Richard's redemption.

It has been ten months since Elbrus.
Richard called me last December to offer his best wishes for my upcoming attempt on Aconcagua, a climb for which I had been training and blogging. He said he too was preparing for another climb. This surprised me so soon on the heals of his meltdown on Elbrus. I could still remember how wiped out and nauseous he looked as we set out for the summit from our final hydration stop at 18,000 feet. "OK," he conceded wearily, "let's get this thing over with." There is no joy on his face in our summit photo. Instead his expression belies the conflicted emotions of a man who has suffered far past the point and price he ever estimated to have wagered.
"I'm going to climb Denali this spring," he announced. Denali, also known as Mt McKinley, is North Americas highest summit. At an elevation of 20,320, Denali stands almost 2,000 feet taller than Elbrus. More importantly, its location just outside the Arctic Circle invites bitter cold, typically dropping to -30 F at night in June. Massive storms from the Bering Sea pound Denali with such regularity that any given expedition should plan on digging in for a period of days or weeks. And the oxygen; that far from the equator the barometric pressure is low enough to create the physiologic experience of being still 2,000 feet higher than any given elevation. In short, Richard would be climbing a mile higher than Elbrus under much more severe conditions for a period three times as long while also carrying loads of 60-80 pounds. By way of analogy, he was the Guy who gets sick on a carnival ride then decides to become an Astronaut.
I was both astonished and concerned. Yet I did not attempt to dissuade him. I asked Richard several questions to test how thoroughly he had investigated the venture. I recommended several excellent books on Denali, including "Surviving Denali" , a study of accidents and fatalities. But I suspected I knew at least part of what was motivating him. Richard had learned of my summitting Denali early in our friendship. He was impressed and brought it up often in the company of other Climbers. I always appreciated the response this garnered, this minor celebrity, and wondered if I was as good a friend to him in return. One such time we were drinking beer in Russia with a Guide who had realized climbing fame the prior year by soloing K-2, arguably the most daunting summit on the planet. He said he planned to attempt Denali the following spring. "Dave has climbed it," Richard offered with a slap to my back. "You," the Russian Climber questioned, "You have climbed Denali?!" "Yes," I answered with a contrived aloofness suggesting more modesty than I felt. The Guide gathered me up in one arm. "Ohhhhh! Respect," he proclaimed.
I have spoken with Richard several times in the last few weeks. We debated equipment, psychological preparation, and conditioning. Richard had gone to the extraordinary length of purchasing a hyperbaric chamber to sleep in. This, at the obvious expense of his love life, would increase his VO2 count by tricking his body into thinking he was at high altitude. Much credit has been given to this approach by Lance Armstrong in the preparation for his superhuman cycling performances. Indeed, Richards account of his present fitness after eight months of intensive training paints a picture of superlative physical preparation. "Do you have any concerns," I asked the day before he left for Alaska. "No. I don't have the foreboding I felt on Elbrus," he answered, adding "I just feel a mixture of excitement and nervousness." I offered one of the big lessons I had taken away from my Denali climb, the same advice I give when speaking to groups, "Don't think about the summit until the day before you leave high camp. And try to find a little joy in each day.". Soon after the call it occurred to me that I had forgotten to ask Richard the single most important question. I left a voice message on his cell asking him to call me back, but no call came. I was consumed with self-loathing. Then, this morning, Richard called me during his layover in Seattle. "Why are you climbing this mountain," I asked. "To see if I can," he responded in a playfully flippant manner. I prodded further and he thought better of the question. "Let's just say I was disappointed in my performance on Elbrus. Its a bit of an experiment to see if all the things I have done to train and prepare can make the difference." "You could learn that by climbing a less daunting mountain," I challenged. "Yes, but it wouldn't be Denali," he concluded. Richard is climbing with the Guided Alpine Ascents group. I would imagine there will be periodic updates posted on their site. As well, Richards exact location will be tracked by signal beacon and posted via satellite to the following site; http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0WnrfN2NGSyS6EVkrlgRULoiEB4QAVzN3

Link to my Aconcagua Blog

Hi Ho. Thanks again for following along with my Elbrus Blog. I leave for Argentina to climb Aconcagua on January 9, 2010. If you care to follow along you can find me at  http://mauroaconcagua.blogspot.com/
All the best,
Dave

The next Mountain, the next Blog

Dear Readers,
Thank you so much for following along with my Mt Elbrus adventure. I have appreciated the feedback you have offered along the way and hope we can do it again sometime soon ...very soon ...starting in December of this year. I am securing arrangements now to make an attempt, in January of 2010, on Aconcagua in Argentina. Climbing with me will be my Brother in-law, Ty Hardt of Anchorage, and John "Johnnie Two-times" Harris of Kenai, Alaska. A few years ago I climbed Denali with them while filming a documentary that was never made. This time I will write a story that will never be published. We try.

