After a quick breakfast, we roped up for the climb, this time with Phil in the lead, Meegan next, then Mike ahead of me. Chris took up the back of the rope team behind me. Following us, Romulo and Ellen were roped together as a separate team.
We began the slow traverse up Denali Pass. Although we had enough light to see, it was rather gloomy as the route was shaded from the dim sunlight of the early hour. We gradually crisscrossed the face of Denali Pass, which grew steeper as we gained altitude. My heart pounded, and although it was very cold, the physical exertion kept me warm. During a rest break, I looked down and saw our footprints winding through the snow, and I traced them back down toward our camp until I lost sight of them. We continued upward. It was strenuous work, one slow, deliberate step at a time, but we gradually rose to the top of Denali Pass.
At the ridgeline on the top of the Pass, we moved up through some rock outcroppings. We eventually reached the Football Field, and were relieved by the relative flatness of this section of the climb.
I felt very good. I stayed focused and forced myself to breathe hard to maximize my oxygen intake. Mike, climbing just above me, started struggling. I think the altitude was getting to him.
As we began the climb up to the summit ridge after crossing the Football Field, Mike stopped frequently. He told Phil he couldn’t go on. I heard Phil urge him, not so gently, telling Mike that he knew he had it in his legs, he just needed to get it right in his head. Mike breathed hard, and, with a determined effort, continued the slow surge upward.
As we neared the summit ridge, we took off our packs and secured them in the snow. We would not need them up on the summit.
The summit ridge on Denali is extraordinary. The route runs along this ridge line to the summit, and we followed the path in the snow as it gradually wound up toward the top. As we creeped along the summit ridge, I gazed down to the right at the steep face of Mt. Huntington, which rises to a height of 12,240 feet. The drop from either side of the ridge is formidable, and it was intimidating to be there. I carefully concentrated on my footing, trying not to lose focus by sightseeing. I had nothing on my mind except this: one cautious step, then another. I allowed no other thoughts to distract me. We progressed onward and upward, one step after another, with encouraging words from Phil and Chris. Mike was his old self, climbing with renewed vigor. All of us were energized as we realized that we were within grasp of our goal.
There were no other climbers behind us. A few had passed us going in the opposite direction on their way down from the summit. They seemed extremely tired but very happy, each of them urging us upward, telling us “Good work,” or “You’re almost there,” words that were very motivating and encouraging to hear.
I was gasping for air, partly the effect of the altitude, but also in the excited anticipation of reaching the summit. My mind began to wander and I thought of all the work I had put into this, the days spent patiently waiting in tents, all of my concerns about whether I would be strong enough, physically and mentally, to make the climb. It was overwhelming, and, as I began to move up the steeper part of the ridge at the doorstep of the summit, I began to softly weep and cold tears ran down my frozen cheeks. I don’t know why it affected me so strongly, but as I stepped up to join Phil, Mike and Meegan on the summit, I was overcome with emotion. I couldn’t believe it. I had reached the summit--the highest point in North America.
Chris joined us at the top, and we all hugged, cheered, and took photographs. My youngest daughter had given me a small banner from her high school, and I attempted to hold it up for a summit photo, but it was very windy so I grasped it tightly against me so that it would not blow away. I then realized how blustery and cold it was.
The summit itself is a bit unremarkable. It is a relatively flat, snow-covered area about the size of a small vehicle. Looking around, I could see that there was nothing higher, and nowhere to go from here but down. The view from the top was amazing and awe-inspiring. Although it was overcast, I could still see the range of mountains below me. Innumerable peaks and crags, all white with snow except for the gray granite areas too steep for the snow to hold, trailed off in the far distance until disappearing beyond my range of vision. Clouds streamed through the sky below us, while those above cast a grey pall over us. I looked down at the summit ridge we had just ascended, seeing our footprints along its razor-sharp edge, and followed its impressive path downward. I couldn’t stop smiling; I was elated.
