Denali, The Great One (Alaska)

High Sierra with Junipers and Erratic Boulders. Yosemite 8-11-93

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Highpoint Odyssey

Fifty Peaks in One HundredWeeks

Journeys to the highest points in each of the 50 United States --

A highpoint diary and original drawings

by David R. Pomeroy

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Please do not reproduce or distribute this manuscript without written permission. Anyone interested in receiving updates to this work-in-progress should write to: David R. Pomeroy, 6309 North 26th Street, Arlington, Virginia 22207

Chapter 23 Denali, The High One (Alaska)

After the frustrating winter attempt on Mount Rainier and failure to even reach Mount Hood, I was painfully aware, that in mountaineering, there are no guarantees. The supreme fitness and the strongest desire will always take second place to prevailing route and weather. With this in mind, I still managed a modicum of optimism as I prepared for the greatest U.S. challenge of them all.

On Mount McKinley, the 1995 climbing season was one of very few actual summitings. In fact, not a single professionally guided team reached the summit during the month of May! Many excellent climbers reached high camp, and waited in vain for good summit weather, only to have to start down after food and fuel ran low. It's in this context that the only valid measure of a successful trip is being able to say that you got as high on the mountain as possible, and returned safely to tell about it. To reach to summit, it's not enough to be in good physical condition and have a strong will to succeed--you also needed to have good weather after reaching the 17,300 foot high-camp. In this regard, I was just plain lucky. Although our group had survived record snow storms and temperatures as low as 30 degrees F below zero, our summit day was marked by balmy 0 degrees F and calm winds!

The Park Rangers’ cabin in Talkeetna. We were required to stop by to watch a video on altitude sickness and mountain safety. Across the street is the Fairview Inn, a popular Talkeetna watering hole.

This is also a deadly year (falling or freezing) for 6 climbers in four separate instances. Here, I'm glad to say our party minimized risks at every step, by taking safety precautions and using good judgment not to expose ourselves to potential disaster. This meant patiently waiting when the weather was bad, and anchoring ourselves to the mountain when self arrest was insufficient to halt a fall.

Our expedition was guided by the Talkeetna-based Alaska Denali Guiding (ADG). Our lead guide was Blaine; his wife, Deb, was also a guide. Our assistant guide was Chris, whose fiancée was one of our climbing party, Kerry, a woman from Australia. Our guides were friendly, knowledgeable, and experienced. They always exercised the appropriate balance of caution and summit drive. We were initially a party of twelve, nine climbers (7 men and 2 women) and three guides (2 men and 1 woman). Only four climbers in our group, including myself, plus two guides, made it to the summit. Everyone, however, made it down successfully. Those who elected not to continue (for altitude, cold, or other reasons) were all great team mates and contributed to our ultimate success by the heavy loads of food and fuel they helped carry.

Six of our team rendezvoused at the Snowshoe Inn in Anchorage on May 15 and rode ADK's shuttle bus to Talkeetna, where we sorted and packed our gear.

The following day, a bush pilot flew us, three at a time, in a tiny single-engine plane from Talkeetna , 345 ft above sea level, to the 7,200 ft base camp on the Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier. The small plane had combination wheels and skis, which the pilot cranked in mid-flight to permit landing on the snow. It took 4 flights to get our party of 12 plus gear onto the mountain. During the flight, I realized I was unconsciously lifting off my seat to try and help the small plane clear the craggy snow-covered passes. With the pit of my stomach in my throat, I looked out the tiny window. The weather was surprisingly clear over McKinley and the flight afforded spectacular views of our lofty goal. We were aloft in a plane, skimming peaks below, still 30 miles away, and yet Denali towered above us! I wonder if I was the only one questioning my sanity at the enormous challenge which lay ahead.

