explorers) are out of bounds. Today we arrived at the camp by noon and were confined to an area the size of a 15 0 square foot apartment for the rest of the afternoon. My sense of independence and adventure is stifled by these regulations, but for the duration of this trip I will oblige their sense of safety.
The afternoon was warm, pleasant and relaxing. After we established camp and ate dinner, I took a snow bath, read, exercised and worked on some knots. The long days with 24 hour daylight are conducive to such relaxing evenings. It is nice to be able to read into the late hours without the use of a headlamp.
While we travel on snowshoes, many are ascending on skis. The conditions are good for skis, especially for those who would descend by the West Buttress and could gain time by skiing rather than walking down. We are currently at the end of a ravine with a 1000 foot ascent just ahead. Oh for the chance at a few S turns on the slope above us!
June 5, 1998 - Day 5
I slept fitfully last night with six hours of restless sleep. Though comfortable, I was not tired. Once I awoke and found that my left hand had slipped out of the sleeping bag. My fingers felt stiff like blocks. I nervously shook my hand, put it into the bag and rubbed it until feeling returned. Fortunately, the temperature outside was not too cold. I put on my gloves and will, I imagine, keep them on while sleeping in the future.
On alternate mornings I make breakfast. Today was my day. I awoke a few minutes before 3am, threw on my clothes and was the second person out to start melting snow. I recall on previous winter trips in the Sierras listening to Peter Cooley preparing breakfast. I used to stay in the sleeping bag as long as possible. Morning kitchen duty is not as onerous as I had expected it to be. We all break camp at about the same time. Morning duty frees the afternoons for other more relaxing activities.
It was snowing hard when we broke camp at 5:15. We snowshoed steadily up Ski Hill to some 9500 feet. By that time the sweat from climbing the hill had chilled me. When I took off my gortex anorak to put on a third layer, the blizzard conditions whipped through me and my short sleeve lycra shirt. I went hypothermic within seconds. My legs started shaking, my fingers again turned to blocks. My desire to eat a bagel and cheese disappeared, and I threw them back into my pack after a couple bites. I put my ski mittens on -- that helped. We started walking and I recovered but I had already lost a lot of energy. By the time we had reached 10,000 feet to cache our carry, I was wobbly and cold again. The wind howled. It took me several minutes to complete the simple tasks of untying the knot on and emptying my sledbag. I kept my parka on as we returned to our camp at 7900 feet. We descended to 9500 feet before I felt warm enough to take off the parka.
As I stumbled down the mountain with my parka on and hood strapped so tightly around my face that my glasses started to fog, I wondered what I was doing on this venture. I went through each part of my body and did an inventory of clothing. My legs were bomber -- more clothing available then needed there. My feet had been warm throughout the trip. With a pair of booties and overboots as well as several extra thick socks, I seemed to have enough there. Head -- no problem. I had enough reserves there to outfit an army. Upper body and hands were the main concerns. The six layers reserved for the upper body suddenly seemed scant -- could it be? I took solace in the bib on the windpants that would provide additional protection for the vulnerable wasteline. As long as I could keep every thing dry, I guessed I would be okay. But uncertainty at 10,000 feet with another 10,000 feet to go is discomfiting. The hands? The hands were a real question mark -- they are usually more weather resistant that most but when they go, they go quickly. My fingers had turned to blocks twice in the last two days. The speed with which it happened the second time was particularly disconcerting. That I had not yet used my bomber set of mittens and gortex combination was a source of uncertainty rather than comfort. Would they provide as much warmth as I anticipated and hoped? I have read too much about people losing gloves at high altitude and about not being able to get feeling back in hands once they were gone to take much comfort in a reserve pair of mittens that were essentially unknowns .
My gortex anorak was the biggest surprise. It had always worked well when cross country skiing in frigid temperatures in Russia. But there surfaced the key difference. In Russia, I could cross country ski hard and get sweaty with the knowledge that I could return to a warm house and a shower. Without such a refuge on the mountain, overheating could be as dangerous and being too cold. The challenge was to remain at a comfortable temperature at all times -- to climb in temperature. The lack of flexibility of my gortex anorak posed a particular problem to climbing comfortably.
By the time we returned to 7900 feet, the clouds had lifted and the sun radiated in the sheltered, snowy bowl. Once again I peeled layers off to bare feet and my lycra short sleeve shirt. How quickly weather conditions can change. For now I was happy to be in the forgiving lower altitudes and be the beneficiary of improving weather conditions. For the remainder of the day, however, I could not forget the ominous possibility of a change for the worse -- and my level of preparedness for it.
ADG's West Buttress group returned from 17,000 feet today. Only three remained from the group of 12. One hurt his knee on the summit bid at 19,000 and the entire group had to return. The group looked like hardy climbers but were completely thrashed.
Everyone we met who had been high on the mountain commented on the warm, soupy, forgiving air. The comments did not blend well with my experience earlier in the day and my current misgivings. I felt like opening one of Mary's letters entitled "when you need a pick-me-up" or "for when you have had a bad day" but I demurred. I suspect they may be in greater need higher on the mountain.
June 6, 1998 - Day 6
We are camping at 10,000 feet where we cached yesterday. The hike today was pleasant. Initially we climbed in the fog and then under dark clouds. It cleared enough to see down the Kahiltna Glacier near base camp with Little Switzerland, Mt. Hunter, Kahiltna Dome and Mt. Foraker lining the glacier. The view over Kahiltna Pass was stark with little more than snowfields and glaciers set against the backdrop of gray clouds. The storms higher on the mountain looked ominous.
There are numerous good climbs on the mountains surrounding the Kahiltna Glacier. It would be nice to have some extra time to do some climbs on these mountains. There seems to be a fraternity of climbers that hover around base camp and, presumably, at higher camps to do just that, though one would have to attempt first ascents to gain credibility within this clan.
We established a walled camp at the head of the Kahiltna Glacier as a test run for camps we would build at higher altitudes. Kahiltna Pass takes the brunt of all storm fronts that pass over the mountain. Snow and wind whip across the glaciers leaving only hardpacked snow and ice. True to form, the weather conditions deteriorated shortly after our arrival. We were fortunate to be able to build camp before conditions got bad. The result: six foot walls of snow blocks with two tents inside each wall, a snow kitchen and a latrine.
Before establishing camp, Brian gathered us and discussed the strategies and tasks involved in preparing camp at this level. Though no specific tasks were assigned, we burst into activity like a football team emerging from a huddle as soon as Brian gave us the go-ahead. ... First, the camp is tested for crevasses with 8 foot rods and the borders of the camp are demarcated with wands. Second, an adjunct to the camp is established for the bathroom, where a latrine is fortified with snow blocks and a plastic garbage bag is suspended below pickets and a plastic bathroom seat (the plastic bag is thrown into a nearby crevasse when camp is moved). The path to the bathroom is wanded. Third, shelters for the tents are built by digging out the top layer of snow as a base for the walls and sawin g blocks for walls as shelter from the wind. The snow blocks are 2.5' x 1.5' x 1.5' and put together like bricks with soft snow used as mortar. The walls vary from three to eight feet high depending on the conditions. Fourth, a kitchen is built below the surface of the ground with the snow table and surrounding benches at ground level. A place for the stoves and pots is placed on one side of the table. Plastic shields are used between the snow and the stoves and wooden shields are used for the pots to maintain the integrity of the cooking area. Snow blocks, normally in four or five inch squares, are cut to melt as water. A small amount of water is used as a starter to prevent the snow from melting. After dinner, the pots are filled with water and buried in a snow cache to use a starter for breakfast. The snow serves as insulation for the water throug hout the evening.
Russia is, in some ways, a good training ground for McKinley. Russia winters help acclimatize for the weather conditions on Denali. With cross country skiing and broomball, we have learned to pursue an active lifestyle irrespective of the weather conditions. The rudimentary living conditions on Denali are not unlike conditions in Russia. McKinley is also a good transition to the United States. Responsibilities and events in Russia seem distant.
My mood swings have varied widely on the trip to date. Emotions oscillate with the weather - warm and dry is good, cold and wet is bad. Otherwise, I am still trying to gauge my ability to tackle this mountain. Not knowing exactly what lies ahead, current circumstances serve as a barometer for my ability to cope with future challenges.
Just finished dinner and had to shovel a foot of snowdrift from the toilet before using it. There is a lot of snow and wind but fortunately the temperature is mild (approx. 20F).
June 7, 1998 - Day 7
Well, Mike, I found the snow! (One year during the annual overnight on a nearby New Hampshire mountain during the Christmas season with my father and brother, we camped in a blizzard atop Pack Monadnock. Mike had repeatedly left the fire to gather snow to make water for our hot chocolate, tea and coffee. After several rounds of drinks, he asked if I would spell him in the water making efforts. Reluctant to move from the comforts of the fire, I searched for an alibi. The sheepish response, "You know where the snow is" was all I could muster. Since then, when a test of fortitude arises between my brother and me, Mike recounts this incident.)
