Of course, I’d never done direct aid climbing before, and I was slow. I had planned to finish before my parents came home, but by late afternoon I was only three-quarters of the way up the pole, and there was my dad, home from work in his old brown Studebaker pickup. As he stopped at the bottom of our driveway, a wave of fear swept over me, greater than any anxiety I’d felt in climbing. I’d been discovered, and there would be consequences.
Dad looked up and walked to where I was swinging forty feet above him. “What kind of stupid stunt is this?” he yelled. What could I say? He didn’t know anything about climbing; it was going to be difficult to convince him that I was following all the proper safety techniques practiced by adults on big walls in Yosemite. To him, climbing a wooden pole topped by power lines was stupid and dangerous.
I worked up enough courage to call down, “I’m being very careful! My technique is safe!” My dad shouted back, “I don’t care what you’re doing. Come down immediately!”
I was faced with a dilemma. I didn’t want Gordy to lower me, which really would be dangerous. But my dad expected me to obey his command. We had a common interest in science and technology, so I knew the best way to get him to listen was to provide an engineered solution. And so, perched high on the pole, that’s exactly what I did.
“Dad,” I called down, “it isn’t safe for Gordy to lower me with the rope running through these pitons. The wood’s too soft. If they pull out, I could fall. But I can build a safe anchor if I climb up another ten feet and tie a loop of nylon webbing around that wooden cross-bar bolted to the pole. Then I can feed my rope through the loop and I can rappel safely to the ground.”
My dad calmed down, listened, and understood the merits of my explanation. And he let me finish my climb. What I didn’t tell him was that rappelling would also allow me to retrieve my precious pitons on the way down. I would need them for future climbs on real rock.
I was later punished, but finishing my climb up the pole was worth any penalty. And even more satisfying was my dad’s first-ever acknowledgement that I knew more about something than he did. Through books and now through direct experience, climbing had introduced me to a world where possibilities seemed infinite. This was my secret. There was no going back. At home, when I began to feel out of place, I would look out the window and see my loop of webbing high up on the pole. It became a symbol, there to remind me that adventure and exploration were waiting in the mountains.
Steve Swenson
PIONEER RIDGE
IT STARTED so innocently, with a call from Bill Joiner. Bill, a college friend, had recently graduated and moved to Juneau, Alaska, where he and three local friends were planning a summer expedition to climb Pioneer Ridge, a route on the north side of Mount McKinley that had only two previous ascents. Would I and my climbing partner Bruce like to join them? I was twenty-two and had a solid resumé of climbs in the Cascade Mountains near my home in Seattle, and a few ascents in the Canadian Rockies. But this was an altogether more serious undertaking: climbing a remote route on the highest mountain in North America was the kind of adventure I craved, and it would be a rite of passage to bigger things. I accepted without a second thought.
In our climbing permit application to the national park, Bill’s friend Joe Ebner took on the role of expedition leader. I spoke to Joe on the phone and he said, “We’re Alaskans and we want to climb the mountain like the sourdoughs did in 1910. They headed up with no special equipment from their mines on the north side of the mountain and made the first ascent of the North Peak. All these climbers who come up from down south use bush planes that land with skis on the glacier on the south side of the mountain. We want to do it like the pioneers did.”
Making a human-powered ascent from the road involved hiking twenty miles across the tundra through mosquitoinfested grizzly bear habitat. I said to Joe, “I think it would be a great adventure to walk in from the old mines near Kantishna, but I think we should hire a horse packer to carry our supplies so we only have to make the trip once. If we try to do all this work ourselves we will spend three weeks ferrying loads across the tundra and we won’t have enough time or energy to climb the mountain.”
The Juneau contingent resisted my suggestion and finally I had to threaten to drop out if we didn’t use the horses. They needed a team of six climbers to share the work, so eventually they relented, and I flew to Alaska with my partner from Seattle, Bruce Blume. On June 21, 1976, Bruce and I, along with Bill and his friends Joe, Dick Rose, and Larry Fanning, hiked across the rolling tundra toward Mount McKinley.
We waded several rivers and trekked past grizzly bears lounging on hills across from us while trying to protect ourselves from swarms of giant mosquitoes. The tundra ended and the mountain began as we hiked over McGonagall Pass onto the mile-wide Muldrow Glacier. After a week of ferrying loads up this crevassed river of ice, we established our base camp at 10,000 feet in a giant amphitheatre of ice and rock. Ahead of us was the Harper Icefall, a jumbled mass of ice towers tumbling 5,000 feet down a steep rock wall from the glacier above. On our left was Karsten’s Ridge, a steep snow arête that goes around the Harper Icefall onto the Upper Harper Glacier. It was named after Harry Karsten who, along with Hudson Stuck, Walter Harper, and Robert Tatum, climbed this route on the first ascent of the mountain in 1913. Pioneer Ridge, our objective, towered above us on the right, beckoning toward us in the clear Arctic air. We would reach it from base camp by climbing a spur called the Flatiron, and then follow Pioneer Ridge to the top of an exposed promontory, Taylor Spur, at 15,000 feet. Above Taylor Spur a knife-edge snow ridge led to a series of steep ice gullies that cut through several rock bands just right of the ridge crest. This would be the most technically difficult section, but above it there were easy slopes back to the crest of Pioneer Ridge. From there it looked like a beautiful walk in the sky to the summit of the 19,470-foot-high North Peak. Overall we planned to go in a big circle by gaining 9,500 feet of elevation along four miles of Pioneer Ridge, traversing over the North Peak to Denali Pass, and then descending back to base camp via the easier Harper Glacier/Karsten’s Ridge route.
Pioneer Ridge protrudes from the mountain more than any of the adjacent ridges or faces, so we would be very exposed to the weather. Mount McKinley is subject to frequent storms with heavy snowfall and hurricane-force winds. If we were hit by a storm high on our ridge, there would be no place to hide: we would suffer its full fury. If it lasted for more than two or three days, it would be hard to survive. Everyone knew that launching onto Pioneer Ridge would be truly committing, and that our safety depended on being able to move quickly.
But already there were worrying signs. Bill’s friends were slow carrying loads up the Muldrow Glacier. I could see they were struggling physically and that Larry had little or no experience with a climb of this magnitude. At our 10,000-foot base camp they seemed tired and intimidated by the challenge we had ahead of us, but they insisted that they still wanted to climb. While they rested in base camp, Bruce and I broke trail up the Flatiron to the crest of Pioneer Ridge, where we dug a large snow cave for our first camp. The group did manage to join us the next day, but I was concerned about whether we could move fast enough to be safe. However, my overwhelming desire to climb the mountain prevented me from acknowledging our team’s problems. I convinced myself that we would be okay if Bruce and I just worked harder.
On the Fourth of July we moved up to the top of Taylor Spur, where we would place our second camp on the ridge. Soon after we’d left our snow cave above the Flatiron, clouds blew in from the southwest. Once again, Bruce and I left the Juneau contingent trailing and stubbornly pressed ahead. As we approached Taylor Spur, a savage storm broke, with winds over eighty miles per hour and stronger gusts that made it difficult to stand. We placed our camp on a large flat area on the top of the spur, but we couldn’t set up our tent because it would be destroyed by the wind. So we built a small igloo using an aluminum saw to cut snow blocks. We arranged them in a six-foot-diameter ci
rcle that spiralled upward and inward to where we capped off our dome when it was about five feet high. Before we got inside, we weather-sealed our igloo by packing snow over the entire exterior and into all the cracks between the blocks.
We were relieved to be out of the roaring gale. But our respite was short-lived. The wind-driven snow and ice worked like a sandblaster against our shelter and was soon eating holes in its six-inch walls. We waged an unending battle to plug the gaps, and we were unable to cook inside the igloo because heat from our stove would have melted the snow blowing onto us through the holes. If we got wet in these conditions, we would freeze to death—but without food and water, we were getting progressively weaker.
Fortunately, the storm abated after about thirty-six hours and was a harsh reminder that we needed to hurry. On this mountain it was only a matter of time before we would be hit by another storm, and once we were beyond Taylor Spur it would be almost impossible to retreat. At that point, whatever the conditions, the easiest way down would be up and over the top.
We’d heard the Juneau contingent arrive while we were busy battling the storm inside our igloo. The wind prevented us from communicating with them, but we could hear enough to know they had built some kind of temporary shelter. We’d learn later that they’d been out in the storm for several hours longer than we had, and survival had been an even greater ordeal for them. Larry suffered frostbite blisters on a couple of fingers when he lost a glove and didn’t replace it with one that was warm enough. They were equipped with thick parkas and sleeping bags that helped protect them in the severe conditions, but they were very heavy to carry, contributing to their exhaustion and slow pace.
After the weather cleared, we took a day to dry things out and recover from the storm. Everyone still wanted to continue, but the unease I had felt when leaving base camp persisted. Our teammates had taken far too long to reach Taylor Spur, and despite the storm they seemed content with their progress and saw no need to move faster to get off this ridge. My fears about getting caught in another storm grew.
On the evening of July 7, Bruce and I took advantage of good weather to climb the steep ice gullies above Taylor Spur, place some fixed ropes, and return to our camp. We traversed a horizontal snow ridge just beyond the camp, and from there we headed for the ice gullies that penetrated the steep rock wall above. We kicked the front points of our crampons and swung the picks of our ice axes into the steep, hard ice as we worked our way to the top of the gullies at 17,000 feet. From here, easier snow slopes angled up to the summit ridge that led to the top of the North Peak, now 2,500 feet above. Before heading back to Taylor Spur, we also spotted a flat place 500 feet above us as a good site for our next camp. We had just completed the most difficult section of the route, and we anchored 600 feet of rope in the ice gullies on our way down. Back in camp, we were exhausted but satisfied. Getting beyond the difficulties to within easy striking distance of the summit boosted our morale.
The next day, the rest of our team carried a load of supplies to our high point while Bruce and I rested at the Spur. Then, on July 9, we set out with Bill, and the three of us reached the final campsite we had spotted two days earlier. From our eyrie, the Wickersham Wall fell 11,000 feet below us to the Peters Glacier, and beyond that, flat tundra stretched away as far as we could see. The rest of the Juneau contingent had agreed to join us later that day, but they didn’t arrive. Where were they? I fumed over having to waste a day of perfect climbing weather.
The next day, the others finally showed up. “Before leaving Taylor Spur we saw some threatening clouds and decided to stay put in our igloo,” Dick explained. As far as I could see, the weather had been fine, and by making Bruce, Bill, and me wait an extra day in our more exposed and precarious camp, they had been jeopardizing our safety. The group dynamics were failing. I felt that while Bruce and I were working hard to keep us moving safely up the mountain, Joe and Dick would follow only when they felt like it. Larry would do whatever his friends from Juneau decided, and Bill seemed caught in that same group while trying to mediate between us. But the mountain was unforgiving, and so was I. The stress of not working effectively as a team made me irritable and impatient. I knew I would feel better the next day, when we all got up and over the north summit and down to the relative safety of Denali Pass.
On the morning of July 11 Bruce and I fought our exhaustion to break trail in the deep snow that led to the final summit ridge. We had been operating as separate groups for weeks, so Bruce and I continued to the north summit at midday, well ahead of the others. We waited there for a long time, watching a large lenticular storm cloud brewing over the south summit about two miles away. We wondered, should we go back and look for them? Or should we descend to a safer and more sheltered spot at Denali Pass between the north and south summits and wait for them there? I assumed that they would have retreated to our previous campsite after seeing the clouds, just as they had done two days before. If we waited for them any longer we’d get engulfed by these same clouds and risk getting lost descending to Denali Pass via an unfamiliar route in a whiteout. We felt we’d already taken enough risks on this mountain, so we decided to head down to the Pass.
The storm hit, but fortunately not until that night, after we had reached Denali Pass. The wind was strong enough to keep us in our tent all the next day. We figured the Juneau contingent would also have stayed put in our previous camp. But July 13 was a beautiful, windless day, and Bruce and I decided to use the time waiting for the others to climb the higher south summit. It was an easy walk to the top, and from there we looked down on a sea of clouds with only the higher summits like Huntington, Hunter, and Foraker poking through. It was an exhilarating achievement: the view, the success after all our difficulties, and my first major world summit. We lingered at the top taking photos, relaxing, and eating. We weren’t in a hurry, as we only had to return to Denali Pass. I was surprised we had the summit to ourselves on such a beautiful day; it seemed no one had climbed even the more popular West Buttress route. It was more of an adventure for us to be here alone in such a vast landscape.
As we came down, I could see the summit of the North Peak, from which we had descended to Denali Pass a couple of days earlier. But I didn’t see the others coming that way, and when we got back to our camp, there was still no sign of them. Then I spotted a C-130 military airplane further down our descent route on the Harper Glacier. I said to Bruce, “Now I’m worried—those guys should have been here by now and that plane must mean there’s a rescue operation.”
We packed up quickly, and as we headed down we met two members of an expedition on the Karsten’s Ridge route who were coming up the Harper Glacier.
“There’s been an accident,” they told us. “The other members of your team tried to descend a snow gully from Pioneer Ridge down onto the Harper Glacier, but they all fell. Two of them were killed and two are badly injured, but we don’t know their names. We were walking up the glacier from our camp and just found them there, lying in the snow at the base of the snow gully. We’re taking care of the injured climbers and we’ve notified the park. They’re planning to land a helicopter near our camp at the top of the Harper Icefall, and the C-130 is doing reconnaissance to tell them when the weather is okay for the helicopter flight.”
We were stunned. As we followed them back down to their camp, my heart was pounding and questions raced through my mind. What were they doing? Who was killed and who is alive? What are their injuries? How could this happen?
When we arrived at their camp, we learned that it was Joe and Dick who had been killed. Bill and Larry were the ones seriously injured but still alive. Bill had suffered a head injury from hanging upside down on the slope and was incoherent, his head swollen to the size of a basketball and his fingers badly frostbitten after losing his gloves in the fall. Larry had what appeared to be a broken femur.
Later that day, as I was stomping out a helicopter pad at 15,000 feet on the Harper Glacier, the midnight sun traversed the hori
zon just above the tundra, painting the mountain a soft orange. I shuffled sideways in the dim light, boot packing the snow in concentric circles. With each revolution, I passed the two frozen bodies that lay at the edge of the pad.
Soon the cold, clear quiet was disturbed by the lumbering twin-rotor Chinook helicopter as it climbed out of the dark Muldrow Glacier valley. Struggling to land in the thin air, it touched down and the rear door dropped slowly, with a deep mechanical whine. The crew was anxious to leave immediately. Bruce and I hurried up the ramp into the belly of the machine bearing stretchers, first for Bill, and then for Larry. We then carried the bodies of Joe and Dick into the cargo bay and ran clear as the door closed. The snow was whipped in every direction as the chopper blades revved up, and I crouched down, pulling my hood tight around my face. The helicopter rocked slightly to break free of the snow, climbed a few feet, and then slipped sideways beyond the edge of the ice cliff and dropped into the shadows. The evacuation had taken only a few minutes and we were left behind to descend the mountain on our own. I pulled the hood away from my mouth and vomited into the snow.
Bruce and I made the descent down Karsten’s Ridge and the Muldrow Glacier, then across the tundra back to the road. At the hospital in Anchorage we learned that Bill was recovering from his head injury, but would lose all his fingers to the second knuckle from frostbite. Larry’s prognosis was for a full recovery.
Both Bill and Larry had gaps in their memory of the accident, but we learned that Larry had gotten sick climbing the final summit ridge and so they couldn’t follow us up and over the north summit down to Denali Pass. They tried instead to descend a snow and ice gully onto the Harper Glacier. They had their ice axes, but lacked equipment to build snow and ice anchors for lowering Larry. Most of that gear was with Bruce and me, since we had been using it while doing all the leading.
Rock, Paper, Fire Page 16