I recalled my childhood dreams, my mountaineering fantasies now realized. I thought of my family and how they had encouraged me to do my best, confident that I would reach the summit. Now, here I stood, overwhelmed by the realization that I had accomplished my goal. For a brief, remarkable moment, as I stood there alone, I relished the feeling of being the highest living creature standing atop the North American continent.
Phil broke my reverie. It was about 4:00 PM. He stated that it was getting late, and even though we had been on the summit for only about half an hour, we needed to move down before the weather got bad. We packed up our cameras, ate snacks and drank some water, then began the descent.
We followed the same route back down the mountain. On the way up, the guides had marked our path with wands so that we could find our way back if the weather deteriorated. It was overcast and cold, but otherwise the weather was passable. Proceeding down the summit ridge, attempting to step cautiously despite the huge grin on my face, we encountered some ascending climbers. We happily told them, “Almost there,” and “Not too far to go.”
Getting to the summit is only the half-way point of an expedition; we still have to safely return to the start. In quoting the well-known mountaineer Ed Viesturs, Phil said: “It’s a round trip. Getting to the summit is optional; getting down is mandatory.” The descent is more dangerous than an ascent; more accidents happen during the climb back down. Climbers are tired and usually less focused after returning from the summit, they are going faster because they are going downhill, while the risks are all the same as they are on the climb up. Again, I tried to stay focused on my footing.
After reaching the top of Denali Pass, the camp at 17,200 feet soon became visible in the far distance below. It was a welcome sight. Plunging our cramponed feet into the snow, we plodded downward at a quick pace, and arrived safely back at camp.
We were joyous as we had hot drinks and a warm meal. As we continued to congratulate each other, Phil told us that we had accomplished a great achievement, and that we should all be proud of how well we performed. I knew that we had to safely return to the Base Camp, but for now, I had no worries and all was well.
We had been climbing for well over twelve hours, and I was completely exhausted. As did the others, I happily scrambled into my tent, looking forward to a well-deserved rest. As I sat there reflecting on the experience, I thought of these poetic words to capture my feelings:
Risen with toil,
above the soil,
where lies the maddening roar.
Rapt by the thrill,
Atop this great hill,
Above the eagle’s soar.
One more time I thought, I made it to the top of Denali. Then, with the huge grin still creasing my face, I fell into an exhausted sleep.
Chris, Dennis, Mike, Meegan and author at hotel in Talkeetna
Getting ready for the flight from Talkeetna to Base Camp
Approaching Denali Base Camp. Runway is to the right
First Camp. Route rises up in center
Tents at camp one
Approaching the Basin Camp. Cache at left
Author “on the throne” at Basin Camp
View from “The Edge of the World” at Basin Camp
The author in tent at Basin Camp
View of ridge leading up to High Camp
View of Basin Camp from edge of High Camp
Climbers approaching the summit ridge
The Team on the Summit: Phil, Mike, Meegan, Chris and author
The author on summit
> If the conquest of a great peak brings moments of exultation and bliss, which in the monotonous, materialistic existence of modern times nothing else can approach, it also presents great dangers. It is not the goal of grand alpinism to face peril, but it is one of the tests one must undergo to deserve the joy of rising for an instant above the state of crawling grubs. But soon we have to start the descent. Suddenly I feel sad and despondent. I am well aware that a mountaineering victory is only a scratch in space. But in spite of this, how sad I feel at leaving that crest! On this proud and beautiful mountain we have lived hours of fraternal, warm and exciting nobility. Here for a few days we have ceased to be slaves and have really been men. It is hard to return to servitude.
Lionel Terray – Conquistadors of the Useless
June 5-Resting at High Camp
It did not sound good. I awoke to the rattle of my tent walls, as they were being pummeled by ferocious winds. Realizing that it was morning, I waited to hear Phil’s instructions for the day. After a while, Phil went out and gauged the weather conditions. Based on the weather report, and what he observed, Phil told us we would have to hunker down and ride out a storm.