We were grounded in a wet blizzard today and spent much of the day clearing snow from our campsite. Snow was everywhere! Snow accumulation from the snowstorm was sparse on the Kahiltna Glacier. Most of it was blown over the pass to the Peter's Glacier. Since our snow walls were one of the few areas on the wind scoured glacier with any protrusions, however, snow drifted around the walls and when the drifts rose to the height of the walls, quickly spilled over into the holes where our tents stood. We shoveled the snow out every hour, shoveled the drifted snow in front of the walls out to create a new drift area, and raised the height of the walls another two feet. This provided protection for another four hours and then the process began anew.
Blizzard conditions with dry snow was anticipated. Working in such conditions was expected. But unanticipated difficulties arose when the weather warmed and the snow became heavy and wet much like a New England snowfall. Brian noted that in all his years on the mountain, this was the first time he had seen wet snow this high on the mountain. What had started yesterday as a test run on the upper Kahiltna had turned into a trial.
The day started with a half mile climb to cache some food and equipment at 10,500 feet. We were planning to go to 11,000 but heavy winds and poor visibility forestalled the trip. By the time we had turned around, we were in a strong storm with 40-45 mile per hour winds and 1-2 feet of new snow. The wind rushing through the ravine sounded like surf crashing on the shoreline during a storm. When we returned to camp, Brian commented: "Looks like we have some weather." It may have been his most solemn comment all trip and seemed to reflect the mood of the entire group. Braced for the onslaught, feeling strong, and therefore in a good mood, I replied saltily, "You call this weather in Alaska, huh?"
We all pitched in to shovel out the campsite. Others in the group moved lethargically and soon retired to the tent. I shoveled around the tent and then moved to the outside walls and removed the drifted snow. By the time I was finished, I was the last person outside. As I moved toward the tent, I was already planning improvement efforts for my next foray.
I opened the tent screen, threw myself inside and zipped the screen shut quickly to keep out as much spindrift as possible. When I turned around, I saw two very wet gortex-clad bodies sitting in pools of water staring morosely at me. My elation deflated when I glanced downward and saw the snow melt and sink into my gortex anorak within seconds. It was only then that I realized how wet I was. For the next four hours we sat in our gortex warming ourselves and drying our clothing. We imported snowblocks to mop up the water on the floor of our tents and heated water for warm drinks and dinner. When we were finally nearly dry, the tents were again nearly submerged in snow. Snow accumulation forced us outside to shovel and the drying process began anew. As I write this entry, I am lying in my sleeping bag with damp socks and lycra hoping that they will dry before morning.
Conversation during the seven hours of intermittent shoveling and drying was sparse. A few attempts at light conversation and shivers passed the time. My tentmates today, Doug and Fred, have both been on the mountain before. (To date, we have been switching randomly among the four tents -- a good way to get to know with whom you are sharing the other end of the rope.) Fred had summited four years ago. Doug had spent a week at 17,000 feet ten years ago before running out of food and retreating. The temperature during Doug's week at high camp reached -35F and 35 mile per hour winds each night. The image of Doug, who sat motionlessly with head bowed for hours at a time, belied his thoughts. What did he know, I wondered, that I did not? If this was par for the course at 10,000 feet, what lay ahead? As Brian had commented earlier: "You have to be able to enjoy discomfort to climb McKinley."
Despite the wetness and discomfort, today was a breakthrough day for me. I realized I could handle the cold and tough weather conditions. Though my apparel has some shortcomings, I gained confidence in my ability to cope in difficult weather. Nevertheless, the road ahead seems long. During our interludes in the tent, I counted and recounted the number of camps planned before summit day -- 7, possibly 8. We were currently at camp three. The camps at 11,000 and 14,000 were within the realm of comprehension. Any further camp beyond that seemed too distant for realistic consideration.
While my confidence ebbed, I was challenged by my tent mates, Doug in particular. Doug (‘Alpine Rambo') Heroux is the strongest climber other than the guides. Throughout the trip, he and I did pushups together. After we had done our sets of 35 or 50, he would finish with five one arm pushups. A 40 year old contractor who installs boilers, his arms are hewn from the manual labor of moving 150 pound pieces of steel around the basements of homes and offices. Doug spends his weekends during the winter ice climbing in the White Mountains in New Hampshire. Given his ordeal ten years ago on the mountain, he is steeled psychologically as well as physically. Whenever he needs added inspiration, he plays his Rocky tape with which he trained for the climb. In addition to his blockbuster b ody and iron will, he has a buoyant personality. It is clear that nothing short of impenetrable weather will keep him off the summit this time.
As with Doug, the stakes for which I am playing does not seem as high as for others on the trip. Many of the climbers on the expedition are one sport junkies with much of their reputation and sense of selves tied up in the success or failure of the climb. Most spend their holidays on various climbs around the world. Many had prepared for a year or more. By comparison, I am a dilettante. My commitment is hedged. How much does this matter? I suspect less and less and the trip progresses. As group dynamics intensify, the ability to look the fellow climber in the eye, to be trusted by one's partner will render preconceived commitment levels meaningless.
After waiting for nearly a week to open my second letter from Mary, I opened the message entitled "a quick read." What a pleasant surprise to find a picture from our honeymoon inside! What a bright spark in this otherwise dreary day! Mary, I miss you mightily and think of you constantly.
July 8, 1998 - Day 8
We remain at 10,000 feet. The snow continues to fall and the winds blow. The sky brightened briefly in the afternoon and we considered ascending to 11,000 but the clouds reconvened and the winds blew more fiercely than ever. We shoveled the hole out and increased the size of the walls again. I went outside along just before bed and shoveled around the tent again.
Several groups descended from 14,000 -- the weather was calm above us -- but could not find wands beyond our camp. We thus accumulated a small army of climbers around and amidst our campsite. Two climbers camped just outside our walls in the wake of drifts from our snow walls. The climbers are from New Hampshire and spent five days at 17,000 feet before turning back. Weather continues to be very unstable this summer. No climbers had summitted until May 26, when conditions cleared for a couple days. Many who had been stranded at 14,000 for more than a week were well acclimatized and summitted directly from that camp. A few more had summitted in early June but the weather pattern of low pressure systems has not yet broken. El Nino is blamed for much of the instability. Not since 198 7 has the success rate on Denali been as low as this year. We have at least a week before we would be in a position to summit. Got to hope that the weather patterns will shift by then.
From the New Hampshire climbers, we heard unconfirmed reports of an RMI guide who was blown off the West Buttress ridge. (There were rumors of two other deaths as well that proved unsubstantiated.) I overheard parts of a conversation among the guides about it being difficult to see colleagues and acquaintances die on the mountain, a few each year according to Brian. Though usually sheltered from such commentary, rumor of the reality of the risks assumed on this mountain spread quickly. We can only hope that the weather will break and rescues can be made for those remaining at risk.
Our backpacks were sheathed with six inches of ice when we awoke this morning. Our sleeping bags are damp but our clothes are dry. I slept with two pairs of mittens last night to dry them.
The day in the tent was enjoyable today. I made some miniature cards out of paper from my journal today and Doug, Fred and I played a game of hearts. A break from reading the telecoms dictionary was welcome.
Despite the weather, morale among the climbers remains high. Brian has set the tone with a generally indefatigable enthusiasm. Conversation with Doug, Fred and Andy (the guide who has assumed cooking responsibilities in our tent) is lively and seemingly unaffected by the weather outside. I recall a comment by Peter Jenkins in "Across China" that the propensity to survive an Everest expedition is directly correlated with one's sense of humor.
Fred (‘Freddie Mac') Mauren is certainly the most irrepressible of our expedition. His smile is effervescent, omnipresent and infectious. An accountant at Kmart, Fred belies every preconception of a man who plies the numbers trade. His interests are expansive -- name a country no matter how remote and he can succinctly discuss the country's history, culture and current events. In a group of generally understated climbers, Fred is the most amiable. People refer to him as Good Weather Fred as much for his disposition as the good weather he has benefited from on both of his McKinley climbs. Climbing is an unusual activity for a native of Detroit. He happened upon the sport inadvertently on one of his seven trips to Alaska as a result of a desire to explore more of this pristine country. A late comer to the sport (he started five years ago at the age of 35) and to sports in general, he calls himself a TNT -- tough not technical. He applies the same determination to climbing as to marathon running, which he uses as a form of mountaineering training. On why he wanted to do the traverse after already summitting McKinley -- he wanted to see the proverbial other side of the mountain. A bus ride from the entrance to Wonder Lake would have been easier, but no one in our group is prone to taking the easy route.
June 9, 1998 - Day 9
Wonderful day today. Sunny weather and snow flurries battled for control as we were on the verge of the cloud line all day.
We broke camp at 5am this morning and were on the trail by 8am. It took us a while to get going this morning as all our gear was sheathed in ice. The walk to 11,000 feet was brief, perhaps 45 minutes. We then set up a bomber camp with large ice blocks. Total set up time - three hours. We descended to 10,500 feet to pick up the cache deposited two days earlier. Finally, we practiced belay and crampon techniques in preparation for tomorrow. Total time all in for the day was more than 12 hours despite the relatively short move.
The sunset was gorgeous. The camp is in a basin with a bergshrund on one side and hanging seracs on the other. I would love to see one of the seracs topple. We are above the path of any likely avalanche but would certainly feel the effects in this small, enclosed basin.