So search for me at Blogspot.com under the title "Aconcagua Attempt 2010" starting in December 2009. See you then!
-Dave Mauro

Taxi Driver Kindness

I hired a taxi, while still in Azau, to take me to the neighboring villages. I promised to mail some letters for Dick back home, and I also needed cash & toothpaste. The Driver and I communicated largely through diagrams sketched on a pad of paper handed back and forth. It was challenging for both of us, which I think created a shared sense of accomplishment when we had returned to Azau. I was closing the cab door when he made an urgent sound and held up a hand signaling I should wait. The cab driver opened a chest pocket on his shirt and dug out a halloween-size individually wrapped coconut candy. He handed it to me, then pulled another halfway out of the pocket to show he too will be eating one. Then he smiled. Back in Moscow, a group of us hired a taxi to take us to a dance club one night. About ten minutes into the ride the Driver turned to Mike Crowley, riding front passenger, and handed him some kind of large baked good. It was flat and round like a danish, but had no topping. Not sure what to do, Mike admired the bread respectfully, saying "Hey that's quite a nice bread," and handed it back. The Driver insisted Mike keep the bread. He seemed quite excited that we should all try it. Mike took a bite and handed it back to me. I held it for a moment. "Hey, it's still warm." I commented. "How do suppose he managed that?" I took a bite. It tasted like a pancake. "Now that's some fine taxi bread." I commented as I passed it on. We all took turns biting chunks out of the bread. It's not that we were hungry or that it tasted particularly good. It was just fun in a way that felt wholly random. We had come to embrace random, trust in it's place in our world, celebrate the color it brings to the party. Soon the bread was gone and we thanked the Driver as he dropped us at the club. I've thought about that experience since then, realized the Taxi Driver probably gave us his dinner, wondered why. It's not like he handed it to us when we first got in the car. Ten minutes had clicked by while he thought to himself "should I give them the bread or shouldn't I?" Then all of the sudden out comes the bread! I wonder what made the difference in a car load of people he couldn't understand. I just don't know.

The art of being Russian

I took a night train from Moscow to St Petersburg. This was a money-saving suggestion from the Russian agent organizing our logistics. I shared the four bunks of my tiny birth with three Russian travelers. There was a twenty-something couple returning from holiday in Moscow, and an early thirties-aged man coming back from business. It was quiet at first as we tried to pretend we weren't knee to knee. The husband brought back tea for he and his wife, then poured a dash of Jamesons into each. He asked, in broken english, if I would like some. I accepted and set out to get a cup of tea. A uniformed woman working out of a space the size of a small closet, assembled the hot drink for me a few moments later. Unable to make change for my 1,000 Ruble note (about $30) she waved me off as the lucky recipient of free tea. Soon my new friend had fortified the beverage and we were all underway getting to know each other. They asked me about mountain climbing. I asked them about life in St Petersburg. They suggested restaurants. They suggested attractions. They suggested I not look like a tourist. "How," asked. "No backpack," they demanded. I said I could manage that. "And don't look up with your mouth open," the wife counseled. "Like this, I asked in feigned amazement. "YES," she confirmed, laughing giddily. "And something else," she added, "try to make your face like Russian." Recognizing the improv game New Choice, I set about swinging between vast extreme's of facial expressions, each illicitting both horror and laughter. "No. NO! no. NO!!!!!!" I finally settled on a sort of tired-sunday-in-the-park look. "Yes," they applauded. Then we made up our bunks and said good night.

Post Script: Ankita gets her shot.

