The news reached Santa Fe, New Mexico, late on the evening of December 26. It was received with a stunned disbelief. The day before, Linda Wylie, Anatoli’s girlfriend; Dyanna Taylor, a cinematographer who had accompanied the 1978 women’s expedition to Annapurna (where two climbers had lost their lives); and I had celebrated Christmas by climbing Atalaya Mountain (a modest trekking peak in northern New Mexico) in a blizzard. All that day our thoughts and conversations had drifted toward Nepal and speculations about the day that Anatoli and Simone would finally make their summit bid. We imagined they would make their attempt as the full moon approached.
On December 28, Linda Wylie departed for Nepal to contribute what effort she could to a search that was being launched for Anatoli and Dimitri. The hope was that, somehow, they had been able to dig themselves out of the debris field and make their way to the Camp I tent that had remained standing, fully stocked with food, stoves, and the high-altitude clothing that could keep them alive until rescuers arrived.
In the last days of December several attempts were made to reach the site of the avalanche by helicopter, but cloudy weather prevented a search team from getting anywhere near Camp I. In the United States and Europe, press speculation about the fate of the lost climbers was rampant. One of the several phone calls I received was from a “fact checker” at U.S. News & World Report, who asked if I might respond to the details of a story they were planning to run about Anatoli’s death. Surprised and expressing concern that the magazine would consider running a story before the fate of the two lost climbers was clearly established, I reluctantly agreed to comment on the accuracy of the story they were planning to run. Within a few lines of copy the reader said that Boukreev would “likely be best remembered as a villain in Jon Krakauer’s best-selling Into Thin Air.” With that I stopped the reader. “No, I think not. If Anatoli is dead, I believe he will be remembered as his peers saw him, a consummate mountaineer and a man of great courage.”
On January 3, 1998, a team of Kazakh climbers, headed by Rinat Khaibullin, and some Sherpas were successfully airlifted to Camp I where they inspected the debris field and the tent where Anatoli had slept on Christmas Eve. The tent was as Simone Moro had left it: empty. Linda Wylie issued a statement from Kathmandu: “This is the end … there are no hopes of finding him alive.”
I received the news at my home. Privately, I had held out hope that Dimitri and Anatoli would be found alive; that they would have been able to make it to their Camp I tent. The White Crow (Anatoli’s nickname amongst his Kazakh friends who appreciated his uniqueness), if anyone, could survive I thought. I imagined that he would be found sitting cross-legged in his tent, sipping a freshly brewed cup of tea. I could envision the wry smile that would overtake his face when he asked his friend Rinat, “What took you so long?”
Hanging up the phone, I glanced to the wall behind my desk where for years a quote has been taped. The words are those of Andrey Tarkovsky, one of Russia’s most highly respected film directors.
I am interested above all in the character who is capable of sacrificing himself and his way of life… . It is often absurd and impractical. And yet—or indeed for that very reason—the man who acts in this way brings about fundamental changes in people’s lives and in the course of history.
Anatoli Nikoliavich Boukreev, in my experience, was one of those characters, and I am honored to have collaborated in his effort to tell his personal story. I have not the words to express how much Anatoli will be missed by me, his friends, those who climbed with him, those who loved him.
Dimitri Sobolev. Anatoli Boukreev. Not forgotten.
—G. Weston DeWalt, Black Mountain, North Carolina
May 10, 1998
EVEREST UPDATE: A RESPONSE TO JON KRAKAUER
“As a journalist, I understand you were faced with a problem: … your opinion vs my statement of fact.”
—ANATOLI BOUKREEV,
Head Climbing Guide, Mountain Madness expedition, personal letter to Jon Krakauer, August 6, 1996
In the months immediately following the Everest tragedy Anatoli Boukreev and I met almost every day to discuss the book we were planning to write, this book. We often started early in the morning, so that Anatoli would have his afternoons free to train and to run in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of northern New Mexico. On one of those mornings we sat at his kitchen table, between us a jar of Nepalese honey and a freshly baked loaf of bread. Waiting for the bread to cool, we drank a dark Russian tea and talked about the months ahead.
