I probed the whiteness in front of me with a ski pole, my other hand firmly gripping a deep-planted ice axe behind me. My eyes were stinging, filling with melting snow. My mind was racing, filling with quick, panicked thoughts, none of which I could latch on to with any concentration. As my pole suddenly poked into nothingness, I glimpsed the rope disappearing over some kind of edge, and as I peeked over into the abyss, I saw a sight that is still burned into my memory.
We had been strong the entire previous week; 4 hours from basecamp to 7800 camp, 4 hours to cache to 10000ft and back, 4 hours to move up to 11 000camp. On the last move day, we had left hours after the other groups, and passed them long before arriving at camp. Aches and pains from blistering feet and sore backs were subsiding, and our rhythm seemed unstoppable, along with our excitement to get up higher.
On day 5, we had barely dived into our food rations, but we were almost through our first bag of it and fuel was getting low as well. We were at 11 camp, and a low system had been moving in. We had thought that the system would get worse over the next few days, and it made sense to head down to 10 000 and pick up our cache of food, fuel and extra odds and ends before the weather got much worse and we would be forced to go down. We strapped on skis, tied in to the rope and hoisted empty backpacks, and headed down into the deteriorating visibility.
On Denali, there is a trail of wands that the National Park Service and groups of climbers put up in case of bad visibility or just ease of route-finding. These are generally green bamboo sticks with bright-colored flags of tape attached to the top. On our way down to the cache, the wands were pretty sparse in some areas, some of them having been blown over or covered by the rising winds and snowfall. The visibility deteriorated the further down we skied, and we eventually left the trail of wands for a GPS co-ordinate of the cache that we had saved the day before, taking another GPS point shortly after leaving it. The winds had increased to 40-50 mph by now, and visibility at our cache was horrendous. Digging out the duffel bags and sled, we packed as fast as we could before slapping on our skins and attaching the sled to the back of my backpack. I was worried about the skins freezing and not sticking to the base of my skis, so I added a ski strap around each ski, and we headed back up the hill.
Our trail from only minutes earlier had disappeared, and we ran out of consecutive wands to follow less than a hundred meters up. GPS frozen, Chris tucked it into a inside pocket and we curved up to the right. In less than half an hour, the hill had gotten much steeper, and the skin on my right ski had frozen and fallen off. I took it off and dragged it up to where Chris was waiting. He was having the same problem, and after a few more minutes of agonizing annoyance we both decided to slot our skis onto the sled. The hill we were on had increased in angle until we were absolutely sure we were far off the regular path. Our boots alone were insufficient for the hard-pack and wind blown snow, but we had no choice but to continue.
When I first felt the rope go tight on my harness, it took me a couple seconds to leap into arrest mode. The only real crevasse fall I had arrested before was on a rope team of 3, and I barely needed to dig in to the snow to stop the middle climber from falling any further. This time was a little different; we were already on a steep slope, I couldn't even see Chris at the other end of the rope, and it was only me and him - we are pretty evenly weighted. When my ice axe was dug into the snow, my boots kicking what steps I could and my body pressed low to the snow pack, the rope went slack. I kicked backwards, trying to find the edge to look over, my axe and boots digging in as much as possible. I found what I thought was an edge, judging so by the way the rope just seemed to disappear at the same place. I glimpsed Chris through the blowing snow, standing up and shouting, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. He climbed up the other side of the hole, and we tried to communicate but it was impossible; all you could hear were syllables. I remember thinking that there are no simple syllable commands for standing on two sides of a massive crevasse with the rope stretched out between you.
