by John Smelcer
From where the boys sat eating their warm meal in front of their little pitched tent, the mountain seemed close enough to touch.
“Dad would sure be impressed if he could see us now,” James boasted while adding a handful of brittle twigs to the fire.
“I doubt it,” replied Sebastian somberly. “He’d just say, ‘A real man would already be halfway up the mountain! You sissies ain’t nothin’!’”
James nodded in agreement without looking up from the mesmerizing flames. “You sound just like him,” he said with a kind of pathetic snicker followed by a long pensive silence.
DAY TWO
Wednesday, July 2, 1980
IN ANY OTHER CORNER OF THE WORLD, at 5:47 a.m. one might say the boys awoke at sunrise. But during the brief Alaskan summer, the sun—even at a quarter to six—is always high in the sky.
Sebastian was the first to awaken.
He lay in his sleeping bag with his eyes closed, listening to occasional gusts blowing against the tent, bellowing the orange walls in and out as if it were alive and breathing. As he lay there feeling his muscles and shoulders already aching from the previous day’s trek, he contemplated their planned route further up the mountainside. He could hear his brother snoring in the bag beside him. But he heard something else as well, a rustling and a strange snuffling sound. Sebastian opened his eyes and raised his head.
A grizzly bear was staring at him through the unzipped screen door, its moist nostrils flaring.
Sebastian screamed.
Startled, the bear turned its dark eyes, as big as tea saucers, and its short ears wriggled. James sat upright in his mummy bag, face-to-face with the bear. He screamed even louder than his brother, high pitched and bloodcurdling.
The frightened bear bolted.
The brothers scrambled out from the tent still in their underwear and jumped into the icy cold pond for safety. Both screamed again when they emerged from the bone-numbing water. They looked around for the bear. James spied it on a far hillside, still running, its blonde fur shining in the morning sun.
After changing into dry underwear, the boys lay in their sleeping bags for half an hour warming up. Sebastian heated water for instant oatmeal and coffee.
“Fine birthday this is turning out to be,” said Sebastian.
“Oh, yeah! Today’s your birthday. Happy birthday, Bro! Seventeen. Now you can see R-rated movies at the theatre.”
“Big deal.”
Neither said a word for a few minutes.
“Damn that pond is cold,” said Sebastian. “Hey, remember the night that moose dragged us into the river?”
James chuckled just thinking about it.
“How could I forget? Dad always told us never to pitch our tent on a game trail, no matter how inviting it might seem.”
“Yeah, but we did anyway.”
“I remember it was late fall. Come nightfall that damn moose walked right through our camp, got all tangled up in our guy-lines, and dragged us down the trail, tent and all. I remember thinking it was an earthquake.”
“I remember us laying inside our sleeping bags in pitch black wondering what the hell was going on.”
“And then he dragged us down the steep bank and into the river,” James continued. “Oh man, was that cold!”
“Hell, I thought we were going to drown. It seemed like forever before we got out of our bags and the tent and swam to shore.”
James shook his head.
“I remember that was one miserable night, sitting there in the dark, soaking wet, shivering like crazy, waiting for daylight.”
“When we told Dad about it all he said was, I told you so, you dumbass kids.”
James ripped open two packages of instant oatmeal and poured them into his bowl.
“Yeah, that sounds like something he’d say,” he said. “I remember another terrible night we spent in the woods.”
“Oh, yeah? When was that?” Sebastian asked, while tearing open a brown packet.
“That bow hunting trip when we were tracking that wounded black bear.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. You missed your shot and just grazed the bear’s shoulder. I remember following the blood trail until it started getting dark. Remember how it just stopped in the middle of that field all surrounded by dense brush and trees? That was weird.”
“We had no idea which way the bear went,’ interrupted James. “We didn’t know if he was waiting to ambush us in the brush or if he had backtracked and was behind us. So we just stood in the darkness for hours listening to every sound, every rustling leaf, thinking the bear was creeping up on us.”
“I remember wishing I had a rifle or a bazooka instead of a stupid bow,” said Sebastian. “We were so cold and scared. But finally we made up our minds to go back the way we came and to run like hell, screaming as loud as we could. I was screaming my head off to scare the bear, which was easy ’cause I was really scared.”
“Yeah, you sounded like when you’re on a rollercoaster. Like an idiot.”
“Hey, you’re the one who missed his shot.”
“We never told Mom and Dad about that night,” said James. “They might never have let us go out again if they knew what happened on that trip, especially Mom. Dad would have been happy if the bear ate both of us.”
“Probably.”
They were quiet after that, thinking back to the bear in their tent.
“Oh, yeah,” said James. “I forgot to tell you that you scream like a girl.”
They laughed.
After breakfast, the boys dressed, brushed their teeth, packed up camp, refilled their canteens with water from the alpine pond, and started up the ridge again. They tied their wet underwear to the outside of their packs to dry. The going was steeper now, and the steep precipice to their right dropped thousands of feet into the green valley below.
An eagle soared below them, tipping its wings on an updraft.
