Left for Dead (20 page)

So they came running back in and showered. They were just exhausted, and both of them got drunk in about two seconds.

I was very angry.

I remember very clearly coming back down that day from Longs Peak. We were really pooped. Walking down the trail, I said something about this being really cool.

Beck said, “We need to do more. What’s next?”

I said, “Let’s go climb McKinley.”

Beck said, “Well, okay.”

We had a laugh about it. Then we wound up doing that, too.

Mike Caldwell had suggested we try Chimborazo in Ecuador, a 20,702-foot volcano with an interesting distinction: Because the mountain rests on a vast equatorial bulge, Chimborazo’s summit actually is the surface point most distant from the center of the planet.

“Why try something simple like that?” Ken said. “Let’s go straight to McKinley.”

I believe Mike was somewhat skeptical of this hubris. We clearly had no idea what we were getting into.

Mount McKinley, also commonly known as Denali (Athabascan for “high one”) is the centerpiece of Denali National Park in Alaska. At 20,320 feet, it is the highest peak in North America and, because it sits so far north of the equator, at 63 degrees latitude, McKinley’s weather consistently is the harshest of any big mountain anywhere. Average weather conditions at 14,000 feet on McKinley are the same as at 26,000 feet on Everest.

Winter lows reach ninety-five degrees below zero. Storm gusts have been measured at up 150 miles per hour. It is the biggest mountain on Earth, in terms of mass, and is the tallest in terms of vertical relief, rising eighteen thousand feet above the surrounding lowlands.

More than half the mountain is covered in snowfields, which means you spend a lot of time on snowshoes and skis—otherwise you can’t stand up—looking out for crevasses. There is absolutely no finesse involved in climbing McKinley. You do it assault style, same as Everest, which means you must climb it twice, moving your stuff, then following after it. But with no Sherpas handy to tote your gear, it’s a lot more work getting to the top.

Denali is also dangerous. Since it was first climbed in 1910, approximately one hundred climbers have died on the mountain. On average, one out of two climbers makes it to the top.

Ken and I, together with two other climbers and a pair of guides from the Colorado Mountain School, would spend three
weeks on Denali. In the year leading up to our May 1989 expedition, we took a few more climbing lessons and embarked on a rigorous, if ill-conceived, conditioning program back in Dallas.

We both did some weight training and aerobics, but our principal work was running, about sixty miles a week. We also entered a couple of marathons that year. I managed to constantly injure myself. My shoulders sounded like socket wrenches.

But we were determined to be fit enough to handle whatever challenge Denali presented. Not until we actually got to the mountain did we realize that running as much as we did was not the optimum preparation. You want to be a bulldog. I was basically a pencil neck.

Denali is reached via Anchorage and the little town of Talkeetna, where a plane takes you up to eight thousand feet, well above the tree line, to the Kahiltna Glacier, your starting point. Before they allow you to fly onto the mountain, you are required to attend a movie at ranger headquarters, highlighting the many perils ahead of you.

Dead bodies figure prominently in this film. It certainly reminds you that there is a potential downside to this particular form of recreation. In fact, there is one stretch on McKinley that for some time has proven particularly hazardous to Asian climbers. Many of them have fallen to their deaths there. It is known as the Orient Express. More mordant mountaineer humor.

When we got to Base Camp, Steve Young, our guide, took us to an enormous crevasse, where each of us was required to descend a line until we were hanging approximately thirty feet in free air. We then had to demonstrate we could climb back up the
line and extract ourselves. Crevasses are a major fear and a constant danger on McKinley.

Our last act before pushing off was to bury the bottle of Wild Turkey that Ken brought with him, so that we’d have something appropriate with which to toast our triumphant return three weeks hence. I also had with me a water bottle filled with Jack Daniel’s, which I blithely believed would make a nice accompaniment around our genteel campfires on the way up. I immediately discovered I was so trashed at the end of each day that I could hardly drool on myself, much less enjoy a glass of bourbon. About forty-eight hours into the climb I decided to rededicate the water bottle to its original purpose. I practically shed tears as I emptied the bourbon out into the snow.

The unvarying routine on the way up was to rope together, separated fifty to seventy feet, and then trudge along single file, an arrangement that minimizes the potential consequences of one member falling through the ice into a crevasse. Theoretically, the rest of the group provides sufficient traction to prevent more than one person from falling.

Everybody must move at the same pace to keep the line taut. In the good moments you just let your mind wander, and daydream. As you tire, however, all you think about is that frozen snake in front of you.

Our first major bivouac was the so-called Med Camp at 14,300 feet. Spread out across a shallow basin, Med Camp was a circus. Accessible in good weather by helicopter, it was teeming that first day with several teams of climbers, camera crews and even a few daredevils bold enough to try parasailing off the face. Ice sculptures and makeshift igloos dotted the scene.

Dominating all was the Ice Throne, a regal one-holer that
commands a glorious view of nearby Mount Foraker, generally regarded as the most magnificent prospect from any crapper in North America. I remember one night sitting on the Ice Throne as Foraker went into full, golden alpenglow before me. It was a moving experience.

The Ice Throne also undoubtedly is the highest-maintenance facility of its sort anywhere. It’s raison d’être is removed by helicopter. (Everyone else must bag and deposit in crevasses.)

Because no tent can reliably withstand the arctic winds on McKinley, at each camp you must build a protective ice fort around you. But even a solid wall of ice blocks in time yields to the ceaseless blast, developing a serious case of the dwindles before crumbling altogether.

The day we arrived, we discovered the winds had swept an exhausted bird up to the Med Camp, where we found the disoriented animal perched shivering on a ski pole. We all knew our unbidden guest was a goner—there was no way it could get off the mountain before it starved or froze to death. Like that bird, we also were strangers in a strange land. It’s impossible not to reflect on your own possible fate at such moments.

