Robert

Actually, my world is a little smaller than that.  My Thermarest pad is 19 and a half inches by 70, and it’s the practical limits to my world for the indefinite future.  If I weren’t so tired, I’d be freaked out by my circumstances.  My possessions consist of the pad, my sleeping bag in which I’m shivering, a pair of the worst skis ever sold, a lightweight pack, one Summit House dinner, a Whisperlight stove and a Nalgene.  The skis were bought at a Sports Authority in Tucson, Arizona, for $19.95.  They had been shipped there by accident, and the management wanted to get them sold rather than shipped back.  The brand?  Enemy, made in China.  Logo has menacing skulls that are meant to add mojo, I guess.  173’s, they had been selected for this outing because they were wide, light, and cheap.  They were fine with skins going uphill, but turn downhill and go over walking speed and they became veritable roller skates.  Back to where I am.  I take one last look around before I burrow into the bag to get away from the wind and the incessant light of the Kahiltna Glacier.  I’ve pulled about 20 feet off the trail to Camp 1 on Denali’s West Buttress route in order to wait out my partner, who’s abandoned me.  For the time being.

Said partner is Edward Warren.  I first met him at the Roadhouse Inn in Talkeetna two years before.  He had just summited Denali and twice skied from the Football field back to Basin Camp at 14,200 feet.  The second time he got caught in a whiteout, and his spotters couldn’t give him radio instructions to avoid the crevasses that separate the Messner Couloir from camp.  He had missed a turn, descended too low, and found himself on steep ice, hard as boiler plate, just above a crevasse.  He had to gingerly remove his skis, transfer back to crampons, and climb a thousand feet before he could resume his descent.  I haven’t gotten the nerve to watch the video, but apparently he was saying goodbye to his parents who would be presented with the chip from his hero cam mounted on his helmet when his body was recovered from the bottom of the huge crack.  By the time I met him outside the laundromat at the Roadhouse, he had already met my daughter and introduced himself.  His adventures behind him, he was nursing some frostbite on his toes from his constrictive ski boots and was just enjoying being alive.  When I heard he had GPS coordinates for every camp and curve in the route, I invited him to dinner and beers.  The three of us had a wonderful time, even though I pointed out his dietary inconsistencies in that he ordered a veggie burger but also consumed a large quantity of French fries.  He even came to our motel room and helped us sort through our dehydrated food we had lugged up from the lower 48.  We drove from Arizona, partly for the thrill, but mostly to have a free schedule in terms of how long we stayed on the mountain.  It was my impression that many alpine accidents occur because people are in a rush to get somewhere when conditions are not conducive to travel.  Edward had time to blow before his return flight to Wyoming, so I loaned him my Isuzu Trooper to tour the state until he had to get on a plane.  Lord knows I wouldn’t need the car, and there seemed to be a real spark between this guy and my daughter.

Martha and I ended up spending parts of three days and two nights at High Camp, 17,200 feet, but decided to descend because of new snow and the fact that our food just wasn’t cutting it.  All dehydrated, it was light, but totally lacking in fats and lasting energy.  So rather than lose a pound a day, as we then were, and try to posthole in unstable snow with only Conrad Anker on the mountain ahead of us, we came down.  The next two years saw me become friends with Edward independently of his relationship with my daughter.  I travelled to his home in Wyoming twice to help restore a Land Cruiser FJ60 and to complete a remodeling of his house.  We did some technical climbing together at Vedavoo and Lumpy Ridge, where he proved that his injured ankle hurt on the approach more than in the actual climbing.  Edward is known to many as the creator of and star in the Youtube video, Mixed Climbing Accident (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ovr55k6evE), documenting his near death experience in the mountains of Wyoming.  I was honored that he called me right before going into surgery, but I couldn’t help but equate mixed climbing and its attendant objective hazards with consuming too much tequila and expecting to have no consequences.  My pastoral manner has sometimes been criticized.

