Denali – The Mountain That Nearly Broke Us
36 Days, 60 Kilos of Gear, and a Summit Day I Barely Remember
Tobias Renggli
Did I Take It Too Far This Time?
For three days, the storm had been raging outside. The walls of the tent shook in the wind, ice crystals glittered on our sleeping bags, and the moment you stuck your head outside, everything disappeared into whiteout. We were at around 4,300 metres, it was day 20 of the expedition, and I was lying awake in the tent, seriously wondering for the first time whether I had taken my appetite for adventure too far this time.
Eleven days later, I stood on the highest mountain in North America. 6,190 metres above sea level, with a solid sea of clouds below me and a kind of light above it that I had never seen before.
I only remember the descent in fragments. But first things first.
Mountain One of 35
Denali was the first of 35 summits in my project, “Beyond Borders.” I am travelling under my own power from Prudhoe Bay in northern Alaska to Ushuaia in Patagonia, climbing the highest mountain in all 35 countries along the way. Around 40,000 kilometres by bike, on foot, and by sailboat. No cars and no planes between stages.
That also meant we did not want to fly into Denali Base Camp by bush plane. Almost every expedition starts on the Kahiltna Glacier at around 2,200 metres. From Talkeetna, the flight takes about an hour.
We wanted to walk in. From the end of the road, on skis, carrying everything we would need for the weeks ahead.
Very few people do that. Before the expedition, I had spoken with pilots, rangers, mountain guides, and alpinists. All of them were experienced, but almost everyone gave me a different answer: which route might work, how long the approach would take, and whether we would get through at all.
We set off with a huge question mark hanging over us.
There were three of us: Laëtitia from Geneva, Heli from Freiburg, and me. My pulk weighed around 60 kilos. Inside were 20 litres of fuel, freeze-dried meals, 15 blocks of Parmesan, six kilos of butter, a tent, clothing, and equipment for temperatures down to minus 40 degrees.
First Came the Rain
On April 15, we set off at seven in the evening. Petersville Road was covered in snow, but snowmobiles had left a good track behind. After months of planning, logistics, equipment lists, and studying maps, it felt incredibly good to finally be out there.
Then it started raining. Not snowing, but raining. At around two degrees, for several days. Eventually, everything was wet: sleeping bags, mats, clothes, and gloves. The moisture worked its way into every bag and every piece of clothing.
On the fifth night, we broke into an abandoned storage cabin used by miners. It was dusty, dirty, and slightly eerie, but more importantly, it was dry. That was enough.
Two Kilometres Forward
Between us and the Kahiltna Glacier lay dense brush, in places as tall as we were. With skis on our feet and a 60-kilo pulk behind us, there was almost no way through.
So we worked our way forward as a team of three. One person went ahead and searched for a line through the branches. The second pulled the pulk, while the third pushed from behind, bent branches out of the way, and tried to stop the sled from getting stuck every few metres. Then we went back and collected the next pulk.
Some days, we made less than two kilometres of actual progress this way, even though we walked almost ten kilometres in total. We sent up the drone to look for a better route. From above, everything looked the same: brush in every direction.
In between, we had to get over a steep drop, lower the pulks on ropes, cross a half-frozen river, and climb onto a lateral moraine. At the top, we briefly thought we had reached the glacier. On the other side, however, there was only more brush.
There was very little adventure romance in any of it. We swore, dragged at the pulks, sweated, and walked the same sections again and again. I only saw the good in it later: during those days, three people who wanted to climb a mountain together slowly became a team.
We had expected it to take around ten days to reach base camp. Now it was becoming clear that it could take much longer.
Some days, I caught myself simply staring at my skis for half a minute. Empty gaze, no clear thought.
What occupied my mind was not only Denali. For Laëtitia and Heli, this was an expedition. For me, it was the beginning of a two-year journey. Even if we made it up the mountain, it would not be over afterwards.
I would get back on the bike.
We Finally Reached the Glacier
On day eight, we stood at the edge of the Kahiltna Glacier. It was still raining, and the tent was complete chaos. Everything was wet, but we had finally reached the glacier.
The next day, we did nothing. We reorganised the duffel bags, counted our food, packed up rubbish, and tried to dry our socks with hot Nalgene bottles. In between, we slept, thought, and spent long stretches staring at the tent wall.
