This is a very personal, detailed and sometimes graphic report. It chronicles my attempt on Denali in June 2007. My intent is to bring readers into my world of high-altitude mountaineering by showing the incredible rewards, the obvious dangers and what happens when the human body hits the wall. Remember to click on any picture in the report to enlarge it then use the back arrow to return to the report.
Denali 2007 was the first of four climbs for my return to Mt. Everest: Memories are Everything® journey. I aimed to raise $100,000 for the Cure Alzheimer’s Fund (CAF) by using the Denali, Shishapangma, Orizaba, and Everest climbs. My hope was/is to summit each peak and raise awareness and money through real-time dispatches sent directly from each Peak.
I left Denver International Airport for Anchorage on June 10, 2007. With Everest in the plans, Denali was almost an afterthought for my journey – a familiar climb designed to test my body once again against the rigors of high altitude. I was there in 2001 and was turned back by poor weather at Denali Pass or 18,200’. I was confident I could make the climb, weather permitting. My only concern was the heavy loads involved: 120 lbs split between my pack and sled that needed to be hauled up almost 2 miles purely through my strength. Hey, I am 50 years old!
The week before I left, I worked closely with the CAF’s Tim and Katie to coordinate both websites to post my dispatches and receive donations marked for the Memories Are Everything® fund. My training was as good as it would be, thanks to some challenging climbs in the Colorado Mountains with my partners Patrick and Robert. Leaving Colorado, I felt confident, strong and nervous about the year-long commitment I had publicly announced. What if I failed? What if I didn’t summit this “familiar” climb? What if…

I met my guides and teammates at the Alaska Mountaineering School (AMS) on June 12 in Talkeetna, Alaska. I selected AMS due to its reputation as a solid guiding company with an excellent record of safety and success and its focus on the basics. I felt this reputation would attract more competent climbers, enhance my chances of success, and, more importantly, deliver an overall positive experience.
Christian March was the lead guide. A young man of 27 years, he shook my hand with an air of confidence and gave orders on what to do and how to do it. I liked him immediately. Next, I met his assistant, Leighan, an impressive 26-year-old native Alaskan who oozed with personality. She gave immediate life to the team.
Soon, the other five climbers arrived at the old house AMS had converted into their offices. They were a diverse group, including a father-son pair, a banker, a tattoo studio owner and a British law enforcement officer. Most had good mountaineering experience, and all were eager to summit Denali. Thus, the team was set.
Scheduled to fly out the next day, we rushed to check our gear and review some basic glacier travel skills. But the weather in June 2007 had been challenging. Colder than normal temperatures and high winds had reduced the usual 50% summit rate to a very low 33%. And it continued. Our flight to the Kahiltna Glacier was delayed for two days. We rushed to the airstrip twice to load the DeHavilland Beaver Turboprop, but we were told the flight was canceled. So we bided our time in the township of Talkeetna by doing more “classes,” as AMS calls their review of skills, and scrambling at the last minute to find a place to spend the night. We also enjoyed the sights and entertainment of the local bars and restaurants. Remember that Talkeetna has one main road – paved, that is – and is straight out of the television series Northern Exposure. It’s a great place, to be sure.

Finally, we got the word on June 14th, we would be flown to the glacier. The flight is one of the best I have ever taken in my mountaineering travels. Second only to the landings at Lukla, Nepal, in the late 1990s when the landing strip was dirt with Yaks crossing it and pilots who chatted casually as the plane appeared to be on a direct collision course with the steep mountain side!
But this flight, smoothly operated by Paul Roderick, the owner of Talkeetna Air Taxi, was more like a scheduled commercial flight – no wait – better. We rose to about 10,000’ over the Alaskan tundra as we approached the Alaskan range. Mounts Denali, Foraker and Hunter stood proudly above the rest of the snow-covered mountains in the range. Another plane passed by a quarter of a mile away with sightseers. I thought about the fact that their journey would end in half an hour, ours in 21 days.
“500 feet,” announced the comforting female voice of the automated flight systems as we flew over a high mountain pass. Paul banked the Beaver to the right as we approached the “landing strip.” Memories of my 2001 climb came back, and I felt the adrenaline flow as we made the steep descent and abrupt landing on the hard-packed ice. I had made it back. Now, all I had to do was climb Denali and get home safely.