Edward had big plans for his climbing career, and these had to be extensively modified because of his accident.  He had suffered some pretty good lacerations, but the real problem was that one ankle was completely broken up when his crampon caught on the ice as he fell under the weight of an avalanche dislodged by his partner.  The two were saved when a single BD nut held them both, despite the rope getting desheathed.  So last winter Edward was in a quandary.  He wanted to do something spectacular besides almost getting killed, that would draw attention to his website, Vertical Minded.  Grammatical inconsistencies aside, I understand it to be a cross between Facebook and Amazon, where climbers record their exploits, document equipment requirements, and others are offered a chance to buy said equipment at the best prices.  At one point he was going to climb and ski every mountain over a certain altitude between Alaska and South America, hence the Land Cruiser.  The accident brought an end to anything requiring lots of walking and even technical climbing over rock.  What he found was that the only thing he could really do was ski and hike in ski boots, where the plastic gave him the ankle support he needed to maintain proper alignment in his bones.  So despairing of something new to do to bring attention to his business, he decided to do something old, but faster than anybody else.

After my experience on Denali two years ago, I resolved that if I went back, it would be as the least capable member of the team, and not the most.  Martha was fine on the mountain, but the combination of my responsibility for her and the sequilae of a traumatic brain injury I incurred in 2002 in a car crash made it emotionally impossible to deal with the anxiety a mountain like Denali imposes.  As a woman said whom we met during our climb and who bailed at 16,000 feet, “I can take the pressure of this mountain on any given day, but to feel it day after day was just too much.”  So some time in April, the phone rings, and it’s Edward.  He begins his inducement with the prospect of climbing the mountain in regular siege tactics, with the goal of getting my aged ass to the summit.  Then he drops the real purpose of the call, and that is to enlist me as dead weight on the other end of the rope to help him set a speed record for a round trip ascent.  Of course, I agreed immediately.  Here was a chance to climb with a real, live alpinist, and to perhaps make a little history in the process.  Edward had already done Acconcagua twice, once by the Polish route, and had gone from Basin Camp to the summit of Denali in one push, not once, but effectively twice.   Legs and lungs personified.  And not only would I do the climb, but I volunteered to drive from Arizona to Cheyenne, get his gear, drive to Anchorage, pick him up at the airport, and drive the two of us to Talkeetna.  We’d have a car in town, so we could take as long as was necessary on the bump.

Everything went as planned on the way up; no complaints.  I cast my vanity to the wind and went to the Fort Collins Walmart to buy food for the expedition at lower 48 rates.  I picked up his gear at a self storage facility, as Edward was leaving the Air Force, had sold his house, and was himself on the road visiting family and friends.  Sort of a bucket list in case things went awry on the mountain.  Edward knows me well, so there was a complete checklist of things to bring, all of which were in a neat, but large, pile.  By this time the 1988 Isuzu Trooper was getting full, and I needed to be able to sleep in the back each night.  I planned in an extra three days for the trip, in case I had to rebuild the car on the way up.  I had an extra cam belt, a half set of rocker arms and a full set of exhaust valves, which are the ones that bend when an Isuzu breaks the cam belt.  This I know by experience.  Being in scenic Anchorage early, I went to the local Episcopal church to ask about recognition for the FA with Hudson Stuck 100 years prior.  Hudson was the Archdeacon of the Yukon, and traveled extensively every year throughout Alaska’s interior by dog sled ministering to the various congregations that couldn’t be reached during the summer months.  His two books, 10,000 Miles on a Dog Sled and Ascent of Denali are classics of life in Alaska at the turn of the 20th century.  Hudson was an Episcopal priest, as am I, so I was naturally interested in any observations planned for the centennial of the first ascent.  The Rector of the church I visited was unaware of the momentous nature of the 2013 climbing season, but said that he had seen something on the subject in Diocesan announcements.  A quick perusal of the internet revealed that there was in fact a celebratory ascent planned, which included the Bishop of Alaska climbing the mountain and celebrating the Eucharist on the summit, using Hudson’s own communion kit!  The announcement went on to politicize the climb as a gesture to draw attention to abuses to native Alaskans past and present, saying that this was why Hudson climbed the mountain.  This galled me to some extent, because I had read Ascent of Denali twice, and didn’t recall that he had a political agenda when he made the climb.  I therefore requested the help of the parish to provide me with bread and wine to perform my own service on the summit, along with a 1928 Book of Common Prayer to give me a liturgy similar to the one Hudson would have been familiar with.

