The Old Days

Summit, Nov.-Dec., 1984

By Ken Nolan

I met Jim on the evening of June 11th. We strolled along the Boulder mall and talked about the old days. They really weren't so long ago. Franz, Steve, and Turan had been dead only two years; Doug, just over a year. Paul was living in Fairbanks. We talked mostly about what had happened to us and spent little time remembering the others.

Seven of us had attempted a new route on the north side of Mt. Logan in the Yukon. It was a mixed ridge and face climb between Centennial Ridge and Amenity Ridge. We didn't make it.

The trip began innocently enough. We waited out the weather for three days in Whitehorse before flying in to the Logan Glacier. Hard work and unusually good weather allowed rapid progress. Camp 2 was established at about 12,000 feet before things turned nasty. The technical difficulties weren't extreme, just serious enough to make it interesting.

Camp 3 was above the last of the exciting pitches. We carved platforms out of a 30° slope beneath an ice cliff at 15,500 feet. Concrete snow and interlaced crevasses argued against the security of caves. The slopes above looked gentle and safe. The face dropped off abruptly several hundred feet below. Our three tents were sited to take advantage of a soft ridge above the cliff. Anything coming down would be deflected to the side. Our primary concern was the wind. Solid walls guarded the tents.

Conditions on the morning of June 11, 1982 promised a lazy day. It had been snowing heavily for more than 30 hours. Several feet of new snow had accumulated around Camp 3. The tents had been dug out repeatedly and were almost hidden in deep pits. Visibility was restricted to a few yards. No wind excited the falling snow. It was fairly warm, perhaps 15 or 20 degrees. We would be tentbound for another day.

The guys in the big tent were doing breakfast for the group. Cereal was delivered and hot water announced. I rolled over in my sleeping bag and decided to get up. I could take care of my dump for the day and bring back some hot water for drinks. It would be good to be outside for a few minutes. Wool pants, light shirt, Gore-tex shell, down booties, and polypro gloves would be sufficient for a momentary excursion. Doug mumbled a few words and settled back in his bag. I left the tent at about 10:45.

Jim was getting out of the tent he shared with Paul. The 10-foot descent to the big tent and half-buried latrine was tricky in booties. Franz was sitting at the tent door tending the stove. He was wearing that old green and black wool shirt and patched pants. Steve and Turan were inside. We talked quietly for a few minutes while I filled a water bottle. The roar of the stove was muffled by the thickly falling flakes.

...tumbling, snow in my face, falling...huh! ahhh!...snow, avalanche!...finished? yes...ahhh! no, more...tumbling, falling...swim, stay above it…"Help!"...oh, no, cliffs below!...stop yourself, don't get buried...tumbling...oh, please, not over the cliffs..."Help!"...swim to the side, can't do it, do it!...snow everywhere...fight it, come on Ken...rolling, please, no...damn...slowing? yes...okay, okay...whew! whew!...

I stopped. Jim was a few feet below me to the left. I couldn't see how close we were to the edge. I didn't care. We started back up the slope. The climbing was difficult in booties on the steep avalanche debris. We seemed to go up a long way. The camp remained hidden. The upper ice cliff appeared, indistinct through the snow-clogged air, its base covered now by new snow. Understanding was sudden. The tents weren't there anymore.

We had to dig. We didn't know where. The slope was unbrokenly smooth. We got at it with our hands. Jim stepped on the right spot and broke through to Paul. He was alive. We now had a reference. I started digging for the tent I'd shared with Doug. I could hear someone yelling, sounding far away. Jim joined me and stepped through onto Doug's head. I knew then that we'd find them all alive. Everything would be all right.

It took a few minutes to get Doug out. Paul was able to free himself. We attacked the site of the big tent. The snow was too hard for hands. Someone found an ice axe and probe pole. The probe found only snow. We dug more quickly. The wind began to blow.

The hole was three feet deep. We could feel the tent much lower with the probe. It was noon. We took turns hacking and scooping at the bottom. Spindrift swirled. We were less excited, more businesslike. We feared the pit. The slopes above would unload again. The person in the hole would have no chance.

Paul went off to excavate his tent. Doug had no gloves. He was digging with booties on his hands. The pit was deeper. It was difficult to bend over to dig. We tired more quickly. Somebody had vomited on the snow. We played musical chairs with the pit. Nobody hesitated.

Doug sat shivering on the snow with his hands and feet in something. The snow fell heavily, softer than the spindrift lashing our bare faces. We reached the tent about seven feet down. There was no air pocket. It was about 1:00. Jim ripped the fabric with the ice axe, revealing blue polypro covering legs. More digging uncovered Steve's face. He was dead. The wind rose to a shriek.

...Jim's digging again, trying to free Steve, hard work..sit him up? why? doesn't understand?...still trying to move him, get him out, 190 pounds?...Doug's very cold, sitting there trying to hide from the wind, Paul's roaming around, doesn't want to look in the hole...what are we doing?…"Jim, it's 1:20." ...looks confused, not digesting it, still thinks we're going to revive Steve, save the others…It's been more than two hours now."...doesn't understand, slow dawning…"Sometime before 11:00. Yeah, two and a half hours."...it's coming, not shock really, just looks suddenly very tired...I'm getting very cold, I'm soaked, nasty spindrift...we're just standing here, not saying anything. Jim's eyes are twitching...guess it's all over...three people are dead...I can see Steve, snow's covering him up again, hole's filling fast...Franz and Turan are somewhere under there, not far, right at my feet...accepting it, not sad, just very wet and getting very cold...spindrift is beating me...

Paul tied into a rope and looked for a safe spot amongst the cliffs and crevasses. Jim belayed. There really wasn't any choice. A slightly overhanging cliff afforded the only protection. It was about one hundred feet above and to the left of the original camp. Crampons had been needed to reach it two days earlier. Three or four feet of snow now covered the steep ice slope. Paul hacked out a tiny platform on the lower lip of a crevasse. I tried to dig down and salvage some gear from my tent. Snow, wind, and spindrift made everything impossible.

I managed to pull Doug's sleeping bag out of the wreckage. Climbing the slope was difficult. Jim was tied in. Doug grabbed the rope around his waist. I tried to hold on to Doug and the sleeping bag with hands turning quickly to wood. I kept slipping on the icy base in my booties and sliding back down over my head in the snow. The down bag was soon filled with snow. My booties kept coming off. At the bivy site, Doug got into his bag with all the snow and tried to warm up. The spindrift found every gap.

Jim and I went back down. I burrowed in the snow and found my sleeping bag. Jim grabbed Paul's bivy sack and another bag. Reclimbing the hill took a long time. All our gear was wet. The wind tore at the bags. We anchored the bivy sack with the axe to keep from sliding off. The sack ripped as I got into it with Doug and Paul. We tried to cover our faces. We started to hyperventilate. Paul scrambled out. I held the bivy sack open for air. The snow poured in. It was 5:00.

We settled down. My feet started to freeze. I couldn't stop shivering. We talked a little as the snow began to cover us. I concentrated on wiggling my fingers and toes. We played word games to stay awake. "Geography" was the best, the new word starts with the last letter of the previous word. The hours passed.

...shivering...keep wiggling..."England? Detroit"...concentrate, stay awake...they really are dead, Franz had some kids..."Ohio?"...endless night, just make it 'til morning...wiggle...been in some hairy spots during the past 34 years, this tops them...shivering..."San Diego"...burning too many calories, stop shaking..."Great Salt Lake"...am I going to last the night?...endless, worse than that time in the leanto on the Appalachian Trail..."Phoenix"...that'll make him think...joints can't take much more of this, no choice...can't keep the snow off my face...another a?..."Atlantic"...just have to make it to the morning..."Paul! Come on, Paul, Stay awake. A y. Your turn."...damn, shivering...wiggle...everything will be all right in the morning...wiggle...

