A Bolt from the Blue Read online

  In the post–World War II climbing heyday, cutting-edge climbing dominated the atmosphere in the Tetons, with the range emerging as the cornerstone of American mountaineering. The park supported a dedicated Climber’s Camp at that time, where climbing myths and legends were passed down from climbers whose stays overlapped throughout the season.

  Back in the day, there was a great tradition of young men at Jenny Lake, along with mountaineers doing high wall work in Yosemite, known as dirtbag climbers. They were recognizable for maintaining an impoverished existence—it was important to them to be perceived as poor, sacrificing for their passion. Showers were in scarce supply. They kept costs way down, wore beat-up clothes (often Army surplus gear), scrounged for their next meal—despite the fact that a fairly high percentage of them were actually trust-fund kids. In the ’60s and ’70s, as climbers worked out their issues against their parents and society at large, climbing became much less of a seasonal commitment and more of an alternative lifestyle.

  Climbers have always been considered fairly rebellious, and while they don’t seem to mind the label, in reality, especially as opposed to other types of extreme athletes, they are not overly radical. For the most part, they are tranquil, philosophical, intensely fatalistic, and universally infused with a sort of mournful streak. The quintessence of the climbing community is one long lament.

  Although climbers are generally perceived as fearless, most of them actually do get scared from time to time. As former Jenny Lake ranger Ralph Tingey says, “It’s what keeps us from falling.” Early on in their careers, climbers—the successful ones—adopt a nearly mandatory sense of humility and respect for the mountains.

  Any wall can eventually be climbed one way or another, but the spiritual, intuitive core of climbing is to climb the wall the right way. Pete Sinclair, a former Jenny Lake climbing ranger, in his book We Aspired: The Last Innocent Americans, captures the essence of that sentiment: “After you’ve climbed in one area a lot, you have the feeling that the mountains tell you how they ought to be climbed. You climb in a certain way because of the nature of the rock or terrain, the weather, the history and tradition of the place and something of your own, which asks for something more graceful than just surviving. If it works, you feel that you have done something beautiful.”

  Over time, mountaineering has emerged on a more recreational level, with people climbing as a hobby rather than having it dominating every facet of their lives. While there are lots of names for climbers who take up the sport somewhat casually—wilderness wannabes, for example—the distinction between serious climbers and recreational climbers is not as great as it might seem. All climbers are serious about climbing. Rec climbers generally have jobs outside of the climbing world, however, while the most dedicated climbers tend either to abandon the idea of a career entirely or to find a job where they can get paid to climb. The Jenny Lake rangers could have other, easier jobs in the climbing world—guiding, for instance—but these men choose to be public servants. In the end, there is no climbing job more socially redeeming than one that saves lives.

  When most people start out rock climbing, they climb in gyms or engage in what is known as sport climbing. Sport climbing utilizes permanent bolts preattached to the rock. The routes often consist of just a single pitch, and the objective dangers are taken out entirely. As there is no need for a climber to attach climbing aids as he ascends, sport climbing focuses on strength, endurance, and almost acrobatic body control.

  In contrast, in traditional climbing, also known as trad climbing, there are no fixed anchors on the rock, and climbers must place their own gear (referred to as protection) as they climb. Climbers must determine both the type and the placement of the equipment. They typically use removable protection, such as cams or nuts, that they can clip back onto themselves and use over and over. Climbers retrieve the gear they wedge or hammer into the mountain not just because of the expense but also because they do not like the idea of excessive bolts marring the mountainside, a condition they refer to as siege climbing. While the routes in traditional climbing can be single-pitch, they more frequently involve longer, multipitch ascents. This type of climbing requires the same physical ability as sport climbing but adds other components such as self-sufficiency, adventure, and risk.

  Beginning climbers who learn the sport in a gym or in controlled outdoor environments on smallish, sunny cliffs are not necessarily prepared for true mountain climbing. First of all, it is exceedingly easy to get off route while mountain climbing. Many Teton routes are fractured enough that if a climber moves 10 feet off a climbing line, he could suddenly be climbing a much more difficult pitch. In addition, the elements, such as wind currents, are much more intense, as is the exposure involved in massive drop-offs.