Good to get warm and dry our equipment. My sleeping bag was soaked but has regained most of its bounce after a day in the warm tent. We have pretty much recovered after the two day storm.
June 10, 1998 - Day 10
Woke up to a sunny day with some flurries. Late start this morning relative to the past week (6am) but temperatures were cool given our camp deep in the ravine.
The real climb began today as we shed our snowshoes, donned our crampons and climbed 750 feet steeply to the top of Motorcycle Hill. As we reached the crest we could see down for the first time -- onto Peter's Glacier some 4000 feet below. We then climbed Squirrel Hill another 1000 feet around the flank of the West Buttress. We were now officially on Mt. McKinley. Another hour climb brought us to the verge of Windy Corner. Like the head of Kahiltna Glacier, Windy Corner receives the brunt of any fronts that pass over the range. Predictably, the wind escalated and flurries began. My hands began to turn numb but quickly recovered as we turned the corner and the winds subsided.
We emerged onto a lunar landscape of snowy ridges and seracs plunging down the West Rib. Though a mixture of whites and grays, the views in the basin above Windy Corner were dramatic. Much as taste buds adjust to the different tastes and textures of tofu when subjected to a uniformly blander diet, my eye is becoming attuned to subtle differences in shade. Blank landscapes are assuming a vitality as I become aware of the various shades that distinguish glacier from snow and snowfields from clouds and ridges. As Nick Jans in Last Light Breaking, one must slow down to appreciate the subtlety of life in Alaska. It seems a similar refinement is of value on McKinley as well.
After establishing a cache at 13,500, we returned to our camp at 11,000. The five miles round trip was good exercise after several sedentary and shorter hiking days. My calves were sore from climbing on the steeper inclines with crampons but it was a soreness borne of use rather than abuse.
My tent mates at this camp are Brian and Peter Lethbridge. Peter, more than any other climber, looks the part of a mountaineer. His thick beard and swarthy countenance attest to many weekends spent in the New Zealand mountains near his home in New Plymouth on the west coast of the north island. At 41, he has been climbing avidly for the last 20 years, including expeditions to the Himalaya (he has done the Annapurna circuit) and Aconcagua.
Peter has an oversized ambition for his pint-sized body. At no more than 5'6" he carries himself like a new age Napolean - firm in stride, brusque in manner. The most aggressive climber of our group, he seems eager to establish his climbing credentials. I have assuaged this desire by seeking his advice whenever possible. (Unfortunately, Peter would eventually have difficulties with the altitude at 16,200 feet. He would succeed in making the traverse but not the summit). Otherwise, Peter is a technophile. The book that accompanied him on the trip is a technical journal for assembling the Allchin, evidently some kind of steam engine automobile. His prized possession is his electronic lathe. He works as a telephone technician.
June 11, 1998 - Day 11
14,200 feet! We are now at the base of the climb to high camp. The climb from 11,000 feet was rigorous. I was fatigued and had a sore left side of the back from dragging the sled around Windy Corner. Otherwise, I felt good and surprisingly unaffected by the altitude. While moving slower at the higher altitude, I felt better than expected. The program of steady acclimatization seems to be working well.
Today was an encouraging day for managing layers of clothing. I was determined to climb without sweating or feeling cold. I added some lycra bike, wore a combination of thinsulate mittens and gortex windshells, and a face mask pants for some added protection around Windy Corner. The combination made me impervious to the wind. That I still have several additional layers for colder climates at the top of the mountain is an added psychological boost.
I have developed a rash on my hands. Brian says it is a reaction to the glacier, much like poison ivy or poison oak. He claims that they will disappear within a few days once we have left the glacier. While the rash is irritating, there is neither anything I can do about it nor anything to be overly concerned about. It is interesting that the rash has developed on hands that have been generally covered from the sun and glacier while my face has been fine. Glenn has had an equally bad reaction on the face but nothing on the hands. Andy says is effected on the ears. Matt and Suzie have had limited reactions on the face. (Later Brian took a picture of my hands for evidence in an ongoing study being conducted by NOLS on the phenomenon. The exact cause of the rash is unknown. Brian la ter commented that my reaction was among the worst he has seen. When the skin dried at higher altitudes, many of the bubbles burst and were a source of increased irritation throughout the remainder of the trip).
The views from 14,000 feet are great. We have prominent views of Mt. Foraker (17,000) and Mt. Hunter (14,000), the only mountains in the McKinley range higher than our camp, to the south. To the north is the West Buttress ridge. To the west is Windy Corner. Various routes to the summit span to the east, including the conical Messner route (named after the great alpinist Rheinold Messner), Orient Express and the West Rib.
The camp at 14,000 is a small city. Most groups spend at least three days and sometimes up to seven days here to acclimatize before going to high camp. We are planning to spend four days if all goes well. Approximately 70 people are camped here. A raucous military group with a bagpipe makes a disproportionate amount of commotion in this otherwise sedate group of climbers. Earlier three boisterous, seemingly dim-witted Alaskans sidled into camp who could have easily been caricatures from Jon Krakauer's short story on McKinley as told in Eiger Dreams. (Adrian the Romanian is back in camp for the 13th year in a row. Each year he spends approximately two months here on vacation from Vail or Aspen, where he reputedly is a fantastic skier and instructor. Based in part on his not oriety from Krakauer's book, he frequents this vacation spot during the off season. He also reportedly has vastly improved his climbing skills since Krakauer published the McKinley article and has made a number of difficult climbs on Denali and the surrounding mountains). Otherwise, the climbers at 14,000 are an international group. I met two groups from Poland, one from the Ukraine and one from Russia. There are two groups from Switzerland. The odd couple partnership goes to a Mexican man and a German woman who can communicate only in faltering English. They do not seem to know each other very well -- how can they? -- but she seems attached at the hip to him. One famous climber who has summitted Everest five times is working as a volunteer on the mountain to assist in cleaning up th e camp at 17,000 feet. He is part of an extended fraternity of climbers on the mountain who seem to know each other well. Our guides - Matt, Thai, Andy and Brian - are constantly meeting people who they seem to have known for years. Brian is clearly one of the most experienced and respected people on the mountain.
Fred asked me what my biggest surprise has been to date on the mountain. I responded that the biggest surprise has not been the mountain so much as my reaction to it. I find that I am more cautious and preoccupied with my health than I have been on past excursions or expected to be on this one. Perhaps this can be attributed to a variety of factors -- increased risk on the mountain, changed life circumstances, age and maturity would all be in the mix.
June 12, 1998 - Day 12
I awoke this morning with a headache. My movements were lethargic. I spent ten minutes rubbing my head hoping that the ache would subside but to no avail. Putting chapstick on was a major event in the early morning. The dreaded effects of altitude which I normally feel over 13,000 feet have hit. Perhaps I over extended myself yesterday while setting up camp. I worked for four hours straight and helped build snow walls for three of the four tents. In retrospect, I may have gotten dehydrated.
We awoke at 7am, had breakfast and hiked down to 13,500 (took perhaps 30 minutes) to pick up our cache. The return trip was much slower. When we arrived at 1pm, I was unsteady and moving at a weary trudge. The last 300 feet, though level, was all consuming. Brian was planning to use the afternoon as a review session for technical skills, but when Scott started showing obvious signs of altitude sickness and had to see the doctor, we got the rest of the afternoon off. I was already ensconced in my sleeping bag determined to take some time off anyway. I fell asleep for three hours and felt better when I awoke. Everyone else seemed to do the same.
It is unfortunate to see Scott enfeebled. Scott (‘Please, Scottie, Please') Hissong is one of the strongest climbers on the trip. A resident of Anchorage and a member of the mountaineering club there, he is accustomed to weather and climbing conditions on the Denali range. He participated in an epic winter climb in the Chugach range in preparation for the trip -- he apparently almost died when he fell into a crevasse from which it took nearly three hours before he was rescued. In addition, he trained with a 130 pound backpack, walking the three miles to and from Providence Hospital where he works as director of the radiology department. Scott is quite a character -- a great sense of humor, always upbeat even when coughing blood today, and the recipient of three degrees. Since he is a single parent, this was his one shot at the summit of McKinley. Unfortunately, he got a cold early in the trip and was never able to recover. He did, however, stay with the group and eventually made the traverse.
At altitude, physical exertion is magnified, activity slows, but time proceeds apace. As noted in "Longitude," time moves on and we struggle to keep up: "Time is to clock as mind is to brain. The clock or watch somehow contains the time. And yet time refuses to be bottled up like a genie stuffed in a lamp. Whether it flows as sand or turns on wheels within wheels, time escapes irretrievably, while we watch. Even the bulbs of the hourglass shatter, when darkness withholds the shadow from the sundial, when the mainspring winds down so far that the clock hands hold still as death, time itself keeps on. The most we can hope a watch to do is mark the progress. And since time sets its own tempo, like a heartbeat or an ebb tide, timepieces don't really keep time. They ju st keep up with it, if they're able."
Here the struggle is heightened. (Later, at higher elevations on the West Buttress ridge, it would take three hours to progress one mile). Daily activities are measured in lesser terms than we are accustomed to at sea level. A good day may be measured by advancing a cache, moving camp an additional 1000 feet in altitude or simply staying healthy. (Today, for me, it was the latter.) Once sick, it is difficult if not impossible, to recover at these altitudes.
