The Last Man on the Mountain: The Death of an American Adventurer on K2 by Jennifer Jordan Page A

the young pre-med student was on his way to the other side of the world. It was March 21. The cable from Fisher had come only three days before. He hadn’t even had time to get a proper pair of boots; they would have to be bought in Switzerland on his way to embarkation in Italy.
    Jack traveled third class on the German ship, which had an unfortunate reputation as a rust bucket and a vibration from the engine that rattled Jack’s molars. It had few or no comforts outside of first class, including a ban on butter many thought to be at Hitler’s dictate. Even though it was an uncomfortable journey, Jack was pleased that he did not suffer the seasickness that he had on his other passages to and from Germany, writing in his journal that he “failed to nourish the aquarium.”
    Once on dry land, he headed to Paris and enjoyed champagne lunches and wine-soaked dinner parties with an odd assortment of expatriate Americans. After dinner he and some Dartmouth classmates frequented Parisian speakeasies where “girls dressed only in panties swarmed” the handsome young Americans as they sat at the bar. The air was full of talk of la guerre and his friends told Jack that every Thursday night there was a city-wide blackout and air raid drill. Jack found the French girls “pretty,” the lifestyle rather “aimless,” and the French men effeminate to the point of being “fairy.”
    From Paris he took the train to Bern, Switzerland, for forty-eight hours of all-day skiing and all-night drinking. Unsuccessful in finding a proper pair of boots, he ordered a pair which would have to catch up with him at base camp. He then downed countless pints of the local beer with his guide, Fritz Oggi, before stumbling semiconscious onto a train for Milan, where he connected to Genoa to meet the team.
    Last to leave America, Jack was first to arrive at the pier in Genoa where the Italian steamship Conte Biancamano waited. It was the same ship that Dudley had spied eleven years before as he and the Mohawk raced to Spain in the King’s and Queen’s Cup. When Jack was shown to his room, he was thrilled to realize that, rather than descending into the boat’s steerage, he was being to led to the first-class deck. Dudley, although concerned that he was contributing more than his fair share toward the expedition, had upgraded everyone’s accommodations to first class, not just his own.
    Throwing himself onto the luxurious bed after his alcohol-soaked and exhausting journey from Hanover, Jack had barely closed his eyes when a “uniformed dark eye” ship steward rapped on his door and told him that an elderly gentleman was asking for expedition members and was waiting in the Smoking Room. Assuming it was Fritz, Jack quickly changed his clothes, combed his unruly hair, splashed water on his face, and sprinted up to where a diminutive and distinguished man awaited him. It was not Fritz Wiessner.
    Instantly recognizing the elf of a man, who resembled Sigmund Freud with his white hair and goatee, Jack stretched out his hand and bent ever so slightly in a sign of respect.
    “Signore Sella, I am honored to make your acquaintance,” Jack said as he took the man’s frail hand into his own.
    Vittorio Sella had made a name for himself by beautifully capturing in photographs the magic and majesty of K2 during the explorations of the Karakoram by Luigi Amadeo di Savoia, the Duke of Abruzzi, in 1909, thirty years before. As Sella pumped Jack’s hand and excitedly asked about the expedition, he became emotional in trying to convey his feelings for the far-off peak, wiping away tears as he spoke. Jack tried his best to understand Sella through his thick accent and hurried speech. As Jack leaned toward the old man, listening so intently it hurt his already aching head, he was suddenly aware of another presence and looked up to see Fritz approaching with a man Jack took to be Dudley Wolfe.
    Fritz quickly stepped into the conversation, extending his hand to Sella