by John Smelcer
“James! James!” he yelled in a dizzy panic, frantically looking in every direction and digging snow out from his ears and nose.
Sebastian felt for the rope around his waist. It was still tied securely, which meant that his brother might still be on the other end. He grabbed the rope and began to yank. As each foot of the rope emerged from the snow, he followed it. In some places the rope was buried a couple feet deep and Sebastian had to yank hard to pull it out.
Occasionally he’d stop, shout for his brother, and blow the shrill whistle hanging from his parka zipper. But he heard nothing except the wind. Sebastian knew that with every passing minute his brother, buried somewhere in the haphazard snowfield, could be freezing to death, or worse, suffocating.
Feverishly, Sebastian yanked out the rope until finally, sixty feet from where he had pulled himself free, he felt the weight of his brother beneath him. He quickly removed the shovel from his pack and began to dig his brother out.
“I’m here! Hold on!” he screamed as he dug, careful not to strike his brother with the sharp blade of the shovel.
While digging, Sebastian wondered what he would tell his parents if he didn’t come home with his brother. How would he tell them that his frozen corpse was buried somewhere on the side of a mountain?
Finally, almost three feet deep, Sebastian saw the red of his brother’s parka. Using his bare hands, he kept digging until he was able to pull James upright, his lower body still buried. James opened his eyes.
“Wha . . . what . . . to-took . . . you . . . s-so . . . long?” he said through chattering teeth.
Wrapping his arms beneath both armpits, Sebastian pulled James out from the snowy grave. He had lost both of his gloves, his cap, and his ice ax. His parka hood was packed with snow, and the force of the avalanche had pulled his snow pants down around his ankles, kept on only by the bulky bunny boots. His blue jeans were soaking wet.
James was shivering uncontrollably.
Sebastian had to get his brother back to their tent quickly if he were going to save him. He knew the dangers of hypothermia. A year before, he and James had spent a week enduring an Arctic survival training course during January, the coldest time of the year. Temperatures reached fifty below zero for much of the week. The instructors had shown movies about the effects of hypothermia, replete with footage of people whose hands or feet, nose or ears were so frozen that they would have to be amputated. Sebastian remembered vividly the images of grotesquely swollen black toes and fingers, called blebs. One of the first symptoms of hypothermia is disorientation and the inability to speak clearly or to make sense. The incapacity to think rationally is also symptomatic of the onset of hypothermia, as the body begins to freeze from the outside inward. Shivering is one of the body’s only defenses. But it’s a feeble defense against such bone-cracking cold. In its attempt to save the brain and the heart, the body shuts down everything that is not vital to survival.
The history of mountaineering is littered with tales of hypothermic victims, many of whom have been found frozen to death with much of their clothing removed, as if they were overheating. The truth is they were so cold that their body no longer felt anything, and they misinterpreted the lack of sensation as meaning they no longer needing their coats and hats and gloves. In their delirium, many victims have simply walked off the side of a mountain into oblivion. Some report having suffered bizarre hallucinations. Many climbers who have lost a finger, a toe, or a bit of an ear to frostbite wear their wounds like a badge of honor, proof of their near-death experience and tenacity in the face of extreme hardship and peril.
A few years earlier, while snowmobiling on a cold day, Sebastian had suffered frostbite on the skin between his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose. The skin had never fully healed and never would.
Fearing for his brother’s life, Sebastian acted quickly.
He pulled up his brother’s snow pants, brushed the snow away from inside his parka hood and pulled it over his brother’s head, making sure it was on securely. He rooted through both packs for extra gloves. The whole time he spoke to James to keep him awake.
“Stay with me,” he said, gently slapping his brother’s red cheeks. “I’m gonna get you back to camp. You’re gonna be alright.”
Then he lifted James to his feet, steadying him until he could balance on his own.
Sebastian tied one end of a short piece of rope around his brother’s waist and the other around his own. Mustering all his strength, he short-roped his brother, leading the way and pulling James whenever he lagged behind, trying to coax him back to camp. Sometimes he had to fall back and half carry him. On several occasions, James lost his balance, fell facedown into the snow and lay there, not even trying to get up.
“Get up! You gotta help me!” Sebastian shouted above the wind while standing over his brother.
“I just wanna sleep here for a while,” James replied wearily, his voice raspy.
“You can’t sleep now,” said Sebastian, struggling to pull James to his feet. “I can’t carry you. You have to walk. Get up!”
It took almost an hour for the two to get back to their tent on the precarious ledge. Once inside, Sebastian stripped James of his boots and crampons and wet clothes and helped him into his sleeping bag, placing his own bag on top for added warmth. He heated water for hot tea to warm their insides. The cooking stove warmed the small tent, but Sebastian knew he couldn’t let it burn for too long. The carbon monoxide fumes could kill them just as surely as the cold.
James slept for several hours while Sebastian read his book, stopping frequently to check on his brother. More and more, he sympathized with Hamlet’s circumstance. Who could he talk to? Who could he trust? What power did he have, if any, to change the way things were? And worse of all: Was death the only escape?
