Denali, the end of a year.

Hi Everyone,

Before I say anything about this trip I want to thank all of you for your support and love over this past year. At one point during this trip I decided to not post anything, but then I realized that some people actually care about me and about how the trip goes. Thanks for that.

Getting ready to go.

The last time I was here, a year ago, I was sorting through all the equipment from Suzanne's expedition, figuring out which things were hers and so forth. That was quite difficult. Thanks to my soul brother Kerry Crist for coming here with me. It was nice to be here under different circumstances this time.

A huge amount of food and gear.

Denali is much different than Aconcagua. We pack food for 23 days instead of 15, and we carry it all, instead of using mules. Lots of work.

The team consisted of 7 swiss and german clients, 2 americans, myself, assistant Matt Nightengale (who I worked with on Aconcagua), and lead guide Vern Tejas. I'm thankful to live such a blessed life, getting to learn the mountain from Vern, who has 51 summits over 35 years. The americans were here last year when Suzanne died, and the whole team decided to turn back. So these two came back this year to try it again.

Loading the Otter

The flight onto the glacier was spectacular. There were a couple of people on board who had paid for a flightseeing tour, so the pilot flew us all around instead of going directly to base camp. Again, I live a blessed life.

Taking off.

Following in Suzanne's footsteps made me sad and melancholy. It was a spectacular flight, and bittersweet for me.

Suzanne in 2008, her first Denali trip.

Denali from the air.

 Climbers are weird. They all call Mt. McKinley "Denali," which is probably a native word for "Incredibly Huge Big Ass Mountain" or something like that. But they don't call Mt. Everest the native word, Chomolungma. They call it Everest. Go figure.

The Ruth Gorge

Lots of potential for a climber. The walls in the Ruth Gorge are a mile high, and the plane can drop climbers off right at the base. Pretty impressive.

Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier, the location of Base Camp.

So then the plane lands and we empty it and set up camp. Guiding is not nearly as glorious as one might think. We spend most of our time carrying heavy packs, shoveling and melting snow, and cooking, all at high altitude, usually in difficult weather. Suzanne was one tough and hard-working woman. Looking around at the scenery helps me remember why I work this job.

Matt and Vern in the cook tent making breakfast on day 2.

Base Camp with "airstrip" in background, el. 7500.'

Ready to go with over 100 lbs of stuff, using Suzanne's skis.

Vern ordered me to take my (Suzanne's) skis, since a couple of the euros insisted on taking theirs. Skiing with all that stuff was not fun. I eventually ended up using the snow shoes instead.

Our first camp was in a total whiteout in the middle of the 45-or-so-mile-long Kahiltna Glacier. Vern tested for crevasses by having his rope team follow him while he walked and jumped up and down. An interesting and effective approach.

Camp 1, el. 7800.'

Out of the weather at Camp 1.

More stormy weather at Camp 2, el. 9800.'

Our move to Camp 2 was in whiteout. We stayed on the trail by feeling the density of the snow under our feet. Vern only punched into one crevasse. After we got to camp the wind and snow came. The clients all excitedly dug their tents down into the snow and built walls, before we could tell them that digging down means they will get buried. Oh well. Our tent, however, was pitched on the surface, with no walls, and the wind made it's own trench around the tent. We didn't have to dig it out even once. That's working smarter, not harder. The clients caught on after that.

Wind keeping the tent clear for us.

Day 6 dawned clear and cold, and we headed up to 11,000' to carry a load. This was the first time I had the opportunity to ski downhill. But the clients were scared of the by-then-poor-visibility and kept their skins on all the way down. This was intolerable to me. I never used the skis after that, and was a happier man.

Camp 2 after the snow storm.

Snow Geese at 10,000', headed for Kahiltna Pass.

