“Okay, we'll try it,” the colonel said.
They flew the chopper through the building clouds, poking from one hole to the next. They followed the Khumbu Glacier, and the colonel kept an alert hand on the stick as he felt the lifting power of the rotors wane—the thin air at 18,000 feet is considered about the limit for a helicopter of this type to land and take off.
When they reached base camp the colonel cautiously eased one skid onto a rock, balancing the ship while Wechsler delicately eased off and ran over to help Hixson. Lenser came up and threw Hixson's pack in the chopper, but the pilot angrily motioned him to throw it back off—he wanted minimum weight for takeoff, and that meant only Hixson.
Unable to walk on his own, Hixson was muscled by Wechsler into the chopper, and the colonel carefully lifted the skid off the rock. The helicopter was on the edge of its ability. When he had a few feet clearance he eased the ship forward, and was safely airborne.
Two hours later Hixson was in the Katmandu hospital. Luanne and Marian decided it made sense to wait and visit him in the morning after he had rested. Exhausted themselves, they went to the Sheraton bar to have a drink, worried sick about their husbands.
The next morning she and Marian went to the hospital to find Hixson. They walked the labyrinthine hallways on floors that were by western standards filthy. Finally they found his room. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“Excuse me. Are you Dr. Hixson?”
They watched in horror as he tried to sit up. He was paralyzed on one side, so half of him hung limply as the other half struggled to overcome the deadweight. He looked at them, then slowly raised his hand and covered one eye; he was seeing double and that was the only way he could focus.
With slurred speech he said, “Am I glad to see you guys.” Then he collapsed back in bed.
Luanne stared at him, thanking God he was at least alive, but at the same time wondering that if in seeing Hixson in this condition she was also seeing her husband a week from now. That is, if she ever saw her husband alive again.
The day that Luanne and Marian visited Hixson in the hospital was the fourth day for Frank at the South Col. His situation was tenuous. One of his Sherpas was sick, and he had to promise the other a 1,000-rupee-per-day bonus (about $100 U.S.) to keep him from turning back down. There was only one day of food remaining, and as little oxygen for sleeping. Even if the Sherpas had been more enthusiastic, even if there had been more supplies, Frank knew that each hour he spent languishing at 26,200 feet his body, from breathing the thin air, was growing gradually weaker. He knew his time had run out.
“I’m coming down,” he told Ershler over the radio.
“That's the most sensible thing I’ve heard out of you all trip,” Ershler said. “But keep an eye out for Bass. You'll pass him coming down—he's on the way back up for another go with Yogendra.”
At camp 2 Dick had offered a 1,000-rupee bonus to any Sherpas willing to accompany him and Yogendra on another summit bid. Two had accepted, and with this new team Dick left for the South Col, and passed Frank on the ropes just above camp 3.
“Goddamnit, Dick, why don't you have any oxygen on,” Frank scolded, raising his voice above the wind.
“I didn't use any the first time to camp four. Besides there's only a few bottles left and I want to conserve them.”
“Don't you realize by now you need every advantage you can get?”
“But I don't need any oxygen just to get to the Col. It's only 26,200 feet.”
Frank shook his head, wondering where Dick managed to find his unlimited optimism and stamina.
They carefully passed on the fixed rope, encouraging each other with a shoulder slap. As Dick neared the Col the wind increased, and in the stronger gusts he had to lean to stay upright, then move quickly to catch his balance when the gust eased. He started to get cold. When they had left camp 3 that morning conditions were milder, and now he found himself underdressed. But it was blowing so hard he didn't dare take off his outer parka to put on an extra inner layer. It was also snowing, and driven by wind, rime built on his parka and pants. Although protected by gloves inside mittens, his fingers, always squeezing the jumar clamp, were going numb, and now he felt the cold down his back and in his legs and feet.
Last time up the Lhotse Face it had taken him thirty minutes to climb the final section into the South Col; now, slowed by wind and fresh snow, it took him an hour and a half. Arriving in camp, he unzipped the tent, plunged in and lay there for ten minutes before getting enough willpower to unpack and sort his gear. Yogendra arrived and looked equally haggard. Once in their bags they had to fight the temptation to eat only a few snacks and go to sleep. It was of tantamount importance in order to prevent dehydration to start the stove and melt snow for drinks.
Through the night the wind blew, making the tent walls snap like a loose jib sail in a strong headwind. In the morning there was no letup. This was now the fifth day of the wind storm, and Dick wondered if it would ever stop.
“It'd be impossible to make an attempt in this wind,” Dick told Frank over the radio.
“In a way I’m glad to hear you say that,” Frank said. “At least I know I wasn't being a wimp turning back.”
“You did the right thing, but I’m not sure I did.”
Dick was getting depressed. Normally he could successfully counter depression by daydreaming, but now his thoughts kept returning to their diminishing oxygen supply, to how little time they had to wait out the bad weather.
He thought, I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do, yet here I am with my chances dropping by the hour. I should have gone alone the last time when I was so close.
