It’s 20 degrees below zero at 17, 200 feet at high camp on Mount McKinley— without windchill that is. I’m inside a
-40Þ rated sleeping bag alongside my college roommate and climbing partner, Will Reno, in a winter storm-rated tent at 12 a.m., unable to sleep due to the brightness of the sky in the Alaskan summer, the lack of oxygen at high altitude, and apprehension about the planned 12-hour climb tomorrow to the summit of Mt. McKinley, known as Denali (“the high one” in native Athabascan) to the climbing community. I’m wondering what in the world caused us both to miss our 20th reunion at Haverford to spend four weeks on an expedition with the very real possibility of frostbite, crevasse falls, serious injury, and death. It was a very interesting route to get here, one which we couldn’t have taken were it not for Haverford.

They say chance favors the prepared mind. After Haverford, and law school, I came to work for NASA, the National Aeronautics & Space Administration, at a field Center just outside Washington, D.C. Minus a year on Capitol Hill on a fellowship, I’d spent the better part of a career doing government contracts, litigation, and all manner of work for a very interesting set of clients—world-class scientists and engineers. Through the Hubble Space Telescope Project, managed at the Center, I came to appreciate some of the extremely talented people who work on this activity, both on the ground and in space, in particular the astronauts who performed servicing missions to upgrade the telescope. For a liberal arts graduate interested in science, it doesn’t get much better and I’m extremely grateful for the small liberal- arts college that helped me get to this position.

Along the way, my roommate, Will Reno, now an associate professor of political science at Northwestern University in Chicago, where he studies non-State armed groups, had asked me on many occasions to join him on various expeditions such as arctic treks, winter camping, and climbing. While Will was now very experienced, I’d managed to avoid all but one of these adventures. A few years ago, we climbed Aconcagua in Argentina, which is the highest mountain outside the Himalaya. A three-day storm near the summit prevented our reaching the top, but all the planning, use of equipment, and adversity provided me with much-needed experience.

In October 2003, I was very lucky to be selected to serve a detail assignment as Executive Officer to the Chief of Staff, in the Office of the Administrator, at NASA Headquarters. It was the thrill of a lifetime to see how the Agency functioned at the highest level, especially during a very critical time following the Space Shuttle Columbia accident. The President came to NASA Headquarters in January 2004 to announce a major new initiative to return to the moon and ultimately explore Mars. Official activities aside, I was lucky to meet some amazing individuals, including NASA’s Chief Scientist and astronaut, John Grunsfeld. John had flown in space four times, performed many of the spacewalks servicing Hubble, and was the last human being to touch the telescope in orbit, performing one of the most difficult tasks—changing out the power control unit. I mentioned to him that I had seen a short profile about him in the magazine NASA Vision, and that the article had mentioned that one of his hobbies was mountaineering.

John mentioned that he was planning to climb Mt. McKinley next summer, having tried twice before unsuccessfully. I told him that while I was a beginner, I had climbed Aconcagua with a college roommate, and that Denali was definitely on the to-do list. I expressed my reservations, knowing that Denali, while non-technical for the most part, can be a very dangerous mountain, due to extreme weather conditions and high altitude. Several people die each season on Denali. Approximately 20,000 people have tried to climb it and just over half have been successful. On his last attempt, John spent the better part of a week at 17,200 feet, pinned down by extremely cold temperatures and very high winds. He was highly experienced and highly motivated to try again. I figured if ever there was a time to climb Mt. McKinley, this was it.

