Denali's Howl: The Deadliest Climbing Disaster on America's Wildest Peak

by Andy Hall

  Though the 1997 party bore some similarities to the second Wilcox summit team, it had two elements in its favor that the Wilcox team did not: a leader with ten years of experience on Denali, and a short storm.

  Back in the NOAA forecast center, meteorologist Jim Nelson ran a model for me of the 1997 storm and compared it to July 1967. “The winds were only half what they were in the ’67 storm, and it lasted twelve hours. The ’67 storm lasted seven days. If they barely survived this”—he pointed to the 1997 weather map and paused, then he put the ’67 storm on the screen—“can you imagine what this was like?”

  EPILOGUE

  MEMORY IN A LIFETIME

  I never learned the identity of the poncho-wearing climber who chased my father and me along the river all those years ago. He was not one of the Wilcox survivors and neither was he a member of the Mountaineering Club of Alaska Expedition. Most of them hiked out to Wonder Lake, with the exception of the four Wilcox survivors and Grace Hoeman, who were picked up by helicopter after the rain-swollen McKinley River blocked their escape from the mountain.

  But still, the climber in the poncho haunts me. No matter who he was, he vividly transports me back to those gray, rainy days when my dad wasn’t his usual cheerful self and there seemed a tension in the air that even as a five-year-old I could sense.

  I probably associate the Wilcox tragedy with that mysterious encounter because whenever I brought up the man who chased us along the riverbank, Dad would chuckle about how difficult it was to jog with me dangling from one of his arms—and then launch into his memories of the Wilcox tragedy and his difficult discussions with the parents of the lost climbers. I never thought to ask who that young man actually was and what connected him to that ill-fated climb. Ranger Wayne Merry had no recollection of the encounter; neither did Bob Hafferman, the Park Service engineer who lived next door to us; nor Wally Cole, the former hotel manager and longtime owner of Camp Denali near Wonder Lake. Was it a figment of my imagination? No. That much I know. My dad was there, and so was I. No matter who that man was, to me, he represents the ghosts of those lost souls, those men whose lives had barely begun.

  The storms that hammered Denali in late July and early August 1967 deluged the park and much of interior Alaska with rain. On the twenty-fourth of July, boulders and washouts closed the Park Road, stranding ten vehicles and thirty tourists at Eielson Visitor Center. Other park visitors were trapped on the road between washouts and had to hike to safety; I suppose the stranger could have been one of them, though it wouldn’t explain the conversation we had on the long drive home.

  On July 25, my sister and I put on our boots and raincoats, climbed into my dad’s green Park Service sedan, and drove down the long, arcing hill to the park entrance where the road crossed Riley Creek. The usually sedate stream was a raging brown torrent that day and had already jumped its banks and undermined the small bridge. As we watched from a safe distance, the bridge spanning Riley Creek slumped into the roiling water, temporarily cutting off road access to the park.

  It was a demonstration of Nature’s power and the kind of lesson our dad often liked to expose us to: he knew a firsthand experience would be much more powerful than reading it in a book or watching it on television. I’ve never seen another bridge collapse, and though it happened forty-five years ago, the memory is still large in my mind.

  The rains continued into August, and by the middle of the month, the Chena River rose to inundate the city of Fairbanks, displacing hundreds of people in an event still known as the “Great Flood.”

  Who was the young man who walked out of the wilderness on that cool, rainy evening, and what was his relationship to the tragic climb? I doubt I’ll ever know. If I’ve learned anything through the process of writing this book, it is that memory is fleeting and flawed at best. Some of the subjects I interviewed are sure that they remember things clearly, yet their accounts don’t match the documentation and, in many cases, their own journals written at the time of the incident. Others think their memories are flawed, yet they match up almost perfectly with the documentation I was able to find. A few think they are fuzzy on the details, and follow-up research shows they’re right. Rarest is the one who believes his memory is accurate and follow up confirms that he is right.

  Where I fall on this spectrum I am not sure.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No book is written alone, and this one is no exception. I had no idea how much work it would entail when I embarked on the venture—if I had, I may never have started. My wife, the author Melissa DeVaughn, knew what was in store and she never wavered in her belief in me—even when I did. For that I’ll be forever grateful.