Edward arrived on schedule, and we celebrated by finding the best source of beer and pizza we could find.  Edward remarked that this trip to Talkeetna differed dramatically from his own two years prior because then he was trapped in an overloaded van with other large, smelly climbers, and was given only an hour at the local food store to buy all their provisions they would need on the mountain.  The van was seriously overloaded, and boasted purple shag carpet throughout.  Two days later we were on the glacier, ready to start up the hill the next morning.  We had no idea how long we were going to be on the mountain, so we overdid it on food.  We were 68 pounds over our 300 pound limit, but the pilot swore that if we paid the penalty, this would not jeopardize our takeoff or landing.  He was right, and the morning greeted us with perfect conditions.

For those who’ve been on the West Buttress route, there’s nothing particularly aesthetic about the “climbing.”  It’s essentially a long trudge with a heavy pack and sled with fine views and ubiquitous fall danger.  The second day we decided to do a full pull from Camp 1 to Camp 3, at 11,000 feet and at the base of the first steep section.  Edward was dismayed at the competition.  It turned out there were at least two other speed expeditions on the mountain at the time, one from Spain and one from Germany.  Particularly upsetting to him was the way a large entourage of professional guides in matching shells and ski gear blew by us.  Rope after rope of uber-fit guides with the latest in technology, they smiled contemptuously as they glided effortlessly by.  We later learned they were doing half pulls, but the image was seared into Edward’s mind as an indication of just how lame his partner, and hence his quest, was.  Here he was trying to do something faster than anybody else had managed, and his partner was a brain-damaged 58 year-old clergyman whose alpine exploits consisted of guided trips up the Matterhorn at 12 and Mont Blanc at 13.  An unguided trip up Monte Rosa at 16 did nothing to allay his doubts, nor subsequent trips up Shasta and Rainier.  His mood was gloomy as he brought up the rear of our cord.  Our progress was slow but steady, and on the seventh day of climbing we summited, having passed every party who had already set out from High Camp that morning.  Each day the weather report was a marvel: a prediction of continued high pressure for another three days.  The first three days morphed into eight, and I was able to stand on the summit in two layers of clothing, with the legs and sleeves pulled up to bring cooling air to my bare skin.  I conducted a communion service on the summit with Edward watching respectfully, but not participating.  He came from an evangelical Christian family, but had decided that this much-ballyhooed God they spoke of was really a chimera who refused to reveal himself in any meaningful way.  This was the source of the stand-off between Martha and him, that she wanted a Christian husband, and he was not about to make concessions that were anything but genuine.  Each was respectful of the other, and I can’t fault either for their intransigence.  The story goes that Mark Twain feigned Christian conversion to marry the girl of his dreams, and both ended up disillusioned and miserable.  Better to avoid problems beforehand than to solve them later.  So I concluded my service, and started my descent.  Edward was turned loose to ski down to the Football Field, and then try to find a way to descend to Basin Camp on skis.

