To ward off cabin fever, I’ve been rereading some of the mountaineering classics. I decided on the oldest mountaineering book in my collection. Robert Bates’ “Five Miles High” is an epic account of the 1938 American Expedition to climb K-2, the world’s second highest mountain in the world at 28,251 feet. Even though not as high as Everest, it is considered by most to be a more difficult climb.

The book has special meaning to me because my mentor, Paul Petzoldt, was a member of the expedition. I was thrilled when I found a copy in a Colorado bookstore in the 1980s. I spent the astounding sum of $175 on the first edition, which was a small fortune at the time. I couldn’t justify the expense until I got Paul to sign it for me in 1992. He inscribed it, “To Jack Drury with admiration, we needed your present knowledge on K2 – 1938, Paul Petzoldt.” To me, it’s priceless.

Petzoldt was a last-minute addition to the expedition. Though a renowned mountain guide in the Tetons, he was a largely self-educated cowboy, in contrast to the five East-Coast Ivy League graduates that made up the rest of the team. I always thought the contrast must have caused tension, but you’d never guess it by reading the book. Like most mountaineering books, group dynamic clashes were glossed over, if not entirely denied.

Expedition tension, whether cultural, status or personality-based, is as old as the ages. Even though he traveled the world and was a guest of royalty, the other expedition members considered him an outsider, as did he. Although there is no mention in the book, I think there were two areas of conflict: The failure to summit and class tension. Years later, Paul, in an interview with “Off Belay” magazine, shared he felt the group could have summited. His fellow expedition members felt it was his ego talking. Knowing Paul as well as I did, I’ve no doubt he felt insecure not being a college graduate among a group of Ivy Leaguers.

A stack of Jack Drury’s winter reading. (Provided photo)

His insecurities with social class weren’t just on the expedition. Years later I heard Paul make a presentation to a group of New England educators. I could sense his insecurity the whole time. Ultimately, he gave a poor keynote presentation accompanied by an off-color joke. It was not reflective of his best work.

Another mountaineering classic I reread is “Annapurna” by expedition leader Maurice Herzog. Climbed in 1950, it was the first ascent of an 8,000 meter peak. I first read it in high school and was horrified at what Herzog and his fellow climber Louis Lachenal endured. Upon reading it this time, I was more curious about the group dynamics.

The role of class and the social distinction between guide and client was apparent. Well-respected author David Roberts, in his 2000 book “True Summit: What Really Happened on the Legendary Ascent of Annapurna” examines why Maurice Herzog was the expedition leader. He had nowhere near the amount of mountaineering experience as fellow Frenchmen Lionel Terray, Gaston Rebuffat and Louis Lachenal. So why was Herzog the leader? Roberts attributes it to the guide-client divide, which many felt was based on class bias: Guides were the hired hands, and the clients were aristocratic gentleman alpinists. Thus, they couldn’t entrust the leadership of a Himalayan expedition to a lowly guide.

The divide underlies their summit attempt. As they started the final approach to the summit, and Lachenal felt his feet starting to freeze, he raised the question, “If I go back, what will you do?” Herzog didn’t hesitate, “I shall go on by myself.” Lachenal said, “Then I’ll follow you,” and they continued on. It was clear that Lachenal was concerned about his feet but his obligation to Herzog was paramount.

When they finally reached the summit, Herzog was eager to get lots of summit photos, and Lachenal was more eager to head down. When Herzog attached yet another pennant to his ice axe for Lachenal to take yet another summit photo, Lachenal shouted, “Are you mad? We haven’t a minute to lose. We must go down at once.” It could be argued it was a prime example of the guide-client divide. Lachanel knew that they were in danger of frostbite and needed to descend, but Herzog ignored him.

They finally headed down, and during a break, Herzog took off his mittens to open his pack. He set the mittens next to his pack and a gust of wind blew them away. He continued on without remembering that he had a pair of socks in his pack that could have prevented frostbite of his hands. Perhaps it was another indicator that he shouldn’t have been leader. They barely survived and had an excruciating painful return to civilization with anesthetic-free field amputations. Herzog lost all his fingers and toes while Lachenal lost all his toes. No wonder Lachenal wanted to descend sooner!

I couldn’t help but wonder what went through Lachenal’s mind. He must have been furious with Herzog and surely blamed him for losing his toes. But Herzog’s book glossed over it.

Reading Herzog’s “Annapurna,” I felt that, despite the agonizing pain of having fingers and toes amputated during the retreat from the mountain, expedition members thought it was a small price to pay for summiting and bringing glory to France. That myth held true for decades, even after the first printing of Lachenal’s diary.

But it turned out that it was heavily edited by the publisher, whitewashing Lachenal’s true feelings. In 1996, when his unexpurgated diary was published, we learned the true story, when Lachenal’s actual feelings emerged from the shadow of Herzog’s myth.

The glory of France to the contrary, Lachenal would rather have had all his toes.