  My sister, Gerianne Thorsness, helped me with recollections of our childhood in Mount McKinley National Park and the events that took place during that tragic summer. She also broke the ice for me with several sources and helped in innumerable ways, not the least of which was her certainty in the importance of telling our father’s story and that of the other rescuers. Her husband, John Thorsness, traversed Denali, ascending the West Buttress to the summit and descending via the Muldrow. When I got lost in the pile of research, he helped me find my way more than once.

  My mom, Eileen; sister Marietta; and brother, Kevin also supported me both emotionally and financially when things got tight. I doubt I’ll ever be able to repay them, and I’m not talking about the money.

  Daryl Miller, Denali’s former South District ranger, is quoted only sporadically in this book, but he was a guiding influence throughout the research and writing process and was a trusted source when attempting to see the crisis through the eyes of a rescuer.

  Joe Wilcox revisited with me what is obviously a painful chapter in his life and has put up with innumerable follow-up questions. Howard Snyder gave me hours of his time, helping me parse through the hundreds of pages of documents and generously allowed the use of his photos taken during the expedition,

  Frank Nosek and Gary Hansen, who led the Mountaineering Club of Alaska and the Alaska Rescue Group in 1967, provided unique insight into the climbing culture that existed in Alaska in the 1960s. Their matter-of-fact descriptions of their Herculean rescue efforts, and those of their Alaska Rescue Group compatriots—all done on a volunteer basis—were humbling. Gayle Nienhueser and Bill Babcock, members of the MCA Expedition whose members put themselves at risk in hopes of finding survivors, were generous both with their time and their journals and photos, sharing memories that were clearly painful to relive.

  The memories of the incident also weigh heavily on Wayne Merry, who was the Wonder Lake District ranger in 1967. In spite of that, he invited me into his home and spoke frankly about his experiences. I hope this book casts some light on the efforts that took place beyond his isolated outpost at Wonder Lake and helps him shed some of that weight.

  Paul Schlichter, Dave Johnston, Bob Hafferman, Butch Farabee, Bob Gerhard, and Louis Reichardt each assisted with details that helped me flesh out aspects of the expedition, the search, the park, the regulatory atmosphere, the weather, and the climbing zeitgeist of the era.

  Chuck Sassara drew on more than fifty years of flying in Alaska to portray the perils of mountain flying and what makes pilots do it anyway.

  Don Sheldon’s son, Robert, helped me determine which airplanes were used during his father’s flights and offered insights into what motivated Don to put himself at risk time and time again to help others.

  My old friends Blaine Smith and Charlie Sassara kept me in line when I was trying to describe the intricacies of mountaineering, something they both did professionally and I pursue only recreationally.

  Brian Okonek, the renowned mountain guide and all-around student of Denali, gave me hours and hours of his time, sharing his comprehensive knowledge of the mountain’s history and geography.

  Frank Norris’s excellent two-volume administrative history of Denali National Park was a resource I visited repeatedly
early in the writing process. The only resource I tapped more while trying to decipher the intricacies of rescue history and jurisdiction was probably Frank himself.

  Mike Sfraga, PhD, brought Brad Washburn to life for me in a way that only a confidante to the great man could.

  Dave McMahan and I met during the Exxon Valdez oil spill and we’ve seen each other only occasionally since. It was a pleasure to reconnect and again tap the forensic knowledge he’s gained during a truly unique career as Alaska’s state archaeologist.

  Meteorologists John Papineau, Jim Nelson, and the late Ted Fathauer collectively painted a picture of the tremendous storm that engulfed the mountain and the Wilcox team. I could not have accurately portrayed it without their assistance.

  Kirk Dietz was the archivist at Denali National Park and Preserve when I started the project. He delayed his vacation and took the time to teach me how to properly collect and document my findings; if I hadn’t started this with Kirk, this thing would be a mess.

  While writing Denali’s Howl, I reconnected with Lloyd Johnson, a friend from college who is battling Lou Gehrig’s disease. I sent him an early draft of the manuscript and asked for his opinion. I wasn’t sure what to expect when he asked me to call him on a Sunday afternoon a few weeks later. When we connected he got right to the point, suggesting I work on character development to differentiate the story’s various players since there are so many. I took his advice and the book is better for it.

