A SENSE OF WHIMSY
by Eric Sanford, Ascent 1984

Big Mac is the affectionate name given to two hundred trillion tons of rock sandwiched between one hundred trillion tons of ice and covered with half a trillion tons of garbage.  Some have called it Mount McKinley; the natives named it Danolly, the Smelly One.  I called it crazy while wondering what the hell I was doing in the village of Talkeetna, waiting with three friends for the flight to the base of the great white mountain.  I knew I would be in for some strange experiences; McKinley is not only noted for its weather but for its oddball human element.

The undeniable fact that Denali - to use the more proper native name - is the highest peak in North America, as well as the continued misconception that a "tourist" route leads to the summit, lures an endless horde of naive mountaineers to Talkeetna each spring and summer.  A more comical mishmash odd misfits could only be found in Chamonix, Kathmandu, or JFK International.  Misfits are basically harmless at those places, but at Denali a forty-minute flight deposits unprepared and bewildered climbers smack in the middle of ten thousand square miles of rock and ice; the shock when arriving is substantial (at least in the Himalaya one must spend a few weeks walking to get to the mountains - there's no other way).  Technically, Denali offers a choice: the purists and the foolish walk, but the lazy ones - say ninety-nine percent of the total - choose to fly.

April 16 brought good fortune.  After only one day of waiting in Talkeetna, Cliff Hudson, fresh from a nonstop, thirty-eight-hour poker game, shoved the four of us and our gear into his two-seater plane.  My headrest was a can of "Chateau de Chevron."

The bobbing and weaving airplane made a final dive and slammed down onto the glacier, I plopped out of the plane like the cork from a bottle of champagne and rolled off into the snow, stiff and green.  Cliff lit a cigarette, gazed wistfully into the sky, and wondered if he could get in at least ten more trips before dark.

Suddenly the horizon was alive with commotion and color.  Running and stumbling toward us, screaming insanely and waving their arms wildly, were ten Japanese.  We stood staring in amazement; it was a sight reminiscent of northern Iwo Jima.  As they got closer, I tried to decipher their spirited yelling: it sounded like "sticket" or "cricket" or, perhaps, "picket."  Picket?  Aha, that was it.  Picket!  But what did it mean?  Were they all on strike?  Were they building a fence?  Was it the name of some Caucasian general who had offended their ancestors?  I got ready to dive back into the plane.

Our visitors were climbing all over themselves, each trying to be the first to grab our attention.  A leader emerged and, in his fastest and most polite Japanese, recited the history of the world, or something similar.  When I appeared puzzled, he started all ever.  One word kept popping up in his story: picket.  And the crazy fellow kept pointing up at the Cassin Ridge.

Finally it dawned on me what was going on.  Pickets!  The guy wanted our pickets.  When I pointed questioningly toward our pile of gear, the entire group began jumping up and down, jabbering all the while.  Planning their trip in Japan, they had misinterpreted the Park Service equipment list and brought two dozen tomato stakes instead of climbing pickets.  Finding them somewhat unsuitable for ice belays on the Cassin Ridge, the Japanese were willing to barter anything in their possession.  I declined their offers until I was hoarse.  I didn't plan to create an international incident, but what were we supposed to use if we gave them our pickets - tomato stakes?

Hudson, standing by his plane and ready to leap in if a rumble developed, had a don't-you-little-devils-even-consider-it look on his face as he watched one of the Japanese troops fondling a wing strut.  The leader launched into another tirade that I was sure was his technical explanation about how easily the plane could fly minus those cumber-some struts.  Wouldn't Hudson enjoy seeing his struts put to the honorable cause of helping conquer the mountain?

Finally we escaped.  Hudson escaped.  The contingent from the Land of the Rising Sun retired to their huge, camouflaged World War II tent to plan their next move.

The next day began late.  Actually, the day began on time, but we were a bit slow realizing it. The temperature at eight o'clock hovered at thirty below; since it was early spring, the sun didn't hit our edge of the glacier until midmorning.  We spent the late-morning hours warming up and organizing our loads; we knew we should take advantage of the clear weather to move some gear up toward the mountain.

