Forty Four Below
Climbing Denali
1986
Caren della Cioppa
It was one of those days visitors to Alaska always dream
about but rarely see, a day when the ever-present clouds surrounding the Alaska
Range disperse long enough to reveal Denali, the top of North America, formerly
known as Mt. McKinley. As I drove to Talkeetna from my home 100 miles to the south, I
thought about the 4-foot deep snow bank in my yard, the 30-degree temperature,
the bare trees, the ice on the lakes, and the other lingering signs of winter
that spring breakup had not yet eliminated. I looked up at Denali and mentally
calculated the temperature at 20,000 feet and realized it should be 70 degrees
colder up there, a pleasant 40 below zero. This was not a comforting thought
after 7 months of Alaskan winter. I also reflected on someone’s mention of 48
below at Kahiltna Base last week. As I drove, I reassured myself that my
decision to climb the mountain in April, two weeks before the climbing season
begins, was a good one. I would beat the crowds and the stormy weather so
characteristic of Alaska in May. I could handle a little cold, I thought as I
turned up my car heater.
I pulled into Talkeetna and found the
headquarters deserted. I wondered why I had gotten up at 5:00 am after teaching
pilot ground school until 11:00 pm the night before just so I could meet at this
vacant building at 8:00 am. Talkeetna is a very small town so I figured I could
track down the other members of the expedition in a few minutes, even if I had
to knock on every door in town. My stomach was growling so I followed it to the
main restaurant in town. Here I found the other four members busy eating
breakfast.
As I walked in the door, Dave recognized me
from our introduction a month earlier when I taxied up to him in a Cessna 150 as
he put the finishing touches on the new log headquarters. Dave is the classic
picture of the Alaskan mountain man. I had recognized him immediately on my
fly-in visit by his bushy black beard and strong muscular stature as described
by the guide service owner. I remember wondering if Dave had single-handedly
stacked the logs that formed the new building. Dave looked as if he had been
lifting trees all of his life. Dave was chief guide.
Assistant
guide, Ron, was a smaller version of Dave. Ron was a little bearded fellow who
stood all of 5 feet 1 and could easily be mistaken for an elf who had abandoned
his home among the trees and taken to the mountains. What Ron lacked in height
he made up for in muscle. He appeared to be made of solid steel. I was not
surprised when I caught him reading a book called The Elfstones of Shanana. I
just knew he was an elf.
In sharp contrast to Dave and Ron were the
other two members of our expedition. Will was tall and gaunt, reflecting months
of aerobic training in preparation for the climb. He was clean-shaven,
extremely neat, and colorful in his brand new bright red climbing suit. Will’s
first love was parachute jumping and it was an obvious strain for him to talk of
anything else. He had a million interesting stories and kept us all well
entertained. Will lived in Virginia Beach and found Alaska to be a rather
shocking contrast.
Mike was my favorite member. He probably
looked even less like a mountaineer than I did, but now I feel he was the truest
mountaineer of us all. Mike loved the mountains and climbing, and never ceased
to be excited about the magnificence that surrounded him. Mike was tall and
lean and obviously in excellent shape. He was so neat and fastidious that we
later cited him as an example of the well-dressed mountaineer. Mike always
managed to keep his clothes neatly folded and carefully placed in just the right
place in his pack. The rest of us had become masters at stuffing things into
little scrunched-up balls inside of even more scrunched-up stuff sacks. Mike
was a Lear Jet pilot from Allentown, Pennsylvania. His only love in life,
besides jets, was his cat with no name. I could sympathize with his fatherly
concern for his cat since I had left my two dogs and cat with a house sitter and
worried continuously if they were receiving the love and attention I was sure
they needed. They, of course probably couldn’t have cared less.
After breakfast, we met back at headquarters
for an equipment check. The temperature was up to 40 degrees which in Alaska at
spring breakup time causes those of us who remained through winter to appear in
shorts and shirtsleeves. I was prepared for temperatures on the glacier and was
sweating in long underwear under my Levis. Dave took one look at me and
snapped, “Get a coat on, it’s cold out here.” His tone of voice told me that it
would be in my best interest to put a coat on even if it was 100 degrees out, so
I obliged. I guess that was his way of informing me who was boss on this trip.
