Seven Summits Part 10

There were two Sherpas with them who chanted mantras as they entered the shadowy frozen towers at the base of the Icefall. As Ershler had antic.i.p.ated, he and d.i.c.k soon pulled ahead, leaving Frank with the Sherpas.

"d.i.c.k, the real reason I got you two up here this morning was to give Frank a test," Ershler confessed. "I know you can handle this okay but I want to see how well Frank does."

"Well, whatever," d.i.c.k said. "I'm just happy to be getting the experience."

Ershler didn't want to be unfair, but he still decided to set a good pace. He and d.i.c.k hooked into the fixed ropes with their carabiners and stepped out quickly up the trail, which was now well packed around the maze of blocks. It was a brilliantly clear dawn, and d.i.c.k paused to gaze across the glacial valley to the cone-shaped summit of Pumori bathed in a pink glow. They crossed the first aluminum ladder, and as d.i.c.k stepped on the first rung his crampon spike skated off and he caught his balance on the handline; next step he was careful to place his foot so the spikes straddled the rungs. There was a kind of eerie silence to the Icefall, the only sound the crunch of their boots in the dawn snow and the whistle of their quickened breathing. It was not particularly cold; in fact, dressed in long john underwear, a pile fabric coat, and a windsuit, d.i.c.k was almost too warm as he steadily plodded along behind Ershler. They paused to look back and see how Frank and the Sherpas were doing.

"I can't believe it," Ershler said.

Frank was only a few dozen yards behind. Ershler turned to keep climbing. Thirty minutes later he paused again. d.i.c.k was right behind him, and again, a few dozen yards back, there were Frank and the Sherpas. Ershler kept pushing, picking up the pace, only to see, every time he turned, that Frank held his position. Finally Ershler stopped, turned to d.i.c.k and shook his head. Frank was still coming on strongly. Ershler noted that he was, as usual, a little awkward, but there was no doubting his determination and there was no doubting he could make it easily through the Icefall in a single day.

"Well, so much for that idea," Ershler said to d.i.c.k. "But now what am I going to do with him?"

8.

CAMP TWO: 21,600 FEET.

On April 24 Peter Pilafian, the ABC cameraman, and I were on the final day of the walk to base camp. Before arriving we took the one-hour detour to the Kala Patar overlook to shoot an update of the expedition's progress. Holding a mike with the ABC logo on the handle, and the summit of Everest framed over my shoulder, I filed this report: "The route is now through the notoriously dangerous Khumbu Icefall. It has taken the team nine days, fifty-one ladder sections, seventy-five ice screws, and six thousand feet of rope to fix the pa.s.sage through the jumble of ice blocks. And today an advance team reached the site of camp two, at 21,600 feet, under the enormous southwest face of Everest. From here, the expedition will now alternate lead teams who will each day climb higher up to Lhotse Face, a four-thousand-foot-high expanse of ice that leads to the South Col, the saddle between Everest and its satellite peak, Lhotse. So far the expedition is on schedule, and if progress continues at this rate, the first team could be in position for a summit attempt in less than two weeks."

When we arrived in base camp Frank and d.i.c.k were out to greet us, and after introductions to those of the team we didn't already know we unpacked and pitched our tent on a platform of flat rocks prepared in advance by the Sherpas. Base camp was positioned in more or less the same locale we had used in 1976; even though the b.u.mps and cracks in the glacial ice change each year, the position of base camp relative to the surrounding peaks remains more or less the same, and because there is always at least one expedition using the campsite each climbing season (before and after the monsoon), base camp has a kind of de facto geographic charter that has put it on several maps spelled with capital letters.

Pilafian and I decided to spend four days in base camp to acclimatize before ascending to camp 2, where we would remain for the rest of the climb. Frank and d.i.c.k said they would come up to camp 2 sometime later, after the ropes had been fixed to the South Col (since these ropes would all be fixed by the lead climbers, there wasn't any reason for them to be in camp 2 eating supplies that had to be carried up there).

