One Life One Chance

by Luke Richmond

  It was a physically and mentally brutal twelve-hour summit day, and as I untied my crampons, pulled off my boots and crawled into my tent I finally let myself relax. A smile crept onto my face and I was overwhelmed with total happiness and a sense of accomplishment. I lay back to give my back a rest and instantly fell into a deep sleep with the cheeky grin still glued to my face.

  The following morning my body was feeling 100 years old and Matias was adamant about getting us up and going early. We were still high on the mountain and had over 4000 metres of altitude to descend. After a very hearty breakfast and some strong coffee we shouldered our packs and started our journey back to civilisation and home. In the two and half days that followed we covered 40 kilometres of winding trails and I was beginning to have flashbacks of some of the death marches we were made to endure in the military. As we descended the air became rich in oxygen again, my energy grew and my strength returned in abundance. Early on the third morning of descent, and day nineteen overall, we made it to the edge of the national park and to an intersecting roadway where, parked in the distance, we noticed a glorious bus waiting to drive us back to Mendoza.

  It was hugs and smiles all round for the team; taking off our packs for the last time and loading them into the bus was the concluding act of this unbelievable experience. It was a three-hour drive back to civilisation and although I thought we would all fall asleep on the bus immediately, instead we were talking and smiling together like hyperactive children. The sense of relief at accomplishing our goal was energising, especially after the tragic events and the loss of life in the past week. We had a great team and amazing guides who didn’t hesitate in making tough calls for the safety of the rest of us – I will be forever grateful for their support. Weighing in at the hotel I had lost 9 kilograms in body weight, had blisters on my feet but had escaped any serious injuries. Standing in my bathroom and staring at my sunken eyes in the mirror I smiled and said to myself, ‘Well done mate.’

  Successfully standing on top of one of the seven summits had given me a massive confidence boost and solidified my belief that I could successfully achieve anything with the right training, mindset and preparation. It was six weeks until I set off for the next big challenge. I had stood on top of the biggest mountain in South America, now it was time to attempt to stand on the biggest in North America, Mount McKinley in Alaska. I was going to recover, eat, train and prepare my mind for what was soon to be the most intense and terrifying moment of my life.

  CHAPTER 7

  DENALI, ALASKA

  …

  When I think of adventure and stories of survival one place comes to the forefront of my mind – Alaska. It’s a wild frontier where only the boldest hunters and gold miners made their claim during the gold rush era of the 1890s. Reading Jack London novels as a boy, my head was filled with the wild remoteness of Alaska and his famous stories The Call of the Wild and White Fang swelled my head with a yearning to endure the hardships of these early settlers and test myself against the untamed land. It’s a place that today has spawned a catalogue of reality TV shows like Deadliest Catch, Ice Road Truckers and Gold Rush in order to give the normal person a glimpse into one of the harshest environments on earth. Yet as much as people admire its remoteness, very few ever venture into these wild places and of those who do, even fewer return unchanged.

  Mount McKinley, or Denali as it’s known to the locals, is the highest peak in North America, soaring 6190 metres above sea level and is the centrepiece of the Denali National Park and Preserve. The native Koyukon people who inhabit the surrounding areas have referred to the mountain as Denali for centuries and in 1896 a gold prospector renamed it Mount McKinley after the then presidential candidate William McKinley. The name stuck until 2015 when the Department of the Interior announced the official change back to Denali. Naming rights aside the mountain is awe-inspiring and is renowned in mountaineering circles for being a cold, brutal mistress with a 50 per cent summit success rate, and has claimed over 100 lives.

