The Last Step

by Rick Ridgeway

  K2 is so remote that the Balti hillspeople, whose villages are the human habitations nearest the mountain, don’t even have a name for it. It was first sighted by Westerners, from a survey point more than a hundred miles away, in 1856. In that first mapping all the peaks of the Karakoram—the range in which K2 is located—were named by labeling each one with a “K” followed by a number in the order in which they were surveyed. Later, most of these labels were dropped in favor of names that had currency among the local Baltis: Masherbrum, Gasherbrum, Chogolisa. But when asked their name for the peak that was most distant and highest, the Baltis only shrugged. Some of them were aware the great mountain existed, but since it was so far away and so seldom seen, they just called it “Big Mountain”—Chogori. The surveyors, hesitant to name the mountain after their own kin, such as they had with Everest, kept their field-note designation. Although a glacier at the foot of the mountain was named Godwin-Austen, the mountain has since been known as K2. It is a name that, even with its brevity, is oddly suitable: it conveys the arcane majesty of this great peak.

  Because of its steepness and extreme altitude, its difficult approach, its harsh weather, because of the lack of Sherpas to help ferry loads at high altitudes, K2 is the hardest of the world’s high mountains to climb. It was first attempted in 1902 when the art of mountaineering was being weaned beyond the Alps of Europe, but that expedition failed low on the mountain. Most of the subsequent attempts were made by Americans—in 1938, in 1939, and again in 1953. Like Everest, which was called a “British” mountain because Britons had made most of the early attempts to climb it, K2 was an “American” mountain. But unlike the British, who in 1953 became the first to climb Everest, the Americans missed their chance: in 1954, an Italian team made the first ascent of K2.

  My own personal high point in mountaineering was on May 1, 1963, when I became the first American to climb Everest. It was only the third time that the world’s highest mountain had been climbed by anyone. Then ten years later, in 1973, I got a call from Jim Wickwire, an attorney and well-known climber from my hometown of Seattle, saying he was seriously planning an expedition to K2 and wondered if I would be willing to sign on as leader. Even though by then Everest had been climbed a dozen times, K2 had only had that one ascent by the Italians in 1954. Wick was looking for a leader who not only had the climbing experience, but who could also manage the organization of tons of food and equipment and design a fund-raising program to cover expenses.

  The human mind has an uncanny ability, when remembering past experiences, to winnow the disagreeable and allow recollection only of that which was fun, exciting, and enjoyable. The memory of my climb up Everest was much like that. Only if I thought hard could I recall the extreme winds and numbing cold, the continual struggle to suck enough oxygen into the lungs, the loss of appetite that always comes with altitude, and the weeks and weeks of risk and effort necessary to climb a really big mountain. Instead I usually remembered the fantastic scenery on days so clear you could see for hundreds of miles; I remembered the incomparable excitement of making those last steps when I finally reached the highest point on earth. I hadn’t been back to the Himalaya since the Everest climb, and I had often wanted to return. But I had let the years slip without making any definite climbing plans. By the time I received that phone call I was forty-four and I knew that if we did manage to get a permit, by the time we organized an expedition and got to the mountain, I would probably be forty-six. But I was still in good shape, and the Himalaya beckoned. Without much hesitation I told Wick I would be happy to lead the expedition to K2 and would apply to the Pakistan government for permission.

  To organize an expedition to a big peak in the Himalaya, you don’t simply get on a plane, fly over there, hike to the mountain, and start climbing. First there is a mountain of red tape—the paperwork necessary to get a climbing permit from the foreign government. Then you must raise the money, organize the equipment, purchase the food—usually weighted in tons—then pack everything and see that it is shipped and doesn’t end up impounded in some distant customs warehouse. It is then time to transport the tons of gear to the base of the mountain, and this normally involves hundreds of local porters. With everything assembled at the base camp, the climb can begin.