The 7,200 ft base camp on the sloping Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier. The crevasses are large enough to swallow a ship. Seen from the plane, the row of horizontal dots in the valley is the entire base camp, a thriving community of over a hundred climbers and a busy airport

Base camp was a thriving community of over a hundred climbers plus the busy KIA (Kahiltna International Airport). We were the new kids on the block, still fresh from civilization; men without beards; everyone in clean clothes; and, as yet, totally uninitiated in the ways of Denali! Uncharacteristically good weather attended our stay at base camp. We could look in one direction and see the 17,395 ft Mt. Foraker, typically crowned with a lenticular cloud cap. In the other direction we could see Mt Frances and Mount Hunter, each major peaks in their own right. Only McKinley lay shrouded in mystery, its imposing height obscured by windblown snow and clouds. But there was little time for sightseeing, as we set about learning how to dig camp and pitch tents! Notwithstanding our toils, there was still time to enjoy golden Alpenglow that kindled the surrounding peaks with fire each dawn and dusk. I never tired of watching the play of sunlight and snow.

After our first night, we spent one whole day training at the base camp, honing our mountaineering skills and focusing on crevasse rescue. The following day we began the enormous task of ferrying three weeks of food, fuel, and equipment, in stages, up the mountain. In fact we climbed the mountain twice in a series of two-day cycles, first carrying supplies and second, moving our camp. On "carry" day, we would pack most of our supplies and gear except our tents and a couple of days food and fuel into our backpacks (about 60 lb.) and a separate duffel bag (about 45 lb.). We lashed the duffel to a plastic sled which we hauled by tying to our packs. All this we would carry 1 to 5 miles (1,000 to 3,000 vertical feet) up the mountain to be "cached" (buried in the snow, awaiting our return the next day). After marking the cache with wands (slender bamboo poles with duct-tape flags), we would retrace our steps back down the mountain to the tents we had left behind. The following day (weather permitting) the next phase of the cycle was to strike camp, again load it all into backpacks and sleds, and then climb all day back up to our cache. The cycle was completed when we set up camp, had dinner, and retired to our tents (collapsed from exhaustion.) It took seven camps (cycles) and 21 days (including rest days and bad weather days) to reach our high camp.

Location	Altitude	Dates	Nights	Purpose
Talkeetna	345	May 15	1	Meet guides & organize gear
Base camp	7,000	May 16-18	3	Training: crevasse rescue, rope management.
Camp I	8,200	May 19-20	2	Typical carry and move camp the next day
Camp II	10,000	May 21	1	Double carry
Camp III	11,000	May 22-27	6	Rest & weather days-very bad storm
Camp IV	14,300	May 28-31	4	Rest and training for fixed line/ running pro
Camp V	16,200	June 1	1	Double carry
High Camp VI	17,200	June 2-4	3	Arrive, rest day, & summit day
Camp III	11,000	June 5	1	Retrieve cache and sleep
Talkeetna	345	June 6	1	Nachos, salad, beer (lots) & thick, juicy steak

Our route followed the Kahiltna Glacier to the West Buttress of Mt. McKinley. On cloudy or snowy days, the high peaks lurked in and out of sight, giants playing hide and seek in ethereal mists. On sunny days the sky was so blue it looked black in contrast to the brilliant play of sun and blue shadow on the snow-covered massifs around us. We were in a holy place; a valley of Gods, with names like Hunter, Frances, Foraker, Crosson, Kahiltna, and of course Denali.

Towering above us, we beheld these peaks, sheer granite faces leaping skyward as if to break the bonds of gravity itself, but forever held back by arms of encircling snow and ice. The Kahiltna extended her icy reach, up mighty gullies and couloirs, her snowy fingers clutching rock. White tendrils branched and traced the lines of each crag with a snowy caress, as if to conceal the icy grip which held these giants in silent bondage. It was impossible to comprehend the magnitude of what we were seeing. Hanging glaciers and ice falls, on the scale of Niagara, appeared no more than blue ripples on the shoulders of these peaks. Seracs, incredible chunks of glacier-blue ice, the size of high-rise apartment buildings, were just grains of sand on the tremendous slopes of the Alaska Range.

Below our feet, was the vast Kahiltna glacier. We were walking across a moving sheath of ice over a mile deep, churning and flowing slowly, but with enough mass and force to reduce even the Alaska Range to dust! Immense cracks and fissures were ample evidence of the turbulence far below the surface, as frozen currents collided with cliffs and ridges deep under foot. Our glacier approach wove a tenuous thread past these huge holes and crevasses, whose gaping maws of bottomless blue waited silently, for the careless climber to slip! This was more dangerous than the mountain, whose high ledges and precipitous ridges were plain to see and avoid. The glacier concealed her deadly peril, and one might never know, until too late, where chasms lay beneath the spreading snow. Where visible, edges were rounded by snowy overhangs, and subtle hollows only hinted at, or completely hid, the treachery below.

