Man Against the Great One

New York Times - August 24, 2003
By JOE GLICKMAN

AT 1:18 a.m., Vern Tejas, an Alaskan mountaineering legend, stood outside my tent in his one-piece red down suit, singing a child's song loud enough to stir the dead: ''Up in the sky, the little bird flies. Down in the nest, the little birds rest.''

It was the third day of our three-week climb on 20,320-foot Mount McKinley, the mountain that native Alaskans and most climbers call Denali, the Great One. We were at base camp, 7,200 feet up on the Kahiltna Glacier. Two dozen brightly colored tents dotted the vast, crevassed slope like beach towels on the dunes of the Sahara. Looming 15 miles in the distance, the south face of Denali seemed nearly close enough to touch.

''I've seen climbers arrive at base camp, take one look around and get on the next plane back to Talkeetna,'' Vern had told us soon after we landed.

This morning, as Vern crooned on, I removed the bandanna tied around my eyes (in June, the sun never sets on the Alaska Range) and donned my fogged-up prescription glacier glasses. Moving early in the morning is essential for crossing snow bridges that melt in the midday sun.

During the night, our breath had condensed, turning the interior of the tent into a freezer in need of defrosting. When I sat up, I brushed against the side of the tent and snow fell down the back of my jacket.

My tent mate, Nels Akerlund, dug deeper into his puffy, minus-30-degree, down sleeping bag, mumbling obscenities. We had climbed plenty of big mountains out West together, but McKinley, the tallest mountain in North America, was roughly 6,000 feet higher and far more dangerous than any of the others.

''Eighteen more days of this torture,'' Nels moaned.

''It could be just 16,'' I said, struggling into my astronaut-sized mountaineering boots.

Climbing the mountain had been on my mind for 20 years, ever since a friend I admired sent me a copy of the diary he kept during his successful climb. The previous year, I'd tried to sign up for a spring trip led by Vern, who in 1988 made the first successful solo winter climb of Mount McKinley. The six slots were booked.

Denali's main climbing season lasts only from early May to early July. We committed ourselves to going in June 2002. As the date grew closer, Nels wavered in his commitment. It was too long, too dangerous, too cold.

Our group of six climbers ranged in age from 31 to 57, with me, at 42, roughly in the middle We were led by our two guides from Alpine Ascents International, Vern and John Colver.

Huddled in our mess tent, a six-foot hole we had dug in the snow and covered with a tarp, we dutifully followed Vern's orders to down as much French toast and bacon as possible. ''You eat and drink your way to the summit,'' he said countless times during our climb.

After breakfast, we struck camp, loaded our packs and headed to Camp I. Clipped into one of three rope teams, we walked roughly 50 feet apart, mindful to keep the rope taut in case one of us plunged through the snow into a crevasse. We each hauled about 80 pounds of food, clothing and equipment, half in our packs, the rest on plastic sleds we pulled. We'd walk an hour, alone with our thoughts, stop for food or drink, and resume our march, shuffling like somnambulant snails.

Five hours and five miles later, we dropped our packs at Camp II and set up our tents behind snow walls that had been vacated by a previous party. We spent the rest of the day eating, dozing and reading. The next day, we carried half our load to Camp III at 9,800 feet. We dug a hole to cache our gear, marked it with a wand and returned to Camp II to sleep, the so-called climb-high, sleep-low approach.

In the morning, we endured another dreadful wake-up and marched back up to Camp III with the rest of our gear. This ''double carry'' strategy, which essentially means you're climbing the mountain twice, not only lightens your load but reduces the risk of high-altitude pulmonary and cerebral edema -- two of the biggest dangers on the mountain -- by giving the body more time to acclimate to the elevation.

And so it went for the first two weeks.

We took the West Buttress (or ''West Butt'') route, which is used by nearly 80 percent of the 1,200-plus climbers from around the world each summer. While this route may be the safest and least technical, McKinley, 215 miles south of the Arctic Circle, is known as one of the coldest and most volatile mountains on earth.