  I flew from Sydney into Anchorage, Alaska, arriving in peak physical condition and mentally prepared for what was going to be my first time in extreme cold, snow and ice. I was anxious and excited to get started and after checking into the hotel I went searching for my teammates. We had a prearranged meeting and after everyone had come together the room was full of talk and laughter as we all got to know each other. Aiden Loehr, our head guide, was an American in his forties who was supremely fit and had a lifetime of experience as a mountain guide. He had summited Denali many times and led first ascents of remote peaks from China to the Andes. He was also a pilot who flew bush planes throughout the Alaskan wilderness delivering climbers or ferrying scientists, clocking up over 16,000 hours in his craft. We got along instantly and he was going to be a wealth of knowledge and a pillar of confidence on our expedition.

  Aiden had two assistant guides, Andrew and Erin, both in their mid-twenties and up-and-coming professional guides with their own wealth of experience from an upbringing in the mountains. They were full of energy and seemed as excited as we were about the expedition. There were eight clients including myself and we were a mixed bag of nationalities and experience. Richard and Alan were from the UK, Anna and Bill from the United States, Kevin from South Africa and Chok, Simon and myself from Australia. We all had our own interesting life stories to share and an equal desire to stand on top of the biggest mountain in North America.

  Aiden and the guides ran through a thorough gear check and assessed each of us in turn. Denali is a very different climb to Aconcagua. It’s totally covered in snow, we would need to cross large crevasses to reach our designated camps and temperatures have been known to plummet to minus 30 degrees Celsius with wind chill, even in summer. Where Aconcagua had night and day, Alaska during summer can have up to twenty-two hours of sunlight, adding a totally new environmental factor. I was jumping out of my skin to get going; this was the stuff I had been reading about in books for years and I was so close to doing it, I couldn’t wait.

  The following day we were all up early and loaded into a bus to take us north towards the Denali National Park and the town of Talkeetna. This tiny place has a local population of around 1000 people and is located at the merging point of the Susitna, Chulitna and Talkeetna rivers. Founded in 1916 when the area was chosen as the headquarters for the Alaskan railroad, it is now a tourist town and the start point for all the Denali expeditions. We arrived in town at 10 am and pulled up at the K2 aviation hangar and started to weigh and prepare our gear. The plan was to get two small de Havilland Beaver planes from Talkeetna to our base camp. These specially designed bush planes could land and take off on snow, making them ideal for getting climbers up into the mountains.

  The winds for the afternoon were not looking favourable for our departure so while we waited for conditions to improve we all made our way to the Denali National Park office to pay our entrance fee, pick up our permits and watch a short video on the park’s many dangers. If I wasn’t intimidated by Denali before the video I certainly was afterwards. Extreme cold, crevasses, avalanches, hurricane-strength winds, snow blindness and sunburn were just a few things we were to keep in mind once we were on the mountain. Back at the K2 hangar while we waited for the clouds to clear at base camp, I did my best to suppress the negative thoughts and fears swimming around in my head. I began to think about all the training and effort I had put in to reach this point – I may not have all of the required mountaineering skills yet but for mental and physical preparedness, I was ready.

  It was summer in Alaska and even at night the sun does not go down totally, it stays low on the horizon dropping slightly below only to rise again. This leaves a twilight glow in the sky throughout the night, and it was under this amazing yellow glow that we received the call that base camp was clear of bad weather and we were to depart immediately. We were all buzzing as we loaded the small red planes with our gear and taxied to the end of the short runway. As the plane’s wheels left the ground
it was almost midnight and I watched Talkeetna drop away below us and looked up to see the Alaskan mountain range for the first time, rising proud on the horizon.

  The flight into the mountains was breathtaking; the snow-covered peaks and jagged formations surrounded by glaciers were the realisation of a dream and all of the documentaries I’d watched were now becoming reality right before my eyes. I could see the dark, bottomless crevasses crisscrossing the glaciers. We would soon be walking across some of the very same terrain and the fear and excitement was building inside me. The pilot began to circle and pointed down at the glacier below and I could make out tiny tents up on its left slope. This was the lower Kahiltna Glacier, our landing strip and our base camp. As the plane came in to land I couldn’t judge our height due to the whiteness of the snow covering the glacier and it wasn’t until the wheels and skis buried into the snow that I realised we were landing.

