Day 63, Summit Day
   
   6/29/01
   
   It was bitterly cold at 6:30am when I awoke. The natural instinct is
   to stay huddled inside your sleeping bag, avoiding the cold: but let me
   assure you that this is much worse than just the typical morning "I
   don't wanna get up" syndrome we all face. Altitude-induced lethargy makes
   even tying your boot laces something you try to avoid. Every little
   task takes twice as much effort, and it's frighteningly easy to let time
   pass while you try to work up the motivation to do anything at all besides
   try to stay warm.
   
   I hauled myself out of the tent, body complaining all the way. Melting
   snow took even longer than usual due to the cold. Frostbite was a
   very real concern, and at times I would keep my hands under my armpits for
   warmth.
   
   I got on all my gear and headed up "the Autobahn", so-named because
   the slope is steep enough that if you fall here it's easy to speed up out
   of control before you can self-arrest. In the shadow, it was still
   very cold. I coughed a bit, and for a few seconds nearly panicked. I was
   spitting up blood, and red snow was everywhere. I have to get down
   immediately, I thought. That's a sign of advanced High Altitude
   Pulmonary Edema, or else some blood vessel had burst, and I was in serious
   trouble.
   
   Or was I? I took a self-inventory; I felt OK, and in my mind I went
   through every part of my body that could cause this type of problem.
   And then I remembered - I had eaten one of those "Atomic Fireball" brand
   cinnamon candies, which is one of my favorite portable things to warm
   me up.
   
   It wasn't blood. It was Red Dye #2.  The climb could continue.
   
   It was breathe, step, breathe, step, sometimes two breaths per step
   while I climbed up the steep slope. This must be what a person with
   lung disease moves like at sea level, I thought. After a couple of hours I
   reached the top of Denali Pass, and came out of the shadows. The
   change was immediate. In this low air pressure, much less heat is available
   from convection, and radiation takes over (thus the wild temperature
   swings at high altitude). The bitterness of the cold was more
   manageable, and staying warm required less effort. That left more energy 
   for climbing.
   
   And also, for the first time of the trip, the other (northeast) side
   of the landscape was visible. The altitude was well over 18,000', past
   the "red line" beyond which the body can permanently survive; higher than
   this and one is slowly dying, unable to obtain enough oxygen to allow
   the various repair processes of the body to operate over the long
   term.  No human settlement has ever existed beyond about 17,000'.
   
   But I'd be back down long before this became a problem. I stopped to
   shoot photos and video of this remarkable land. The two different air
   masses of each side were apparent, with a cloud layer piled up against
   the mountain on one side trying to get past. And that cloud layer was
   *below* me, a sight which I always viewed with a certain amount of
   glee.
   
   For a couple of hours I climbed alternating steep and shallow sections
   until I came to the Coliseum-shaped "football field" and up the other
   side. Before me lay the infamous summit ridge between Kahiltna Horn
   and the true summit. This ridge was very narrow, in places less than a
   foot wide, and follows several hundred yards across even the top of a
   serac.  For the solo traveler, it was a serious risk since stumbling to the
   left meant a long fall with a questionable outcome. As for slipping to
   the right, there was no question. That meant certain death, somewhere
   in the intervening 9000 foot drop to the East Fork.
   
   No place to be letting your mind wander.
   
   But also no place for getting spooked. I took off my pack to remove
   the extra weight that might cause imbalance, removed the items I would
   need, stuffed them in my pockets, and did that odd concentration thing
   we all do in our heads when we're getting ready to cross something
   narrow.
   
   Time to face the music.
   
   I slowly, methodically moved across the ridge, decisively planting my
   ice axe and stomping my crampons in deeply and surely with each step,
   since there was no margin for error. There would be no second chance
   for redemption up here.
   
   It took about 10 minutes to cross the ridge, and finally I topped out
   onto the true summit of Denali - and indeed, of the North American
   continent itself.  In a sense, it was also the top of the world, for
   no other mountain is this high and also this far north.  The sun burned
   in the sky, and even the sky itself was noticably bluer and darker.  Standing
   at an altitude of 20,320 feet, I could see over a hundred miles into
   the distance, and in my mind I saw the thousands of miles that brought
   me to this spot over the past two months by bicycle from faraway
   Galveston. That beach I left from at sea level was now almost four
   miles straight down.
   
   My barometer read 13.75 inches of mercury.  Compare this to about 30
   for normal fair weather at sea level.  A violent storm would read
   perhaps 27.  At this altitude, only about 45% of the normal amount of oxygen
   was available.  I lingered on the summit for over an hour, my beard iced 
   up from frozen exhaled breath, soaking in the incredible sight.  It was
   impossible to live here on this forbidden ground, yet I somehow felt as
   if special dispensation had been made to accommodate me.  I felt at home,
   in my element.  I'd done it - accomplished every goal I had set for myself
   those months ago, and more.
   
   I felt in top condition and had climbed strong, and previously passed
   several rope teams moving slower than I (well, they didn't just bike
   5,000 miles!) and now some of them began to appear.  I helped take a
   number of group photos for them.
   
   Now came the long trip back down, and the challenge shifted entirely
   to staying alive and uninjured.  In fact, most climbing accidents happen
   on the way down; you're tired, you've already achieved your goal, your
   mind is less focused, and while descending your momentum is downward,
   making recovery from a fall that much harder than it would be when
   going up.
   
   It was hard to pull myself away from this peak experience, but I
   descended across the ridge, down to the flat spot where I'd anchored
   my pack.  Sheesh, is this thing heavier than when I left it or something?
   
   Now I was trudging down across the slopes, a bit more aware of the
   strain I'd put on my body.  It seemed as if even my tongue was
   sunburned, from breathing with my mouth open.  Without the distraction 
   of trying to get to the summit, every ache seems worse, if you let it.
   Thus the comment made by some climbers about down being worse than up.
   
   But I didn't care. A few more hours of labor would bring me back to
   the 17,200' camp and my tent, where I could rest for the night.
   
   In camp I got on the radio and called down to the main base camp on
   the Kahiltna Glacier to check on Mike.  They reported that he was not
   there, so he must have flown back out to town.
   
   Total round trip on summit day, 10.5 hours, and that included over an
   hour on the summit.  It was a good day.

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