“Well, she's thrown down the gauntlet. Makes me really want to climb McKinley, just to have her eat crow.”
Dick paused, then added, “Didn't you climb McKinley a couple of years ago?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Well why don't you take me up?”
“The only reason I climbed it was because I was going with Marty at the time. She took me up. I’m really no guide. But find someone who is, and I’d be glad to go back with you.”
“How are things with you and Marty now?”
“That's all over, but we're good friends.”
“Then what do you say if you and I go, and also I’d like to bring my four kids, and you see if you can get that arrogant female to be our guide. Then I can watch her eat crow in person.”
It took several attempts before Marty finally agreed to talk to Dick. When she did, she said she would only consider taking him if he were to enter into a serious training regimen.
“And your kids should come only if they want,” she added. “Not because you force them to.”
The more hardboiled this five foot six, dark-haired twenty-nine-year-old with striking features and very strong legs became, the more Dick resolved to prove her wrong in her judgments about him.
“Okay,” she finally said, “we'll go. But you had better start getting in shape. That place is really high and cold. We each have to carry a full share of the load. And I don't think you can make it. When you get as far as I feel you should go, that'll be it. You'll just have to camp and wait while the rest of us go on to the top. And there will be no appeal.”
If this young lady was anticipating giving her boss his comeuppance, Dick was totally determined to never give her any justification to “camp” him on the mountain. Dick knew he always did his best when he had a challenge right in front of him to focus on, and Marty's contempt would be just the carrot. He felt he could do anything she could; what he didn't realize, though, was that he was taking on superwoman.
He found out quickly at the beginning of the very first day of the climb that all his low altitude confidence was based on extreme naivete. They had flown in a ski-equipped Cessna 185 to the 7,000-foot elevation on McKinley's Kahiltna Glacier. Besides Marty, Bob Bonar, and three other Snowbirders, Dick's two sons, Dan and Jim, and twin daughters, Bonnie and Barbara—all in their early to mid-twenties—joined the team, each thinking it would be a great chance to follow up their around-the-world odyssey of two years before with another great adventure.
They unloaded their equipment, stuffed their backpacks and sleds, then fastened the bindings on their alpine touring skis to begin the long, slow trek up the gradually inclined glacier. The first ten feet and Dick couldn't believe it. His pack had to weigh about seventy pounds and his sled a good thirty-five. He felt his leg muscles strain and his stomach muscles tighten. How was he ever going to make it nine miles to where the glacier steepened, then the 9,000 vertical feet further up the steep slopes and ridges to the summit? He made another fifty feet and felt his heart pounding and his breathing quicken.
Good Lord, he thought, what have I gotten myself into?
Another fifty feet and he felt his pulse pounding in his temples. The Arctic sun reflected off the snow, and the heat took him by surprise. The salt from his sweat, mixed with sunscreen, burned his eyes. He wondered if he could even make it through the first day.
Then an unexpected thing happened. Fifty more feet and he found a way to think of something besides the agony. Dick was very fond of poetry—part of the enormous weight in his pack was three hardback volumes—and now he found distraction, even inspiration, with one of his favorites, Kipling's “If.” He recited from memory each stanza as he continued to place one foot in front of the other: If … step … you …step … can …step …
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same …
Dick was in a near trance reciting the poem over and over, and he was startled from his reverie when Marty announced arrival at the day's campsite. He felt an immense relief sweep over him, a deep physical fatigue, but now it was a good feeling. The first day was behind him, he had purged his mind of all defeatist thought, and he now felt he might have a chance of making the rest of the distance.
As he found out, though, that distance was a long one. For two more days he carried the heavy pack and pulled the awkward sled like a workhorse towing a canal barge. Then the climb up the ridge started and, though they left behind their sleds, they now began the arduous task of humping heavy pack loads—carrying supplies to a higher campsite one day, going back down to the last camp and sleeping, then next day moving the camp up to the new site. Marty was relentless, pushing for one hour, two hours, three hours without rest. But each day Dick found he could recite his poems and find a rhythm. Each day he found himself feeling a little stronger, despite the increasing altitude. Thirteen days later he still had the rhythm as he made the last step to the 20,320-foot summit. It was 4:00 P.M., the temperature was 37 below zero, and Dick stood gazing across hundreds of square miles of glaciers and ice-encrusted peaks, every single one below him. In addition to Marty and the other Snowbirders, his two sons also reached the top, and his daughters came very close. Waving his ice axe, Dick let out with what became his trademark Bass Tarzan call: Aah-eah-eaahhh, aah-eah-eaahhh!
On the way down he realized he had gotten more from the climb than he had ever anticipated. Beyond the satisfaction of proving to himself—and to Marty—he could handle the physical and mental strain, and beyond the joy of standing on top and seeing the world fall away from his feet in all directions, he found the climb had been a perfect antidote to his frenzied, high-pressured business life. It occurred to him he ought to start planning other climbs every once in a while in order to keep his head screwed on right.