Finally, James opened his eyes and sighed.
“What happened?” he asked, looking around, confused.
“We got caught in an avalanche. You were buried for half an hour before I found you.”
“I remember seeing the avalanche coming at me,” said James, licking his dry lips. “I vaguely remember waking up and realizing that I was buried. I couldn’t move at all. It was like I was in cement. I remember thinking I was going to die.”
“Well, you didn’t, Bro, not yet,” Sebastian said with a smile.
“Now we’re even,” said James. “I saved your life and you saved mine.”
James pulled his hands out from the sleeping bag and studied them, wiggling his fingers and balling his fists.
“They’re okay,” said Sebastian, understanding his brother’s concern. “I got you back here in the nick of time.”
James put his hands back inside the warm sleeping bag.
“So, what do we do now?”
“I don’t know,” replied Sebastian, looking at his wristwatch. “You’re in no shape to climb right now, and, besides, it’s too late to make another summit attempt today. Besides, we need to decide if we even want to keep on going.”
“Because of me?” asked James.
Sebastian nodded but added, “That too.”
“I feel okay. A bit tired still.”
“But why should we go on at all?” Sebastian asked while he poured a cup of hot tea and handed it to his brother. “I mean, what are we risking our lives for? We both could have died. Maybe next time we won’t be so lucky. We could just head back down and go home.”
James took a long drink of tea before responding.
“Because of Dad,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because we need to.”
Neither brother spoke for a minute. Outside, the wind was raging. Sebastian worried the pitons might come loose or the guy-lines snap, sending the tent right off the mountain.
“Just for once, I wish he’d be proud of us, you know what I mean?” Sebastian said loud enough to be heard above th
e machine-gun rattle of the tent walls flapping in the barbarous wind. “I’ve done everything to make him proud of me, and I don’t even know why. He’s a jerk. Why should I care? Why am I risking my life to prove something to him?”
“Because he’s our father,” replied James.
“Yeah,” Sebastian said softly, looking down at the tent floor strewn with packs and clothes and gear.
“So, what are we gonna do?” asked James, trying to rally his brother. “Let the bastard win or show him what we’re made of? We’re more men than that bastard any day.”
Sebastian was impressed by his brother’s enthusiasm, especially after surviving the avalanche. “I say we keep going. Let’s eat, hydrate, get a good night’s sleep, and boogie up this mother in the morning—that is, if this wind lets up,” he said, listening to the tempest outside. “What do you want for dinner: dehydrated Chili Mac or Top Ramen?” he asked, holding up two packets.
“I vote for noodles,” said James, remembering what happened after eating chili the last time.
DAY FIVE
Saturday, July 5, 1980
THE SUMMIT BECKONED as the boys, on hands and knees in their red long johns, peeked out the fly of their tent. The wind had died down overnight, and most of the clouds were gone. It was a perfect day for a summit attempt.
Within an hour, Sebastian and James were once again climbing the steep snowy slope, connected by rope. With his ice ax in hand, Sebastian led the way. The going was easier than the day before. They no longer worried about an avalanche, and the snow was packed all the way up the slide area where the avalanche had thundered down the side of the mountain.
They made good time.
Without incident, the brothers surmounted the crest and stood side by side marveling at the peak towering above them, maybe only 1,500 feet away. But between them was an eighty-five-foot cliff face, as tall and steep as an eight-story building. There was a difficult outcrop near the top. Above that was a treacherous snow-covered ridge line with angular cornices leading up to the summit. The cliff offered no way around. It reminded Sebastian of the Hillary Step at the top of Everest, which he had only read about and seen in books. They would have to manage a technical climb, setting pitons into the rock to secure the rope up the rock face. Without saying a word, they pulled off their backpacks and dug out the gear they would need, including their bandoleers of carabineers and pitons, as well as their piton hammers and helmets. They both took out a piece of green rope about eight feet long and tied a seat harness, running the rope around their waist and between their legs at the crotch, making a classic climbing harness. They double-checked that their harnesses and knots were tight.
“I’ll lead the pitch,” said Sebastian, using jargon that meant he would lead the way up a cliff and “fix” the route.
Recognizing that his brother was the stronger climber between them, James didn’t argue the point.
“Be my guest,” he said, gesturing his brother to go on ahead.
Sebastian tied the sharp end of the rope, as climbers say, to a carabineer—adding an extra half-hitch knot for safety—and clipped it to the front of his harness. Methodically, he worked his way up the rock, looking for hand- and footholds, and stopping every so often to drive a piton or a wafer into a crack in the rock face with his hammer. When he was certain the piton was secure, Sebastian connected a carabineer to the piton eyelet and clipped the rope in so that, should he slip, the piton would arrest his fall. It was his brother’s job to pull any slack out of the rope, but not so taut that Sebastian couldn’t climb unrestrained. For mountain climbers, there is no past or future. There is only the present, only the intense awareness of finding the next safe hold, and the insatiable desire to reach the blue-edged horizon.