Those of us on the ABC crew planned to use our time in base camp completing interviews and working on last-minute modifications to our video equipment, including the tiny modified home-type camera and accompanying two-pound microwave transmitter the summit team was to take with them to the top. We had the idea also to take an on-camera tour of base camp, with me pointing out the various tents, introducing the Sherpas, and explaining everyone's jobs. We started at the altar, with its overview of camp.

"There are fifty-one people on this expedition: nine climbers, including Frank Wells and d.i.c.k Ba.s.s, an expedition leader, a base camp manager, a government liaison officer, a climbing representative of the Nepal Police, twenty-five climbing Sherpas, five Sherpa cooks and their a.s.sistants, four cameramen or TV people, and a mail-runner who shuttles between here and the air strip, a four-day hike away. It takes twenty-one tents in base camp to hold everyone, plus a cook tent, two mess tents, and an equipment storage tent."

We then moved to the equipment storage, a rock-walled enclosure with a plastic sheet roof. Inside were the reels of climbing rope, dozens of aluminum snap links, ice screws, aluminum stakes, and other gear needed to fix ropes on the mountain. There was also the food.

"High alt.i.tude often creates a loss of appet.i.te, and correct food can be one of the most important ingredients in a successful Everest expedition. Now this might not sound that appetizing, even at sea level, but some of the things in this tent include fifty pounds of canned salmon and tuna, twenty-five pounds of macaroni and cheese mix, fifty cans of meatb.a.l.l.s with sauce, fifty gallons of dried soup mixes, seventy-five pounds of saltine crackers, forty-five pounds of cookies, one hundred pounds of cheese, one hundred fifty pounds of potatoes, two hundred pounds of rice ... the list goes on."

We entered the cook tent-another rock-walled enclosure-to the smell of curry sauce and steaming potatoes, and the head Sherpa cook insisted we sit down and drink tea. He had 3 two-foot-diameter aluminum pots over large kerosene stoves. One pot was used only to melt ice, and in a moment an a.s.sistant cookboy maybe twelve years old came in with an iceblock that weighed near what he did lashed to his packframe. A transistor radio was tuned to the abrasive keening of Indian music while at the same time the cook was singing a discordant Sherpa tune. Before we finished tea, two Sherpanis (female Sherpas) showed up. They both had braided black hair, colored ap.r.o.ns, and red cheeks, and giggled when they saw us. They had herded from Namche Bazar two yaks loaded with fresh cabbage and potatoes, and wanted a gla.s.s of tea before reversing their journey.

There were two mess tents-one for Sherpas, one for Sahibs- and both had standing headroom. In the Sahib tent there were a dozen small woven bamboo stools along both sides of a table made from b.u.t.ted cardboard boxes, and also two folding aluminum chairs brought from the States. These aluminum chairs were first come/first served, and at the moment Frank had one and was taking his morning in leisure finishing his mountaineering history of Everest. We heard from the nearby cook tent the clanking of an oversize spoon on an empty pot: the lunch bell. In a moment the Sherpa cookboy brought in a pot of steaming curried potatoes.

"It's easy to get used to climbing with these Sherpas," Frank said, serving himself.

"Easy to get lazy, too," d.i.c.k chided.

"I'm saving myself," Frank replied. "Last year on the other side of this mountain I carried loads thirty days in a row and look what happened. I got pneumonia. Well, maybe not pneumonia, but it sounds better calling it that. Anyway, I had to go down and recover. And it was all because of that macho thing, everybody having to carry their own weight and the only way I could feel good was trying to prove myself. I've learned a lot, Ba.s.s. I've learned I'm of no use fixing the route through the Icefall or up the Lhotse Face. We'd both just get in the way. So we may as well enjoy ourselves here and wait to go up when things are ready."

"Well, if it's any consolation, you've definitely converted-or should I say-subverted me. But still, this sittin' around base camp is no good. We've got to do something."