By lunchtime, the boys had arrived at the pristine snowfields. For the most part, the rest of their adventure would be on snow and ice. They traded their leather hiking boots for their ungainly bunny boots. The going was slow in the sometimes waist-deep snow, deeper where the wind created drifts. The summer sun had created a thin crust on the surface of the snow that could almost bear their weight. But each time the crust would give way and they would sink into the snow, scrambling to get back onto the crust. It was hard going. They worked up a sweat just covering a few hundred yards. And although their packs felt heavy and cumbersome, in reality they were what climbing aficionados call minimalists. Unlike most Everest expeditions that hire as many as a dozen local Sherpa guides to carry the several tons of gear, including oxygen bottles, many of which must be transported and stockpiled near the Death Zone for the final summit push, the brothers carried everything they needed for the ascent by the sheer power of their own muscles, relying on no one else.
For the most part, mountaineers respect minimalists and traditionalists, but the larger mountains can take weeks, even months to climb, requiring much more gear and equipment, not to mention food, and therefore climbers require assistance to cart their gear to and up the mountain. Large mountains require a number of camps, staged at different altitudes, to serve as bases and to allow climbers time to acclimate to the thin air. Many cautious climbers have returned to the safety of a lower camp with the beckoning summit within reach. Those are the ones who live to climb another day.
Plodding along, struggling in the deep snow, stopping occasionally to catch their breath or to take drinks of water from their flasks, Sebastian and James carried their camp with them. The only time they planned to leave most of their equipment behind was for the final push to the summit. For that, they’d have to travel light and fast. Sebastian knew that the average stay on a summit was a matter of minutes.
Time was always of the essence.
All c
limbers know the saying, “What goes up, must come down.” Sometimes the descent is more difficult and dangerous than the ascent. Many a climber’s life has been lost on the way down, after using up every ounce of energy and resolve on the ascent.
The upward progress was exhausting.
For several hours the brothers moved by the sheer force of will, almost zombie-like at times, their minds mechanically thinking only about the next uphill step. Because the summer day was actually warm, neither wore his parka. Lost in their own thoughts, neither brother spoke as they trudged through the deep snow, taking turns to break trail up the increasingly steep slope.
“Let’s take a break here,” Sebastian said, as he shimmied the burdensome pack from his shoulders.
James removed his pack as well and dug out his water flask.
“This is tough-ass going,” he said, wiping sweat from his eyes.
Sebastian looked up toward the white summit far above, wreathed by condensation. Its far remove seemed detached from their world, as if it were the peak of some distant mountain looming over another land, another world high above.
“Looks like it gets better from here on out. Looks like the wind has blown away a lot of the snow.”
“I sure hope so,” his tired brother replied.
Far below they could see the river and the place where the truck was parked. It looked like a gray speck. They could see the rivers and ponds and lakes and other mountain ranges in the distance, their peaks also shrouded in snow and ice, despite the green, rolling plateau and hills between them.
“Man, this is beautiful,” Sebastian said with a gigantic smile. “I gotta get a picture.”
He fished for his camera in the side pocket on his pack, snagged it, and took a picture of his brother. They stood side by side watching the picture develop.
“Perfect,” said James when it was done. “Let me get one of you.”
After rehydrating and snacking on a couple handfuls of trail mix—peanuts, M&Ms, raisins, and dried pineapple—the boys once again heaved their packs to their shoulders and resumed their ascent into the sky.
Far below, motorists and tourists driving along the highway, marveling at the mountain, had no idea that two teenage brothers were making their way, ant-like, up the frozen slope. Just as the peak seemed remote from their world, so Sebastian and James felt as if they were the only two people in the world.
Late in the day, they arrived at the edge of Sanford Glacier. Gusts blowing off the glacier had scoured away much of the snow, leaving a patch of barren ground.
“We have to cross here,” said Sebastian, remembering the route up the North Ramp he had marked out on the laminated map inside his parka pocket.
James surveyed the wide glacier with its many crevasses like open mouths waiting to swallow. From experience, he knew that many lay concealed beneath a thin mantle of snow.
He gulped hard.
“It’s time for supper,” Sebastian continued. “Let’s set up camp here for the night and hit it in the morning.”
James nodded in agreement, glad for the news. Nowhere near as athletic as Sebastian, he was dog-dead tired. The deep snow had really taken its toll.
Although they moved slowly, especially James, the boys cleared a fairly level area of rocks and set up their small tent, piling rocks atop the stakes to keep the tent from blowing away should the wind kick up. After settling down inside the fluttering tent, Sebastian cooked dinner over the little stove. The dehydrated turkey tetrazzini was surprisingly delicious, but the two reconstituted hamburger patties tasted like wooden hockey pucks.
After dinner, Sebastian lay in his green Army surplus sleeping bag reading a slender edition of Hamlet, the only book he had brought on the journey. James lay in his bag playing a slow, sad song on his harmonica. Suddenly he stopped playing and was quiet for a moment, just lying in his bag staring at the low ceiling trembling in the wind.