Morning was difficult to detect. The wind and spindrift went on without noticing. We passed our pain threshold at about 9:30. Jim tied on the frozen rope. He slid down among the crevasses to try excavating Paul's tent again. I followed after awhile, grabbing the rope with my armpit and trying to keep my feet while swimming through the new snow. We couldn't drag the broken tent shell. We tied it to the rope. Jim hacked steps in the ice for his big toe inside his booties. We pushed the ungainly load up the hill while Paul took up slack. I tried to grab Jim's clothes with my elbows. My hands weren't much use at that point.

We chopped a bit more of a platform and anchored the tent. There were more holes than fabric. We plugged some of them with the useless, frozen-solid down bags. We sat there all that day and the next night. The storm played outside and in. I kept wiggling. Another avalanche slid over the original camp during the evening. We didn't say much.

The snow ended and the wind dropped in the morning. Jim and Paul weren't too bad. I could only stand up for a minute or two at a time before getting dizzy. Doug wasn't much better. A shovel was found and the big tent uncovered about eight feet down. It yielded the radio, a stove, and some bodies. The stove worked. The radio didn't.

Our first food and water in over 48 hours was difficult to keep down. It must have done some good. Another storm was moving in. It was beginning to snow. We had to get off the face. My boots would only go on about halfway over my swollen feet. I tied them on with the crampon straps and fumbled around in high heels. We loaded up with 80-90 pounds each. It was 6:00. I said goodbye to Franz. We started down on two ropes.

The descent to 12,500 feet took 7 1/2 hours. Our wands had been swept away or covered. Steep ice pitches alternated with waist-deep snow. We traversed slopes primed to slide again. There was nowhere else to go.

...Paul half in a hidden crevasse, I didn't know, not communicating well...tripping myself at the base of an ice wall, get up, can't lie here on your face...forever, waist-deep, concentrate, don't fall over, you'll never get up again...weaving among half-seen crevasses, strange arctic semi-darkness, please, please, nobody fall in...staggering, a nightmare of exhaustion, last hundred yards to a safe campsite, pack crushing me, dehydration cough, spasms through failing body, level grade almost more than I can manage, big strong man is coming apart...iced supergaiters, knife won't work in wooden hands, frustration tears, Jim to the rescue...falling asleep, none for 65 hours, very cold, will to resist ebbing quickly now...

Morning brought a brief clearing. Black, frostbitten feet brought a sickly gasp and resignation. The radio worked occasionally through heavy interference. A helicopter flew over and dropped some gear and food, then flew off. Disappointment was intense. It snowed for the next two days.

A break in the clouds allowed us to be plucked off. Moraine rocks were blessed pleasure. The low-level flight over the Yukon glaciers prompted touristy sighs somewhat at odds with the circumstances. Spring grass smells at Haines Junction were almost too much to take. Doug and I were flown to the hospital in Whitehorse. TV cameras and reporters were the final blow to our overloaded senses. There were phone calls to make...

Jim and I stopped to drink a beer. The Boulder evening was fading into a soft spring night. We didn't feel particularly nostalgic. The beautiful people walked by. We talked quietly, remembering some things and smiling or shaking our heads. It was good.

I spent our first anniversary on the Tullparaju Glacier below Chinchey in the Cordillera Blanca. Jim and Paul were up in Alaska. Doug missed making it by a week. He crashed his glider above Eldorado Canyon. Contrary to the hopes of wives and lovers and mothers and friends, we know that precious life is best guarded by living it fully.

I don't have many technical climbing goals these days. I remain a diehard altitude junkie and mountain wanderer. I am pretty handy with an ice axe. I'm not fond of serious routes, but a good scramble on a high peak is more fun than just about anything. I love Peru and Bolivia. I'd like to go back to the Yukon. I still have dreams for the big ones. I don't think about the old days very often. I'm happy with my life.