This time, I did not mind sitting in my tent for a day. I was still worn out from our efforts yesterday, by far our most strenuous day on the mountain. I ventured out of my tent only if necessary, which was to go to the bathroom, eat with the others in the cook tent, or to knock snow off my tent and to fortify the snow blocks around it. I felt very lazy and lethargic, and forced myself to get out of the relative warmth of my shelter. Exercise is necessary at this height to avoid altitude sickness, and I did my best to move about, notwithstanding the difficulty of the cramped quarters.
One of the better decisions I had made was to bring an ample supply of toilet tissue with me. Toilet paper is a hot commodity on Denali, and at this stage of the expedition, others’ supplies are running low. I loaned some to the others in my group as they needed it, but always checked to make sure I kept enough for myself.
The wind continued throughout the day, and, as usual, it was very cold. I dozed off and on all day and into the night. By the end of the day, I had enough of sitting in the tent and hoped that we would be able to descend in the morning. I was looking forward to going home.
The rope connecting two men on a mountain is more than nylon protection; it is an organic thing that transmits subtle messages of intent and disposition from man to man; it is an extension of the tactile senses, a psychological bond, a wire along which currents of communication flow.
Trevanian – The Eiger Sanction
June 6-Tragedy Strikes
The weather had improved by morning. When I crawled out of my tent, I saw other climbing teams preparing to move on. Again, Phil listened to the weather report over the radio. It appeared that we would begin the climb down today.
Indeed, we packed up for the descent. Still ecstatic from having reached the top of Denali, we laughed and joked as we prepared to go home. We loaded our backpacks with everything we had at the High Camp. Phil was first on the rope, with me behind him, Mike behind me, followed by Meegan and Chris at the back end. As we stood in line ready to proceed, the weather was cooperating. It was overcast, but the wind had died down, just occasionally gusting. Some other groups started out ahead of us, and I saw others packing up for their descents.
The route down was the same that we had ascended. Looking back to make sure we were ready, Phil nodded and then led the way, and we began walking in a straight line along a gradual decline toward the ridge at 17,000 feet. It was snowing lightly, and the wind blew in sporadic gusts. We rounded a corner where the slope steepened, and stepped up toward the ridge. The wind became much stronger. It was not constant, but when it blew, I felt its force.
Phil stopped and looked back, yelling for us to be careful. Again, we inched forward. From here, we would leave the relatively gradual downward slope we had descended from the High Camp, hike left onto the ridge, and then scramble along the ridgeline down to the top of the Headwall. I looked out and, although it was overcast, I was able to see that the slope below us dropped steeply. From here, it is nearly a three mile drop to the tundra below.
The wind continued to blow intermittently. Stepping forward, my body rocked as the wind suddenly gusted. As I took another step forward, the wind shook me and my crampon slipped on the icy surface. Suddenly, I pitched forward and crashed down on my shoulder. In a blur, I slid downward, head first and face down, my body skating along the rock-hard ice and snow. Realizing that I was in trouble, I reacted.
Beginning with my first climb on Mt. Rainier several years earlier, we had trained in the art of self-arresting, a skill we practiced each time we climbed. The goal of a self-arrest is to slow down or stop your body from skating downwards by jamming the point of the ice axe into the surface of the ice or snow, and tightly holding on. There is a defined technique for each position that your body is in. Sliding headfirst is one of the worst ways to go.
Acting almost instinctively, I hammered the sharp end of my ice axe into the frozen surface of the mountain. It held tight, and my legs swung down so that I was now facing uphill. I slammed the front points of the crampons on each of my feet into the frozen wall. I looked around in an attempt to orient myself. I realized that I was pinned to the flank of Denali, held in place by my ice axe and crampons, and still roped together with my climbing partners. The wind was now blowing strongly, gusting powerfully at times, and it began snowing. It seemed as if I was in a snowy hurricane. Visibility became horrible, as it was virtually impossible to see much of anything.
Phil was located up above me to my right, but I could not see him. Following the other end of the rope connected to my harness, I saw it rise up above me to my left and over the lip of the ridgeline from where I had fallen. I knew that Mike was on the rope behind me, and that Phil was holding fast on the rope in front of me, so I told myself that I was secure from falling further. Although I knew my partners were there, I could not see anyone.
I also could not hear much of anything. When the wind gusted, I heard nothing but its roar. When the wind died down, I heard Phil’s voice to my right. He was screaming to me, but I could not discern his words.
Every time the wind thundered across my body, it felt like I was being sucked off the mountain by an invisible vacuum. I grasped my ice axe tightly with both hands and forced the toe points of my crampons into the wall with every bit of strength I had. My legs began to tremble as a result of the effort. Time seemed to stand still; I felt as if I was trapped on this steep mountain slope.
Growing fatigued, and with my mind numbed and muddled by the altitude and the circumstances, I was ready to give up. I became increasingly confused, frustrated and lethargic. I simply did not know what to do.
But I thought of my family. I could not let them down. Somehow, I told myself, I would have to find a way out of this dire dilemma, and I would do it for them. I attempted to focus my mind on extracting myself from this mess.
While in this stupor, the wind blasted again. I looked up the instant I heard the shriek of a woman’s voice from above, and had the sense that something had blown past me on my left side. It was just a blur in my peripheral vision in extremely poor visibility, but I felt as something had dashed by me. I tried to imagine what had happened.
The sound of Phil’s voice broke my trance. “Stand up,” he shouted. Muffled by the winds, I heard him command again: “Stand up!” Focusing all of my attention, I released one foot from the slope, placed it flat down into the ice, and then did the same with the other foot. The crampons on my boot bottoms held fast. I yanked my ice axe from the side of the mountain, and, grasping it tightly so as to not lose it, sunk the point into the ice and used it to maintain my balance. I forced myself into an awkward upright position. Hunched over, I shakily took one small step up and forward, and then another, slamming my ice axe and crampons into the frigid surface each time. The rope holding me was secure and tight, but I felt as if I co
uld tumble down the cliff at any moment. With every bit of concentration and strength I had, I forced my body upward toward the ridge, fighting fear the entire time. After what seemed like an eternity, I reached the top of the ridge where I was met by other climbers who grabbed ahold of me.
By now, it had escalated into a raging blizzard. I heard people screaming, other voices shouting commands, and saw the dim forms of climbers rushing about in a blur. I tried to comprehend what had happened. I realized that Phil had arrived, and he quickly un-roped himself and joined a small group of other climbers. All of them appeared to be animated and excited. The scene was chaotic and surreal.
“What happened?” I asked of no one in particular. I saw Mike and Meegan, who were both tremendously upset. “It was Chris,” Meegan cried, “Chris fell!” I could not believe what I heard. It made no sense to me. “What happened?” I asked again. They explained that Chris had un-roped himself from the back of the rope team, proceeded to the ridge line, and looked down to see what had happened. A sudden gust of wind had blown him down the face of the mountain.
The dreadful details emerged much later. When I fell, Phil used a rock as protection, and took all of the slack out of the rope so that I would not fall further. As Phil was shouting directions to me, Chris approached Meegan, who was tied into the rope directly in front of him, unclipped his rope from her harness, and began descending from the ridge top toward me. Meegan told Chris to stay tied in to her harness, and when he didn’t, she yelled ahead for him to clip into Mike’s harness, as Mike was tied in ahead of her and nearest to the ridge. Likely concerned for my safety, Chris advanced to help without securing himself to the rope. Perhaps he slipped on the icy surface and lost his footing, but in any event, he was blown off the ridge and the wind catapulted him downward.
Tears in the Wind Page 11