We
spent a couple of hours checking equipment and practicing crevasse self-rescue
techniques while hanging from the ceiling on a rope. Eventually I got all 50
pounds of gear back into my huge purple backpack. We began hauling all of our
gear to the two Cessna 185’s belonging to Talkeetna Air Taxi, which would fly us
to the 7000-foot level of the Kahiltna Glacier. Backpacks, snowshoes, ski
poles, crampons, ice axes, food bags, food barrels, sleds, ropes, tents,
shovels, stoves, sleeping bags, the TEA bucket (a 5-gallon bucket that would be
our bathroom for three weeks), and numerous other items were all stacked in
piles beside the two little airplanes. The piles were so enormous that I felt
obliged to take pictures to show my future private pilot ground school classes
during the lesson on the hazards of overloading an airplane. The airplanes were
stuffed with gear, and then we were stuffed in.
Dave, Mike, and I flew in the blue and white
one, 8848D, piloted by Tony. I squeezed myself into the back seat among the
snowshoes and ski poles, and with camera in hand and seatbelt fastened, prepared
for departure. Then Tony plopped a 50-pound food bag on my lap. There must
have been something about the look on my face that made Tony remove the food bag
and place it in the other airplane. We taxied out onto Talkeetna’s runway and I
reassured myself that this airplane would be able to leave the ground because in
Alaska it’s permissible to overload an airplane by 10 percent under certain
circumstances. We did, in fact, leave the ground but only after using what
seemed like most of Talkeetna’s 4000-foot runway.
As we approached the mountain I was reminded of
an old mountaineering saying, “Mountains don’t get closer, they just get
bigger.” After crossing thousands of tiny lakes, we left the flatlands and
plunged into a giant granite canyon which seemed to reduce our airplane into an
insignificant insect. The granite walls surrounding the Kahiltna Glacier rise
as sheer cliffs to the summits of 17,400 Mt. Foraker and 14,573 Mt. Hunter. Our
insect airplane flew up the glacier and turned right at Mt. Hunter then lowered
its skis and descended to the snow runway marked by flags. As the skis touched,
Cessna 8848D disappeared in a cloud of powder snow as we came gradually to an
uphill halt at Kahiltna Base. We tossed all of our piles of equipment onto the
snow and the two planes skied away. The sounds of their engines faded quickly
into the distance, leaving the five of us alone on an infinite snowfield.
Upon further examination, we realized that we
weren’t really alone because several tents were in the area. We started
dragging our supplies toward the other tents. After sinking to my knees in the
deep snow, I decided to test the efficiency of my new Sherpa snowshoes. They
were quite an improvement and I began to move forward instead of straight down.
We loaded our sleds several times and pulled all of our gear to our new home at Kahiltna base. We took turns with the two shovels “digging in,” a process
involving digging a hole large enough to hold two tents and a cooking area and
deep enough to prevent Denali’s wind from blowing the tents back down the
glacier to Talkeetna. The TEA bucket was set in a small hole behind camp, deep
enough that by using our imaginations we could pretend we had privacy if we had
to “go TEA” as Dave put it. I found that by pulling my parka hood down over my
face I could have even more imaginary privacy. As the trip progressed, Mike
found more and more elaborate ways to achieve conditions of semi-privacy. He
could often be seen constructing sophisticated structures out of sleeping pads
and ski poles to help shield him when he visited the TEA bucket. The bucket
would travel with us and whenever it became full, we would tie the bag off and
casually drop it into a deep crevasse.
After we dug our hole down, we used a snow saw
to cut huge igloo blocks to build up a wall to further protect us from the
wind. We put up two tents and set up a Coleman stove. After our spaghetti
dinner, we settled down for our first night as the temperature dropped to a mild
10 below zero.
It took extreme will power to crawl out of my
warm sleeping bag on the first brisk morning. We started with a hearty, greasy
breakfast of fried eggs in English muffins which I nicknamed Egg McKinleys.”
