A deal was struck and Wheeler started to investigate what it would take to organize climbs to the other peaks.
It was while researching that idea that Wheeler remembered this Dick Bass fellow he had met at the Dallas party a couple of months earlier, the one who had said he was going to climb McKinley. Thinking he might be a good source of information on that peak, Wheeler called Dick and was astonished to learn that Dick had the same fantasy about climbing the highest mountain on each continent.
Wheeler immediately called Frank, who quickly latched onto the possibilities: he would have a climbing companion, and there was a good chance they could share costs.
“Should I set up a meeting?” Wheeler asked.
“As soon as possible.”
When he hung up Frank mused, of all the luck, to find someone with the same outrageous fantasy, about the same age, and in a financial position to afford making the fantasy come true.
You could have put all the names in the world into a computer and still not come up with such a pairing.
That had been a week before, and now, as Frank pulled his Mercedes in front of Warner headquarters he thought about his lunch that day with Dick Bass. He was anxious to meet him, but didn't dwell too long on it: he had a full day's business agenda, and Dick Bass was just an item scheduled between noon and one.
In his office Frank's secretary came in with the list of yesterday's calls and the morning's schedule, starting with an informal meeting with the four other Warner execs to discuss a picture having a slow start. Should they put more money into advertising or concede the picture didn't have “legs” and drop it? They decided to drop it. Next item was a completed film they could pick up at a good price, but one that had a questionable potential—20th Century-Fox had just passed on their option.
“What's it about?” Frank asked.
“Basically it's a story set around the 1924 Olympics about a couple of runners with different backgrounds who compete against each other; one's a Jew and the other's a Scot Presbyterian.”
“Sounds like some blockbuster,” Frank hooted.
“I’ve seen it, though, and it does have good music.”
“Maybe we should get it over for a screening just in case it might be worth our while.”
“What's it called?”
“Chariots of Fire.”
The meeting over, Frank returned his calls; then it was time for lunch. In a few minutes Frank's secretary escorted in Dick Bass.
Dick was impressed, not by the office, but by Frank. Raw-boned and rangy looking, Dick thought. But Dick didn't know whether that was from climbing or from weathering the rigors of the movie-making business.
After some brief small talk, Frank looked at his watch and stated peremptorily they had better get over to the corporate dining room right away: “We've got a lot to talk about.”
In the private lunchroom Dick took a seat while Frank remained standing. Frank had just finished Jack Wheeler's report on how they could climb the highest peak on each continent—the Seven Summits, as he started calling them—and now Frank was ready to explain the proposal to Dick.
“First, after checking into it a little, we've found that no one has ever climbed all seven summits. So for whatever it's worth, we would be going after a first-time record.”
“Second, other than Everest and the Vinson Massif, the highest peak in Antarctica, all these climbs should be relatively easy to organize. Aconcagua, the highest in South America, is climbed each year by dozens of parties. You know about McKinley, of course, and I can tell you Kilimanjaro is a long, long day when you go for the summit but really nothing more than a grueling hike. Kosciusko in Australia actually has a road almost to the top of it, and as for Elbrus, it shouldn't be too hard either. But I’ll get back to that in a minute. First, though, the problems with Everest and Antarctica …”
Dick sat in his chair staring up at Frank. An old neck injury started acting up, and despite the growing discomfort Dick made an effort to stay politely attentive.
“Now with Jack Wheeler's help I’ve been checking into Everest. If you can believe it, there are so many climbers who want to try Everest they're waiting in line. The mountain sits on the border of Nepal and Tibetan China, so you can attempt it from either side, but as the two governments only allow a couple of teams on different routes each season the permits are presently backed up all the way to 1990. The only way to get one is wait or tie-in with a group that already has one, and I’m checking into that …”
Dick couldn't believe it. He was the one who almost always did the talking when he first met people, but now he felt out-gunned. What Frank was saying was interesting, though, and he was obviously serious about the seven climbs. But he kept talking … for ten minutes, fifteen minutes … and the pain in Dick's neck was getting worse.