At basecamp, during our training in crevasse rescue, our guides had lowered each of us into one of these staggering holes. I will never forget the feeling. I found myself at the end of a 150 foot rope, swinging out of sight, my stomach knotted, and my feet thrashing hundreds of feet above the void! Inside the crevasse, fear hovered around me, watching in silence as I manipulated ascender and prussiks. Even here, there was serene beauty, and light took on a softer character, becoming a sonata in a thousand shades of glacier blue. Snow and spindrift, inside the crevasse, had layered to smooth and conceal jagged edges and forever hide the deepest depths. I had been cocky before my turn below, but I emerged wiser, respectful, and cautious about glacier travel from that point on.

Shown here our sleds with bags were stored away from the tents so we could shovel around the tents during and after the many blizzards McKinley’s 16,030 ft West Buttress looms five thousand feet above us and beyond the steep foot trail (curving dotted line) up Motorcycle Hill.

Throughout the trip, at each camp, we changed tent partners, and it was in the tents that we really got to know one another. Three per tent, one head down, two heads up, to provide more elbow room for all. On rest days, between practice and training drills, we would play cards, read, eat, drink, and talk. We talked about our lives, our loved ones, our climbs, and our dreams. We were all strangers at the start, but like family at the end. We learned to respect each other's strengths and tolerate each other's weaknesses. It was fascinating to observe the way our socially accepted behavior necessarily began to evolve. We were in such close proximity, for such an extended time, that after a while it seemed silly to pretend that one didn't belch or fart...or pee or poop, because everyone did it! Smelly socks or midnight snores were not important; what mattered was we were working side by; side towards a common goal, and everyone was contributing to accomplish that end.

A typical day began by removing my foam earplugs and peeking out from under my eye shade. During "summer" on McKinley, in the land of the midnight sun, it never really gets dark. Next a glance at my other tent mates would tell me if I was the first to stir--no point in rushing out of my warm sleeping bag into the subzero Alaska dawn. A tentative excursion by a finger or two would confirm just how bad the cold was going to be--typically well below zero. The tent walls and the space around my head would be covered with frozen condensed breath, and I would have to be careful getting dressed not to bump the sides of the tent or risk a localized blizzard.

I slept with thermal polypro bottom and top, polypro sock liners (put on dry the night before), wool cap and a black fleece head/ear band which I used as my eyes shade. Getting dressed was a matter of adding clothing to what I already had on. This meant donning certain items and layers in specific order: First came my hands and head, starting with glove liners, fleece headband (shifted from my eyes to my ears), polypro knit cap, and heavier knit wool cap. Then I addressed my upper body, still keeping my legs in the sleeping bag: neck gaiter, fleece jacket, Gore-Tex parka, and finally my down parka. Next, I dealt with my feet. Over my sock liners, I donned vapor barrier socks, followed by wool socks, and then insulated inner boots, all of which I'd kept with me in my sleeping bag to reduce the cold shock to my feet. Then came my legs, beginning with fleece side-zip trousers followed by side-zip Gore-Tex pants. Twenty minutes elapsed, but getting near the end, I would continue dressing by reaching out of the tent to retrieve the heavy plastic outer shells of my double boots. Inevitably, these would be stiff and frozen, laces glazed solid with ice, and soles packed with yesterday's snow. These stiff plastic shells are hard to put on in the warmth and comfort of home--but many times harder in a tiny 3-man tent with tent-frost raining down after each strenuous push. Now, I was ready to put on my foam-insulated overboots, wool mittens, Gore-Tex mitten shells, hoods and Gore-Tex hat. At last, I was ready to get out of the tent, not minding the struggle too much, because towards the end and wearing all those clothes, the effort heated me to the point where I almost welcomed stepping out into the minus 20 F degree dawn!

