Tears in the Wind

by Larry Semento

  My mind was full of questions. I wondered whether I was capable of the challenge, whether I was fit enough, mentally and physically, to tackle this beast. I wondered whether I was properly prepared, and whether I would make a lethal mistake even if I was able. I wondered about the things that I lacked control over, such as avalanches, crevasses, vicious storms, the deadly armaments of an angry tyrant, lying in wait for me. I wondered if maybe I was wrong, and that perhaps I imagined the mountain to be worse than it really was. Here it is, I thought, the union of the concept and the truth. I was done thinking about Denali, and soon I’d have answers to my questions.

  The tops of mountains are among the unfinished parts of the globe, whither it is a slight insult to the gods to climb and pry into their secrets, and try their effect on our humanity. Only daring and insolent men, perchance, go there.

  Henry David Thoreau – The Maine Woods

  May 21-The Ascent Begins

  After breakfast together, we proceeded to the National Park Service ranger station. The building was as nice on the inside as it appeared outside. There were books, postcards and photographs of Denali available for purchase. Phil registered our group with the rangers, and we each paid the required National Park Service fee. We then gathered in a small room with a couple of German climbers and a ranger. To assure that we were properly outfitted, the ranger asked each group leader questions about the equipment and supplies the group was carrying, making sure that we had essential items such as first aid kits and C.B. radios. They asked about our tents and what materials they were made from. Then the ranger proceeded to show a slide presentation on climbing Mt. McKinley, the purpose of which seemed to be to dissuade us from ascending the mountain. It focused on the substantial risks and dangers of the climb, all of which had already been drilled into my head.

  We left there and went back to the hotel to pack up our gear for transport to the airport. Although the airport was on the opposite end of town from our hotel, we enjoyed the short walk while the van transported the equipment.

  The Talkeetna airport consists of a small T-shaped runway, with eight or so air service offices situated along the sides. Each air service had its own building and distinctively colored planes. The planes were small four-seated Cessnas, with ski-type landing gear fitted along the wheels. As I looked around, I was overwhelmed. Here I stood among the legends of the Alaskan air, seeing the names that I had often read about--Hudson, Geeting and others. These were the rugged pilots who had come to Alaska and pioneered air travel to Denali and its vicinity, opening up the area to adventurers like me who might otherwise never come to see it. These men were known for their nerves of steel, a well-deserved reputation given the difficulty of flying in the Denali region. They were also a cast of characters who fit in well in Talkeetna.

  We were flying with Geeting's air service. Phil spoke with the owner, Doug Geeting, and they concurred that the weather was fit enough for a flight to the Denali Base Camp. We went into the hanger and unloaded our equipment from the van. After that we weighed each pack and duffel bag so that the pilots would be able to load the planes appropriately. Phil explained that three of us would fly on each plane, and that we would have to load as much gear into each of them as possible. We would be cramped and it would not be a comfortable flight. As we waited for our three planes to be fueled, we went into the office, met Doug Geeting and some of his other pilots, and looked at the impressive photographs hanging on the walls. Many of those were photos of prominent climbers and other celebrities, and most of them were autographed with compliments to Doug.

  In the old days prior to the use of ski planes to fly to Denali, climbers were forced to hike to the base of the mountain, a long, time consuming, and treacherous ordeal. To hike from Talkeetna to Denali’s Base Camp requires one to cross at least 60 miles of mostly impenetrable, soggy muskeg and mosquito infested bogs, an unpleasant task at best. Although I have the highest admiration for those early hardy climbers who made that trip and then climbed the mountain, most of us are not up to the task and would much prefer the flight in.

  Soon Doug announced that it was time to load up. Phil, Chris and Dennis hopped into the first ski-plane, and we watched as it taxied down the runway, turned, and within a few seconds it was airborne. Mike, Meegan and I jumped into the next one. Since Mike was the largest person, the pilot asked him to sit in the front seat next to him, while Meegan and I squeezed into the back. I could not believe it. Here I was, about to take off for Denali.

