And this was because he didn't fully realize just how hard the Seven Summits had been on her. He knew it had been tough, of course, especially when Marty had been killed, but he didn't know how tough. He didn't know that she had not only been forced to accept the fact that it might be him next, but also to start thinking in a very practical way just how she might get along if he were next. And he didn't know that from these inner searchings Luanne had discovered and developed in herself strengths she had never known existed.

And these included the strength to firmly draw the line on what she saw as Frank's near desertion of her and her children in order to pursue his mountain climbing.

But she decided, at least for the moment, not to say anything. It made more sense to wait and see if first they actually got the permit for this next attempt. Otherwise she would only be causing an unnecessary brouhaha, and again she knew that the Seven Summits meant so much to Frank she didn't want to spoil the remainder of it for him if she could help it. After all, regardless of how she felt about his climbing these mountains, she did love him and wanted to be a supportive wife.

She continued to stare in silence, and Frank decided it would be best to drop the subject for the time being. He thought, It's still a long ways down the road. And besides, I'd do better to spend my time thinking first how we're going to get to the tops of the rest of the summits.

It was June 10 when they arrived back in Los Angeles, less than two weeks before they were to leave for McKinley. Fortunately most of the work organizing McKinley would be done by Ershler, and the big decisions, such as who would be on the team, had already been made back in early March, before they had left for Everest.

March had been a tough month, what with the pressures of putting the Everest trip together while at the same time continuing to work on the other climbs, especially Antarctica; but in his indomitable fashion Frank had juggled all the pins, or rather phone calls, without dropping any.

Even though d.i.c.k had been too busy to help much ("I'd love to but I'm just spinning on life's merry-go-round, grabbing at the rings trying to catch up before we go away again"), Frank had managed nevertheless to include him in all important decisions. In one of their phone calls, for example, Frank had discussed with d.i.c.k who they might include on their McKinley team.

"How about that girl who's the dog musher in Alaska," Frank had suggested. "The one Chouinard told us to get ahold of."

"Susan Butcher?"

"That's right. She goes each year on that thousand-mile dog sledding race that's like the America's Cup of Alaska. Beats the Eskimos, everybody."

"She'd be a boost for our movie, that's for sure," d.i.c.k agreed. "Fits in with that idea we had to have something distinctive and indigenous for each segment. You know, we had the gauchos on Aconcagua, and we'll have the Sherpas on Everest and that photo safari before Kilimanjaro."

"And Alaska will be dog mushing. I'll call her right now."

But that was easier said than done. While Susan had never actually won the Iditarod-the 1,200-mile dog sled race from Anchorage to Nome-twice she had finished second out of a field of rugged male sourdoughs and Eskimos, and in Alaska she was close to being the national hero. She had also become a sweetheart of the media, and as a result of being constantly hounded by newspaper, magazine, and television people she had secluded herself and her dogs-all seventy-five of them-in a cabin c.u.m kennels twenty-five miles from the nearest town (population sixty). She had no electricity, no water, and no telephone, and to get a message to her you had to go through the nearest neighbor, who had been instructed to ignore calls from anyone who sounded like a New York or Los Angeles media type.

"h.e.l.lo, will you please hold for a call from Mr. Frank Wells," Frank's secretary said to Susan's telephone contact.

"Hi, this is Frank Wells calling from Los Angeles. I'm going to be climbing Mount McKinley later this year. We're filming it, and I'd like to have Susan join our trip. Susan and her dogs. Can you get a message to her?"

Eight calls later Frank was still getting nowhere. On the ninth call he decided to try a different tactic. "Let me explain," he said. "I'm president of Warner Brothers Studios, and my partner and I are very serious about this climb. Perhaps I didn't mention it, but we are willing to pay Susan a fee for doing this."

Frank got a call from Susan later that day, and after he had explained the Seven Summits, Susan said it sounded like fun and to count her in.

"Have you done any climbing?" Frank asked.

"I've been up McKinley."

"Perfect. Now what we had in mind is maybe the dog team helping us freight our equipment up the glacier. Do you think they can travel on a glacier?"