  Dave Cooley, John Russell’s childhood friend and early climbing partner, shared his memories of the man whom I found to be the most compelling of all the characters in this story. My dad once told me that if anyone could have survived, it would have been Russell. I don’t know what prompted the statement, but I half hoped I’d discover Russell alive and well somewhere during the research process. Alas, it didn’t happen.

  Wally Cole, who with his wife, Jerryne, have been pillars in the Denali community for nearly fifty years, allowed me to hole up in their home on Deneki Lakes near Denali National Park in order to kick-start the writing process. The week I spent there got the book moving. Wally also proved to be a font of knowledge regarding the workings of the park during the 1960s. From the phone system, to the old hotel, to mail service, to park staffing, his answers were impressive in their swiftness and detail. He also has a vast collection of mountaineering books, and ready access to them was an unexpected boon during my stay.

  I owe Vin Hoeman a debt of gratitude, though he died not long after the Wilcox victims, while I was still in single digits. In the fall of 1967, he began work on his own book about the Wilcox Expedition tragedy, to be called Denali—Triumph and Tragedy. Vin wrote to the families and friends of the lost climbers and had collected a trove of background information about them when he was killed while climbing in the Himalayas. His research languished for more than forty years until it was archived and made available to researchers at the University of Alaska–Anchorage’s Consortium Library. The material he gathered, and his own insights revealed in his correspondence with the parents of the victims, were invaluable to me. I hope my book does what he had hoped to do when he set out to write his own.

  Nick Jans, the noted Alaskan author and my good friend, was one of my earliest supporters, and if he hadn’t introduced me to my fantastic literary agent, Elizabeth Kaplan, this book wouldn’t have happened. Under Elizabeth’s tough love, the proposal came together and caught the eye of Stephen Morrow at Dutton.

  Stephen and his assistant, Stephanie Hitchcock, have patiently and skillfully massaged my crude early drafts into a real narrative. I’m indebted to them and will try to pay them back with fresh salmon and dogsled rides if they ever make it to Alaska.

  —Andy Hall

  CHUGIAK, ALASKA

  NOTES

  The Wilcox Expedition

  Auburn, Washington: E-mail exchange with David Cooley, childhood friend and climbing partner of John Russell, December 2013.

  CHAPTER 1: Those Who Came Before

  the Big One, the High One, the Great One: Donald J. Orth, ed., Dictionary of Alaska Place Names (Washington, DC: US Government Printing Office, 1971), 610.

  superstitious horror of even approaching glacial ice: A. H. Brooks, “An Exploration to Mt. McKinley, America’s Highest Mountain,” Journal of Geography 2, no. 9 (1903): 441–69.

  Ruth Gap marks its southern edge: Author interview with Denali guide Brian Okonek, Talkeetna, AK, October 2013.

  12,000 feet from base to summit: Bryce S. Walker, ed., Reader’s Digest Illustrated World Atlas (Pleasantville, NY: The Readers Digest Association, 1997), 122.

  lowlands of interior Alaska: Orth, Dictionary of Alaska Place Names, 61.

  35-million-year-old granite intrusion: Bradford Washburn, Guide to the Muldrow Glacier, unpublished, Daryl Miller Collection, 2.

  Bolshaya Gora, or Big Mountain: Orth, Dictionary of Alaska Place Names, 345.

  “bounded by distant stupendous snow mountains”: Ibid., 610.

  known among prospectors as Densmore’s Peak: Ibid.

  was for exploration and mountaineering: Frank Norris, Crown Jewel of the North: An Administrative History of Denali National Park and Preserve, vol. 2 (Anchorage: Alaska Regional Office National Park Service, 2006), 253.

  “At my request he tells them”: James Wickersham, Old Yukon: Tales—Trails—and Trials (Washington, DC: Washington Law Book Co., 1938), 223.

  “I was then convinced”: Diary of James Wickersham, June 21, 1903, entry, Alaska State Library, Juneau, AK, Historical Collections, MS 107, Diary 6, 13.