  As the small plane struggled to gain altitude in the cloudy, gray sky above Talkeetna, I looked out of the window and saw mile after mile of green, open space. Here and there were houses hidden among the trees, but there were no towns, roads or other signs of civilization. I strained my eyes northward in the direction that we were flying, hoping to catch sight of the big mountains, but saw none. It seems as if we flew over flat, forested terrain for about fifteen minutes.

  Eventually I spotted snow-covered mountains in the distance. Soon, the carpet of green forest yielded to snowy-white mountains, which gradually grew in size. Mike, Meegan and I were all amazed, each of us uttering excitedly, "Look at that!", "Wow!" or "Incredible!" as we snapped photographs from the small windows of the plane. We were surrounded by impressive steep snow-covered peaks. I felt as if our plane was an insignificant dot against this immense stone and snow background.

  The sky was overcast, but visibility was fairly good. As we got into the mountains, I could tell that the wind was increasing because the plane bounced and pitched, its engine exerting itself to pull us up and forward. We were flying in between the surrounding mountains, high granite peaks on each side, appearing so close it seemed that I could reach out and touch them. We flew through “One-Shot Pass,” and it didn’t take too much imagination to realize where that name came from. It was the most incredible scenery that I have ever seen, and although I was nervous about the flight, the overwhelming view was awesome and captivated my attention.

  Suddenly, although the engine was loudly whining and droning at a full throttle, it seemed as if we had stopped. Banking hard to the east and bouncing in the wind, we began to descend. My earlier apprehension quickly turned to fear. I focused all of my attention on the direction that we were headed. I could not see much through the front window, because the nose of the plane was turned upward. As we continued to drop, the pilot, who was earlier carrying on conversations with us, was now silent and completely focused on controlling the plane. I soon realized that we were landing, but I could not tell where. Then, off in the distance, I noted small specks of color against the white backdrop of a relatively flat, broad glacial ice pack. As we got closer, I recognized them as tents. Parallel to the tents ran a line marked with small flags--the landing strip. My heart pounded with excitement as I realized that we were about to land at the Denali Base Camp.

  Our small plane bobbed along the ice and snow runway and ground to a halt. The pilot barked for us to get out, and I followed Mike and Meegan as each quickly jumped out the door. As I looked out, I was overwhelmed by the scene. There were twenty or so tents of various shapes, colors and sizes stretched out laterally along the runway. Climbers were intermingled among the tents. Some were standing and looking in our direction, apparently either watching our arrival or looking for long awaited planes for their departure. Others were busy with different chores, some fixing tents, others preparing sleds and packs for travel. My study was interrupted by a call from the pilot, who reminded us that we needed to unload our gear from the plane as quickly as possible so that he could leave. With obvious haste he threw out our packs, ice axes, crampons and other equipment. The sky was overcast and I knew that he wanted to get going to avoid being stuck here in bad weather. When our gear was unloaded in a pile clear of the plane, we assisted the pilot in turning the plane in the opposite direction for his flight out, grabbing onto the struts of the wings and pushing the plane 180 degrees. Thus situated, the pilot jumped inside, started the engine and, with a roar,
he was soon bouncing along the runway in the opposite direction from our landing. I watched as the plane became airborne, groaned to gain altitude, and soon appeared as a small speck against the rock walls of the surrounding mountains.

  This is the Denali Base Camp. Located on a broad, flat strip on the glacial river at 7,000 feet in altitude, it is an area free of crevasses and fairly safe from rock falls or avalanches. This is the landing strip for planes ferrying the climbers, and an area where many of them camp. During the climbing season, Base Camp was managed by Annie Duquette, affectionately known as “Base Camp Annie.” For almost 10 years, living in a large permanent tent at the Base Camp, she served as ground coordinator for Talkeetna air taxis flying climbers and tourists in and out of the Base Camp. She has also functioned in many other capacities, giving advice or supplies to climbers, maintaining radio communications with climbing groups on the mountain, providing weather reports, and many other tasks. The personable Annie became an institution on Denali.