Due to poor weather, over 200 climbers were stranded for several days. So, as the plane spun around, we saw a refugee camp of climbers with the 100-yard stare in their eyes, drooling at our tiny 8-person plane. I was slightly afraid of a rush to take it over, but the National Park Service (NPS) has Rangers at the base camp (BC) to organize flights in and out. All quite civilized, as my British friend would say.

Our first order of business was to unload our gear from the airplane—a 60-lb pack each, over 500 lbs of food, three tents, stoves, fuel, and God knows what else—a huge pile that ended up on the glacier and needed to be carried, lugged or otherwise moved up the mountain to support us needy humans.
I also called in my first audio dispatch. I started to post real-time dispatches with my 2002 Everest climb. It is rewarding to share my personal experiences with the “world.” Using an Iridium satellite phone, I posted the description of the landing area. Unfortunately, I lost the satellite feed within a few minutes, thus setting the tone for the anticipated dispatches of text, video, and pictures over the next two weeks. The backup was the audio dispatches, which became the norm.


We pitched tents at BC, 7200′, melted snow for water and cooking and were in our -40F sleeping bags by 5:00 PM. Yes, 5 PM. The glacier is an incredibly dangerous place with deep cracks – crevasses – that eat climbers as they go higher. The glacier is frozen more at night than during the day, thus setting our schedule to make the crossing start at midnight. The good news is that in Alaska in June, the sun “sets” at midnight and rises at 4:00 AM, so it never gets dark.
On June 15th, we departed camp roped in two teams of four climbers each. With a 60-lb pack and a 60-lb sled, we made our way down Heartbreak Hill and turned towards Ski Hill. Five miles and five hours later, we stopped and established the first camp at 7800′.
Let me describe glacier travel. The 120’ rope is the key. We are tied together so that when one moves, we all move. This is designed to facilitate a rescue should anyone fall into a crevasse. I am familiar with this scenario as I fell into one on Everest in 2002 – not an experience I want to repeat. About 30 feet of rope between each climber moves in front of you like a snake. You tend to stare at the snake while trying not to step on it but also to keep up with the pace, all the while taking a brief moment to look around and let it sink in that you are in remote Alaska, climbing the highest mountain in North America.
The views are breathtaking—this is a big part of high-altitude climbing, and I often paused to let it all sink in, creating new memories. But better views were to come.


Arriving at camp, the first order of business is to probe for unseen crevasses. This is serious business since a crevasse can be hidden by a thin layer of snow that, when stepped on, collapses and seals the victim to an eternity of isolation or a desperate rescue. This is not hyperbole. It is real.
The probe is done by pushing a 20-foot pole into the snow to feel whether there is air or solid snow underneath. Generally, the guides do the probing while the climbers rest on their packs—not a bad deal!
The next task is to dig the kitchen. Yes, dig the kitchen. In our case, Christian, the lead guide, assumed sole responsibility for the dig. Denali Guides seems to have an unwritten competition about who can dig the best kitchen. This is a sense of pride that cannot and should not be challenged. Thus, Christian dug a five-by-five-foot hole complete with bench seats, a cooking counter and steps, all covered by a teepee-type tent. It was nice.
As the rest of us set up our tents and settled, the guides continued working hard by melting snow and cooking dinner. I want to emphasize how hard the guides work. They set the schedule, lead the climbs, dig the kitchen, cook the meals and watch over every detail from bowel movements to morale and attitude. All for an amazingly low wage. This is truly a labor of love.


Now, a word on sleeping. It isn’t good. There is no spin here. It is miserable and worse than any Everest or Himalayan climb I have been on. Consider a tent five feet wide and six feet deep with three full-grown men. Each has an insulation pad to protect from the cold snow, a thin air mattress to provide some comfort and a fluffy down-filled sleeping bag to provide warmth in the -20F cold night. Water bottles, boot liners and jackets, food and other miscellaneous items create a claustrophobic environment. I awoke several times, looking around to see who had more than their allotted space, only to find everyone well-behaved. Still, my sense of personal space was violated, not to the fault of any individual. It was miserable.
The next day, we awoke at midnight and left two hours later to carry part of our gear to a higher part of the glacier towards Skill Hill. The plan is to climb high and sleep low to facilitate acclimatization and move our gear, a pound at a time, higher up the Hill. So we awoke, ate breakfast, loaded packs and sleds and took off like sled dogs up the glacier.