From below, with the rope sliding along his lower back and gripped in his leather-gloved hands, James steadily paid out rope, keenly watching every move his brother made, ready in an instant to brake the line across his chest should his brother lose his hand- or foothold.
James could hear the steady tink-tink-tink of pitons ringing home as Sebastian pounded them into solid rock. Experienced climbers can recognize the sound of brittle, rotten rock. Every now and then a hail of small stones rained down on him from above.
“Rock!” Sebastian shouted, as a fist-sized rock broke loose and fell close to James.
“Hey! Be careful up there!” James yelled. “You trying to kill me?”
“Sorry!” Sebastian replied, without taking his eyes off what he was doing.
Sebastian angled up and across the rock face, looking for his best route. Halfway up, he came upon a chimney, a split in the rock about three feet across and about thirty feet tall. Most climbers, especially freestyle climbers, like chimneys because they can use the close walls in ways they can’t when scaling a face. In the narrow confines of a chimney, climbers can use opposing pressures to shimmy upward—a hand pressing against one side with the back and a knee offering opposing pressure. Generally, alpinists avoid using knees altogether. Their round nature is dodgy.
After an hour of strenuous climbing, Sebastian scrambled over the top of the overhang and unclipped his carabineer from the rope.
“Off belay!” he shouted down to his brother, letting him know that he was no longer on the rope.
No longer responsible for his brother’s life, James relaxed his stance and wiped snot from his nose, which had been bothering him, dripping into his mouth.
Sebastian quickly secured himself with a piton, tested it, dug out his black leather gloves, and tossed over a rope so he could help pull his brother to the top.
James tied the end of the rope to a carabineer, which he clipped to his harness. Taking no chances, he also tied an extra half-hitch.
“On belay,” James yelled, informing Sebastian that his life was now in his brother’s hands.
With the added safety of the rope, James made his way quickly to the top. The brothers took a short break to drink some water, conceding one of the fundamental tenets in climbing: hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. They also ate a couple handfuls of trail mix. While they rested, they studied the last stage up the mountain.
“What a sight,” said James. “If Dad could only see us now.”
“Who gives a damn what he thinks?” replied Sebastian, standing up and sliding his plastic flask back into the inside pocket of his parka.
“We’ll long-rope the rest of the way, just to be safe,” he said. “Let’s get at it.”
The last leg to the summit was easy compared to other parts of the ascent. The snow was hard-packed, so the teeth of their crampons made the boys as sure-footed as mountain sheep. And although the steepness made the going laborious, along with an increasing need to pause to breathe in the thinning air, enthusiasm at being so close to their goal spurred the brothers onward. So high up, the wind was fierce. They had to wear their ski goggles to protect their eyes.
By early afternoon, Sebastian and James stood on the pyramid-shaped peak, 16,237 feet above sea level, congratulating each another, shaking hands, and slapping each other on the back. They snapped a few photographs to prove their achievement. If you’ve never stood on the top of a great mountain, the only way to appreciate the accomplishment is to look out the window of a jet airliner as it climbs to altitude, and note how small the world below appears as the plane approaches 20,000 feet.
The view is oddly beautiful and terrifying at the same time.
The mountain’s reward is only granted—begrudgingly—to those who have toiled and suffered and earned the right. The gift is profound awareness of timelessness and eternity and an unobstructed beauty that no climber ever forgets. No matter how many years pass, the memory persists. It is, perhaps, that haunting and undiminished recollection that beckons the mountaineer again and again to high places.
Climbers spend so much time and effort to reach the summit, to linger for mere minutes. The fee
ling of joy intermingles with a sense of dread. Looking down at the distance they have traveled and at the obstacles they have overcome—sometimes by the grace of God and often at the cost of a fellow climber’s life—all climbers know they must descend. Almost always exhausted by the time they summit, many lack the willpower and dogged determination that spurred them on to the top. Because of this, most mountaineering accidents happen on the way down.
Noticing that a sinister cold front was blowing in from the north, darkening the summer sky, the brothers took one last look at the 360-degree panoramic view, and committing it to memory for the rest of their lives, they began their descent. They safely long-lined down the snow-laden ridge with its projecting cornices; they rappelled safely down the eighty-five-foot cliff with its cleft chimney, like a deep scar in the face of the rock; and they made it safely down the slope where James had been buried alive the day before.
By the time they arrived at their tent, Sebastian and James were famished, having burned up far more calories than they had consumed at breakfast. They were not only seriously hungry but thirsty and exhausted as well. Their knees ached from the downhill trek. But they were also exhilarated from having achieved what they had set out to do.
The tent warmed as Sebastian heated water to reconstitute their dehydrated dinner.
“What is this?” James asked when his brother handed him a steaming plate.
“Chicken á la king.”
James took a bite, grimacing as he swallowed.
“Oh man, that’s bad. They should call it ‘chicken á la crap.’”
“Hey, don’t blame me. I just added hot water according to the instructions. Besides, it’s not that bad,” replied Sebastian, taking a bite.