We spent the next few months trying to round up a group of experienced, physically fit, motivated climbers, who could take four weeks off from their day jobs to climb a mountain. It’s not easy. One of our prospects hit a squirrel while training on his bicycle. The squirrel lodged in the front wheel, jammed against the fork, and threw him over the handlebars. While nothing was broken, he feared the risk of not being in perfect condition would prejudice our chances and dropped out. Small injuries or equipment failure can be deadly serious on Denali, where the high altitude and extreme weather can prevent outside rescue. When John eventually met Will in my office, knowing the risks of high-altitude mountaineering, his first words were, “So I have to ask you, do you have all your fingers and toes?”
Both Will and I signed on, and John brought along Eric Darcy, Lead Battery Engineer for the Space Shuttle at the Johnson Space Center in Houston. Eric had actually worked on the glove heaters which John used as part of his spacesuit in orbit. (The fifth member of our group, an experienced climbing friend of John’s, began the expedition but developed pulmonary edema at approximately 10,000 feet, a condition which can be fatal, and had to descend. He helped escort an injured Eastern European climber off the mountain and eventually received an award from the National Park Service.) Our team spent the better part of the next few months planning logistics, obtaining supplies and equipment, and training.

Equipment for high-altitude mountaineering is out of the ordinary, to say the least, and not cheap. Considerations which have no place in ordinary life take on new meaning when planning this kind of expedition. No cotton of any kind is allowed, since it soaks up perspiration, which can freeze and kill. Skis require special adjustable bindings and “skins” for traveling uphill. Plastic children’s sleds (the only piece of equipment I purchased from the local grocery store) need modifications to accept metal runners. The head of a lightweight aluminum ice-axe gets wrapped in foam to prevent fingers freezing to the metal. Redundant pairs of polarized glacier glasses protect against snow blindness. Water bottles get wrapped in insulating blankets. In order to avoid embarrassing mistakes in the middle of the night, pee bottles are carefully selected to distinguish them from water bottles by color and shape. (Both water bottles and pee bottles are kept inside sleeping bags at night to avoid frozen disasters by morning.) Weight considerations govern everything. We spent many hours before departure from Anchorage examining and discarding non-essential items. Our trip leader lectured me for taking along two paperback books.

In late May, we arrived at Talkeetna, Alaska, approximately two hours north of Anchorage, a fabled mountaineering town about four blocks long, filled with climbing memorabilia and tourist shops. One restaurant we stopped in had a signed poster, “The Second Search Party for Naomi Uemura,” referencing a highly accomplished Japanese explorer who disappeared on Denali and whose body was never found. Summit photos were everywhere we looked. My intimidation level increased.

We stopped at the National Park Service Ranger Station for the mandatory safety briefing and took in some of the more daunting statistics. On arrival, we saw that 1,197 climbers had pre-registered that season, 379 were currently climbing, 75 had concluded their expeditions, and only 15 had summitted—a 20-percent success rate. We returned to the airport, checked our supplies and equipment, and waited for the call from Talkeetna Air Taxi. “Dress for the glacier!” our trip leader yelled out.

Climbers attempting the West Buttress route, the most common on Denali, fly light aircraft 45 minutes from Talkeetna to base camp at 7,200 feet. We took a Cessna 185 that seemed to emphasize every bump. While the view on the way in was breathtaking, I’d be lying if I didn’t say this was one of the scariest parts of the trip. Pilots fly visual flight rules only, just above the mountain tops and below the cloud cover. Due to the configuration of the glacier landing strip between adjoining peaks, there is no room for aborted landings. I felt I was nearly on top of the pilot as I watched him lower the landing skids using a hand crank. After landing, climbers help turn the plane around and watch it depart, feeling for the first time the sense of isolation and apprehension about what they’re about to attempt.

Because the climbing season on Denali is not much longer than 45 days due to the weather, the isolation at base camp is not complete. In fact, we met other climbers from all over the world who were waiting for a flight out, or who had just flown in. The international aspect of high-altitude mountaineering is fascinating, and we saw flags from many other countries. Eric and Will were able to talk to other climbers in French and Russian. While acclimatizing to the new altitude for several days, we practiced safety skills such as roping together, checking each other’s harnesses, and crevasse rescue techniques.

The climb from base camp to summit on Denali is the longest continuous stretch of any mountain in the world, greater even than Mt. Everest. The idea is to climb slow, making multiple ascents to cache supplies and equipment while descending to sleep low. This allows time for the body to adjust to the altitude by making subtle changes in blood chemistry. Even so, it is very tough going.

