KAHILTNA DREAMING

As most of you know, my other job, which funds the Chena Ridge Research Centre, allowing the A.P.R. to continue bringing you the most up to date, incisive socio-political and environmental news and commentary, has travel occasionally involved.


It was my privelege to be allowed to travel last week with one of my colleagues to the climbing Base Camp of Denali, the highest peak in North America, at 20,320 feet, in Denali National Park. Our purpose, as meteorologists for the federal government, was to interact with the climbers present, and the National Park Service rangers, to see if their forecasting needs were being met. To see if there were any significant problems with our forecasting (the NWS prepares a climbing forecast twice-daily for Denali in the late April-mid July peak climbing season), obtain suggestions for improvement, and conduct a site survey, examining and calibrating their weather instruments. All these goals were met, and informative and valuable interactions occurred, making the trip a success on those counts. But that is incidental to this story.
I want to just describe this amazing place, which is unique in the World, and which is still gripping my daily reality. A place I will never forget, and to which I will be returning, several times, since a Denali summit is planned year after next.


The only way in to the Kahiltna glacier, in summer, which the Base Camp sits on the southeast spur of, at 7200 feet, is by ski-plane, from the climbing base town of Talkeetna, 50 miles southeast of Denali National Park. This is the 1961 De Havilland Beaver, which took us over from Talkeetna. One could ski in, in winter, on a several day traverse, when the rivers and swamps are frozen, which would be a tempting option next March or April, when days are longer, and temperatures a little warmer than in January or February. Something we would like to do, since Mattie would be able to accompany me, and whoever else was able to go.


For now though, our short plane ride only took 35 minutes over the wide Susitna River, the swampy taiga beyond, then the foothills, and finally over the 6000-10000 foot spurs of the Denali massif, separated by glaciers in the valleys. We landed in camp at noon, under a bright sunny sky, with a nearly unprecedented 42 degree F temperature.


Base Camp is a collection of four rigid-frame shelters occupied by the National Park Service climbing rangers, and employees of the aviation services in Talkeetna, who coordinate the drop-offs and pick-ups of the dozens of climbers daily, from Talkeetna. Most climbers usually spend a night there before beginning their ascent process (which involves hauling supplies successively higher, to different camps, before the actual ascent), and there are sometimes mountaineering classes present as well (I will be in one of those there next year). So, there can be dozens of people camped there at any given time. To keep the area clean, CMC's (clean mountain cans) are used. You have to sit on these for your solid wastes, it is a plastic bucket with a lid and bag inside. These biodegradable bags are disposed of in deep crevasses.


Here a 12 day mountaineering course (the one my friend Erik Hursh and I will be taking next year) sets out on the most popular and least strenuous West Buttress climbing route (in green, on map, above), for different tasks and lessons.

This is Chris Erikson, one of the NPS climbing rangers. He was nothing but helpful and professional, as he went about his busy day answering questions from climbers, interacting with us, and collaborating in two incidents (more on these later). They have our greatest admiration in their duties of assisting climbers, sometimes in extremely adverse conditions, when problems arise.

Chris began his mountaineering growing up in Oregon and summiting all the Cascade volcanoes, and worked his way up from there. These are highly sought-after jobs, and only extremely skilled, courageous mountaineers are selected, and receive extensive training in trauma and high altitude emergency medicine. He and a volunteer assistant remain in Base Camp on 21 day assignments, while another ranger works at the 14,200 foot camp, on the West Buttress trail. There are others also standing by at the ranger station in Talkeetna, with a helicopter, in case a complicated rescue situtation occurs. They can only provide assistance though that does not pose undue hazards to themselves, which is why summitting Denali, especially on more difficult routes, is not something to be taken lightly, without extensive planning and preparation.

So what makes this area so unique? Well, for starters, the terrain. The vertical relief of Denali, from the 7200 feet Base Camp, to it's summit at 20,320 feet, is 1000 feet greater than Everest's, from it's climbing base to it's summit. This is 17,450 ft. Mt. Foraker, looming 10,000 + feet over the Kahiltna glacier, just a few miles west from camp.

The broad summit of the Denali massif looms 13,000 vertical feet above camp just six straight-line miles away. This is more vertical relief than Everest offers from it's base at 17,800 feet, to it's summit at 29,028. On this amazing day, winds were light, even on the summit, since there is no banner of blowing snow, which is often present with stronger winds. And, no clouds either. Not many days a year like this, though the reason the climbing season is late April through mid-July, is that this time is the driest in the area, when temperatures are warmest. Later in the summer, precipitation increases as the jet stream begins to gather strength and more low pressure systems move over, bringing heavy snow, strong winds, and white-out conditions for days at a time. We were sure lucky to be there in conditions like this!

My favorite view, which held me for hours, was this, to the south. 14,570 foot Mt. Hunter rears 7300 ft. vertically above the Kahiltna, just a half-mile across from camp. I was simply transfixed by this amazing mass of rock, snow, and ice. Avalanches were frequent, booming across the valley, day and night. Some incredibly brave and skilled climbers ascend this, but of course, rock and ice anchors are needed, and it is a slow, and dangerous process!

Around 1800 in the evening of our first day in camp, a radio message came in from some Italian climbers at 18,200 feet on Cassin ridge, which faces toward camp. They had miscalculated climbing a different route, run out of food and water, and were calling for help. They felt they could go no further.

Chris and his supervisor, who happened to be at camp that day quickly determined that a helicopter pick-up was impossible, in that precarious location. It was decided to drop a bag of food and water to them. The first bag slid down the mountain, the climbers couldn't catch it. One more chance. At 2000, a second bag was lifted up, this time the climbers snagged it. Fortunately for them, the weather was favorable for helicopter operations, otherwise, they would have been in much more dire straits. We could see them through the powerful spotting telescope in camp, setting up for the night, then, packing up the next morning, heading for the summit, so they could descend on the easier West Buttress climbing route.

The evening lighting on all the peaks was stunning. This is looking up the southeast fork of the Kahiltna glacier, that interesting altocumulus standing lenticular cloud (ACSL) was there all day, in the same position, indicative of a very stable, and persistent weather pattern.

I decided to stay up late that night, the shifting pattern of sunlight and shadows on the peaks was too amazing to let go of. Around 2300 hours, I had to put my down parka on. It was fairly warm, about +32F, but a cool 10-15 mph wind was blowing, and since I wasn't moving, just sitting in my camp chair drinking in the views, or going for short walks, bundling up was mandatory. Even though I had all my glacier travel gear (crampons, ice axe, helmet, rope, etc..) Chris warned us that he couldn't guarantee our safety if we wandered outside of camp. The recent warm weather had weakened snow bridges over the many crevasses. I was not about to doubt his word.

Mt. Hunter this evening at 2300 was particularly stunning. I must have gazed at it a total of several hours that night, thinking of climbing routes, and the dangers all that ice and rock could pose, for someone trying to ascend it.

The lower ridges north of Mt. Foraker shaded it after 2200 hours, leaving just the top in the gentle northern summer sun. It must have been nearly calm up there on it's summit, judging by the lack of any blowing snow.

Denali was just as beautiful as all the others that evening. And again, look at how smooth it looks up there, I can only hope for such conditions when I make it up to that summit the year after next.

I didn't get to bed until well after midnight, but slept well in my 4-season tent and -20F down bag. Climbers rousing early for 0400 departures woke me up, but I just listened in and occasionally dozed until about 0600. The morning views were just as amazing as the previous evening.

Ski planes (DeHavilland Beavers and Otters, and Cessna 185s) began dropping off and picking up climbers by 0800.

They look like little gnats compared to the gigantic peaks.

My colleague Ray and I packed up by noon, for our planned 1300 departure.

As accurately forecast by my co-worker Corey Bogel, in the office the previous day, clouds began increasing by then, the fore-runner of an incoming low pressure trough from the Bering Sea, which promised to bring some snow, stronger winds, and occasional white-out conditions to much of the area.

Just before 1400 hours, our plane was late, and clouds kept thickening. We hoped we'd make it out, before the weather closed in around the landing strip there at 7200 feet (most of the interior surrounding the Alaska Range is much lower, only 100 to 2500 feet above sea level, so even that elevation is very high, comparatively).

Then, right at about 1400 hours, the radio traffic began:

http://www.nationalparkstraveler.com/2009/06/roped-together-climbers-die-fall-mount-mckinley-denali-national-park-and-preserve

Roped-Together Climbers Die in Fall On Mount McKinley in Denali National Park and Preserve

Posted June 12th, 2009 by Kurt Repanshek
Two acclaimed climbers fell to their deaths on Mount McKinley in the vicinity of the mountain's West Rib and West Buttress routes. NPS photo.

Two acclaimed climbers who were roped together while climbing on Mount McKinley in Denali National Park and Preserve have fallen several thousand feet to their deaths.

While two medics and an emergency room were quick to reach the two, there was nothing they could do.

Killed in the accident Thursday were Dr. John Mislow, 39, of Newton, Massachusetts, and Dr. Andrew Swanson, age 36, of Minneapolis, Minnesota. While part of the fall was observed by other climbers on the mountain, park officials say many factors remain unknown about the accident, such as the location where the initial fall occurred and whether the team was ascending or descending at the time.

Although the onset of the fall was not witnessed, a team did observe them falling between the 16,500-foot elevation on the Messner Couloir and its base at 14,500 feet.

Park rangers at the 14,200-foot camp were notified via FRS radio within minutes of the event, which occurred shortly before 2:00 p.m. on Thursday. Three skiers in the vicinity were first to respond to the climbers, who were located approximately 30 minutes away from the 14,200-foot camp. A team of four volunteer NPS rangers, including an emergency room nurse and two medics, followed close behind and confirmed that the two men had died in the fall.

The bodies were recovered by the park’s A-Star B3 helicopter that same evening and flown to Talkeetna.

The two men began an ascent of the West Rib route on May 30, and their climbing registration forms did not specify a particular descent route. Situated in between the West Rib and the West Buttress routes, the Messner Couloir is a steep, hourglass-shaped snow gully that drops from near Archdeacon’s Tower at 19,000 feet down to the 14,200-foot basin. With a 40- to 50-degree snow and ice slope, the Messner Couloir is an occasional advanced ski descent route, but is rarely descended on foot or ascended.

Drs. Mislow and Swanson were both experienced mountaineers. In 2000, Denali National Park and Preserve presented the two men with the Denali Pro Award, an honor recognizing the highest standards in the sport for safety, self-sufficiency, and assisting fellow mountaineers.
During their 2000 attempt of the West Rib route they aided several different teams in distress; assisted a National Park Service patrol with multiple visitor protection projects; and

demonstrated sound risk assessment in their climbing objectives.

The rangers Chris, and his volunteer assistant Kurt swung into action, communicating with the 14,200 foot camp, and preparing supplies, in case they would need to be ferried up for a rescue operation. The tragic news came shortly though, there would be no need for one. Judging from the radio traffic we heard, death came to these poor men quickly. The conditions on Denali were still quite good, no banner clouds indicating increasing winds were visible, and it was still mostly in the clear. Which makes this tragic accident all the more mysterious, especially since they were such experienced mountaineers. May they be at peace.

The mood in camp plummeted. Our plane arrived at 1500, and we loaded in to our Talkeetna Air Taxi DeHavilland Beaver. Chris and Kurt, in spite of all this, wished us safe travels, and we said our goodbyes. Their jobs are just as, or even more, stressful, than what I can remember of my worst days in our local volunteer fire department, when we had the occasional mass casualty incident. We were all heavy of heart, thinking of what terrifying moments the two climbers must have experienced, and what those they left behind would soon be experiencing.

The flight back went a slightly different route, more directly through the Alaska range. Which would make sense, to avoid the incoming planes, ferrying in fresh teams and classes, for their adventures.

As we flew over the main part of the Kahiltna glacier, I saw these large areas of meltwater ponds on it. A very stunning shade of blue. We were told by the air service people working in camp that it was highly unusual to see so many of these so early. And it had been unprecedentedly warm there over the past few weeks. Not only that, but there had been no snow in Base Camp, since it was set up on 27 April, only a little rain the week before. Again without precedent in anyone's experience working there.

Although I only spent about 30 hours in that amazing place, it's an experience I'll never forget. I've always been drawn to snow-capped peaks, whether they were in Southern California in winter, the Cascade volcanoes, shimmering in the distance above the gentle lowlands of the Willamette Valley of Oregon in summer, or the high Andes of Bolivia and Peru, floating above the Altiplano. They radiate some sort of essential purity, and to be among them, is truly a spiritual experience. I look forward to my return trips to the Andes and Alaska Range, and perhaps others, as well.