On Day 8 the physical and emotional stress of the trip got the best of me, and I pretty much fell apart. I really chewed out a couple of the euros for their crappy rope skills, and swore that I would leave before being tied to people who seemed hell-bent on killing me. When we returned to camp I unclipped and walked away without saying a word, because I was actually ready and wanting to beat one of them senseless. I was resentful, angry, defiant, and scared. It was all I could do to not click into my skis and slide away, quitting my job. Then, my good friend Paul Ridley's voice came to me. Paul is the man I went to the day after I found out Suzanne died. I didn't know what to do, and he really helped me. In my head he told me, "You can't quit. You can't." Thanks, Paul. Vern was super supportive. He's lost clients here, and on the summit has scattered the ashes of a lost loved one who died young, so he understood. It felt nice to be able to just cry while he held my hand. That evening I apologized for my actions and explained the special significance of this climb for me. The translator didn't care and just told me that if I yelled at him again they would leave. The lesson for me: don't mix personal and professional, just deal with with the personal stuff privately.

Camp 4, at 14,000', Mt. Foraker (l) and Crosson (r) in the background. Sunset at midnight.

On Day 9 we moved to 14,000.' Day 10 we carried to 16,000' at the top of the fixed lines. One of the euros decided to quit, and Matt went down with him on day 11. I had a little time to chat with Team 2, which had caught up with us by then. Trip 2 was run by Mark Cionek, who I did the Bomber traverse with, and Dan Starr. Dan was at the Alpine Ascents compound when I came up last year, and even though we hardly knew each other he was super helpful and supportive. It was great to see him again.

Dan, Mark, and I at 14 camp.

Now we were down to 8 clients and 2 guides, so I moved into the cook tent with Vern. He's 59 and acts like he's 15. We jabbed and poked at each other for the rest of the trip, and laughed alot. I enjoyed working with him, though I probably need to ask for a raise before I do it again. It's kind of like hazard-duty pay.

What have I gotten myself into??

On Day 11 we moved to Camp 5 at 17,200', at the foot of Denali Pass. This is one of the more aesthetic days, moving along a knife-edge ridge. It was the first time I actually saw Denali Pass, the spot where Suz died. That night was really tough. I cried alot while I made water and cooked, and in the evening I stood outside and watched the sun set (at midnight) and cried, until I was hypothermic and had to crawl into my (Suzanne's) sleeping bag. I didn't sleep that night. I was glad to let it out, because the next day we went back down to 16,000' to get our cache, and it was a beautiful day. The most pleasant day of the trip, actually.

The West Buttress ridge between 14 camp and 17 camp, from 17 camp (Suzanne's photo)

The view to the south from the tent.

To the west.

Mt. Foraker on the right. Camp 4 is in the flat, 3,000 feet below my feet.

Looking between the rocks at the fixed lines (note the white strip)  leading up to the ridge.

Denali Pass, May 23, 2012 

Here's the spot. The black rocks on the skyline to the right of the pass are called Zebra Rocks, and Suzanne's team tumbled down the hill from a spot at the left edge of Zebra Rocks, right on the shadow line. The climbers path is visible in the morning light. The snow slope is called the Autobahn, after a German group who slid down it and died. Climbers have a gory sense of humor.

I have alot of gratitude to my boss, Todd Burleson, who let me work on this trip knowing it would be hard for me. I was able to stand on the trail, mere feet above where the team fell, and just be there. A precious opportunity. Suz died coming down on May 25, 2011, and I was there May 24, 2012. I now have a much fuller understanding of how it all went down, and I'm not going to explain it here.

Anyone who looks at an incident like this and says "Well, she should have..." or "I would have..." or "You know, she could have..." or "I wouldn't have..." is full of shit. That sort of thinking is just self-delusion to make one think it won't happen to them. I also don't buy the line that says "Well, we need to analyze it so it won't happen again." Bullshit. We all get the chop sooner or later. I think I understand what she was thinking. I think I understand her decisions. Yet I'll never really know and no one else will either, and that's the way it always is.

Because of all the fatalities in 2011 there are now so many pickets on the route that it takes longer to go up and down, especially if you get behind some inexperienced climbers that don't know how to deal. This creates a safety problem in it's own right.

Forget the long-distance armchair analysis and live your own life, make your own decisions, and accept the consequences. Live life on life's terms. That's what she did, and that's what I aspire to do. Climbing will always involve risk, as does life itself.

I'll say this about Suzanne. I climbed some big alpine routes with her, and I trusted her completely. She was the best alpine partner I've ever had. If you climb you know what I'm saying. If you don't, I can't explain it to you.

