Dick was doing very well, though, maintaining the pace, carrying as much weight as anyone. He was excited to be climbing with such hotshots as Wickwire, and as always he had great admiration for Marty. He marveled each time he saw this sprightly 125-pound gal strap onto her back a pack loaded as heavy as any of those the guys carried, and then not just keep the pace but often as not get out in the lead and set it. Since his climb with her up McKinley Dick held for Marty a tremendous admiration, and more than ever she was to him a source of great inspiration.
If that gal can do it, he kept telling himself, I sure think I can!
One afternoon it fell to Dick and Marty to melt snow for the evening's brew. At altitude, where the dry air dehydrates you and the lack of oxygen creates chemical imbalances in your blood that have to be flushed out by a high liquid intake, it is necessary to drink four or more quarts of water a day, and the job of melting that much snow is time consuming. Dick and Marty had their work cut out for them, and they passed the time chatting.
“I haven't told anyone about your Seven Summits dream,” Marty said. “You're still hot on it, aren't you?”
“You bet we are. Between you and me, Frank and I recognize there isn't a great chance we'll get up Everest this try, especially on a new route, so now we're talking about setting aside eighty-three and doing all seven peaks in one calendar year.”
“I’d still love to be a part,” Marty said. “You want me along?”
“Absolutely! How'd I ever expect to climb them without you?”
“Well, I’d love to do it. First, though, I guess we'd better concentrate on this initial Everest trip.”
“Yeah, and I’m just not sure about it,” Dick admitted candidly. “I know a person's abilities are only limited by their self-doubts, but when it comes to Everest I can't help having a few.”
“To be truthful, I don't know how I’ll do, either,” Marty said.
“As long as we're confessing,” Dick said, “there's something else I haven't told anyone. I don't want you to think I’m involved in some kind of mumbo-jumbo, but for some years my wife has been seeing this psychic, a well-known one around Dallas. Now again, I don't want you to think I’m dealing in the occult, but in the past I’ve had a few experiences with psychics telling me about what my business life is going to be like, and the accuracy of those predictions just makes my hair stand on end.
“Well, my wife insisted I go see this psychic before leaving on these climbs,” Dick continued, “and this one predicted that on Everest we are going to have a tragedy, and somebody is going to get killed. So now my wife is up in arms, telling me not to go. The logic side of my brain tells me not to pay attention, but nevertheless I can't get away from it, and I guess it makes me feel better to share it with someone.”
“I don't believe you can just dismiss those things, either,” Marty said. “You never know. And this climbing business is even more dangerous than you presently realize. I think something like two out of three expeditions that tries Everest loses at least one person.”
There was a silence, then Marty said, “You know, Bass, I might not come back from Everest.”
“Don't be silly, Marty. I didn't mean to put ideas in your head.”
“You never know. But if I should make the big mistake, make sure they leave me on the mountain. And another thing, I wouldn't want any mourning. In fact, I would want all my friends to have a wake, but to have it as a big party and not to be sad. Because if I should happen to make the big mistake, I would be going out doing what I love the most, and that's really not that sad.”
If it were in the cards for someone to make a fatal mistake even on this Aconcagua climb, lack of experience and climbing ability would seem to have placed Frank Wells in favored position. If he had been awkward on the approach march to the Polish Glacier route, then he was clumsy and unbalanced on the hard snow, where they had to strap crampons on their boots. The only other time Frank had worn crampons was on Mont Blanc (on Elbrus he had turned back before needing them). It takes some experience to learn to step comfortably with ten steel spikes protruding from the bottom of your boot, and Frank was finding himself not only mistakenly edging his crampons (causing them to slip out from underneath him) but also sometimes hooking the points on the inside of his opposite calf. On the lower glacier, where the slope was low-angled, tripping yourself like that was only an inconvenience; up near the summit, however, it could be fatal.
This climbing business was not child's play, as was all too clearly brought home to them by a frozen, weathered body they passed near the bottom of the glacier above camp 2. Ten days after beginning the climb they had established camp 3, their high camp, at 20,500 feet, and were ready in the morning for a summit attempt. That was, weather permitting. Until then every day had been brilliantly clear, but now clouds brought afternoon hail and there was concern a major storm would develop. Still, Wickwire made plans in case the dawn brought clear skies.
“We'll go in two ropes of three,” he told everyone. “Marty with Dick and Chuck, me with Frank and Geo.”
In this way Wickwire would keep each rope team at maximum strength. He knew he had the big challenge, getting Frank to the top of the mountain, but Marty, who had been tied to Frank all day, said he was doing better. Everyone felt good, too, and that evening they ate a hearty meal, had an extra cup of cocoa, and were to sleep early.
At 4:00 A.M. Wickwire poked his head out of the tent and saw a clear night sky. The morning star was so bright it cast a thin line of light on the glacial ice. It was absolutely still and quiet.
“Okay, everybody, we got our break. Let's get ready.”
After a breakfast of instant oatmeal followed by several cups of tea and cocoa (knowing even with that they would be dehydrated before day's end) the climbers dressed and left camp. First light exposed the clear sky. There was no talk; each person kept his or her own thoughts; the only sound was of the cold steel spikes of their crampons squeaking as they bit into the icy dawn glacier. For a hundred feet their movements were mechanical, until they could walk out the night's stiffness and dispel that slight nauseous feeling that comes from predawn departures at high altitude. The brilliant light of the morning star held long after other stars had disappeared, but finally it too was absorbed into day and soon direct sun was on them. They made their first stop to shed parkas.
Above they could see the angle steepened to 30 degrees, and sometimes even 40 degrees. There were several large sections that showed the telltale gleam of hard ice. Normally this would have been no cause for concern, but as climbing ice (as opposed to snow) requires more expert technique, there was the question of how Frank could get past these sections. George Dunn led across the first; the others followed. As expected, Frank had problems.
Dick could see Frank was incorrectly keeping his ankles rigid instead of bending them so all ten points of his crampons bit evenly. When it got steeper Frank tended to weight the uphill edge of his boot even more. This was probably habit from downhill skiing, but in climbing such technique is disastrous. Dick mentioned this, but his advice didn't seem to make any difference. It was similar to the incident on Elbrus with the heavyweight underwear, and as he had then Dick began to wonder about his Seven Summits partner.
The others were also wondering. Frank was tied on a rope with Wickwire and Geo, and if Frank were to slip on the slick ice it was questionable whether they could hold him. Wickwire looked down the slope and imagined the long ride, certain to end in injury at best. But if they stopped to anchor the rope and give Frank a safety belay up each section, the time required would eliminate any chance of reaching the top in time to descend before nightfall.
Wickwire realized it had been a mistake to choose the Polish Glacier route. He wondered if perhaps they could traverse west and connect with the easier ruta normal. They decided to try, and with Wickwire leading they crossed a fan of scree that was like trying to traverse a sand dune. It was hard going, but at least safe. Spotting a gully that looked like i
t might connect to the summit ridge on the regular route, Wickwire went to scout it while the. others waited.
“Bad news,” he said when he got back. “It's a cul-de-sac.”
“I’d like to keep traversing anyway,” Marty said. “See if we could connect at a lower altitude.”
“It'd be a long way,” Wickwire pointed out. “And it's eleven-thirty already.”
“It would be a good reconnaissance if nothing else,” Marty countered.
“I’ll go with you,” Geo offered.
“Why don't we all go?” Frank said.
“Are you serious?” Wickwire stated incredulously. “It'll be extremely close if Marty and Geo don't get stuck bivouacking.”
But Frank was serious. It was as though in his limited experience he could not realize just how slow and awkward he really was. Frank knew he was the weak link but what he didn't know was how easy it would be for him to push himself into a position he couldn't get out of.
“I’ll take the others here back to camp,” Wickwire told Marty.
“You're giving up on a summit try, then?” she asked.
“No. I might solo the Polish Glacier route in the morning.”
Now it was the others’ turn to be incredulous, but they knew Wickwire was experienced enough to judge such matters. Without further discussion the team split, Marty and Geo continuing on the traverse, the others descending to high camp.
They were quiet as they worked their way down a broad slope. Back at camp the mood was glum. Even Dick was too disappointed to strike up conversation. Frank collapsed outside his tent in the sun and was soon asleep. Wickwire got the binoculars and starting scanning the upper slopes to see if he could locate an alternate route on the Polish Glacier free of crevasses so he could make a solo attempt the next day. One way looked possible but still would involve crossing the bergshrund, the wide crevasse where the head of the glacier separated from the mountain.
To keep his mind off his disappointment, Dick concentrated on reading an account of a previous climb up the Polish Glacier, figuring such background might prove helpful. But he knew his chances were slim. If Marty and Geo came back too tired, and if Wickwire was going to solo in the morning, there was no hope that he could climb the mountain by himself. Obviously, Frank and Goldmark, both having trouble with the altitude, were out of it.
Maybe I ought to tell Wickwire how much I’d love to go with him, Dick thought.
But he hesitated.
No, he thought, I’m the neophyte and I’d better stay in my place. Dick read the article for the third time, then noticed Frank was getting sunburned.
“Frank, wake up,” Dick yelled.
“Huh?”
“You've got to learn to watch after yourself. You're getting sunburned.”
Frank wouldn't move, so Dick got Wickwire to help drag him inside their tent, where he lay motionless the rest of the afternoon. Dick went back to the article. About 5:30 Marty and Geo returned, looking exhausted, and sat down on their packs without saying anything. Dick wasn't sure how far up they had made it, but he figured they looked so wiped out there was no chance they'd want to try it again tomorrow. Wickwire started the stove to make the pair a hot drink.
Marty looked over to Dick and said, “Whoever said this mountain is an easy walk up is full of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it's a long way up there.”
“You mean you made it?”
“Yeah, we made it.” Marty was too exhausted even to grin.
“Well why in the heck didn't you say so?” Dick hooted.
Dick's excitement was dampened a moment later when he realized that now there really was no way they would go back up. He looked over to Wickwire, who again seemed deep in thought.