  Alpine climbing, generally considered a subset of mountain climbing, adds yet another tier of complexity, as a climber high in the mountains can encounter wet rock or snow or a section where the mountain has iced over. The Tetons are notorious for unpredictable weather and have more ice and snow than, for example, Yosemite. The only places in the country that come close in terms of extreme winter weather are Denali in Alaska and the Cascades in Washington.

  The Teton climbing season seems to become more truncated every year. While it used to be three months long, it is currently centered around the end of July and the first two weeks of August. Every day during that season, there are people on the mountain who should have served an apprenticeship first, people who do not realize that things are only fine until the moment when they are not. Excellent sport climbers often end up shocked that their skills do not translate to an alpine environment. People want instant gratification, they want to say that they’ve climbed the Grand, but the Tetons are not a rock-climbing park. Mountain climbing is a different game entirely, with aspects of altitude and precipices and weather and fear.

  Hiking up Garnet Canyon for the first time can be a wake-up call, forcing novices to confront the certainty that they cannot underestimate the Tetons. Yet while the range has humbled climbers attempting routes above their ability, climbers at all ranges of skill have put themselves in situations in which they should not have been. The fatalities in alpine mountaineering occur at all levels of experience—not just the beginners die.

  Within the climbing community, Renny is infamous for a few exploits in particular, including a 1984 summit of the north face of Cholatse, a 21,128-foot mountain in the Khumbu region of Nepal that he initially declared “impossible, or at the very least improbable.” That trip was one of five he took to the Himalayas in the 1980s. His outlook on the success of major climbing trips was that the “three Ws” have to fall into place: weather, work, and women.

  Soon after the turn of the century, his Ws all in sync, Renny turned his attention to climbing the Grand Traverse in winter, a combination of 10 peaks in the Tetons totaling 25,000 vertical feet of climbing and descending. It took him three attempts to do it, and he suffered an extremely close call on the last one. As he was vigilantly downclimbing into a sharp notch between Teewinot and the East Prong, he commented to one of his climbing partners that the cornice buildup appeared to be exceptionally large and overhung on their lee-side route. When the slope gave way, Renny managed to execute a back flip onto the windward side of the ridge as the tons of wind-compacted snow collapsed and triggered a huge avalanche that hit the glacier below.

  Part of the draw of climbing is that it appeals to people engaging in it for sport as well as those doing it as a career, and those paths intersect when recreational climbers need to be rescued by professional climbers. Renny’s credibility as a climber comes from his decision to turn back with the summit of Everest in sight. That highly developed degree of mountain judgment collided with a group of Idaho climbers who, for a variety of factors, many—including the capriciousness of Mother Nature—out of their control, too late in the day made a decision to call off their summit bid of the Grand.

  In the aftermath of the tragedy, when the event was
analyzed in newspapers and magazines, the climbing party was always referred to as a group of friends and coworkers from an alternative health-care company called Melaleuca, but in reality, it was primarily a family trip for both Rob Thomas and Clint Summers. Rob had organized the trip for his wife, Sherika; his dad, Bob; his father-in-law, Steve Oler; his brother, Justin; and his step-brother, Reese Jackson.

  Clint Summers was in on the trip from the beginning, because when Rob and Clint, best friends for several years, summited the Grand together the previous summer, they called their wives from the peak and made a pact to bring them back to experience the climb with them the next year. The trip grew from there. Dave Jordan was included because he was a strong and longtime climbing partner of Rob’s and had summited the Grand many times before. Rob’s step-brother, Reese, invited his close friend Kip Merrill.

  The last members to join the party were the ones from Melaleuca. Clint, who worked at the company, asked coworkers Rod Liberal, Jake Bancroft, and Reagan Lembke to come along. Rob was initially a little annoyed, since the trip was intended to be “his deal” with his wife and his dad, but he understood that Clint wanted to share the climbing experience with new climbers from his job.