At the cemetery just outside the airstrip in Talkeetna, a tiny town 115 miles from Anchorage and a 30-minute flight from Denali, I eyed the list of nearly 100 climbers who had died on the mountain. One of the last names was 21-year-old Chris Hooyman, who'd been my guide when I climbed Mount Rainier two years earlier.

Greg Childs, a climber and author, wrote in the preface of Jonathan Waterman's book ''In the Shadow of Denali'': ''As long as Denali stands, climbers will come, and some of them will die. It is an icon of American climbing, as identifiable as the Eiger Nordwand or Mount Everest.''

In the last decade, as adventure travel has boomed, the number of guides and their clients have grown to 30 percent of all the climbers on the mountain.

The reasons make sense. Guided climbers have a better shot at reaching the summit. An experienced guide knows where the crevasses and icefalls are, how to acclimate, how much food and fuel to haul up the hill, when to push on, when to rest. And most important, guided climbs dramatically reduce the odds of losing digits or dying.

While some say hiring a guide is akin to ''buying the summit,'' others consider it a sensible, safe way to experience one of the world's great mountains. And for those of us who can't see living out of a pickup for years as an itinerant climber literally learning the ropes, it's really the only way.

In Vern, a 49-year-old fiddle-playing yodeler with a shaved head and more than 30 full McKinley climbs to his credit, we had one of the most respected, experienced and slowest moving guides in the business. When other, less savvy teams raced by us on a steep track, he graciously let them pass and grinned mischievously as they wore themselves out stamping down the deep snow for us. Invariably, we passed them later.

Fourteen days into the climb, our collegial group split. It was a matter of fitness and, to a certain extent, will. Mike, a 50-year-old stockbroker from Seattle, had developed a respiratory infection. Gary, at 57 the oldest, had trained hard, waking at 4 a.m. to drag a tire around his neighborhood in San Antonio, but as the climb progressed he got slower and decided not to jeopardize the group's odds of making it to the top.

Nels was fit enough to continue, but when the other two folded, he maintained that the summit wasn't important to him and opted for civilization. John, the second guide, led this half of the group down.

I'd trained as much as four hours a day before the climb; Dolly, a 34-year-old lawyer, had logged hours a day on a Stairmaster with a backpack filled with 60 pounds of water; Rob, another lawyer, was similarly fit. Led by Vern, the three of us headed to Camp V.

Our final way station before heading to the summit, Camp V provided a new level of discomfort. We spent two oxygen-depleted days at 17,200 feet dug in behind five-foot snow walls. While the views were magnificent, simple tasks like eating, eliminating and staying warm felt like major projects.

When we woke on our third day at Camp V, the wind above was ferocious, so we continued our lethargic waiting game. We prayed for good weather so we could tag the top and get out.

On June 28, a Friday, Vern woke us at 7 a.m. ''Showtime, kids,'' he barked.

The sky was clear, the wind manageable. We nervously downed hot drinks and cold cereal, stuffed chemical warmers in our gloves and boots, donned stripped-down packs and headed breathlessly out of camp.

Vern had warned us about summit day at the start of the climb. ''It's likely to be the hardest thing you do in your life,'' he said.

The first, and perhaps most dangerous, section was an hour-and-a-half traverse of a 30-degree slope with a kicked-in trail about as wide as a shoebox. (The next day a solo climber from Canada fell to his death there.)

At 3 p.m., five exhausting hours into the climb, we stowed our packs at a plateau at 19,500 feet, at the base of Pig Hill. We trudged up the excruciatingly steep slope, each in his or her own bubble of fatigue. Little tricks helped make the time go by. I counted my steps, focused on my breathing and endlessly sang a nursery rhyme.

Two hours later, we reached the sheer ridge that separated us from the summit. It was 300 yards long -- just 100 vertical feet -- but it was narrow, heart-attack narrow, and jagged, dropping off to oblivion on either side. I thought, ''There's no way I'm walking on that.'' But when Vern said, ''Giddy up,'' I got up.

For nearly 40 minutes, I kicked and rekicked each breathless step with the concentration of a surgeon on the job. I negotiated the worst 10 feet on all fours.

And then we had the top to ourselves.