His spirits sank lower, and to make matters worse he now had to go to the bathroom. If it had only been a matter of peeing, it would have been easy: he had a plastic bottle he used for that, emptying it from the tent door at arm's length. This was another matter. He crawled out. Spindrift scudded over the hard snow, and he shielded his face against its stinging bite. There was a small rock not far from the tent; it wouldn't really offer any protection from the wind, but somehow it made him feel better to be next to it. The wind was too strong to stand up, so he crawled toward the rock. There he squatted, dropped his pants, pulled down his long johns, and immediately felt the sting of windblown ice.
He thought, What indignity will I have to endure next?
In a second he found out: without the usual warning symptoms, he had diarrhea, and before he could control himself he had made a mess on both pant legs.
“This has to be the nadir of my existence,” Dick mumbled aloud.
He had to take off his heavy mittens and gloves to handle his toilet paper, and his fingers immediately started freezing. But his privates were freezing too, so abandoning concern about his hands, he finished wiping, pulled his underwear and pants up, and started the demoralizing job of cleaning off his pants and boot covers. No sooner did he swipe at the mess with his toilet paper than it flaked off, frozen, and blew away in the wind. A few brushing passes and his clothing was as clean as if it had just returned from the dry cleaners.
Now that's what I call cold! he thought, as he laughingly jammed his hands into his mittens as quickly as he could, not messing with the gloves first since his fingers felt like they had knives being stuck up them and were very near to becoming numb and frostbitten.
“Hallelujah,” Dick said, as he crawled on his knees back to the tent, still laughing at the thought of being miraculously saved from such an ignominious situation. It was just what he needed: some humor, albeit bizarre, to lift his spirits.
Back in the tent, he found Yogendra sitting cross-legged, rocking back and forth, mumbling incoherently some chant.
“You okay, Yogendra?”
“It will not quit blowing. We will have to go down tomorrow.”
“I know,” Dick said, admitting what he had tried not to think about. “I’m thinking the same.” He felt the depression start to creep back.
&nb
sp; “But I tell you,” Yogendra said as he stopped rocking, “in Katmandu I will get the Inspector General of Police to help us get a permit or on some other expedition. You, me, and Frank too. We will come back and climb Everest together.”
“You've got to be kidding. You can do that?”
“We'll make a joint American—Nepalese police expedition.”
“When could we do it?”
“Next year hopefully.”
“Yogendra, I feel like Lazarus rising from the dead.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon enthusiastically discussing logistics, equipment, personnel. Dick thought how he and Frank had missed their chance to do the Seven Summits in one year, but that was a small matter as long as they finally did them.
When they awoke next morning the tent walls were still snapping, and they were nearly out of oxygen, so after breakfast they dressed as warmly as they could and descended to camp 2. There Dick explained his plan to come back next year, but Frank wanted to make sure they had definitely used up all the options available to them while they were there, that there was no chance they couldn't make one more attempt.
“Let's put it this way,” Ershler said. “All the lead climbers save for me and Neptune have left the mountain, so if anything goes wrong up there, nobody is here with the strength to help. Then there's only one oxygen bottle left at camp four and none left here at two. Even if there were, the Sherpas say they've had it. Also, it's May twenty-fourth, and the monsoon will arrive any day. Finally, the Icefall is shifting, the ladders and ropes are snapping each day, and soon our retreat out of here will be cut off.”
“If the truth be known,” Frank said, “I guess I’m not too sad to hear that. We've been here nearly three months, and I’m getting burned out. I just need an excuse at this point, somebody to tell me it's impossible to go on.”
“Well, it's impossible,” Ershler declared, with a glint in his eye, knowing he'd finally checkmated Frank.
That evening they radioed base camp that the expedition was over. The next day they dismantled camp 2, and loaded the Sherpas with tents, stoves, and pots and pans until they looked like Asian counterparts of dustbowl refugees. When the last man was through the Icefall everyone sighed with relief. It had been a very successful expedition. No one killed (Hixson was recovering satisfactorily in Katmandu), eight to the summit, the first American to climb Everest without supplemental oxygen, the first microwave transmission from the top.
Frank and Dick didn't miss a beat getting on with their plans for the rest of the Seven Summits. As they hiked out they reviewed logistics for McKinley with Ershler, whom by now they had retained as guide and leader of that expedition. And they made plans for their return to Everest.
“I’m going to talk to Luanne about it as soon as we get out,” Frank said. “Dick, I bet we can pull it off the next try. I found out one thing on this climb that I never really believed. And that is, with a break in the weather, I really have a chance of making it to the top.”
10
McKINLEY: TWO DOWN
I really think Dick and I might have a chance this next time. Especially Dick. If you could just see how strong he is up there, darling. All we need is a shot at it. Yogendra's not positive he can arrange permission for this coming spring, but he thinks he can get it for the fall of eighty-four. What do you think?”
Luanne didn't answer immediately, but stared out the plane's window. They were en route from Hong Kong on a flight back to Los Angeles.
After a moment she said, “Frank, when you started this mountain climbing business you said it would be two years and no more. You promised.”
“I know, darling, but this is Everest.”
Luanne again turned to the window and didn't answer. Her lips were firmly closed, face resolute. While Frank could see it was obvious she wasn't overly enthusiastic about the idea, he didn't fully realize just how opposed she was.