"d.i.c.k, there's plenty to do. Go practice ice climbing on that serac some more, or hike up Kala Patar. Did you finish that letter you're working on, the one your wife is going to xerox to all your friends and family?"

"No, I've been busy on my s...o...b..rd blueprints."

"See what I mean. You're saying there's nothing to do and you can't even finish the things you've got planned. d.i.c.k, you're always this way. Did I ever tell you how David Rockefeller did it? Each December he would gather his family and closest advisers around him and review the year, study his date book, see how he divided his time between running Chase Manhattan, six city boards, five business boards, adviser to the president, and everything else-and then knowing he couldn't do everything at once, plan the next year figuring what he could and could not do. That's what you need, d.i.c.k. A plan."

"I've got a plan. I'm planning on getting some exercise. I'm going to go for a hike, Wells, down towards Namche. Visit with some of these trekkers, meet some folks."

"You can't do that, d.i.c.k. That's going the wrong way: we're supposed to gain alt.i.tude, not lose it. You've got to gain some respect for this mountain. This is Everest! I'm telling you, people get into trouble up there. It's not that easy."

"Frank, you're always courting trouble by antic.i.p.ating it. That's probably from being a lawyer-you're trained to look at all the potential negatives so you can antic.i.p.ate ways to protect your client. But this is a mountain, not a courtroom. I'm gonna just take the problems as they come. Since there are no problems to deal with for the time being, I'm heading down-valley and have some good leg-stretching and sight-seeing."

"d.i.c.k, you just can't be so cavalier."

"Sure I can. As soon as they get those ropes in up there, and it's my turn, I'm going to start right up this mountain and not stop till I get to the top."

The rest of the team were eating their meal, smiling at this latest episode of what everyone was now calling the Frank and d.i.c.k Show. The two had spent enough time together on expeditions that they now knew each other like brothers, and as often as brothers they were getting into verbal sc.r.a.pes. It was always friendly badinage, though, done in a spirit of good fun-although at times Frank was truly exacerbated with d.i.c.k's seeming casualness about Everest. Frank realized, though, he had no hope of dissuading d.i.c.k from making his down-valley foray. After lunch d.i.c.k shouldered his backpack, and with a wave like a pony express rider off into the sunset, he disappeared down the glacier.

"What bugs me most," Frank said when d.i.c.k was gone, "is that he's probably right. He will will come back here and just march up the mountain to the summit. Doncha' just love it!" come back here and just march up the mountain to the summit. Doncha' just love it!"

Base camp seemed subdued with d.i.c.k gone. The fifteen Sherpas who that day had each carried forty-pound loads through the Icefall to camp 1 had now returned. Five more Sherpas had gone up to stay in camp 1 to begin shuttling the same forty-pound loads up to camp 2 the next day.

Frank now had his tent to himself, and as everyone usually did, he crawled in shortly after it got dark. Inside there was no headroom-he had to remain seated-but still plenty of s.p.a.ce. It is important to be organized when living in such a small s.p.a.ce as a tent, and Frank had all his belongings in a series of nylon sacks alongside his sleeping bag. The bag itself was spread atop an inch-thick air mattress that was on another layer of foam rubber: this helped both to cushion the rocks under the tent floor and also- especially when he would be higher, camped on snow-to insulate against cold. Frank stripped to his long-john underwear and crawled in his bag. At first it was cold, but in a few minutes he was cozy.

Across camp occasional laughter came from the Sherpas' tents: they often stayed awake past nine or ten, telling stories. From behind the cook tent, in the area where the garbage was thrown, two dogs were in a fight: they were the mangy but friendly mutts that had tailed the expedition up to base camp, and everyone had the impression they were in the habit of doing this with every climbing group that came through their village. Then it was quiet until on the moraine behind camp a single rock tumbled, perhaps loosened by some slight shift in the glacial ice.

