denali

Camp 4 to Camp 5, with a mid-fifties pack up the headwall and a Russian group asking to move into our fortified camp. Someone got offered thirty pounds of sharp cheddar. The weather report says we might summit tomorrow, and then the trip will be over.

Day 15: Weather just bad enough to keep us off high camp and honor the sabbath. Teams descend all around us, the Army Rangers next door complain about the smell of bacon and pancakes again (guilty, and it's the last of it), and a client carves an ice obelisk to pose beside.

Day 14: An acclimatization hike to 15,300 on the upper West Rib, turned back by a crevasse with no findable snow bridge (Wes wanted to jump it; I talked him out of it). A balmy +15 forecast and a neighbor named Mike whose lost clients we keep telling to go away.

Day 13: No amazing climbs, no rescues, no bodies today, just high winds and a foot of fresh snow. Shovel out camp, watch Wes re-shovel it an hour later, take a warm nap in a tent that was an ice cave at dawn. My body is a machine for turning water bottles into pee bottles.

Day 12: A rest day so warm in the puffy pants I nearly cook myself overnight. Bacon fat instead of butter on the pop tarts: sounded good, tasted awful. Max and Justin pull off a full round trip to high camp through the night, earning some celebrity status.

Day 11: A back carry from 13,500, then watching a helicopter fight the wind at high camp and finally fly out the body of the Italian Mountain Trips climber. The West Rib is too icy for our gear, so we'll only acclimatize there. My puffy pants mean no cold can reach me now.

Day 10: A rest day at Camp 4 building walls and a kitchen-crapper, standing watch so no Germans move in. And the hushed news of a Mountain Trips catastrophe: a broken leg near the Football Field, and a client who fell and died descending Denali Pass.

Day 9: Camp 3 to Camp 4, hauling packs heavier than we hoped. An AAI group calls our casual pace sprinting, and Wes races a German duo for the last camp site. I call that pulling a Mike. Then Mike himself walks by.

Day 8: A cache up to 13,500 feet, no sleds, crampons on at last with snowshoes behind us. A climber from Iceland, lugging a 45kg pack alone for his two man team, shows off the Airforce Lift, an impressive full-body roll to stand up. Five and a half hours round trip, then a not-quite-gumbo.

Day 7: A quick back carry from 10,000 just in time, since we were nearly out of snacks. Pukilicious moved up to 14k; she is so going to die. And in a fit of troubleshooting, I hit the logout button on the spot messenger and locked myself out for good.