“… as for Antarctica, as you may know, our government's National Science Foundation has a chartered mandate to direct and oversee the U.S. bases there, and the most direct way to get to Vinson would be on board one of the C-130s operated by the navy out of McMurdo Station. I’m checking into it; I’ve got a few friends in Washington, and …”
My God, Dick thought to himself. This guy is more like me than I am. Meanwhile, lunch had been served, so Dick could look down and give his neck a rest. Frank ignored his food and continued to talk.
“… so if the N.S.F. doesn't work out we've got this backup plan with a converted DC-3, retrofitted with brand new turboprop engines—three of them, including one in the nose—and ski-equipped because it was built to fly support for U.S. bases in the high Arctic out of Alaska's north slope. It's privately owned and although there are lots of problems, I’m investigating what it would take to charter it and have it flown from its home base near here in Santa Barbara down to the tip of South America, across the Magellan Strait, to Antarctica, and on to Vinson. The biggest hurdle there looks like refueling in Antarctica, and to solve that we have a handful of possibilities …”
Twenty minutes nonstop. This guy must think he's chairing a board meeting.
“… and so we could do the seven climbs in that order. But I still think we should climb Elbrus right away, for practice. Then go back to it later, if we want to do them all in a row in one year. If something happens to U.S.-Soviet relations and we can't get back into Russia we'll have it under our belts. I think we can get the Elbrus permit arranged in three weeks. What do you think?”
Without waiting for a reply Frank sat and started wolfing down his lunch. Dick said he had a trip coming up in two weeks to Europe, to examine mountaintop restaurants in the Alps for a possible similar installation at Snowbird, and it would be easy for them to rendezvous over there and travel together to Russia.
“Fantastic,” Frank said as he finished his lunch. “I’ve got a good friend, Jack Valenti, who's president of the Motion Picture Association and knows Dobrynin, the Soviet ambassador to the U.S., quite well, so the permit shouldn't be a problem. Make sure you take your climbing gear with you to Europe.”
Then Frank looked at his watch and said, “This has been a fantastic meeting, and I wish I had all day, but I really must get to another appointment.” Walking back, Dick considered all that Frank had said. While Frank had certainly taken over their first meeting, that really didn't bother Dick, as it would probably be an advantage to have someone like Frank to help organize the seven expeditions. And just as important, it seemed Frank was in a position to share expenses.
“Frank, what do you think this whole thing might cost?”
“I’m guessing it will come in at about half a million.”
“Well, if you want, you've got yourself a partner,” Dick said, extending his hand. Frank smiled—if there was anything he liked it was a man willing to make up his mind quickly—and taking Dick's hand he said, “You're on.”
With that, Frank returned to his office, and Dick caught a plane back to Dallas. They both had full schedules, and there would be time later to pause and think about what they had ju
st done.
2
ELBRUS ‘81
Frank Wells had several weeks before he was to rendezvous with Dick Bass in Europe and then travel to Moscow for the Elbrus climb. That should be sufficient time to get the permit, especially since he would have his friend Jack Valenti ask Dobrynin to speed things up. But there wasn't much time to get into shape or, more important, to try to learn more about mountain climbing. Still, Frank decided he should do as much as his busy schedule allowed.
He had just finished reading a book I had written about an American ascent of Everest, and learning I lived in Southern California he asked Wheeler to get in touch with me. At the time Wheeler called I was working on a mountain climbing documentary in post production at the Burbank Studios, the same lot that houses Warner Bros. In addition to writing about outdoor adventures, I had started making films on the same subjects, and had managed to support myself from my interest in climbing and adventuring. In addition to the Everest expedition I had also climbed K2, the world's second highest peak, and had been on climbs in many remote places around the world, including Antarctica.
