Tears in the Wind

by Larry Semento

  Tears in the Wind

  Triumph and Tragedy on America’s Highest Peak

  Larry Semento

  Tears in the Wind

  Copyright © 2016

  Lawrence J. Semento

  Editor: Michael Sherson

  Cover Design: Angie Alaya

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Author’s Introduction

  The Seeds are Planted

  Climbing Fever

  Denali Dreaming

  May 19-Welcome to Alaska

  May 20-On To Talkeetna

  May 21-The Ascent Begins

  May 22-The Beauty of the Mountains

  May 23-Sitting Out a Snowstorm

  May 24-Fried by the Sun

  May 25-Denali Turns Deadly

  May 26-Climbing into a Whiteout

  May 27-A Very Windy Corner

  May 28-Alone in a Tent

  May 29-The Basin Camp

  May 30-Acclimatizing at the Edge of the World

  May 31-Climbing the Dreaded Wall

  June 1-A Day of Rest

  June 2-Boredom Sets In

  June 3-To the High Camp

  June 4-The Summit!

  June 5-Resting at High Camp

  June 6-Tragedy Strikes

  June 7-Sorrowful Day at the High Camp

  June 8-Descending the Deadly Ridge

  June 9-Down to the Base Camp

  June 10-Stuck on Denali

  June 11-Flying to Talkeetna

  June 12-Home at Last

  Return to the Real World

  Climbing Again?

  Denali’s Lasting Impression

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Foreword

  By Kara Hymel

  When my dad asked me to write the foreword to his book, I have to admit I was daunted, but honored. He has always been a storyteller, and his adventure on Denali was the story of his lifetime.

  My father’s stories have been a large part of my upbringing, and, in a way, they have shaped who I am. I have grown up on these stories, retold them for years, and even made some of them my own to entertain my high school students. I put writing this forward off for months. It wasn’t because I had forgotten about it or had too much to do; it just seemed to be a difficult task. Anyone who knows me at all knows about my close connection with my dad, and sitting down and putting our relationship into words seemed tough. To illuminate the effect of my dad’s stories is to describe the impact of his life on mine, and that seems nearly impossible. But here goes.

  It’s rare to consider your dad an actual best friend, but I can honestly say that I do. He has the ability to take any problem and find the best solution to it, and his highly logical manner always tempers my tendency to have overly emotional reactions to difficult circumstances. He has supported me through so much, and often if I had troubles, he was the only one I felt I could turn to. He was the one who helped me accept that certain things weren’t my fault and that bad things are often a part of life. Whenever I’m faced with a bad situation, he teaches me to see the light through the darkness, and I think he truly learned how to do that through his experiences on Denali.

  To help you understand the kind of person my dad is, you have to understand his humor. Humor is at the center of my relationship with my dad. He makes me laugh on a daily basis, and his stories are funny to me every time I hear them no matter how many times I have heard them. I distinctly remember eating in the K-Mart Eatery when I was in high school. My dad was telling a bunch of his classic stories, and we were both laughing the entire time, oblivious to the others around us. As we paid for our meal, an elderly woman who was sitting across the restaurant approached us. She said, “I’ve never seen two people enjoy each other so much. It was wonderful seeing how much fun you have together.” That was the moment I knew my relationship with my dad was special, that not everyone had a dad that they truly enjoyed being with. Simply watching my dad watch his favorite TV shows brings other people around him joy; he has been known to break into knee-slapping, uncontrollable guffaws at an episode of “Seinfeld” he has seen 20 times. Watching him laugh makes me laugh. It’s so easy to be cynical today, but my cynicism is defenseless against my dad’s laugh. It shows me that pure joy is alive and well, and life is enjoyable if you make it enjoyable. It shows me that maybe, in fact, that glass is half-full, no matter how dreary and dull life can seem.

  I’ve only heard my dad talk about his experience on Denali a handful of times. It seems difficult for him to talk about, as it is for me to hear about. I was somewhat blissfully unaware of the entire situation as it happened because I was in Jamaica on a mission trip. The only news I received was that someone in my dad’s team died and they didn’t know who, which was obviously very distressing. Upon my return, I really only knew that something bad had happened and my dad was somewhat different because of it. He wasn’t depressed or distant; you could just tell he’d been through hell and was working through a range of emotions. When he was finally able to share his experience, he showed me that tragedy can and will touch our lives and that resilience and strength comes from overcoming such heartbreak.

  My dad is financially stable and professionally successful, but his true success is the way he lives his life. He embodies integrity, wit, and empathy, and I am fortunate to have him as a part of my daily life. Because of him, I choose to enjoy life, to embrace the weird situations in life, and never to succumb to simply going through the motions. I hope you enjoy his story as much as I have.

  Author’s Introduction

  Pinned by the wind to the steep icy flanks of Denali, my ice axe in a death grip and my legs shaking from the exertion of holding my body fast by the points of my crampons, I struggled to comprehend how I could have gotten into this jam. When just two days earlier, I had stood jubilantly on the highest peak of North America, now I was paralyzed in fear, wondering whether I would live or die. I became aware of distant voices struggling to be heard above the din of the wind. Then I heard the scream...

  We all have a story to tell, and this is mine; this is my epic adventure. I climbed Mt. McKinley, now officially known by its native name, Denali, in 1998, as a client on a guided expedition. The events that occurred on the climb dramatically affected my life, forcing me to face the full range of human emotions. The experience was both immensely rewarding and tragically heartbreaking.

  It took me a long time to write this account. Soon after the trip, I was compelled to tell the story. It is one that plays over and over again in my mind, much like the tune or dream that can't be forgotten. Perhaps, I thought, it will help me to tell others. Immediately after my expedition, I began writing, but my efforts fizzled to a halt. Although I always wanted to complete writing my account of the climb, I filed my notes away where they lay dormant for many years. Coming across them when I moved, I read what I had written. Prompted by the urgings of my supportive wife, I decided to finish the project.

  Now, I am glad that it took me so long to write. Initially, I thought that no one would be interested in reading an account of a climb of Denali that happened nearly twenty years ago. Although I am forgetful of many things in life, this story seems as fresh to me as if it had happened yesterday. But now, looking back, I see things in a wholly different and enlightened perspective. The passage of time has allowed me greater insight into my thoughts and feelings. As this one did, some meals take longer to cook than others, but I hope it is all the more tasty.

  I also realized
that a climb of Mt. McKinley is a timeless event. Undoubtedly, equipment has improved over time, but the paths to the top are essentially the same, and the mountain continues to exist as it has for eons.

  The name of the mountain has recently changed. Much to the chagrin of Ohioans who feel that President McKinley’s good character has been slighted, the name was officially changed from Mt. McKinley to its native name of Denali. When I wrote this, I referred to the mountain by both names, and have left it that way. Also, the mountain has shrunk by ten feet; recent more accurate summit measurements have shown that Denali’s height is ten feet less than the previous calculation of 20,320 feet, which was done in the 1950’s.

  My adventure on Mt. McKinley had a dramatic impact on me, and, consequently, my life. In a way, I was a different person afterward. The footprints of my journey through life are stamped with the mark of this adventure. All of my successes and failures are, in some intangible way, partly the result of the impact this expedition had on me. It is easier to describe the factual events of this expedition than it is to find the words to adequately describe the influence it had on my life. I do my best here, but worry that I fall short of the mark.

  This is not an account of a climb written by a professional mountaineer, nor is it a guidebook. This is the story of a person who participated in mountaineering as a diversion, only for selfish amusement. Mountaineering is something that I enjoyed doing once or twice a year to get away from the daily grind and to find some challenge and excitement; I was a "weekend warrior," as amateur enthusiasts are often called. This is more an account of my adventure there and the impact that it had on my life.

  Why climb mountains? It is a question that has been asked for as long as people have engaged in such endeavors. Mountaineering literature contains some of the best writing that you will ever encounter. It is replete with reflections on this subject. George Leigh Mallory, a member of an early British team attempting a climb of Mt. Everest, when asked why he endeavored to do so, uttered the now famous response, "Because it is there.” I, too, attempted to find the answer to that question. Perhaps in doing so I might better understand my own needs, or, more accurately, my compulsion to participate in an activity that more practical people might label as nonsensical.

  A climb of Denali, particularly one such as mine, places everything into perspective. The motivation for climbing is better understood. But such understanding raises other questions: Is it worth the risk? Is it worth the sacrifice?

  The extraordinary author Jon Krakauer, in the book “Into Thin Air,” a personal account of the 1996 tragedy on Mt. Everest, wrote “There were many, many fine reasons not to go, but attempting to climb Everest is an intrinsically irrational act--a triumph of desire over sensibility.” Search as we may, however, there might be no rational explanation for the yearning to climb mountains.

  Thus, these are my reflections on a mountaineering adventure that had a profound impact on my life. In a bigger sense, this is the story of my extraordinary life.

  A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.

  Lao Tzu

  The Seeds are Planted

  Most people would have considered me to be a practical person. I was a small town attorney in Central Florida, one member of a two-lawyer firm, where I had practiced law for many years. Having a wife and three wonderful children, as well as parents and siblings in the area, my life was centered on family and work. I was a member of a church and an active participant in several civic organizations. For all intents and purposes, I was a regular guy who lived a normal, quiet, perhaps sedentary life.

  I have been interested in mountaineering ever since I was a youngster. I treasured books and stories on mountaineering and delightfully poured over photographs of mountains. Sir Edmund Hillary has always been one of my idols. Hillary, a beekeeper and mountaineer from New Zealand, and Tenzing Norgay, a Nepalese Sherpa, became the first to reach the summit of Mt. Everest in 1953. I still have vivid memories of a photograph of the ruggedly handsome Hillary, after having summited Everest, sipping a cup of hot tea, a broad smile on his bearded face, with eyes hidden behind dark goggles, very delighted and obviously exhausted.

  To me, there was no greater adventure. I particularly enjoyed stories of the conquests of the world’s greatest mountains--Everest, K-2, Mt. McKinley and the like. As much as I enjoyed the subject, I never really saw myself as a participant in these adventures.

  I grew up in the beautiful countryside of northeastern New Jersey. Although it was a rural area, it was only a 45 minute drive to New York City. I am the oldest of seven children. My father was a Captain on the police department, and he was well-known and respected in the area. My mother kept busy raising us while working clerical and waitress jobs to help make ends meet. She cooked and cared for us and made sure that we always had a happy home. Although we were not well-off financially, we never suffered from a lack of love and affection. We were, and are to this day, a close and loving family.

  I did well in school, enjoyed reading, and studied hard. But I also loved the outdoors. We lived in a neighborhood surrounded by woods, and together with my siblings and friends, I spent a great deal of time hiking and playing there. There are hills in the area, which we youngsters called mountains, and I particularly relished clambering up and down them. Even as a child, I had a vivid imagination, and when I walked through the woods and trudged to the peak of one of our “mountains,” I imagined myself, in the style of Walter Mitty, standing atop Mt. Everest.

  Although I liked the outdoors, I was never very athletic. All of my brothers were better in sports than I, and it always gave them a good laugh when I played baseball or football with them. But we all loved hiking in the woods together.

  Before we had licenses and were spoiled lazy by driving, I walked almost everywhere I went, usually accompanied by my best friend. We walked from home to the ice cream store, the convenience store, or to visit friends. It was not unusual for others to see us walking along the side of the highway, no matter whether it was in the heat of summer or the frigid cold of winter. I think that had a lasting impact on me, and I still enjoy the simple pleasures of the sights, sounds and smells encountered on leisurely strolls in the wilderness.

  Although not mountaineering by any stretch of the imagination, I relished spending time in the mountains of the southeast. My family had moved to Florida, and while on a summer break from law school there, I went on a hiking trip to North Carolina with my brother, Don, who had just completed his duty with the Air Force and had enrolled in college. On a whim, we threw a small tent and some clothing into my car, jumped in, and took off to escape the oppressive heat and humidity of Florida. We arrived in North Carolina, and set up camp in the Great Smokey Mountains National Park. One morning, we loaded our backpacks with food and set off for the trail. At the trailhead, we were looking at the trail map when a park ranger approached.

  “Hey guys,” he said, “are you planning to hike?”

  “Yes sir,” we excitedly replied. “We are going to hike up this trail,” we said, indicating on the map, “then over to this trail, up this mountain, eat lunch here, then hike over these mountains and be back here before dark.”

  He chuckled loudly and responded, “Boys, if you make it to the top of that first mountain by dark, you’ll be lucky!”

  Undeterred by his skepticism, we marched on. After a couple of hours of strenuous uphill stomping, including getting lost after taking the wrong trail, we hung our heads in shame and returned to the tent. I learned then that trekking in those mountains is much more arduous than I had imagined.

  After I was married, my wife and I took our children, Todd, Nicole, and Kara, to the mountains of North Carolina and north Georgia for summer vacations. We loved hiking up and down the trails, then cooling off by tubing in the brisk mountain streams. I cherished our family vacations to the mountains.

  In later years, my son was in the Boy Scouts, and I was able to go with him on a scout trip to the North Car
olina mountains. Todd has always loved the wilderness, and that trip gave us a wonderful opportunity to bond and to share in the joy of outdoor activities.

  From those times, I was captivated by the gentle beauty of the highlands of North Carolina and Georgia. I think my love for those mountains began then, and they continue to inspire me to this day.

  My fascination with the world’s great mountains continued from my childhood into adulthood. I voraciously read mountaineering books, and watched movies on the topic whenever I could find them. Once, when I went to court in Orlando, I walked over to the library afterwards and spent an hour or so browsing through the mountain adventure section, getting fully engrossed in the photographs of the world’s great mountains and mountaineers. (No, I didn’t bill my client for the “research” time.)

  While I maintained a keen interest into my adult life, I never considered partaking in mountaineering. All of that changed in 1994. It was then that I learned about Mt. Rainier.

  Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.

  Pat Conroy

  Climbing Fever

  Mt. Rainier is a 14,411 foot peak located near Seattle, Washington. I read an article in a local newspaper about someone I knew who had climbed Mt. Rainier. I learned that a physically fit individual with the proper equipment and interest could sign on with a guide service and undertake an ascent of Mt. Rainier in true mountaineering style. I contacted Frank, the subject of the newspaper article, and we met for lunch. Frank’s excitement was infectious and before I knew it, I agreed to go to Mt. Rainier with his wife, Maggie, and Jeff, another person from town. In July 1994, the three of us signed on for a five-day expedition with Rainier Mountaineering, Inc., a distinguished guiding service located near Seattle.