After that, things improved. Roped together, we moved from the edge towards the middle of the glacier, through a maze of crevasses and beneath huge mountain faces. Eventually, we could simply walk straight ahead without covering the same ground several times.
For the first time in days, I woke up looking forward to what lay ahead.
The Kahiltna Glacier is so vast that even after hours of walking, the surrounding mountains barely seem to change. You keep moving and moving without ever really feeling as though you are getting closer.
On April 30, after 14 days, we reached base camp at 2,200 metres. We had planned for ten. Our food supplies were starting to run low.
The First Team on the Mountain
We were the first team of the season attempting Denali. That came with two sides: we had the mountain almost entirely to ourselves, but there was no track, no fixed ropes dug out of the snow, and no marked route.
From there, we moved higher camp by camp. The pulks weighed around 60 kilos again because we were carrying several weeks of food and extra equipment for the cold. We had to cover almost every stage twice: carry part of the gear up, cache it, descend again, and return for the rest.
Our meteorologist, Sebastian, sent us a weather forecast from Europe every evening via satellite message. It was often bad: storms, snow, and extreme cold.
We spent many days inside the tent. The white-gas stove ran for hours because every litre of water first had to be melted from snow. It sounded like a small jet engine, making conversation almost impossible.
Time works differently on a mountain. Water is not simply there; you have to spend hours making it. A tent platform has to be flattened, equipment constantly dried, and every glove stored in a way that keeps it from freezing overnight. An entire day can pass without moving a single metre higher.
Surprisingly, I was never bored. There were no podcasts, no news, no Instagram, and almost no contact with the outside world. Instead, I had a lot of time alone with my own thoughts.
Small memories from everyday life suddenly became incredibly vivid. Sometimes I had to cry without really knowing why. After several days, I listened to music for ten minutes, and it almost felt like being at a live concert.
My entire horizon of worries had shrunk to the next camp, the next weather window, or the next meal. It felt unfamiliar, but good.
A Step Too Far
Not every day was quiet.
Windy Corner lives up to its name. We crossed it in a storm, roped together, with so much snow blowing through the air that at times I could barely see Laëtitia ten metres ahead of me. Talking was impossible. We had to shout just to make the others realise that someone was trying to say something.
Then, suddenly, we found ourselves on a steep, icy traverse that we had not expected. There was hardly any way to place additional protection. If one of us had slipped, they could have pulled the others down with them. We made it through.
Later, we talked about it. I think we were lucky that day. And I think we had pushed too far. The fact that nothing happened did not automatically make the decision the right one.
The Most Beautiful Moment
On day 29, we left Camp 4 in the late afternoon and climbed towards the Headwall. The Headwall is a steep face, with bare ice in its upper section, normally protected by fixed ropes.
But the ropes were frozen deep into the ice. Because we were the first team on the mountain and the rangers had not arrived yet, we had to dig them out ourselves. For hours, we hacked at the ice with our axes, pulled on the ropes, and tried to free them bit by bit.
It was bitterly cold and took much longer than expected.
By the time we finally reached the top and the beginning of the ridge, the sun was setting. Just before midnight. Below us was a solid sea of clouds, with individual 5,000-metre peaks rising through it.
It was the most beautiful moment of the entire expedition.
At around 4,900 metres, we buried a cache with fuel, food, sleeping bags, and snacks. Then we rappelled back down in the dark. By around two in the morning, we were back in the tent.
I crawled into my sleeping bag with a strong sense of trust. Trust in my crampons, in the team, and in our decisions.
That feeling did not last long.
A Finger Gone Black
The next evening, everything changed within a few hours.
Laëtitia had suffered frostbite on one of her fingers while digging out the fixed ropes. The fingertip had turned black. It was clear that she needed to descend as soon as possible and keep the finger consistently warm until then.
That meant she had to stay inside the tent and in her sleeping bag. So we could not take the tent with us. Without it, there was no safe way to spend the night at Camp 5, which also meant our original plan for a two-day summit attempt was no longer possible.
At the same time, Sebastian forecast little wind for the next day, but poor visibility. The day after that was supposed to be sunny, but with significantly stronger winds.