After Wheeler told me of Frank's interest, I flip-flopped in my sandals and Aloha shirt over to the inner sanctum of the Warner headquarters and was ushered into his office. A group of men were huddled over a black onyx table looking at storyboards for what seemed to be a Superman sequel. The office was first cabin: posh carpeting, original art, skylights, indoor palm trees, wet bar.
“Frank, Mr. Ridgeway is here.”
Frank looked up with a smile and walked over to shake my hand.
“Wow, what a pleasure,” he said.
“Likewise,” I said, still staring around the room.
Frank then turned to the others, “Okay boys, meeting's over. I’ve got some important business.”
After Frank outlined his plan to me, I said, “Maybe you ought to go on a one-day climb first. You know, to see if you like it.” He agreed.
We got together the next weekend at Sespe Gorge, a rock cliff near my hometown of Ventura. I brought my neighbor Yvon Chouinard and another visiting climber, Al Steck. Both are among the best-known climbers in the United States. (Frank later said it was like getting invited to your first golf game with Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus.)
Chouinard and Steck went off on another route and I took Frank up a crack in the 400-foot-high wall that had a 5.7 rating, meaning it was easy-to-moderate by mountaineering standards—to Frank it looked impossibly vertical. About halfway up, he was having trouble. The technique on such a climb is to jam your hands and feet in the cracks, but Frank was pawing the rock searching for footholds, his hands bleeding from incorrectly jamming them. Panting hard, he looked up and said, “What do you say we practice that thing where you slide down the rope. What do you call it—rappel?”
“Sorry, but we have to finish. Otherwise you'd be disappointed in yourself.”
Frank paused to absorb this.
“I took Tom Brokaw up this climb a few weeks ago. He zoomed right up. It was his first rock climb too.”
“So you mean if I don't make this, word gets out that Brokaw does the climb and Wells wimps out.”
“You said it, not me.”
Frank made another move and suddenly his foot shot out and in an instant he was hanging from the rope.
“Go ahead and hang there for a minute and rest your arms and legs. Then try it again, but this time don't hug the rock. That way you'll stay in balance and won't pop off that foothold.”
“What foothold?”
“That edge just above your right knee.”
“You mean this? It's a quarter-inch wide!”
“Yeah, it's a big one all right. So just put the edge of your shoe on it and press up.”
Frank tried again, and fell again. The third time he made it, but he looked very awkward. When we finally reached the top he had several nasty scrapes on the backs of his hands, his knees were bleeding and he had what climbers call sewing machine leg, meaning his legs were vibrating as fast as a needle on a Singer. But he also had a wall-to-wall smile.
“I’m glad as hell you made me stick to it. Still, do I really need to learn how to climb rock cliffs in order to get up these seven peaks?”
“Not really, I suppose. They're all mostly walk-up snow slopes with ice axes and crampons. Altitude, avalanches, and crevasses will be your biggest dangers.”
“Then thanks again for taking me on my first—and last rock climb.”
As we drove back to Ventura, Frank explained how everything was set for the Russia climb. He had the permit, and his partner Dick Bass was already in Europe. He was checking on a couple of possible ways to get to Antarctica, and he had just contacted a Spanish team going to Everest next year and was hopeful he and Dick might be able to join them.
I listened, agreeing it was a great idea and a wonderful project, but at the same time wondering if someone who had just shown by all indications that he had absolutely no natural ability as a climber could really get very far on something as grand as what he proposed. Especially a peak like Everest. I had been up above 8,000 meters —26,200 feet—an altitude in mountaineering that is a kind of red line above which any climbing becomes not only extremely difficult but also extremely dangerous, where the severely thin air confuses your perception and judgment, where often even the world's best climbers make fatal mistakes. And listening to Frank, I was certain he had no real idea what it was like up there in what climbers call the death zone.
Still, it was such a wonderful idea, I didn't want to denigrate it. Moreover, I knew that if Frank and Dick were going to have a real chance of climbing even a few of these peaks, they were going to have to hook up with people who knew what they were doing. Although we didn't discuss it at the time, I had a notion I might just get a chance to become part of this crazy adventurous scheme.