At dawn, we awoke to find three frozen bodies, roped together, lying out in the snow. It turned out they were British mountaineers who’d ignored several warnings the previous day that the weather conditions above Med Camp were too severe for climbing. They’d fallen to their deaths.

Again, it gave me pause to encounter three dead men halfway up my first serious mountain. But you have to understand the level of denial necessary to attempt McKinley in the first place. If I really accepted that I might get hurt, I wouldn’t have gone.

Before we could try our luck on the slopes above us, we had business on the mountain below, a cache of food we’d left just below a place called Windy Corner, about a thousand vertical feet down McKinley from Med Camp. On our way to retrieve the cache, we passed a couple of guys who obviously had just come up. We gave them a big high five, waved and proceeded on our way.

Then the wind kicked up and soon was howling. Steve Young made it clear that we should take the storm seriously, and for the first time the thought really did cross my mind that we all could get killed like those Brits. It was very difficult to see or to move.

Anyway, we turned Windy Corner again on our way back up and there were the same two guys, just standing around like they were waiting for a bus. This time we walked over to them. I waved my hand right in front of their faces. No one home. This wasn’t HACE. They were addlepated. As would later almost happen to me on the Balcony at Everest, they’d gotten very cold and just stopped. They couldn’t make up their minds to go up or down. If we hadn’t come along, they probably would have stood there until they froze to death.

One of the two was at least sentient enough to move his feet, so we tied him to the end of our climbing rope. Steve Young took a shorter piece of rope and tied it around the other one—who basically was not there at all—and pulled him up the mountain like a toy. When we all got back to Med Camp, we took them to the medical tent operated by Dr. Peter Hacket, a Colorado emergency room doctor who is also one of the world’s premier experts on high-altitude physiology and a highly accomplished mountaineer.

From Med Camp we hauled our gear to the summit ridge, at approximately 16,400 feet, came back down and rested, then pushed up to High Camp, at 17,200 feet, where we built our ice walls and assembled ourselves and our equipment for the final push to the top.

Or so we thought.

The climb up had not been fun, and there was the added problem of the number-two guide, who had the distinct aura of an ex-con about him. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see
LOVE
and
HATE
tattooed on his knuckles. We figured Steve had gotten the guy at a reduced rate. He grated on everyone’s nerves.

But even that would have been sufferable had we actually accomplished what we’d gone through severe hardships to achieve. However, just as we were ready to go, high winds moved in,
very
high winds. The ambient temperature dropped to about forty below and stayed there, essentially trapping us in our sleeping bags.

Since the sun doesn’t set on McKinley at that time of year, but sort of circles the mountain each day, our surroundings hardly varied as we tried to wait out the weather. The cold days passed slowly in the perpetual, monochromatic light, which shifted almost imperceptibly from light gray to dark gray and back again. I stirred from the bag’s warmth only to relieve myself, discovering to my deep chagrin on each occasion that my hands would freeze before I could zip up. Every time I’d have to waddle back to the tent, climb in my bag and rewarm my hands until they were limber enough to pull up my zipper.

One morning, the wind died down for a bit. Ken and I excitedly started sorting our gear, thinking that finally we were
headed up. Steve just looked at us, his hands in his pockets, and then spoke.

“There’s going to be at least one stupid sonuvabitch who tries to climb this mountain today,” he said. “But it sure as hell is not going to be me.” Ken and I looked at each other and started unpacking. Sure enough, that wind came roaring back like a freight train.

As events on Mount Everest would later attest, one of the most important things a guide can tell you is when not to climb. Any fool can start up a hill. It takes real judgment and discipline to keep summit fever in check. Steve was not going to do something stupid.

We persevered at high camp until the food was gone, four long days, then started back down. The wind was blowing at about a hundred miles an hour. This was not going to be easy, especially with the bonehead complication I contrived to introduce.

Under very cold conditions, mountaineers not uncommonly pull on so-called vapor barrier socks—basically fancy trash-can liners—to keep their feet warm. Well, I had found an entire vapor barrier suit, which I had saved for the summit. When it was clear we were headed down, not up, in that frigid wind, I put on the suit—which made me resemble nothing so much as a human in a handy bag. But it certainly did keep me warm.

As we descended the fixed line that leads to high camp, I began to tire, rapidly. It was all I could do to stand up. I worried that I might fall. It took every bit of willpower to keep moving.

When we finally got to the bottom of the fixed line, Steve recognized that I was losing it. At one point, I did fall over, right on my keister.

“Give me your pack,” he said, and I did. He put a loop around it and walked off, dragging my pack through the snow. This was a thoroughly shameful episode. Everyone but me was pulling his load. I would walk back to camp looking like a complete fool. I was mortified, and fell two or three more times before we got down to Med Camp.

There, Steve took me to Dr. Hacket. Inside, I unzipped my suit to discover I was completely drenched in sweat, chin to toes. I’d created a portable steam cabinet, cooking myself like a Chinese dumpling.

“Why in the world are you wearing that thing?” asked Hacket, who measured my resting pulse at 160.

A couple of glasses of tea revived me somewhat, followed by some soup and a lot more tea, more than two liters of it.

The strangest part of the experience was that though I was obviously very dehydrated, I hadn’t once been thirsty, just weakened. I don’t understand the physiology of it.

We started walking again, with the wind howling louder and louder. About a thousand feet below Windy Corner we at last made camp, for which I was deeply grateful. I didn’t feel real good. When I pulled off my boots, I discovered they were sloshing in sweat. I was like those fishermen in the cartoons who pour fish out of their boots. As I got into my bag, I smelled myself for the first time, an overpowering odor of ammonia. I’d been burning muscle like crazy.