Then we packed half of our gear onto our sleds for our first load up. The icy
air seemed to reduce my fingers to useless, fumbling blobs and it was only after
considerable struggling that I managed to get all the straps of my climbing
harness attached to the proper places. I had so many ropes and carabiners (the
rings that held them) hanging from me that I wasn’t sure what went where
anymore. I muscled my pack up on my back with its conglomeration of straps
adding to the confusion already produced by my harness. Then I put on my
snowshoes, clipped into the climbing rope and we were off, for about ten paces.
At that point I looked down just in time to see that both of my snowshoes had
broken and fallen off. The two guides were overjoyed by this discovery. We
sifted through the snow and salvaged the parts which Dave put back on. The
repair process was followed by a lecture on how I should have read the
directions before I put my snowshoes together. Of course, he had put them
together the same way I did only apparently he had tightened the bolts tighter
than I. I suppose he was stronger from years of lifting trees. I then hid my
red face behind my blue parka hood. We made it at least 20 paces before Will’s
snowshoe fell off. We finally got everything attached to everything it was
supposed to be attached to and made our way 7 miles up the Kahiltna Glacier, and
cached our first load.
The silence of the white river of ice was
suddenly shattered by the engine of Geeting Air Service’s Cessna 185 followed by
a huge military helicopter. They landed off to the left of our route in a
gigantic crevasse field. We later heard that they were a rescue attempt for the
unfortunate French man and woman who had fallen to their deaths 80 feet into a
crevasse. From that moment on, Mike referred to crevasses as “yawning death.”
Each time I crossed one of the bottomless pits, I pictured it suddenly opening
its enormous jaws and swallowing me up. We buried our supplies, still at 7000
feet but 6 miles closer, marked the spot, and hiked back to camp. That night we
met our neighbors Harold, George, and Jethro. Our two parties passed each
other several times daily for the entire trip.
The next morning we packed all but one tent and
retraced our steps of the previous day. I began my hike with a scolding from
Ron. Someone had neatly stretched the rope out so I was walking to take my
place at the end. Ron let me know that I should just pull the rope up and tie
it on. I started to pull the rope up then was told not to mess up the rope.
This was followed by the “how many times do you have to be told how to do
something” lecture. I was off the hook in a few minutes when Will’s snowshoe
fell off again.
Ray Genet once said of climbing Denali:…”To
achieve this goal, it is important for each expedition member to realize that
this will require a concentrated effort and positive attitude on his part.: I
am a very sensitive person and become very upset whenever someone is harsh. Our
guides were frequently sharp and angry with us and I had to exercise extreme
will power to avoid becoming depressed over their attitude. To maintain this
positive attitude for three weeks would require a special mental scheme on my
part. So, I simply pretended for the rest of the trip that I was Naomi Uemura.
Uemura was an amazing Japanese adventurer who disappeared on Denali two years
earlier after he became the first person to reach the summit alone in winter. I
simply allowed my gaze to wander along the immense granite peaks and drift
through the endless walls of ice and snow and very easily considered
that 1 was alone on this mountain. Any time I found myself feeling hurt or
offended, I simply dismissed it because I was Naomi, alone in this wilderness in
the middle of winter. I shared this scheme only with Mike who also was
sensitive.
The next day en route to our cache at 10,500 feet we met a
party of Koreans. Only their leader spoke English and he seemed to enjoy trying
to converse with us. They were a party of three men and one woman. Every time
we saw each other the Korean woman and I exchanged smiles and waved. The fact
that we were the only women on the mountain formed a bond of friendship between
us even though we did not speak each other's language. The Koreans had marked
the way with Bamboo wands, each topped with a shiny red satin flag commemorating
the 1986 Korean McKinley expedition. Dave seemed to get some sort of pleasure
out of removing their flags from the wands and had quite a collection by the
time we reached 10,500 feet. I saved a couple to remember them by. Our leaders
had a contempt for the Koreans that 1 never quite figured out. Making fun of
them seemed to help Ron and Dave pass the time.
We moved past our cache at 10,500 and went all the way to
11,000 the next day. I had some trouble keeping myself going, the result of a
heavier load and being on Ron's rope. Ron traveled a little faster than Dave
and it was just a bit too fast for me. I felt like I was on my last breath when
we reached camp, but I recovered as soon as I had our cup of soup. A cup of
soup was always tradition upon arrival at camp. I felt a little discouraged
when I overheard Ron and Dave loudly discussing how they knew I'd wash out along
the way, based on my lack of speed on the way to this camp. That was a great
confidence builder but of course I didn't hear it because I was alone, soloing
this mountain in my mind.