Dick Bass stood on the sundeck of the Klein Matterhorn Restaurant Complex in Zermatt. Spreading his arms to encompass the view he exclaimed, “Just look at this, Hoopie. I’m telling you, we'll have the same thing at Snowbird and people will flock to it.”
Until then Hoopie, Snowbird's mountain manager, who was accompanying Dick on this tour of mountaintop restaurants, had doubted the possibility of a similar installation at Snowbird. But now, caught between Dick's contagious enthusiasm and the inspiring view of the Matterhorn, he was beginning to sway.
“I’ll admit, it's impressive.”
“I knew you'd come around,” Dick said. “You're just like the rest—always doubting me at first.”
It seemed to Dick he was always facing an uphill battle convincing people not only about the mountaintop restaurant but about most of the visions he had for Snowbird (just as he had had a hard time convincing people he could climb McKinley).
With so many nay-sayers it had been tough finding financing, and Dick had sunk every penny of his own money into the project. That had put a tight squeeze on his personal life, and even contributed to his first wife's leaving him, he thought. He was now married again, but the money pressures were still there.
He was absolutely convinced, though, that someday the ski area would not only stand on its own legs but be the greatest year-round mountain resort on earth. He was almost evangelistic about it. He would tell you that when he had gazed on the aspen- and evergreen-covered slopes in Little Cottonwood Canyon, outside of Salt Lake City, his mind's eye saw a system of chairlifts, gondolas, and aerial trams beyond what anyone thought possible. He knew it would probably take another twenty years to see Snowbird the way he dreamed it, but that was okay: he was only fifty-one years old.
Dick felt his tour of mountaintop restaurants in Europe had been such a success that he could put Snowbird out of his mind for a couple of weeks and turn to this mountain climbing project. He had just received word from Frank in California and learned that everything was “go”; Frank had given him instructions to meet at the Copenhagen airport en route to Russia and the Caucasus.
Dick had his twenty-five-
year-old son Dan with him to go on the climb as well, and together they arrived in Copenhagen and spotted Frank and Jack Wheeler waiting at the neighboring baggage carousel. The clockwork-precision rendezvous was an auspicious beginning. Once they had Frank's and Jack's gear they could board Aeroflot to Moscow. When the baggage started down the conveyor, however, Dick got a little skeptical, thinking the luggage looked pretty fancy for a true climber.
Mostly that top-drawer Abercrombie and Fitch stuff, Dick thought.
Then a large metal case trundled down.
“What in the world is that?”
“The camera.”
“The camera? Look, Frank, we're here to climb a mountain, not lug something that big.”
“Let me explain. This isn't for the mountain.”
“Then what's it for?”
“My friend Clint Eastwood is making this movie about a navy pilot who dresses himself up as a Russian officer and sneaks into the country to steal one of their top-secret fighter jets. He's asked me to take a few establishing shots for him in Red Square.”
“Do you know how to use this thing?”
“Jack's had some lessons.”
“You've got a permit to do this, don't you?”
“No, we're going to sneak it.”
“Sneak it!? We'll be run out of Russia and never climb Elbrus!”
“Don't worry,” Frank said. “Nothing's going to happen.”
Dick didn't say more, but he hated this kind of unnecessary anxiety. He had enough of that back home, and he came on these climbs to get away from such things. Now he felt that familiar knot in his stomach.
The flight to Moscow was uneventful, as was their passage through customs. The camera box wasn't even opened. They were greeted by the chief of Russia's Mountaineering Committee, Mikail Monastersky, who introduced the two climber-guides on Elbrus. It couldn't have been a more friendly reception, and on the way to the hotel, Monastersky said to Frank, “Next time you come to Russia, you can contact us directly. There's no need to go through such high channels.” Apparently Dobrynin's request had gotten through.
Seven Summits Page 3