Anatoli was preparing to leave Santa Fe for attempts on Cho Oyu and Shisha Pangma, so we were discussing the book-related tasks each of us would be taking on in the weeks during which he would be gone. Reading from my notes, I ticked off the things Anatoli had agreed to do during his absence, and when I finished, I looked to him for a response. Slowly raising a mug of tea to his mouth, he looked at me, expressionless. Thinking I had gone too rapidly through the list and that he’d not understood my English, I read through it again a bit more slowly. For several seconds, never taking his eyes from mine, he sat rigid and quiet. Then, he relaxed, lowered his mug, leaned across the table, and said matter-of-factly, “If I come back, you will have this. If I don’t, you must to do it.”
Three times during our writing of The Climb, Anatoli departed Santa Fe for expeditions. Each time we agreed: I would finish anything that might be left undone if he did not return.
In late October 1997 The Climb was published, and almost immediately Anatoli and I began a book tour that St. Martin’s Press had arranged. Most of our days began at 6:00 A.M. and ended at midnight. Anatoli chafed at the demands of the schedule because his training suffered, but he took on the job as he did the mountains he climbed, with rarely a complaint.
On the evening of Sunday, November 9, we arrived in Denver, road weary and hungry. At our hotel a fax was waiting, a note from a friend in New York who had sent a copy of a news clipping. Boukreev, curious, asked what the fax was about. I reminded him that the made-for-TV adaptation of Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air was being aired that evening, that the article was a review of the movie.*
“It says what?” Anatoli asked. Putting my bag down, I read the review through. One paragraph he asked me to repeat.
“ ‘There are no dramatic inventions in this motion picture,’ Sofronski† said. ‘Every scene in this film came from Jon Krakauer’s book. Jon came to the Austrian Alps with us and was an enormous help … and all through the rehearsals Jon was there to tell us how it was, how the climbers felt, what happens with no oxygen, etc. But every scene in the film is actual.’ ”
“Actual? It means [the] truth?” Anatoli asked.
“Yes.”
“Actual? You think [the movie] is … actual?”
“Probably not.”
“Why not?”
“I’m guessing. These things have a way of …”
“We’ll watch, okay?”
“If that’s what you want, but …”
“We’ll watch,” he said, insisting.
Later that evening, a room-service meal in front of us, Anatoli and I tuned to ABC, the network airing the film. With us was a friend of Anatoli’s, Leo, a Russian who had become a successful businessman in Denver.
From almost the opening scene Boukreev was laughing. He pointed at details of climbing gear and repeated lines of the scripted dialogue in amused disbelief. Initially, Anatoli found the characterizations of members of the Mountain Madness team hilarious, and he struggled with Leo to find an English word to describe what he was seeing.
“A play?” Leo asked, thinking that’s what Boukreev had in mind.
“No, not play,” Anatoli answered.
“Drama?”
“No drama.”
“Fiction?”
“Like fiction, but no.”
“A cartoon?”
“Yes! Cartoon. That’s the word. An Everest cartoon.”
Each time the actor portraying Boukreev appeared on the screen, Anatoli lau
ghed riotously. The made-for-TV Anatoli was imposing and belligerent, a cardboard-cutout malcontent. Boukreev said at one point, “Is like Cold War movie. They just need put on me fur cap with big red star.”
As the movie progressed, the laughter stopped and Anatoli drew into himself. At one point he moved from a chair to sit on the end of his hotel bed. No more than two feet from the screen, he was totally absorbed as he watched the scenes depicting the struggles of lost climbers trying to find their way to Camp IV in a gathering storm. When a diminutive climber in a red climbing suit appeared in the action, Anatoli pointed to the screen and, speaking to no one in particular, said, “Yasuko.”*
As he watched a scene that depicted his discovery of Scott Fischer’s lifeless body, Anatoli’s emotions almost overtook him. Leo and I exchanged glances, not knowing what to say. When the movie ended, Boukreev sat silently staring at the television, oblivious to the commercials that had filled the screen. Finally, he turned to Leo and me, a look of disgust on his face. “They have blood in their mouths with this story, like animals feeding on the dead,” he said.†
Four days later Boukreev and I arrived in Seattle where we were to give a lecture at the REI flagship store. The lecture had been on Anatoli’s mind for weeks. Seattle had been Scott Fischer’s hometown; he was a local hero, a man missed on the streets. At a small copy shop where we were having some work done, a clerk recognized Boukreev and was effusive in his thanks for the last-ditch effort Anatoli had made to save Scott Fischer. Embarrassed by the attention, Anatoli, his eyes downcast, said simply, “Was my job.”
The next evening, after the REI presentation, Boukreev received some news. Jim Wickwire, one of this country’s most highly regarded mountaineers, privately informed Anatoli that a five-member committee of the American Alpine Club had unanimously decided to honor him with that organization’s most prestigious award, an award for heroism. Boukreev was taken by surprise and certainly didn’t anticipate the reaction that would follow.
At midnight on the evening of November 14, 1997, I said good-bye to Anatoli in the lobby of our Seattle hotel. He was off to Nepal for a winter ascent of Annapurna I; I was returning home. We agreed we would see each other in the coming spring when he returned to Santa Fe. I never saw Anatoli again.
On December 6, 1997, I traveled to Seattle to attend the American Alpine Club’s annual meeting, which was being held in the suburb of Bellevue. At a banquet that evening, Wickwire announced that Anatoli, Todd Burleson, and Peter “Pete” Athans had been named recipients of the David A. Sowles Memorial Award. All three were honored for their actions on Mount Everest in May 1996. Wickwire, who had chaired the award committee, said, “All three of this year’s recipients are professional mountain guides and, as such, had to meet an even higher standard for this rare award.”*
Wickwire, after the presentation, read a brief note that Boukreev had written before he departed the United States for Nepal. In it Anatoli thanked the American Alpine Club and said he appreciated the effort they had made to understand a man from another culture.
Two days after the award ceremony Jon Krakauer, who had also attended the American Alpine Club’s annual meeting, wrote a rambling and accusatory letter to Jed Williamson, a former president of the organization and one of the five members of the David A. Sowles Memorial Award committee that had honored Boukreev. The letter, copies of which were sent to various members of the publishing and mountaineering communities and to journalists, was a catalog of indictments of Anatoli, me, and The Climb. Among the allegations:
1. In writing The Climb Weston DeWalt did not attempt to interview Neal Beidleman (a guide with Boukreev on the Mountain Madness expedition).
2. Weston DeWalt “never contacted” or interviewed Ed Viesturs, a member of the IMAX expedition, who could have shed some light on the Everest story.
3. “Virtually every Sherpa on Everest in 1996 blames the entire tragedy on Boukreev.”
Because Anatoli was by this time in Nepal at the Annapurna I Base Camp and out of communication, it fell to me to correspond with the recipients of Krakauer’s letter. On December 16, 1997, I prepared and mailed a paragraph-by-paragraph response to the charges that had been made. A copy of that letter was sent to Krakauer.
To the allegation that I had not made an attempt to interview Neal Beidleman, I offered documentary proof and said that Krakauer’s claim was “patently and provably” untrue, that prior to my submission of the manuscript for The Climb:
1. I had faxed Neal Beidleman a quote from the Everest Base Camp debriefing tape,* a quote in which he supported Anatoli’s having descended ahead of the Mountain Madness clients.
2. In a phone conversation I had questioned Beidleman about the quote.
3. I had asked Beidleman, during our conversation, to participate in an on-the-record interview and he had declined.†
To the charge that I “never contacted” or interviewed Ed Viesturs of the IMAX expedition, I offered: “It should be noted that Ed Viesturs graciously participated in an interview that I conducted in Salt Lake City, Utah, in January 1997. I have an audiotape and transcript of that interview. On here–here* of The Climb I quote from that interview.”
To the accusation that “virtually every Sherpa” blamed Boukreev for the Everest tragedy, I could only express wonder at the ridiculousness of such a claim, an expression that was echoed by the respected mountaineer and writer/photographer Galen Rowell.
A week before Anatoli’s death Rowell wrote to Krakauer: “I’ve had a chance to read your recent letters about The Climb, which I have been asked to review.† … Being one of those rare writers who believes that actions speak louder than words, I’m trying to reconcile your statement ‘that virtually every Sherpa on Everest in 1996 blames the entire tragedy on Boukreev’ with the fact that every one of Boukreev’s clients survived without major injuries while the clients who died or received major injuries were members of your party. Could you explain how Anatoli’s shortcomings as a guide led to the survival of his clients, but to the deaths of your teammates?”‡
In February of 1998, mountaineers and friends from around the world gathered in Denver and in Boulder, Colorado, to hold a series of memorial services for Anatoli. At the services, Russian and Kazakh friends, including Rinat Khaibullin, who had headed a team that attempted to find Anatoli after the Annapurna I avalanche, remembered a strong and courageous climber who would not let the collapse of Soviet mountaineering thwart his desire to climb the high mountains. Scott Fischer’s parents and one of his sisters attended. Their grace and compassion brought great comfort to those for whom the pain was barely bearable. Jack Robbins, an architect from Berkeley, remembered with deep emotion the patient Russian climber who, when Robbins was in his sixties, had guided him to the summit of Denali. Members of the Mountain Madness expedition, including Sandy Hill (Pittman), whose life Anatoli had saved on Everest, toasted a man whose spirit was greater than the power of the snows that had taken him away.
After the services, my expectation and that of most of Anatoli’s friends was that the controversies of Everest, 1996, would subside. We hoped that decorum and objectivity would return to considerations of the tragedy, and that the American Alpine Club’s evaluation and recognition of Anatoli’s actions on Everest might temper Krakauer’s accusations, which, it seemed to many of us, had in recent months become increasingly reckless and mean-spirited.
However, five months later, almost exactly two years to the date of the publication of Krakauer’s Outside article, the Boukreev-Krakauer controversy was ignited again, this time by Steve Weinberg, Executive Editor of The IRE Journal, a highly regarded magazine for investigative reporters.
Writing for the July/August 1998 issue of the Columbia Journalism Review, in his article “Why Books Err So Often,” Weinberg asked readers of Into Thin Air to consider: “If Krakauer’s account [of Boukreev’s actions] is accurate, some of the climbers in Boukreev’s care would have suffered less if he had been more concerned and less mach
o. But if the account is exaggerated or plain wrong, it is a far greater error than simple factual inaccuracy, since it undermines a person’s reputation.”
Motivated by the importance of the issue raised by Weinberg, Dwight Garner, a senior editor for the on-line magazine Salon, wrote a feature article, “Coming Down,” and posted it on the Internet.* The article, described somewhat ambitiously as offering “what really happened on Mount Everest that fatal May day two years ago,” was reasonably objective and offered some interesting insights into the basic issues of the Boukreev-Krakauer controversy.†
After publication of Garner’s article, Krakauer and I traded letters on Salon’s Internet site, and at the conclusion of our exchange, which I thought had been exhaustive in its exploration of the issues, I imagined the controversy would quiet, that it would be left to others to sort out the issues that had been raised. However, that would prove not to be the case.
In November 1998, Into Thin Air: The Illustrated Edition was published with an extensive “Postscript.” No less critical of Boukreev’s 1996 performance as a guide on Everest than anything Krakauer had previously written, the “Postscript” did speak generously of Boukreev’s prodigious skill as a high-altitude climber and made a brief mention of his rescue of Mountain Madness climbers: “There is no question that Boukreev saved the lives of Sandy Pittman and Charlotte Fox, at considerable risk to his own safety—I have said as much on many occasions, in many places.” Absent, however, was any mention that the American Alpine Club had honored Boukreev for his heroic actions on Everest.*
Overall, I found the “Postscript” disingenuous, an inglorious attempt, it seemed to me, to compensate for past lapses in authorial responsibility that I believe contributed to an erroneous understanding of Anatoli Boukreev’s actions on Everest. Additionally, I thought that Krakauer’s attempts to discredit The Climb—by repeating in the “Postscript” old complaints that had previously been addressed and resolved—seemed not to support but to undermine what appeared to be the primary purpose of the “Postscript”: the defense of his integrity and that of Into Thin Air.
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