  We saw Phil, Chris, and Dennis, and walked over to join them. Phil was busy arranging duffel bags onto the sleds that we would use to help transport our gear. These sleds are made of hard plastic and are designed to glide through the snow. Phil had explained to us that we would be roped together in a team, as we had been on all of my previous expeditions, and that each of us would have one of these sleds attached to the rope behind us, so that we could drag a sled loaded with equipment. We would each be responsible for carrying approximately 100 pounds of gear, which could be divided between our backpacks and sleds in whatever proportion we were comfortable with. Phil advised that it was easier for him to carry a heavier load in his pack, since the sleds have a tendency to slide from side to side and go off the hiking track, or they hit spots where they stick and require a tug to dislodge them, and they often become more of a headache than a convenience. Phil and Chris assisted us in securing the large duffel bags to the sleds as we saw Ellen and Romulo arrive. After we had secured the sleds and arranged our packs for travel, Phil laid out the climbing rope.

  Some expedition teams will spend a day or two camped at the Denali Base Camp before beginning the ascent. Phil disagreed with that approach and felt that it was best to start climbing as soon as possible after hitting the mountain. Our plan was to climb 1,500 feet or so up the glacier and then set up our first camp.

  Our guides checked to assure that we each were ready to start traveling, then Phil instructed us to "rope up,” which meant that we secured ourselves to the climbing rope at even intervals by attaching loops on the rope to our climbing harnesses. We then put on our snowshoes. As I attempted to do so, using snowshoes I had borrowed from Dennis, I realized that I didn’t know how to attach them to my climbing boots, as I had never worn snowshoes before. Phil assisted me, and eventually I was set to go. I looked around in disbelief as I realized that we were about to start climbing Denali.

  Phil led our rope team. I was next, tied in about twenty feet behind Phil, with Dennis behind me. Mike, Meegan and Chris followed in that order, evenly spaced out along our rope. We are always roped up during climbs, so that if one of us has the misfortune of plummeting into a crevasse or of slipping and falling, the rest of the rope team can attempt to arrest the fall. On all of my past expeditions, we practiced self-arresting, which is a maneuver in which a climber uses an ice axe to stop himself from sliding or falling, or to hold himself firmly in place to stop a fallen climber from plunging further. Although we practiced this regularly, we hoped that we would never have to self-arrest under actual conditions; it is by no means a guarantee to avoid disaster. Practice on this trip, however, was unnecessary, as this was not a time to learn new skills.

  As I said a silent prayer, I took my first step as we started our ascent of Denali. We were all wearing snowshoes, except for our guides who wore skis with skins attached to the bottoms so that they could gain traction to stride uphill in the snow. Although my first few steps were awkward, I eventually got accustomed to the snowshoes as the trip progressed. We would use them on the lower part of the mountain to help avoid sinking in the snow or falling into small crevasses. We also used ski poles to secure our balance. Up above, on the higher part of the mountain, we would abandon the snowshoes and poles and begin using crampons and ice axes.

  It felt good to start moving. As we did, I thought back to all of the hard work and effort that had gone into getting this far, and I committed to put forth my best effort throughout the expedition. I warned myself to pay attention, to be careful, and to be patient and take one step at a time. I also told myself to enjoy the journey; this expedition required a great deal of sacrifice, not only by me, but by my loved ones as well, and I wanted to relish every moment.

  Our path followed a straight line parallel to the Base Camp. Soon that was behind us, and the route gradually dropped and followed a downward decline. This section of the route is known as “Heartbreak Hill,” so named because at the end of a long Mount McKinley expedition, climbers have to ascend this long uphill section to finish the trip. I focused on assuring that Phil’s sled, which was attached to the rope in front of me, did not slide into him because of the decline. Occasionally, Phil turned to shout some instructions or to check on the team. Often, he would yell out, “You’re doing great!” It really seemed as if we were. We traveled at a good, steady pace, and everyone seemed pleased that we were underway.