Today the World Cup soccer competition begins and the Bulls-Jazz NBA championship series is nearing completion. I know nothing of the results and, despite my curiosity, these events seem light years away. The only person and thing not located on this mountain that does not seem far away is Mary.
The food on this trip has been excellent. Soup, a main course and dessert are staples for each evening meal. A couple days ago we had a cherry cream pie for dessert. What a luxury! This evening we had a chicken curry on rice. We have had Mexican nights with tortillas, cheese and a spiced rice on a couple occasions. Breakfasts have included pancakes, oatmeal, cream of wheat, grits, fried energy bars.
The training period is over. Lugging extra weight around the mountain has been acceptable until now. But every ounce matters. I am ripping the extra 140 pages out of my journal to save a few extra ounces. The differential between my pack and others, while always extant, will diminish as I continue to eat lunches at a faster rate. I intend to have my pack at a reasonable level by Denali Pass.
- - -
What a glorious evening! Nice dinner of pasta and cheese with sun dried tomatoes and lentil soup. I feel 100% better. The headache has cleared and my energy has returned.
Stood outside and chatted with Andy Elsberg, one of our guides who purchased a cabin 30 miles outside of Anchorage, is studying biochemistry at the UA Fairbanks and is going to Greenland to visit his girlfriend after this trip is over. Having spent eight years teaching with NOLS, he is highly regarded by Brian and is clearly the second most senior guide on the trip. He is not the pure climber that Thai and Matt are but, at 30, his mountaineering skills are solid and he has good mountain sense. Andy is quite thoughtful. He frequently asks for my thought of the day from my journal. In response, I frequently stay after supper to chat and help him clean up.
It is ironic that the guides are, for the most part, older than the clients. Clients range from 28 to 47 years old. I am the second youngest in the group. Brian and I are the only married climbers in the group.
I thought that, while living in Russia, I had gained an appreciation for the 11 Eskimo words for snow. I now realize that I understood only four or five and that now I may be up to eight or nine. Living on the snow -- with snow as your kitchen, bathroom, drinking water, warehouse, and washcloth -- is an exotic change of pace. I am now comfortable differentiating spindrift from snowcover; wet from dry snow; and loose, granular snow from the snow that constitutes snow blocks.
I just opened Mary's second letter entitled "to be opened a week into the trip." I too remember fondly our trips to Elbrus and Kilimanjaro. I have already told Brian and Andy that I hope that we can someday return to enjoy parts of Denali together.
Forecasted temperatures for tonight at 14,000 (0 to -10F) and at 17,000 (-20 to -30F).
June 13, 1998 - Day 13
Celebrated the half way point of the trip with another beautiful day. We enjoyed crystal clear blue skies all day. I took a bath in the snow and washed my clothes. The sun felt warm but my frozen hair confirmed that the ambient temperature was quite cold. Washing the feet is the most refreshing part of a bath -- foot care for a climber is tantamount to the importance of hand care for a pianist. The snow is granular like sandpaper; it feels regenerative on the first pass and abrasive on subsequent rounds. On warmer days, I try to do as many rounds as my skin will allow. That my pen is freezing and can write only when I blow on it indicates how quickly the temperature has dropped once the sun goes behind the horizon.
Today is an acclimatization day. What a relief to have a fair weather, transportation-free day to wander outside the tent, clean and rejuvenated the body, wash clothes. Lest moss grow on our feet, Brian led us to a spot a few hundred feet above camp and practiced running belay and self arrest techniques in preparation for our climb on the fixed lines to 16,200 feet tomorrow.
Tomorrow will be our first foray to the high camps. The traverse now seems definitely attainable. The big question now is the weather. Given the logistics of the traverse and the amount of equipment we need to get to high camp, we will need at least five good days to be able to get everything over the pass. The recent trend is a welcome change from earlier in the month. Let's hope it holds.
June 14, 1998 - Day 14
Another great day. Had moderate flurries intermittent with sunshine throughout the day. The highlight of the day was getting onto the West Buttress.
We started at 9am to ensure that we were among the first climbers on the fixed lines. The route to the West Buttress rises 2000 feet in the span of one mile. The average 40% grade starts at a moderate incline with soft snow for the first 75% of the climb and then increases to 55% on the fixed lines at the top. The 900 feet of fixed line begins on an icy bergshrund and then proceeds up hard packed snow and ice to the ridge. Fortunately, a few steps had been etched in the ice to ease the strain of the pitch. With the relatively warm temperatures of 0 to -5F and low winds, we were able to climb comfortably. The views from the ridge and eventual camp at 16,200 were spectacular -- overlooking Peter's Glacier and the tundra ponds on the plain some 15,000 feet below. We rested for two ho urs on the ridge to assist with the acclimatization process before establishing our cache and returning to camp at 14,000. As leader on the return trip, I took a fast pace that loosened the legs after the ankle biting climb to the ridge.
For the last four days, I have climbed on Brian's rope to subject myself to his scrutiny and, hopefully, improve my climbing skills in preparation for the upper part of the mountain. Exacting in his methods and observant of those around him, I have not been disappointed. As the altitude and risks have increased, Brian's enthusiasm has become more intense and testy. I have benefited from the criticism aroused in Brian as well as, on occasion, been perturbed by comments that seem out of place. Over all, the last three or four days have been a great benefit.
Brian is an interesting man. With more than 25 years climbing experience and over 30 guided trips, he is one of the grandfathers of the mountain. He is highly respected and seems to know everyone on the mountain. Despite his experience, Brian remains enthusiastic in almost every situation. He conveys an enjoyment of the outdoor experience whether conditions are bright or inclement. He is proud of Alaska and the mountains, which is most clearly demonstrated in providing the full experience from a test run on the upper Kahiltna, to sleeping in an ice cave at 16,000 feet, to the tundra ponds at the far end of the traverse.
Brian is a practitioner -- a climber who believes in a habit-forming methodological approach. He is exacting in his standards. Each of us, including all the guides, have been subject to his scrutiny. He has something to say to everyone as they pass by whether they are part of our group or not. Perhaps because he knows his trip could be interrupted by a call to rescue another party, he seeks to preempt hazards before they become problems in other groups as well as his own.
My climbing style has been based more on strength than technique. It is interesting that in rating members of our climbing group on the basis of strength and technique, there is virtually an inverse relationship between the two. With the exception of Doug, who is the strongest and among the most able climbers, those who are strongest tend to be weak on technique. Those who are weaker compensate with climbing skills. As high altitude, where inefficient energy expenditure is costly, it is important to combine both strength and skill.
My sleeping bag is a warehouse of items that must not freeze. I have two water bottles, socks and climbing shoe liners, a camera and suntan lotion. Whenever I move I have to reposition the hardware in the bag. The water bottles can be a nuisance since they are often a mixture of ice and water by the time they enter the bag. They thwart my attempts to warm the lower part of the sleeping bag; on a couple occasions I have had to sleep with booties to counteract the cold of the water bottles. The shoe liners can also be a nuisance as they are often damp from the toil of the day. I usually put them in the vestibule for a few minutes, let the dampness freeze and knock off as much of the ice as possible before placing them under my knees.
As our fourth night at 14,000 feet comes to an end, I feel acclimatized and strong. The next week at high camp will be challenging. I feel ready for it.
June 15, 1998 - Day 15
I am lying in a snowcave at 16,200 feet. Writing in a freezing, wretched scrawl, I have to blow on the pen every couple of words to make it write. For the first time on the trip, I have combined my two sleeping bags, one rated to -20F the other to 0F. I also have on two pair of socks; two pair of pants, one expedition weight; capilene gloves; a balaclava and ski hat; a gortex jacket and two capilene jerseys, one expedition weight. The cave is colder and wetter than a tent but given the cramped quarters at 16,000 feet, Brian prefers the cave.
Brian built this particular cave 11 years ago. The cave has served ADG expeditions ever since. It sleeps six, 3 on each side, and is 20 feet long, 8 feet wide and 3 feet high. In the entrance, which is five feet from the mouth of the cave, the height is as much as five feet high. The entrance ramps up to a latrine and a fixed line extends to the kitchen some 20 feet above the cave. Since we are at the edge of a 1000 foot drop, we must wear crampons wherever we go outside the cave.
I enjoy the sense of adventure in sleeping in the cave. I understand, however, that it is miserable to be caught in such a cave during a storm day. There is not much to do other than huddle in the sleeping bag. As a result, I am particularly hopeful for a good day tomorrow. The trip has been great so far, but I am looking forward to a warm vacation next month in Martha's Vineyard. Next vacation the only time I intend to wear two layers of clothing would be for a dinner at a nice restaurant.
We had a warm, sunny day, perfect for perching ourselves on a 2000 foot ridge. The climb was easier today than yesterday, partly because we knew what to expect. The steps also seemed to be etched more deeply than yesterday. We had good views on both sides of the West Buttress. The Ramparts, under clouds for most of the last four days, were visible for the first time to the south. On the north side, green forests and tundra ponds were visible reflecting in the low, late evening light. Such is our destination for the last couple days of the trip.
