There was no wind, all clouds had cleared from the sky, and the sun, behind the surrounding peaks but still a few hours from its short pass below the horizon, cast a soft Arctic pink on the snowfields above them. Sitting on their foam pads lining their sunken outdoor dining booth, they finished their meal, drank tea, and swapped stories.
“Susan, tell us what the Iditarod is like.”
Susan, cradling her tea in both hands, breathed the steam and said, “That's a tall request, but I’ll try.”
“They have the race in March,” she began. “That's exciting because it's the first month when you feel warmth from the sun, and each day is noticeably longer. Still, maybe sixty percent of the time you're in the dark—I don't remember one race when there was a full moon. But there's enough light, especially when the stars are out. You race along hour after hour, and all you see are the shadows, and you hear the sled's runners swooshing through the snow, and the owls in the trees and in the distance a wolf. Then there's this long section where you break into big, sweeping valleys, and then open tundra. In the Arctic dawn you can see the trail disappearing like a ribbon into the distance, and it's just you and the dogs and no hint of anyone else in the universe. You race through the short day and into the long night, and it gets colder. Then you're on the Bering Sea, mushing over the sea ice, and you can see the village ahead, the lights just twinkling; even though it's fifty miles away, somehow the light bends over the clear, straight horizon. Then the aurora starts to dance overhead, and you can feel its energy. It comes down in curtains of red and green mostly, and you stop the sled and stand out on the sea ice by yourself with nothing in any direction. Then everything gets quiet. The dogs go still, the sled is still, the sky is still, and you can hear it, in the sky, the aurora, making this barely perceptible noise. You have to listen carefully, so carefully, but it's there, this whooosh, whooosh, whooosh …”
Dick opened his eyes, and seeing the bright yellow and tan panels of the tent, guessed that the morning sun had peeked above the surrounding ice ridges. Outside he could hear the purring of the stoves and the chatter of the early risers. Glancing to his side he saw Frank still in his sleeping bag, reading a book.
“Frank, you ever stop to figure how many days out of this year we'll be living in tents?”
“Good question. Let's see, about three weeks on Aconcagua, then about ten on Everest. Then two or maybe three weeks here, say one on Kilimanjaro, then Elbrus will be huts, so it doesn't count. Maybe two more on Vinson, and Kosciusko again is a day hike. That's nineteen weeks, or, let me figure it, a hundred thirty-three days.”
“That's a lot of camping out for a couple of businessmen in their fifties.”
Dick sat up on one elbow and surveyed the stuff sacks lined neatly along his sleeping bag, looking for the one that held his vitamins. Then he picked up the one with his powdered-energy-drink packets and mixed one with his bottle of water. After taking his vitamins, he then looked for the sack with his bottle of Absorbine, Jr., to rub on a sore leg muscle. Next it was the sack that had the sunscreen and lip protection for his face.
“Dick, I bet you've got a sack for each part of the body.”
“Now don't go ridiculing me again, Wells. I don't hear you complaining when you need to borrow something, which seems to be at least twice a day.”
“As a matter of fact, I was going to ask if you had any ointment for a cracked lip.”
Dick muttered and handed Frank a small tube. When Dick had finished all his ablutions he slipped out of his bag to dress. It was already warm enough so he wouldn't need any more than long johns, which he was already wearing. Putting his boots on, and his overboot gaiters, he crawled out, pulling with him his sleeping bag, which he hung to air over his skis planted upright in front of the tent. He put his goggles on, and looking down the glacier he could see in the sky over the distant flatlands a thin haze, but it seemed innocuous; overhead there was nothing but cerulean sky.
The glacier here was wide, perhaps a half mile or more, with McKinley on one side and Foraker on the other, and everywhere there was thick ice, lying over the mountains like frosting that had dried and cracked into hundreds of crevasses. Here and there, exposed in naked patches on the sides of the peaks, were rocks too steep for the ice to adhere to, and along the tops of these cliffs the thick ice, always creeping downward, sometimes would break off in big blocks that would pulverize when they hit below and with great thunder kick huge billowing white clouds in the air.
Dick joined the others in the cookpit sipping their morning brews. Susan was with them, and Dick, knowing that since she was drinking her tea she must already have completed her chores attending to the dogs, guessed she had been up at least an hour. A few minutes later Frank arrived and sat next to Dick.
“What's for breakfast?” Dick asked the others.
“We haven't made anything yet.”
“Well, if you need some help, let me know.”
Frank elbowed Dick and whispered, “We cook one meal, and we'll be cooking from here on.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Listen, we'll carry anything they ask us to, we'll pitch the tents, dig the cook pit, even dig the latrine. Anything but cook.”
“Okay,” Dick whispered. “I don't really want to cook, anyway.”
After breakfast they broke camp. There was a lot of gear to carry: food for two weeks, ten gallons of stove fuel, cooking pots, three tents, everyone's personal gear. With only backpacks it would have been impossible to haul it all without shuttling, but with some of the gear on Susan's dogsled, and more on the smaller sleds the others took turns pulling, they were able to progress up the gradual slope of the glacier in one slow-moving stage. They had lost track of the Sierra Club group, and they hadn't seen any others until later that morning when a group heading downhill, sitting on top of their gear piled on their sleds, rocketed by waving and hollering as they passed. An hour later three climbers, each towing their extra gear in makeshift sleds made of big plastic bags tied to a line, crossed their path.
“We all got to the top,” they said.
“Congratulations. Are there many other parties ahead?”
“Yeah. There have been several days of good weather, so all the groups that were holed up waiting to go to the top are now on their way down. There's more on their way up, too. An all-woman team just ahead of you, staying at the next camp, and a guided group further up. There are also a couple of park rangers coming down.”
“Sounds like that circus on Aconcagua,” Dick said. McKinley was in some ways a mirror reflection of the South American peak. In fact McKinley was probably more popular than Aconcagua. To date nearly 4,000 people have reached its summit, and at least three times that many have tried and failed.
It took another seven hours to reach the day's campsite at the 11,200-foot level, where the west buttress of McKinley rises from the head of the Kahiltna Glacier. This was a standard campsite, and they saw that the all-female group had pitched their tents nearby. Later that evening the two climbing rangers passed through camp on their way down.
“Did you guys leave the airstrip the same time as that Sierra Club group?” one of the Rangers asked.
“They started just behind us, but we lost track of them.”
“So you haven't heard. We got a report on our radio yesterday. Sounds like they were on the lower part of the main Kahiltna Glacier where they ran into a big hidden crevasse.”
“We know the one. We took our time getting over it.”
“They didn't do as well. Apparently the leader's wife was crossing when the snow lid broke, and she went in. She was pulling a sled, and somehow it pressured her waist. It took them quite awhile to get her out. By then she was dead.”
“We were just talking to her yesterday,” Dick said incredulously. “That's hard to believe.”
They pressed the rangers for more information, but the pair didn't know anything beyond the brief radio report.
The rangers left, and Frank
and Dick were quiet, both thinking about that big crevasse, both feeling that nervous flush that sweeps you when you learn of a death that could easily have been yours—that unease when you're forced to acknowledge your own vulnerability.
“Thank God we've got Ershler,” Frank said after the rangers had left.
“Thank God we've got the best there is on all these climbs,” Dick agreed.
As planned, the next morning Susan's friend Dave Munson readied the dogs for the trip back to the airstrip. He would take them home while Susan stayed to finish the climb. She gave each of the dogs a big hug.
“Stay out of trouble until I get home,” she chided them.
“And you stay out of trouble too,” Ershler told Munson. “If that big crevasse looks too gnarly, wait until someone comes along to rope you over.”
With the dogs gone the camp suddenly seemed deserted. Ershler broke the silence, “Let's get on with the day's work.”
That would be shuttling loads to the next campsite, at 12,700 feet. To get there they followed a moderate-angled gully alongside the West Buttress, and as they were now off the relatively flat glacier it was best to abandon the man-haul sleds and, still wearing skis, carry all of the gear on their backs. After reaching the campsite, they cached their loads, then clamped the heel locks on their ski bindings for the downhill run back to the 11,200-foot camp.
“It's June twenty-third and look at this snow!” Dick yelled as he stopped halfway down. He let out a Tarzan call, then made a series of parallel turns the rest of the way to camp. Next day they moved up to occupy the 12,700-foot camp. The weather was clear, and Dick wore only his long john underwear, leaving his wind suit in his pack.
“Wells,” he said, “at this rate we'll be on top in a week.”
“Home for the Fourth of July.”
As usual, Dick had an abundance of personal gear, and his pack was so heavy—around sixty pounds—that he started to fall behind even Frank. The wind began to fill, and with them still a half hour away from camp, it was blowing twenty miles an hour. Dick was getting cold quickly, but he was now close enough that he didn't want to stop his rhythm and take off his backpack to get his windsuit on. Airborne spindrift plastered on his underwear making him look like a frosted Christmas ornament. It was a repeat of the day he went to the South Col, little more than a month before, when he had started out dressed for a fair day only to be freezing by the time he reached camp—but then he at least had on his windsuit.
Ahead he could see the others setting up tents. He was shivering and worried about frostbite, not on his feet or hands but, because he had only the one layer of underwear, he had lost all feeling on the end of his “dinkie,” as he called it.
“It's going to freeze and fall off for sure,” he muttered.
He tried to move quickly, but the weight of the pack kept him to a snail's pace. He walked in a penguin waddle, with his gloved hand like a fig leaf over his privates. Twenty-five yards ahead he could see Frank sitting on his pack—fully dressed for the cold weather— eating a candy bar. Susan was pitching a tent, and the others were busy constructing camp.
As he reached the edge of camp Frank looked up and said, “What's wrong Dick? Have to pee?”
“Pancho, the wind's going right through this underwear. I’m afraid my dinkie is frostbitten.”
“Bass,” Susan spoke up with a wide grin, “what are you looking for—a blow job?”
When he could finally get a word between everyone's guffawing all he could say was, “And when we started this trip I was concerned that you might be one of those prudish New England types.”
“Too many years in Alaska, I guess,” Susan said.
Still laughing Dick crawled in his tent to examine himself but was relieved there was no apparent damage.
In the morning Ershler explained the next stage of the ascent.
“We climb up and out of this gully, then around Windy Corner and into the basin at 14,000. The campsite is on a wide flat at the base of the summit pyramid.”
The following day was clear, and although there was no indication Windy Corner would live up to its name, Dick nevertheless opted to wear his wind suit. Everyone continued on skis, zigzagging up the thirty-five-degree slope, kick-turning at each switchback. Frank had never done this kind of ski mountaineering, and now he was toppling every dozen yards. He didn't complain, though, nor did he suggest he carry any less than the others. He might not have been willing to do his share of cooking, but he was determined to do his share of load hauling.
When they reached the basin at 14,000 feet they cached their loads and skied down, returning next morning with the rest of their gear. Rounding Windy Corner they climbed into a stiff headwind, with building clouds portending storm. Pitching their tents in the wide, flat basin, they cut snow blocks to build windbreaks. The all-female team arrived, and Dick invited them to set up their tents alongside but they moved on a hundred yards to the site of several snow caves dug by some previous group.
“They act like we've got B.O. or something,” Dick said.
It was snowing by the time they had the tents up and stoves started. They crawled in one of the tents to eat, and the steaming water had the inside warmed to a comfortable room temperature.
“I don't know about this younger generation,” Dick said to the others. “Here we are with a whole expedition of pretty girls down the way and you guys sitting here with us old bucks sipping tea. If I was young I know where I’d be.”
The tent was warm inside, and there was that warm feeling that comes from sharing stories with your buddies. Outside the wind had let up, and it was quiet. If they listened carefully they could just hear the big snowflakes on the fly tent as they landed and then gently slid off to the snowbank growing around the base as the storm settled in.
For three days it snowed, and finally on the fourth it cleared.
“Too much avalanche danger to move up,” Ershler warned. “We'll wait and see how it looks tomorrow.”
Next morning Ershler judged it safe to move.
“We'll carry a load to the 17,200-foot camp, come back down here, then move up and occupy the camp tomorrow.”
Remnant clouds from the storm hung above the slope as they climbed out of the basin, following a fixed rope placed by some earlier party. The slope rose nearly 2,000 feet above the basin, although in the persistent clouds their view was obscured. It was the wearisome task now so familiar to Frank and Dick, the placing of one foot before the other in the rest-step fashion, the sliding forward of the jumar, the heavy, rhythmic breathing. Toward midday they could glimpse the crest of the ridge through the clouds. Frank decided to make it his goal.
Soon one of the climbers disappeared over the crest, then reappeared and yelled down, “Wait till you see this view.” Frank was puzzled, as all he could see was more clouds, but when he reached the crest he discovered why the others were so excited. For some reason the ridge was the dividing line between good weather and bad, and all of a sudden the world opened and it seemed he could see across the breadth of Alaska. In front of him the great white sweep of the northern glaciers flowed to the foothills, and through clear air he could see 14,000 feet below the tongues of white ice spilling onto the vast carpets of green forest that then extended to the horizon. He stared and felt the warm Arctic sun glow on his face, giving his skin a soft orange complexion.
He stared as though the scene were a physical addiction he couldn't turn away from. And as he stared, his thoughts became reflective. He thought how most of his friends and acquaintances back home, the people he knew in Los Angeles and New York in the movie business, would pass their lives never knowing that scenes like this even exist in the world. It made him a little sad to realize, but at the same time all the more pleased he had decided to take the year out of his life to discover such things himself.
They continued up a snow-and-rock ridge to the campsite at 17,200, cached their load and returned to the lower camp. The next morning they moved back up to occupy the
camp. Residual clouds clung to the basin, giving the feel that the weather was still unstable. But now they were at least above that basin, above the ridges and faces that until then had always enclosed them. Now for the first time on the climb they were following a ridge crest so that there was nothing surrounding them, and the only thing higher was the goal ahead, the summit. There was exhilaration, a feeling of being near the summit-day push, a feeling of being above human barriers, being free to go for it.
The ridge ended at a wide bench with a backdrop slope leading toward the summit. This was their high camp. Dick had fallen behind Ershler and a couple of the others, but ahead he could see another party camped in the middle of the flat. He guessed they were the guided party they had heard about, and went over to introduce himself.
“Say, you all haven't seen the rest of my group, have you?” Dick asked.
“They went that way.”
Dick walked across the flat until he spotted Ershler and the others. They were below the lip of the flat.
“What are you doing down here?”
“This is out of the wind.”
“But when I climbed this mountain before we camped back up there, where the other group is.”
“Guess they don't know what they're doing.”
Dick shrugged his shoulders; it didn't matter that much to him. But when they got the tents set up Ershler walked back toward the other group, and soon returned with the news he had found a snowcave perfect for a kitchen. Now Dick was upset. He grabbed his cup and spoon and walked fifty yards uphill to the “kitchen,” knowing each time they had a meal he was going to have to repeat the hike. Dick knew he shouldn't let some small thing like that bother him, but at the same time he couldn't help it. It was an example of how high altitude and cold weather can cause someone to lose patience.
It snowed through the short night, and in the morning it was obvious they would have to wait for better weather. By McKinley's standards it wasn't cold, never much below zero, and the snowfall wasn't heavy, either, but it was like a head cold that wouldn't go away, that was just bad enough to keep you bedridden.
Seven Summits Page 25