Suzanne died fighting to save the lives of those tied to her, as well as her own. Her axe left a long scratch in the ice; Vern told me about it while I was up there. She got punched in the left cheek by her axe, probably more than once, on the way down. I saw her body, saw the hole in her cheek. I have her parka with the tears in it from the spike of her axe. I saw what falling over 1000 feet did to her body. I held her head and felt her broken neck. She died fighting with everything she had. 

She died properly, with strength, dignity, grace, and beauty. I can only hope to go the same way.

Suzanne on her first of four Denali expeditions, 2008.

Suzanne at 17 camp, 2010.

Me, 2012.

Mountains change. In May 2011 the upper mountain was a sheet of hard blue ice; for us it was pleasant snow. I came down Denali Pass wishing I had my (her) skis on and no rope. Quite different from the conditions she had.

So on May 24 at 10:15am we left for the summit. A weather system was coming in and we had poor visibility. The clouds created a greenhouse effect and it was actually hot. 20,000' at 63 degrees north latitude in May can make it 20 or 30 below zero without wind chill, and here I was complaining about being hot. I live a blessed life.

Above the pass at Zebra Rocks.

On the summit.

Me, full of mixed emotions.

Getting to the summit included a final knife-edge ridge with thousands of feet of exposure, and the  traverse of a cornice the size of an office building that's "been there for 35 years," according to Vern.

When I got on the summit ridge Suzanne's presence came to me very strongly. She was there with me the whole way. (She's with me all the time, it's just that sometimes I'm more sensitive to it than others.) I had to tell her, "I'm glad you're here, and you're welcome to stay, but I can't cry because it'll fog up my goggles." She stayed with me. Thanks Suz.

I can't really describe my feelings at that moment. Too many of them, all at once.

There's only one summit, and I didn't stand on it. I let the clients enjoy their success. For me it was different. Maybe next time.

Cough Cough Cough.

I got a bug at base camp and it only got worse as we got higher. I coughed so much I tore muscles in my ribs. I could breathe fine while climbing, then when I stopped I would have a coughing fit. It hurt. I started taking hits from my (Suzanne's) Salmetrol inhaler (part of my first aid kit) to calm my bronchial tubes down, which jacked up my heart rate so I couldn't sleep. At least I coughed less. Vern needed me there and I wanted to be there, so I sucked it up and dealt with it. It was the sickest I've ever climbed a mountain. I kept looking for signs of pulmonary edema, a life-threatening condition at this altitude, but didn't have them, just a painful hacking cough that made my head pound and made me almost puke. I live a blessed life.

Summit day was 14 hours long. That girl was a badass.

Vern and I just below the summit. I consider him a friend.

Suzanne on the summit, 2010.

Suzanne and Gary on the summit, May 25, 2011. This is the last picture anyone ever took of Suzanne.

At about 11:00pm, May 25, 2011, Suzanne died. At 11:00pm, May 25, 2012, I was at Camp 3 making water, working our way off the mountain. I looked out over the mountains, glowing in the setting sun. There's no way to describe how I felt. She's dead, I'm alive. And so a year ends. 

It's not about me. This is about she and I. More will be revealed.

When I first met Suzanne I wasn't thinking about dating. We simply enjoyed each other's presence. Even while we were each involved with other people we simply enjoyed being around each other, working together. It was her presence that attracted me to her. Her presence got me to propose partnership. Her presence remains with me today. It is pure love. I live a blessed life.

Suzanne and I are of the same soul. We were a part of each other before we came here. We agreed to everything that happened between us ahead of time. She came here to this world to experience what she experienced, as did I. Much is decided before we are born. I knew she would die on Denali days before it happened. So did she. There are no accidents. No coincidences. When I die she will be there to help me, along with lots of others. Then we will be together again, and we will say, "Howdy partner, wow, how about that?" And then we'll experience the next thing we want to experience. That's how it works. We all live blessed lives.

Suzanne, I love you. I'm proud of you. Thanks for saying yes.

Suzanne Marie Allen
Born May 6, 1977
Died May 25, 2011
"To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life."