June 16, 1998 - Day 16
Today was the best yet. We climbed the steep and precarious ridge to the high camp at 17,200 feet. The views were spectacular. The first half of the climb was steep, rising 1000 feet in a half mile. We stopped for a rest just beyond Washburn's Thumb before proceeding along the flatter but narrower second half of the ridge. Along portions we walked a ridge a feet wide with drops of 3000 feet on one side and 1000 on the other. Despite climbing hard and well, progress was moderated by the steep conditions and high altitude. It took three hours to cover one mile. For much of the remainder of the trip, we will continue to measure progress in hours per mile rather than miles per hour.
The camp at 17,000 feet was remarkably calm and warm. We ate dinner at a leisurely pace outside, a rare event for high camp. Fantastic views of the entire climb so far were visible from the edge of the high camp this afternoon. The last 3000 feet looked particularly spectacular as we looked virtually straight down on the camp at 14,000 feet.
Peter was nauseous and had to remain at 16,000 feet. We will pick him up tomorrow, assuming all is well, when we return for the cache. Since we had just three remaining tents, Brian built a one-man snow cave, an ingenious oblong triangular cave.
Supposed to be a perfect summit day tomorrow. Unfortunately, Brian has decided we are not yet sufficiently acclimatized. We will return for our cache at 16,200 feet instead.
A frequent debate at high camp is whether to take diamox as a preventative or curative drug. Since Scott has been feeling the effects of the altitude since 14,000 feet, he will take the diamox preemptively. Suzie talked me out of taking the diamox. I am predisposed to avoid taking medicine where possible. Instead, I attempt to raise my oxygen level by breathing deeply at least 100 times before going to bed. We are in full control of our oxygen levels during the day but tend to lose oxygen saturation during the night with involuntary breathing. Minor morning headaches are usually alleviated by a higher breathing rate.
Suzie (‘Suzie Q' or ‘Swiss Miss') Kreimler is a reserved Swiss climber who I am only getting to know while sharing a tent with her and Fred at high camp. The daughter of a famous apparel designer (both her brothers are also designers and have built a reasonably large business), she decided to pursue medicine instead. She has combined her love of mountaineering and interest in medicine by studying the effects of high altitude on the body. She is a great asset to the expedition. A petite but talented climber, she has trained on some of the most difficult mountains in Switzerland. She has suffered from the arctic weather more than anyone else, particularly in the hands and feet, but she remains undeterred. She refuses to complain and keeps plodding along.
The wind is blowing hard at 18,500 with snow plumes hovering over the ridge. The sound of the wind atop the ridge reminds us how fortunate we are to have calm weather at this altitude.
June 17, 1998 - Day 17
We just heard from Brian that it is supposed to be another great day tomorrow. The high pressure system will last for at least one more day. More than 30 people summitted today. I am thrilled that we will get a chance at the summit tomorrow and that we will likely have the summit ridge to ourselves -- everyone who was in a position to summit today already has done so. I have already prepared my gear -- four layers for the bottom and top, 2 pair of double mitten sets, three hats plus two hoods, and a parka for the upper and lower body. In addition, we will bring a sleeping bag, stove, food, snow saw and shovel and extra warm gear in the case of emergency.
I just read Mary's letter "for the night before you attempt the peak". You are right that the go/no go decision will be made in the morning and, in fact, will be an ongoing decision as we climb. We will bring a cache to Denali Pass to ensure that progress is made for the traverse even is the summit is not achieved. We are fortunate that the decision will rest on Brian's experienced shoulders.
You are also right that safety and enjoyment of the process is of utmost importance. We had another wonderful day to return to 16,200 for the cache today. Winds were calm and the views were spectacular. We were fortunate to have benign weather on a ridge where all three deaths have occurred so far this year. It is nice to have that part of the trip behind us.
I feel confident as we approach the possible summit day. Feeling strong. Restful sleep, my friend.
June 18, 1998 - Day 18
Hey! Hey! The summit was ours today! Spectacular weather, one of the best summit days of the year. No wind, clear views as far as the eye could see and relatively warm temperatures (0 to -10F). The total trip was 14 hours, including more than an hour on the summit. The climb on the summit ridge was a classic. After ascending the 500 foot headwall, we arrived on a narrow two foot ridge with a 7000 foot drop on one side and 500 on the other. We walked along this ridge for 200 feet before the ridge widened and became less threatening. Another 320 vertical feet to the top and the summit was ours.
Peter, Scott and Thai remained in camp today still recovering from altitude sickness. They greeted us with warm soup and a hearty meal. What a great way to end a good day. To sleep at midnight and looking forward to sleeping in.
June 19, 1998 - Day 19
Snowy and blowy outside today. Not extreme but enough to justify a storm day. For an hour or so, Brian wavered about whether we should go but, upon polling the group, determined that a rest day was in order. Slept much of the morning and, with the exception of a couple trips outside, have had a relaxing day.
Climbing the mountain, in retrospect, is a gratifying accomplishment. It took 18 days of sometimes difficult weather conditions to achieve a position to summit. Many have the physical ability to climb the mountain but few are prepared to live in arctic, alpine conditions for the time necessary to do it. On the same day we summitted, we later and regrettably learned that two British and two American climbers were hurt and stranded on the West Rib just 500 feet below where we were climbing. (All four were rescued. The Brits ultimately sustained extensive frostbite on their hands and feet. One of the Americans reportedly remained in a coma and will most likely not make it. We witnessed the rescue of the Brits two days later. CNN and BBC covered the story widely, which I later understo od caused much consternation at home).
Despite the sense of accomplishment, I feel extremely fortunate to have had favorable weather conditions. Nature is a superior force in any part of the world at altitude, but particularly at the latitude of Mt. McKinley.
So far I have concentrated on the ascent of Denali. Now that we have reached the peak, I am prepared to turn to the second half of the trip -- the traverse. The last seven days are reputed to be rigorous. In total we need to descend 50 miles during the last 7 days compared to 35 miles ascended in the first 19 days.
The air at high camp is dry and thin. I have cut my hands three times while doing basic tasks such as tying shoelaces. The cuts will not heal until we descend. In the thin air, I have been practicing deep breathing before I fall asleep. By increasing oxygen levels with heavy breathing before I sleep, I reduce the likelihood of headaches in the morning and the risk of getting AMS or pulmonary edema. With less oxygen in the air, the body has greater difficulty producing carbon dioxide and other oxygen compounds typically exuded by the body. As a result the body instead emits carbonates through urination. As a result, urine levels naturally increase at high levels, which in turn increases the need for water. Water is also required to oxidize cold air. Climbers at high altitude should d rink at least five liters of water per day. I estimate I was drinking between five and six per day.
June 20 and 21, 1998 - Day 20-21
Brian's worst fears were realized as the weather changed abruptly and we were stranded for two days at high camp in a storm. On both days temperatures hovered between -10 and -30F and winds blustered at 20 to 30 mph. According to Brian, we were fortunate, that the storm was not worse. Winds of 50 to 80 mph are not unusual at that altitude.
Brian emphasized the need to get outside and work at least four hours per day. He stressed that the body deteriorates quickly at high altitude, thus necessitating physical activity irrespective of the weather. I can empathize with Chuck Lawson as described by David Halberstam and Nelson Mandela and the difficulty of governing one's own schedule under difficult conditions. I kept thinking that I could surely remain active at this altitude if they were able to do so in extended prison terms. For my physical activity, I shoveled steps between our tent and the kitchen, steps we would never use as the weather never again improved enough to cook outside at high camp again. When all other constructive activities were complete, I led a few guys in some high altitude dancing. It was not pre tty, but it accomplished the purpose of keeping ourselves active. (Nevertheless, I later learned how much I would lose at high camp despite our activity level. When I took off my shirt for the next time while at 8000 feet, my upper body had lost perhaps 50% of it muscle mass. My arms had shrunk by an inch or two. My chest and shoulders were frail. All this in the one week between 14,000 and 17000.)
Having completed the climb and established a strong position for the traverse, the pressure of storm days is off. A few rest days may build our strength and prepare us for the descent. We enjoyed the two rest days chatting, reading and playing cards with pieces of paper that I had cut out from my diary for the purpose.
During our second day off, I read "Across China" by Peter Jenkins. Having previously succeeded in caricaturing America during this earlier five year walk across America, Peter tried to capture the same effect during his five week travels around China. According to my read of the book, he failed miserably. First, he tried to combine a tale about climbing with a cultural odyssey -- the two were poor bedfellows. Second, he tried to summarize a much more complex country, a country he knew virtually nothing about, than the U.S. while spending considerably less time there. The result is a superficial, poorly assembled collection of anecdotes. It seemed like a classic case of a book prepared without sufficient justification. "Wild Swans" and "The Private Life of Ch airman Mao" have both far superseded this book.
June 22, 1998 - Day 22
The traverse is on! Awoke to partly sunny skies. It looked promising but we still needed assurance that a 12 hour window would hold for our ascent to the pass and descent to a reasonable point on the Harper Glacier. Thus, we waited until midway through breakfast when Brian announced definitively that we would leave. We packed hurriedly and excitedly. Within two hours we were on our way.