In the middle of the night Frank woke, pulled on his down booties, and crawled outside to pee. The night sky was cloudless, and a sickle moon left black shadows between the rocks that covered the glacial ice. He was still in his long johns, so as soon as he finished he was quickly back in his bag. There was no wind, no sound in camp, and soon he was back asleep.

He dreamed he was in a tent, high on a mountain, waiting on a storm. The wind was blowing outside, and thunder rolled across the range, getting louder and louder.... He awoke, startled. The thunder was still there, still growing louder. What ... ? Then he realized what it was: an avalanche off the west shoulder of Everest! He grabbed the tent door and pulled it open. Below the hanging glacier under the west shoulder he saw the avalanche halfway down the face, approaching the Icefall. It was like an upside-down high-speed c.u.mulus cloud, belching huge white billows as it gained speed. He knew that avalanches off this shoulder have on past expeditions been big enough for the wind-cloud to carry across the glacier and flatten tents at base camp. This one hit the base of the Icefall, and then raced on the flat toward the camp. For a beat he wondered if he should get out and run for a rock to hide behind. Then the roar began to drop, and the billows slowed and then sank back into the now static wind-cloud. It had stopped several hundred yards from camp. He pulled his head back in.

Now he lay awake, pondering the quiet, until on the moraine another lone rock tumbled. Then again the quiet, a silence that his mind began to fill with thoughts of the climb, of his and d.i.c.k's chances, and inevitably, of the Icefall, of the towering precarious ice towers that now and again shift and tumble and crush. And then he had the thought everyone on the climb who is scheduled to go through the Icefall has, wondering if up there one of those ice towers already had his name on it.

For Frank Wells, his sojourn at base camp was the first time in his life since a summer break after his last year as an undergraduate at Pomona College that he had had two unstructured weeks in which he could do whatever he pleased. When he finished reading Unsworth's mountaineering history of Everest, he started an 800-page biography of Lyndon Johnson. Somewhat to his surprise he found there was always something to do. When he wasn't reading he could work on calculating how much oxygen and other supplies he would need for his own summit attempt. There was the daily radio call to Katmandu. And best of all was the day once a week when a runner arrived with the mailbag.

On a long expedition receiving mail can be one of the great joys, and often climbers who otherwise never in their lives have such inclinations find themselves writing long letters. Frank had never had time in his business life to write personal letters, but now he found himself putting on paper to his wife and two sons his most intimate thoughts, telling them how much he missed them, how much he loved them.

On April 29, Larry Nielson descended to base camp for a few days rest before his summit attempt. He had announced he was going to try to climb Everest without bottled oxygen. He knew it would be extraordinarily difficult-only six people had ever managed it-and also much riskier, with increased chance of frostbite, pulmonary problems, and even brain damage. Wondering just why he wanted to take the risks, the ABC crew interviewed him the morning he came down.

"All the climbing I've done to now has been without oxygen, and it just seems the way to do it. It's like after someone has climbed a section of a mountain free, without using artificial aids, it doesn't seem right to come along later and then hang on pitons or other anchors to get over it; you're better to develop the skill to do it in the same best style in which it's already been done. I'm not saying everybody should try to climb Everest without oxygen, but it's right for me."

Nielson spoke softly, almost too softly, as though to mask the ambition you knew had to be hidden somewhere behind his light blue eyes. He was of Scottish ancestry, five foot eight, lean and sinewy. His resting pulse was thirty-seven, as low as the best world-cla.s.s athletes.

"Then you feel you're physically capable?"

"Except for my toe," Nielson said, removing his boot and then a foam rubber sleeve that covered his second toe. "As you know, I lost the end of the toe last year, on the North Wall climb when I got frostbite trying to make a solo push to the summit. It still bothers me."

The camera zoomed in to this toe. There was a nasty hole at the end of the stub and the bone was visible.

"Ed Hixson says I'm going to risk further damage to the toe, especially without oxygen. But that's one of the chances you take, I guess. I don't think I would do it if it were any other mountain. But this is Everest."