This is a special part of the climb for me: the twilight of dusk/dawn, the quiet of the glacier, the methodical rhythm of the travel, and the driving snow and wind… Yes, all this peace was inconveniently disturbed by a strong snowstorm that reduced us to crawling coyotes searching for the next meal. The winds were gusting to 40 mph, the snow was blinding, and the temperatures were well below zero. We pushed through to 10,500 feet.

Thankfully, the nighttime storm retreated, allowing us to dig the cache. This involves digging a six-by-four-foot hole in the snow and burying our gear. It is deep to prevent the smart Ravens from discovering our food and wide to encompass everything. Each team member takes a turn to dig and then shovel back all the snow on top of the gear. Bamboo wands are used to mark the spot for retrieval.
We returned to Camp 1, spent the night and then began moving camp up the glacier, establishing our second camp at the base of Motorcycle Hill or 11,000′. The Hill names are historical and more a description of what the hill looks like rather than what it was actually used for. Other than Squirrel Hill, where an assumed red squirrel was seen running in front of some climbers, there is altitude sickness…
The next few days repeated the pattern of carrying to a higher level, caching the future gear, returning to the lower camp, sleeping, moving above the cache, establishing camp, returning lower to retrieve the cache and going higher. A lot of work and no rest. But it was fun, and we were climbing Denali! I felt great at this point. Strong, confident and secure in my abilities – now and in the future. Our team was doing well, and I was confident we would go higher without problems.
We soon arrived at a milestone on Denali: the 14,000-foot camp, aka the Basin or Ranger camp. This is a very flat spot on Denali, about the size of three football fields. It is a beautiful place that provides an unobstructed view of the northern areas, Mounts Hunter and Foraker, and the Headwall—the 2,000-foot climb to the ridge at 16,000’ and the route to the High camp and the summit.

The NPS has a seasonal camp there with Rangers and Paramedics on staff. A Lama model Helicopter often visits to bring fresh supplies and new staff to the camp or to evacuate a critical medical victim. The sound of the Lama is usually not good news.
There is also a toilet complete with a real seat. Ok, now for more information than you wanted: how to go number 2 on Denali. Sorry for the second-grade terminology!
So, first, you carry a Clean Mountain Can, aka the CMC, to the basin camp from the airstrip. It is a small plastic bucket about a foot wide and two feet tall. It holds a biodegradable bag made of corn starch. Everyone poops in the bucket. In all honesty, it is quite comfortable and sitting there, you can enjoy the view and the fresh breeze! Once it is full, the bag used to be thrown into a deep crevasse under the theory that it will decompose by the time it leaves the glacier, but in the id 2020’s, all waste is taken off the mountain.

As for number 1 … are we still in the second grade? – a “pee hole” is established, and all climbers, male and female, use it accordingly to prevent a random spotting of the pure white snow. Yes, the NPS is serious about keeping Denali white, even if it means shitting and peeing in front of twenty of your closest strangers. Actually, it is a good thing.
Back to climbing – soon enough? Tents are established on the flat Basin camp with four-foot snow walls surrounding them. The winds are so strong here that the tents would blow away without the walls. The tents are secured to the ground with small pieces of cloth attached to guy lines to the tents. These “parachutes” are buried about a foot under the snow, securing the tents against the strong winds. We soon discovered that when it snows, we have to clear it from the tent walls; otherwise, we risk causing a total collapse of the tent. We saw over a foot of new snow while at the Basin camp.

The camp is an international place. Teams from all around the world were there to climb North America’s tallest mountain. It is one of the seven summits – the highest mountain on each continent. So, it is a trophy for many climbers. Some teams were from Germany, Britain, Taiwan, Japan, Russia and the US. Most were guided by one of the seven companies authorized by the NPS, but half were independent. The common theme was that we all looked towards the summit of Denali every few minutes, contemplating our next move.
But humans have no control over the schedule. Ideally, you arrive at the Basin Camp, take a rest day, establish a cache at the top of the headwall and then move to the High Camp at 17,200 feet. Ideally. We spent an entire week at the Basin camp, as did many other teams. The only relief was watching a group of professional, extreme skiers boot up a few thousand feet and ski down the steep slopes of Denali’s west face. They were incredible. It was like watching a Warren Miller movie in person, actually it was better – no editing!