  Based on his experience, Dennis had warned me that the first few days on this lower part of the mountain are often hot ones, caused by warmer temperatures and the white heat of the sun reflecting off the brilliant snow. As a matter of fact, he said that he had never been as hot as he had been on this part of the climb. The temperature was probably in the seventies or eighties, and I soon appreciated Dennis’s wisdom. It was hot. I felt like I was in an oven. Most of us had long johns on, with Gore-Tex wind jackets and pants over them. Like me, the others were unzipping their jackets to help cool down. Because the reflection of the sun from the glacier causes serious sunburn, it was important to keep skin covered. We had maximum strength sun block on areas of exposed skin, including our faces and ears, and lip balm thickly coating our lips. We also wore hats, gloves and dark sunglasses. Even though I was hot, it was not unenjoyable and actually reminded me of training back home in the heat of Florida.

  We traveled in intervals of approximately an hour to an hour and a half before stopping for rest breaks. Each rest stop was similar. We took off our backpacks and zipped up our jackets to conserve body heat, since core temperature will drop rapidly while being inactive, sat down on our packs, then drank water and ate snacks, such as candy, crackers, cheese and salami. It is important to eat and drink as much as possible on these expeditions, and particularly on Denali. Water is essential not only to replace fluids lost from strenuous activity and the low humidity, but also to assure proper functioning of the body at higher altitudes. We had to drink water copiously.

  It was during these breaks that we had an opportunity to look around and appreciate the beautiful scenery that we were hiking through. Usually when we are traveling, we are focused on the path in front of us and concentrating on placing each foot in the appropriate spot, and there is little opportunity to enjoy the view. So it was during these respites that we would snap photographs, emitting exclamations such as “Amazing!” or, “That’s unbelievable!” It was true: Denali was shockingly beautiful.

  Striking mountain peaks surrounded us. Phil pointed out some of the named ones: Mt. Hunter, to the south, and, to the southwest, Mt. Foraker, while hidden from our view, Denali’s summit rose far above to the northeast.

  The path we followed is known as the West Buttress route. It is considered the standard path to the summit, easier than the other more technical and severe routes on Denali. It is the route pioneered by Dr. Bradford Washburn. A cartographer and photographer, he was one of the preeminent mountaineers in America. From the 1920s through the 1950s, he made many first ascents and established new routes in the Alaskan mountains. Dr.
Washburn was often accompanied on climbs by his wife, Barbara.

  Bradford Washburn devoted his life to exploring, mapping and photographing the world’s highest mountains. He became the leading expert on Mt. McKinley, and during his time there, he discovered a route to the summit that traveled across the West Buttress of the mountain. I had studied his beautiful and detailed photographs of Denali in anticipation of our trip. As we proceeded up the beginning of the route, I felt a reverent respect for those early climbers like Dr. Washburn, who had walked this way, with more primitive clothing and equipment, blazing the trail that would be followed by mountaineers like me for generations thereafter.

  The West Buttress route begins on the southeast fork of the Kahiltna Glacier. Running 39 miles, the Kahiltna is one of Alaska’s largest glaciers. This is where the Denali Base Camp is located, at an elevation of 7,200 feet. The views of the surrounding mountain peaks along this part of the route are extraordinary. Mt. Hunter, at 14, 500 feet, dominates the view to the south. Located to the northeast of the Base Camp is Mt. Frances, topping out at 10,450 feet. Directly ahead, in a westerly direction, is Mt. Foraker at 17,400 feet. I was amazed by how near these mountains appeared; although they seemed no further from me than several hundred yards, I learned that they were miles away. In the crisp and clear Alaskan mountain air, distances are deceiving and these peaks appeared much closer than they actually were.