He was in sight of the tents at the 17,200-foot camp when the idea hit him. He had just finished reaching the summit of the highest peak on the North American continent. What if he made it a goal to try to climb the highest peak on every continent? He had no idea whether anyone had ever done it, but that didn't matter. It would keep him busy for a number of years. Every time he felt the pressure of business closing in, the grind of the daily round wearing him down, he could get away by checking another climb off the list.
Dick reached the tents around 10:00 P.M. on the first rope team. It was still light at that latitude, and he put on his down jacket and pants—it was now 45 below zero—and started melting snow for anyone wanting a hot drink or instant soup, but his mates had already collapsed in their sleeping bags. He was so pumped up from his triumphant success—despite all the cynics and naysayers—that he couldn't think of getting horizontal yet, especially not until Marty had arrived and he could have the moment he had been waiting months for.
About forty-five minutes later Marty came trudging in at the lead of her rope team. Everyone immediately dove for their bags except Marty, who put on her down clothing and started coiling the rope. Dick waited for what seemed an aeon or two for her to say something. Finally he couldn't stand it any longer.
“Hoey, you told me I couldn't make it, didn't you?”
Marty glanced up from coiling the rope, waddled in all her bulky clothing like a penguin over to Dick and gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Bass, I don't believe you. You're an animal,” she said, giving him her ultimate mountaineering compliment.
Dick swelled up as if someone had just stuck a helium nozzle in his down jacket.
“Marty, I not only made it, I felt like gangbusters all the way up and down.”
“Yeah, I saw it. But I don't understand it.”
“Well, I’ll tell you why. It's because it was only me and the mountain and the weather. You don't have any idea, Marty, what I’ve got to go through down there in the lowlands. I’ve got knots on my h
ead and bruises on my shins from dealing with bankers and radical environmentalists. Don't get me wrong, I truly love my fellow man in general, but some of them can be like hairshirts that scratch like crazy. Up here I was free for once from all the human barriers. Also, this climb gave me a definite goal in a short timeframe. We don't get report cards out of school, Marty, and after being in the long black tunnel of Snowbird without a glimmer of light at the end of it, I finally found something really big to give me a tangible sense of accomplishment—now! I’m telling you, this climb has given me a newfound sense of self-respect and self-confidence. And by golly, I feel ready to go back and face the world.”
Marty answered with a wan look and a feeble grunt.
“And one more thing which you'll probably scoff at just like you did my McKinley idea. I had a great idea coming off the summit, just a little while ago.”
“What's that?”
“It hit me that since I’ve just climbed McKinley, the highest point in North America, I’m going to try to climb the highest mountain on each of the other six continents.”
Marty paused. She was obviously exhausted, but mustering all the strength she could, said, “That's a fantastic idea. In fact, I’d like to go too.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what, you clean up your act and start treating me decently, and I’ll take you with me.”
Once back in Dallas, though, the demands of business pressed so tightly Dick had no time to think about future climbs. Each day the clock on the Snowbird loan ticked louder, and Dick knew his only hope was making a deal on his coal lease in Alaska. As June passed, then most of July, and the deal still didn't close, and the September I deadline on the loan got closer each day, Dick put any thoughts of mountain climbing onto the back burner.
Until that sunny day in late July when be went to his office expecting the same hassles, and instead, out of the blue, got an unbelievable phone call.
“Someone named Jack Wheeler on line two,” Dick's secretary said.
“Jack who?”
“Jack Wheeler. Says he's the professional adventurer you met a few months ago at a party here in Dallas.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay, but I can only give him a few minutes.”
Dick picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi Bass, Wheeler here.”
Dick was a little put off by the slick tone, but then he dismissed it, remembering this Wheeler fellow had said he was from Southern California, and Dick just figured they were all the same out that way.
“How ya doin’,” Dick said.
“Fine. Listen, when we met you said you were about to go to McKinley. I was wondering if you did.”
“Yes, I went.” There was a pause, and Dick sensed this Wheeler fellow was hesitant to ask the obvious next question. Maybe he doesn't want to embarrass me, thinking maybe I didn't make it, Dick thought.
“Well, uh, er, did you climb it?” Wheeler finally asked.
“That's what I went there for, isn't it?”
“You mean you made it?”
“Of course I made it.”
“You did? You don't mean it! I mean … Well, was it hard?”
Dick saw his chance to return a little of Wheeler's bravado. “Heck no, it wasn't any hill for a climber,” Dick said, wanting this Southern Californian to know that Texans were not to be underestimated.
Wheeler exclaimed, “That's just fantastic! Listen Bass, how old are you?”
“Fifty-one.”
“Perfect. I recently met someone here in California who said he would be interested in meeting you. He's almost fifty, and a successful businessman; he's president of Warner Brothers Studios. His name's Frank Wells, and I met him through our mutual friend Clint Eastwood. Frank has this dream, and part of it is climbing McKinley. Would you mind talking to him, maybe giving him some pointers?”
“Sure, I’d be glad to. But what's his dream?”
“He wants to climb the highest mountain on each continent.”