I felt great during this time. OK, not really. I was anxious and growing impatient with the weather and the extremely conservative nature of Christian. Not to complain, but he seemed to take the most pessimistic view of the weather. While I completely supported his final decisions, I also felt we could have moved higher earlier to be in position for a summit bid. After all, this is what it is all about – being in the right place at the right time. To his credit, Christian asked for my opinion in front of the team and accepted my comments without defensiveness. I appreciated his willingness to hear other views.
So we sat at 14,000 feet. We slept three abreast for seven nights. We squeezed into the kitchen pit and made polite small talk about Superheroes, movies, bathroom humor and other meaningless banter. It was painful not to have an adult conversation. But that is the nature of an expedition made up of strangers—the lowest common denominator. Sigh.
I continued to call in my audio dispatches. It was frustrating to say repeatedly that we were at the Basin camp. Also, I could not send text and pictures with the Iridium system, so I did my best to describe what I was feeling with words. I even resorted to describing the mountains as a snow cone with chocolate sprinkles. Actually, it was fairly accurate!
Deep inside, I was growing concerned that we were winning the battle but losing the war relative to acclimatization. On Everest and other 8000-meter climbs, you establish a base camp around 17,000 feet and climb high and sleep low from there. Here, we felt comfortable at 14,000 feet with not a lot of activity. Two of the seven days, we went to 15,000 feet on the headwall for an “active” rest day. In hindsight, we could have done more.

The team dynamics grew and split. This is a normal phenomenon on expeditions. Even with a team of eight, it happens. There was the “hip” tent and the “others.” I was in the other. The 40’s crowd listened to rap music and bantered like rock stars with no conclusions. My tent was sterile, and the father/son avoided meaningful conversation. It was painful, to say the least. But I am not criticizing anyone. It is the way of commercial expeditions. Part of the deal. But something I want to avoid in the future.
Each day, we awoke expecting to go higher, but the winds were too strong, so we sat in the camp. We wandered around aimlessly. We had an ice-axe-throwing competition with another team. See the video. I reconnected with my tent mate from Everest in 2002 and my guide for Rainier in 2004 – small world. And we all looked up every five minutes.

Patience is critical to high-altitude climbing. The only solution for weather delays is to use the time to rest, eat and hydrate.
Finally, after seven nights at 14,000′, Christian took the risk of moving up to the 17,000′ High camp despite a huge lenticular cloud hovering over the summit, identical to the previous day. I appreciated the move.
The fixed ropes were somewhat simple. Maybe 500’ with an anchor every 50 feet or so. Each climber was fixed to the rope by an ascender, a device with sharp teeth that stopped a fall when pulled upon and a backup carabineer above the ascender that would stop a fall at the lower anchor. Plus, we were roped together so that if we fell, the climber above would self-arrest to stop our fall. All in all, it is an incredibly overly safe system, given the environment. Given I only climbed the Lhotse Face with a single rope, this seemed overkill, but I was not about to complain.
As we started up the fixed rope, a big team of 20 was above us, and another 20+ were below. We were very slow—maybe a step every five seconds. This was due to some climbers having problems switching their ascenders and carabineers at the anchors. The sun was behind the lenticular on the summit of Denali, so it was not hot. Actually, it was quite slow and comfortable, giving me time to take some pictures.
We climbed higher, and soon, I could see the top of the headwall at 16,100’. I was feeling strong, comfortable and confident. I was enjoying the climb and feeling secure, but then it happened.

A hit to my stomach that took my breath away. I stopped in my tracks, bringing my rope to an abrupt halt. I bent over to catch my breath. What the Fu*K? I asked myself.
I pushed as I considered what was happening. Was I drinking enough? I had a liter at breakfast and another half at the break. Had I eaten enough? I had cream of wheat for breakfast and a Cliff Bar an hour ago. Was I warm enough? Yup, I needed to zip down to stay cool and was comfortable. OK, I covered the basics. What else? I felt like I had diarrhea. What had I eaten? The same as the others. So, there is probably no food problem, including food poisoning.
I pulled it together and continued climbing without telling anyone my concerns to the top of the headwall. Still feeling like I had to use the bathroom, I moved to a flat spot. The protocol is to use a large size plastic bag. I dropped my drawers and positioned the bag. Nothing.
Ugg. I felt horrible. My stomach still hurt, and I felt the pressure of my team and many others staring at me. I pondered my choice: go down or go up. Leighan asked me if I could go higher. I paused to consider my answer.