Today was the most rigorous of our trip so far. The climb to 18,400 and descent to 14,600 took 12 hours of hard climbing, approximately the same amount of time it took us to summit. Three things, however, made today harder than the summit day: (1) full packs; (2) only one 15 minute break during the first six hours (we were pulling pro as the last group in line and thus had a substantially shorter break than the other groups); and (3) a two hour wait while the guides staked the glaciated trail before Brown's Tower where we would camp for the evening. By the time we completed the climb at 3am, my hands and feet were frozen and my mind was shot.
On the climb to Browne Tower, we had a clear view of Wonder Lake and the green tundra below. The destination looked deceptively and invitingly close, seemingly a hop, skip and jump away. Instead, we would spend much of the next five days getting there. We enjoyed a nice dinner with beautiful views as the sun rose.
The campsite at Browne Tower is the most spectacular on the trip. The campsite at 16,200 feet on the West Buttress features incomparable 180 degree views, including bird's eye vistas of the range's other great mountains -- Mt. Hunter and Mt. Foraker, but the campsite itself is spartan. Browne Tower is set beneath a majestic granite rock face that we later were able to observe throughout much of the rest of the climb. The campsite is spacious despite its perch atop Karsten Ridge. Our tents were embedded amongst snow walls and the kitchen was placed adjacent to what looked like a large granite tombstone. The views of Pioneer Ridge, the Muldrow Glacier, Harper Glacier, Karsten Ridge, the northern and eastern peaks, and the tundra plateau extending to Wonder Lake and beyond are stunni ng. I understand that after the ridge beyond Wonder Lake is the place where the bus featured in Jon Krakauer's "Into the Wild" is located. This place is evocative of so much about which I have read and memories from my father's previous trips to the country.
It is 5:15 as I prepare for five hours sleep before we get ready for the next leg of the trip, the imposing Karsten Ridge. Home stretch!
Just read Mary's letter entitled a "quick pick me up". It was a tough day despite a delightful finish. This is the most beautiful camping spot on the trip and a perfect place to read such a wonderful note.
June 23 & 24, 1998 - Days 23 & 24
Lying in bed at 7:20pm after sleeping for much of the day. We had climbed down the Cascombe and Karsten Ridge to the Muldrow Glacier from 14,600 to 8000 feet over some 16 hours, 20 hours including time required to break and make camp. As a result of the difficult climbing, progress was slow and arduous. We are now resting and adjusting our schedule to go through the lower icefall during the early hours of the morning when the snow is hardest. Thus, we are simulating jetlag ... a schedule adjustment without having to pay $1000 for the flight.
The climb yesterday was beautiful. The descent of Karsten Ridge required some careful maneuvering along a narrow ridge with a 45% declining grade and 2000 feet or more of exposure. Fortunately, we climbed in deep snow that made it difficult to keep our balance but was forgiving -- for the most part, there was little danger of falling far if we lost our footing. Evidently, the ridge had accumulated more than two feet of new snow during the storm on which we were stuck at high camp. As a result, the snow was much deeper than the normally wind scoured ridge. For most of the day, we inched our way along the ridge exchanging sunny views with cloudy weather as we hovered along the cloud line.
Later, as we stood near the Muldrow Glacier and exchanged crampons for snowshoes, Brian congratulated us on completing the traverse. We were certainly not out of the woods yet, but by his estimate, we were leaving Mt. McKinley and the traverse was thus officially complete. The clouds that had been teasing us all day finally enfolded us and we walked along the glacier in a sea of grays. The last remaining obstacle for the day was a 15 foot "lower" down a serac in the upper icefall on the Muldrow. All our equipment and each of the climbers were lowered by ropes through the icefall and onto the compression zone of the basin where we would camp for the day.
As I write, Richard Caviness is filing his nails. Filing nails after more than three weeks on the trail? Surely there must be something better to do! Last night I awoke to a concatenation of coughs, wheezes, grunts and maneuvers as Rich tried to relieve himself of 47 years accumulation of aches and pains. Rich is the most fastidious of the climbers on the trip -- climbing and fastidiousness are uneasy bedfellows. Though he is the weakest climber on the trip, I have rooted hard for Rich because he has clearly put so much into it. No other climber is as organized as Rich. His lunches are organized and demarcated like chemistry experiments. His equipment is well maintained and neatly packed. He was hypoxic on the climb to the West Buttress but he kept going. He had difficulty on t he ridge but he did not quit. Somehow he found the strength to make the summit. Rich is a pilot for Federal Express. He has been living in Memphis but is considering a move to their branch office in Anchorage. It sounds as though this trip has sealed his decision; Alaska has hooked him.
It is remarkable that on a trip of this duration, stress and intensity with twelve people who did not know each other prior to the trip that our group has worked together as well as it has. Brian recently noted that, while perhaps not the strongest group, this is the most compatible group of climbers he has ever led. I recall only one time on the trip when there was a heated exchange among clients. A few of the clients, myself including, have annoying quirks but none so onerous as to grate irreconcilably or overshadow an otherwise interesting personality. A couple of the guides have become irritated and yelled at clients. While I thought the outbursts were unnecessary and unprofessional, they were brief and infrequent, often ignored or overlooked by the clients. Otherwise, we were fo rtunate to have a strong group of climbers who worked well together under difficult circumstances.
It is nice to be at lower altitudes again. A few noteworthy changes at low altitude:
- Thick, soupy air. As breath comes more freely, this emaciated body is beginning to rebound.
- Moist air. Great remedy for the dry skin.
- Warm air. Nice to be able to relax outside again.
- Sound of birds, smell of plant life.
- Mosquitoes. Ouch!
- Relaxed pace. Lack of sense of urgency.
- Not being tied on a rope. Freedom of movement.
June 25, 1998 - Day 25
"The rest is a walk in the park." Within ten seconds of Brian's assertion, we heard an eruption behind us. All heads immediately turned toward the telltale sound of an avalanche. The hanging serac under which we had passed just ten minutes before -- Scott had referred to it in passing as an occupational hazard at the time -- had fallen. Blocks of ice ten feet thick hurdled at 200 miles per hour past the outline of our path. Within seconds a 100 foot swathe of snowshoe prints were covered by more than ten feet of snow and ice. The avalanche marked with an exclamation point the rejoinder that climbing McKinley entails unavoidable risks no matter how careful one is. Brian's timing was impeccable and fate was on our side today.
We had left camp at 3am to pass through the lower icefall on the Muldrow Glacier in the morning coolness when the snow and ice were most solid. The snow was crusted at the surface but sticky and wet underneath, a sharp contrast from the dry hardpack snow that reverberated with each step on Karsten's Ridge. When conditions on the lower icefall were too unstable, we retreated to the slopes of Pioneer Ridge. Pioneer Ridge offered surer footing but left us vulnerable to the hanging snowfields and glaciers that lined the rocky clefts above. It was from these perches where avalanches had fallen, awakening us with alarming regularity all yesterday afternoon. In the first hour of the climb this morning, we had already seen three avalanches. We glanced occasionally to our right at the serat ed glacier -- an area that Erling Strom had noted in 1932 where the "cracks were of such dimensions that a whole railway train might disappear into them" -- hoping for some alternative to the loaded gun on which we were walking. Nevertheless, our route required full concentration as we navigated the thirty degree inclines on snowshoes with fifty pounds sleds tugging relentlessly downhill. Nearly everyone fell at least once on this sidewinding course.
As we descended toward the base of the lower icefall, the valley and glacier narrowed and twisted to the right creating a rubble of seracs, icy ridges and crevasses. The weather combined with this strange brew to make an eerie scene macabre. The black ribbed rock of Pioneer Ridge supported the ceiling of gray clouds that covered the valley. Fog rolled over the ridge onto the glacier floor sometimes limiting visibility to a few hundred feet. Crevasses yawned with blue icy teeth glistening and then disappeared in the mist. Pools of water gathered at the side of the glacier forming a muddy mix with the crushed black rock that formed the moraine.
The hike to McGonnagall Pass was a slog. Our sleds tugged on our backpacks as it clutched the wet glacial snow. My back, which normally responds well to the straightening influence of the backpack, writhed as the sled twisted and turned behind me. The pace, which Brian had steadied throughout the climb, lurched and faltered. As a result, rope management -- keeping the rope tight enough to minimize the impact of a fall but loose enough for each climber to proceed without resistance -- became an all consuming task. My nerves frayed. It appeared that Fred was laboring ahead of me and his erratic cadence reverberated down the rope. The emotional tension on the rope ran taut even while the physical tension sagged.
At 8am we arrived at McGonnagall Pass, unroped, and exchanged snowshoes for plastic hiking boots. For the first time in 24 days, we were off snow and ice. For the first time in 24 days, we were not tethered to the guides and our fellow climbers. We could walk at our own pace and stop when we pleased. We could walk together or seek the solitude in which the Alaskan outdoors specializes.