At 11,000 feet the temperature dropped to 24 below zero and
our mornings hereafter were at least that cold. I got up to fix breakfast and
was delighted to find that I had grown accustomed to the cold. Each morning the
first person up would fire up the two MSR stoves and start hot water and
breakfast while the rest stayed in their sleeping bags to stay warm. I fixed a
lot of breakfasts because I always seemed to need to visit the TEA bucket
earlier than everyone else. In fact, since we were encouraged to drink lots of
water to prevent altitude sickness, I usually visited the TEA bucket several
times in the middle of each night as well.
We started up to 13,000 to make a cache at a place very
appropriately named Windy Corner. Its namesake forced us to retreat as it
blasted us with blowing snow at about 50 miles per hour. We made our cache at
12,500 instead. I became fool of the day again now that we had cached our
snowshoes and donned our crampons. I had tested my new crampons on a 5-hour
snow hike with these boots, yet they still felt obliged to come off. I know they
did it intentionally--they planned it very carefully and waited until the wind
was blowing its hardest and the slope was the steepest and Dave was in the worst
mood. Then my right one came off. But I was cool, I just happened to have an
extra long leash on my ice ax so I cut off part of it and tied the crampon on
quickly and walked very carefully the remainder of the day. Back at camp, I made
both crampons smaller so that it took an act of God to get them on or off.
Never again did my crampons let me down.
We moved next to 14,300 feet, probably the roughest day of
the whole climb for all of us. We passed Windy Corner now clear, cold, and
calm. Next we had a long steep traverse to negotiate. Although the traverse
was somewhat treacherous, the dangers were surpassed by the astounding views of
massive hanging glaciers that plunged 7,000 feet straight down to the Kahiltna
Glacier. Mt. Hunter and Mt. Foraker rose prominently in the background. Ron and
Mike traveled quickly on their rope, but Will was sick with a headache so our
rope of three lagged behind. I was doing fine until the sun dropped behind the
West Buttress. The temperature immediately plunged to 15 below zero and we all
became instantly cold. We scrambled to get warmer clothes on. I had made the
mistake of removing my pile pants so I had the miserable task of removing my
harness, pack, and wind pants to get them back on again. The cold seemed to
reach out and grab us, extracting every calorie of heat from our bodies. With
the heat went the strength we needed to continue climbing. By the time we
reached camp 1 was extremely weak, cold, and shivering. As soon as we finished
digging in, I crawled into my sleeping bag with one of the greatest pleasures of
the entire trip, three hot water bottles. Hot water bottles came to be one of
life's greatest joys for all of us. The last person to bed each night would be
assigned the task of filling everyone’s water bottle with boiling water. I
slept each night with my arms lovingly embracing my hot water bottle.
Our
next day at 14,300 was a much needed rest day. We spent the whole day resting
in the sun, sunbathing at 25 degrees. Of course, that night it dropped again to
20 below. We shared the 14,300 camp with the Koreans and Harold, George, and
Jethro who our leaders labeled the three stooges. This was a remarkably small
group for 14,300 compared to the typical 40 parties that usually occupy this
camp during the regular climbing season.
After our day of rest, we returned to our cache at 12,500.
On our return to 14,300, we passed two of the Korean men rapidly descending with
their packs. Shortly after, their leader followed not carrying a pack. He
stopped and asked me if I'd seen the other two. I told him they had just passed
and we continued up. We left our packs at Windy Corner and hiked up a little
peak that Dave had named Hero Point. This was a perfect place for photographers
to take "Hero" shots. We took turns posing with Denali's summit in the
background. The view here was quite spectacular. Our entire route up the
Kahiltna was visible. Mt. Hunter and Mt. Foraker were in complete view. Most
impressive was the immense icefall tumbling off the plateau that made our camp
at 14,300 feet. It consists of massive chunks of ice, a mile long and 1,000
feet thick, which cling precariously to the surrounding rock ledges, daring some
unwary climber to walk beneath them.
