Seven Summits

by Dick Bass; Frank Wells; Rick Ridgeway

  “It'll be a close call whether we get home for the Fourth,” Frank said.

  Through the day, as the snow continued, Dick kept reminding himself that since he already had climbed McKinley two years before he was going through all this just to climb the Seven Summits within a year. And even that was out the window now that they had missed Everest.

  “What's got me worried is the food,” Frank said. “We've got maybe two days’ rations. There's another two days down at fourteen, and maybe two more at eleven, but we'd eat that much bringing it up to here.”

  “Yeah, Pancho, and here we are two grown men able to afford the best hotels and restaurants in the world, and we're sitting up on a snowheap in the middle of Alaska freezing our buns off, eating food unfit for convicts. Sometimes I think I need my head examined.”

  “There's no way we can not climb this mountain,” Frank said, ignoring Dick. “If this storm continues I’ll have to think of something.”

  Next day the snow continued.

  “How about a helicopter,” Frank said to Ershler. “We'll have a load of groceries delivered from Talkeetna.”

  “You can't do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It's the ethics. You might as well have the chopper take you to the summit.”

  The third day the snow continued. They were on their last day's rations, and if it didn't clear in the morning they would have no choice but to descend.

  “Even if it's clear tomorrow,” Ershler said, “We may have to wait a day for the slopes to slough.”

  With the other two guides Ershler decided to climb a short distance above camp, to judge the snow conditions at the base of one slope he was particularly worried about. While they were gone Frank lay in his sleeping bag considering options. Maybe there was someone below who had more food than they needed. Maybe there was a food cache somewhere that someone had left behind. Maybe he would ignore Ershler and get a helicopter anyway.

  Maybe none of these things would work out, the storm would continue, and they would fail.

  He hated the thought but had to acknowledge the possibility. Failing on Everest had been disappointing, but really not a surprise; actually he was pleased to have done as well as he had. Everest notwithstanding, the Seven Summits would still be a great success … if they managed to get to Antarctica … if they managed to get to the top of McKinley … if, if, if.

  While Frank mulled over these thoughts, Dick lay in his bag reading his Complete Works of Robert Service. Despite the grim logistics of their circumstance Dick's mood was improving. First, he had told himself there was no sense fretting about their food shortage because he knew if there was anything to be done about it, Ershler and Frank would figure it out. Second, he had realized that feeling sorry for himself only made things worse. So he had looked around for something positive to do, and had landed on the idea of re-reading Service cover to cover, and rating each poem one to four stars. Now in the middle of that project he was reasonably content.

  Ershler returned and said the snow was deep but apparently not layered. If it cleared in the morning it might be safe to make a last-ditch effort.

  “It'll be hard work postholing in that soft snow, but there's no other way,” he said.

  That evening it didn't take long to make dinner, as all they had were a few candy bars. When everyone finished Susan said, “For breakfast we've got one packet of soup and one packet of cocoa each. That ought to get us to the top.”

  Frank and Dick were asleep when Ershler called from the neighboring tent.

  “We haven't got all day. Let's get going.”

  Dick opened the tent door and looked out. In the morning half-light he could see to the west the summit of Mount Foraker eye-level with their position. There were a few clouds hanging round it, and above, at extremely high altitudes, a few thin wisps. It was definitely clear enough to climb.

  “Let's get this mother behind us,” Dick said excitedly to Frank as he started to get dressed.

  With only their one packet of soup and cocoa, they didn't have to be concerned about lingering too long over breakfast, especially with the temperature several degrees below zero. In the cold shadows they left camp and began the slow plod up the slope toward Denali Pass. In line ahead of them were the eight climbers from the guided expedition. It was quite a procession, like those old black and white photos of gold rush miners struggling through the deep snows of the Chilkoot Pass on their way to the Yukon.

  As they turned a corner and started going straight up the slope, they took the lead from the other group who were very tired from breaking trail. The snow was so deep that for a while Ershler had to dig a trail with a snow shovel. The other two guides alternated this job with Ershler, and Dick maintained the second-place position. It was a tough task as Dick's legs postholed into the half-packed trail and each step required several stomps with his boot. After an hour their progress was so slow Dick wondered how they could ever expect to make the top. There would be no second chance, either, not with their total food supply nearly gone. As he continued to stomp steps in the amorphous snow his morning elation ebbed and once again he had to hold back his “negative thoughts.”

  It took over two hours to get near the top of the slope. Looking down Dick could see they were not that far above their camp.

  “I hate to admit it but I’m having doubts we'll make it.”

  “Maybe the snow will be firm once we get on top of this slope,” Ershler said.

  Ershler's hope came true an hour later at Denali Pass—a saddle between McKinley's two summits—where they found that the snow, exposed to constant wind, was hard enough to support them on the surface. Dick's and Frank's spirits rose with their quickened pace. There was a growing wind building out of the west and the high cirrus was congealing. They had fingers crossed that the weather would hold long enough to reach the top, now only several hours away.

  In spite of the thinner air at the increasing altitude, Frank and Dick continued to move smartly, no doubt still enjoying the benefits of their acclimatization on Everest.

  Below the final summit slope everyone took a break to give Steve Marts time to work ahead so he could film their arrival on top. Ershler sat on his pack, next to Frank.

  “You did your share on this climb,” he said. “I made no effort to make it easier for you. You had the same loads as everyone.”

  “Thanks Phil. That means a lot to me. You don't know how much.”

  “In fact,” Phil said, “I can't even believe you're the same guy I was with that first trip to Everest a year ago. You've come a long way.”

  Frank was beaming as he stood to follow Ershler. It might have seemed odd for the former president of a large movie studio to relish a compliment from a mountain climbing guide, but movie making and mountain climbing were two separate worlds and here Ershler was in a sense the president, with full authority. Frank had worked at this mountain climbing as hard as he had on any project in his life, and it felt good to have the effort recognized by his leader.

  Not everyone was feeling as fit as Frank, however. After a few minutes Ershler paused to examine the snow at his feet; there, next to the footsteps, was someone's red spittle.

  “Hold up. Who's spitting blood?”

  “It's me,” Susan called. “I think it's just this cough. Caused my throat to bleed.”

  Bloody spittle can be a sign of pulmonary edema, a potentially fatal bleeding in the lungs caused by high altitude. Ershler put his ear to Susan's back, but couldn't hear the telltale gurgling sometimes associated with edema.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “It's just the leftovers from a cold I had when we started.”

  “Okay, but don't do anything foolish.”

  Susan turned and kept climbing. She was breathing hard, coughing, obviously straining with each step, but not about to give up.

  Dick thought, Boy, that's just what old Marty Hoey would be doing in her place.

  Dick knew they were close to the top. Fifty yards ahead the ri
dge they were on seemed to stop. He could see another ridge from the south coming up in a way that gave the feeling the summit was just ahead. Then he saw the top of Marts's head, and then Marts waved. This was it.

  Twenty yards from the top, Marts yelled down for them to stop. The camera wasn't ready.

  Five minutes later they were still waiting.

  “It's freezing here,” Dick yelled.

  Ten minutes later Marts yelled for them to come up. Anticlimactic though it was, Frank and Dick were both fired up when they reached a small wooden sign that said DENALI SUMMIT 20,320.

  As Marts rolled the camera Dick and Frank bear-hugged and Dick said, “Pancho, two down and five to go.”

  “That was okay,” Marts said, “but could you please go down and come up again.”

  “Marts, I don't believe you,” Dick groused. “Here we are on the roof of North America with storm clouds on the horizon, and you're doing a Cecil B. DeMille retake number.”

  “I’ve got to get another angle from over here.”

  The guided team was now just reaching the top and they looked puzzled as Dick and Frank climbed down and then back up.

  “Once again, please,” Marts said. “This time when you get to the top I want you to look like you're gazing across all of Alaska. Then we'll make a dissolve into another scene where you're gazing across Africa, and we'll be right into the next segment.”

  “Lord, I can't even celebrate one and I’ve got to think about the next,” Dick said.

  Now the all-woman team arrived, and about twenty people stood on top of the highest peak in North America watching Frank and Dick climb up and down.

  “Pancho,” Dick said, “I don't know about you, but I feel like an idiot.”

  It was crowded, and Frank and Dick had trouble squeezing onto the top so no one else would be in the frame.

  “This shot had better be it,” Dick yelled at Marts, “because you just saw me summit this thing for the last time.”

  “I don't like the looks of that cloud,” Ershler said. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

  He pointed to a sinister hammerhead cumulus rising to the northwest. Still concerned Susan might have a pulmonary edema condition, Ershler tried to set a fast pace but Frank was lagging. Ershler then had the good idea to put Frank in the lead, where it would be easier to prod him, and that seemed to work. The pace picked up, and Frank maintained a steady momentum. It was just getting dark when they reached camp, and after a few cups of hot water Frank and Dick crawled into their tent, exhausted. It had been a long day: sixteen hours since they had set out that morning.

  Susan was sharing their tent, so Ershler came in to listen to her lungs. She had a pain in her chest, but there was still no gurgling.

  “I think it's just my diaphragm, sore from breathing hard and coughing.”

  “Probably, but we'll still watch it.”

  In the morning Susan said she felt better. It had snowed off and on through the night, and now they were anxious to move down before another storm trapped them. At the 14,000-foot site they camped briefly, digging into their cached rations for their first full meal in three days. By now they were all losing weight and dreaming of their first meal when they got out.

  “Once we're back to our skis,” Ershler said, “we'll beeline to the airstrip and fly straight to the Latitude 62 Bar and Grill in good old downtown Talkeetna.”

  They had a great ski down the glacier until a heavy fog set in and they had to use a compass to navigate. The next day it cleared and they reached the Kahiltna International, where the radio operator called Geeting to come get them. When he got there Geeting said it would take four flights to get everybody out.

  “Let's draw cards.”

  Frank got the Two of Clubs, so he had the next to the last flight. While he was waiting, he asked the radio operator how late the Latitude 62 stayed open.

  “Closes at eleven.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Ten.”

  “Then we have to call them. Right now.”

  Frank, with a twinkle in his eye, picked up the receiver. He was now back in his familiar world, holding the tool of his trade. With an ice axe in his hand he might still be a stumblebum, but with a phone he was king.

  “Hello, this is Frank Wells calling from Kahiltna Glacier, on McKinley.”

  Frank explained the situation, asking if he could make arrangements for them to stay open late.

  “Sorry, mister. We're on fixed salaries here. Everyone goes home at eleven.”

  “Please, let me explain. We've been on this climb up McKinley and we've been out of food for several days—”

  “Mister, half the people come in here have just been on McKinley and they're all starving.”

  “But you don't understand. We're willing to pay extra. A lot extra. Listen, there are eight of us. I’ll give you fifty bucks a head. That's four hundred bucks.”

  “I don't know.”

  “Five hundred.”

  “I’m not sure the cook will stay that late.”

  “Six hundred.”

  “And the dishwasher, too. It's late, mister …”

  “Seven hundred.”

  “Mister, like I said …”

  “Eight hundred.”

  “Like I said, we'll be waiting when you get down.”

  11

  KILIMANJARO AND ELBRUS: THREE TO GO

  Of the seven mountains on their list, Kilimanjaro was the one that for Frank held a special meaning. It was the mountain he had climbed almost thirty years before during that spring break from Oxford, where on descent he first had the notion to someday try to climb the highest peak on each of the other six continents.

  Now he was returning, and it was as though this great snow-capped volcano rising 16,000 vertical feet above the acacia-studded African savanna to an altitude of 19,340 feet above sea level was a talisman of his life's direction, a great physical presence that had sent him on his way those three decades before, and only now to have him back again. There had been a lot of water under a lot of bridges, but he had held on to his dream, and the mountain represented that faith. Kilimanjaro was like a pole marker rising at both ends of his adult life.

  In addition to this kind of spiritual affinity, Frank was returning to Kilimanjaro looking for something very real: the summit register he had signed in 1954. Wouldn't it be incredible if it were still there cached among the rocks, that small booklet with his name in it? He imagined opening that old can, leafing through the fragile pages and finding his name. Then he would sign again, the new signature under the old.

  Kilimanjaro, then, would be special. It was also going to be the one expedition where both Frank and Dick could bring their wives. Not that the women would climb the mountain, but Frank and Dick had the idea to precede the climb with a photo safari to the big game parks of Kenya, something everybody could share and enjoy.

  “And maybe I’ll invite my kids,” Dick said during the planning. “I think Dan at least will be able to make it.”

  “And I’ll have mine come too,” Frank replied. “I could even bring my mother.”

  “Let's invite everyone who's been on any of the Seven Summits,” Dick said zealously. “We'll have a great big party, Pancho. This'll be fantastic.”

  Frank hesitated, knowing as he did Dick's penchant to host the world to good times. “Okay, but they have to pay their way.”

  Most of the climbers who had been with Frank and Dick couldn't afford a big game safari, especially in the style Frank and Dick were proposing, but one did sign up. Dan Emmett, who had been on the Aconcagua climb, not only said he would come, but wanted to bring his wife, Rae, and their two eldest children, Daniel, thirteen, and Roz, twelve. Not just for the safari, either. Emmett explained that he and his wife had climbed the mountain nineteen years before and now they wondered if Frank and Dick would mind if they tried again, with their kids.

  Frank and Dick were thrilled. They had gotten to know Emmett on Aconcagua, and since then
Frank had seen Emmett fairly regularly because they both lived in the Los Angeles area. Of all the delightful people he had met on these Seven Summits climbs Emmett was (other than Dick, of course) perhaps his favorite. Frank admired the priorities Emmett had set for himself. Foremost was his family. Then came his business, a real estate development company that had become one of the biggest in West Los Angeles. Then came his avocations, like kayaking, running, trekking, and climbing. Frank considered Emmett the consummate amateur adventurer, and he often said, “Call Emmett at three in the afternoon and ask him to show up at the airport at six for a six-week adventure—don't tell him what or where—and I’ll guarantee you he'll be there.” Frank could have added that likely as not Emmett would also show up with his family.

  With the team chosen, the Kilimanjaro group rendezvoused in Nairobi, where they were met by safari guide Alan Earnshaw and his petite and spunky wife Moira. Earnshaw was typical of many safari guides. Born in Kenya to farming parents, he was schooled at Cambridge and probably would have continued the family business, but with national independence and expropriation of his parents’ farm, he had decided rather than leave Kenya to stay and work in the guide business.

  They traveled to the Masai Mara, Lake Baringo, Aberdare. This was the season of the big mammal migrations, and they saw zebra and wildebeest by the tens of thousands marching to their instinctive grazing regions and perennial watering holes. They camped among great herds of eland, waterbuck, reedbuck; Emmett said he felt like he had gone back to the beginning of the world, when all land in all directions was wild.

  If they were going back to the beginnings of time, however, they were going in style.

  “I don't want you to get the impression,” Dick said to his wife, “that this is the way Frank and I have been living on all our climbs.”