We discussed it from nine in the evening until after midnight and rearranged the entire plan. In the end, Heli and I decided to try for the summit in one long push.
The alarm went off at three in the morning. We told ourselves that we could turn around at any time. And we believed we were prepared to do that.
Laëtitia stayed behind alone at camp. She had to keep her finger warm without knowing whether we would be back after 18 hours, 24 hours, or even longer. For her, that day was just as demanding as it was for us, only in a different way.
I did not sleep for a single second that night.
The Summit Attempt
We set off at four in the morning. First through deep snow, then up the fixed ropes we had dug out ourselves two days earlier.
On the ridge, we left behind a sleeping bag and some clothing because our packs were too heavy. At around 10:30, we reached Camp 5 at more than 5,200 metres. The plateau was completely still, and the view was enormous. Up to that point, everything was going according to plan.
Then came the so-called Autobahn. The name sounds harmless, but it is a steep, icy traverse gaining around 400 vertical metres up to Denali Pass at 5,550 metres. We protected almost every section with snow pickets. It took a lot of time. Because we were the first and only people in this part of the mountain, we had no idea what the conditions would be like. They were not good.
When we reached Denali Pass at around four in the afternoon, we realised we were running low on water. From there, the terrain became technically easier, but we were already deeply exhausted. Heli had to stop every few metres. We left his backpack behind, and I stuffed his things into my own pack.
We moved slowly, step by step. I wanted the summit badly. Behind me were months of planning and already 31 days on this expedition. The closer we got, the harder it became to judge the possibility of turning around with a clear head.
At the time, I was almost certain we would make it. Looking back, that certainty was dangerous. Heli was exhausted, our water was running low, and we still had a long descent ahead of us. The fact that we reached the summit does not mean every decision was the right one.
Shortly before midnight on May 15, we finally stood on top. At 6,190 metres, the highest point in the United States and all of North America. We were the first team of the season. There was no triumphant shout. I cried a little, from
32 Hours
I only remember the descent in individual images.
I was severely dehydrated and, at some point, no longer thinking clearly. While belaying, I would close my eyes standing up and drift off. Opening a carabiner, something that would normally take a few seconds, took me minutes.
I had hallucinations, gaps in my memory, and microsleeps. At one point, I thought I could see Laëtitia behind me, even though she was many hours away at camp. At times, I was fully aware of the state I was in. That was exactly what made it so unsettling.
We were so thirsty that we smashed open a frozen bottle with an ice axe just to get the last few drops of water.
Heli got me down after I had helped him on the way up. He was exhausted himself, but he started functioning again when I no longer could. A few hours earlier, it had been the other way around. That was how we carried each other through the day.
After 32 hours instead of the planned 18 to 24, we reached Camp 4. Laëtitia came out to meet us. She had been waiting for us for more than a day, alone in the tent, keeping her injured finger warm inside her sleeping bag. She had prepared water and food. The Nalgene bottle of water was probably the best thing I have ever drunk. We hugged for a long time.
Only Heli and I stood on the summit. But to me, Laëtitia had just as much of a part in our success. None of us could have completed that expedition alone.
Back to Civilization
On May 18, we descended from Camp 4 all the way to base camp in a single push through whiteout conditions. Once again, we were moving for almost 24 hours. Two days later, a short weather window opened in the evening. A small plane landed on the glacier and flew us back to Talkeetna.
After 36 days, it was surprisingly overwhelming to see trees again, hear birds, and notice smells. Suddenly there was money, doors, other people, and water at the turn of a tap.
We walked through Talkeetna in our heavy mountain boots, stepped briefly into a bar, and immediately left again because the noise and the number of people were too much. At a food truck, we ordered cheeseburgers, quesadillas, ice cream, and waffles and barely understood what was happening around us.
It felt as if we were drunk. We had been out there for 36 days. Two weeks of that had been spent just reaching the foot of the mountain.
A few days later, I was back on the bike. The skis were strapped to it, and ahead of me were Canada and Mount Logan.
But that is another story.
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Tobias Renggli is travelling from Prudhoe Bay in Alaska to Ushuaia in Patagonia. 35 countries, 35 highest summits, and around 40,000 kilometres under his own power. Denali was the first.
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