The next day Pilafian and I left base camp and climbed through the Icefall to camp 1, where we overnighted, and the following morning completed the long walk up the Western Cwm to camp 2 at 21,600 feet. This camp was located under the 7,500-foot southwest face of Everest. In addition to the tents our team had pitched, there was a white tent the size of a small trailer made of an insulated synthetic batting stretched over a heavy-duty aluminum frame left the season before by the Canadian expedition. The Sherpas had commandeered it as the cook tent, and it was so well insulated they could all crowd in stripped to their shirtsleeves and drink tea. Across from this was a caravan tent pitched by our expedition large enough for us sahibs to use as our mess. Then sprinkled around the periphery were eight smaller yellow and tan paneled dome sleeping tents that looked like futuristic modules set in an extraterrestrial icescape. The whole place brought to mind those ill.u.s.trations on the front of science fiction novels showing lost cities on distant planets.

The next day Pilafian taped me standing in the middle of camp as I filed my ABC report: "We're at camp two, advanced base camp, alt.i.tude 21,600 feet, higher than the tallest mountain in North America. This is where the action is, where the climbing on the upper mountain begins. Right now the lead climbers and some of the Sherpas are hard at work on the Lhotse Face that rises just behind me. They have placed camp three halfway up this face, at 24,000 feet, and the lead climbers are now busy fixing more ropes toward the South Col, at 26,200 feet. There is a chance they will reach the Col later today. But it's a nasty day up there right now. It was five below zero in camp here last night, and it's safe to say it was much colder in the upper camp. The wind is blowing, too, making the apparent temperature even lower. On top of that, in order to conserve supplies the lead climbers are working without using bottled oxygen. They are optimistic that in a week or two at least a few of them are going to be standing on the roof of the world."

Just as we finished, the Sherpa cookboy rang the lunch bell-a big spoon against a pot-and we gathered in the mess tent. First course was packaged onion soup, followed by stew made with yak meat. The cookboy was the same who had brought tea to Frank in base camp, and now he served our meal with the same s.p.u.n.k. He had also organized our mess tent, fitting stones into benches and stacking the cardboard shipping boxes as backrests. Some of our food, such as cereals, had been in flimsy boxes damaged in shipping and he had transferred these into aluminum pots. To help us know what was in each pot he had taken a marking pen and labeled the pots, copying the writing off the cereal boxes. One pot was labeled "Save 100" and the other "Special Offer."

"Care for any Special Offer this morning?"

"No thanks. I'm going for the Save Ten Cents."

After lunch it was time for the radio call with the lead climbers.

"h.e.l.lo camp two. Do you read?"

"We got you Jim," Ershler answered. "How did you two do?"

"You've got your camp four. We reached the South Col."

There was a big cheer from our tent and when word made it to the Sherpas another cheer from their tent.

"That's great, Jim," Ershler told States. "Now get your a.s.ses down here for a rest so you can get ready for your summit bid."

"I'm going down to base tomorrow," Ershler said when the radio call was over, "to make sure the Sherpas are organized with the final loads that need to come up to two. Larry is coming back up here tomorrow so that means all of the first team will be in place to begin their bid on May fifth, which will put them on top the seventh. I guess we'd better radio down to Wells and have him start up so he can begin acclimatizing. And Ba.s.s, if he ever comes back. Any word from him?"

"He sent a note up with a trekker and said he'll be back in base camp in a couple more days."

"I'm not worried about him, anyway. He can catch up to Frank. But let's get Wells started up. He'll need all the acclimatization he can get.

The morning of his departure Frank awoke at 5:00, and base camp was still in cold shadow when he left at 6:00. The previous day two friends had trekked into Camp-Bill Sarnoff, an executive at Warner Communications, and his wife, Pam-and now they were up to send him off. It meant a lot to Frank to have them there: going through the Icefall might be old hat to these lead climbers but to Frank it was a major crux of his entire Seven Summits odyssey, and it was comforting having two friends who could appreciate the contrast of a climb through the Khumbu Icefall with a stroll down Rodeo Drive.