After a few minutes, I thought I caught the word 'belay' and tried to tension the rope, and Chris responded by downclimbing back into the hole. It was covered in by drifts of snow, 7-12 feet below the lip, and he got over to under the edge where I was standing. Here, though, there was no way up; the edge was straight up from him, even overhanging slightly in some sections. It would be impossible to climb out of it with just one ice axe and no crampons. I decided that the best choice would be to get down there with him; maybe we would even get out of the wind a bit. I considered downclimbing, my face to the slope, but it was too steep for me to hold on with my backpack. I attached the sled to the rope with a clove hitch, and lowered it to Chris with the slack we had between us. When it reached the bottom, about 3 feet downhill from Chris, I just went for it; sitting on the edge and then just jumping. I still remember my thought process of "Ah shit.. I really hope this snow doesn't collapse and this fall ends up being much longer than I had imagined.. " as I flew through the air. Luckily, the impact simply took the wind out of me, and I managed to half crawl/half climb up to where Chris was, below the lip of the hole. We figured that it could be a good idea to bivy and wait for better visibility, and the hole we were in seemed the best option for that. We took off our backpacks, stuck our skis and poles upright in the snow around us to hold the sled, duffel and backpacks in a makeshift wall, and took out our warmest clothes, which happened to be a fleece balaclava, down jacket and high altitude mitts for me, and I believe simply a down jacket for Chris. By this point, our goggles had become useless and completely iced over. You would take them off to rub the ice away from the inside, and it would ice up within 5 seconds of putting them back on. My actual glasses were fogging up and freezing as well, and had the same problem, but worse because they were made with more glass. To 'solve' this, I put my glasses away, took off my goggles and starting squinting, having to cover my eyes and blink rapidly every 30 seconds to try to dispel the water and snow filling them in. We huddled together in the corner, myself sitting actually inside a slightly-less-that-body size hole in the corner, that was basically a black hole into nothingness that I had discovered upon trying to dig further into the wall.
We were scared; or, at least, I know I was. We realized quickly that if we were to stay and try to bivy for much longer, we would die. This may sound dramatic, but it was true. Our clothing was insufficient and we had very little water. The winds were blasting us with 50-70 mph driven snow, the temperature was dipping to -15 to -20 degrees Celsius, our GPS was not functioning and we were essentially lost on the biggest mountain in North America, one that was known internationally for it's unpredictably bad weather. The lead guide from a Mountain Trip guided trip had told us earlier at 7800 camp; "Weather reigns supreme on Denali." Now those words just reek of foreshadowing.
We tried using the GPS more, but it was finickity as shit, even after sitting in a warm pocket for a while. The toggle that allowed you to scroll between options, and therefore show you anything of use on the thing, was getting ice stuck around it, and Chris had to breath on it heavily before it might work for another couple scrolls. We decided to get out of there soon; the longer we would sit and wait in the cold, the more energy would be sapped and the longer it would take us to get to safety. We ditched our skis, the sled and the duffel, but took the food and most of the gear. I left behind a ski pole. I opened my crampon bag, and it took me several minutes to realize it was the wrong pocket. My mind was just not able to take small things like that into account; it was weird how focused I was on the plan and our choices. I tried to put on my crampons when I got them out, but couldn't see long enough at a time to change the size of them, which was fitted to my overboots. They went in my backpack. We hoisted them to our backs, and they seemed heavier than any pack I'd ever carried before.
We kept going through the whiteness, Chris on lead. He fell into another large hole, but managed to climb out and we kept pushing on to the right, always to the right. We had eventually wrangled the waypoint of camp 11 and the bearing and distance to it out of the GPS, but the path from the cache to our camp was in a large S shape, and we were guessing as to how far right we had to swing. Later on, we would find out that we were in a completely different area from where we thought we were (or at least that is true for me).
Then the rope went tight on me again. I jumped into arrest mode, and for the third time that day the rope went slack again shortly after. I probed the whiteness in front of me with a ski pole, my other hand firmly gripping a deep-planted ice axe behind me. My eyes were stinging, filling with melting snow. My mind was racing, filling with quick, panicked thoughts, none of which I could latch on to with any concentration. As my pole suddenly poked into nothingness, I glimpsed the rope disappearing over some kind of edge, and as I peeked over into the abyss, I saw a sight that is still burned into my memory. Chris was on his back, backpack still strapped around him, not appearing to be moving. The two previous falls, he was up and moving before I saw him over the edge. This time it was obvious something was wrong, and I wasted no time in jumping in the hole. I knew it wasn't the time to build an anchor and try to haul him out; visibility alone dictated that it would take far too long, let alone wind, snow and temperature. I was in free fall for a second or two, before landing hard on my feet and flipping over on to my right side, about 15 feet below. My axe flew out of my hand and rattled down beside me on impact, and I was slow to get up. When I got to Chris, we was making some very disturbing sounds, including, "I broke a rib."
This was bad, we knew that. Chris took off his backpack and crouched up, breathing heavily and laboriously, obviously in considerable pain. He got the GPS out, and had kept it in a warm pocket for long enough for us to get a new bearing; back towards the waypoint we had taken 5 minutes before arriving at the cache. We rested some more. We had to leave; we had no choice. We told each other it would be alright, our words sounding hollow, uncomfortably so.
