Mountaineering Winner: Walter
TALKEETNA. “It’s fine, don’t worry about
me. You guys have done enough. It is just
a couple of blisters.”
I stared at the tips of Walter’s black
fingers. They looked like lollipops from a
science-fiction movie.
“Frostbite, not blisters, Walter. You
froze them.” My work partner, another
guide, attempted to reason with him. “You
need to get it checked out. There’s a clinic
here in Talkeetna.”
Walter was stubborn, though. After
seeing heavy combat in two wars, he
might have had enough demons inside
that the cold of Denali felt insignificant. He
fumbled those swollen fingertips into his
back pocket, and I winced. He pulled out
an old leather billfold and handed us a few
big bills. They smelled like bitter guilt as I
accepted them from frostbitten fingertips.
“Best trip of my life, guys, you truly blew
my mind. You always got a place to stay
in Reno, Nevada. Just give me a call.” I
stuffed the Benjamins in my front pocket.
I felt sick.
14,000 FEET. White noise. Wind consumes
all recognizable sound. The fog opens
briefly, and I see Windy Corner towering
above the group. Granite boulders stacked
precariously on slippery slabs. A rush of
wind hits my face. I scrape the frost off
my goggles, and the boulders disappear
behind another veil. I know they are there,
looming over the rope team. As I step
forward, the wind picks up my footprints
and throws them in the air. I pull my hood
back up and continue leading.
TALKEETNA. Walter was at least 20
pounds heavier at the start of the climb,
and he looked good for being 70. “I tried
on the plastic boots, but they just weren’t
as comfortable as mine, so I returned
them,” he said. Red flag. We had just done
our pre-trip meeting and were starting
the gear check. “You can’t bring leather
Cabela boots on the mountain, Walter, unless
you want to lose your feet.” He looked
disappointed. What can a ponytailed
28-year-old from the West Coast tell a
war veteran about boots?
“Walter, I think we should look at a brand that is more
suited for Alaska mountaineering than Cabela’s.”
He appeared shocked. “But all my gear is from Cabela’s…”
17,200 FEET. White lines. The white cloud stretching
across the top of Foraker looks like a tight rubber band.
Lenticular clouds are stacking up and cutting across the
sky with violent force. Foraker floats like an iceberg in
a sea of clouds. To the west, it’s getting darker, slowly
changing from white, to gray, to black. I know what is coming.
There is no time for the summit.
15,000 FEET. Walter falls for the eighth time going down
the ridge. The whole team has to stop. There are thousands
of feet of exposure. I have my pack on my back and
his pack on my front; I walk in a side-step shuffle down the
ridge in order
to see my
feet. We stop
frequently
so Walter
can hack
something out
of his throat.
He leaves a
trail of oysters
in the snow. I
take consolation
that we
are heading
in the right
direction. Walter’s pee was a color I had never seen before,
something that looked like it would take paint off the hood
of a car. It takes him hours to find his feet, but as he does,
I watch him gaze out at the view. He is the only one on the
rope team that is smiling.
I used to be angry when people like Walter entered the
mountains. They eclipsed my hardcore cross-fit nature with
the bingo halls of Reno. I became elitist, thinking everyone
on the mountain should be putting up new routes in alpine
style. I scoffed at the crowds of midlife-crisis males on the
West Buttress, lying on top of one another like sea lions.
As I move on down the ridge, however, I look at Walter
and realize he is having a great time. He may be slowly dying,
but he also might be the only one of us who truly feels
the power of the mountain. I remember when I used to feel
that power. I remember when I stood next to the abyss and
felt utterly helpless. I yearn for that feeling again.
Bill Dwyer lives in the greatest town on the planet,
Juneau, Alaska, with his wife and dog, when he’s not
walking slowly uphill around the world.