The dilemma Denali presents to the skier is this.  Come early in the season, and the lower part of the mountain is fit for travel, but the upper reaches are icy.  Come later, and the upper part is softer, but the lower glacier is crisscrossed with crevasses and crumbling ice bridges that both slow and imperil travelers.  This zero-sum game was confirmed again this year when Edward tried to ski down the Orient Express.  Two years before he had almost died coming down Messner’s Couloir, and he hoped that the Express or perhaps the Rescue Gully from 17,000 feet would do the trick.  The rescue gully had proven too icy during a reconnaissance on our way up the peak, and now trying to ski the Orient, he had to take his skis off and proceed laboriously down with crampons and tools to the inevitable bergschrund separating the couloir from the camp.  He tried to roust our friend Andrew Yasso who was guiding for the American Alpine Institute and climbing on our schedule.  He could get nobody in the camp on the radio to tell him which direction to turn, so after much deliberation and crumbling crevasse edges he made it to camp alive.  The day before our summit I had made friends with some Chamonix Guides when I heard them speaking French.  I had lived in Switzerland and France for a year in each country, so I decided to use my French.  What I was really concerned about was the distance between the pickets on the Autobahn, to learn if our 30 meter rope was long enough to protect from picket to picket.  They had assured me that they were only about 20 or 25 meters apart, and weren’t really needed on the way up, just on the way down.  So with Edward gone, I met one of the guides at the base of the Summit Ridge, on his way up solo.  I proposed that we meet at the top of the Autobahn and rope up for the only really dangerous part of the climb.  He readily agreed, and told me he had taken some really good photos of Edward and me on the summit.

These photos that Helias took are the only ones I have of the summit, or indeed of the whole expedition.  We weren’t on the Autobahn for more than a 100 meters when I stopped to take my neck gaiter and wool hat off, out from under my helmet.  When I pulled them over my head, I also pulled off my camera strap, which then fell out from under my shell and bounded down the hill.  Shit.  Our rope was about half the length of the fall it took; it was out of sight over a bulge, and I had a schedule to keep to help Edward with his record attempt.  I soldiered on down to High Camp where I spent a frigid night in Edward’s dated and substandard sleeping bag, while he luxuriated 3,000 feet lower in my -40 degree cocoon from heaven.  The next morning I put the entire camp on my back, minus the emergency provisions Edward had schlepped to the top the day before, and soloed back to Basin Camp.  As I approached the numerous foot wide knife blades on the ridge I would stop to stabilize the shifting load, then scamper across to rocks and safety.  As I descended from the fixed lines above camp, I kept gazing below to see if Edward would have pity on my legs and come out to lighten the load.  No such luck.  He was recovering for the record, and greeted me with the news that I would have all afternoon to recover myself, before we would head back to Base Camp.

My skis, which we had left at 11,000 feet, were short and light, and went up hill just fine.  That evening I stepped into the bindings and tried a short turn.  Terrible.  I couldn’t decide if it was the skis themselves, or the Koflach climbing boots that were letting me down.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I had won a regional ski championship in France while attending the University of Grenoble, and ended up nationally ranked by the end of that year.  I was described by a friend who had been Billy Kidd’s teammate in school as the best non-professional skier he had ever seen.  So here I was at the head of the rope, unable to side slip, let alone turn.  All I could manage was a ghastly snow plow that required Edward to slow me down at the other end of the rope.  Further, when I would fall, which I normally never do, I would have to remove my pack to even stand up.  The final indignity was that my carbon ski pole, which had been broken when a douche bag ran into me at the Arizona Snow Bowl years prior, broke anew.  I had repaired it using only the most effective McGyver techniques, but the repeated falls were simply too much for even space age materials.  One time I went down on one of those dark, mottled snow patches indicating an incipient crevasse, and Edward almost sobbed, “We’re all going to die.”  We expected to be back at the bottom at midnight, instead it was a quarter to three.  In the morning I turned to Edward and said, “To the extent that I came here with shitty or unproven gear, I apologize.”  Said he, “I’m glad you said that.”

Now came the toughest part of the whole deal.  All day long planes were landing in perfect weather, dropping climbers off and leaving mostly empty.  When those of our own company went by, the temptation of beer and showers was almost too much to bear.  Edward actually offered to throw the towel in and say that between the physical abuse he had suffered slowing us down the whole way from 11,000 Camp and the forecast of deteriorating weather two days hence, he could not bring himself to risk life and limb in a vainglorious attempt at the record.  The record, to the extent we could get a handle on it, appeared to be held by Chad Kellogg, at 23 hours, 55 minutes.  There was some controversy surrounding the claim, but this appeared to be generated by one person who for some reason found fault with the documentation.  Edward had considered the problems inherent in documenting what was an informal endeavor, and had decided on the following protocols.  First of all, the climb would be totally unsupported by others.  He would not cache anything, and would use only food, clothing and fuel he would carry from the bottom.  Secondly, he would not accept material help in any way from others while climbing.  He would not touch fixed gear, or take so much as a swig of water from others on the climb.  Finally, he would carry a Hero cam on his helmet, and record name and contact information from a guide at the start of the climb, on the summit, and would check back in with camp managers at the bottom, should he return during business hours.  Further, he would carry a GPS programmed to emit a tracking signal every 15 minutes.