Hot meals (breakfast and dinner) were cooked in kitchens we carved out of snow. In the event of bad weather we cooked or in our tents. The main feature of a snow kitchen is a ledge for MSR stoves, which burn liquid Coleman fuel (white gas). We had a number of aluminum pots (2 and 4 quart), square and circular pieces of plywood (for insulation of fuel canisters and hot pots), and a plastic sled full of clean snow, refilled as needed, to melt and cook with. First would come the cry, "Hot water!" This was our signal to assemble near the kitchen area (if we weren't already there), insulated mugs in hand, ready to use a plastic dipper to retrieve hot water before it cooled. To this we added instant mixes: cocoa, spiced cider, coffee, tea, Lipton Cup-O-Soup (my favorite). Next, we'd fill our Nalgene water bottles with melted snow. Our guides cooked the meals with rotating help from us on a volunteer basis. Surprisingly, the meals were not the freeze dried packets from REI. Instead meals were made by mixing dry and pre-measured rice, macaroni, couscous, grains, muffins, or bagels, with bulk freeze-dried vegetables and meats, and generous portions of butter. Some meals included soups and desserts, but usually dessert would be more hot drinks (cocoa, etc.) My favorite breakfast was English muffins, heated and crisped in a frying pan with melted butter and accompanied by slices of Canadian bacon.

Camp IV at 14,300 ft. Digging and setting up camp was a bone chilling experience, at 30 degrees below zero, but the view was magnificent!, Mt Hunter, (left), and Mt. Foraker (right) were bathed in rosy Alpenglow. The group of tents with antennas on the left is for the Park ranger and medical tents. Other tents and camps are dug in and mostly concealed. Note boxy looking plywood "Camp IV toilet" just this side of the ranger’s tent

With no running water, we had to clean the pots by rubbing the insides with snow and scraping the best we could. Inevitably, bits of the previous meal's starchy fare would remain in the pot for the next meal's hot water and canteen water preparation. These were the ubiquitous floaties. You'd dip for water, and there they'd be, swirling near the bottom--not too big and usually white (not unlike Ivory Snow, but smaller--or better yet, like sprinkled fish food, after being in the tank for a few hours). If you were first to dip, you might wait for them to settle and dip shallow, leaving the lion's share of floaties as a free extra for subsequent dippers. There would always be some there, floating suspended in your water bottle! This explained the universal popularity of flavored drink mixes--anything to disguise those floaties. My favorite drink mix was Crystal Light. Because floaties alternated between subzero and near boiling temperatures, there was never really a question about sanitation, this was just a new sort of, well...water-borne leftover--no different really from, say, next-day spaghetti at home--at least this is what I kept telling myself. Floaties were another one of the indelible memories of this trip.

I learned that glacier mountaineering is a solitary experience. I say this because, even though you're with a group, the need to rope up dictates that you spend all of your climbing time at a distance from your teammates. Everyone must maintain rope tension to reduce shock loading, in case of a fall, and this means maintaining 30 ft to 50 ft between you and the next in line. Small talk on the trail is nonexistent when it takes a loud yell just to be heard! Communication is reduced to monosyllabic shouts (and lots of hand signals). I found myself looking inward for entertainment, making a pattern with the sound of my breathing or listening to the crunch of snowshoes on the slope. I'd concentrate on the rope ahead of me and watch the way the snow would load and unload on it, as it slithered, following the movement of the climber ahead. When I was the lead climber on the lead rope, I could see no one ahead of me, and I would pretend I was soloing amid the immense expanse of snow and sky! I'd look up and marvel at the play of light and shadow, blue and white, on the enormous snowy peaks.

Lunches were candy bars, trail mix, cookies, candy bars, gorp, crackers, candy bars, nuts, bagels, and of course, candy bars. These would be hurriedly pulled from packs during short breaks on the trail, and stuffed in our mouths along with lots of drinks of water. Speed was necessary, because soon we'd hear the cry, "Saddle-up!" and that would be that until the next break and installment of lunch-on-the-trail. Our guides assured us that eating and drinking (floaties and all) constantly was the only way we would have the strength to make it to the summit.

To avoid the horrors of frostbite, frostnip, hypothermia, acute mountain sickness (AMS), ataxia (disorientation and loss of coordination), pulmonary edema (water in the lungs), cerebral edema (swelling of the brain), etc., it was necessary to stay hydrated by drinking 6-8 quarts of water each day. This is a lot of water, and take my word for it, it also means a lot of pee. Now don't let frank talk about pee shock you. It's a natural thing that everybody, who engages in expedition climbing has to come to terms with. For myself, I thank God I had a custom zipper added to my fleece and my Gortex pants! On the trail, maybe every 45 to 60 minutes, I would have the first slight hint that some time in the future, I might have to go. Back at home, this would mean that I'd have about half an hour to find a bathroom, but here, things were a little different. I might have as much as, say, one and a half to two seconds before the excruciating certainty that immediate, emergency action was required! This meant yelling, "Stop!" at the top of my lungs (loud enough to reach above the blowing wind and reach the other 2-4 people tied to the same rope). Everybody would come to a halt. Others, would use the break to grab a fast snack, drink, or pee, too. Now came my frantic rush (man vs. zippers) to open a path through endless layers of outer clothes, insulation layers, inner layers, under layers...and I'm thinking, "I know it was here this morning!" The problem was complicated by heavy mittens and worst of all, by not being able to see what I was doing (parka, carabiners, ropes, all in my way). At last I think I've reached the goal, and not an instant too soon! I would aim on the side of the trail, away from the rope, thinking the pee would go here, but seeing it go there, and wondering what caused the diversion! I'm hoping I haven't just soaked my mitten. Ahhhhhhhhhh, blessed relief--at least until 45 minutes from now. For women, there's a device available from camping stores called a "Lady J." I never actually saw one, but I imagine it's a specially-shaped, angled funnel that permits urination while standing, without undressing. I know some of the women on our team had Lady J's, but I never was aware of any women using them outside of the tents. Now, with a collected air of confidence (having assured myself that my mitten was, in fact, dry) I would complete the interlude by struggling with my unseen zippers, and yelling, "Ready!" and our team would again get underway.

A typical day would end with a hot drink following dinner. After that, just about everyone went to their tents, relishing the prospect of a few warm minutes before climbing into their sleeping bags. If we could only retire to our tents before the sun dipped below mountain ridges, it would actually be quite cozy (50-75F) in the tent, thanks to the sun's infrared radiation. This provided a comfortable opportunity to perform simple acts of hygiene like removing socks and drying feet, brushing teeth, and applying skin cream or lip balm. I employed baby wipes to clean my hands, face, and freshen up. I'd remove my many layers of clothing, folding, bagging, and stuffing them underneath my sleeping pad. On a typical day, I would try to be ready for my bag just as sun disappeared and temperatures began to plummet. I'd get inside my bag up to the shoulders (only my head and hands out), put on my warm hat, insert my earplugs, get my eye shades ready. Then I'd write in my daily journal until my hands were so numb and cold that I couldn't move my fingers anymore. At this point, I'd pull my eye shades down (blessed darkness) and get my hands inside my sleeping bag, placing them against the warm sides of my body. Finally, would I lay my weary head on my fleece jacket "pillow," all in all, cradled in surprising comfort! I would listen to the vast wind or ice-hardened snow hurtling down the mountain to buffet our tent. Somewhere far, far from this vast and fearful place were my friends and family, sound asleep in their own beds. With the last shreds of consciousness, I would say a silent prayer for each of them, and myself, before passing out!

Close-up of the "luxurious" (if not private) Camp IV toilet, looking back towards our camp. My water bottle and utility belt are nearby resting on the snow. In the distance, a long parade of climbers (curving dotted line up to the saddle) move up the West Buttress. Note wands in the snow near the "Throne."

One might expect a restful sleep after a long day of climbing and carrying heavy loads, but not so on Denali. First of all, I had to share my sleeping bag with a host of uncomfortable objects, including two quart water bottles, batteries, camera, and insulated inner boots. Socks, sock liners, mittens, and gloves, still moist or wet from the day's use, had to be placed between my thighs or under my top to warm and help them dry. But the real sleep interrupter was having to wake 3 to 5 times to pee, and we're not talking trickles--perhaps the word, deluge is more to the point! Of course, this was the direct result of the 6-8 quarts of water we'd consumed during the day and before bed. We'd been told to bring a 1 quart pee bottle, to save us from the need to dress and brave the cold at night visiting the latrine. This made good sense to me, and was a technique I'd used on winter camping trips, even when a lesser amount of clothing was required for the cold. I'd find myself dreaming of the ocean, or better yet, a water fountain, and suddenly, I'd awake with the certain knowledge that action was required. Still, I'd try to deny the truth, reluctant to act. Soon, I'd be twisting and squirming until I could wait no more. Up with the eye shades, down with the sleeping bag, I would get on my knees, trying not to brush the frost-covered sides of the tent. Some tent mates used their bottles from inside their bags, and I never was sure whether this was out of modesty or desire to stay warm. Having once, years ago, had an accident while inside my bag, I've learned the advantage of going outside the bag, bottle firmly held between the knees! Women could do much the same with their Lady J's.

Blessed relief would be accompanied by the shocking awareness that my pee bottle was now more than half full--and the night was still young! In another two hours, I'd wake again, squirm, and then face the inevitable crisis of a full pee bottle! Faced with the prospect of thirty minutes dressing, five minutes outside in the howling wind and snow, and another 10 minutes undressing, one begins to look for alternatives. There's no use wishing the gear-list had stated a larger-sized pee bottle, nor wistfully eyeing your tent mates' half-full bottles. It's here that I fully realized the usefulness of heavy duty, freezer zip-lock baggies. One need simply reach out of the tent (safety precaution against spills) to perform the transfer from bottle to bag, zip the bag tight, and suddenly one has a new lease on life! There must have been some merit in this technique, because by the end of our expedition, dawn would arrive to find more than a few plastic-encased, frozen bricks next to the door of every tent!

This is the view from "The Edge" at high camp, showing the world is at my feet, and Camp IV (14,300 ft) is reduced to microscopic dots 3,000 feet below. My drawing shows the crevasses near Windy Corner, and the foot trail leading to the West Buttress. Beyond this snowy plateau is the Kahiltna Glacier, Mt Francis (L) and Mt. Foraker (R) (our altitude now the same as Foraker's summit)

The higher we got on the mountain, the harder it was to breathe. At altitude, even tasks like donning one's boots resulted in being winded and gasping for air--to climb with heavy pack was like being a fish out of water! Many complained of painful headaches, or nausea, or both. Loss of appetite was not uncommon. I was fortunate not to have these common symptoms. Like everyone, I suffered from badly chapped and raw lips. Although I wore SPF 30 cream, glacier glasses, and nose shield, I suffered from sunburn on the septum and underside of my nose (from snow-reflected sunlight). A recurring problem for me, when I climb, is the cracking and splitting of the skin at the tips of my thumbs and fingers. Small, but deep and painful fissures open near the corners of my fingernails. I was quite a sight with Band-Aids and silver duct-tape capping my digits!

One point of interest for highpointers is something that happened while camped at 14,000 ft. This well-established camp includes a medical facility, park ranger's tent, and depending on the ebb and flow of climbers, between 100 and 300 people resting or preparing to climb the steep face of the West Buttress. I was talking about highpointing, when a guy camped next to us came over and asked if we were highpointers. I said I was, and we got talking. He told me that his goal was to cycle or carry a bicycle to each of the highpoints! He'd reached 48 so far, and only McKinley and Rainier remained in his unusual highpoint quest. He had earned cyclist of the year by cycling the length of the Great Wall of China. His name was Kevin Foster and his group included, Whit Rambach, and Adrian Crane, both 50 state highpointers and world speed record holders for reaching the 50 HPs. Whit had beaten Adrian's speed record when he and Todd Huston completed a whirlwind HP gambit in 1994. I asked if they remembered seeing my manuscript, Highpoint Odyssey, copies of which I've left at various HP summits and register boxes. Whit turned to me with recognition, saying, "Oh, so that was yours! At Mt. Sunflower, KS, right?" I said I left copies at a lot of places. We all posed for a group photo, a regular HP hall of fame!

Highcamp (17,200 ft) and Denali Pass (18,200 ft) viewed from the ridge leading into camp. Towering over our high camp was the steep ridge leading to Denali's summit. The roughly diagonal line marks the climbing route up to the pass. Morning sunlight helped take the edge off temperatures that hung at 15-25 F, below zero.

My greatest concern of the trip was that the many storm days we spent at Camp III had eroded our margin of days allowed to wait for good weather at high camp. I knew that McKinley offered scant few days of weather good enough for summiting, and that many parties this year were coming down from high camp after waiting in vain, as many as 5 days, for a weather window. With only one or two days of leeway left for our party, I worried and wondered at the chances that we'd get to high camp and have good weather without waiting. In the long dreary storm days at Camp III, it began to seem like we'd never even get to Camp IV, and I put our summit success probability at 30 percent or less. But wonder of wonders, after arriving at high camp, the next day dawned very cold, but crystal clear! Crisp blue shadows reached down from the ridge leading to Denali Pass, and blinding sunlight illuminated the long line of tiny dots that we knew to be climbers, slowly making their way up to the pass. It was with measured judgment that we had decided, the night before, that we'd wait one day to better acclimatize. Though this day seemed perfect, to try too soon would mean sickness and turn-back, regardless of the weather, so we ate, drank, rested, played cards, and cast wistful glances up at the pass and then to the sky, praying this weather would hold out. By dinner, the first climbers were returning with stories of summit success and terrible numbing cold. Many had frostnip or frostbite in fingers or toes--but they had made it! Would we be so lucky?

Though we turned in early, it was a restless night at high camp for me. I had crazy dreams of all sorts, and kept waking up and wondering if it was time yet to go. When the time finally came, and I looked out the tent, my first realization was that the clear blue sky of the day before was gone, replaced by a dull, hazy white. Disappointment. Then I heard Blaine, in the next tent, say, "It looks good. Lets' get going!" We'd lost blue sky, but I noticed it was relatively warmer than the day before (0 vs. -25F). The high hazy clouds, tenuous as they were, were trapping some heat! This would be the summit day--for anyone who had the strength to make it.

We packed shovels, a few sleeping bags and pads, (to dig emergency shelter), pickets and webbing (to anchor ourselves in the risky spots), down clothing (for extra warmth, if needed) food and water, and prepared ourselves mentally for the longest day of our lives. We estimated 12 hours round trip of strenuous climbing in the thinnest air we'd known so far. We tied into the rope and double checked each other's knots, and safety clips. By this time the routine had taken on a business-like air--we were no longer city slickers at the dude ranch. After weeks of training and experience, the necessary movements were performed in relaxed silence, and I realized that we were serious mountaineers with one of the world's Seven Summits just within our grasp.

At the lead, Blaine announced, "Climbing!" and we echoed, "Climb on." We were 4 climbers out of the original 9 as we started up Denali Pass. Halfway up the pass, heavy breathing and frigid air was adding further injury to my already chapped and blistered lips. I made a conscious decision, Lips be damned, I'm power breathing to the top! We took a short break at the top of the pass, and we were off again, climbing the steep ridge up to the Archdeacon's Tower. Mists of cloud and snow swirled about us and limited our field of view, but it was not too windy nor was it painfully cold. I began to wonder if we were getting close, and I mistook a small depression near the Tower for the landmark Football Field.

Topping the next rise, I saw the real Football Field, a mile wide concave expanse of snow, far, far bigger to cross than I expected. As if this wasn't enough, at the far side of this snowy plain was an 800-foot wall (hill) going up to the summit ridge. It took my remaining breath away! It was steep, seemingly straight up, and literally as high as a skyscraper! My legs, my back, my lungs, and my blistered lips were saying, "...no, no, no, no, NO." My brain was saying, "...yes, yes, yes, yes, YES," but the rest of my body wasn't listening! This had all the signs of a serious impasse. Finally, from somewhere very deep within me, my soul, came another voice, quiet but hopeful, "Well, maybe." By some miracle, the rest of me decided to give it a try. My legs, my back, my lungs, and especially my lips, suffered mightily, but my soul soared with the eagles!

By the time we finally reached the top of the summit ridge, the altitude was really getting to me. I was more than a little punchy. The cumulative effect of the climb felt like I'd just finished a three martini lunch, instead of just taking a swig of Crystal Light with floaties. Nonetheless, excitement was beginning to well up inside me, because I knew now that the worst was behind me, and I was going to make it!