  Snow falls down to 6,000 feet: National Park Service, “Denali: Photography,” nps.gov/dena/planyourvisit/photography.htm [accessed December 6, 2013].

  permanently snow-covered vertical reliefs: Washburn, Muldrow Glacier, 2; Okonek interview, October 2013.

  the fourth relying on a tent pole: Okonek interview, October 2013.

  “As I brushed the frost”: Belmore Browne, The Conquest of Mount McKinley (New York: GP Putnam and Sons, 1913), 344.

  just 200 feet lower than the summit: Okonek interview, October 2013.

  “Cold & Clear. ‘Hurrah’”: Harry Karstens, The First Ascent of Mount McKinley, 1913. A Verbatim Copy of the Diary of Harry P. Karstens, Preface and Footnotes by Bradford Washburn (New York: American Alpine Journal, 1969), 347.

  “it was plain and prominent”: Hudson Stuck, The Ascent of Denali (Mount McKinley) (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1918), 173.

  Shakshanee Ish had lived in Sitka: Arrest record for Shakshanee Ish from the Sitka jail, undated, George Hall collection.

  already listed our house with a Realtor: George Hall, interview by Kristen Griffen, tape recording, June 3, 1999, Alaska Regional Curatorial Center, Anchorage, DENA40001, Series II Box 31, Folder 17.

  CHAPTER 2: What Makes an Expedition?

  “I was rather non-gregarious”: Joe Wilcox, White Winds (Los Alamitos, CA: Hwong Publishing Company, 1981), 14.

  in a snowcat measuring ice thickness: Undated letter from Jerry Clark to Joe Wilcox, Denali National Park and Preserve Museum Collection, DENA13611, 1967 Wilcox Expedition, Folder 110.

  he was a smart and careful climber: Handwritten letter from Joe Wilcox to Vin Hoeman, October 25, 1967, Grace and John Vincent Hoeman papers, Archives and Special Collections, Consortium Library, University of Alaska–Anchorage.

  “Every person will be expected”: Pretrip update letter from Joe Wilcox to potential expedition members November 16, 1966, Denali National Park and Preserve Museum Collection, DENA13611, 1967 Wilcox Expedition, Folder 107.

  “primarily because I conceived of it”: Wilcox, White Winds, 14.

  “I was a bit uncomfortable”: Ibid., 15.

  longtime editor of National Geographic: Norris, Crown Jewel of the North, 258.

  photo expeditions to the mountain in 1937 and 1938: Ibi
d., 259.

  looking for a new route to the summit: Author interview with Mike Sfraga, PhD, Anchorage, December 2012.

  “Dear Dr. Washburn”: Letter from Joe Wilcox to Bradford Washburn, May 12, 1967, Denali National Park and Preserve Museum Collection, DENA13611, 1967 Wilcox Expedition, Folder 111.

  “Dear Mr. Wilcox”: Letter from Bradford Washburn to Joe Wilcox, May 17, 1967, Denali National Park and Preserve Museum Collection, DENA13611, 1967 Wilcox Expedition, Folder 111.

  “Here I’ve got this guy”: Hall, Griffen interview, June 3, 1999.

  “In chatting with Mr. Wilcox”: Letter from Bradford Washburn to George Hall, June 12, 1967, Denali National Park and Preserve Museum Collection, DENA13611, 1967 Wilcox Expedition, Folder 111.

  “crevasse rescue, belays”: Letter from Chief Ranger Art Hayes to Joe Wilcox, May 10, 1967, Denali National Park and Preserve Museum Collection, DENA13611, 1967 Wilcox Expedition, Folder 111.

  “It is my intention”: Letter from Howard Snyder to Jerry Clark, May 11, 1967, Denali National Park and Preserve Museum Collection, DENA26657, Box 18.

  “We had to either combine”: Howard Snyder, The Hall of the Mountain King (New York: Scribner, 1973), 10.

  left Boulder for Mount Rainier: Ibid., 13.

  CHAPTER 3: A Dozen Kids

  stores gathering last-minute supplies: Wilcox, White Winds, 44.

  Humorous yet functional garb: Ibid., 47.

  “I just don’t feel good about it”: Ibid., 49.

  “like a Hong Kong tailor”: Snyder, The Hall of the Mountain King, 13.