That night I was semi-conscious at 10:30 pm when Edward asked if I was awake.  I replied I was, and he said, “In view of the bad forecast for Saturday, how about we leave in the morning?  We could get up at 3:00 and leave by 4:00.  What do you think?”  I’ve always  thought that if you have to suffer, might as well suffer sooner rather than later.  I was actually awakened by a guided group next to us at 2:30, so I set about melting snow and making my signature beverage for Edward of equal parts electrolytes and Tang.  Gas and the fire to light it.  We weren’t ready until 4:15, so a 4:30 departure was decreed.  Edward found a guide with another group who consented to serve as a credible witness to our departure.  I counted down the seconds on my watch, and with Swiss precision, started poling down the hill.  Edward soon dropped a water bottle which necessitated a stop which in turn led to a fall.  By him.  More breakneck snow plowing at the limits of what my equipment would allow got us to the turn at the start of the Kahiltna Glacier proper.  We stopped to put our skins on, then turned uphill.  The week before the track was pristine, with nary a crevasse visible.  There had been two paths, one more direct than the other, but also in danger of having more crevasses as time went on.  The ranger had counseled that we take the less direct but safer path, and indeed we had.  On the way down, however, we had missed the turn and come down the direct route which was now something of a mess.  Hence Edward’s comments about imminent death.  This time going back up it was early morning, and we judged that we could risk the more direct line in the interests of saving time as the snow bridges would be firm.  True to form, we made it, but took careful note of where the turnoff was, so that on the way down, we would take the safer detour.  After all, if Edward succeeded in breaking the record, we would be back at the same place at the absolute worst time of day for crevasses.

Up we went.  For over an hour I never stopped my cadence of left-right-left, going as fast as I could without burning out and having to stop.  When younger I had been the third fasted miler in San Diego, and at 54 had run a marathon in 3:48 without practice.  Still, the plaintive calls came from behind, “Robert, go faster.”  Without stopping I yelled back, “Consider this an opportunity to conserve energy you’ll need later.”  When we finally reached the flats at the base of Ski Hill where Camp 1 is usually pitched, it was only 6 in the morning.  I stopped short of camp, and motioned for Edward to come forward.  The soles of both feet were sopped and just about to burst into blisters from the sweat and constant motion in boots designed for walking.  I asked Edward to unclip.  He said something to the effect that if he died, I should tell people he was nevertheless happy.  I asked if I could say hopeful things about his spiritual state at the funeral.  He said yes, gave me a hug, and hustled off toward the base of the hill.  He hadn’t gone 50 meters before his stopped and had his own camera dilemma.  He couldn’t find the spare chip for his hero cam, and spent 11 minutes poking around and erasing the one he’d already shot before he found the one he wanted.  I turned around and descended to the point where the flat is giving way to a downward slope, so that I would be able to point my tips downhill and move without skins or skating.