Ankita's condition improved quickly in the oxygen-rich lower elevation of Azau. As there had been a spare summit day built in for bad weather, Ankita reasoned it was still possible for her to make a summit attempt. She would need to leave for high camp the day after the rest of us had arrived back at Oz. That same day she would need to make the acclimatization climb from high camp to 15,000 feet, and then leave for the summit that night, skipping the day of rest that would normally separate the two. Ankita approached Mike with this idea. He would guide her, and in the process summit Elbrus for the second time in three days. This was an ambitious plan for both of them. After careful consideration, and verifying Ankita's improved health, Mike agreed. They left immediately, joined by Paul who came along as moral support. Word spread among the other climbing teams around Azau. A well-liked person, there was great empathy for Ankita and her lost summit attempt. But now a slow drum beat of possibility began as climbers sought out updates on the status of Mike and Ankita high up on Elbrus. We passed the time in the eager hours that followed speculating on how things were going. Some of us saw Ankita's troubled foot as being the principle concern. Others questioned how completely her strength may have returned. Still others fretted over her abbreviated acclamation. Ankita and Mike started for the summit at 2:50 a.m. We were at breakfast when Mike called Alex on the satellite phone. He and Ankita were standing on the summit! Even more impressive, they had gotten there in only six and a half hours, a full two hours faster than our first team. Later, I asked Ankita what made her think she could do it with all the strikes against her. Her answer spoke first to the confidence she felt in Mike, and secondly to the desire that had set all these wheels in motion so many months ago. "I had to try."

The dark side of Elbrus.

There was bad news for the Team when we woke at 1:00 A.M. Ankita would not be joining us for the summit attempt. But it would not be her troubled foot that tethered her to high camp. Ankita had been up most of the night with the ill effects of what appeared to be some kind of intestinal bug. This left her dehydrated and weak. A high altitude summit bid requires the very best of health. Anything short of that can transform a discomfort at sea level into a potentially dangerous situation up high. Ankita had done all the right things; put in the training, bought the expensive gear, hired the best Guides, suffered through her foot problem, and endured the chronic discomforts of altitude acclimatization. But in the end this would not be her day. Ankita had drawn the short straw. It's a hard thing to see someone's dream shatter. We all felt very bad for Ankita. Paul offered to give up his own summit dream to stay behind and care for her, but Ankita insisted he press on with the climb. Mike and Richard provided medications. Arrangements were made to have Ankita taken down to Azau where the comforts of Oz would provide some relief. Then we geared up and boarded the snow cat for the ride that would take us back to where our climb had left off two days prior at 15,000 feet. Clear skies delivered on the promise of our weather forecast with a brilliant display of stars. The moon was nearly full. There was very little wind. Conditions were ideal. By 2:30 A.M. we were stepping off the snow cat, crampons on, and starting the first pitch, a grueling steep incline 1,200 feet up the west flank of Elbrus. We made decent progress for the first hour, but then our pace started falling off. I asked Mike if we could move faster. The wind had picked up and it was difficult to stay warm. He said that our pace was presently being set by Richard. Hearing this, Richard increased his effort and, for ten minutes or so, our pace improved. But from my place at the back of the Team I was watching Richard. He seemed to be working much harder than the rest of us. His efficiency of movement seemed to be slipping away. Something was wrong. The temperature was down to. - 5 degrees, not extraordinarily cold, but with only 12 percent of the oxygen available at sea level the physiological effect was much colder. Richard would later comment that he felt cold dressed in layers that typically kept him warm plowing snow at 40 below back home in Alberta. Now Paul asked if we could move faster. He was getting cold. Mike called for a break and, explaining that we have to dress for the pace, suggested we put on our heavy summit parkas, over pants, balaclavas, and mittens. I dug each from my pack and put them on, feeling immediately better. Ankita put on his parka. Richard added his parka, heavy gloves, and balaclava. He already had his over pants on. Mike and Alex put on their warmest clothing as well. We continued on, our bodies warmer, our pace still slow. After 30 minutes I noticed Richard was duck-footing his right foot outward and pushing off of it to step forward and uphill with the left. I called for the Team to stop and walked up to Richard. Pointing out what I had noticed, I urged him to not squander his energy with such an inefficient practice. He was breathing hard, and complained that his boots were too stiff, making a normal gate impossible. Mike came back to where we were. I think he thought I was riding Richard about the pace again. He said the pace might not be what Paul and I wanted, but it was "acceptable" and we were making progress. It's important to know there were no flared tempers. All of these discussions occurred in very clear and rational tones. We finished that first pitch and began the second, a long steep traverse winding northward toward the saddle dividing the twin summits of Elbrus. Dawn broke, but we were still on the dark side of Elbrus. It occurred to me that our problems with cold would be solved if we could traverse out of the shadow. Then Richard suddenly stopped. He, Mike, and Alex had a discussion. By the time I walked up to them it had been decided that Richard would take a dose of Diamox to stabilize the altitude effects. He had been talking about turning back. "We are trying to persuade him to continue on," Mike said, having seen climbers work through such conditions many times, believing Richard might do the same. It would be hard to say how much of Richards problem were altitude, hypothermia, or general fitness. On some level each appeared to be contributing. But there was something else. "I have a bad feeling about this," Richard said. Back in Moscow he had shared with me a grim premonition that had come to him as he said goodbye to one of his daughters. This for boding was now consuming his thoughts and still more precious energy. Hearing this, Mike asked if Richard would feel better continuing on if they were roped together, a technique called "short roping." Richard said he would so Mike started rigging the line. At some point he looked at Paul and didn't like what he saw. "Paul," he said," You,ve just been standing there and you still don't have your over pants on. I'm starting to question your judgment. Don't fade on me, Buddy. Put those over pants on now." Then Mike turned back to Richard, who had a new problem. With all of the standing around his left foot had gone numb. Mike handled each of these challenges decisively, quite thoroughly validating his reputation as one of the foremost high altitude Guides in the world. "Right, we will remove the boot and warm the foot," he said, instructing Richard to lay on his back and place the afflicted foot under Mikes upper layers, against the bare flesh of his stomach. I asked what I could do to help and was handed the inner liner of Richard's boot. "Keep this somewhere warm," Mike said. I stuffed it under my parka. Then I looked at Paul and noticed he was impossibly tangled up in the process of putting on his over pants, the crampons of his right foot piercing them in three places. I backed his foot out and open the leg zippers completely. Then I carefully guided each foot through. As I started to zip the legs closed Paul said he could take it from there, and did just fine. About then Mike had finished warming Richard's foot and was calling for the boot liner. As we prepared to get back underway Richard said he would give it thirty minutes more and turn around if things were not going better. The Team plodded on, chasing the edge of the shadow and the hope that our climb would emerge stronger in the light of day. We passed into the sun forty minutes later on a section of the traverse that flattens out. The combination of warmer conditions and a rest for our legs turned everything around. As we paused to hydrate I turned to Paul, "We will stand on top of this #*%! before the day is out!" "Yeah," he agreed, "I think we will.". The heat of the sun reflecting off the snow can very quickly change the game from hypothermia to heat management and dehydration. By the time we reached the east side of the saddle we were all removing layers and applying sunscreen. Richard shed his pack at the base of our next pitch, a steep climb rising 1,600 feet from the saddle to the summit plateau. Our pace was still slow and several other Teams passed us. Richard was still struggling but seemed to have reached down deep and found what it takes to carry on when most of you wants to cash in. "And now, Dear Friends," Alex called out, "the final forty meters! Most difficult part of climb." Not only the steepest grade we had seen, this section also menaced climbers with a sheer 2,000 foot drop off on one side. There could be no mistakes. For the next forty minutes we methodically scratched our way up the narrow catwalk at the top of the pitch and onto the summit plateau. Again we rested, hydrated, opened the zipper vents on our clothing, and applied more sunscreen. Exhausted, Richard asked how much further. "You gotta walk the plateau, Man" Mike answered in a playful tone. "I have to have a number," Richard insisted,"how much time. "Thirty or forty minutes," Mike answered. We had been climbing for eight hours and gained almost 3,500 vertical feet. Now, from where we sat drinking gatorade, we could see the final rise of fifty feet to the summit on the far side of the plateau. While we put our packs on I started singing "They can't take that away from me." As we took those final steps the realization of what we had accomplished settled on me and I felt tears leeking out the bottom of my glacier glasses. There were hugs and photos. We all said how much we wished Ankita were there. I called my Mother and my love, Lin, on the satellite phone. Then I released my brothers ashes to the Russian wind.