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To Melissa, who believed in me when I didn’t, and to my father, who knew that putting more people at risk would not save those who were already gone.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Wilcox Expedition
PROLOGUE
A STRANGER IN THE WILDERNESS
CHAPTER 1
THOSE WHO CAME BEFORE
CHAPTER 2
WHAT MAKES AN EXPEDITION?
CHAPTER 3
A DOZEN KIDS
CHAPTER 4
TROUBLE AT THE BASE
CHAPTER 5
FROM A CREVASSE TO BROTHERHOOD
CHAPTER 6
A RUN FOR IT
FOUR MONTHS BEFORE AND 15,000 FEET BELOW
CHAPTER 8
HOWLING
CHAPTER 9
SPLIT APART
CHAPTER 10
AN ICE AX IN THE SNOW
CHAPTER 11
WHOSE SON?
CHAPTER 12
WHAT CHANGED
CHAPTER 13
THIRTY YEARS AFTER
EPILOGUE
MEMORY IN A LIFETIME
Acknowledgments
Notes
Index
Photographs
THE WILCOX EXPEDITION*
JOE WILCOX, twenty-four years old
HOMETOWN: Provo, Utah
OCCUPATION: Graduate student studying mathematics
EXPERIENCE: More than fifty ascents above 10,000 feet; Mount Rainier National Park Rescue Team rope leader; snow, glacier, and crevasse training; participant in several rescue operations
SUMMITS: Tooth of Time, Clear Creek Mountain, Baldy Mountain, Touch-Me-Not Mountain, Wheeler Peak, Mount Rainier, Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, Mount Hood, Mount Olympus, Mount Timpanogos, Mount Nebo
STEVE TAYLOR, twenty-three years old
HOMETOWN: Mount Prospect, Illinois
OCCUPATION: Graduated May 1967 with a bachelor’s degree in physics
EXPERIENCE: Snow cave building, mountain-rescue techniques class, member of Brigham Young University Rescue Team, outdoor survival class, first aid training, ice climbing experience, instructor for BYU Alpine Club winter mountaineering school
SUMMITS: Mount Timpanogos, Mount Nebo, Mount Rainier
MARK MCLAUGHLIN, twenty-four years old
HOMETOWN: Eugene, Oregon
OCCUPATION: Part-time student
EXPERIENCE: Cross-country and alpine skiing; Eugene Unit Leader, Mountain Rescue and Safety Council of Oregon Alpine Club; Climbing Committee chairman, Eugene, Oregon, Obsidians club
SUMMITS: Mount Olympus, Middle Olympus, Mount Rainier, Mount Washington, Three Fingered Jack, Mount Jefferson, Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, Mount Hood
JERRY CLARK, thirty-one years old
HOMETOWN: Eugene, Oregon
OCCUPATION: Electrical engineer
EXPERIENCE: Thirteen years’ climbing experience; two six-month stints in Antarctica—duties included climbing and ice-safety instructor for the United States Antarctic Program; mountain leader, Purdue Outing Club; University of Oregon Alpine Club; University of Wisconsin Hoofer Mountaineering Club; Eugene Oregon Obsidians Club Rescue Team
SUMMITS: Grand Teton, Mount Owen, Hagerman Peak, Medicine Mountain, Symmetry Spire, Pinnacle Peak, Middle Teton, Mount Moran, Mount Oldenburg, Gannett Peak, Mount Oliver, Pingora Peak, Mount Rainier, Mount Jefferson, North Sister, Mount Adams, Mount Hood
ANSHEL SCHIFF, thirty years old
HOMETOWN: West Lafayette, Indiana
OCCUPATION: Assistant college professor of engineering sciences
EXPERIENCE: Backpacking and scrambling western US mountains; Sierra Club Rock and Snow Climbing School; rock climbing at Devil’s Lake, Wisconsin, and Mississippi Palisades
SUMMITS: Grand Teton, Tahquitz Rock, Fingertip Traverse, Pingora Peak
HANK JANES, twenty-five years old
HOMETOWN: Portland, Oregon
OCCUPATION: Teacher
EXPERIENCE: Climbed several of Colorado’s 14,000-foot peaks; winter camping and ski mountaineering; experience in technical ice climbing; Mountain Rescue and Safety Council of Oregon
SUMMITS: Shadow Peak, Longs Peak, Mount Hood, Capitol Peak, Mount Sneffels, Mount Adams, Three Fingered Jack, Crestone Needle, Mount Rainier, Mount St. Helens, Grand and Middle Tetons
DENNIS LUCHTERHAND, twenty-three years old
HOMETOWN: Madison, Wisconsin
OCCUPATION: Graduate student studying geology
EXPERIENCE: Mountain leader, University of Wisconsin Hoofer Mountaineering Club; snowshoeing, backpacking, and winter camping near Lake Superior
SUMMITS: East Lester Peak, Middle Lester Peak, West Lester Peak, Jackson Peak, Ice Point, Mount St. John, Disappointment Peak, Teewinot Mountain, Cloudveil Dome, Buck Mountain, Rockchuck Peak, Gannett Peak, Mount St. Helens, Mount Sacagawea, Winifred Peak, Fremont Peak, Wilder Freiger, Grossvenediger, Rainer Horn, Schwarze Wand, Hoher Zaun, Kristallwand, Mount Rainier
WALT TAYLOR, twenty-four years old
HOMETOWN: West Lafayette, Indiana
OCCUPATION: Student; completed his second year of medical school and simultaneously working on a master’s degree in philosophy
EXPERIENCE: Three years as a technical climbing instructor at Ashcrofters mountaineering school; extensive alpine skiing experience
SUMMITS: Hagerman Peak, Disappointment Peak, Mount Owen, Grand Teton, Capitol Peak, Middle Teton, Pinnacle Peak, Lincoln Gulch Split Rock, Snowmass Peak
JOHN RUSSELL, twenty-three years old
HOMETOWN: Auburn, Washington
OCCUPATION: Logger
EXPERIENCE: Two-week solo hike in the High Sierra; carried one-hundred-pound loads above 10,000 feet; assisted in mountain-rescue operations
SUMMITS: Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, Mount Rainier, Mount Baker, Mount Shuksan, Mount Hood, Mount Whitney, Pillars of Hercules, Mount Yoran, The Tooth
HOWARD SNYDER, twenty-two years old
HOMETOWN: Boulder, Colorado
OCCUPATION: College graduate; studied geography and geology
EXPERIENCE: Led twenty-four climbs on Longs Peak; climbed thirteen other 14,000-foot peaks in Colorado; numerous winter climbs above 14,000 feet; winter camping, snowshoeing, ice climbing, and glacier travel experience; climbing leader for Colorado Mountain Club Canadian Outing
SUMMITS: Matterhorn, Monte Rosa, Mont Blanc, Aiguilles de Triolet, Mönch, Jungfrau, Eiger, Mount Brazeau, Charlton Peak, Mount Unwin, Orizaba, Popocatépetl, Iztaccihuatl
PAUL SCHLICHTER, twenty-two years old
HOMETOWN: Lakewood, Colorado
OCCUPATION: US Air Force cadet
EXPERIENCE: Extensive climbing on Colorado’s 14,000-plus peaks, US Air Force one- and four-week survival training; US Army Mountain Troops Climbing School training student, US Army Mountain Troops Climbing School instructor
SUMMITS: Longs Peak, Middle Teton, Orizaba, Popocatépetl, Iztaccihuatl
JERRY LEWIS, thirty years old
HOMETOWN: Boulder, Colorado
OCCUPATION: Army veteran; college student studying electrical engineering
EXPERIENCE: Rock climbing, snowshoe travel, and ice climbing experience; cold-weather camping in Greenland; climbed several of Colorado’s 14,000-plus peaks
SUMMITS: Navajo Peak, Longs Peak, Snowmass Peak, Boulder Flatirons
PROLOGUE
A STRANGER IN THE WILDERNESS
Joe Wilcox may not have been the first man to reach the summit of Denali, but on Saturday afternoon, July 15, 1967, he felt like it. A rare clear day reigned on the mountain outsiders call Mount McKinley. Wilcox and his three companions had savored it for the last few hours as they trudged upward on crusty, wind-carved snow. Atop the continent, Joe’s deep-set eyes swept over the Alaska Range—some of the tallest and most rugged peaks in North America—reduced to so many white waves of rock and ice lapping at the mountain’s base. But along with the grandeur there was an edge of tension. After twenty-seven days on the mountain, Wilcox knew that the window of good weather could close just as quickly as it had opened. The four men on the summit, along with the rest of their twelve-man team waiting for their turn just a couple of thousand feet below, had no time to waste.
Wilcox had been on the mountain for nearly a month, and as he approached the summit the final steps seemed insignificant when compared to the tremendous effort the team had made to get there. The sweeping panorama instilled in him a sense of gratitude. He had worked hard, but that hard work did not guarantee success; he felt lucky.
Two weather systems had been developing as Wilcox and his companions worked their way toward the summit: one to the northeast and one to the southwest. Rainclouds mustered over the Beaufort Sea, a stretch of ice-bound ocean that spans 1,200 unbroken miles between Alaska’s North Slope and the North Pole. In those days the sea was largely devoid of human traffic, save the occasional Eskimo* hunter. The low-pressure system spun to life and grew in intensity as it marched southwest carrying potent moisture-laden winds toward the Alaska Range. At the same time an equally strong high-pressure system developed over the Aleutian Islands, a windswept, treeless archipelago, known by mariners as the Cradle of Storms, southwest of Denali. The development and location of both weather systems at that time of year was unusual.
These massive weather systems, separated by a thousand miles of forest, mountain, tundra, and taiga, were on a collision course, headed straight toward Joe Wilcox.
On the summit at an elevation of 20,320 feet, Wilcox watched wind-whipped cirrus clouds high above him. These clouds marked the margins of the two massive weather systems as they began to brush against each other. In a matter of hours one of the most violent storms ever recorded on the mountain would engulf the peak and leave seven of Joe Wilcox’s twelve-man expedition dead.
Joe stood six foot one inch tall. He was twenty-four years old.
I was five. I don’t know why my dad took me along on the drive in his light-green Park Service sedan deep into the park that midsummer night. It might have been because I’d been cooped up in the house by days of rain, or maybe he just wanted the company of his son. Whatever the reason, there I was, wearing my red-topped rubber boots next to Dad on the wide bench seat as we weaved along the endless muddy road deep inside Mount McKinley National Park. Two more light-green park vehicles, with rangers at the wheels, followed behind. With the sun low on the horizon it was light out, but low-hanging clouds obscured Denali and the alpine vistas that flanked the road. The small black spruce and willow trees, stunted by the high altitude and latitude, marched up the hillsides and disappeared into the mist as we passed by. The creek beds roiled with muddy, brown water from bank to bank, the result of the steady rain that had not yet stopped.
Most of the time, I loved riding shotgun with Dad. He was a gregarious man who sang while he drove, mostly military songs he learned in the Army Air Corps during World War II. When he wasn’t singing, “Over hill, over dale, as we hit the dusty trail . . .” he was whistling, telling stories, pointing out landmarks and wildlife, or expounding on historical facts that were usually without much meaning to my young mind. I’d lean against him on the seat and steer the car while he kept us on the road with his thumbs secretly pressed against the bottom of the steering wheel.
That night, he was a different man. His National Park Service–issue tan Stetson sat between us on the seat; it rarely left the hat rack at park headquarters. I was used to being quiet, since he usually did all the talking, but this time Dad was almost as mute as I was. The air hung heavy with the absence of his chatter and gave the car a closed-in, somber feel. He whistled a little at first, but the songs trailed off, like his heart wasn’t in it. Soon the rhythm of the windshield wipers and the slosh and ping of the muddy gravel road under our wheels was our only accompaniment.
We drove far into the park, the distance elongated by the strange silence, and finally stopped at a pullout near a rain-swollen river. Dad got out, slipped a green raincoat over his uniform, and huddled with the other men. The air was sharply cool and carried the tang of freshly cut earth. I noticed places where the riverbank had fallen into rushing water. Bored, I walked toward the river, tossed in sticks, and watched the current sweep them away. The last time we’d stopped here on a family outing, the river looked completely different—a series of gravel bars laced with narrow braids of flowing water. Now it was a single channel of brown water, wider than the park road.
Dad returned to my side, but the others waited in their vehicles with engines idling and headlights shining in the rainy gloom. We ambled slowly along the swollen river. I skipped stones while Dad trailed behind, one eye on me while he scanned up and down the riverbank. He didn’t join in the rock skipping or find flat rocks for me; I was on my own. The turbulent water made skipping difficult, so I turned my attention to bigger rocks, heaving in big clunkers to hear the satisfying thunk and the muffled, bowling-alley crashes as they careened along the rocky riverbed in the swift current.
We were nearly out of sight of the vehicles when Dad looked up and suddenly stiffened.
“Andy, get back to the car,” he said. “Now.”
I froze and looked at him in confusion.
He didn’t look back at me but gazed downstream. “Go,” he said, calmly but firmly.
I turned, took a step, and promptly tripped and fell onto the rocks. I saw blood trickle onto my palms. He moved quickly and grabbed my hand, took two strides, and then swung me ahead of him, repeating the process as we scrambled over the rocks and driftwood along the riverbank. He set me down on a sandy stretch and I ran, but I was too small to keep up, so he reached down and grabbed my hand again. I held his hand with both of mine, lifted my feet off of the ground, and ventured a look behind as he swung me ahead toward the idling cars. Far downstream, maybe a couple hundred yards, a dark, hulking sh
ape had emerged from the brush along the river and loped toward us.
Grizzly bear, I thought. He never said the words, but I was pretty sure Dad was thinking the same thing.
Fear seized me. I’d seen plenty of grizzly bears, but always from the safety of our car, never on foot with nothing between us but rain and wind. Children who lived in the park were warned to retreat indoors at the first sign of the big animal. Doors to the homes in the small enclave that surrounded park headquarters were not locked, and we all understood that it was OK to enter any home at any time, if necessary, to avoid wildlife. Running wasn’t advised when encountering a bear, but we’d also been told that when refuge is close, it’s always wise to seek it. Dad was following that advice. Paralyzed with fear and dangling from Dad’s grip like a rag doll, I looked backward rather than forward, watching the intruder’s slow progress as Dad hustled us to where the others waited.
Back in the car, we watched as the dark shape shambled along the bank where we had stood minutes earlier. Just as suddenly as he had grabbed my hand and retreated, Dad relaxed, his shoulders slumping and the firm, set line of his lips upturning in relief. He opened the door and walked toward the approaching figure as it came into focus. I stayed in the backseat, still scared, even though I could see that it was no grizzly but a man wearing a huge backpack and caped by a billowing brown rain poncho.
Mountaineers were rare in those days. About twenty came to the park each year to climb, and they were enigmas to me, even more unusual than the moose and bear and sheep that frequented this two-million-acre wilderness preserve. Somehow I knew he was a climber, though he was the first one I’d seen. He was tall and his wet clothes hung loosely on his lean frame. I peered over the dashboard to get a closer look at this rare creature, taking in his unbuttoned flannel shirt, mud-covered high-water pants, thick-knuckled fingers, and battered boots. At first I thought he was as ancient as Dad, but when he turned his head and saw me watching him, he smiled. His teeth were dazzling against his brown beard and sunburned face, and I realized he was not much older than the teenage boys who lived next door.