Chapter Three: The Third Time I Almost Died

I tug on the rope and glance back over my shoulder, down into the darkness below. I can't see the bottom but I know it's close. I look back up at Todd, crouched on the small shelf of snow a few feet above me. "This is ten", I say and lean back.

It sounds like a gunshot and I've never been shot at but as if by some primordial instinct I drop prone. I look up at Todd and his eyes are so wide I think they could swallow his face, And the second thing I notice is the smell, shattered granite smells a lot like gunpowder. Or maybe it's that they both smell like death.

But let's back up.

Thirteen hours ago we were at the top of this unremarkable pile of rocks. It might only be half the size of the massive Denali looming over us to the north but we thought we were on top of the world when we got there. Tired and thirsty, eleven thousand, three hundred feet above sea level, we had embraced and spent maybe five or ten minutes admiring the view. We could see for hundreds of miles.

Forty hours before that we had run out of fuel for our stove. A potentially fatal miscalculation. We wanted to go light but took it to far. Inexperience maybe, but a mistake like that can kill you. Up here without fuel there is no water. And this is some of the hardest climbing either of us have ever done. The hardest anything either of us have ever done. And Todd's been to war. Last night I spent two hours chopping a shelf out of the ice on the side of some cliff, I tied all my gear off and packed my water bottles full of snow and slept with them. I shivered all night but in the morning my body had meted maybe a cup of water. Precious water.

I haven't been hungry yet, not in two and a half days without food. But thirsty, so thirsty. Without water your blood thickens, your muscles cramp and become useless. The decreased circulation makes you far more prone to frostbite. When we ran out of fuel we never considered going back down, it wasn't even an option. We had a quart of water each and a full belly. It would have been two dangerous to backtrack, down climb and rappel the way we had come up. We knew we had to go up and over, down the other side. We never dreamt it would be this hard. We got off route, it started snowing and when we should have been back at base camp we still weren't at the top. So thirsty.

We climbed through the snow. Both leading sections of rock and ice that pushed our bodies and our minds to the limit. We lost three pitons cause I buried em too far into the rock for Todd to remove. He never even tried. Now, a day and a half later we could use those pitons on this rappel. All we know is that it's ten rappels, maybe twelve to fifteen hundred feet. Sometimes we down climb short sections, sometimes we dangle on the end of the rope, swinging back and forth in the blackness, looking for something to create an anchor with for the next rappel. We take turns going first. It's hard and scary going first. You don't know what's below. You just hope you'll find something good before you run outta rope.

And here we are on the tenth. It's my turn to go first. Since Todd went first last time he made the next anchor and the first thing I ask when I arrive is how is it? He beats it with a gloved fist. "Bomber dude." I can still hear those words. And it looks bomber. A massive fin of granite that he tied several nylon slings around. Ran the rope through and clipped in, waited for me to come down and see what lies below. It drops off steep, undercuts even. But we know this is probably the last one. For the first time since the summit we are smiling. "This is ten", I say, and lean back. And it snaps. This giant piece of prehistoric granite, it weighs as much as a small car and we're both tied to it. My heals are hanging over the void.

To this day I have no idea how I didn't go. I have no idea how I somehow pitched my weight forward and didn't disappear down into the darkness, pulling Todd with me and killing us both. His eyes are so huge in the light of my headlamp and all I can hear is my heart, pounding in my ears.

But the worst part is that that broken piece of rock was our only anchor. And here on this little ledge there is nothing else but a shallow crack, maybe half an inch deep. We don't say much and Todd pounds in an aluminum stopper. It only goes halfway in. Looks like I can jerk it out with my hand but its gotta support the over 250 Lbs of me, my pack. And gear. There is nothing else.

So I do it. It's all we can do. It's too steep and we are two exhausted to be able to climb back up and find something better. Todd un-clips and sits without an anchor on the little ledge. He isn't so sure it will hold either. I gently lower myself off the ledge and make my way slowly down. A foot slips and I pendulum wildly to the side. I am sure the stopper will pop but it doesn't. Forty feet down I'm not at the bottom but I find a better anchor. I tie in and yell for Todd to come down, we'll set up here and go again.

Six hours later we ski into base camp. The sun is just coming up. We've been climbing, rappelling and skiing for over 25 hours strait to get back here. Todd collapses in front of the Tent and I watch snow collect on his Gore-Tex suit as I hurry to take off my skis. I have a mission. Water. Ten minutes later he comes into the cook tent and I hand him the first quart bottle of water. He chugs half of it and hands the bottle back to me. I empty it and start melting more snow. Todd heads to the sleep tent to unpack his down bag. I just sit there for about a minute and then I vomit all the water out between my feet. I've never been more miserable than that moment. We spend the next day slowly re-hydrating and eating and sleeping and we fly out the day after that.

Up on that ledge, when that anchor broke, that was the third time I know I almost died.