Photograph by Barry Bishop, National Geographic
By Michael Shnayerson
Forty years ago, Jim Whittaker, age 34, was selected from a group of elite mountaineers to be the first American atop Everest. That twist of fate would open up a world of soaring successes, bitter failures, public fame, and personal tragedy. He wouldn’t trade a day of it for anything.
Originally published in the May 2003 issue of National Geographic Adventure
He’s a big man still, nearly six and a half feet tall and broad-shouldered at 74, though his hair is now wispier and mostly white. At the fog-shrouded marina in Port Townsend, Washington, James “Big Jim” Whittaker looks like an old sea salt, and that he is: His steel-hulled, 54-foot sailing yacht, Impossible, where he likes to entertain visitors, is tied up at a nearby pier. But the license plate on his Chevy TrailBlazer tells the more important story. It reads “29028.” On May 1, 1963, Whittaker became the first American to climb that many feet toward the heavens to plant a flag.
Whittaker came home to national headlines, a parade in his hometown of Seattle, and a Rose Garden tribute from President Kennedy. The American conquest of Mount Everest made the covers of Life and National Geographic(the Society was one of the trip’s sponsors), and Whittaker was voted Man of the Year in Sports by the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. The reverberations of the Cuban missile crisis were still being felt, Cold War tensions remained high, and the race between America and the Soviet Union to put a man on the moon was under way. In that heated climate, America was ready for a new hero. With his lean good looks and modest manner, 34-year-old Whittaker stepped into the role effortlessly, an alpine Jimmy Stewart.
Whittaker’s long, still-powerful legs barely fit under the polished wood table inImpossibe’s cozy mahogany-paneled den. This is his third boat namedImpossible; during flush times the first was traded in for a larger version, which was sold off years later when Whittaker’s finances crashed. For three years at the end of the 1990s—around the time that the mountain that made him famous was resurveyed at 29,035 feet—the current Impossible was home to him, his wife, Dianne, and their two young sons, Joss and Leif, as they sailed halfway around the world. A map on one wall traces the family’s route from Port Townsend across the Pacific to Australia: one more challenge in a life built on taking chances. Whittaker writes in his autobiography, A Life on the Edge: “If you stick your neck out, whether it’s by climbing mountains or speaking up for something you believe in, your odds of winning are at least fifty-fifty. If you take risks with preparation and care, you can increase those odds significantly in your favor. On the other hand, if you never stick your neck out, your odds of losing are pretty close to 100 percent.”
At the life-defining moment he stood in the frozen netherworld of Everest’s summit, gasping for air from his empty oxygen bottle, Big Jim Whittaker could not have guessed that this ascent was about to fling him into a world far beyond climbing. As Louis Reichardt, a neurobiologist who later climbed K2 with him, puts it, “Along with Willi Unsoeld, Jim is far and away the most interesting of the American mountaineers, because he’s done so much else.”
Whittaker had been flattered, but unsurprised, to have received an invitation from Swiss-born climber Norman Dyhrenfurth in 1960 to join the team he was assembling for a first U.S. assault of Everest. Both Jim and his twin brother, Lou, had established reputations by their early 30s as two of the best climbers in the Pacific Northwest. Jim Whittaker had also made a name for himself as the general manager of a small but fast-growing Seattle co-op that sold climbing gear to members at a discount—Recreational Equipment, Inc., or REI.
“I’d never been to the Himalaya before,” says Whittaker. “But I’d been to 20,320-foot-high McKinley. I’d trained hard, put 60 pounds of bricks in my backpack. I swam in Lake Sammamish in [winter] to build up to the cold we would encounter. I didn’t know anyone who was in better shape.” When the U.S. Navy’s Office of Naval Research, which was helping to fund the expedition, asked the climbers in the summer of 1962 if they’d be able to summit, most replied, “I hope so” or “I’m going to do my best.” Whittaker’s response: “Yeah, I will.”




Photo: Jakob Helbig/cultura/Corbis




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