“Why do you think Dad hates us so much?” he finally said. “I mean . . . do you think he wishes we didn’t even exist?”
The abrupt question startled Sebastian, who paused before answering.
“Get some sleep. We got a hard climb tomorrow.”
Sebastian dog-eared the page he was reading, put down the book, and turned over onto his side, facing away from his brother, signaling that the conversation was over.
For a few minutes James lay staring at the tent ceiling.
Finally, he zipped his green mummy bag up to his neck so that only the small circle of his face showed. Shortly afterwards, both boys were snoring. Several times during the night, the fracturing glacier awoke the brothers from their restless sleep.
DAY THREE
Thursday, July 3, 1980
THE NEXT MORNING WAS CLOUDIER than the previous day. Ten thousand feet above the flapping tent a long, grayish cloud raked the summit, and spindrift blew off a knife-sharp ridge line, indicating high winds. More clouds gathered on the horizon. With a cup of hot coffee in his bare hands, Sebastian surveyed the glacier between him and the North Ramp, squinting from the blinding whiteness.
James crawled out from the tent, stretched and yawned. His hair was messed up royally.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asked, scratching his head.
“I think we need to follow this ridge a little higher and cross there,” said Sebastian, pointing to a spot several hundred yards above their camp. “It looks safer there.”
“Whatever you say, Bro,” replied James, taking a few steps away from camp and turning his back to his brother to urinate on the rocks.
Sebastian did the same thing, first setting his coffee cup on a flat rock.
“Let’s eat something and hit the road,” he said a minute later, zipping up his pants.
After dismantling the tent and meticulously packing all their equipment—rolling their sleeping bags tightly—the brothers worked their way up the mountain to begin their trek across the glacier at the point where Sebastian had suggested. From where they stood on the rocky ridge, the way across looked only a fraction less dangerous than any other place on the glacier. Crevasses appeared where the ice had fractured. Some were wide and hundreds of feet deep. While the surface of the glacier looked mostly white, the chasms looked bluish inside from sunlight trying to penetrate the dense ice.
“I think we should long-rope our way across, just in case,” said Sebastian, taking off his pack and pulling out a 150-foot-long coil of green and red climbing rope. “Time to dig out our crampons.”
The brothers cinched their crampons over the soles of their white boots, making sure the straps were tight. The sharp metal teeth would bite into the glacial ice, giving them traction. For the most part, a person can walk on a glacier in tennis shoes. Specks of airborne dust and tiny rocks become embedded into the surface of the glacier in the slight melt under the summer sun, creating a rough, porous, almost sandpaper-like surface. Every summer, thousands of tourists explore the terminus and end moraines of popular, easy-access glaciers, like Matanuska Glacier or Exit Glacier. But one wrong step and a person can disappear forever.
With a slight shiver, the brothers recalled what had happened to a young boy on a glacier about eighty miles east of Anchorage a couple years earlier. Stories about it had circulated in the news for days.
The twelve-year-old boy was part of a Boy Scout troop exploring Matanuska Glacier. He was walking alongside a meltwater chute—a shallow stream carved on the surface of a glacier—when he fell in. At first it was almost funny as he slid slowly along in the slick chute, almost like a water-park amusement ride. Two boys ran alongside him laughing and heckling. But, ahead, around a bend in the ice, the flow picked up speed, dramatically, and the rivulet poured into a moulin, a hole drilled into the ice by the warmer, rushing water. Moulins are narrow, twisting tunnels bored through the glacier, sometimes for thousands of feet, even longer, sometimes constricting, so
metimes opening up. Many reach all the way down through the darkness to the bedrock, lubricating the belly of the slow-moving glacier.
When the scouts running alongside the chute saw the gaping maw of the moulin, they shouted to their friend to get out, frantically holding out their hands, trying to grab his. But it was no use. The walls of the chute were polished smooth and slick. As his friends watched in horror, the frightened boy slipped into the hole and was gone. Rescuers later lowered a waterproof video-camera down the hole for hundreds of feet until they ran out of rope, but they never found him.
Sebastian and James shuddered at the thought of the boy’s corpse still down there, porcelain white, frozen solid—a part of the creeping glacier—the thunderous rush of meltwater cascading over him.
James had almost fallen into a moulin once. He and Sebastian were hunting mountain sheep the previous fall when they crossed a small glacier to get to a band of sheep they had seen on the other side of the steep valley. James slipped into a chute and was sliding toward the hole, which was about three feet across. In a moment of desperation, Sebastian extended the butt of his rifle, and James latched on.
It was a close call. One of many.
Death is like that in Alaska—always and unexpectedly waiting around the corner.
For safety’s sake, the brothers both tied an end of the rope around their waist. They would take turns leading. If one brother fell into a crevasse, the other would be able to pull him out. In some expeditions, entire teams are sometimes connected by a single rope, especially in whiteout conditions, when visibility is reduced to several feet. Of course, the danger with long-roping is that if one climber falls the entire team is endangered.
