Tears in the Wind

by Larry Semento

  From Base Camp, the route descends Heartbreak Hill then curves around the base of Mt. Frances to the north. This is where the southeast fork runs into the main Kahlitna Glacier, and is an area containing numerous crevasses, so climbers must pass through it with a great deal of caution. The route gradually ascends toward Ski Hill, where it rises more sharply to an altitude of 9,700 feet. Above Ski Hill, on the upper part of the Kahlitna Glacier, one is likely to encounter more severe weather. Here the route narrows into Kahlitna Pass, a dip between the surrounding rocks and peaks through which the wind funnels. The route contours sharply to the east at this point, and rises somewhat steeply up Motorcycle Hill to an altitude of 11,000 feet. Motorcycle Hill is named for motorcycle hill climbing events that take place at altitudes such as this, but it might have been more aptly named for the noise created by the strong winds which blow through this part of the mountain.

  Continuing up Motorcycle Hill, the path then turns west crossing a flat plateau to the base of the mountain’s West Buttress. The point where the route curves around the southern end of the West Buttress is known as Windy Corner, which is at an altitude of about 13,500 feet. The winds through here are almost constant and can be ferocious, often reaching speeds of 100 miles per hour.

  Above Windy Corner, the route passes through a broad, flatter area that contains crevasse fields, requiring climbers to exercise extreme care. At 14,200 feet, a large plateau appears. This is where the Basin Camp is located, which, after the Base Camp, is the most populated site on the mountain. The National Park Service maintains a camp here staffed with rangers during the climbing season. This is a fairly safe area as it is protected from avalanche danger and is free of major crevasses. Most climbers will spend a few days here to acclimate and to prepare for a summit bid.

  From the Basin Camp, the route ascends a section of the West Buttress known as the Headwall. This is the steepest part of the climb, where the route rises 2,000 feet to an altitude of 16,200 feet. The upper 800 feet of the Headwall consists of 40-60 degree angled snow and ice, and, to secure themselves, climbers will use a rope fixed into the Headwall. The course reaches the ridge of the West Buttress at the peak of the Headwall, and then continues along this ridge line across snow, ice and rock.

  The climbing along this ridge, which is technically the West Buttress for which the entire route is named, is very exposed and spectacular, with drops of several thousand feet to either side. The route winds up this ridge through sections of large boulders covered in ice and snow. Here, there is little defined path.

  Near the top of the ridge line is a flat plateau, which is an area of relative safety from avalanche danger. This is the High Camp at 17,200 feet. From here, climbers will stay to stage a bid for the summit. They will try to spend as little time here as possible, waiting out the typically horrible wind and snow conditions for a break in the weather so that a summit attempt may be made. The route ascends from here up a wall to Denali Pass at 18,200 feet, where the route turns across a ridge and rises to a large, flat plateau known as the Football Field. At the end of the Football Field, the route meets the narrow summit ridge, a line that elevates steeply with great exposure on both sides, where it continues to the ultimate destination, the summit of Denali.

  Bradford Washburn pioneered the West Buttress route. Prior to that, the initial climbs to the summit had all been by the same path, the one taken by Hudson Stuck on his initial summit ascent. Bradford and his wife, Barbara, had ascended to the summit by way of Stuck’s route in 1947, making her the first woman to have climbed to the top of Denali. After studying photographs and participating in an extensive mapping of Mt. McKinley, Bradford Washburn noticed a safer, more direct route to the top from the west side of the mountain. The only problem was that the route required an extremely long trek in to the base of the mountain. Washburn realized that could be avoided by landing a plane on the relatively safe Kahiltna Glacier. At that time, 1949, ski planes were being developed for landing on high altitude snow and ice.

  In 1951, Bradford Washburn reached Denali’s peak via the West Buttress route. In reflecting on his ascent of the mountain by that route, Washburn said:

  Denali, even by its easiest route, will never be “an easy day for a lady!” If you’re reasonably experienced on high, frigid ice and rock, a good cold-weather camper, and favored by the weather gods, the West Buttress may turn out to be a fine, brief, and rewarding experience--a sort of tiny polar expedition in three dimensions. You’ll also learn that what you once did up there won’t yield half as many vivid memories as those about the wonderful companions with whom you lived and struggled and climbed.

  Washburn’s West Buttress route became the standard path to the summit. It has been climbed by thousands in the years after his first ascent.

  From Base Camp to the summit, the route covers a distance of 16.5 miles, and has an altitude gain of over 13,000 feet. The actual distance climbed is much greater because loads are ferried up the mountain and placed in caches, particularly above 10,000 feet. Climbers carry food and gear to a higher camp, cache the supplies in the snow, then return to sleep at the lower altitude camp. A day or two later, the climbers ascend to the cache location, and then begin this double-carry process again. This is done to lighten the loads which must be carried up the mountain and to help climbers better acclimate as they contend with the effects of higher altitudes.

  As we proceeded upward, Phil pointed out the numerous cracks in the ice at the edges of the glacier. He stopped and pointed down, and told us to be careful as we stepped over a small crevasse. In awe, I looked down into the thin crack in the blue ice. Throughout the day we crossed several, and after a while, I was an old hand at striding over small crevasses.

  We had been hiking steadily for about four hours, and I was beginning to tire. Basically, I felt good and was enjoying our first day of climbing on Denali, but I was ready to stop for the day when Phil announced that we had reached our first camp site. It was about 8,000 feet high, a gain of less than 1,000 feet in altitude, but we had covered nearly six miles in distance toward our goal. I was beginning to appreciate Denali’s massive size.

  While hiking that day, we witnessed two avalanches. The first one sounded like the firing of some distant cannon. It echoed loudly across the vast open expanse and, a second or so after we heard the blast, we saw snow burst loose and tumble down a far-off cliff face. The same thing happened later. I was awestruck by the immensity of these snow-slides. Aside from the two avalanches we saw, we heard but did not see several others. Each time, the loud distant “Boom!” captured our attention and caused us to stop walking and look around. We were glad that these avalanches were so far away, but I still wondered what Denali had in store for us.

  Phil and Chris gave us instructions for setting up our tents. These are yellow and are made of a tough nylon material, and are good protection from the wind and cold. Each tent was large enough to house two of us in reasonable comfort. We were cautious in putting up the tents for it was windy. One of us held the tent fabric so that it would not blow away in the wind, with potentially serious consequences, while the other assembled the rods and placed them into the tent. After we had trampled out a flat area in the snow, we placed our tent down and secured it into the ice and snow with the metal stakes and our ice axes. Dennis and I took turns putting our sleeping bags and gear into the tent. Everything went in except our crampons, ice axes, and backpacks, which we covered in large trash bags and secured outside the tent. We placed our outer boots in the tent vestibule to keep the interior of the tent as dry as possible.

  We also built snow walls around the exterior of the tents. Using snow shovels and saws that we had carried with us, we cut blocks of snow and placed them, igloo fashion, around the sides and backs of the tents to help protect them from the wind and snow.

  While we stowed our gear into the tents, Chris and Phil set up the cook tent, which was a floor-less, teepee-like structure that provided some protection from the elements while we co
oked and ate. When that was up, they lit a stove to begin melting snow for drinking water and cooking. This was somewhat of a long process, as the boiling of the water was hampered by the cold and altitude. When the water was ready, we each filled several of our plastic drinking bottles. Phil told us to place the bottles in between our sleeping bags in the tent at night to minimize the risk of their freezing.

  I soon learned that each climber had to assist with the camp chores. This was not an opportunity to sit back, relax and be waited on by the guides. Although Phil and Chris handled the bulk of the camp responsibilities, we were all expected to help out, and Mike, Meegan, Dennis and I gladly did so. We cut blocks of snow and placed them around the tents, gathered snow in a large trash bag for melting down, collected and secured gear in the large duffel bags attached to our sleds, dug a hole in the snow into which a trash bag was placed to serve as a latrine, and did various other necessary chores. It seemed that the only task that Phil and Chris assumed without our assistance was cooking; this was something that they both seemed to enjoy.

  Our spirits were generally high, although somewhat dampened by the fact that we had passed several climbers, in groups of anywhere from two to eight, who were heading down the mountain to Base Camp, turned back by the passage of time spent waiting out bad weather. All of them seemed frustrated, passing us with little more than grunting acknowledgment of our presence.

  Dinner tasted great that evening. Phil had planned for us to eat the heavier items on the lower part of the mountain, so here we had cans of stew and fried chicken, while higher up we would eat our freeze dried and pre-packaged foods, so that we had lighter loads to carry. I knew that it is important to eat as much as possible so as to replace lost calories, so I ate until I could stand no more. Although I always suffer a loss of appetite at higher altitudes, it did not affect me that evening and I ate well. With each meal we had hot drinks. I had hot chocolate, which tasted particularly good in the increasingly colder weather. Mike and I gobbled up the leftovers, which became our “job” throughout the trip.

  It is vital to eat and drink properly on a mountaineering expedition. A 180 pound man burns about 650 calories an hour while mountain climbing with a heavy pack. Replacing those calories requires a lot of eating. Carbohydrates are essential, followed by some proteins and a lesser amount of fats. Proper hydration is also crucial. It is recommended that an average alpine climber drink at least a gallon of fluids every day. Knowing this, I ate and drank as much as my stomach could handle every opportunity that I had.

  After dinner and cleaning up of our pots and pans, we were all tired so we decided to head to bed. It felt good to climb into the sleeping bag. Mine was a brand-new bag, as yet untested, and I was anxious to see how it would perform on this trip. I was glad to snuggle up inside and found my sleeping bag to be quite warm. Dennis and I chatted for a few minutes, and then I attempted to go to sleep. I soon discovered that I had difficulty sleeping as it was not fully dark; because of our northern latitude, the sun did not completely set and it was light most of the day. I wrapped a black scarf around my eyes, and finally dozed off.

  The sun is roaring, it fills to bursting each crystal of snow. I flush with feeling, moved beyond my comprehension, and once again, the warm tears freeze upon my face. These rocks and mountains, all this matter, the snow itself, the air--the earth is ringing. All is moving, full of power, full of light.

  Peter Matthiessen – The Snow Leopard

  May 22-The Beauty of the Mountains

  There is no way to adequately describe the beautiful splendor of a morning such as this. The snow covered mountains around us glow in the dim morning light with a strange and sensual shimmer. “Alpenglow,” it is called. I have never seen it like this, and I was glad that I had poked my head out of the tent, as I knew that moments like this are what make these trips worthwhile.

  We awoke around 7:30 A.M. to the sound of Phil's call to rise. I was surprised by how well I slept, and felt relatively well rested.

  I looked up at the inside of the tent, and saw it coated in a thin layer of ice. Apparently, the moisture from our respiration had condensed and frozen there. Despite our best efforts to be careful, it fell and dripped on our heads, necks and backs as we moved about, making for an uncomfortable time. I realized that this problem would persist throughout our time on Denali.

  Dennis and I took turns dressing, and he had the pleasure of going first while I snuggled up for a few more minutes in the warmth of the bag. There was only room enough for one person to comfortably dress at a time, and after Dennis had finished, I took my turn. At night, I had stripped down to my long johns and a pair of down booties that I had borrowed from Mike. To put my gear on, I first climbed out of the warm sleeping bag and put on my fleece jacket and pants. Then I retrieved my two pairs of socks (liner socks and thick, wool outer socks) from the bottom of my sleeping bag where they had been put to dry while I slept. I found them surprisingly dry, as the heat from my body had done the trick. After that, I put on my boots, which was a strenuous effort because they were very cold, having spent the night in the tent vestibule, and very snug, because my feet had swollen.

  Outside, the weather was warmer than it had been yesterday. As we ate our breakfast of hot oatmeal, coffee, and bagels, Phil discussed our plans for the day. We would climb to the top of Ski Hill and then, depending on the weather and how we were feeling, set up camp there. I was learning that the weather dictates all movement on McKinley, and for those poor souls who had passed us on their way back home, the weather had been their enemy. I resigned myself to the fact that I had no control over the weather, so I simply would not become overly concerned with it, and would focus instead on my own performance.

  “Look,” Meegan shouted, “a fox!” Sure enough, a small fox scurried across the snow field to the side of us. What an odd sight, I thought. Someone said “I wonder what he is doing here?” I bet the fox wondered the same thing about us.

  The trip up Ski Hill was long and tedious. It was very hot, as the weather had cleared up enough so that the sun radiated off the snow. Perspiring as I pressed forward, I had some difficulty with the sled pulling me backward and sliding off to the side. Apparently the others in the group had the same problem. However, we learned to control the sleds, and the slow, steady pace that Phil had set kept us moving forward. At times, I felt as if I was back in Florida, hiking up the hill in practice for this mission, and perhaps my training in the heat helped me here.

  During breaks, I could tell that Dennis was struggling. He seemed strong and was keeping up well enough, but I saw that he was suffering from pain in his lower legs. I wished that he could overcome his difficulty. Once we reached an altitude of about 9,700 feet, Phil and Chris decided that we ought to stop and camp for the night. At this height, it was windy and the temperature had dropped, which was a welcome relief from the heat we had experienced earlier in the day.

  We again went through the process of establishing camp: setting up our tents and the cook tent, stowing our gear, getting the stoves burning for cooking and melting snow for water. As we gathered in the cook tent, our usual evening hangout, I felt good again, pleasantly surprised that I was doing a decent job of keeping up through our second day of climbing. It had begun snowing, and the warmth of the kitchen tent felt good as we huddled inside to enjoy dinner. Ellen and Romulo had set up camp next to us, and they joined us for dinner. We all seemed in good spirits and enjoyed a lively conversation.

  After dinner, we had some soup left over and, noticing that a small group was camped nearby, Meegan volunteered to carry it over to them. When she came back, she said that one of the climbers had no legs. His name was Ed Hommer.

  Hommer was an Alaskan bush pilot who had crashed his plane on Mount McKinley in 1981. He and his three passengers were trapped in the aircraft during a five-day winter storm. Two of the passengers died before Ed and the surviving passenger were miraculously rescued. As a result, Ed lost both of his lower legs to frostbite. Years lat
er, his legs were fitted with special state-of-the-art prosthetic devices. When he told her that, Meegan did not believe that his legs were artificial. To prove it, he loudly slammed his metal ice axe against his lower legs, conclusively demonstrating that they were metal.

  After suffering years of depression and alcoholism while recovering from his physical injuries, Ed Hommer decided to change his life around. Together with his climbing partner, he returned to conquer the mountain on which he had nearly perished. A reporter from the Dateline television program was with him, and the producers had given Ed and his partner a camera and tripod to film their expedition. Meegan wished them success.

  We enjoyed Meegan’s report, shared some jokes, and discussed more serious issues. Our group seemed to be interacting very well. I realized that it was early in the expedition and that we were all on our best behavior, and that our levels of irritability would rise as time passed, but it appeared that we were a good mix and we enjoyed each other’s company. Chris, Mike and Meegan, being close in age, got along very well together, and acted as if they had known each other for more than a few days. Dennis and I were close, and the rigors of the climb had not dampened our friendship. Phil seemed pleased with our growing companionship, and told us that we had all done a great job so far. I felt that I was performing well physically and my level of energy was high. I was concerned about Dennis, though, as he continued to have pain in his lower legs.

  There have been joys too great to be described in words, and there have been griefs upon which I have dared not to dwell; and with these in mind I say: Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are naught without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime. Do nothing in haste; look well to each step, and from the beginning think what may be the end.