I have been in trouble in the mountains before, and I have always chosen never to put my teammates in danger. The last thing I want to do is be responsible for stopping another climber’s ascent. I thought about how I was feeling and the risks of going higher. “Yes, I can go higher but don’t get concerned if I puke,” I told her. With wide eyes, she said that was the quote of the season! I laughed nervously.
Deep inside, I was worried. I had felt this before at 27,000’ on Everest, but this was 17,000’. Come on. I had felt for the previous two weeks. I was sleeping as well as I could in the small tent. I was eating. I was drinking. My legs felt strong. My overall body felt fine. I had a great attitude. So, what was up? This couldn’t be happening on Denali … Denali. Not to dismiss the Great One, but this was 17,000’. I shook my head in frustration, anger and denial.

I pulled it together and headed higher. But the first ten steps told the story. All my strength was gone. Physical or mental – it didn’t make a difference. I talked to myself like a schizophrenic as I climbed higher on the ridge. The ridge has several 50’ uplifts and a long, narrow traverse. When I say narrow, I mean a sloppy snow path that is a foot wide – two footprints side by side – and a two thousand-foot drop on both sides. Not a place to fall. This would come back later.
My stomach began to cramp. I stopped and took deep breaths. I took another step and another. After an hour, the cramps turned to convulsions and then to vomiting. I stopped dead in my tracks, took a knee and let it go … but nothing came out. I gagged another ten times (not that I was counting), and then a brown Thanksgiving-like gravy substance came out (sorry about the Thanksgiving analogy). I stared at it since I had never seen such a substance come from me. It scared me.
After two or three minutes, I stood up and continued climbing. I needed to get to a safe spot to stop, but the narrow ridge was not there. Soon, I joined the first rope team waiting for us. I stumbled to a flat spot, dropped my pack and sat heavily on it.
I put my head in my hands. My hands clenched into a fist, and I wanted to punch the snow. A slew of expletives went through my mind as my frustration and anger grew. My normally calm demeanor was spinning out of control. I paused and breathed deeply.
Then I gagged and vomited again.
Christian and Leighann came over and knelt in front of me. Their humanity and professionalism came through as they worked me through the questions. Christian put the blood oximeter on my finger to measure the amount of oxygen in my blood – this is a measure to determine if you have altitude sickness. Mine was close to 90 – excellent. At sea level, it is 100. My body was fully acclimatized. But I was vomiting and had trouble engaging. They broke to discuss my situation. Soon, he returned and said, “We think you should go down.” I simply nodded. And that was it. Leighan would take me down.
I fought back the tears and choked on my sobs. I had let myself down on this “familiar” climb.
A few minutes later, Christian and Leighan looked me in the eye and said, “Alan, you need to be totally honest with us – can you walk down the ridge?” I paused and considered their question. I understood that if I couldn’t, I would put myself in danger if I fell. This is when you look into your essence and consider factors beyond your own. “Yes.” was my answer. They both looked at me with hope and fear.
Almost 30 other climbers had arrived at the flat spot, backed up by my problems. I felt the stare of sixty eyes as I vomited and then put in a nausea-stopping suppository. I felt nothing. The weather was good as I stood and roped to Leighan. We started down. As I departed, the only words came from strangers – “good luck.”
We made swift time to the top of the headwall – no problems on the traverse. But as we took a break, another convulsion and another gravy vomiting session occurred. What was going on?” I interrogated myself. I finally succumbed to reality and curled in the snow beside my pack. Leighan radioed the NPS and gave me words of rational encouragement. I was disillusioned, discouraged, tired, hurt and sad. And this was the warm-up for Everest?
I saw two climbers on skis heading up as we descended the fixed ropes. It was past eight o’clock, so I thought it might be the NPS Rangers. An hour later, we met them. Yes, Tuck and Stu were the Cavalry. With a calm demeanor, they took my pack and worked me through a triage scenario.