  Clint first met Rob just out of college when they were neighbors in Pocatello, Idaho. Rob owned an Internet company at the time, and he hired Clint to work for him as an account representative. Clint was solid and respectful, with a quiet authority that caused people to view him as trustworthy, if not necessarily warm. He would go on professionally to focus on Web development, but not before an incredible outdoor relationship had been forged between the two men. Both Rob, six-foot-two, and Clint, five-foot-eight and more slightly built, were big into snow-boarding, mountain biking, and especially rock climbing.

  Clint was newly married to Erica when he met Rob, and Clint once confided to him that when he married Erica, he felt that they wouldn’t be together long. The comment was not made from the standpoint of an unhappy marriage. Clint simply had a sort of hazy premonition that Erica would be gone from his life early.

  As Rob and Clint developed a friendship, their wives also became close, and the couples ended up either babysitting each other’s children or, more frequently, double-dating. Rob, whose passion for climbing was more intense when he shared it with others, had gotten his wife interested, and the two couples occasionally went on expeditions together. On one climbing trip to the City of Rocks in Almo, Idaho, Rob and Clint were the ones experiencing some scary moments on the flake rock, while Erica, belayed by Rob from the top, scrambled up the face like a world-class climber. Although Erica had been climbing for years before she met Clint and could climb like a pro when she felt like turning it on, she sometimes lacked self-assurance.

  As it turned out, Erica needed a little convincing to go on the Grand trip. Over dinner in a pizza parlor in Idaho Falls during the planning stages, her brother-in-law, who had climbed the Grand before, attempted to build her confidence by assuring her that she could do it. He explained to her that the climb’s long approach and high elevation could wear on someone who wasn’t in shape but that she was clearly fit enough to make it to the top.

  Erica confided her concerns about the climb to Sherika. Erica realized that just the month before, on June 21, 2003, a 23-year-old woman from Michigan had died after plummeting 800 feet off the crest of the east ridge while hiking up Middle Teton via the Southwest Couloir. In fact, yet another young woman, a 22-year-old from Washington, would die in early July of that summer of massive traumatic injuries after she fell near Baxter’s Pinnacle.

  After some discussion, it came out that Erica’s main reason for hedging against the trip wasn’t so much that she was afraid of the climb but that she wanted to have Clint to herself for a romantic getaway to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary.

  In contrast to Clint’s more reserved nature, Erica was outgoing and gregarious, but like her husband, she was outdoorsy and heavily involved in camping, skiing, and snowboarding. Erica was a more frequent and more advanced climber than Clint in terms of sport climbing, but Clint was more experienced in big mountain climbs, especially on Teton peaks. Exceptionally proficient on quick top rappels or lead climbs in the cliffs around Pocatello, Erica was ready to cross over to mountaineering. In the summer of 2001, Clint had attempted to summit the Grand but was thwarted by snow; in 2002, he made it to the top of the peak with Rob. The idea of going back and doing it again with Erica, seeing the experience through her eyes, drove Clint’s desire to return.

  In the end, either Clint’s perspective was romantic enough for her or Erica’s adventurous side won out. Either way, she agreed to the climb, and Clint and Erica began planning the journey up the Grand as an anniversary celebration.

  At Rob’s insistence, he and Clint took the three beginners from Melaleuca—Rod, Jake, and Reagan—climbing in Cascade Canyon on a multipitch route a few weeks in advance of the trip to the Grand. From Rob’s point of view, it was hilarious to watch how the novices were taking to climbing and eating it up, almost as if they had never been outside before. Rob and Clint kept a watch especially over Jake, who was climbing for the first time, to make sure he trusted the system and wouldn’t freeze or freak out on a rappel.

  After Rod, Reagan, and Jake jumped on the trip, the total number in the climbing party was 13 (11 men and two women). After his initial reluctance, Rob admitted that they could accommodate as many people as they wanted, as long as they had no more than four on a rope team and the teams were comparable ability-wise. The new additions meant that to keep the climbing groups small, Clint and Rob’s brother Justin would also have to lead teams.