If being unroped and out of the reach of crevasses sounded liberating in concept, the formative steps on terra firma were tenuous at best. Before assaying the shiest and rock that bordered the glacier, we had combine all the weight and bulk of our sleds with that of our backpacks. Group gear was collected and reapportioned into eleven piles. I selected the densest package and then, not sure whether I had taken my fair share of the load, assumed an extra stove kit from Richard. My first attempt at packing the backpack was feeble. I stuffed what I could into the backpack, kept the sledbag on the sled and packed the bulky, oversized items separately in the sledbag. The snowshoes, snow saw and climbing rope went into the backpack. This packing method assured, once the sledbag was attach ed to the back of the backpack, that all the heaviest equipment was located far from the back -- an awkward, unstable arrangement at best. They say that efficient packing can improve the implicit weight of the backpack by 25%. Inefficient packing augmented and compounded by 100+ pound backpack. I spent the next three miles postholing through snowfields and lurching over the rockstrewn path. I felt gawky and uncoordinated. My pace faltered. When my center of gravity shifted on a particularly deep posthole, the loosely tied sled would tilt and shift the bulk of the weight on the backpack to one side or the other. Since I could not put on or take off the backpack without help, I tried to rebalance the backpack by lifting on the heavier side with my hand or arching my back to the left or r ight. I felt like one of the weary laborers in Repin's seafaring painting about life on the Volga. Once I caught my right foot between two rocks and toppled slowly to the ground. I was fortunate to be able to twist the foot slightly to avoid a break or sprain. The three mile hike was, for me, the most difficult and treacherous part of the entire trip.
{During the next two days, I turned this initial packing failure into a benefit. Understanding how awkward and uncomfortable a poorly backpack could be, I sought to optimize the weight distribution, initially moving all the heavy items against the back and, ultimately, to the central portion of the backpack. Equally importantly, I packed the backpack tightly so weight could not be redistributed as I walked. By the last day, I moved under the weight well and, as the other climbers tired under the strain of the longer distances, became the fastest hiker.}
The rain that had chilled our walk from the glacier dissipated and we ate a leisurely dinner. The alertness and underlying tension that pervaded life on the glacier had disappeared. As we reclined on the rocks surrounding the stoves with the gurgle of a brook in the background, we began to reminisce about the trip. Brian, no longer the shepherd through the crevasse-filled minefield of the Muldrow and guardian against the wiles of the mountain, is convivial. Our resident historian is more effusive in his stories and praise of the mountain than ever. The mood and warmth of narration crescendoed to a rose tinted pitch -- a virtual love fest. The end of the trip is approaching.
June 26, 1998 - Day 26
When we awoke this morning and opened the screen, the smell of plant life rushed into the tent. Still just below the snow line, little more than the tussocks of tundra and moss surround our camp. The contrast to the dry air of the glacier is startlingly refreshing. I was reminded of Hudson Stuck's commentary upon returning to McGonagall Pass after his successful ascent in 1913: "If a man would know to the utmost the charm of flowers, let him exile himself among the snows of a lofty mountain during fifty days of spring and come down into the first full flush of summer." It is also a welcome relief from the wretched smell that pervades any confined space with three sweaty climbers that have not showered in nearly four weeks.
The fragile plant life is a scarce commodity in these subalpine climates. Rarely are moss roots deeper than one inch at these altitudes, yet the moss sheaths a permafrost that is vital to the local ecology. A few of the hearty trees will grown to a couple feet tall, otherwise all vegetation are ankle biters. To preserve the vegetation we set up tents only on spartan rocky ground and avoid wearing vibram soles around camp; we shed our plastic boots and wear either inner liners or booties. Wherever possible -- a few of our more precarious sites, such as on the West Buttress at 16,200 feet or at Brown's Tower, require that we wear crampons at all outside our tents -- I shed my plastic boots as soon as possible and wear the warmer, drier booties.
What a beautiful morning! No clouds in the sky. The pitch of the simmering pots seems to be in tune with the gurgling creek. Breakfast is a long affair. We pack our belongings and break camp at our leisure. Elated with our surroundings, I am among the last to leave.
Brian and I share the sweep position of our group. Having visited Russia and climbed in the Altai mountains at the time of the 1991 coup he has remained curious about Russia and my experience there throughout the trip. Having discussed our various climbing experiences there on several occasions, he inquired about my work and path that led to Russia. His questions opened the door for similar questions in return and, ultimately, to shared expressions of admiration. He remarked about my strength as a climber and speed with which I picked up the technical skills. I responded with appreciation of his continued enthusiasm about the mountain despite his vast experience and the widespread faith among the group in his good judgment. The conversation was warm and seemingly genuine.
We crossed a series of streams today, all of which is preparation for the McKinley River tomorrow morning. For the smaller rivers we took out the liners of our plastic boots and crossed in the shells enabling us to stay dry and preserve our feet for hiking. On the latter, larger rivers, we teamed up in groups of three and crossed with the added stability of a mutually held stick. The person furthest upstream took the brunt of the force of the river while the others passed in his eddy.
We hiked about 11 miles for the day. As we descended gradually from 5400 to 2500 feet the vegetation grew lusher and the mosquitoes more prevalent. We donned our gortex tops and bottoms when we stopped not for warmth but for protection from the mosquitoes. Alfred Brooks, one of the early explorers of Alaska for whom the more northerly Brooks range is named, wrote in 1902: "Five years of Alaskan travel have convinced me that there is no hardship so difficult to bear as this insect pest ... Men capable of enduring heat and cold, hunger and fatigue without murmuring, will become almost savage under the torture." At the second river crossing, I too succumbed and, for the first and only time during the trip, asked for the 100% deet bug repellent. I lathered my face and hands wit h it. For the next mile, I stumbled groggily under the influence of the deet but, for a couple hours, I had respite from the mosquitoes.
We camped near Turtle Hill, a rounded promontory point with commanding views of the McKinley River and entire range, between two tundra ponds. Immediately upon dropping our packs, we splashed into the nearest pond. The water was cold and few ventured in for more than a quick submersion. I swam around for a few minutes before stumbling over the mossy stones to the shore. On one stone I fell and got a healthy gash in my foot, which would remain well bandaged for the next week.
Tonight we camped for the last time together. Throughout the trip we had shared tents randomly. I enjoyed the chance to get to know everyone in the cramped but informal atmosphere of the tent. On the two occasions when we were grounded by storms, the tents became our homes. Over the course of long hours and days, we got to know each other well. As a result, Doug, Suzie, Fred and I shared an intimacy that transcended the otherwise egalitarian culture that pervaded the expedition. This evening, Fred, Suzie and I coalesced and agreed to celebrate this last evening together. Thai joined us to play a round or two of hearts, a tradition that we had carried with us from being snowbound at 17,000 feet. Suzie, the most technically sound climber of the group and high altitude doctor, wondere d aloud whether we would ever see each other again. A resident of Zurich with easy access to the Swiss mountains, she extended an open invitation to our small group, one that I am sure will not go unheeded. Fred, the man with an effervescent and omnipresent smile but a resident of Detroit with no similar enticement, offered what he could -- his business card.
Thai (‘Thai Spice' or ‘Gadfly Thai') Verzone is one of the more interesting people on our trip. His last name is Italian but he is Vietnamese, presumably a product of the Vietnam War. He studied biochemistry at Willamette College in Oregon and then went to Quito, Ecuador on a scholarship to study Spanish. His intention was to combine Spanish with a medical degree and work in South America. His interest in climbing grew as he climbed each of the major volcanoes in Ecuador. On a minuscule budget he continued south climbing numerous peaks in the Andes. Since then, he has worked the odd job to support his climbing habit and used his ingenuity to get to far flung places such as New Zealand. He is a superb athlete and as a winner of the 150 mile extreme cross country adventure race between Hope and Homer is at 23 already somewhat of a legend in Alaska . He is an amiable fellow and a quick study -- he did fairly well learning German from Suzie. Clearly a great addition to the trip.
Thai is currently deciding whether to apply to med school. As he spoke of his failed attempts to secure summer internships, his fear of rejection became evident. His earlier comments about the awing task of young climbers being responsible for an older, more accomplished group of clients began to fit into place. He attacked mountains without reserve irrespective of the possibility of failure and knowing that anything short of temerity was self-defeating. Surely the same logic applied for other endeavors. I encouraged him to talk with Bob Luby and referred to Theodore Roosevelt's modus operandi:
"It is not the critic who counts, not the one who points out how the strong man stumbled or how the doer of deeds might have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred with sweat and dust and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause and who, if he fails, at least fails while bearing greatly so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."
June 27, 1998 - Day 27
Each day, it seems, brings a new test. First it was camping in the wet storms of the upper Kahiltna Glacier. Then it was the treacherous gales of windy corner. Then the climb to the West Buttress at 16,200 and on to high camp. Next the extreme conditions at high camp and the summit; the windswept Harper Glacier; the exposed Karsten's Ridge; the crevasses on the Muldrow Glacier; and the heavy packs crossing McGonnagall Pass. Today we faced the twin challenges of the swift waters of the McKinley River and the mosquito-filled swamps en route to Wonder Lake. Depending on the conditions, some consider this to be the most difficult part of the trip. We met a pair of climbers on the Muldrow who had lost their third partner who had reached the McKinley River and opted to proceed no fu rther. For us there were few viable alternatives. We either cross or face a 30 day return traverse across McKinley.