And this was because he didn't fully realize just how hard the Seven Summits had been on her. He knew it had been tough, of course, especially when Marty had been killed, but he didn't know how tough. He didn't know that she had not only been forced to accept the fact that it might be him next, but also to start thinking in a very practical way just how she might get along if he were next. And he didn't know that from these inner searchings Luanne had discovered and developed in herself strengths she had never known existed.
And these included the strength to firmly draw the line on what she saw as Frank's near desertion of her and her children in order to pursue his mountain climbing.
But she decided, at least for the moment, not to say anything. It made more sense to wait and see if first they actually got the permit for this next attempt. Otherwise she would only be causing an unnecessary brouhaha, and again she knew that the Seven Summits meant so much to Frank she didn't want to spoil the remainder of it for him if she could help it. After all, regardless of how she felt about his climbing these mountains, she did love him and wanted to be a supportive wife.
She continued to stare in silence, and Frank decided it would be best to drop the subject for the time being. He thought, It's still a long ways down the road. And besides, I’d do better to spend my time thinking first how we're going to get to the tops of the rest of the summits.
It was June 10 when they arrived back in Los Angeles, less than two weeks before they were to leave for McKinley. Fortunately most of the work organizing McKinley would be done by Ershler, and the big decisions, such as who would be on the team, had already been made back in early March, before they had left for Everest.
March had been a tough month, what with the pressures of putting the Everest trip together while at the same time continuing to work on the other climbs, especially Antarctica; but in his indomitable fashion Frank had juggled all the pins, or rather phone calls, without dropping any.
Even though Dick had been too busy to help much (“I’d love to but I’m just spinning on life's merry-go-round, grabbing at the rings trying to catch up before we go away again”), Frank had managed nevertheless to include him in all important decisions. In one of their phone calls, for example, Frank had discussed with Dick who they might include on their McKinley team.
“How about that girl who's the dog musher in Alaska,” Frank had suggested. “The one Chouinard told us to get ahold of.”
“Susan Butcher?”
“That's right. She goes each year on that thousand-mile dog sledding race that's like the America's Cup of Alaska. Beats the Eskimos, everybody.”
“She'd be a boost for our movie, that's for sure,” Dick agreed. “Fits in with that idea we had to have something distinctive and indigenous for each segment. You know, we had the gauchos on Aconcagua, and we'll have the Sherpas on Everest and that photo safari before Kilimanjaro.”
“And Alaska will be dog mushing. I’ll call her right now.”
But that was easier said than done. While Susan had never actually won the Iditarod—the 1,200-mile dog sled race from Anchorage to Nome—twice she had finished second out of a field of rugged male sourdoughs and Eskimos, and in Alaska she was close to being the national hero. She had also become a sweetheart of the media, and as a result of being constantly hounded by newspaper, magazine, and television people she had secluded herself and her dogs—all seventy-five of them—in a cabin cum kennels twenty-five miles from the nearest town (population sixty). She had no electricity, no water, and no telephone, and to get a message to her you had to go through the nearest neighbor, who had been instructed to ignore calls from anyone who sounded like a New York or Los Angeles media type.
“Hello, will you please hold for a call from Mr. Frank Wells,” Frank's secretary said to Susan's telephone contact.
“Hi, this is Frank Wells calling from Los Angeles. I’m going to be climbing Mount McKinley later this year. We're filming it, and I’d like to have Susan join our trip. Susan and her dogs. Can you get a message to her?”
Eight calls later Frank was still getting now
here. On the ninth call he decided to try a different tactic. “Let me explain,” he said. “I’m president of Warner Brothers Studios, and my partner and I are very serious about this climb. Perhaps I didn't mention it, but we are willing to pay Susan a fee for doing this.”
Frank got a call from Susan later that day, and after he had explained the Seven Summits, Susan said it sounded like fun and to count her in.
“Have you done any climbing?” Frank asked.
“I’ve been up McKinley.”
“Perfect. Now what we had in mind is maybe the dog team helping us freight our equipment up the glacier. Do you think they can travel on a glacier?”
“They've already been on McKinley.”
“They have? How far did they go?”
“All the way to the summit.” There was a short pause, then Susan added, “With the sled.”
Susan said she didn't want to go through that again, but agreed it would be fun to have the dogs on the lower part of the climb. With her and the dogs now on the team, Frank and Dick then decided to ask Phil Ershler to be the leader and guide.
So, when Frank and Dick asked Ershler to be the McKinley climbing leader, they mentioned Susan and her dog team to him. Phil didn't like the idea but said he would be cooperative. Frank also told Ershler, “I want this climb to be first cabin,” he said. “So, if you think you need any more people to help you, get them.”
“I’ll bring two more guides from the Rainier Service.”
“Fine. Second, we want the best food you can get. No more emphasis on granola bars and M&M’s.”
“No problem,” Ershler said. “Just one thing. On McKinley there are no Sherpas, and even though you'll be with guides, when you're with me you do your share of the work: you haul loads, you help set up camp, pitch tents, build snow walls.”
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