  The most critical task, however, is choosing the team members. Each one must be more than a competent mountaineer; it is equally if not more important that he or she be even-tempered and companionable. This is often the attribute most difficult to judge when considering a climber for an expedition, because every person who at sea level seems to be affable and clear-thinking can change—when exposed to the rigors of living at high altitudes—from a Dr. Jekyll to a real Mr. Hyde.

  After we had the permit in our hands, we rounded out the team. In addition to Wickwire and me there were already two other climbers with us: Rob Schaller, a climber and pediatric surgeon who would also function as team doctor, and Leif-Norman Patterson, a Norwegian mathematics instructor living in British Columbia who not only had an outstanding climbing record in Peru and Alaska, but a reputation as friendly and even-tempered, even under the strain of high-altitude climbing. After careful consideration we finally chose four more climbers; in addition, we would be accompanied by a filmmaker, Steve Marts, and also by my wife, Dianne Roberts. She hadn’t had much climbing experience, and her main role would be photojournalist.

  Using my experience on Everest, I planned every step of the way as diligently as possible. We carefully packed the food and gear in individual fifty-five-pound porter loads and shipped four months in advance. We ourselves left for Pakistan in April so we could arrive at the mountain early in the season to take advantage of any good weather. We arranged to hire porters in advance of our arrival and pay them good wages. With such careful planning we felt confident nothing could go wrong; we were soon to learn that confidence was based on complete naiveté.

  All of us had read accounts of how porter strikes had crippled many past expeditions in this area, but we all hoped that if we simply paid the porters good wages we would arrive in Base Camp trouble free. It was a false hope. Because it had been so many years since a major expedition had been in the area, there were no set rules for either side to follow. The result was misunderstanding that led to several strikes, which severely delayed the expedition.

  We finally reached Base Camp, but it had taken almost two months since leaving the United States—many weeks more than we had expected. Much worse than just being behind schedule, the delays had eroded our spirit, we had picked up local “bugs,” and there were the beginnings of schisms among the climbers, some already disgusted with our progress and wanting to go home.

  We had chosen as our route the great unclimbed, unattempted northwest ridge of K2. It was a bold undertaking. The very steep rock and ice ridge descended over six thousand vertical feet from the summit to a col above our camp. We began to climb and established Camp I and Camp II before the first storm, in early June. Before the disappointing end of our expedition, we would experience many more. One of the major difficulties of climbing in the Karakoram is the unpredictable weather. Often June and July have predominantly good weather, but it is never possible to predict with any certainty. Our first storm hit at sixty miles an hour, covering fixed ropes and tents and driving us off the mountain. After that storm we managed to carry several loads above Camp I, but no sooner had we finished than new problems developed. Two climbers were seriously ill with pneumonia, which left only four of us able to work with full strength. In addition, several of the team were disenchanted with the way things were going, and the resulting schism further weakened us. It was then I doubted that we could climb the mountain.

  Some of us felt that even if we couldn’t get to the top we still owed it to ourselves to get as high on the mountain as possible. In early July three of the team set off to push the route along the knife-ridge. They managed to reach the top of the first gendarme—a sharp pinnacle that rose as part of the larger northwest ridge—b
ut what they saw from there was both exhilarating and disheartening. Behind them, they could make out our camp at the pass, and then the Karakoram spreading westward to the Hunza region. Nanga Parbat, over twenty-six thousand feet and the citadel of the Hunza Valley, rose dominant on the horizon. Straight below them, almost seven thousand feet down, they saw the north glacier of K2 running into the parched-brown hills of the Sinkiang Province of China. But the view in front of them was awesome. Even though they were then at twenty-two thousand feet, the main pyramidal mass of K2 still rose sharply before them for over a vertical mile. Their eyes followed the difficulties they would have to cross in order to reach the summit, and it was obvious the task was impossible. The top of that gendarme would be the high point reached by our 1975 expedition.

  Our retreat and hike out to civilization was uneventful; despite the exhilarating scenery of granite spires and snow peaks, there was no overcoming our disappointment and failure. The years of preparation seemed for naught; we hadn’t even reached the halfway point on our dream mountain.