We elected to walk above them as we retraced our steps
along the traverse to camp. The Korean leader passed us again, walking alone,
still carrying no pack. He looked very tired. As I ascended, the effects of a
codeine tablet I had taken earlier for abdominal cramps began to be enhanced by
the lack of oxygen. By the time I got to camp I felt like a child who had
gotten into Dad's liquor cabinet. I was so drunk from the codeine that the
trail took on numerous curves and turns that were not there on the way down.
Like a typical drunk, 1 found this all very funny. Our leaders, however, did
not think it was funny and implied once again that I was about to wash out.
George of Harold, George, and Jethro, shared in my laughter because he’d had the
same experience the day before when he took codeine for a headache. I gave up
trying to explain anything to Dave and sat on my pack next to Mike and laughed
hysterically for at least half an hour. Mike loved it because I would laugh at
any of his jokes, in fact I would laugh at anything and nothing. It was fun,
but I refrained from any further use of codeine.
We left the relative comfort of 14,300 to move our cache to
16,000 feet. This was a long steep straight-up headwall that would definitely
test the endurance of even the strongest soul. At 15,500 I began to slow down
and Ron was feeling a bit ill. He suggested we go back to camp and let the
others continue the cache. I was deciding when Mike asked me to strap some
wands to his pack. In the process, my fumbling fingers managed to drop one of
my bright red down expedition mittens. That miserable mitten, with the
assistance of the wind, rolled and tumbled into the Bergshrund, the largest
crevasse we had yet encountered. Here it disappeared forever in the jaws of
Denali.
I went down with Ron. This was a good move because we
watched the others all day as they struggled slowly up the fixed line to 16,000
feet. The wind came up and they got very cold. The three of them looked like
they were near death when they returned to the nice warm meal we had waiting for
them. I'm sure I was stronger the next day for having returned that day.
We had an unscheduled rest day when we woke up to the
furious winds and monster lenticular clouds. Clouds of this type imply severe
winds and create extreme hazards to both pilots and climbers who cross their
path. Mike referred to theses clouds by both their scientific name "alto
cumulus lenticularus" and his own name "monsters straight from hell." He was
quite a photographer and was intent on capturing every "monster" cloud on film.
The ferocious winds aloft seemed to originate from hell also, especially that
morning as I tried to fix breakfast. I had every available piece of equipment
stacked in piles around the stoves in an attempt to block the wind long enough
to light them. Eventually after 30 tries or so I managed to light one stove
along with the entire glove of my right hand. I was thankful that I had brought
a few extra gloves because I seemed to be quite adept at destroying them in one
way or another.
As we prepared to move our camp up the headwall, George,
Harold, and Jethro told us the sad tale of the Korean party's defeat. They were
defeated by their own tempers. Apparently there had been an argument as they
started up the headwall, resulting in the two climbers packing and going down.
The leader and my friend who I never got to speak to packed up and went down as
we packed up and went up. I missed her. Ron was still very sick so he stayed
at 14,300 while we moved camp slowly up the headwall to 16,000. A fixed rope
has been maintained on this section for many years and we unroped from each
other and clipped into it. We used ascenders, metal-handled affairs that clip
onto a rope. They are made so that they can slide up the rope but under a load
cannot slide down the rope. A loop of rope is tied from the ascender to the
climber's harness so that a fall will be held by the fixed rope. The ascenders
are also used to extricate oneself from a crevasse by climbing the climbing
rope. The headwall was very steep and very icy, and later on a climber from
another party was injured on this section.
16,000
feet was a very strange place. Reaching this ridge offered a view not only of
the entire Kahiltna, Hunter, and Foraker, but also a view to the north of
Peter's glacier. Our accommodations were a little different here as well. We
spent the night in a dark dank dreary snow cave. The cave was built two years
earlier by Naomi Uemura on his ill-fated winter ascent. We squeezed the four of
us into a space that would comfortably fit three people. The ceiling had fallen
so that you could barely sit up without hitting your head. Of course, hitting
the ceiling produced a veritable snowstorm as the ice crystals broke loose
covering everything. The snow cave opening was quite small, causing those of us
who suffer from claustrophobia to be very ill at ease. I quickly discovered
that I am one of those people. The air at 16,000 is so thin that it produces a
feeling of suffocation which mixes nicely with the claustrophobia. The 25 below
zero added a nice finishing touch to the whole scene. None of us wanted to
spend a second night here so we all eagerly packed up in the morning and moved
up to 17,000 feet. Ron was feeling better and left 14,300 early enough to go to
17,000 with us. He really had some incredible stamina to do in one day,
especially after being ill, what took the rest of us two days.
The climb from 16,000 to 17,000 was only a 1,000-foot gain,
but it was an ordeal nevertheless. I averaged four to five breaths with each
step, a very slow process. This ridge consisted of four very steep rock
pinnacles each covered with a thin layer of snow. Although for the most part I
would not consider it technical climbing, I did find myself using the front
points of my crampons and my hands on numerous occasions. Most of this section
was quite exposed with a shear drop of several thousand feet to each side. I
had a plan worked out in my mind should one of the others slip. I figured that
if they fell off the ridge to the left, I would simply jump off the ridge to the
right thus canceling out the fall. Obviously one would not want to slip here.
Also just to add a little challenge, the wind gradually picked up until it
reached a 50 mile an hour gale just as we reached 17,000. The best camping spot
was across a long plateau directly into the wind. I lost track of time as I
struggled to follow Ron whose image was nearly totally obscured by the blowing
snow. I walked for a few minutes in the general direction with my face covered,
then look up and spot my guide, look down and continue. Sometimes it seemed
that I was making absolutely no progress at all.
Eventually we all found our way to camp. We started the
exhausting process of digging in, and I was glad when someone decided I wasn't
digging in fast enough and relieved me of my shovel. I assumed the task of
heating the tent poles over the stove so they would fasten together. It was
obvious that the inventor of our tents had never used one in the cold because
the poles were rendered useless in below freezing temperatures. Through some
sort of miracle we managed to put up the tents and secure them in spite of the
gale. I shared a tent with Dave. This was a real pleasure because he decided
to bring the stove into the tent to cook. I think this was the first time since
Talkeetna that I had really been warm.
We had a terribly restless night that first night at 17,000
because the wind increased to at least 80 miles an hour and tore furiously at
our tents. It was as if Denali was intent on extricating our tents from her
shoulder and flinging us back down to 14,000 feet, which was a direct drop
below. The sound was awful. I felt like I was inside of a punching bag that
rattled and shook with each violent punch. Along with all of the racket was the
ever-present unrelenting murderous cold that continuously hovered around 30
below zero. In the morning I had two inches of frost growing around my face
from my own breath condensing on my sleeping bag. The slightest movement caused
me to gasp for air and remain out of breath for at least five minutes. 17,000
feet was not a hospitable place.
Hostile as this place was, we spent another rest day there,
huddled in our tents while the wind continued to bombard them. Harold, George,
and Jethro came to visit a few times as they also waited for the wind to die
down and allow a summit attempt.
We awoke at 5:00 a.m. the next morning to 35 below zero and
a brisk 30 mile an hour wind. An enormous swirling lenticular cloud surrounded
the peak. Dave announced that today we would make a summit attempt. He
admitted we would probably fail, but we would try anyway. I made a comment
about the wind and asked why we didn't wait another day. Dave growled, "It's a
rotten miserable place up there and it isn't going to get any better." So I
decided this may be my only chance, put on every piece of clothing I had, and
roped up. Ron was sick again so he remained in camp. We started up in the
shadows toward Denali pass in the 90 below zero wind-chill. I felt strong and
we all moved along at a fairly steady but not speedy pace, until Will's crampon
came off. He fixed it and it came off again. The delays while he worked on the
crampon gradually cooled us all in spite of the incredible amount of clothing we
were all wearing. Just below Denali pass, at 18,000 feet, Dave, after realizing
the increasing wind velocity, turned and announced that we would not make the
summit today. He suggested we turn back. We tried to go up for a while, but
finally agreed and descended.
The descent was steep and we went slowly, causing us all to
cool down further. By the time we were back down to the plateau at 17,000 feet,
I was deathly cold. I could no longer feel my hands or my feet. I did a lot of
stumbling on my numb feet and had quite a bit of trouble holding onto my ice ax
properly. I sort of staggered into camp with a little help from Dave and
Mike. I crawled back into my sleeping bag with my faithful hot water bottles.
My hands and feet warmed immediately and I recovered quickly. Dave ended up with
a frostbitten finger and Mike had a frostbitten nose. Will still had the
high-altitude headache that had plagued him since 12,000 feet. We were in great
shape. Tomorrow we would try again.
Tomorrow was indeed a better day, still 30 below but minus
the wind. My excitement quickly faded when Dave informed me that I was not
going. Ron was still sick so we had no assistant guide and Dave didn't want to
take a chance on me "washing out." I pleaded but I lost and spent the day at
camp watching the rest of the group do what I had struggled for three weeks to
achieve. Ron admitted later that he wasn't really sick but didn't want to get
up that early. I actually pondered the idea of striking out on my own and
completing the climb solo, but I knew this would have been unethical, and
probably impossible. Although I felt cheated, I just figured this gave me an
excuse to come back again. I was very happy for Mike and Will when they
returned from the summit successfully. I will always wonder if I would have
returned with the same success had I been permitted to go.
The
final morning at 17,000 feet greeted us with a temperature of 44 below zero. It
was a kind of final farewell from the mountain. I wondered if Denali was really
saying, "Now get out of here." We packed up and started our long descent,
camping that night at 14,000 feet. With each step down I felt stronger as I
gulped in the thicker air. We left 14,000 and trekked all the way to base camp,
a tedious 12-hour ordeal in a complete foggy whiteout snow storm. This 15-rnile
walk was enhanced by the 50-pound pack I was carrying and the 40-pound sled I
was dragging. I made a solemn vow to myself to never do this trip again without
the assistance of skis. The lower we went the thicker the clouds became
gradually dismissing our hopes of flying out of Kahiltna Base that night. For
the next 10 hours I didn't know where we were. We just kept following bamboo
wands that marked the trail. We met party after party on their way up. The
deserted mountain we had climbed now swarmed with hundreds of climbers. Yes, in
spite of the cold, April is a nice time to climb. There certainly was not much
solitude anymore. We met interesting people from all over the world who
shuddered when we informed them of the temperature at 17,000 feet.
At about l0:00 p.m. we reached Heartbreak Hill, the
150-foot hill that must be climbed to get back to base camp. Its name is very
appropriate because no one feels like going up hill at this point. Dave, Mike,
and Will were a bit ahead, and I was on a rope with Ron. I was leading at a
leisurely pace when Ron yelled, "Can't you go any faster? If you'd hurry up, we
could get a plane out of here tonight." I stared at him in disbelief knowing
that not even a seagull could fly in these conditions. Besides, the planes
won't fly after 9:00 p.m. and it was already l0:00. I decided this would be a
good time to finally get mad so I yelled back, "Why don't you just run on ahead
and call for the plane and I promise I'll be to camp before they get here." He
didn't bother me anymore, and I moved as fast as I could. We pulled into camp
shortly and took our place once more camped beside Harold, George, and Jethro.
It was wonderful to be back and we were anxiously awaiting our flight to
Talkeetna.
We
anxiously waited and waited and waited as the clouds continued to obscure
everything but the hands in front of our faces. We all developed stiff necks
from staring up in search of an opening in the clouds large enough to permit a
Cessna 185 to descend and rescue us. For four days we stared up, prayed, and
harassed the park official, who had a radio, in hopes of some news of good
weather. We began to feel that we would be spending the rest of our lives at
Kahiltna Base. Apparently there were over 100 climbers who felt they would
spend the rest of their lives in Talkeetna as they also waited to be flown in to
climb. Mike and I busied ourselves cleaning, packing, and working on a design
for an instrument landing system for the snowfield runway. I went to bed the
fourth night and stated that I expected to be awakened in the morning by the
drone of a Cessna 185.
It was 7:30 a.m. the next morning when my sleep was
shattered by a deafening sound. I leaped from my sleeping bag and ripped open
the zippered door of our tent, just in time to see a bright red Cessna 185
settle onto the runway in a cloud of powder snow.
All photography © Caren della Cioppa