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Desire & Ice: Challenge on Denali
Text by David Brill Photograph by Bill Hatcher
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A climber descends Denali Pass after summiting Mt. Denali. |
Climbing North America's tallest, coldest mountain may not cure middle-age angst, but it will forever change how you regard life back at sea level.
 he scene might be set in a suburban backyard: a semicircle of guys sipping beverages, solving the problems of the day. But if this is a backyard, it belongs to some monstrous ice god. Our feet are planted in 15 inches of fresh powder; a 30-mile-per-hour wind is kicking up ice crystals; the temperature hovers around zero. Around us sprawl jagged, ice-caked crags, fractured glaciers, and avalanche chutes. Our beverages are "hots"—tea, cocoa, or soup—to keep us hydrated and warm. Our cracked lips, wind-burnished cheeks, and sunburned nostrils suggest an outbreak of some dread flesh-eating disease.
Some 6,000 feet above us lies the 20,320-foot summit of Alaska's Mount McKinley, also known by one of its native names, Denali. Though not the world's highest mountain when measured from sea level, Denali presents a greater vertical gain—13,120 feet from base camp to summit—than Mount Everest. Since 1913, 92 of those who attempted to climb this cold, stormy peak have died.
Still, each year, between May and July, Denali attracts some 1,200 climbers from points around the globe. Dozens of them suffer frostbite. About half make it to the top, and my team members—a real-estate broker, railroad executive, computer systems specialist, engineer, surgeon, former diplomat, and professional photographer—hope to be among them.
As for me, I'm a 45-year-old Tennessean and divorced father of two pre-teen daughters. My mountaineering résumé is short and unremarkable, my highest previous climb having been to the top of 14,410-foot Mount Rainier in Washington. For me, Denali is an endpoint, not a stepping stone to higher and more celebrated peaks. I've promised a few folks back home that once I summit Denali, I'll hang up my crampons for good. But the summiting won't be easy. Our team consists of graying dads and nine-to-fivers lured by mid-life lunacy to one of the coldest and most unforgiving mountains in the world. Do we have what it takes? As one Denali veteran told me, "Denali is all about physical and mental toughness."
And then there is luck, which, at this point, seems in short supply.
WE CLIMBED FROM BASE CAMP to 14,200 feet in eight days. From here, under ideal conditions, we're just three days short of the top—but conditions are far from ideal. Already we've wasted a week riding out Denali's notoriously fickle weather, long enough to regard ourselves as the official Camp 14,200 Welcome Wagon. In that time, we've hobnobbed with a variety of climbers, including a group of policemen dubbed "Cops on Top," who are hauling a plaque up the mountain to honor a colleague killed in the line of duty. We've also met Denali legend Dave Johnston, whose party was first to climb the mountain in winter (in 1967). This time he's climbing with his wife, Cari Sayre, and 11-year-old son, Galen, who could become the youngest ever to nail the summit.
Now, eager to resume climbing, we receive word via radio that a storm packing 70-mile-an-hour winds may hit in the next couple of days.
"We're staying put for the time being," says Gary Talcott, 47, leader of our trio of guides from Rainier Mountaineering Incorporated (RMI), one of six outfitting companies licensed to guide on Denali. We respond with a collective groan. "We want you to go home with all the fingers and toes you arrived with," Talcott says, addressing our obvious disappointment. We've watched numerous other climbing teams set out in marginal conditions. We've also seen many of them stagger back down, beaten, exhausted, and eager to return home—forget the summit.
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