"They've already been on McKinley."

"They have? How far did they go?"

"All the way to the summit." There was a short pause, then Susan added, "With the sled."

Susan said she didn't want to go through that again, but agreed it would be fun to have the dogs on the lower part of the climb. With her and the dogs now on the team, Frank and d.i.c.k then decided to ask Phil Ershler to be the leader and guide.

So, when Frank and d.i.c.k asked Ershler to be the McKinley climbing leader, they mentioned Susan and her dog team to him. Phil didn't like the idea but said he would be cooperative. Frank also told Ershler, "I want this climb to be first cabin," he said. "So, if you think you need any more people to help you, get them."

"I'll bring two more guides from the Rainier Service."

"Fine. Second, we want the best food you can get. No more emphasis on granola bars and M&M's."

"No problem," Ershler said. "Just one thing. On McKinley there are no Sherpas, and even though you'll be with guides, when you're with me you do your share of the work: you haul loads, you help set up camp, pitch tents, build snow walls."

"That's the way I want it," Frank replied. "Except for one thing. I won't cook. I hate to cook. I've never cooked in my life, and now that I'm past fifty I'd like to maintain my record."

Back in the U.S. Ershler took charge of final preparations, adding to the team three more Rainier guides: Andy Politz, Ed Viesturs, and David Stelling. In addition Frank and d.i.c.k extended invitations on a pay-your-own-way basis to other climbers they knew who might like to come, and four accepted: Chuck Goldmark (who had been on that first Aconcagua climb in 1982), Jeff Haley (a lawyer friend of Gold-mark's), Robie Vaughn, and Bill Neale (the last two being friends of d.i.c.k's children). There was nothing for Frank and d.i.c.k to do beyond catching up with their business lives. That was a handful, though, especially for d.i.c.k, who was now working to find a way to finance his next building at s...o...b..rd despite the fact he was still, as usual, struggling to meet his bimonthly payroll and quarterly loan payments.

At least now d.i.c.k didn't have to spend any of his time packing. Other than taking out his socks, long johns, and windsuit for laundering, he left his backpack and bags packed after Everest, ready for the turnaround to McKinley. Still, s...o...b..rd and other business kept him hopping, and the day he left home, he had been without sleep for two straight nights.

At the Anchorage airport Ershler had made arrangements for a van to drive them the hundred miles north to Talkeetna, the springboard for bush flights into McKinley. In front of the van was another vehicle that looked more at home on Alaska's potholed highways: a 1978 Chevy one-ton truck-with a built-in kennel sufficient to haul thirty-six dogs and a sled-and a large sign on the side that read SUSAN BUTCHER'S IDITAROD TEAM. SUSAN BUTCHER'S IDITAROD TEAM. Susan introduced herself and her friend Dave Munson, who was going on the climb to help with the dogs, and also to bring the dogs down once they reached the end of the glacier (so Susan would be free to continue the climb). She was about five-six, with dark hair parted in the middle and done in two long braids. She had bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and looked to be in good shape. As soon as the luggage rolled down the conveyor, she grabbed two of the bags and d.i.c.k noticed the well-delineated muscles on her forearms. Susan introduced herself and her friend Dave Munson, who was going on the climb to help with the dogs, and also to bring the dogs down once they reached the end of the glacier (so Susan would be free to continue the climb). She was about five-six, with dark hair parted in the middle and done in two long braids. She had bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and looked to be in good shape. As soon as the luggage rolled down the conveyor, she grabbed two of the bags and d.i.c.k noticed the well-delineated muscles on her forearms.

"Let's load the gear in my truck," she said. "No room in that thing you've got."

"I'll ride with you and Dave," d.i.c.k said to Susan.

"Me too," Frank chimed in.

Out of Anchorage they followed the Susitna River north on the Fairbanks highway.

"I'm twenty-nine years old, born and raised in Cambridge, Ma.s.s.," Susan said, answering Frank and d.i.c.k's questions. "My family had a summer place in Maine, but my sister and I had to go back to Cambridge every year for school. It was totally against my blood. Maine was for me. I tried Nova Scotia when I was sixteen, then Colorado for a couple of years, studying to be a vet technician. I had two Siberian huskies, and on my seventeenth birthday, I got a sled. With a few more dogs I started racing, but at first I didn't like it so much, I guess because it was a sport, a weekend thing. I didn't want any part-time mushing: I wanted it to be total. I wanted to be someplace where they needed dogs for transportation, transportation, so I came to Alaska. so I came to Alaska.

"When I got here I had to learn mushing all over. I still didn't like racing-I was mushing for the adventure of it-but I was also going broke, so I entered the Iditarod because there was fifty-grand prize money. That was in seventy-eight, and I was surprised how much I actually got into the racing. For the next three or four years I worked summers in the fish camps to support my dogs and me, until I could make it from the kennels alone. And somewhere in there I took the dogs to the top of McKinley. Took forty-four days to get them up."

"Susan, I can't believe it," d.i.c.k said. "You're a carbon copy of this young lady Frank and I knew, who more than anyone taught me how to climb. Did you ever hear of Marty Hoey? She was the only female guide on McKinley."

Susan hadn't. d.i.c.k told her the story of Marty's death, as well as their recently completed South Col expedition.

"So you were with this Phil Ershler both times on Everest, and now McKinley?"

"That's right," d.i.c.k said. "And I got to admit, he's a little uptight on this one. He didn't have much time to get it ready, and to be candid, he was a little upset about you coming. Well, not you, but your dogs. He's a guide on McKinley every summer, and he thinks if the dogs raise h.e.l.l and c.r.a.p all over the glacier it'll give him a bad name."

"That's understandable. But you watch, everything will work out."

d.i.c.k was certain everything would work out; he was pleased to have someone on the team of such obvious confidence and ability. But he was a little apprehensive wondering if Susan, as the only woman on the team, might feel out of place. That had never been a problem with Marty, but then it was one of Marty's strengths to fit naturally in an all-male group. d.i.c.k hoped Susan would be the same, but he made a mental note to at least be careful with his mountaineering language until they knew each other better.

Talkeetna, the only town of size along the upper Susitna, has only a couple hundred permanent residents, but in climbing season, especially after a spell of bad weather, the number of mountaineers waiting to fly to the base of their climbs can nearly match the local population.

"Weather looks stable, though," their pilot Doug Geeting told them. "Should be okay to get out of here tomorrow."

In the morning they decided Frank, d.i.c.k, and Steve Marts would go in the first flight. The rest of the team would follow, with Susan and her dogs coming last. They handed their gear to Geeting, who loaded the ski-equipped, single-engine Cessna. It was obvious this thirty-one-year-old pilot was a man who enjoyed his work. Gregarious and showing telltale signs of Alaska's unofficial state sport-beer drinking-he loaded the plane with boyish enthusiasm, as though it were his first flight to the mountain.

Frank and d.i.c.k sat in the back, on top of all the gear, and when they were airborne Frank leaned forward and yelled above the engines, "How long have you been flying in Alaska?"

"Nine years. I'm originally from L.A. myself. Used to fly a Cessna towing those advertising banners up and down the beaches."

"Do you climb?"

"Nope. But I love working with climbers. All kinds of characters up here, from all over. You wouldn't believe how many nationalities."

Excited to have an interested audience, Geeting turned around, leaving his left hand on the wheel so he could talk directly to Frank and d.i.c.k. Apparently he had made this flight so many times he could literally do it blind.

"Russians, Chinese, j.a.panese, Italians," Geeting continued, speaking loudly above the plane's engine. "Mexicans, Czechoslovakians, Poles, Koreans-sometimes we have eight or nine nationalities at a time on the glacier, all speaking different languages."

Geeting was still turned backward, and Frank and d.i.c.k listened attentively, glancing from Geeting to the compa.s.s to the altimeter.

"But you know, climbing is a common link to everybody who's up there. Even if you don't know somebody, you still know them. Know what I mean? It's a real friendly atmosphere, a real healthy one."

Geeting nodded his head and broke into a reminiscing smile. He still faced backward.

"I'll tell you, when you see that many people from different places getting along, it makes you feel pretty good inside."

d.i.c.k glanced at the compa.s.s.

"Then you see these people come off the mountain, and they're back in Talkeetna at the Fairview bar, drinking beer and singing songs together, people from all over the world, and it makes you wonder."

Geeting shook his head, which was still facing the wrong way.

"You wonder why, if things can work so good here in Talkeetna, why in the h.e.l.l is it that the rest of the world can be so screwed up."

Geeting shook his head again to acknowledge the irony of it all, then turned around and continued toward McKinley without having to make even the slightest correction to his heading. Below them the wide Susitna, broken into dozens of small channels, braided over gray gravel bars. The sky above was peppered with fair weather c.u.mulus that each floated at exactly the same alt.i.tude so it felt as though they were covered with a white and blue quilt. In the distance, at the edge of the green forest, they could see the white peaks of the Alaska range, and highest and most ma.s.sive of all, McKinley, or as most Alaskans and climbers call it, Denali-Indian for the Great One.

Approaching the range they picked up the long Kahiltna Glacier where it spilled for several miles onto the forested flood plain. They it into the white heart of the mountains. To their left was the great snow ma.s.sif of Mount Foraker. They banked right, following a subsidiary glacier, and could see through the c.o.c.kpit window the dozen tents and the black-flagged wands marking the landing zone.

"The Kahiltna International," Geeting said as he throttled back and made his line up. In a few minutes they were down, and as soon as they unloaded, Geeting was off for the next shuttle.

There was another group camped a few yards away busy sorting their food and equipment before starting up the glacier. While they waited for Geeting, d.i.c.k walked over.

"Howdy. My name's d.i.c.k Ba.s.s."

"We're a Sierra Club group," the leader said. He introduced his wife, and she added, "This is the first time on McKinley for most of us, and we're pretty excited."

d.i.c.k told them about the Seven Summits project, then the Everest climb, then in a few minutes he was encouraging everyone to "come ski the Bird." Frank was sitting nearby on their piled gear, shaking his head.

"We got three square miles of skiable terrain now, but someday we'll have twenty-four," Frank overheard d.i.c.k saying. "Thirty-one hundred vertical now, and we'll have forty-two hundred when it's done. That'll be bigger than anything in the U.S. Plus we got the greatest snow, not like that Eastern boilerplate or Sierra cement. Ours is light, dry, and fluffy."

On those last words d.i.c.k's face got that faraway look it did when he read a Kipling poem. He continued to chat with the Sierra Club folks until down the glacier he heard the drone of Geeting's Cessna. Soon the plane set down, off-loading Ershler and the others, then was off again to get Susan and the dogs. When it landed again, Susan jumped off, pulled her dogs out and leashed them to a long cable staked in the snow. With that done she next set a metal dog dish in front of each one, and gave them water.

d.i.c.k noted how she moved between her pile of gear and the dogs quickly, with firm steps, planting her feet with authority. She had her long braids tied together at the end with a ribbon, and wore navy blue long johns with the shirt sleeves pushed up exposing those strong forearms. Without showing any strain, she picked up a sixty-pound sack of dog food and loaded it in her sled.

Ershler came over to help. "What's this one's name?" he asked, scratching one of the dogs.

"That's Co-Pilot. She's shy. At first I was going to leave her, but her replacement got sick. A shy one is better than a sick one."

"What do they eat?"

"Seal meat."

"No kidding. Where do you get it?"

"Pribilof Islands. Go out each year on a hunt with the Eskimos."

Susan grabbed a duffel, while Ershler reached to pick up a pack. Susan said, "Now are you and I going to be enemies on this trip?"

"What do you mean?"

"Heard you might be worried about my dogs."

"Well, no. I mean, yeah, I was a little worried. In fact, I still am."

"I don't blame you. You've probably never been around dogs. Don't worry about them, though. That's my job, and I promise they won't get in your way or cause any embarra.s.sment."

Susan stacked the case, then said, "And another thing. I don't know too much about climbing, so I was hoping you could show me a few things."

"My pleasure," Ershler said. "Actually I'm a little concerned about getting this sled and you safely through the creva.s.se fields. When you climbed this mountain before, it was earlier in the season so the creva.s.ses weren't as open as they are now. If you're walking next to this sled you won't be able to tie in with us, and if you happen to step on a hidden creva.s.se, you might go in. So we have to figure some way to secure you."

With help from Chuck Goldmark, they worked a system whereby Susan could safely tie into the sled in case she went in a creva.s.se, yet release herself should the sled go in one. Susan finished loading her sled. Ershler was at the same time relieved and impressed; relieved that Susan promised the dogs would behave, impressed that by all appearances she was hard-working, strong, and competent. He liked her straightforward style.

Two hours after arriving they were ready to get underway. The Sierra Club group, who had been there nearly two days doing the same thing, were impressed.

"It's not that you're doing anything wrong," Ershler told them. "But this is my sixth year in a row here, and if I don't know how to do this quickly by now, I'd better get another job."

"We're almost ready ourselves," they said. "We'll be right behind you.

Ershler led his team out of camp. Most were towing additional gear on plastic sleds, and everyone had heavy packs weighing sixty pounds and more. Even Susan was carrying a heavy pack despite the extra work she had mushing the dogs. Everyone except Susan wore skis, to support them in the soft afternoon snow, with bindings that adapted to their climbing boots and skins on the bottoms that allowed them to climb slopes with ease. Susan, because she had to move quickly from one side of the sled to the other and occasionally hop over the reins to tend a dog, was wearing only boots on her feet, and under the weight of her pack she sank with each step. Still, she managed to keep the same fast pace as her dogs.

With no wind, and direct sun reflecting off the snow into everyone's faces, they had to take care to coat themselves with sunscreen lotion. On a glacier the reflective sun can be so intense that as you walk huffing and puffing you can suffer sunburn on your tongue and on the roof of your mouth. The climbers were stripped to their long johns, and d.i.c.k, with a bandana draped from under his billed cap to protect his neck, looked like a bedouin nomad crossing a glacial desert.

d.i.c.k was having trouble with the sled he was pulling. Until they got to the main glacier the gradient was slightly downhill and the sled, connected to his waist with a piece of line, was constantly gliding forward over the back of his skis and clipping him. He was losing patience, and Frank wasn't helping by laughing and constantly yelling to Marts, "Steve, did you get a shot of d.i.c.k falling."

The sled tripped him again and this time d.i.c.k went facedown in the slushy surface.

"That son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h ... " He continued cussing until he saw Susan mush by, then he self-consciously shut up.

"Susan, I apologize for that language."

But Susan wasn't paying attention to d.i.c.k; she had her hands full with the dogs: "You four-legged sons-a-b.i.t.c.hes, if you don't get off your a.s.ses and start pulling I'm gonna ..."

And that was the last d.i.c.k worried about Susan fitting in as one of the guys.

An hour past the landing zone the, tributary glacier on which they had been traveling joined the larger Kahiltna Glacier, and turning the corner they started the slow trudge up the gentle gradient. Each person had a sling of nylon webbing over his shoulder holding a few aluminum snap link carabiners, and either a pair of jumar ascenders or loops of rope called prussiks; these would be used to climb back up the rope should anyone fall in a hidden creva.s.se. When traveling on a glacier there is usually no great risk crossing open creva.s.ses-you walk alongside until the creva.s.se either narrows so you can jump it, or you find a snow bridge. It is the hidden creva.s.ses-those that have widened while the snow lids covering them, fed by wind-blown snow, have remained intact, blending with the surrounding snow-that demand vigilance, as they are trap doors for the unwary.

They had gone about three hours up the glacier when Ershler raised his hand, calling a halt.

"What's up?" Frank asked.

"Smells like a creva.s.se."