It was 5 p.m., sunny and clear. You could see for more than 100 miles in all directions. The dirty tongue of the Ruth Glacier curved a path through a galaxy of snowy mountains.

We hugged awkwardly in our heavy coats. Vern, who'd carried his guitar to the top, belted out a ballad he'd written. We lingered in the thin, 15-degrees-below-zero air for 30 minutes and then started anxiously down the ridge.

At 10 p.m. -- 12 hours after our start -- we were back at high camp. I was too tired to celebrate, but I knew this day would stay with me for the rest of my life.

The descent took us two days. Back at base camp, the sweetest sound I'd heard in 18 days greeted us: the drone of a small prop plane. Then we were in the air. In minutes, mountains wrapped in white turned brown. Colors we'd not seen for weeks and pine trees, birds, silty rivers shouted to us. Just outside of Talkeetna, we flew under an immense double rainbow.

As I sorted my gear back at the Alpine Ascents compound, I thought of the rank, ravaged-looking climber who had landed in Talkeetna moments before we took off, nearly three weeks earlier. We passed each other on the airstrip and I asked if he'd made it to the top. ''Yeah, and it was hell,'' he shouted.

''But it's worth it,'' he said, laughing maniacally. ''It's worth it.''

More than a walk in the park

Rising 20,320 feet in the Alaska Range, Mount McKinley is in Denali National Park. Denali is Athabascan for ''the Great One,'' the native name for North America's highest peak. It was renamed for William McKinley in 1896, when he was running for president, by the gold prospector William Dickey. Common usage has reclaimed the native name.

Getting Ready

Those who climb without a guide must register at least 60 days in advance with the Talkeetna Ranger Station of Denali National Park (there is a $150 special use fee), Post Office Box 588, Talkeetna, Alaska 99676; (907) 733-2231, fax (907) 733-1465. Park and mountaineering information is available online at www.nps.gov/dena.

The main climbing season is from May through early July. By mid-July, travel on the lower glaciers is made difficult by melting snow.

Roughly 1,200 climbers try to reach the summit each season; so far this year, 688 of 1,177 -- 58 percent -- made it to the top. To climb Denali, you must be versed in glacier travel, extremely fit and prepared to spend three weeks on the mountain.

Getting There

By car, the trip from Anchorage to Talkeetna via Route 3 is about two and half hours.

Talkeetna Shuttle Service, Post Offce Box 468, Talkeetna, Alaska 99676, (888) 288-6008, e-mail to tshuttle@alaska.net, makes the drive from Anchorage in 15-passnger vans. Round trip is $90; reservations required.

Alaska Railroad, (800) 844-0552, www.akrr.com, has daily service between Anchorage and Talkeetna in the summer. The one-way fare is $78.

In town, I stayed at the Talkeetna Hostel International, Post Office Box 952, Talkeetna, (907) 733-4678; www.akhostel.com. A bunk is $25 and a private room with shared bath $60. There is free Internet access and use of a kitchen.

While you can hike or ski to the lower glacier (it is possible to drive on rough roads about half of the roughly 60 miles), there are six air services that will fly you to the Kahiltna Glacier in 30 minutes. I went with K2 Aviation, Post Office Box 545, Talkeetna; (800) 764-2291; www.flyk2.com. The round trip costs $310.

Finding a Guide

There are six guide service companies authorized to operate within Denali National Park, listed on the park Web site. I chose Alpine Ascents International, 121 Mercer Street, Seattle, Wash. 98109; (206) 378-1927; www.alpineascents.com. The cost of the 21-day trip next year will be $4,700. It also offers a six-day mountaineering course for inexperienced climbers for $1,300. It's best to book at least six months in advance.

What to Read

Even if you go with a guide service, there's a lot to know. I found ''Denali's West Buttress: A Climber's Guide to Mount McKinley's Classic Route'' by Colby Coombs (The Mountaineers, 1997) helpful.

Jonathan Waterman's ''In the Shadow of Denali: Life and Death on Alaska's Mt. McKinley'' (Dell, 1998), is a compelling account of life and death on the mountain.

JOE GLICKMAN

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