Soon, we were back at 14,000’, the Basin camp or, as I will always call it, the Ranger camp since that is where the National Park Service hosts “my” team of Rangers and Paramedics during the season to help climbers. Stu, Roby and John – all NPS Paramedics – began questioning how I felt, what I ate, what I did, and my family history. They took my pulse, oxygen rate, oxygen saturation, and blood pressure, looked me carefully, and tried to decode my situation. It was 10:00 PM. I had started the day at 6:30 AM.
Sometimes, I felt like a science experiment. They took my blood pressure four times before agreeing it was high – 150/100. My temperature was 100. They could see I was fading. They pressed my stomach – no rebound pain – a good sign since it would show appendicitis. But there were several other serious conditions they could not rule out: peritonitis, ulcer, stomach bleeding, intestinal torsion. They became more worried as they talked.
John, the lead Paramedic, called the consulting Physician in Anchorage. To my shock, they agreed to recommend I be helicoptered from camp and then to a LifeSaver Helicopter to an Anchorage Hospital immediately. My eyes went blank, my face lost it’s color. I took a moment. Ok, my stomach was in convulsions, and my vomiting was problematic. Yes, I had a temperature, and my BP was way, way high. But I didn’t feel that bad… “You can refuse treatment if you want, but we are not responsible for you.” John said with sincere care in his eyes. I blocked everything out for at least a minute and said, “OK, I’ll take the helicopter.”
At this point, I felt I had two choices: take the risk that I was OK or go with the professional’s recommendations. John said, “Alan, you might get to the hospital, and they asked you why you were here since everything was fine. But that would be better than the alternative.” With the conservative analysis and my philosophy that getting down safely – in any manner – is better than dying, I said yes. Four minutes later, he returned, and the plan was set. The helicopter was in flight, and the ambulance was standing by. My stomach flipped. I could not make eye contact. What was happening?
“Thirty minutes till the Lama arrives.”, was the announcement. The French-made Lama Helicopter was designed for high altitudes and could only carry a limited load. It is a dangerous flight in itself. John brought several people into the medical tent and gave the orders: you two will carry Alan to the staging spot. You two will get his gear on the helicopter. You will open and close the door. Everyone waits till the thumbs-up is given. Watch the rotors. We must get him on and off in less than one minute. Be careful of the blowing snow – you will get blinded. My stomach flipped.
My head was spinning. I felt numb. My stomach hurt. I left the medical tent and saw Leighan. I hugged the 26-year-old like a father and was pulled away by the arm by Stu. In a flash, eight men were huddled on the perfectly quiet snow. The snow was hurling against us in a blink, and we struggled to maintain our stance. Another blink, the helicopter door was opened, I ran towards it, stepped on the small step slipped into the seat –pulled by Dave already on board. My pack and duffel were thrown in. The door closed and locked. The whine increased, and we gently lifted off, and I was gone. I gave a thumbs up to all the people left at 14,000. I was confused.
The flight was a blur. My eyes closed. My stomach was cramping. Dave asked me questions I could not answer. The scenery was incredible. The sun was rising at 1:00 AM from this altitude. This was not what I wanted. As we landed, I saw the flashing red lights of the ambulance – not for me? We stepped off the helicopter, and the EMT began to question me. An hour and a half later, I was in an Anchorage area hospital – the emergency room with nurses and doctors peering down on me. Blood tests, urine analyses, chest X-rays, and abdominal X-rays were taken. At 4:30 Am, the ER Doctor said the tests were all negative. He had no idea what happened, and perhaps it was a virus. Uggg.
At 6:30 AM, I left for a local hotel feeling horrible.
I changed my flight to Denver to the next day and tried to sleep as much as possible but only got about four hours after being awake for the previous 28. As I landed at the airport and hugged, everything began to sink in. I was home. I was alright. I had done my best. We also made our first donation to the Memories Are Everything® fund.
Over these past few days, my friends and family have come forward with incredible support for me. They all know me well enough not to say the cliches. The mountain will always be there. They are disappointed in me, not in me. The summit isn’t worth your life. And more. They understand my disappointment. We have been through this before. So where from here?
First, back up in the mountains, I have to get training for Shishapangma—26,289′. I leave in seven weeks! Next, I called my Doctor today to get a reference for a Sports Medicine Doctor to understand what happened. I have some ideas, but I want to dig into this deeply. Finally, I have already started to shake the experience. Mental training is as critical as physical training, so it’s time to move on.
Climbing big mountains is always a risk and a gamble. Sometimes, the weather gets you, and other times, it is yourself. It seems to be random and insensitive to training, attitude and preparation. All I know is that I did my best on Denali. I want to thank my Guides, the NPS Rangers, and the Paramedics for their help. I am pleased to have had another go. I am grateful to be home safely. And I am looking forward to the next time!
Denali Resources
I have climbed on Denali three times. You can read about my climbs through these links: