Rick Orr's Story about Mt. Shasta

As promised, my recollections (although somewhat hazy, exaggerated, and, quite possibly, inaccurate) of our Mt. Shasta climb.

It was around 1999, or 2000. (See how hazy?)
First of all, it was my idea (I don't care what anybody else says!). I had just finished reading "Into Thin Air", by John Krakauer and, ironically, became interested in trying mountain climbing--(curious, given the tragic climb detailed in the book??).
Anyway, I mentioned my interest at one of our monthly neighborhood dinner parties, and several of the guys (including Barry) quickly agreed that it would be fun to climb Mt.Shasta that Summer. We all began to "train" in various ways to get into shape for the climb. We also read books about Shasta, and made several very expensive trips to REI to stock up on all of the right gear.

Then, just 2 weeks before our planned ascent, there was an unexpected storm on Mt. Shasta, and a group of climbers got stranded on the Mountain in bad weather. Two of the climbers died.
This added a whole new tension to the climb. This was supposed to be fun. None of us wanted to die in the attempt. So, we then made another very expensive trip to REI to stock up on every conceivable mountaineering safety device. (By the time I loaded all of my safety gear onto my already ample equipment, my pack weighed nearly 70 pounds! Not good).
The final group (after several guys backed out) was comprised of Barry, myself, my Brother (Drew), a friend of my Brother's (name forgotten), Rick LeFlore, Weite Ter Haar, and Steve Kent.

Several of us (including Barry, my Brother and I) had our families come up with us to camp out near the base of the mountain.
Finally, the day came. It was late Summer (probably August?). We set out on foot along a flat service road towards the base of the mountain. After about a half of a mile, I had to stop. I had already developed huge (quarter-size) blisters on both heels. (The special boots we had rented for the climb were obviously a bad idea!) Not a good start. Barry patched me up with some "mole skin" and duct tape, and off we went.

Our goal on Day 1 of the ascent was to get up to "Lake Helen" (a flat snowfield at a little over 9,500'), and set up base camp. Then, we would stay overnight (to "acclimate" to the altitude), and set off early (like 4 am) the next morning for the"final assault" on the summit.
Well, for whatever reason (I honestly don't remember why), we got off to a late start on Day 1. By the time we were half way up the slope to Lake Helen, the sun was starting to go down behind the mountains. This gave us a heightened sense of urgency, since we knew that the temperature would drop precipitously as soon as the sun went down. Plus, setting up base camp in the dark was not something we were looking forward to. So, we strained upwards--each man carrying a staggeringly heavy pack full of gear on his back-- trudging through the snow.
Somewhere between 9,000' and 9,500', three of the guys started getting "altitude sickness". One of them, Weite, was literally throwing up about every ten steps. But, there was really nothing that the rest of us could do for him. So, we continued trudging upwards, with our impossibly heavy packs, trying to beat the shadow of darkness that we could now see gradually sweeping towards us along the snowfield.

We couldn't make it in time. The shadow overtook us. All of the sudden, it was dark, and very, very cold.
Barry and I were tentmates, and had distributed various equipment between our two packs to help share the weight and avoid duplication. Barry made it up to Lake Helen before me. By the time I got there, Barry had begun digging out a pad for our tent. I quickly joined in the effort. But, it was hard--working in the dark, and the bitter cold, with unfamiliar equipment, and little oxygen. We couldn't set the tent up with our bulky gloves on our hands, so we took turns doing the detail work with bare hands. My hands felt like they were frozen by the time we finally got the tent up. (Oh, did I mention the wind? It was blowing hard--and cold!!).
As soon as the tent was up, Barry and I rolled into it. We tried to light a small camp stove for warmth, but our hands were too cold to do it. We had planned on cooking dinner, but we were too exhausted. We just lay there.