The McKinley River is braided, a series of some 20 rivulets, where we intended to cross. To cross the river we divided into four teams of three. Brian and his team crossed first and the others followed along the route he had established. Guides from the first and last teams stood as spotters on the side of each crossing with sticks to hold out to anyone who slipped and get carried down the river.
Our team consisted of Matt, Rich and me. Matt is, at 24, the youngest full-fledged guide (Thai is an apprentice) but a very strong climber. He had traversed McKinley last year from the Muldrow Glacier, a longer and logistically more difficult trip than traversing from the West Buttress, and is a veteran of the Iditerot. His soft spoken demeanor hides his strength. Rich, at 47, is the oldest of the group and weakest climber, but he was bigger than Suzie or Peter and thus, I suspected, less at risk than our shorter members. He was a careful, technically competent climber, skills, I thought, that would translate well on the crossing.
But Rich had particular difficulty with the crossings. On the first crossing, he took the end position, which benefited most from the eddy created by Matt and me. Within the first 15 feet, however, he lost his balance and grabbed tenaciously onto the pole while his backpack dragged him further into the water. For a few seconds he tried to regain his feet but could not gain a purchase on the rocks below. With the water now at neck level, he let go with a jerk sending Matt and me in with him. I turned my back to the water, released from the backpack (the straps were not clasped to enable an easy emergency exit), and surfed the buoyant pack to shore. Rich made it to shore with the assistance of Andy. He was clearly shaken but made it to the other side with the guidance of Brian.
For the second crossing, we decided to put Rich in the middle. He preferred our support on either side and wanted our elbows to be touching his at all times as he grasped the branch. Nevertheless, he lost his balance on the second crossing as well and swept me down with him. Rich floated down the river quickly and was assisted to shore by Brian. Again I turned my back to the current, released my backpack and rode the backpack to shore. Members of the first group -- Fred and Scott -- looked on aghast. Someone had to break the tension, so I stood upon reaching the shore, balanced on the backpack, did a shimmy and sang a few bars of "Surfing USA".
The cold temperatures of the McKinley River, which is an opaque gray from the glacial silt that comprises the river, had drained the strength from Matt, Rich and me. We stood on the sandbar legs shaking uncontrollably. Rich tried to do a jumping jack to stay warm but could not control his legs and slumped to the ground. Matt and I huddled to determine what we could do to help Rich get across the remaining 15 or so channels. The water levels on the first two were thigh high. What would happen if we came to a more challenging channel that was waste deep?
Rich was emotionally shaken as well as physically weak on the next channel. He repeated to himself the mantra of the method of crossing the river: "Shuffle the feet, secure the footing, pick a spot on the other side and focus on it, touch the elbows ..." To our surprise, he crossed without faltering. A success ... lots of encouragement ... let's build on it. The next crossing ... ok. One by one we proceeded to the other side.
Since our clothing and other items in the backpack were packed in plastic bags, little damage was done by the falls. I, however, had forgotten that my expedition weight capilene shirt had been packed loosely at the top of my sledbag. By the second fall, it had fallen to the bottom of the bag and, waterlogged, swung like a pendulum below the backpack. It felt like it weighed ten pounds. Now walking through the swamp toward Wonder Lake, I could either stop and wring it out while serving as a four course meal for the mosquitoes or walk with extreme discomfort to the lake a couple miles away. I chose the latter. The pendulum slowed my progress to the pace of Suzie, who had long been laboring under the weight of her backpack, so we decided to hike and cross the finish line together.
Waiting for me at the finish line was Mary. What a fantastic surprise! A business trip to Paris preempted a planned meeting in California so Mary flew to Anchorage and, with only 30 hours before her return flight, chartered a flight to the trailhead. She got off at Kantishna airfield and ran/hitched a ride the final 13 miles to arrive at Wonder Lake a few minutes before our scheduled departure. I was fiddling with the waterlogged capilene shirt and sledbag when I heard my name. I turned to watch as Mary snapped a photo of me in my bewildered surprise.
Also awaiting us was a surprise cache of food. It stood among our group untouched as we awaited the final climbers. We eyed the goodies rapaciously until the last climbers -- Doug and Thai -- crossed the finish line. I ate more than I have eaten in who knows how long. Three huge peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a half bag of chips, four large cookies, two sticky buns, a couple glasses of apple juice, an apple, some pretzels... When I thought I could not eat any more .... the hostess of the campground brought out some hot homemade cinnamon rolls. I ate two steamy rolls ... a great capstone to a great trip.
The six hour bus trip to the national park entrance was spectacular. We drove 85 miles parallel to the range with occasional stops at visitors centers. Though we were much cleaner after the swim in the tundra pond, we evidently were not able to eradicate completely the odor from our traverse. A couple daytrippers from the visitor centers wandered onto the bus but retreated, apparently deciding to wait for the more civil option. A few daring souls joined us. One sat in a row behind me next to Scott and rode for the next hour with her hand to her nose before another seat opened. It was amazing how quickly she moved for the opening.
We road along a ridge facing the McKinley range with views of the flood plain containing the meandering McKinley River and went upstream to the tongue of the Muldrow Glacier. Caribou and moose were plentiful in the valley. We stopped for a few minutes to watch a grizzly and her cub feed on grass and leaves just 100 feet from the bus. The power of the grizzly and the playfulness of the cub seemed odd companions, but none of our hearty climbers dared venture out to test the strength of the relationship.
Whenever we met an oncoming bus on the narrow dirt road, both buses had to stop, move far right, and occasionally back up to a wider section of the road to allow the other bus to pass. Rarely was there more than a foot of extra space between the buses. No private vehicles are permitted in the park. Within the last two weeks, Senator Breckinridge (?) reportedly succeeded in inserting a clause in a bill that would permit a western access road to the park and presumably greatly increase access and development. The rangers announced the news to Brian in a state of great agitation and trusted they could block development once the environmental impact was assessed. Alaska takes the concepts of conservation and minimal impact seriously.
The return to civilization announced itself with a closely clustered strip of restaurants, stores and hotels just outside the entrance of the park. Though tastefully constructed with natural log walls and muted colors, the strip was a shock to the senses dulled by four weeks of innocuous glaciers. To ease the transition we went to a gas station that offered showers for a $3 fee and received the spare change of clothes that we had set aside at ADG before we left for McKinley. Rejuvenated we then went for an all-you-can-eat dinner at Salmon Bake. A veteran of all-you-can-eat restaurants, I have learned from experience that the objective of dining at such establishments is to eat until your marginal utility is zero and, when in doubt, stop shortly before -- you can always eat a little mor e after a few minutes of repose. Some of our younger guides have fully digested the zero marginal utility concept but missed the breaking mechanism. They plunged forward into the netherworld of indigestion and spent latter portions of the meal missing in action.
Mary had parked her rental car at the park entrance before chartering the flight. We drove back to Talkeetna, a good chance to spend a few precious hours to ourselves. The drive along Broad Pass at sunset offered spectacular views of Mt. McKinley and the surrounding range. Views of Denali from afar -- at Wonder Lake and Broad Pass -- were awe inspiring. One of the highest mountains in the world from base to summit, McKinley is massive -- 120 miles in circumference. It was only at this point when I felt the full satisfaction in the accomplishment of climbing Mt. McKinley.
June 28, 1998 - Day 28
A sunny day in Talkeetna. The town seems more upbeat, more hospitable than the sullen village I remember. Visitors roamed the streets languidly. Conversations in Polish, Russian, Spanish and a variety of other European languages could be heard. Mary and I sat at the Roadhouse picnic tables, ate sandwiches, apple pie, and a cinnamon roll and people watched. I read the Anchorage daily newspaper, a gazette that contained far too little news for my appetite but at the same time was information overload relative to the dearth to which I had become accustomed. We sat for more than an hour soaking in the languor as much as the sun.
When we stopped at ADG, the place was already abuzz with the process of unpacking and packing of gear. The guides assembled community gear in piles. To the bottom of the packs went our gortex uniforms. Cotton, a banished luxury on the trip, was ascendant. We exchanged addresses and e-mails ... pictures would be exchanged through the mail. Who knows ... perhaps we may visit someday. It is not in the spirit of travelers and climbers to tarry long and emotionally on such subjects. Everyone had already updated flight reservations. I exchanged hugs and addresses with everyone in the group and, with Mary at the wheel, left for Anchorage before salutations became stale and the crowd dwindled.
July 5, 1998
A week has passed since finishing the McKinley expedition. Surrounding me are creature comforts of home -- a computer, printer, fax, weight set and plenty of books. I walk unconstrained by wands, unconcerned about the danger of the snow and ice disappearing underfoot, and unimpeded by layers of clothing designed for arctic conditions. The white walled interiors of home, the landscaped surroundings of suburban life, the social mores that grace daily life are welcome acquaintances but wary allies.
In the days, weeks and months ahead, I will ascend twin peaks that are, in some ways, no less formidable than that posed by McKinley -- a reacculturation in America and the job search, summits that awed Thai Verzone and Brian Okonek more than some of the world's great climbing challenges. For much of the last week I have tarried in the shadow of the past ascent, the summit looming ever larger, increasingly reverential of the infinitely religious peak experience. As I hike in the foothills of the American professional range, the summit looms equally large in the distant horizon, the means of ascent as unknown and uncharted as McKinley one month ago.