denali

Day 6: Friday the Thirteenth, Camp 1 to Camp 3, passing a guided team doing a single carry the whole way (their guide is insane) and ski teams that stop dead in the trail for no reason. Pukilicious and her team wisely stopped short at 10,800. No active puking, at least.

Day 5: A cache at 10,000 feet alongside Pierre and another Frenchman, with This American Life making the time pass. A German woman starts puking at altitude, never a good sign. We're weighing whether to push to Camp 3 or play it safe and stop at 10k.

Day 4: Wind pins us at Camp 1, so we dig a deep kitchen, eat goldfish, and decide to summit via the upper West Rib and skip the headwall. A German couple tries to move their tent into our crapper, and an AAI group grinds out a pointless carry in the wind. More power to 'em.

Day 3: Ranger orientation about not pooping everywhere, then a flight to base camp and a bitterly cold, windy slog up the Kahiltna to Camp 1, where we pillaged an abandoned kitchen for our walls. My hand's going numb and I'm trying not to think about needing to pee.

Day 2: Anchorage to Talkeetna, grocery shopping in Wasilla, gear weighing in at over a hundred pounds each, and dinner at Mountain High Pizza. Wes' delusions of sub-80-pound loads are a distant memory. Talkeetna: a quaint little drinking town with a climbing problem.

Day 1: Atlanta to Anchorage, nearly leaving the two-way radio forgotten on the floor, a free first class upgrade, then an exit-row seat next to a coughing seatmate right before an expedition. We're doing the West Buttress a third time. We're basically veterans.

An account of my May 2011 trip to Denali, self-guided this time with just Wes and a journal kept on my iPad. First lesson carried over from 2008: get a haircut, because if your hair is going to be gross for a month, have as little of it as possible. Now to pack everything.

Epilogue: The aftermath of the McKinley trip, bloody toenail, numb finger, fifteen or twenty pounds gone, weeks in flip-flops. I'm already planning a self-guided return in May 2009, with a solar panel and a pack made by anyone other than Jansport. The non-belonging hasn't faded.

Day 30: Travel back to New York, hobbling slowly through airports with swelling feet (walking slow has its perks; nobody gets in your way). Driving through the city, watching the noise and trash, all I could think was, I live here? My epic month makes the old routine seem sad.