Then the stragglers started to arrive....the guys that had altitude sickness had finally made it to our base camp. We could hear their voices outside the tent. They sounded bad. It was pitch black, and bitterly cold. But, Barry got himself up, and said to me "Come on, Rick, we've got to help these guys get set up". Which we did. Mostly, Barry did. I was so wiped out that I was of very little help. As soon as everyone had their tents up, we went back to our tent and collapsed into sleep. The end of "the worst day of my life".

At some point, in the middle of the night, Barry accidentally woke me up. He had his flashlight on, and he was digging through a bag looking for some sort of medicine. After that, I couldn't go back to sleep. I lay there, freezing, the rest of the night--except for braving to go outside once for a potty trip. (If you have read "Into Thin Air" you can appreciate why I was apprehensive to leave the tent in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. One of their group did, and they never saw him again! He was blown off the mountain.)
I guess I did, finally, go to sleep, because I distinctly remember Barry shaking me to wake me up at around 4 am. I could hear voices and see lights outside the tent. Barry was telling me that it was time to go.

I said, "I am NOT going." He said, "Yes, you are. Now, get up." I said, "No, I can't. Leave me here. I will watch the camp until you get back." Barry said, "Weite is staying to watch the camp... get up. Now! Get dressed." This went on, back and forth, for some time. Barry urging me to get up, and me refusing. Finally, I said, "OK, I will get up, and I will get dressed, but I am NOT going up the mountain." Barry had won.

Once I was out of the tent, and suited up, I could see other climbers, with their headlights on, trudging upwards in the darkness. It was 4:15 am. I thought that I might as well try.
My Brother and his friend led the way. Then Barry and I. My Brother and his friend were younger, and fitter, and the lack of oxygen didn't seem to faze them as much. Soon a large gap developed between my Brother and his friend and Barry and I. As we looked back down the steep slope, we could see Steve Kent and Rick LeFlore struggling down below. It seemed evident that they were not going to make it up to the next milestone--"The Red Banks"--1,000 feet above.

We were slowly zigzagging along improvised switchbacks. Stepping into the footprints of the hikers in front of us. Maybe ten steps...then a rest. Leaning on our ice axes. Then another 10 steps...and another rest. And so on, and so on. For what seemed like hours. We looked back down to see Rick LeFlore turning back down to the camp. Steve Kent was lagging far behind, and he looked finished too.

Suddenly, however, Steve Kent got an amazing burst of energy, and literally started going straight up the face--no more zigzagging switchbacks for him! He flew past Barry and I, and actually reached the Red Banks before us. In fact, I was the last of our group to make it to the top of the Red Banks.

By the time I reached the Red Banks (about 10,500-11,000 feet) I was physically exhausted. The other guys were waiting for me, and had had an opportunity to rest up. As soon as I got there they said, "OK, let's move out." I don't know if it was my exhaustion, or the altitude, or what, but I started swearing like a drunken sailor. About how hard it was, and how tired I was, etc, etc. Barry was a calming influence on me. He stayed behind with me for a few more minutes while the others forged ahead. Then, with some words of encouragement about the upcoming "Misery Hill", he led the way for me. We scrambled up "Misery Hill", which lived up to its reputation.

For some reason, I was under the impression that, once we had crested "Misery Hill", we would be "home free". Wrong. So wrong! There were still more hills to crest. And then more. Emotionally, I was crushed. How many "Just one more ridge" could I take? I was lagging. The others were out of sight by now. I was alone and very tired and discouraged. I was ready to quit--again.

Finally, I did crest the last ridge. Only to see that the peak was still way off in the distance, across a 1,000 yard snowfield and up a steep 200' crag. That was it. I was ready to give up. I just couldn't keep going. I ditched my gear behind a rock, left the trail, and went over to sit on a boulder to rest and take in the view. I was done.

As if by fate, the view from this particular vantage point looked directly down onto the lake where all of our families were camped. Waiting for the return of the brave weekend warriors! Just then it occurred to me that it had not been a very good idea to have my family come up here, and to get their expectations up about the chances of me being successful. Because now I would have to face my wife and kids, and explain why my Brother, and some of the other guys, had made it to the top, but not me.