Which leads me to the most surreal day I’ve ever had.  Edward’s gone, a mere speck moving up Ski Hill.  I’m in the sleeping bag, radio on and balanced on my chest, trying to get a grip on how I got here.  Happily, the pressure and exertion of the prior week came crashing down, and I was able to slip into a dreamless state of unconsciousness.  I would awake to poke my eyes out and consider the scene.  I was in the very middle of the glacier, right where it bends down and the crevasses start.  I don’t dare get up and move around, because I’m unroped and alone.  From time to time people pass by on the trail, not twenty feet away.  They say nothing, no doubt thinking that I’m dead or crazy, and not wanting to find out which.  Around noon a man approaches with tortillas and a block of cheese.  He’s camped 100 meters uphill in a green tent, and is coming to investigate the corpse.  It’s Helias!  “Robert, c’est toi!”  I marvel at his ubiquity, and am sad to learn that a short foray looking for my camera at the base of the Autobahn had turned up nothing.  It had apparently lodged part way down, or landed in a crevasse.  I had promised Helias and his partner a sumptuous dinner if they would look for it, whether or not they found it.  No such luck, and he again refused my offer of a reward.  I declined the food, as I didn’t have much of an appetite.  In my solitary reverie I had realized that if Edward didn’t come back, my own drama was just beginning.  And he might not.  The bulk of the crevasse danger was passed, but there were still four yawners he would have to cross alone.  Then there was the possibility of an unroped fall while climbing, and ditto while skiing.  A fall while on the Autobahn or on the slopes below 17,000 feet would be fatal.  His equipment was necessarily a compromise, as it was very, very light to allow portage while still delivering a minimum of performance.  By his own admission the time in the Rescue Gully on the way up had revealed his new kit to be insufficient on glare ice, and barely good enough for really steep snow.  Then there was the weather.  It was a Friday, the last day of guaranteed good weather we would have.  Yet summit day was a mixed bag.  From my perch on the glacier, I was enjoying sun and dropping winds.  The mountain, however, was obscured in a patchwork of clouds that had an ominous darkness to them.  Edward had forgotten his bivey sack, which was safely buried in our cache back at Base Camp.  Instead, he had decided to make do with a garbage bag.  His only gear in addition to his skis were a set of lightweight crampons, a stove, a little fuel, gel squirts, some Lara and other candy bars, and my Mountain Hardware down poofy.  If everything went well, I would hear updates on the radio.  If it didn’t, my own adventure would just be beginning.

First of all there would be parents to inform.  That kind of thing can ruin your whole day, and then there would be Martha.  Although she was maintaining a strategic distance from Edward because of their spiritual disagreements, she was nevertheless very fond of him.  I had told her well before our own trip two years earlier that the Lord had told me she would meet her husband on the mountain.  When we met Edward at the Roadhouse Inn, I said, “Martha, we’ve been here ten minutes, and we’ve already met your guy!”  Our time with him before our departure had only confirmed their mutual attraction and compatibility.  When I recovered my car after our climb, Edward had changed the oil and filled the cooler with beer.  Great son-in-law material, I thought.  No sooner had we returned to civilization than the phone rang and Edward extended an invitation to visit him in Cheyenne on our way back to Arizona.  Needless to say, Martha was conflicted.  On the one hand she was thrilled.  Edward was handsome, smart, adventurous, well-educated (Tufts) and had an actual job babysitting nuclear missiles for the Air Force.  On the other hand, the National Geographic she had brought for the trip had an article about involuntary brides in India who enter into arranged marriages at the caprice of their parents.  During the two years in between Denali trips, the prospects for lasting union came and went with the times.  Edward had always said that his spiritual beliefs were subject to review, and that if there were some revelation forthcoming I would be the first to know.  I used all my evangelical arguments and techniques on him, but found him a tough nut.  Not that I wanted to crack him, but I wanted him to have what Martha and I had, as a gift, not a requirement.  I had to admire his consistency and his principles, and neither of us would ever dream of asking him to sacrifice them.