At the altar the Sherpas had the juniper incense burning and Frank stopped to breathe the smoke. Then making sure to leave the altar on his right he started toward the Icefall. Two Sherpas were with him. He had no pack-the Sherpas were carrying his gear-and he thought how the previous Everest climb he would have been chagrined to have someone else carry his load. But now it was okay; now he didn't have to prove anything.

For the first half hour the route was easy walking, then they entered the seracs and the angle steepened. Soon they were weaving among the ice towers, following the yellow polypropylene rope as it wove from one anchor to the next. At the first ladder sections Frank tepidly tested the rungs with his crampons. Even without a pack he felt awkward, but at least he was protected by his waist harness attached to a fixed line and which he used both as balance and safety.

It was a clear morning, and shadow light gave a blue softness to the ice that made it easy to forget you were in a dangerous place. Then, pa.s.sing under a towering block, Frank was reminded that it was only a question of when the block would tumble, only a question of statistics that it wouldn't let go at that moment.

An hour and a half above base camp Frank was at the entrance to the Interconnect. This was the most chaotic section of the Icefall, and here the ice looked different. Above this section Frank could see the blocks were huge and tinged a light blue. Here, though, the ice was broken in smaller pieces that were fresh white from recent cleavage. For some reason this area was unusually active, and every couple of days a Sherpa crew had to come through it to replace ropes and ladders that had been snapped or crunched by the shifting ice blocks. As Frank climbed into the Interconnect he could see fragments of ladders and ropes from past expeditions sticking out of the ice like bones in a bulldozed graveyard.

To make 100 feet of direct line progress it was necessary to weave and wind 300. Frank felt he was moving well, though, and in a half hour he was through the Interconnect and into a zone of house-sized blocks just below camp 1. He felt good. Sunlight was inching down toward the Icefall, but he knew by the time it reached his path he would be most of the way up. In the still morning the only sound was his boots crunching snow and his forced breathing. Even the Sherpas were quiet, foregoing their usual chants: Maybe they sensed, as he did, that danger was behind, that all would be safe to camp 1.

His strength seemed to match his high spirits, and he kept an even, steady pace. He stopped once to look around. He thought, What an extraordinary place, to be so dangerous and at the same time so beautiful. To his right was an ice arch shaped like one of those sandstone structures in the American Southwest. Everywhere the blocks gleamed light blue. It was a fairyland place, not quite real, the land at the bottom of Alice's hole. One two-story block had a four-section ladder leaning against it. On top he balanced along a block that was like scaling the backbone of a sleeping dinosaur. Another ladder spanned a narrow chasm that appeared bottomless: looking down revealed nothing but black. Then the sun broke above the neighboring ridge and he lowered his goggles. In a half hour he could see just ahead the two tents at camp 1, and behind them his first view of the Western Cwm, the highest valley of its size on earth.

Frank was through the Icefall. He dumped his load in front of a tent and felt like giving out a shout.

Too bad Ba.s.s isn't here, he thought. This deserves a Tarzan call.

Looking in one of the tents he found a radio and managed to get Ershler down at base.

"Phil, I made it. I'm in camp one. Three hours flat! And I feel great. This may be my greatest day of climbing yet."

Frank thought, That should take care of those who wondered whether I could get through the Icefall.

Frank peeked inside the tents to see if there was a place to spread his bag. Both tents were a mess: dirty pots, stained floors, soiled tea bags, spilled rice; the Sherpas were not good housekeepers. Frank pushed aside some soiled clothing to make room for his sleeping bag and pad, then lay down to read. He only finished one paragraph, though, when he set the book on his chest and considered the aluminum pot next to his head; it was half-full of some kind of brown gruel. Next to it was a spoon with the dried remains of the same concoction, and under the spoon a damp wool sock Frank guessed was an easy month past last washing.