After a couple minutes, I helped Chris on with his pack. I took the lead, climbing out of the hole the way we had fallen or jumped in. It was the hardest thing I had to do the whole day; one ice axe, two scrabbling boots that couldn't find purchase on the hard snow, and a pole-gripping glove trying to punch in. I slid back a few times, and the ice axe was the only thing that allowed me to eventually get out. Chris followed, his grunts of pain far more clear in the high winds than his shouts earlier. If it was hard for me.. I started moving along our bearing, moving slow. Boot step, boot step, ice axe plant. Sweep area in front with pole to check for holes and walls. Repeat. We moved almost not at all, the scenery never changing. It seemed almost futile. It was impossible to judge progress by your surroundings. After about 20 minutes, we came together and huddled again, taking out the GPS and checking the bearing. It was painful for Chris to even reach into his pocket, or unzip his jacket to get to it. The waypoint was slightly more to the left, less than 150 meters away when before it was 300m. We said more meaningless words of encouragement to each other, and continued. 10 minutes later, we huddled again. It was very close, and much more to the left. Words, then continue. I kept scanning the whiteness for markers, hoping for them but at the same time doubtful I would see any. When a leaning wand appeared in the distance, at times obscured by horizontally driven snow and then appearing again, it was... a very nice feeling.
Now we just had to follow the wands up to camp; simple, but they were sparse on the way down, and that was hours ago. There were two in sight now; the one we were at and one again to the left. I was so disorientated that me and Chris thought the path went different directions completely; we checked the GPS and Chris was correct; to the right it was. I had a plan by this point; we would extend the rope to its maximum (50m) and establish a system. Chris would stay at the previous wand until the rope was tight, and I would swing around in semi-circles until finding the next one, at which point I would give the rope three tugs and he would continue. If we couldn't find one, we would continue past the wand, with Chris stopping before he lost sight of it. I had to remind myself of three rules every time I couldn't find one immediately; 1. Do not leave the wands, 2. Move in a slow rhythm, and 3. Do not leave the wands. I repeated this to myself in a sort of chant; it gave some sort of form to our method, and was calming. It took us 8 hours in the end to follow the wands all the way back up to 11 000 camp.
It was obviously not over, but we were safe. We accepted Oxycontin from a nearby tent group for Chris' pain, and I dug out the half-buried tent, tightening the guy lines and putting all the food and fuel we had in the vestibule. That night we had kool-aid flavoured water and a Mountain House meal each; a feast.
Two days later, we were at basecamp again, having rested a day in the storm and then hauling all our gear down the mountain in 2 backpacks and one VERY heavy sled through sometimes 3 feet of new snow, but mostly already broken trail. In our boots we would bust through the crust on random steps, making the trip back both long and frustrating. Chris was popping ibuprofen and pushing through his pain in almost a superhuman effort, at the end taking rests with his backpack on because the pain was worse to take it off then put it back on again each time. We had a 9 hour day to move 14km, which was mostly downhill, and when we finally set up camp next to the airstrip, the pumps on our stoves refused to work and we went without water or warm food for the night. The next day was a gorgeous bluebird however, and we flew out on the first plane, stopping off at the Ruth Gorge before arriving in Talkeetna. It was beer and burger time at the West Rib Restaurant and Bar.
*Edit, 4 months after.
Reading this over again, and thinking about what happened, it seems that more than anything, the incident was just a huge bummer. We had planned, rationed and packed perfectly, and were literally 100% on our fuel and food ration. We had both been feeling stronger every day, and went to bed every night excited to get up and do more. The feeling of being on the cusp of arriving and climbing through all these famous spots on the mountain, like Squirrel Hill, The Edge of The World, the autobahn, the football field.. it was an exciting trip, and I think that we would have had at least a summit attempt.
That being said, it was an excellent lesson. I have been in considerable danger several times in my life, but never for such an extended amount of time and with such a small amount of resources to help me. I think redundancy is more important than I did before; what if we had brought 2 GPS's that day, or brought more food + fuel up with us on the original ascent to 11? We could have been enjoying a very different atmosphere along with our beers in the West Rib. It goes to show how you really cannot ever be really fully prepared, especially in the mountains. That also goes for everything else in life, I suppose.
And if you want to join a trip to Mt. Logan in spring 2015, give me a call.