  Rod, Jake, Reagan, Reese, and Kip camped at the Meadows, about a 4.2-mile hike in from the trailhead, where the climbers were able to replenish their water. From the Meadows, it was another couple of miles up to the Moraine site, where the two married couples plus Justin, Bob, Steve, and Dave were camping. From that point, the Lower Saddle, the real launching-off point, was only about a half-hour away.

  Rob and Sherika and Clint and Erica left the Lupine Meadows trailhead the day before their summit bid and hiked nearly seven miles through Garnet Canyon to reach their campsite. Their permit was for an area known as the Moraine, a glacially formed accumulation of soil and rock. With a little advance scouting, the glacial debris in the area, ranging from silt-sized glacier flour to large boulders, made for some fairly comfortable tent sites. Rob later described the pace of the four of them on the way to the Moraine glacier, a trail that wound steeply past rushing waterfalls and hillsides layered in wildflowers, as “not quite lollygagging.” Rob and Clint realized that this part of the trip wasn’t going to occur at the fast tempo the two of them preferred, so they relaxed, looked around, picked huckleberries from the bushes, and ate them as they walked along. The rest of the climbers camping at the Moraine all hiked at their own rates, too, passing one another at times, pausing for breaks, generally taking it easy in preparation for the big climb and the push to the summit the following morning.

  That night, Erica pulled a can of Campbell’s Chunky Soup out of her pack for dinner. It was a lot of weight for her to have carried in her backpack on the hike in, but everyone was jealous when she heated it up on Rob’s little eight-ounce titanium stove. A self-described gear whore, Rob, age 32, was known always to have the right boots, the ideal pack (selected from his vast collection), the best fabric for every occasion. He realized that what had started out as an interest in ultra-streamlining his packing was turning into a bit of an obsession as he counted just about every gram he hauled.

  Shortly before 6:00 A.M. on the 26th, Rob and Sherika emerged from their tent and roused Clint and Erica from the tent next to them. As the two couples sat around the camp stove waiting for the glacier water to boil, there was very little talking. When the other four climbers crawled out of their tents to join them at breakfast, conversation continued to remain at a minimum. At that hour, getting up and moving felt more like a duty than an adv
enture. Everyone was tired, and Erica in particular, not known as a morning person, alternated between silence and relatively good-natured grumbling. Rob made a point of giving her the first batch of hot water so she could make herself some hot chocolate.

  Still, once they all began gathering up their gear—harnesses, 200-foot lengths of red, yellow, and blue nylon rope—and putting on their black fiberglass helmets, the process became much more anticipatory. The climbers’ excitement built on itself as they finished off a large breakfast—oatmeal, Pop-Tarts—to consume maximum calories for the exertion ahead.

  As they waited for the rest of their group to ascend from the campsite below, the eight climbers piled on the rest of the clothes they planned to wear on the climb. The summit of the Grand is notoriously fickle temperature-wise, often requiring dedicated cold-weather gear. Other times, the peak can be blazing hot. For the past six weeks, the weather had been clear, with temperatures often topping 90 degrees on the windswept plains. (Renny had climbed to the top of the mountain several times in the previous few weeks wearing only shorts and a T-shirt.) Afternoon thunderstorms were providing the only relief from the scorching heat.

  Erica hedged her bets and dressed for the cold, with full-length green hiking pants and a relatively heavy, orangeish-red jacket. In contrast, Clint was, as Rob said, “begging for a beautiful day,” in shorts and a sleeveless shirt. There were no signs of inclement weather, but in keeping with his conscientious groundwork, Rob was always prepared for the worst in terms of gear, and that policy extended to his attire. He was dressed in layers, including a green wind-resistant jacket, and, ever the Boy Scout, he tucked an extra fleece and a few other warm items of clothing into his backpack. By late that afternoon, he would be yanking the clothes out of his pack in an effort to warm his hypothermic friend.

  Once they finished packing for the climb, the group started off for the Lower Saddle to await the other five climbers.