That thought alone stirred me to continue. I couldn’t bear the shame of letting my kids down (and the thought of brother strutting around victoriously). So, I decided that I would continue onwards to the top. I felt that I needed to travel “light” the rest of the way, and so I left the gear that I had ditched behind the rocks behind.

Just then, I noticed a lone figure about halfway across the snowfield. It was apparent that this poor bastard was in bad shape. I couldn’t tell who it was, or even if he was a part of our group. Whoever it was, he was struggling badly, and didn’t look like he was going to ever make it across the snowfield—let alone to the top of the peak. So, I used this poor guy as my “goal”. I would catch up to him, and pass him. I did catch up to the poor bastard about two-thirds the way across the snowfield. It was Barry. I didn’t recognize him until I saw his face. He was like a ghost. Pale. Moving in slow motion. And, mentally, he seemed out of it. He seemed groggy and fatigued.

Barry and I, climbing partners from the start, slowly trudged together across the last part of the snowfield. Urging each other on. A few steps at a time. Then rest. Then a few more steps. Then, without warning, I fell through a cavity in the snow. It happened so fast. But, I managed to spread my arms out as I fell through, which stopped me at my armpits. I couldn’t move. I felt trapped in the snow. Barry used his climbing helmet as a shovel, and, eventually dug me out. It was exhausting work for him.

Just 5 or 6 steps later, I fell through another cavity in the snow. Same thing, all over again. Barry dug with his helmet and was eventually able to drag me out. But, he had spent a lot of energy to do it. Energy which he had very little to spare.

Finally, we made it across the snowfield. We stopped to rest on the rocks at the bottom of the final 200’ crag that was the peak. We could hear some of the guys from our group yelling encouragement down to us from the top. “Come on. You can do it. You are almost there. Just a little bit more.” Barry said to me, “No. I can’t do it. You go ahead. I will wait here.” I began swearing at Barry. “We didn’t come all this f___ing way just to give up now! You ARE going to get up there if I have to f___ing drag you.”

It took a while, and a lot of “encouragement” from me, but, I eventually convinced Barry to give it a try. We ditched his equipment behind a rock, and started up the final steep crag to the top. We went up together. Slowly. A few steps at a time. Encouragements exchanged between us during the rests in between. Our friends urging us on from the top.

We made it!! We got to the top! My Brother, Drew, his friend, and Steve Kent were waiting for us. They were so happy that we made it. Nobody else was there, or in sight. We were all alone at the top of the world. We rested for a few minutes and enjoyed the view. My Brother’s friend snapped this picture of us--in black and white. But, the weather was quickly turning bad. The clouds were coming in fast, and the wind was picking up. We decided that we needed to get down as quickly as possible. (The thought of the climbers a few weeks ago was still fresh in all of our minds).

I don’t even remember the descent from the peak to the Red Banks. I was on autopilot, I guess. (Kind of like when you are driving late at night and you suddenly realize that you haven’t been aware of driving for some time). But, I will never forget the ride down the face of the Red Banks back to base camp. We slid on our butts down a snowchute. It was a blast!
What had taken grueling hours to climb, we slid down in a matter of minutes.

We broke camp quickly, loaded up our enormous packs, and slide down most of the rest of way to “Horse Camp”. I don’t remember the rest of the hike out, or much of anything after that. We were all so exhausted. However, I do remember saying, repeatedly, that it was the “worst two days of my life”, and that “I will never climb another mountain—ever!”.

Over the last 12 years, Barry and I went on about a dozen back-country backpacking adventures together. During those trips, we really bonded. You could always count on Barry as a hiking/climbing/camping partner. He was always ready to help. He was a great friend, and I will miss him dearly. Now, after he is gone, I realize what a life-changing experience our Mt. Shasta climb really was. It was a defining moment for both of us. We overcame and conquered. It was a character-builder to be sure.

A month ago, Barry emailed a group of us about climbing Mt Langely and Mt White—two more 14,000 footers in California. Only for Barry would I even have considered it.

Rick Orr