Peter Stanley Mt. McKinley

It's now 5:18 p.m. on 27 June, Thursday, and I'm standing in the back yard of the Talkeetna Motel where we are spending the night. We raced this morning to the Seattle airport with our zillion bags and managed to get them all on the flight... incredibly. I guess we've got 20 or 25 bags. Anyway we made it all through and we got to the airport and lo and behold John O'Hara and Michael Sheehan were awaiting us. Michael offered to drive us all the way to Talkeetna in his van, which was really nice of him. But then I paged Tom Waite and Eric Simonson appeared. Jeff Detweiler is getting flown up some time tonight, apparently, and we will be set and ready to go out tomorrow morning in theory if not in practice. I'm about ready to sort gear, and Sam and everybody has gone over to help Eric get the food. I'm trying to resort my stuff which I really... probably shouldn't do because it's not going to do me much good. I have let that become a painful meditation... and I herewith cease on that. I'm not going to know... there's no way I can know what's going to work on the mountain because I have never been on the mountain... just have to listen to what the guide says, and if he says what I've got is right I'll say "O.K., I'll take what you say." I think I'll have to accept the fact that it's simply a matter of following instructions.

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