Denali's Howl: The Deadliest Climbing Disaster on America's Wildest Peak Read online

  A Japanese party spent a very comfortable night on top of the South Peak and another party climbed both peaks of McKinley in the same day. In fact, the 1942 Army Expedition and our 1947 expedition lived comfortably for literally weeks above 15,000 feet and could easily have spent a week or more on top of either or both of the peaks if we had had the slightest inclination to do so—or any conceivable practical reason for it. After all, climbers have spent week after week on Everest, K-2, Nanga Parbat and scores of other Himalayan giants far in excess of McKinley’s altitude, packing heavy loads and climbing difficult rock and ice simply for the sheer love of it—not just sleeping their way into headlines!

  For your information, according to our records, McKinley has not yet been climbed blindfolded or backwards, nor has any party of nine persons yet fallen simultaneously into the same crevasse. We hope that you may wish to arise to one of these compelling challenges.

  Very truly yours,

  Bradford Washburn

  Director

  Washburn’s vitriol didn’t end at the sarcastic evisceration of Wilcox’s proposed “firsts.” Washburn went on to share his response with other climbers and with the Park Service.

  My father wrote to Washburn on June 6, chiding him for attacking Wilcox and saying there were no grounds for denying the Wilcox Expedition’s application to climb. My father described his predicament in a 1999 interview: “Here I’ve got this guy who was important yet difficult and influential screaming about not letting them on the mountain and I’ve got no basis that I knew of to not let them on the mountain.”

  Washburn wrote back to my father on June 12, acknowledging that he had misinterpreted Wilcox’s letter, but defended his motivation. Washburn goes on to defend firsts achieved during “regular climbing” and scientific expeditions but says, “It is very much another thing to go off record seeking as an end in itself.” He concludes the letter with a prescient warning:

  In chatting with Mr. Wilcox about all this (as I assume he will bring it up in his discussions with you) It might be worthwhile for you to point out these suggestions to him, as my remarks about his plans were not of a wholly negative nature—as record-breaking for the sake of records alone has resulted in an astonishing succession of serious accidents scattered pretty much all over the world—whereas the same sort of operations resulting in the same kind of records but carried out carefully and seriously with practical scientific objectives, seem to have resulted in almost no casualties at all!

  Sincerely yours,

  Brad

  Joe Wilcox typed more than twenty state-of-the-expedition reports before the full group gathered at Mount Rainier, just south of Seattle. The reports included everything from discussions of proposed menus to gear lists and advice on preparing both the body and the mind for the climb. To prepare the body, he recommended running, swimming, weight lifting, and carrying a heavy pack for long distances. For mental preparation, he required each expedition member to read The ABCs of Avalanche Safety, The Mountain World, and Freedom of the Hills and to memorize a pamphlet written by none other than Bradford Washburn titled “Frostbite.”

  In January 1967, Wilcox sent out a report identifying Jerry Clark as deputy leader of the climbing team and Anshel Schiff, PhD, as deputy leader of the scientific/support team. Expedition members were Hank Janes, Dennis Luchterhand, Mark McLaughlin, and Steve Taylor. The names of Walt Taylor and John Russell had been added in blue ink alongside the typed names. Five others were listed, but each would drop out over the next few months for various reasons. The core of the team had formed.

  As the summer of 1967 approached, Chief Ranger Art Hayes remained concerned about the lack of experience among some members of the Wilcox Expedition. He had earlier suggested that the group merge with another smaller, yet stronger, group from Colorado comprised of Howard Snyder, Paul Schlichter, Jerry Lewis, and Lewis’s younger brother, Steve. The two groups agreed to explore the idea.

  In a letter to Wilcox dated May 10, 1967, Chief Ranger Hayes approved the Wilcox Expedition’s climbing application, with some caveats requiring the carrying of a radio for communications, less experienced climbers always being in the company of more experienced climbers, and those less experienced climbers receiving days of intensive training on Mount Rainier focusing on “crevasse rescue, belays, self-arrest, etc.”

  Hayes also made clear that while he felt many in the party had inadequate experience, Wilcox’s careful planning, organization, training program, scheduled Rainier climb, and an arrangement with the Alaska Rescue Group to be standing by had convinced him to grant approval. Finally, he wanted to know to what degree the Wilcox and Colorado expeditions would work together.

  Though the Wilcox and Colorado contingent had by May agreed to pool resources when mutually beneficial, both parties remained reluctant to unite their expeditions. Colorado expedition leader Howard Snyder’s letter to Jerry Clark, written the day after Chief Ranger Hayes wrote to Wilcox, captures this reticence: “It is my intention that we coordinate our efforts, not completely combine them.”

  Then in June, just seven hours before heading north, a car accident threatened to ground the Colorado Mount McKinley Expedition before it even left Colorado. Steve Lewis, Jerry’s younger brother, had broken his nose and hand and could not climb. Howard Snyder had received approval to climb from Chief Ranger Art Hayes, but with the loss of one of their climbers, the expedition no longer met Park Service requirements. The three remaining climbers discussed their options. Rather than climb elsewhere, they decided to approach Wilcox about formally joining his party. In Snyder’s words, “We had to either combine with the Wilcox Expedition, or we had to abandon the hopes, plans, and expenditures of the past two years.”

  Joe Wilcox, along with Hank Janes, Dennis Luchterhand, Mark McLaughlin, Steve Taylor, and John Russell were already at Joe’s wife Cheryl’s parents’ home in Puyallup, Washington, near the foot of Mount Rainier. Howard Snyder called Wilcox and explained their predicament. Wilcox said a merger was possible, but only with the approval of his entire expedition, and invited the three men to come to Rainier for the June 11 training climb. The three remaining climbers of what had been the Colorado Expedition loaded member Jerry Lewis’s new Dodge Power Wagon and left Boulder for Mount Rainier on June 9.

  CHAPTER 3

  A DOZEN KIDS

  That June, pop star Scott McKenzie sang, “If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair,” and had a huge Billboard hit, but no one in the Wilcox Expedition was listening.

  The house in Puyallup was soon bustling with activity. The sewing machine ran nonstop and vehicles shuttled the young men to and from area sporting-goods stores gathering last-minute supplies. On the night before departing for Rainier, Jerry Clark and Hank Janes called to say they would be delayed. Clark, who had already become the Wilcox team’s electronics guru, was modifying the Citizens Band radios they’d be carrying. Hank Janes was altering their rented tents. Walt Taylor had yet to be heard from.

  Wilcox and his five companions reached Mount Rainier National Park on June 10, but the Colorado climbers were also nowhere to be seen. After a long wait, they headed to the Nisqually River Bridge to practice ascending ropes using Prusik hitches* and then on to a steep slope to practice self-arrests. After lunch they went on to the Nisqually Glacier to make camp for the night and run through crevasse-rescue techniques. Out on the glacier, a man dressed in oversized wool suit pants and suspenders, his nose and lips slathered in white sun cream, overtook them.

  Humorous yet functional garb, thought Wilcox. Walt Taylor had arrived.

  After a rainy night on the glacier they spent the foggy morning practicing crevasse rescue and then returned to the parking lot at the mountain’s base. There, Denny Luchterhand pulled Wilcox aside and said he was pulling out of the expedition.

  “Why?” asked Wilcox.

  “I just don’t feel good about it; I have
a feeling there will be problems on the climb.”

  They talked a little, but Luchterhand couldn’t shake a feeling that “something will go wrong.”

  “Think it over,” concluded Wilcox, presuming Luchterhand’s decision was the effect of a couple of days at high altitudes.

  While they were talking, Walt Taylor and John Russell had decided to free-climb a rock wall inside the visitor center. Park rangers had halted the fun and Wilcox had to retrieve his wayward team members. So Joe Wilcox was probably a little agitated when he heard the Colorado group had arrived and were camped nearby. They drove to the campsite, where their first meeting was cordial but short. Wilcox didn’t get out of his car while speaking to Howard Snyder, who felt that he was being surveyed “like a Hong Kong tailor sizing up a customer.”

  As Paul Schlichter, one of the Colorado climbers recalls with a chuckle, the exchange was “frosty.” “You’ve got two guys who were going to be leading expeditions, and now one is going to be somewhat the subordinate. Howard is somewhat strong-willed, and he wasn’t looking forward to being in a subservient position.”

  However frostily, Wilcox invited the three newcomers to the house in Puyallup to discuss the merger. By the time they got there, Jerry Clark and Hank Janes had arrived, so all twelve men gathered for the first time in the backyard to talk it through. Of the Wilcox team members, Steve Taylor was most concerned with the intermingling of personnel and equipment and strident in his opposition. Some of Steve’s reasons were well thought out, Joe Wilcox said, others were not. Howard Snyder characterized them as inane and said they revealed Steve Taylor’s “apparent lack of basic mountaineering knowledge.”

  Sometime late that night the discussion ended and the merger was approved unanimously. A formal eleven-point written agreement was composed that identified Wilcox as the leader and outlined members’ responsibilities and of course the sharing of anticipated costs. Over the decades since Joe Wilcox and Howard Snyder signed their Expedition Agreement, the merger has been portrayed as having been forced on them by the National Park Service. However, former Wonder Lake District Ranger Wayne Merry, the last NPS employee to see the climbers before their ascent, is unequivocal: “Wilcox was under no obligation to accept anybody he didn’t want on his team.”

  In any case, after agreement was reached, the three Colorado climbers—Jerry Lewis, Paul Schlichter, and Howard Snyder—left immediately. While for all practical purposes they would gradually integrate themselves into the group, they always remained the guys from Colorado who joined at the last minute.

  The Colorado contingent left Puyallup’s famous daffodil fields behind and headed for a campground overlooking the gray waters of Puget Sound. It was 3:00 A.M. when they rolled as silently as possible through the campground, the tires of the pickup crackling atop the gravel. Exhausted, but happy that matters were settled with the Wilcox Expedition, they threw out their bedrolls and settled in for a short sleep. The Big Dipper, the brightest stars in the constellation Ursa Major and the symbol on Alaska’s iconic state flag, loomed brightly above them. It would be one of the last times they’d see these twinkling lights as they drove north into latitudes where the sun doesn’t set in the summer and the starry sky becomes a distant memory until autumn.

  The next day, Jerry Lewis, Paul Schlichter, and Howard Snyder awoke early, stuffed their sleeping bags into the nearest open space in the bed of Jerry’s Dodge truck, piled into the cab, and headed toward Seattle. They had a few last-minute shopping errands but were eager to turn the truck north. The Canadian border was 114 miles north on Highway 5. The road runs parallel to the coastline, a dozen or so miles inland, passing through Everett, Mount Vernon, and Bellingham before turning inland toward Sumas, Washington, and the Canadian border. The men chatted about past climbs they’d done together and shared thoughts on the coming adventure. At Canadian customs, agents viewed the numerous pairs of snowshoes suspiciously since it was summer, took a look at the clean-cut young men—so unlike the Jim Morrison wannabes and assorted hippies they were increasingly seeing heading north to Alaska—and finally waved them through. Lewis, Schlichter, and Snyder thanked the agents and crossed into British Columbia. Now it was only the 800-mile Cariboo Highway between them and Dawson Creek, the start of the Alaska Highway.

  The Wilcox men had planned to hit Canadian customs the same day, but they were still in Puyallup. Some made gear modifications while others made a final run into Seattle to look for bamboo poles to be used as crevasse probes and markers for their unofficial glacier study. They finally found them at a carpet shop. The last thing on the list was down pants for Walt Taylor, a specialty item not easily found but an absolute necessity on Denali. Taylor didn’t trust mail-order catalogues, insisting on finding a sporting-goods store where he could try on the pants before purchasing them.

  Back at the house, the men reconvened. Food and equipment were split between Hank Janes’s Dodge van and Joe Wilcox’s sixteen-year-old Chevy Carryall.

  “The Hankmobile and the Green Bomb,” announced Jerry Clark, christening the vehicles.

  What didn’t fit in the vehicles, the men placed in a small trailer. Hank Janes, inspired by the coming trip, etched the words “MT. MCKINLEY” onto the back of the trailer and stepped back to admire his work. It would be the caboose to the Green Bomb. But by the time all the packing, christening, hitching, and repacking was done, it was too late to hit the road.

  The next morning, Tuesday, June 13, they pooled a few extra bucks to buy roses and gave the bouquet to Joe Wilcox’s in-laws, who had put up with them for longer than anyone expected. And then they headed north. It was a road trip in the summer of ’67, but this was no band of Merry Pranksters on a psychedelic tour. These former Boy Scouts climbed to get high.

  Schiff, Russell, and both Taylors rode with Wilcox in the road-weary Green Bomb. Clark had allayed Luchterhand’s concerns about the climb and the two decided to join McLaughlin and Hank Janes, who captained his namesake van. Wilcox’s plan called for round-the-clock driving in order to arrive on schedule, and they were already a day behind. In this way, the marathon road trip began with drivers trading off every few hours in order to keep the pace.

  No loud music blared—the radio reception through middle-of-nowhere Canada was spotty if it existed at all and they had no other music source. They stayed within the speed limit.

  The Hankmobile and the Green Bomb covered 800 miles of paved road the first day to reach Dawson Creek. From there, the Alaska Highway was a two-lane dirt road, rutted in places, muddy in others, and mostly bumpy and dusty.

  “You going to eat that?” Russell asked for what seemed like the eight hundredth time. He had been under the impression that his financial contribution to the expedition covered food during the drive.

  “You’ll have to buy your own food at grocery stores or gas stations,” Wilcox admonished. “Or go hungry.” Like the rest of these young men, Russell had little money—and he had spent his last dime just to join the expedition.

  Though they had left twenty-four hours behind the Colorado team, the Hankmobile and the Green Bomb leapfrogged ahead of the trio in the Dodge Power Wagon sometime during the night. The Colorado Three weren’t in as big a hurry as the others, since their gear would be packed in from Wonder Lake to McGonagall Pass three days after that of the Wilcox group. Wilcox had handled all the application procedures as well as virtually all the planning, which included the logistics of getting nine men and all their supplies and equipment from the trailhead at Wonder Lake, where the dirt road stopped, to McGonagall Pass, where they would step onto the Muldrow Glacier. Berle Mercer, a rancher in Lignite, a stop on the Alaska Railroad just a few miles north of the park boundary, had agreed to pack the expedition’s gear the 18 miles from Wonder Lake to McGonagall Pass at 30 cents a pound. Snyder signed up for the same deal, but Mercer had only so many packhorses, so the Colorado contingent would have to wait a few days while the horses made their first
round-trip.

  Meanwhile, the Power Wagon again caught up with the Wilcox vehicles on the Alaska Highway. The Green Bomb was pulled off the road with a flat tire. With the Dodge pickup and Hankmobile all parked on the shoulder, everyone was out of their vehicles complaining and commiserating about the potholes and ruts, which frequently slowed them to a crawl. When the Colorado climbers later stopped for the night at Wolf Creek, the Green Bomb and the Hankmobile took the lead again, maintaining the round-the-clock pace in order to make their date with Berle Mercer and his horses.

  The days lengthened and the cost of fuel rose along with the latitude as they drove north. The big trees of the coastal forests had long since given way to stunted black spruce and tundra pocked with kettle lakes. The weather was good but dry; dry meant dust, which now seemed to have permeated everything.

  With Janes at the wheel, and Luchterhand, McLaughlin, and the slightly older Clark as passengers, the atmosphere in the Hankmobile was relaxed and full of talk of the big mountain that lay before them. They all knew one another well and had counted on one another during many climbs past.

  Mark McLaughlin was known for his ready smile and his ability to see humor in just about any situation. At twenty-four, the same age as Joe Wilcox, he had made a couple of attempts at higher education, first studying architecture and art and later geology at the University of Oregon. It was in mountaineering, however, that he found his passion, topping seventeen peaks in Washington and Oregon, exploring the Olympic Mountains and several glaciers and icefalls, though he’d never been higher than the 14,410-foot summit of Rainier. When it came to gear, he knew what he wanted. When over-the-counter outdoor equipment didn’t meet his standards, he made his own. One of the tents the team would carry up Denali was a McLaughlin creation.