Entries from Alaska

Looking back on Denali

The glacial environment presents a curious juxtaposition. At times, we witness a frozen, static world where quietude and stillness exist - perhaps much like they are found in the dark of a cave or the bottom of a cold lake. Yet, here they present in such luminous expanses that it boggles the mind and shrivels the self. From the disturbed skyline, pierced by menhirs and minarets, to the inland sea of ice filling the valley floors - and all the intermediate seracs layered and bunted on the surrounding megaliths - the scenery feels utterly immobile and still. Until, quite suddenly, the illusion is shattered in a violent display of force. In an instant there is motion, seen before it’s heard, a blur of ice and rock come free and already flaunting its veil of pulverized and sublimated snow, trundling in booming din. The delicate chandeliers of ice along the ridgelines and faces show themselves for what they happen to be: some of the most powerful natural forces of erosion which exist in, and as the result of, a near constant state of motion, plucking and mashing in a ceaseless flow of primeval destruction. 

A Denali expedition can experience the same contradictions from day to day. We spend multiple days where our only minute movement may be in transit to the bathroom or simply rolling over in bed for fear of pressure ulcers. On these days the mountain itself may feel more alive with weather and with that, even moody or spiteful. We spend many days where we only yield a brutal locomotion to consume or sleep, spending the daylight hours (and there are many) in a constant toil. On these days it may seem that the mountain has drifted back down to a state of rest and wouldn’t note our proceedings, until that serac falls in the distance. Throughout, if you happen to take notice, both the ultimate stillness and the constant motion are in abundance. In this place and in leaving we are so grateful for the opportunity to experience such an atypical environment with a group of people so willing and capable.

Despite not reaching our goal of the summit, I am quite pleased with how much I’ve learned on this trip and how much I enjoyed the company. I am pleased with our safe descent and return home to family and friends. I am hopeful for another attempt at Denali’s summit in the future.

RMI Guide Will Ambler & Team

Tuesday, June 30, 2026 - 9:16 am PT

Still at 14,000. We were hoping for slightly more encouraging weather up high this morning but there was a ragged cloud cap on the upper mountain through midday. A move up high didn’t look to be impossible, but it certainly would have been tougher in the weather. We opted for plan B, a rest and recuperation day at 14K. Eventually the sun came out and life was easy. We sorted gear and tried to cut down on the pounds that we’ll carry up to high camp. Everybody caught up on hydration and reading. Tomorrow is our day for moving up.

RMI Guide Dave Hahn

Tuesday, June 30, 2026 - 9:37 pm PT

Hey daily blog readers,

For whoever you are reading this blog for… well now is the time to call them. Ring them. Yes now. 

They have a story for you. 

Thanks for following along ✌️

That’s a wrap. 

❤️

RMI Climber Devon Levesque

Monday, June 29th

It’s been 3 days since we touched the summit of Denali. Yesterday we dreamt of burgers and beers in Talkeetna—we should be sitting at the bar right now. But today it is still a dream. 

Last night we left 14K camp at 8pm to make the 12-hour descent to the glacial airstrip at 7K, where we hoped to hop on a 9am plane to Talkeetna this morning. The same frozen airstrip we landed on nearly 3 weeks ago; though 3 weeks of warm summer rain have surely changed the shape, image and safety of the Kahiltna glacier. 

By 2am we made it to camp 1 at 7.8K feet, where we first slept on June 11th, still 5.5 miles and 4 hours away from the airstrip. It was a total whiteout in a freezing rain storm. Navigating was nearly impossible and the temperature was too warm to cross the lower glacier due to the risk of breaking through a crevasse. 

Our guides made the right decision to bunker down and pitch our tents for a few hours, with the hopes of waking us at 5am, giving the glacier a few more hours to refreeze. Warm whiteout conditions persisted all night and all morning. I write this at 3pm, weary, wet, dehydrated and tired; we’ve been resting and waiting in the tents all day. 

Last night’s march from 14K to 7.8K was a true test of patience, resilience and will. We each pulled heavy sleds and carried heavier packs loaded with 3 weeks of gear, garbage, extra food, dirty clothes and full poop buckets. Freezing rain stuck to our glasses and made the trail hard to navigate in our snowshoes. The snow was deep yet our steps felt firm and slippery; it was too wet to make a snowman, but not yet slush. The night was dark and white. We wandered in procession, 11 people deep, for endless hours. Our spines ached, our shoulders burned, and our toes tried to punch through the front of our boots. I must say, the air tasted delicious, heavy, and nourishing. Though it felt like we’d never reach our destination. 

But we pressed on, motivated by the dream of loading up the plane and flying toward a hot shower and cheeseburger. We had visions of beer and salads, clean clothes and haircuts, familiar routines and comfy beds. Unfortunately, that dream is delayed. For now, we sit in the tents in a white out and wait indefinitely. The seconds feel like hours and the hours feel like days. We’re munching on the stale snacks that we avoided eating for the last 19 days. We call this point of the trip our “Shackleton” era. This mountain is a mental battle as much as it is a physical one. Today might be the most challenging test yet. 