Dick nearly fell out of his chair. He had known, as soon as he had returned from McKinley, that his fantasy of climbing the highest peak on each continent would probably remain just a fantasy. It was simply a question of too many irons in the fire. But now, from out of nowhere, this: a partner, somebody to help him with the planning, the financing, the logistics. Someone to share the whole adventure from beginning to end. It was like some kind of divine intervention.
“Tell Frank Wells I’ll talk to him. In fact, tell him I’d like to come out to California and meet him. Right away.”
Although the center of Frank Wells’ universe was very much the presidency and co-chief-executive-officership of Warner Brothers Studios, he had an interest in mountain climbing that dated back thirty years to his undergraduate days at Pomona College when he used to daydream about becoming the first to climb Everest, even though at the time his only experience had been a hike to the top of Mount Whitney, in California's Sierra Nevada. One day while studying for graduation finals Frank's fraternity brother, who also shared the Everest fantasy, called and said, “Well, we blew it. Some guy named Hillary just climbed it.”
That put Frank in a deep funk, but not for long. After graduating summa cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa from Pomona he won a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford University, where he found an American friend who shared his passion for adventure. After spending Christmas skiing in the Alps they started wondering what to do for spring break.
“I’ve got it,” Frank's buddy said. “Africa! Listen, I’ve got my pilot's license, so we'll pool our money, buy a cheap plane, and fly from here to Cape Town and back.”
They found a tiny two-seat airplane for $600. It had no navigation equipment and no radio. It also happened to be all they could afford. With eight weeks remaining before Easter break, Frank was in charge of visas and landing permits, which turned into a full-time job. With a maximum range of 500 miles, they were going to have to land in twenty to thirty countries, principalities, caliphates, and assorted chiefdomships.
The day before departure Frank's buddy said, “Oh, there's one more thing you'll have to be in charge of because I haven't had time to learn how.”
He handed Frank a book on air navigation. Frank was up all night reading furiously and finished the book only after they were airborne. He honed his navigational skills with the dividers and parallel rule as they hopscotched across France, over Corsica and Sardinia and on across the Mediterranean into North Africa, gunkholing to Libya, Egypt, and then down to the Sudan and Uganda. Approaching Nairobi they could see due south the glistening snow on the summit of Kilimanjaro.
“Let's climb it,” Frank said impulsively.
A week later they ascended via the established Kibo trail, although in 1954 the mountain wasn't climbed enough for the trail to be labeled the tourist route. Near the top Frank was nauseous, throwing up every ten minutes, but too close to turn back. They both made it.
They continued toward Cape Town and shortly after had to make an emergency landing in a farmer's field. The plane flipped upside down and was totally destroyed, but they walked away unscathed and hitched a ride on a British military air transport back to England.
It was a glorious adventure, and Frank was hot to follow it up with an even better sequel, an idea that had come to him while descending Kilimanjaro. Hillary had climbed Everest, so he couldn't be the first to do that. But Frank was sure nobody had ever climbed the highest peak on each continent. He had just done the highest in Africa, so why not try for the other six?
The demands of Oxford, though, precluded any other extensive adventures, and then one thing led to another—the army, law school, legal practice, and eventually Warner Brothers Studios, where he started in the business affairs department. At six foot four, with a cordial but sincere smile, and the habit of cutting extraneous fat from phone calls, meetings, or any conversation in order quickly to get to the heart of the matter, Frank's career at Warner Brothers had been a steady rise to the presidency.
But he had never forgotte
n that mountain climbing fantasy. Years went by, but in 1980 he had managed to get a couple of weeks off to travel to Europe and attempt Mont Blanc, the highest peak in Western Europe. He made the top, and it rekindled what was now a twenty-five-year fantasy about doing the highest peak on each continent.
One day he mentioned this interest to his friend Clint Eastwood. Clint told him about a fellow named Jack Wheeler, who helped him scout locations in the high Arctic for his next film, Firefox. Eastwood explained that Wheeler had some experience mountain climbing, and he thought the two of them might like to meet.
“Send him over,” Frank said.
When he met Wheeler, Frank told him about his highest-peak-on-each-continent fantasy.
“Now I’m the first to admit I don't have much experience,” Frank said. “Other than Kilimanjaro and a guided climb up the Matterhorn, the only other mountain I’ve climbed was Mont Blanc, last year. And that was with a guide and I was throwing up near the summit just from exhaustion. But I made it—the highest peak in Europe—so I’ve got two crossed off the list.”
“There's only one problem,” Wheeler said. “That's not the highest mountain in Europe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Europe is measured as everything west of the Ural Mountains. The highest peak in Europe is Elbrus, in Russia's Caucasus Mountains between the Caspian Sea and Black Sea.”
“Well, fine.”
“What do you mean, fine?” Wheeler had clearly expected a different reaction.
“That means there's still another mountain to climb to reach my goal, and Russia itself sounds like an adventure.”
Why not try Elbrus right away, Frank figured. If it could be done in ten days or so, he could check that peak off his seven summits list without compromising his company responsibilities. He had no time to organize such a thing himself, but here was someone who claimed to be a professional at doing just that.
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