He smiled, picked up his book and thought, This is probably as far as you can get from Beverly Hills.

But that wasn't a complaint. All in all, he wouldn't have traded that day for anything, anywhere.

While Frank was relaxing in camp 1 the first summit team made final preparations to depart the next morning to begin their ascent. They would first climb to camp 3, the next day to camp 4-the South Col-then in the predawn of May 7 begin the final climb to the summit. Our ABC high alt.i.tude cameraman David Breashears was planning to accompany the team to the South Col camp and perhaps even a short distance farther.

While Breashears, at age twenty-seven, was the youngest sahib on the expedition, he was also the most accomplished technical climber. He made his reputation while still a teenager when he showed up one day at the Boulder, Colorado, climbing cliffs while some locals were attempting unsuccessfully to scale what was considered the single most difficult route in the Rockies. The Kloberdanz Roof was a ten-foot wide overhanging ceiling that had then only been climbed once, and only when the climber had made a desperate but lucky lunge at a key hold. Some thought the route would never be repeated.

"It looks like there is a hold on the edge of the lip you could use," Breashears said to one of the locals.

"Then why don't you give it a try, kid."

Breashears climbed up the vertical wall to the roof, then hanging upside down like a fly on a ceiling made a series of smooth moves, reaching the key hold without lunging.

"Who is that kid?" one of the locals asked.

"Never seen him."

So Breashears was given his nickname, the Kloberdanz Kid.

Breashears was also a very accomplished ice climber, and a highly skilled cameraman. He had been on Everest the year before filming a team attempting the then unscaled East Face. The expedition failed to reach the top, but Breashears later won an Emmy for his efforts.

While Breashears made last-minute adjustments to his camera, Pilafian and I were at camp 2 busy getting final interviews with the summit team. Roach said he felt confident he was about to make good his resolution after his 1976 failure and "finally get this Everest thing out of my blood." Nielson too was ready to give it all he had even though without oxygen he knew his chances were reduced. What he didn't tell us, though (and what we wouldn't find out until later), was that for two days he had suffered nausea and dysentery. Still, he decided not to say anything for fear of missing his chance, and incredibly he still intended to try it without oxygen.

The summit team left camp 2 on schedule and made good time up the lower part of the Lhotse Face. Frank had called earlier that morning saying he was waiting for d.i.c.k, who was at that moment en route up from base camp, and if d.i.c.k felt up to it, they would continue together to camp 2.

"That is if d.i.c.k is up to a double carry," Frank said on the radio. "Otherwise we'll spend another night here and see you tomorrow."

Although he didn't tell anyone, secretly Frank was hoping d.i.c.k wouldn't be up to it. Not that he didn't feel like going to camp 2 himself, but there just had to be a limit to how much d.i.c.k could do. Frank had of course long ago accepted the fact that d.i.c.k could far outperform him, but still enough was enough.

Frank was lying on his sleeping bag reading when he heard the call: "Aah-eah-eaahhh!"

He looked at his watch: 9:00 A.M.

"That s...o...b.. made it in two hours," Frank muttered.

He looked out the tent door and there was d.i.c.k with his wide grin and a full pack that probably weighed a good fifty pounds.

"Pancho, get your buns out of that tent, boy. We gotta get on up to camp 2. Like John Wayne used to say, 'We're burnin' daylight.' "

"d.i.c.k, you're probably exhausted. We can stay here an extra day so you can rest."

d.i.c.k was a little puzzled by Frank's uncustomary concern for his welfare. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Frank, but I feel like I've got a tiger in my tank. Let's get moving."

Frank knew he was in a no-win position but he decided it would even be worse if he didn't at least carry a full load up to camp 2. He stuffed his backpack with all his personal belongings-forty pounds tops-and soon he and d.i.c.k were off into the Western Cwm.