We achieved our goal, but our mission is far from complete.

A 5.5 mile, 4 hour trek awaits as soon as the weather gives us a window. We are ready at a moment’s notice. Then, shortly after we hope a plane can meet us at the glacial base camp and bring us back to the real world. 

We are close but we are not done yet. We miss you and we cannot wait to celebrate with you soon. 

Love from a rainy tent somewhere on the lower Kahiltna glacier, 

- RMI Climber Jimmy D 

Monday, June 29, 2026 - 10:39 pm

A big step forward today! We made our carry up on to the West Buttress at 16,200ft. The morning at 14K was calm, we were in and out of the clouds and snow, but it was clear above so we went for it. We started up just as the sun came around the South Peak, moderating the cold temps. The first hills were familiar, of course, but this time we could actually see where we were, so that helped. It was exciting to finally get on the fixed rope section and do some steep climbing. The team did quite well and we topped out about 3.5 hrs after leaving camp. There was a little breeze on the ridge, but it was delightfully calm where we stopped to cache our supplies. The descent was in clouds and falling snow again, but we were pointed in the correct direction for such conditions. Back in camp we rested and prepared to move to high camp.

RMI Guide Dave Hahn

Sunday, June 28 - 9:15PM PST

Sleep came easily for most of us last night. What had been a few hours at 17 was closer to 10 at 14, and we rolled like cats in the sun when Ben called us to breakfast at a leisurely 9am.

Rations have run low, and breakfast burritos are a distant memory. Faced with the choice between granola, oatmeal, and mountain house meals we swore to never eat again we chose freeze-dried, splitting biscuits and gravy and a breakfast scramble.

Kitchens are gathering places the world round, and here is no different. We lingered around the warm stoves and laughed about memories from the summit.

Soon it was noon and we gathered all of our remaining rations for a picnic lunch. Some were down to shredded pop tarts, others *cough Jimmy* still had ten pounds of food to spare. We traded, tasted, and Mike hoarded pounds of candy for the hopeful hike out.

Then games, music, movies and laughs as the snow gently drifted through the tent door. Ben told us the hope is to hike out through the night, but we’ll have to see about the weather.

That uncertainty has become the mark of this mountain and our trip.

There were a half dozen times as we pushed to the summit that Ben almost turned around. Avalanche risks were a-plenty, even 150 feet from the summit. If we did turn, that would have been the right decision.

So we could hike out tonight, or tomorrow. There may be more avalanche risk, or there may not. Our bodies could feel strong, or weak. The winds may be calm, or pick up. The glacier could be frozen when we cross overnight, or it may have cracks that add hours to rain at the airfield until the clouds clear.

This could be our last day eating gas station food, or it may be longer than that. As I turn 40 this year that’s the thing I keep thinking about - delays.

Many of us fashion our lives to take the straight line from this to that. We’re at 14 camp and thinking about Talkeetna. I often want to be someplace other than here.

The lesson I’m being invited to learn is that all of life is here in front of me. What’s more, the interruptions and detours are not only the spice but the substance of life.

(Please know - there is also tragedy, suffering, and injustice unequally distributed in the world. Those things aren’t fair and shouldn’t be wished on anyone).

But I do wish bad weather, on me and on you. That’s what refines our character, holds us still while our roots grow deep, and leads us from comfort to greater adventure. It can’t always be sunny out, we equally need the night.

I guess what I’m saying is that, while I need a summit (or airfield) as a heading, I want my heart to be where my feet are, especially when it’s not what I would have chosen.

That's the only way I would have learned that crampons can be trusted on ice. It’s how, as a 100-degree-Texan, I learned that life in the snow isn’t what I feared and that cloud cover keeps us warm. As an only-child and introvert, I learned that I can live in a tent the size of an elevator with two grown men for 20 days.

We should celebrate when life goes well and smoothly (like our first week here). And when our flight’s canceled, business slows, relationship ends, or we feel adrift I hope to remember that the interruptions, storms, and false summits have a gift that I wouldn’t find any other way That’s doubly true when you have a friend, sibling, spouse, climbing partner, or fellow guide to find the mystery in the moment.

I’m excited to get home, and grateful it will take a few more days than we expected.

 - RMI Climber Hudson
 

Sunday, June 28 - 9:30PM PST

Forecasts suggested we’d get a little break from the snowstorm this morning, so we were up early. It is tough, this far up the mountain, to be up before the sun makes its way around, but we were motivated. We set out climbing at 8AM and the clouds and snow came back in about then. We went uphill anyway, in the hope that things would change for the better before we got on the fixed rope section. Two hours took us to 15,300ft but the weather got no better. We were in a swirling snowstorm with very little visibility or contrast. We figured it wouldn’t work to take on the more technical terrain above. So we turned around… the carry of food and fuel could wait. We got excellent exercise, we broke Sidd’s altitude record, we got out of our tents for a few hours… it wasn’t a bad day. But we’d still love to get that full carry in tomorrow.

- RMI Guide Dave Hahn

Sunday, June 28 - 12:10pm PST

The day after the summit.

Yesterday we stood on the top of North America. Today we feel like shit. But no, that doesn’t begin to describe the feeling. The day after summit day is a mood all of its own. Joy, relief, exhaustion, confusion, fullness.

Last night, we got back to 17’ camp at 9:15pm, 12 hrs after embarking on an epic summit day. In a daze, we ate Mountain House meals from the warmth of our tents. Sleeping at 17,200’ is a challenge of its own. Snoozes are regularly interrupted by snores, sneezes, coughs, aches, and residual adrenaline. It’s best not to look at your sleep score, “body battery,” or any other wearable metric in such conditions—unless you’re the special one being studied by University of Montana researchers.

We woke up to the sun breaking through a white haze that moved in overnight. Our summit window really was just that. Two days of sunshine sandwiched between rolling snow storms. We looked back up at the Autobahn in the light snowfall, grateful it would now be at ours backs, and saluted Denali’s treacherous gateway.

As altitude headaches slowly subsided, aided by coffee, water, renewed adrenaline (and maybe a pop of Dex), we roped up for the climb  down the West Buttress ridge. One rope team after another, we moved down the running belays, regaining oxygen with each pitch. This time, my mind did not wonder; my only thoughts were about placing my next foothold, maintaining the rope interval, and moving clips efficiently at each anchor. At each pause, I watched the team behind us emerge from the white fog and the team in front of us disappear into it.

At times, it felt disorienting, moving away from the pinnacle we spent so long pursuing. The day after summit day is always bittersweet. And because everything is bigger on Denali, today hit like a wall. The banter at the breaks was notably lacking, but we all now share something that does not need to be and really can’t be put into words.

The fixed lines were the final challenge between us and 14’ camp. We steered ourselves down the ropes over the steep icy slope disguised by a foot of new snow. My crampons dug into the ice with all 24 points. After climbing over the bergshrund at the bottom of the fixed lines, we moved swiftly down slope as snow sloughing off the top fed into the crack. The “walk” back to camp took all we had left, plunging into deep snow for a half hour before the red tents emerged from the white out. Home! We made it back home to our cozy oasis at 14,200’.

As much as we are ready to go back to our real homes, we are also bracing for the culture shock of returning to those lives that have felt fairly distant for 17 days. I’m amazed by how adaptable we are living out here in the elements. It strips life down to the basics. Much of our days are doing the work required just to meet our basic needs: eat, get dress, sleep, poop, stay warm, hydrate, eat. If we’re talking in terms of Maslow’s Hierarchy, we do those things in pursuit of something that could be positioned at the top or bottom of the pyramid: some sort of higher enlightenment or the most basic of needs. I’ve realized that that’s so something we all share. Time in the mountains is not just about self actualization, it is fundamental to who we are. The mountains sustain us. And though Denali took a lot out of us, she gave back to us magnitudes more.

So here we are, sitting back at 14’ camp and where the summit now feels like a fever dream. Maybe it just hasn’t sunk in yet. Maybe it will forever live as a dreamscape in my memory. The day after summit day invites the question, what comes after the summit? We sit slurping down warm ramen, mending crampon punctures, comparing new face wrinkles, probably avoiding the question. I began by describing the feeling of fullness. But there’s also a looming emptiness that often follows achieving a major goal. Most of us will put another summit on the horizon to keep feeding our appetite. But Denali was about much more than the summit. In this spectacular corner of the Alaska Range, this mountain teaches you diligence, patience, teamwork, guts, gratitude, awe—and when your lungs and legs are about to give out on Pig “Hill,” just take one more step. That’s what I’m carrying back down the day after summit day. 

 - RMI Climber Amanda from 14 camp
 

Saturday, June 27 - 9:30PM PST

The latest storm moved in slowly this morning. For a time we thought we might sneak in a carry, but it was not to be.  Clouds and light, but persistent snow swallowed up the mountain.  Luckily, there hasn’t been wind to accompany all the moisture.  We stretched out breakfast and then everybody found a few chores to do outside, moving snow blocks around here and there. Most of the day, we did the Denali Hang, sitting in our tents - reading and napping. It was great to have RMI Guides Ben, Mike and Avery come out of the fog at midday with their successful summit teams. They set up camp not far away to wait out the snowy days.  Miles and Jack prepared a big jambalaya pot of dinner to cap off a quiet day and the team ate every morsel in our now familiar dining tent.

- RMI Guide Dave Hahn

Friday, June 26, 2026 10:44pm PDT

Certainly, colder up here at 14K. We ate breakfast in the shadows before the sun came around the mountain at 9:20.That made it a lot easier to prepare for our 10:15 mission to reclaim our cache at Windy Corner. It was a pleasant walk down, naturally -with light packs. The Ravens had not disturbed our carefully buried supplies. We loaded up and set ourselves to the two-hour workout to get back up to camp. The weather was perfect with clear skies and no wind, and we were happy to hear Ben’s RMI team on the radio, heading toward the summit. The rest of our day was. Spent resting, rehydrating, and training for a climb on the fixed rope section of the West Buttress tomorrow.

RMI Guide Dave Hahn & Team