  The pilot gunned the engine as we bounced up the glacial runway towards the tents. We were skiing along the snow in a tiny bush plane in the middle of the Alaskan range and a big smile came across my face as I thought to myself that this was so damn awesome. We pulled up close to the tents and the pilot asked us to make it snappy in getting out and unloading, as he needed to get reloaded with climbers departing the mountain and get back into the air before the weather conditions changed. We all piled out into ankle-deep fresh snow and dragged our gear clear of the plane, as the waiting climbers, looking beaten and tired, climbed on board and closed the door.

  The pilot gunned the engine again and bounced along to a higher point up on the glacier, spinning the plane around, and without hesitation opening the throttle and surging down the slope. The plane was bucked left and right and when it hit a small mound of snow it launched into the air never to touch down again. The skis lifted clear and they were airborne, climbing to safety. If all went well we would be back at this very location in under three weeks, looking beaten and tired after standing on the summit. I watched the plane disappear down the valley and it was then I took notice of where I was.

  I was standing on a glacier at 2200 metres of elevation. Around me rose Mount Hunter at 4442 metres and Mount Foraker at 5304 metres and it was only once the plane had vanished that I noticed the stillness and felt the cold. From now on we were totally dependent on ourselves and each other to get back down to Talkeetna safely. It was almost as if a switch flicked on in my head from happy holiday to survival mode in this remote and dangerous place where conditions can change in an instant. Aiden called us together and we made our way up the small slope to flatter snow that had recently been used for other tents. We set up our cook tent and sleeping tents and came together for our first meal, excited to have finally made it to base camp and the start of the expedition. Everyone was tired and after a hearty meal of Thai noodles we crawled into our sleeping bags, zipped them up tight and slept.

  The following morning we began to get organised for our first move higher to camp one. We were broken into rope teams and had to organise our sleds that would be carrying all of our supplies. I was part of a rope team of four. Teams are mainly for safety and if one of us fell through a snow bridge into a crevasse the other three were to quickly drop to the ground, burying their ice axes deep into the snow. This would stop the rest of us from being pulled into the crevasse and halt the fall of the other climber. Once we had arrested their fall we could conduct a crevasse rescue that would see them hauled out of the blackness within thirty minutes. Timing is crucial with a rescue because even though it’s cold above ground, as soon as you fall through into a crevasse, the temperature plummets well below zero. If we weren’t quick enough with the rescue drills, hypothermia and frostbite would become a real concern.

  For most of the day we practised moving as a rope team up and down the glacier next to our tents, witnessing small avalanches on both Mounts Foraker and Hunter as we did so. Moving together safely required constant focus. If we were moving down a gradient my sled wanted to slide down from behind me and knock me over; it was up to my teammate on the rope behind me to keep the rope tight enough to stop the sled from touching me but not tight enough to pull me backwards. If one of us tripped and fell from getting tangled in the rope or sled it could pull all of us down the mountain. The person at the back of the rope has the hardest task while heading down hill, as they must control their teammate’s sled in front of them, and also control their own sled which slides in front as well. Having two sleds pulling you forward while moving down hill is a tough position to be in, as I was to find out in the days to come.

  Our training day was also important to help us acclimatise to the elevation. I had no headaches yet but remembering Aconcagua, I knew I would. We conducted the final rigging of our sleds – they were between 50 and 60 kilograms each, which was hard to pull up a hill but felt very comfortable while on flat snow. A few of my teammates were worried about the physical aspect of pulling the sled but to me that was going to be the fun part. My fear was falling into a crevasse. I weighed more than 90 kilograms, and although I had faith in my team, I didn’t want to test out their new-found rescue skills so early on. After our evening meal we cached some food supplies and equipment for our return to base camp and made a plan to get some sleep and be ready to step off at 3 am, when it would be cold and the snow safest to travel on.

  After a few restless hours of sleep I woke at 12.30 am on day three ready for our move to camp one. We packed the sleds with our tents and equipment, broke into our three rope teams and set off. The first section was a 300-foot descent, which tested our sled handling skills immediately. Once we cleared the first area and had a short rest at the bottom, we turned up the Kahiltna Glacier and with my big snowshoes attached to my boots I started marching. The feeling of exposure was electrifying, excitement and nerves pulsed through my body as we stomped along dragging sleds in this untouched and intimidating environment. Beauty was everywhere I turned, from the perfect white snowfields high on the peaks, to the dark menacing rock exposed on the wind-blown ridges. On my left a crevasse opened up to reveal opal-blue ice and a black void at its bottom, their menacing presence ringing warning bells to me every time, ‘Don’t get complacent, Luke, and stay alert.’

  We stopped every hour for a sip of water and a snack; the best way to combat altitude sickness is to stay hydrated and keep eating while moving higher. We had covered 8 kilometres by the time Aiden called out that we had arrived at a good spot for camp one. On Aconcagua there were specific locations for set camps, but on Denali, camp one was on the middle of the glacier, anywhere that was crevasse-free. The rope teams waited while Aiden and Andrew probed a safe area for the tents by shoving a long PVC pipe through the snow, searching for cavities or crevasses beneath. The area was clear and as a light snow began to fall we broke out our gear and started to set up.

  The team had done really well on the first physical day with 8 kilometres covered in four hours, and for a few of the team, including me, it was our first time in snowshoes and dragging sleds. It was 1 pm by the time the camp was organised and we enjoyed a hot meal together in the cook tent. Aiden told us he wanted to push on that night to camp two with a load-carry that we would cache, descending again to sleep at camp one. Camp two was 975 metres higher than our current position at 3400 metres. This would be my next physical challenge, and as we settled down into our sleeping bags in the afternoon glow I started to mentally prepare myself and drifted off to sleep.

  Toilet protocols on the glacier were something new for me. I’d use a pee bottle at night to avoid getting out of my sleeping bag and immediately after using it my pee bottle became my hot water bottle as I fell back to sleep. If I needed extra bodily functions we were using WAG bags, which have become the standard issue for mountaineering expeditions around the world due to the impact mountaineering has on the environment. The WAG bag is a large plastic bag containing some odour eradicating chemicals and absorbent crystals. Predominantly used for number twos, the big plastic bag is then wrapped up and pl
aced in another zip lock bag for storage and reuse.

  We were up early again at 5.45 am, ready and loaded with provisions to be cached up high. It was a slow steady haul upwards on a slight gradient, nothing backbreaking but enough to get a sweat going. Working physically hard in extremely cold environments must be managed correctly. Getting too sweaty can be very dangerous as the sweat will freeze against your skin and can cause hypothermia. The key is to layer clothes and always be slightly cold and never at the point of sweating profusely. When we were standing around I had four layers on and a big down jacket over the top. Right before we took our first step I removed my big jacket, shoved it in the top of my pack and started moving. If I started to warm up too much I’d unzip my wind-breaking layer and the fly on my pants to cool me off. As soon as we stopped, even for a drink break, the big jacket would be back on again. It’s irritating at first to always be putting on and taking off layers but once I was in the swing of it, it was easy and just became part of life in the mountains.

  We had hauled for six hours and made it to camp two where there was already a few caches set up by other expeditions. There was solid snow the entire way and anytime we would stop for a drink the scenery would mesmerise me. It was postcard views in all directions, and even though I had never been one to take many photos, I was stopping all the time, pulling out my waterproof Olympus camera and snapping away. We dug a deep pit in the snow for the cache and stacked our supplies of food, fuel and spare equipment inside. We then refilled it and built a big pyramid of snow blocks on top. We needed to be able to find our supplies even in stormy and white-out conditions so the bigger and higher the better. We planted a flag on its summit with our team details written on it so that anyone who came along didn’t make the mistake of digging up our cache.