On the lower portions of the mountain, we carried 70-pound packs while pulling sleds full of equipment, all this while roped together on skis. The ratio of pack weight to sled weight changed as we reached steeper elevations until eventually, at 11,000 feet, we took off our skis, unloaded the sleds, and buried equipment and supplies for the return trip. We stopped every hour for short food, water, and bathroom breaks, with strict instructions from John not to share water bottles. An intestinal illness can stop an expedition just as easily as equipment failure. At lower altitudes on Denali, climbers heave solid waste in plastic bags into nearby crevasses. At higher altitudes, other than temporary latrines at the main camps, the Park Service requires all climbers to use a portable waste container and carry all waste back down to base camp. This keeps the mountain relatively clean since low temperatures can preserve anything indefinitely. Rule was last person to use the container had to carry it on his sled.

Our daily routine consisted of waking up, brushing the frost particles off nearly everything inside the tent (due to the temperature differential), applying sunscreen, dressing in multiple layers of polypropylene and Gore-Tex, drinking hot cocoa and eating breakfast, striking camp, packing sleds, checking harnesses and ropes, and pushing off. Even with careful preparation, due to the high altitude and constant sun, we all got sunburned—including in places I didn’t think could get sunburned, such as inside our nostrils and through thin undergarments. At each campsite, when we weren’t lucky enough to find existing conditions from previous climbers, with shovels and snow saws we excavated shallow pits and constructed snow walls around our two tents to protect against high winds. Many an unsecured tent on Denali has sailed off into the sunset, ending an expedition.

We passed famous landmarks along the route—“Ski Hill,” “the Kahiltna Hilton,” and “Motorcycle Hill,” before arriving at the main high camp at 14,500 feet, complete with ranger station, medical tent, and weather board.

We took a rest day at 14,500 feet to visit “The Edge of the World,” an abrupt drop-off from camp with stunning views. At more than 7,000 feet, it’s one of the greatest single drops in all of mountaineering. We saw clouds below us and crevasse fields on the glacier, more than a mile below. I was struck by the contrast between such incredible beauty and such inhospitable conditions. There is a saying in mountaineering that certain places one can “only visit.” How true that is. Other than the other expeditions camped nearby, temporarily safe in their tents with limited food and equipment, there was absolutely no life whatsoever on that high-altitude glacier. It was essentially a permanent frozen desert—no birds, no bugs, no plant life, no animal life of any kind.

After the ranger station, we tackled one of the hardest parts of the climb, the infamous “Headwall,” a stretch of the mountain so steep that the rangers had affixed semi-permanent guide ropes for the season. We used special equipment called ascenders, which slid up the rope but locked to prevent sliding back down. Our crampons, specialized steel spikes attached to our boots, gripped the 45-to-60-degree slope. Eventually, we reached the next cache site at 16,000 feet, where Eric and I met two highly experienced female climbers who were descending from the summit, having climbed the more difficult Cassin Ridge route from the opposite direction, the first time a team of two women has climbed that famous route.

Finally, we reached high camp at 17,200 feet, just below “Denali Pass,” another steep section on the route to the summit. I was absolutely exhausted at this point and spent a rest day in camp while John, Eric, and Will went to retrieve supplies below. While in camp, I was visited by a solo Japanese climber on his way up. With limited communication, I offered congratulations and best wishes, thinking to myself this guy is absolutely crazy. Four is usually the recognized minimum number of climbers on Denali. With any small equipment failure or accident, a solo climber on Denali is often a dead climber.

There are actually quite a few crazy people on the mountain. Because it’s relatively accessible, following payment of the $150 permit fee and a safety briefing, anyone can climb McKinley. On the way up Denali Pass, we were passed by a group of lightly dressed, unroped European climbers who said, somewhat shockingly, “Sorry, we have to go fast because we’re cold.” We later heard stories back at base camp of a Taiwanese climber left lying on his pack overnight by his friends following a fall. Rumor had it he survived—but barely.

At last it came time for the summit attempt. I had prepared myself for disappointment. The most important thing in mountaineering is not getting to the top. It’s getting back down with everything in working order. The idea is to climb as high as possible while keeping everybody as safe as possible. Everything else is gravy. There are countless stories of mountaineers catching “summit fever” close to the top, and continuing on when they should have turned back. We had good luck. The day was bright and sunny. We were rested and ready to go. We left at around 11:30 a.m., anticipating a 12-hour round trip. I had five layers on my feet including liner socks, wool socks, special Intuition boot liners, plastic mountaineering boots, and neoprene overboots, all wrapped in crampons.

On the way up, a storm developed and followed just behind us. Our trip leader said, “It’s all new to me from here,” and we kept going. We reached the famous “Football Field,” a several-hundred-yard plateau 300 feet from the summit. Clouds were all around us. I was coughing nearly constantly and could barely talk. I thought I was going to pass out.
At last, I heard a call from John, who was first on the rope ahead of me, “Hey guys, I have some bad news! There’s nowhere else to go but down!” We had reached the top. It was June 7, 2004, which, oddly enough, was 91 years to the day of the first successful summit by Hudson Stuck. I was incredibly relieved and apprehensive at the same time. I knew we had several hours to make the descent back to our tent. Most accidents in mountaineering happen on the descent. “Let’s take the pictures and get going,” I said. I brushed off the summit marker, a small aluminum disk on the ground, which was partially covered by snow. Some people say you can see all the way to the Pacific Ocean from the top of Denali. We looked around. It was cloudy in every direction and we couldn’t see a thing. I joked that we’d have to come back again for the view.

After a stop at the medical tent on the way down to examine my constant cough, we encountered the coldest, windiest part of the trip at aptly named “Windy Corner.” Our sled runners refused to grab and our loads twisted ahead of us on the rope going downhill. We retreated back down, counting the time to base camp. The trek back along the glacier seemed almost endless. After multiple false plateaus, actually heading uphill to base camp along “Heartbreak Hill,” we pulled in to base camp for the ride back to Talkeetna in a 1950s vintage De Havilland Beaver. After nearly four weeks without a shower, we looked forward to civilization.

Back in town we visited Colby Coombs, a friend of John’s who runs a mountaineering school and has written several books. We had a nice salmon dinner and talked to many adventurers with significant exploits, including one who was attempting Denali as the final peak of the Seven Summits (the highest mountains on each continent), and one who had walked to the South Pole. John gave a slide show on space exploration and was later interviewed by the local TV station for the evening news as the first astronaut atop Denali.

All in all, we were extremely fortunate. I had planned for two or three severe storms and truly extreme sub-zero temperatures. We didn’t have either. I thought we’d have only a small chance at the summit, but four out of five made it and all of us returned safely. As if to emphasize our good luck, three Americans were killed in a rock slide at Windy Corner in late June, the same route we traveled.

There’s another saying in mountaineering, “The mind remembers, the body forgets.” Climbing Mt. McKinley was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, almost like running a marathon for three weeks straight. It was a life-changing experience. Back at work behind the desk, I couldn’t help but think of all the things one could do in life if only the day job didn’t get in the way. I was surprised at the large number of co-workers who followed our expedition and wanted to hear stories, experiencing vicariously the adventure we enjoyed.

The stark but unforgiving beauty of Denali made me forget about all the day-to-day pressures of normal life. It's a good lesson to learn, especially in a pre-professional environment like Haverford, as well as in the post-professional world. The right balance between work and life, or between steady ascent and falling off a frozen ridge, is one thing you don't learn in college. On the other hand, I'm very grateful for the start I got at a small liberal-arts college on the Main Line that allowed me to climb up and down Denali with some extraordinary people. Thank you, Haverford.

Eric Darcy and Will Reno have returned to their positions at the Johnson Space Center and Northwestern University, respectively. David Schuman is now a lawyer at NASA Headquarters. John Grunsfeld is presently in Star City, Moscow, where he is training for an upcoming flight to the International Space Station. They're not sure about their next adventure.