It was easy traveling along the glacier, and we sang and laughed and snapped pictures.  The singing and laughing ceased, however, as the route began attacking the mountain in earnest.  Above the first rise - the first of several thousand to come - was a rather strange sight: either the Park Service had set up a raven-feeding station or else someone's food cache was being vigorously and thoroughly trashed by the huge scavengers.  Half a dozen immense birds, obviously well fed, were screeching and fighting over every scrap of food.  What had once been the supplies for ten climbers was now a chaotic mess strewn over several acres.  I made a mental note the bury our supplies ten feet deep, not wishing to face the embarrassment of later having to explain that our failure was due to ravens.

As we wearily approached base camp late in the day, I looked up and spied a large, self-suspension dome tent slithering merrily down the glacier toward us; a moderate breeze and slight incline made its journey easy.  Then, stumbling over the horizon, came a wild-eyed, half-naked man, one hand holding up his knickers to his knees and the other gesturing wildly for the tent to stop.  As he frantically yelled at us, his trousers dropped to his ankles and he crashed onto the snow.

We quickly surrounded the mischievous dwelling and towed it back to its owner.  It seemed he had stepped out for a quick trip to the latrine, and the tent, held down solely by the weight of his sleeping bag, had decided to go for a stroll.  You can't really blame the tent; lying in the same place all day long can get pretty boring.  Later, I heard the man mumbling something in Russian about "capitalist pig air currents."

Early the following morning, as we grimly ate our breakfast of sweet, sticky gruel, the crisp morning air was shattered by an explosion.  I quickly analyzed the possibilities: the Japanese had decided to take our pickets by force; the mountain was actually a dormant volcano and had picked this day to erupt; or perhaps a monstrous crevasse, filled to the brim with garbage, was experiencing heartburn.  But I hadn't considered reality.

We watched in awe as two Polish climbers few out of their tent just moments before it burst into games and was vaporized.  Smoldering in the charred remains was a large double-burner propane stove that looked like it had been pilfered from a Winnebago.  The five-gallon propane canister fell to Earth a few minutes later, having completed a speedy orbit of the moon.

The crafty Japanese, never ones to miss a trick, immediately converged on the hapless Poles and began chattering, "Pickets? Pickets?"  Within minutes the dejected Poles had lost most of their climbing gear.

That day, while trudging up the glacier over endless and deceitful hillocks of snow, I was reminded of factory work.  If trudging were a job, you couldn't pay me enough to do it.  Clever me, I do it for free.

As we approached Camp 2, I noticed that we had some new arrivals: a young couple who must have been on their first outing, since their clothing and equipment appeared brand new.  Any conscientious climber will let some favored piece of ancient equipment slip into his wardrobe to demonstrate he's been around forever.

I slumped down on the snow and said hello to the young folks.  Noticing that the woman's face was beet red, I offered her some sunscreen.  "No, thanks, we've got plenty," she replied, pointing to a large bottle of Johnson's Baby Oil.  We talked some more and I discovered that the couple had been traveling along the glacier for eight days from base camp, having gotten slightly off course: their first two camps were actually located below base camp.  I figured it would take them eight months to climb the mountain at that rate.  I didn't mention it, just wished them luck.

The sun was appearing about five minutes earlier each day, much to my pleasure.  One morning, as we luxuriated in the warmth, two skiers appeared on the horizon.  We watched enviously as they carved smooth, graceful turns down the fresh powder covering the glacier.  As they got closer, it seemed that only one was making smooth, graceful turns; the other was apparently practicing survival skiing.

They soon reached our camp, and the wobbly skier collapsed in the snow.  The other delivered a more formal greeting: "Hello.  Nice day, isn't it?"

"Yes, it certainly is," I replied. "Say, is your friend there okay?"

"Well, actually we had a bit of a problem up above, and he seems to have a slight cut on his face.  We don't really have much of a first-aid kit.  Do you think you could look at him?"

We gathered around the moaning man and rolled him over.  A little problem?  His face was split open from eye to chin, and his swollen tongue stuck out where he had once had some front teeth.  We spent an hour stitching him up.  Since he was close to going into shock from the loss of blood, we lashed him to one of our sleds and headed down toward base camp to arrange to have him flown out.

His companion mentioned something about trying to ski up the mountain in a day and his buddy falling at Windy Corner and grabbing fixed rope that turned out not to be fixed and tumbling a thousand feet down the glacier tethered to a pair of windmilling skis and stopping five feet above a huge crevasse by digging his elbows into the ice.  Skiing around Windy Corner?  For an encore maybe he'll try riding a bike down Hoover Dam!

Soon we arrived back at base camp, which by that time resembled Grand Central Station.  Twenty new arrivals from a Seattle - based climbing school had just been dropped off, presumably by a 747.  As we approached, they all stopped whatever they were doing and stared at us with a hey-what-are-you-guys-doing-here? expression on their pasty white faces,

After the novelty of our arrival wore off, they went back to the matter hand - issuing ice axes and crampons to everyone.  Most of then stared at their gear as if they had never seen it before.  One lad insisted his pack was already too heavy and that a friend had told him he didn't really need those spikes anyway.  Still another chap emerged from an army-surplus pup tent wearing full camouflage fatigues, an olive-drab helmet complete with netting, and a belt canteen.  I hoped I would get to see him drink out of a metal canteen at twenty below.  The Park Service questionnaire has asked, "Do you have your own equipment?"  He had undoubtedly answered, "Affirmative, sir."

As we sat and waited for the rescue plane to arrive and take the skier away, a plump, assertive woman approached me, apparently assuming I had something to do with the Seattle expedition.  "Say," she said angrily, "what's this about sharing a tent with someone else?  I didn't pay $1,900 to share this stupid little tent.  There's hardly enough room in there for me!  What do you mean by supplying only ten tents?  I told you people I wanted a private tent, and I mean to have one.  I don't care if you have to go out and buy one!  You hear me?"

I assured her I totally agreed and that I would rectify the problem right away.  She stomped off across the glacier.

Nearby, four climbers were clumsily setting up their tent while roped together.  Obviously, they had heeded the advice in Freedom of the Hills: one never walks on a glacier unroped.  Like the action in a three - ring circus, so much was going on that I found it impossible to absorb it all.

As we continued to wait for the plane, our casualty kept staring into a mirror, tilting his head this way and that, and asking if we thought he'd still be good-looking.  And did we think he'd have much of a scar?  And did we know the name of a good plastic surgeon in Anchorage?

The plane landed in the fading daylight, and we loaded the poor wretch into it and headed back to Camp 2, arriving at midnight.  An entertaining day.

Another morning, another tedious haul.  As we flopped down after the exhausting carry, we realized we were not alone: a hundred yards away, a large party was putting the finishing touches on a gigantic igloo that must have taken a full week to build.  We set up our modest camp and went to visit.

Their igloo resembled the Astrodome, I poked my head inside and saw room for twenty climbers, though only two were dozing at the moment.  "Howdy," I greeted the occupants.  "Did the game get rained out or am I here on the wrong afternoon?"

One of the men propped himself up on an elbow, squinted in my direction, grunted, pulled his sleeping-bag hood over his head, and flopped back down.  Perhaps he didn't speak English.

Outside, another member of the party appeared, and we all sat down and had a cup of tea.  "Say," I began, "those fellows in the igloo seem rather beat."

"Ya, they're not going any further.  I told then for six months to get into shape, but no way.  All they wanted to do was eat and drink and play cards and watch the 49ers.  To hell with them.  They can sit here and freeze for all I care.  I hope they end up in a crevasse.  The rest of us are going to the top!"

As we sipped tea in the soft evening light, another climber appeared on the glacier above us and began threading his way down through a maze of crevasses.  For several minutes I watched him weave in and out of the creaking mass of ice.

"By the way," I asked my host, "is that fellow with your party?"

"Ya, that's George.  He just went up to have a look around."

"Alone?" I queried.

"No one else wanted to go."

"Isn't that a bit dangerous?" I continued.

"Dangerous?  Why?"

"Well, what if he should fall into a crevasse?"

"Oh, that's no problem.  He's wearing his beeper."

"His beeper?"

"Ya, you know, one of these." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Skadie Avalanche Transceiver.  "Haven't you ever used one of these before?"

"Well, yes, I've used it before, but not in crevasses."

With a bored look he continued to explain.  "It's simple.  If anyone falls into a crevasse, we know just where to look for him.  See, you simply turn this dial and put this earplug in and listen for the beeps from his unit.  They'll lead you right to the crevasse.  Using the Skadie means you don't need ropes anymore."

"Oh.  Now I understand.... Yes.... A good idea.... I wonder why no one else thought of that before?" I turned my attention back to the wandering climber, thinking that at least he wouldn't be dead and missing in some bottomless crevasse; his friends would know exactly where the body was.  I also wondered if they had access to a hundred mile extension cord - the battery life of a Skadie is only five days.

We bade the group good night, not wishing to wait around for the inevitable rescue.

At Camp 3 we decided to make only one carry per camp until we were in place for a summit bid.  The thought of trudging up and down Big Mac simply to shuttle our food a little farther up was not at all appealing.  I was beginning to feel - and probably smell - like a burro.

We packed huge loads and began to trudge up the 3,000-foot wall to Camp 4.  Since we didn't have our Skadie beepers, we opted for a more conventional style of climbing: we used ropes.

At 13,000 feet we reached a long, icy traverse above a steep drop.  A series of reddish brown blotches just beneath the ice fell into the abyss.  I immediately flashed on the climber with the broken face and shuddered as I peered downward.

Farther along, I came upon the fixed rope that the "beeper bunch" had installed earlier and told us about.  I gave it a tug; it seemed solid, but force of habit made me ask for a belay anyway.  I clipped into the fixed rope, which was secured at the near end by a shiny new ice screw, and gingerly started across.  As I reached the opposite end, my heart missed a beat: the rope wasn't attached to anything.  It had simply been stuffed into a hole, where it had frozen into place.  Fixed?  Those idiots had "fixed" only one end of the rope!  It reminded me of the last time I had my car "fixed."  I gave the rope a sharp tug, and it popped out of the hole and dangled uselessly in space.

We had been or the mountain more than a week, and it was time for a rest day.  I slept until the first rays of the sun hit the frozen tent, then turned over and slept another hour until the tent was a dripping mess.  Finally, I oozed out of my bag and stepped outside into the brilliant sunlight.  Clad only in my red long johns and huge white bunny boots, I decided to wander around.  Climbing to the top of a nearby rise, I was surprised to see other signs of life: garbage lay strewn around a crudely built igloo.

Feeling sociable, I strolled over to greet the occupants.  As I reached entrance, a scruffy head appeared, followed closely by a raggedly clothed body.  He spoke first.  "Like, hey, man, how's it goin'?"

"Er, fine," I responded.  "How about you?"

"Hey, man, it's a real bummer, you know?  You got a cigarette?"

"Ah, no, I don't.  Sorry."

"Hey, man, that's okay.  Like, I've been trying to get off this hill for like two weeks, you know what I mean?"

"Er, no, not really. . . . What happened?"

"Well, like, I had to kill all my dogs, you know, man, and. . . .

"Dogs?"

"Yeah, man, my sled dogs."  He motioned over to the far side of his igloo.

I glanced down and swallowed hard.  Scattered about the igloo were pieces of dog.  Bones and tails and feet and eyes and ears were frozen in the snow like the fossilized remains of a slaughterhouse.  My gaze continued to the top of the igloo.  There, impaled like a pagan war token, was a dog's head.  My jaw dropped a foot.

Dog Head Bob, as we later named him, caught me staring.  "That's Charlie, man.  He's the best dog I ever had, so, like, I gave him the best place, you know?"

Nauseated, I shook my head in agreement.  "How come you killed your dogs?"

"Well, man, I ran out of food, you know, and then I got my feet froze and the sled's stuck up on the hill, you know, and my old lady can't get it down and . . . "

I turned toward the steep slope rising behind us and could barely make out a solitary figure struggling with something next to a mammoth crevasse.  I turned back to Bob, took a step back, and tried to comprehend the situation.

"Yeah, that's my old lady up there.  She's still trying to get that old sled down so we can get outta here."

I found myself staring at his feet.  His huge boots looked like someone had taken a shotgun to them.

"Yeah, man, I borrowed these boots from this guy, you know, and he said not to worry about the holes and stuff but I guess they musta leaked or something because I froze my feet."

He pulled one of his feet from the worthless boots, and, indeed, it was swollen and discolored.  "Man, like I can't even fit any socks on, you know?"

We conversed for a few more minutes and he told me how he had heard about this guy who wanted to drive his dog team up Denali, but that he, Bob, a trueblood Alaskan, had decided to ace this other guy out, but he had run out of food halfway up on account of his dogs, who weren't exactly keen for this trip, and so here he was with no more dogs to eat, and did we have any extra food he could have?

I told him we were fresh out of dog meat but that perhaps the expedition right behind us might have some.

I returned to camp and related my amazing tale.  Everyone thought I had finally gone off the deep end this time; but one by one they ventured out to talk to Dog Head Bob, and each returned shaking his head in awe.  We spent the rest of the day drying out our gear and trying not to think of sled dogs.

Both the sun and Dog Head Bob were still asleep the next morning as we pushed on up the icy slopes.  Several million miso-secs later (on a long climb, each day is divided into many millions of "misery-seconds" instead of hours; each miso-sec is slightly longer than the preceding one), we crested a ridge at 16,000 feet and slumped into the snow for a rest.  Above us, a weary-looking threesome were making their way down a steep, wind-sculpted ridge.  Their progress resembled a slapstick version of tug of war: the leader would stumble forward, pulling the rope taut and yanking the following two climbers off their feet.  The last man would retaliate with a violent yank.  The poor fellow in the middle was being cut in two by the oscillating antics.

Assuming they were returning from the summit, I inquired about the conditions.  It seemed that they hadn't made it past their camp at 17,000 feet: their summit food had been packed next to the white gas, and the escaping fumes had permeated all the food, resulting in a pile of inflammable mush, some rather strained relationships, and a terminated expedition.  I urged them to raid our small supply of emergency food at 14,000 feet and give it another try, but the thought of retracing their steps up Big Mac didn't appeal to them.  We said good-bye and watched as they started down, tugging and swearing with each step.

We continued to inch our way up the mountain: one step, one breath, one step, one breath.  Rest five minutes, gather some energy, then one step, one breath.  At 17,000 feet we came upon an abandoned snow cave piled high with candy wrappers, torn plastic water bottles, and pieces of frozen Ensolite.  It wasn't an appealing place, but we were glad to set up camp out of the frigid wind.  The wind howled all night, and no matter how often we plugged the cave's tiny chinks, spindrift spread over everything.

The summit day at last.  At six o'clock, as we left our cave, the thermometer registered a toasty minus twenty, and the winds were of the gale-force variety.  The snow swirling around my feet made the ground itself appear to be moving-a boiling caldron.  Time became meaningless, movement imperceptible.  Each step forward was an instinctive movement as my toes felt for the incline ahead.

At some point my ankles didn't flex quite as much; the angle had ceased.  The top?  I eagerly peeled back my furry hood and looked upward for the first time in hours.  A few yards away was a pile of junk: the summit!

Clouds and snow swirled around us.  Razor-sharp crystals attacked every spot of unprotected skin, but I couldn't complain: this was the experience I had come for.  The sweat and toil and uselessness of struggling to the top of this inelegant mound was the ultimate act of non-productivity, and I had loved every minute of it.

The view?  Well, I'm sure it would have been quite magnificent if there had been one, but, alas, the mist was thickening by the moment.  The only view I had was of my own feet as they turned and pointed downhill.

It was time to undo it all and head back down the mountain.  Down past the cluttered snow cave and the wind-scoured ridge.  Down past the dog-head igloo and the unfixed rope.  Down past the climbers who would not move.  Down past the beepers and the creepers, the eager and the tired, the friendly and the fierce.  Down past rotting supplies and quarreling ravens.  Down past tugging guides and submissive clients with sunburned eyes and ears.  Down, down, down. . . .