  But going out, a few of us began to think about coming back. Maybe if we had a more feasible route, maybe if we selected a stronger, larger team, maybe if we could get the Pakistan government to somehow ensure better performance of the porters. . . . With all these “maybes” would we have a chance of coming back and actually pulling it off? I had doubts—there were so many obstacles—yet the more I pondered, the more I realized it was possible. I had set out to lead a successful expedition to the second highest mountain in the world, and I wouldn’t feel satisfied until we completed what Americans had first set out to do in 1938. There now had been five American failures in a row (including a joint German–American expedition in 1960). But what if we did all that work, only to be once again turned back, to become the sixth failure? We were still in debt: I didn’t want to think about that possibility.

  But it was unfinished business. Shortly after returning to Seattle, several of us from the 1975 expedition got together to discuss the possibility of going back. Jim Wickwire was all for it, and it seemed his enthusiasm was indefatigable; I felt that if for no other reason his energy would have to result in our climbing K2. Rob Schaller was up for another try, and Leif-Norman Patterson also wanted to be counted in. Leif, more than any of us, had been the neutral mediator during our disputes: he was a very strong climber and a close friend. It was a good start. We knew most of the problems, and my optimism began to build.

  I wrote a long letter to the Pakistan government explaining all the difficulties we had experienced and made dozens of suggestions that would help future expeditions to the Karakoram. I stressed how good this would be for the porters and the government as well. Two months later they replied that they were implementing all of my recommendations and hoped my next visit would be more pleasant.

  The procedure was by now familiar. The first thing was getting another permit. We thought about approaching through China. That would add a fascinating dimension to the expedition, and through satellite photographs it appeared the Chinese had built a road within forty miles of the North Ridge of K2. I contacted our Washington State senator Henry “Scoop” Jackson, who agreed to help. He wrote a letter on my behalf to the Chinese Liaison Office in Washington, but the answer was negative; the time was not right to open Sinkiang.

  So we were back to approaching K2 through Pakistan. The problem was that use of the Kashmir approach to the Karakoram was now in full swing. The Japanese already had a permit to try K2, with fifty climbers, in 1977; the Polish would be on the mountain in 1976; it looked like others were vying for 1978. Would we have to wait until 1979, or longer? I wrote letters directly to Pakistan and submitted our application to the Pakistan Embassy in Washington, D.C. And then waited. I had applied in March of 1976; finally, in October, I received an answer from the Pakistan Embassy: “Dear Mr. Whittaker, Your application was forwarded to the Government of Pakistan who have regretted their inability to approve it for leading an expedition to K2 in 1978. However, you may apply for the same in 1977 to attempt the peak in 1979.”

  It was a hard blow to accept. I also learned that the 1978 permit had been given to Chris Bonington, the well-known British leader of major expeditions to the Himalaya, including Everest. We were on the verge of giving up, but I decided to make one last try. For years I had been friends with the Kennedy family, and I asked Senator Ted Kennedy for help. He said he would write Prime Minister Bhutto and see if there was anything that could be done.

  On New Year’s Day, 1977, I received a letter from the Pakistan Embassy saying their government, as a special case, had allotted our expedition, as well as the British, permission to try K2 in 1978. The only condition was that we agree to follow the British by a few weeks to avoid logjamming on the approach march. We were on for 1978!

  If I had learned one lesson in 1975, it was the supreme importance of choosing the team members. I decided to pick only climbers who had experience over twenty thousand feet, who were highly motivated, and who were willing to accept the high risk. I also decided we should choose from a large pool of people, so I put the word out that we were open for applicants who wanted to climb K2. The response was immense. Within a couple of months I had resumes from over a hundred climbers. We had so many qualified applicants that the only way to choose was to pick those either personally known or who had strong references from people personally known. It was mandatory that each member be 100 percent committed to the idea of working hard to get anyone to the top of K2. I wanted the best, toughest, meanest climbers in the United States.