Blaine let me take the lead position on the rope as we made our final push along the summit ridge to the summit. It was narrow ridge, marked by a foot trail in the snow, either side dropping steeply into the cloud-veiled abyss below. Through my martini haze, I reminded myself I ought to be careful not to fall, and I had to concentrate to place one foot in front of the next. We passed several prominent, but false summits as I proceeded forward and up. I felt a little wobbly, but remembering the TV jingle for the kid's toy, I repeated to myself, Weebles wobble--but they don't fall down! About eight minutes later, Blaine, who was behind me, was making some sounds. At this point, the ridge had flattened out, and we were approaching a spot next to a roughly conical hillock, about 10-15 feet high and 25 feet in diameter at its base. Then it occurred to me to listen to what Blaine was saying, "...summit! Dave, you've reached the summit!" I looked back and noticed that the others in our rope team were still on their way and had not yet arrived. Then, through the fatigue and mental haze, it registered. I became overwhelmed with emotion. So much of my life had been focused on reaching this point; I had made so many sacrifices and taken so many risks (family, career, personal savings, training, gear, etc.) Tears welled in my eyes, as Blaine and I exchanged bear hugs in celebration. I was filled with overwhelming respect and gratitude for this man (all the guides) who had brought us safely through unnumbered perils to this crowning achievement. It was 4:18 pm, June 4, 1995. This was the highest I'd ever been in my life (and still been on land!) I climbed the hillock and posed for my summit photo, cocking my ice axe and trying to look jaunty instead of the way I really felt. Later, looking at the picture of me perched on the hillock, Caren would say, "Is that all? I could have climbed that!"

Annie’s tent at basecamp with pink flamingos, and wands everywhere marking cached gear. Annie is the air traffic controller for the "Kahiltna International Airport." This would be my parting view of the McKinley expedition--within minutes, I’d be on the tiny plane winging towards Talkeetna, a thick steak, and (lots of) cold beer!

We spent 45 minutes at the summit, taking photos and congratulating each other. Blaine said that in the many times he'd been to the summit, he'd never seen it so calm and warm (a tropical 0 degrees F!) We could take off our gloves, snap photos, and shake hands, all without risking frostbite. Only the view was missing, since encircling clouds kept visibility to within a quarter mile. Of course, reaching the summit is only half of summit day, and we still had to make it down. The descent is more dangerous than the climb, the direct result of fatigue and need for better balance. I knew that injury or death most frequently occurred on the descent, yet it still seemed to me that I stumbled my way down Summit Ridge to the Football Field. At least it was easier on my lips and lungs! I willed myself to be calm and careful, and the lower I got, the more my head began to clear and my coordination increase. Hours later, weak and exhausted, we rested at Denali Pass. At Blaine's insistence we forced ourselves to eat, drink, and gather our strength for the final steep descent that had claimed a life only three weeks before. Making ample use of "running pro"(protection), we safely reached high camp 11 hours and 58 minutes after leaving camp that morning. The temperature was now well below zero, and I had exhausted my reserves. I wanted nothing other than to crawl into my tent and sleeping bag and collapse. Instead I managed to hang on long enough to eat broccoli soup and drink some hot cocoa with my teammates, before retiring to the tent to pass out!

Our expedition took 24 days, 21 1/2 days to reach the summit and only 2 1/2 days down. After spending the night of summit day at high camp, we made it down to 11,000 ft (Camp III) the next day, stopping to pick up caches at (16,200 and 14,300) along the way. This was a very tough day. Although going down hill, we were also carrying loads much heavier than ever before. Near Windy Corner, we post-holed through mid-thigh snow, but this was nothing compared to battling the ferocious wind and blizzard which accompanied our painful descent of Squirrel and Motorcycle hills. Fortunately, the following day dawned clear and sunny. Although very cold at first, we had a gorgeous walk down the Kahiltna Glacier all the way to base camp. It was a walk in the park! (Denali National Park) Though the climb up the 400-foot Heartbreak Hill to reach base camp had been hot and seemed endless; we were fortunate to catch the very next bush flight out (our wait being only 45 minutes). Within a few hours we were in Talkeetna, having showered, and enjoying thick steaks and cold beer! Every bite, which passed through my poor lips was a happy, even if painful, reminder of the adventure of a lifetime.

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