The bergshrund was bothering Wickwire. There was no safe way around it, and he had promised his wife he would never again take an unnecessary risk, not after he had nearly died on that high bivouac on K2. That time he had spent the night out alone at 28,000 feet with no sleeping bag or tent. At dawn he had been so exhausted from the ordeal all he had wanted to do was lie back and go to sleep, but an image in his mind of his wife and kids going to the airport and seeing all the team except him returning home gave him the strength to get up and continue the descent.
Wickwire looked toward Marty and said, “Do you think Bass could make it?”
Marty was still bent over with exhaustion, staring at her tea cup. Without looking up she said, “Bass can go, he can make it.” Dick wanted to hug and kiss her.
“Hey Bass,” Wickwire called over. “You want to climb this thing with me in the morning?”
Dick moved to Wickwire's tent that evening, and at midnight he peered out the tent door. The night was cloudless, and he crossed his fingers, hoping the clear skies would hold. Now he was like a little kid waiting for dawn to bring Christmas morning. At 4:15 he shook Wickwire.
“Time to get ready, Wickwire.”
It took two hours to melt the snow necessary for several rounds of hot tea and cocoa. Although they got away later than he would have liked, Wickwire was optimistic. Dick had shown the previous several days he was strong and could climb quickly, and besides they would be moving even faster because they were carrying next to nothing, only three liters of water and four candy bars. Soon they reached yesterday's high point, where they had traversed off the Polish Glacier, but now they continued upward. The ice was smooth and getting steeper.
When climbing steep ice it is sometimes necessary to front-point, to kick in the two crampon points that protrude from the toe of the boot like prongs on a pitchfork. When the ice is hard these points go in only a quarter inch or so and it takes experience to judge how much or little they will hold. When first tried it can be unnerving, and front-pointing was altogether new to Dick.
Wickwire showed Dick how to belay the rope, and then started up the first steep section, kicking in his front points and at the same time giving Dick a little on-the-job instruction.
“Keep your heels down, otherwise you put the wrong angle on the front points and they might pop.”
Dick watched, trying to remember at the same time what Wickwire had told him about belaying the rope in case Wickwire should fall.
Was I supposed to hold firm with this hand, Dick thought, or this other hand?
“Swing your ice axe like this. You'll know by the feel when the bite is good.”
“If you say so.”
Please don't fall, Wickwire, Dick thought.
Minutes later Wickwire reached the end of the rope length, set up a belay and yelled to Dick, “Belay's on. Your turn.”
Dick reached with his ice axe, swung it and felt the pick bite the ice. Then he kicked his boot but the points glanced off. He tried again and this time felt the points stick. He stepped up, and kicked in the other boot.
“That's the way,” Wickwire called down encouragingly.
Dick was connected to the mountain only by the prongs of his front points and the tip of his ice axe—none of which was in the ice more than a half inch—and he welcomed any words of encouragement. He pried the ice axe loose, moved it up an arm's length, and swung again. It glanced off, and he tried again. Another glancing blow.
“Hold the shaft firmly, and swing with an even arc.”
This time it held. Dick next moved his crampon points higher, first kicking one boot, then the other. In this vertical crab-crawl he climbed toward Wickwire, stopping once to look down to see the glacier falling away under his boots with only the four thin prongs connecting him to the mountain. He quickly looked back up and decided to pay attention only to the work directly in front of him.
Dick reached Wickwire and they repeated the same cycle, climbing four more rope lengths until the angle lay back and they could continue simultaneously. Wickwire set a fast pace, and occasionally Dick would yell for a rest, but his stops were always brief. Wickwire was impressed.
“Bass, if only I can be as strong when I’m fifty-two.”
Eventually they came to the bergshrund Wickwire had spotted earlier through binoculars. The crevasse was wide and deep, and the only crossing appeared to be over a narrow snow bridge only a few feet thick. Wickwire took Dick's ice axe and drove it into the snow, showing Dick how to belay the rope around it and over the top of his boot, to hold him in case the bridge broke. Then Wickwire started across, probing as he went with his ice axe to test the snow. With careful steps, he crossed. On the other, higher side he set up the same ice axe—boot belay, and Dick started over.
“Follow my exact steps,” Wickwire said.
Suddenly Dick's foot punched through and in a heartbeat the bridge started to crumple. Reflexively Dick leaped while at the same instant he swung his ice axe and dug in his front crampon points; they hit home in the opposite wall just as the rest of the bridge gave way into the deep crevasse. Dick pulled himself up on the axe shaft, wormed over the crevasse edge and joined Wickwire at the safe belay.
“Great going, Bass! Done like a real mountaineer,” Wick wire said as he gave Dick a pat on the shoulder. Dick didn't know whether to just feel relieved he had made it, or be buoyant because he had performed so well.
Wickwire looked across the now bridgeless chasm but judged that on the way down with the uphill advantage they could probably jump it.
They guessed they were close to the top. A few hundred feet higher they could see a crest of snow with nothing behind or around it. They set a slow, even pace, making one step, breathing a few times, making another. Dick was elated, thinking how only yesterday afternoon he had nearly given up hope of reaching this point. He looked up. There was the crest, now only thirty more feet. He made a few more steps, then looked up again.
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