So here I was with my unregenerate erstwhile son-in-law where he had no right to be considering the conditions and his equipment.  If he doesn’t come back, it will be George Mallory all over again, wondering how long you wait before you give in to the inevitable.  At least on this mountain there will be witnesses.  Or will there?  Will he try to ski the whole way and risk another crevasse encounter, or will he down climb and do the slow but safe thing?  I’m semi-comatose, and something like five hours have passed since I made camp.  The radio crackles to life, and I gather Edward’s at Windy Corner.  That means he’s at about 13,000 feet, and although the bulk of the lateral travel is behind him, the real climbing is just starting.  Encouraged that he’s crossed two big crevasses, I return to hibernation.  Just how will I get back down if he falls?  I’ll have to wait until I can’t wait any longer, then ask to join a party descending.  I have a rope, but nobody to attach it to.  I am surprised by a bird that has seen my bright red bag, concluded that it must be empty, as no human would lie in the middle of a glacier, and has landed on it.  I instinctively grab for him, and he makes his escape.  Every once in awhile I have to pee.  I get on my knees, pull the bag down, and whizz into the snow next to the pad.  I admire my handiwork.  Do I write things with my urine, or do I bore a hole to China in one dedicated tunnel, which might lead to a crevasse and cause a collapse?  I think I’m going crazy with the boredom, but there’s always the thrill of what Edward’s up to.  Again, sleep descends and I jolted awake by the radio.  Edward’s voice is clear as he announces he’s on the summit ridge!  Holy Cow.  It’s been only about 10 and a half hours since he left me, and he’s made it to the top.  Something about storm clouds, but it’s garbled.  I float like a leaf.  But now the danger’s really starting, as he’s going to get on his skis, and I’m sure he’s beaten to shit by the climb.

I decide to cook dinner.  Hmmm…..  Mountain House, Oriental something or other.  Suited to what Edward’s now doing, the Orient Express.  Or the Rescue Gully.  I pray he shows wisdom and tact when making the choice.  I’m careful to avoid the now abundant yellow snow when making dinner.  The noise of the stove is intrusive in my little world of numb whiteness.  I perch it on ski poles to keep it from melting into the snow.  Don’t want to spill it, because I’m going to need energy to move fast when and if Edward shows.  Dinner is surprisingly good.  Wish Martha and I had this stuff when we were climbing the mountain; we would have been in an entirely different mind set.  I clean up and become a mummy once again.  The radio disturbs my postprandial relaxation.  Edward’s still alive!  He must be past the tough stuff, and sure enough, he says he’s at the bottom of Motorcycle Hill.  No sooner do I break contact than I realize what this means.  He’s only about five miles and 3,000 feet above me.  On skis, he’s could be here in a matter of minutes.  I jump out of the bag, put my shell back on, and break camp.  This means I roll up my Thermarest.  The skis loom like an executioner’s gallows.  I ask for divine assistance in getting down the mountain.  Although I have a pack, it’s light, and I don’t have a sled.  Those damned gravity magnets allow you to climb Denali, but they strip away all joy in the process.  I put on my gear and shuffle over to the trail.  The rope gets carefully coiled so I can just hand Edward the knot in the end and off we go.  I ask the Lord to make it so that no matter what, I don’t slow Edward down.  I’m starting to get excited.  Edward will probably live.  The last crevasse he has to pass is at the top of Ski Hill, and he’ll be moving so fast he can probably make it across before the snow bridge gives way.  Two years before one of my friends, one of the Hillbillies as they called their expedition, had fallen into this same crack up to his arms.  But Edward is on skis, and would be flying.

Visions of pitchers are dancing in my head as the radio blurts out, “Where the hell are you?”  I’ve moved down the slope a quarter mile from where we parted, and Edward’s pissed.  I give him a general explanation, and it’s not two minutes before he heaves into view, moving with a freshness and power I would never have expected.  Nor do I expect the wry smile that greets me when he pulls up to take the rope.  “Do you realize you’re at sixteen hours?” I ask.  He replies in the affirmative, and off I go, in the lead as the guinea pig of snow bridges.  With the lighter load and the prospect of alcohol, I move like the wind.  No need to make any efforts at braking, the slope is gentle enough that the only problem is keeping our distance constant.  Edward yells something and I feel the rope go tight.  A staggering parallel stop and I hear Edward castigating me about looking out for the turn off to safer terrain.  Of course I’m looking, as my ass is on the line, too.  We take off and there it is, a quarter of a mile away.  We take the turn and face less of a slope and unfortunately, less speed.  I glide where I can and skate where I must.  I use my best downhill racing techniques to keep my bases flat and edges inert.  After what seems like ages we come to a flat section where two Russians are floundering in the snow with a partially submerged sled.  They’re on their way up, and the look of disgust on their faces makes me happy we came earlier in the season.  They motion for us to pass them, but they’re in the middle of the trail, and all around them is the dark slop of snow melting above a crevasse.  Edward’s shouting some nonsense about helping them, but they look okay to me, and I’m thinking about Edward’s record.  Young people today are so damned sensitive, they don’t know that sometimes it’s okay to be selfish.  So off I go into the slop around them, skirting the biggest turd I’ve ever seen in the snow.  Impressive as it is, it is hard to avoid as my skis slide back and forth in the crenellated muck.  I try to think light thoughts as I spastically lurch across the gap.  Edward keeps a tight line to my rear until I reach the other side.  It’s only about 40 feet, but it seems like an eternity.  Finally I’m across, and straining to move away from the danger while offering a belay for my partner.  He’s shouting to move, and without skins, I’m a snowbound Sisyphus.  Finally, he’s across too and we recommence our maniacal skating to the bottom of heartbreak hill.  At its base we reskin and start up the hill.  I’m shouting to Edward to pass me, but he says there’s still crevasse danger, and that I in turn am the one who should hurry up.  When we’re well onto the slope, Edward relents and passes me.  When he gets to the end of the rope, he unclips and takes off on his own.  I take the opportunity to radio the Base Camp manager and warn them that Edward’s coming into camp in the near future.  Edward had made friends with the camp staff and had sheepishly admitted to his ambitions before the attempt.  As it was still working hours, they could serve as witnesses to his time of return.  I then put in a selfish pitch to have them call our plane and see if we could get off the mountain tonight.  Not possible, said she, as the Talkeetna airport closes at 10 pm.  One more night of winter camping, but at least we would be able to revel in lives risked and redeemed, and records broken.  I pushed as hard as I could into camp, to find I was only about 10 minutes slower than the cyborg.  He was relaxing, clearly amused at my physical discomfort.  Warm congratulations, and I break out the Glenfarclas 18 year old scotch I had brought for just this occasion.  His time was 12:29 going up, and 16:46 round trip.

Morning brought great weather, and the chilling news that Talkeetna was socked in, and that Edward had us flying with the only carrier who wasn’t instrument rated.  Fervent prayers carried the day, however, and our plane was the fourth one onto the snow.  Nothing can compare with the sensation that courses through one’s weary bones when the skis on the plane touch the snow for the last time.  The ride back was the usual revelation of the color green seen as if for the first time, and the skill of the pilot as he tuned the fuel mixture and trim of the Beaver.  Back in the hotel, Edward passed out for unexplained reasons, and I went hunting for a gift to commemorate his accomplishment.  I found it in a kitsch shop when the proprietress brought out a 50th Anniversary poster commemorating the FA of the West Buttress route.  These posters sell for $20 at the Ranger station, but this one was special.  It was signed by Bradford Washburn and his wife.  The $200 price was trivial, and I got it for The Man.

Turns out the Bishop of Alaska was more discreet than valiant, and decided to forego the ascent.  Several Episcopal descendants of the first ascent party nevertheless made the climb by the original route, and summited about a month later.  The other speed attempts failed, one by virtue of congestion on the fixed lines, which they intended to use.  As this record was being set, Chad Kellogg was on Everest, attempting to set a new record on that mountain.  Word is that he was stymied by weather.  Chad was killed by rock fall in 2014 while climbing Fitz Roy in Patagonia.  Soon thereafter Edward’s record was “broken” by Kilian Jornet, a professional mountain runner and climber, who was accompanied by three other climbers.  He reported in an American Alpine club publication in 2015 that he left base camp with a liter of water, but that he would “refill” his water bottle at 14,200 feet, though his list of pack items did not include a stove or fuel.  His web site says that he does his climbs completely unaided.  I emailed him to ask him about this apparent inconsistency, but received no answer.

Edward’s teaser on the speed ascent: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuHWUttL3Pc

Edward’s descent in 2011:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPDDUEJBVwQ