Left for Dead

by Beck Weathers

  We tried it, and pretty soon were more or less flinging ourselves at this rock. Scratched and bleeding, this was our introduction to “red chalk,” the mountaineering term for blood mixed with stone dust.

  At one point I saw a bush growing out of the stone and grabbed it. “This is rock climbing,” said Mike with a disapproving glance. Ashamed, I let go of the plant.

  The highlight of the day was to climb a couple of pitches, or two rope lengths—approximately 160 feet—up a rock face.

  Most rock climbing involves installation of wedgelike devices into cracks in the rock. When you pull down on them, these doodads jam tightly and, presumably, are securely wedged. You then attach your rope to them, affording the person behind you a reliable connection to the rock face. If he slips, the wedge will break his fall. It will also keep you from being pulled off the mountain with him.

  The rope of choice is mainly nylon, because nylon rope has high elasticity, which helps absorb some of the shock if you fall, sort of like the bungee effect. Nylon also is less likely than stiff line, such as steel cable, to rip out those little devices that keep you attached to the mountain.

  The rock face angled up about seventy degrees above us, and the first move required going out over a 150-foot drop. Mike and Ken started up the pitch ahead of me and soon disappeared from view. Standing there by myself, eyeing that first move, I got a little cotton-mouthed. I hate heights. Not far away, another group was trying to do more or less what we were doing, but on a much gentler slope. I saw a middle-aged guy, whimpering like a baby, spread-eagle on a deal that looked about as dangerous as an escalator.

  Why didn’t I get to go over there? I wondered.

  But I did move out, and actually managed to get around the overhanging rock. My heart was pounding in my ears. I then started the next move and got about halfway through it when I couldn’t find a place to put my feet or anything to grab with my hands. Thirty seconds into my climbing career and suddenly I had the sickening sensation that I was about to head into outer space. Even though Mike had told me I probably was not going to get hurt, and I trusted his word, that really was an act of faith. My body was crying, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”

  Then it happened. I just came peeling off. The wedge above me held, to my abundant relief, and I dangled there for a while, about six or eight inches from the face, until I got myself reattached to the rock and managed to climb up this thing. When I got to the top and told Ken, he was angry that I’d fallen and he didn’t. I offered to kick him off the mountain, if he liked.

  My major surprise about rock climbing was that while it is the most spectacular type of mountaineering, and can be very challenging physically, it is a pretty safe sport. You may break a few bones but, generally speaking, you are not apt to kill yourself. The obverse of this coin is that snowfield climbing, which looks pretty safe, if arduous, is in fact much more dangerous than rock climbing. Start to slide down one of those little slopes, and you are dead.

  Not yet grasping that simple fact, Ken and I headed out the next day for our glacier training. We figured the hard and scary part was behind us. Imagine our amazement, then, when we met a fellow student, a woman, who confided she was deathly afraid of glacier climbing. I was about to reassure her in my manly way that Ken and I already had seen the little thing we were going out to, and that it wasn’t steep at all—nothing compared with the rock climbing we’d done yesterday.

  Before I could make a fool of myself, however, she let on that she’d just climbed the Petite Grypon, which at that time I knew only from photos in a brochure. But they are all I had to see. The Petite Grypon is incredibly steep, essentially an eight-hundred-foot-tall vertical spire, a needle. I had assumed the only way to get to the top of the thing was with a gun to your head in a helicopter.

  Yet this experienced rock climber was telling us she was terrified of going out on that snow, that she’d already taken this particular class twice before. By the end of the day we understood why.

  The core of the snow-climbing curriculum is self-arrests, how to stop yourself from skidding away no matter which way you fall—on your face or back, head up or head down. The key lies in correctly deploying your ice ax as a brake.

  Mike made a snow bollard—a mound of snow around which he secured a rope—to act as our anchor. Tethered to the bollard, we then practiced the various ways of getting the ax underneath us as we slid, with one hand on the end of the ax and the other down on the shaft, and our weight pressing directly down on it. These were the do’s. The single imperative don’t was don’t ever let your feet dig into the hill. It is a natural instinct to do so. But if you do, and if you are wearing crampons, when they catch on the ice they will likely snap your leg or ankle or, just as bad, launch you into space.

  The twenty-mile, approximately sixteen-hour guided climb of Longs Peak began at 2:00 A.M. with a long hike to the bottom of Lamb’s Slide, an ice field of about one thousand feet named for Elkanah Lamb, an itinerant preacher who first negotiated the treacherous stretch in 1871. Big rocks routinely rumble down Lamb’s Slide. That morning, as I dashed to avoid one of them, I fell flat on my face.

  At the top of Lamb’s Slide you move onto a traverse that takes you toward the Diamond. Here I encountered my first taste of climber humor. The traverse is called Broadway, which most assuredly it is not. In some places on this trail, there are just a few inches of ledge. For a rookie climber such as myself, deathly afraid of heights, this was not ideal.

  When you reach the edge of the Diamond, you then scramble up a relatively easy rock climb, rated 5.4, that takes you to the top, the very apex of the Diamond. At the time, it seemed quite difficult to me, although it’s actually a very easy climb. There, you must step from the mountain’s east face to its north face to go on, a two-or three-foot affair that would be no big deal except for the fact that you do your little jump over about 2,500 feet of clear air.

  I had read about this step with fear and anticipation. Pacing back and forth in my cabin with the brochure, I began to slip around the hardwood floors. I looked down and realized that my feet, like my hands, were sopping with perspiration.

  At the moment of truth atop Longs Peak I did not panic—thank goodness—and made my way back down the mountain without incident. It was a transforming moment. I was really frightened up there, yet I’d faced up to that terror and managed to come through it.

  That night, a big restaurant dinner was planned for all the families. Ken and I, of course, were whipped, but too macho to admit that. So we got dressed and went to this nice restaurant, where I basically fell asleep, my face planted in the mashed potatoes. I was gone.

  EIGHTEEN

  Peach:

  When we were first dating, but before I moved to Dallas, Beck had the Hobie Cat. Then he got a bigger Hobie Cat. I think I went out once with him.

  After he sold it, we crewed with people in Dallas who had a boat. That was fun. I knew his dream was to someday sail around the world in a custom-built boat. That was fine with me. I knew I’d never go because it wouldn’t be air-conditioned.

  But I did try to share his interest. We took boating lessons together in Fort Myers, Florida. Beck got his captain’s license, and I got some sort of certificate too. I thought, Okay, now we can charter a boat over spring break with the kids. But Beck found something else to do instead.

  Next came ham radio. It was just a little hobby, and certainly an innocent hobby. I didn’t know how innocent until later. I don’t remember once trying to pull him away from it. But I do recall that after he lost interest I asked if we could take down that tower. The neighbors didn’t like it. He said, “Oh, sure.”

  The trips to Estes Park were fun. What I did not enjoy, however, was being given total responsibility for the kids. This is not a family vacation, I thought.

  The one time I remember most clearly, he and Ken got up in the middle of the night to go climb. That evening, we were all going to have our annual meal at a nice restaurant. Beck told me that would
be no problem. “Don’t worry. We’ll be back.”

  So they came running back in and showered. They were just exhausted, and both of them got drunk in about two seconds.

  I was very angry.

  Ken Zornes:

  I remember very clearly coming back down that day from Longs Peak. We were really pooped. Walking down the trail, I said something about this being really cool.

  Beck said, “We need to do more. What’s next?”

  I said, “Let’s go climb McKinley.”

  Beck said, “Well, okay.”

  We had a laugh about it. Then we wound up doing that, too.

  Mike Caldwell had suggested we try Chimborazo in Ecuador, a 20,702-foot volcano with an interesting distinction: Because the mountain rests on a vast equatorial bulge, Chimborazo’s summit actually is the surface point most distant from the center of the planet.

  “Why try something simple like that?” Ken said. “Let’s go straight to McKinley.”

  I believe Mike was somewhat skeptical of this hubris. We clearly had no idea what we were getting into.

  Mount McKinley, also commonly known as Denali (Athabascan for “high one”) is the centerpiece of Denali National Park in Alaska. At 20,320 feet, it is the highest peak in North America and, because it sits so far north of the equator, at 63 degrees latitude, McKinley’s weather consistently is the harshest of any big mountain anywhere. Average weather conditions at 14,000 feet on McKinley are the same as at 26,000 feet on Everest.

  Winter lows reach ninety-five degrees below zero. Storm gusts have been measured at up 150 miles per hour. It is the biggest mountain on Earth, in terms of mass, and is the tallest in terms of vertical relief, rising eighteen thousand feet above the surrounding lowlands.

  More than half the mountain is covered in snowfields, which means you spend a lot of time on snowshoes and skis—otherwise you can’t stand up—looking out for crevasses. There is absolutely no finesse involved in climbing McKinley. You do it assault style, same as Everest, which means you must climb it twice, moving your stuff, then following after it. But with no Sherpas handy to tote your gear, it’s a lot more work getting to the top.

  Denali is also dangerous. Since it was first climbed in 1910, approximately one hundred climbers have died on the mountain. On average, one out of two climbers makes it to the top.

  Ken and I, together with two other climbers and a pair of guides from the Colorado Mountain School, would spend three weeks on Denali. In the year leading up to our May 1989 expedition, we took a few more climbing lessons and embarked on a rigorous, if ill-conceived, conditioning program back in Dallas.

  We both did some weight training and aerobics, but our principal work was running, about sixty miles a week. We also entered a couple of marathons that year. I managed to constantly injure myself. My shoulders sounded like socket wrenches.

  But we were determined to be fit enough to handle whatever challenge Denali presented. Not until we actually got to the mountain did we realize that running as much as we did was not the optimum preparation. You want to be a bulldog. I was basically a pencil neck.

  Denali is reached via Anchorage and the little town of Talkeetna, where a plane takes you up to eight thousand feet, well above the tree line, to the Kahiltna Glacier, your starting point. Before they allow you to fly onto the mountain, you are required to attend a movie at ranger headquarters, highlighting the many perils ahead of you.

  Dead bodies figure prominently in this film. It certainly reminds you that there is a potential downside to this particular form of recreation. In fact, there is one stretch on McKinley that for some time has proven particularly hazardous to Asian climbers. Many of them have fallen to their deaths there. It is known as the Orient Express. More mordant mountaineer humor.

  When we got to Base Camp, Steve Young, our guide, took us to an enormous crevasse, where each of us was required to descend a line until we were hanging approximately thirty feet in free air. We then had to demonstrate we could climb back up the line and extract ourselves. Crevasses are a major fear and a constant danger on McKinley.

  Our last act before pushing off was to bury the bottle of Wild Turkey that Ken brought with him, so that we’d have something appropriate with which to toast our triumphant return three weeks hence. I also had with me a water bottle filled with Jack Daniel’s, which I blithely believed would make a nice accompaniment around our genteel campfires on the way up. I immediately discovered I was so trashed at the end of each day that I could hardly drool on myself, much less enjoy a glass of bourbon. About forty-eight hours into the climb I decided to rededicate the water bottle to its original purpose. I practically shed tears as I emptied the bourbon out into the snow.

  The unvarying routine on the way up was to rope together, separated fifty to seventy feet, and then trudge along single file, an arrangement that minimizes the potential consequences of one member falling through the ice into a crevasse. Theoretically, the rest of the group provides sufficient traction to prevent more than one person from falling.

  Everybody must move at the same pace to keep the line taut. In the good moments you just let your mind wander, and daydream. As you tire, however, all you think about is that frozen snake in front of you.

  Our first major bivouac was the so-called Med Camp at 14,300 feet. Spread out across a shallow basin, Med Camp was a circus. Accessible in good weather by helicopter, it was teeming that first day with several teams of climbers, camera crews and even a few daredevils bold enough to try parasailing off the face. Ice sculptures and makeshift igloos dotted the scene.

  Dominating all was the Ice Throne, a regal one-holer that commands a glorious view of nearby Mount Foraker, generally regarded as the most magnificent prospect from any crapper in North America. I remember one night sitting on the Ice Throne as Foraker went into full, golden alpenglow before me. It was a moving experience.

  The Ice Throne also undoubtedly is the highest-maintenance facility of its sort anywhere. It’s raison d’être is removed by helicopter. (Everyone else must bag and deposit in crevasses.)

  Because no tent can reliably withstand the arctic winds on McKinley, at each camp you must build a protective ice fort around you. But even a solid wall of ice blocks in time yields to the ceaseless blast, developing a serious case of the dwindles before crumbling altogether.

  The day we arrived, we discovered the winds had swept an exhausted bird up to the Med Camp, where we found the disoriented animal perched shivering on a ski pole. We all knew our unbidden guest was a goner—there was no way it could get off the mountain before it starved or froze to death. Like that bird, we also were strangers in a strange land. It’s impossible not to reflect on your own possible fate at such moments.

  At dawn, we awoke to find three frozen bodies, roped together, lying out in the snow. It turned out they were British mountaineers who’d ignored several warnings the previous day that the weather conditions above Med Camp were too severe for climbing. They’d fallen to their deaths.

  Again, it gave me pause to encounter three dead men halfway up my first serious mountain. But you have to understand the level of denial necessary to attempt McKinley in the first place. If I really accepted that I might get hurt, I wouldn’t have gone.

  Before we could try our luck on the slopes above us, we had business on the mountain below, a cache of food we’d left just below a place called Windy Corner, about a thousand vertical feet down McKinley from Med Camp. On our way to retrieve the cache, we passed a couple of guys who obviously had just come up. We gave them a big high five, waved and proceeded on our way.

  Then the wind kicked up and soon was howling. Steve Young made it clear that we should take the storm seriously, and for the first time the thought really did cross my mind that we all could get killed like those Brits. It was very difficult to see or to move.

  Anyway, we turned Windy Corner again on our way back up and there were the same two guys, just standing around like they were waiting for a bus. This time we w
alked over to them. I waved my hand right in front of their faces. No one home. This wasn’t HACE. They were addlepated. As would later almost happen to me on the Balcony at Everest, they’d gotten very cold and just stopped. They couldn’t make up their minds to go up or down. If we hadn’t come along, they probably would have stood there until they froze to death.

  One of the two was at least sentient enough to move his feet, so we tied him to the end of our climbing rope. Steve Young took a shorter piece of rope and tied it around the other one—who basically was not there at all—and pulled him up the mountain like a toy. When we all got back to Med Camp, we took them to the medical tent operated by Dr. Peter Hacket, a Colorado emergency room doctor who is also one of the world’s premier experts on high-altitude physiology and a highly accomplished mountaineer.

  From Med Camp we hauled our gear to the summit ridge, at approximately 16,400 feet, came back down and rested, then pushed up to High Camp, at 17,200 feet, where we built our ice walls and assembled ourselves and our equipment for the final push to the top.

  Or so we thought.

  The climb up had not been fun, and there was the added problem of the number-two guide, who had the distinct aura of an ex-con about him. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see LOVE and HATE tattooed on his knuckles. We figured Steve had gotten the guy at a reduced rate. He grated on everyone’s nerves.

  But even that would have been sufferable had we actually accomplished what we’d gone through severe hardships to achieve. However, just as we were ready to go, high winds moved in, very high winds. The ambient temperature dropped to about forty below and stayed there, essentially trapping us in our sleeping bags.