  Before we could complete the team, however, we had a tragic setback. Leif Patterson and his son, climbing on a Sunday afternoon by their home in Golden, British Columbia, were killed in an avalanche. It was a terrible loss to his family and friends.

  Leif’s death left a vacancy I knew couldn’t be filled. It would be impossible to find anyone with his combination of climbing ability, determination, and camaraderie. I continued the search, spending hours discussing the pros and cons of this climber or that until finally we had our team:

  Craig Anderson, 30. A zoologist whose climbing experience in Nepal included the 1973 Dhaulagiri expedition.

  Cherie Bech, 32. A nurse who held the altitude record for American women when she reached 24,700 feet on Dhaulagiri with her husband Terry.

  Terry Bech, 38. An anthropologist who had lived nine years in Nepal and had done considerable mountaineering over twenty thousand feet.

  Chris Chandler, 29. A Seattle physician who had reached the summit of Everest in 1976 on the American Bicentennial Expedition.

  Skip Edmonds, 30. Another physician, who had also climbed in the Nepal Himalaya.

  Al Givler, 30. Known to always have a smile for everyone; he had an outstanding climbing record in Alaska and North America.

  Dusan Jagersky, 37. An immigrant from Czechoslovakia who had dozens of first ascents in Europe and an impressive record in Alaska.

  Lou Reichardt, 34. A neurobiologist from San Francisco who had climbed to the summit of Dhaulagiri in Nepal and Nanda Devi in India.

  Rick Ridgeway, 28. A writer and filmmaker from Malibu, California; he had reached 26,200 feet on Everest in 1976.

  Dianne Roberts, 29. A photojournalist and my wife; she was with us on the 1975 K2 expedition and had reached twenty-two-thousand feet.

  John Roskelley, 28. Considered one of the best high-altitude climbers in the country, he had stood on top of Dhaulagiri and Nanda Devi.

  Bill Sumner, 35. A former nuclear physicist who turned to producing tents at his home in Index, Washington. He had an outstanding climbing record in the Northwest United States and had climbed above twenty thousand feet in Nepal.

  Rob Schaller, 42. A Seattle physician, he had also been on the 1975 K2 trip.

  Jim Wickwire, 37. A Seattle attorney who had ice-climbing experience in the Cascades and Alaska.

  I felt it was the strongest team of American climbers that had ever been assembled to climb in the Himalaya.
(Later, we added Diana Jagersky as Base Camp manager.) Again, my job was only starting: I still had the wearisome task of food and equipment preparation, the quest to dredge enough funds to pay for everything—all so the real effort could begin. Again, I had confidence we could get the mountain.

  The story of any mountain climb is only in small part about finding routes, fixing ropes, establishing camps, fighting storms, and gaining summits. The real story is the people who do these things. The American Ascent of K2 is a story about people. It is about a team that leaves the United States dedicated to victory on K2; about individuals who have to overcome their fears, desires, and disappointments to achieve that victory. There is love, hatred, tears, laughter, even defeat. I will always remember that day the summit teams were turned back by soft snow and avalanches from their last-ditch effort to reach the top, when I said to Dianne, “I guess that’s it. It looks like it won’t go; we’ll probably go home with another defeat.”

  It is also a story of tragedy. The summer before we were scheduled to leave for Pakistan, Al Givler and Dusan Jagersky, after making the first ascent of a remote and difficult peak in Alaska, fell on the descent and were both killed. We decided that rather than replace them with other climbers we would try K2 with a smaller group. Yet it was only physically smaller; spiritually they were there with us all the way, and when, despite all odds, and at the eleventh hour of the expedition, four of our team made those last steps to the summit, Leif, Al, and Dusan were there with us all, gazing across the mountains from the top of the second highest point on earth. This book is dedicated to their memory.

  —Jim Whittaker

  Detail of 1978 route © Dee Molenaar

  Overview of 1978 route from east © Dee Molenaar

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  DUST FROM THE ROAD