Courtesy Jim Davidson EMERGENCY: Fort Collins climber Terry Parker leans over and talks to Josh Wax while fellow Fort Collins climber Rodney Ley heats water in an attempt to keep Wax alive on Mount McKinley. Courtesy Rodney Ley WAITING: Climbers can only stand and wait over the hypothermic body of Josh Wax at 18,000 feet for a helicopter to arrive. Courtesy Rodney Ley ALTERED PLANS: Fort Collins climbersTerry Parker, Rodney Ley and Jim Davidson abandoned their attempt to summit Denali in order to save a climber in distress.

Josh Wax had a rough night.

Descending from the summit of Mount McKinley at 20,320 feet on May 27, Josh's brain and lungs had begun to fill with his own body fluids; he lost the ability to walk, and stumbling in the snow had exhausted him. Finally, his aching body had succumbed to hypothermia.

Josh's whacked out thermo-regulating system could no longer detect his body temperature. It didn't tell him the truth --that he was freezing to death on North America's highest peak -- but rather that he was over-heating. He began the eerie disrobing ritual often seen in chronically hypothermic people. First, he took off his hat and mittens, then unzipped his wind parka and fleece jacket, while the temperature around him was minus-20 degrees. He fell again, rolled onto his back and stared at the evening sky. Josh, 26, was dying. And he was alone at 19,500 feet.

Early the next morning, two German climbers who were experienced Himalayan mountaineers, Thomas and Stephan, topped out on the Messner Couloir near the summit. Far off the beaten trail to the summit they saw what appeared to be a small yellow tent. As they approached the out-of-place marker, they realized that it was a half-frozen man on his back and they knew at once that Josh was only hours from death.

Yelling for help, they attracted the attention of other climbers, including an Austrian doctor, who as fortune would have it, was carrying dexamethasone, an injectable drug to treat high-altitude disorders. Injected with this drug, Josh began to stir, but was unable to walk. The small party of climbers began to drag and lower Josh down the ridge toward Denali Pass at 18,200 feet. The drug had helped, but only a descent of thousands of feet would save Josh's life. At 18,900 feet, the team moved Josh out of the wind and contemplated their options. They were missing one critical element: a CB radio to make contact with the rangers at the 14,000-foot base camp. Only the rangers could authorize the launching of the Aerospatiale Lama high-altitude rescue helicopter.

While this was going on, our team of middle-aged mountaineers from Fort Collins -- Rodney Ley, Jim Davidson, and Terry Parker -- was plodding up from Denali Pass. We had begun to get excited about the summit, a mile and 1,500 feet above us. Suddenly, a climber descending at breakneck speed appeared above us. He exchanged a slurry of Spanish and English words with Jim at the front of our rope before continuing his rush down the slope.

"A climber was found near the summit this morning,'' Jim told us. "They don't have a radio. We need to make contact with the rangers immediately.''

Terry pulled out our CB radio, but the line of sight was poor to the ranger camp and our batteries were not fresh. So Terry, in bitter cold and high winds, put fresh batteries in the radio with the hope of making better contact.

After several futile tries at raising the ranger camp, we continued up the slope. Finally, after plodding up another 300 vertical feet, Rodney was able to make radio contact with the rangers. They wanted more information so we continued up to the rescue site where Thomas, now the leader of the rescue party, took the radio. Thomas could speak English and his previous mountain rescue experience made him the obvious leader.

As we caught our breath, we took in the situation. Two other European climbers paced around nervously, while Thomas talked on the radio begging for a helicopter. Terry knelt down beside the haggard brown face peeking out of the bivy sack while Rodney took our stove out to make water.

Terry and Rodney made small talk with Josh to keep him conscious. Josh would drift a bit and they would start in again reassuring him.

Josh would pull his frostbitten fingers up to this face, they were the size and color of hot dogs.

"Oh man, I'm screwed," Josh said.

Terry gently pushed the hand back inside the bivy sack.

"No man, you're going to be fine,'' Terry said. "They'll send a helicopter soon".

Rodney talked with Thomas on the side.

"How serious is this?"

"Very, very serious,'' said Thomas, pacing around and knowing the weather could close down at any time just as it had done below us. "He could die. We need a helicopter. In the Alps, the helicopter would already be here."

Finally the word came: The helicopter was in the air and the estimated time of arrival was 45 minutes. There was nothing else we could do, and the physical strain of waiting at this extreme altitude was taking its toll on us. We left the radio with Thomas and prepared to leave.

"This radio made the difference", Thomas said as we headed out. "I will get it back to you in camp."

We had now been at the rescue scene for 31/2 hours and the exhaustion was obvious in all of us. We needed to descend to protect ourselves after having spent our limited time and energy with Josh. The summit was now out of the question, so we reluctantly turned our heads downhill.

Thirty minutes later, we heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter. The pilot made three slow passes over Josh, dangling a 100-foot rope. Suddenly, the engine surged and the helicopter pulled away with Josh in its tiny nylon sack hanging from the rope. Eight minutes later, Josh was unloaded at base camp more than 10 miles away. Only then did we know for certain that Josh would live.

Josh Wax came to McKinley to stand on the summit. And he chose to travel, camp, climb and cross heavily crevassed glaciers alone. In some ways, Josh probably thought of himself as the ultimate American hero, a lone cowboy, an intrepid explorer. This is, of course, BS.

Josh was no more alone on McKinley than a person driving their car solo to Denver on Interstate 25 is alone. More than 1,200 climbers have received permission to climb Denali this season. Considering the climbing season is 90 days long, everywhere Josh went, fellow climbers surrounded him. Josh was not trying to avoid other people, he was well known for hanging out with other climbers at campsites.

The National Park Service discourages solo climbers, but they can't prevent it. They know that without the checks and balances of a climbing team, solo climbers frequently get over-extended. While our group had taken the time to train and work together as a team for everyone's safety, solo climbers like Josh are hanging around the edges, drafting on the experience of more cautious climbers. They are counting on us to be their safety net.

Josh may have been soloing in one sense of the word, but in another sense he was, in fact, leeching off the strength and goodwill of the climbing teams around him. Did Josh really believe that good people would simply step over his dying body on their way to the summit?

On May 27, Josh ruined the summit attempts of at least 11 people who stopped to help save his life. Perhaps, if Josh wanted the summit solo, he should have been willing to forego rescue by others, thus preserving the ultimate solo experience for himself.

Josh didn't plan to succumb to high-altitude disorders after summiting, but he did, and being without climbing partners he therefore prevented our group from summiting. Were we bitter? Not really. What we did was part of the American climbing ethic to help those in need, regardless of how they got there. On our three-day descent of Denali, dozens of climbers thanked us and told us what a good job we had done. Perhaps the most poignant comment was from a climber who yelled to us across a crowded campsite, "On behalf of all us, thank you."

You're welcome.

We're wondering if we'll ever hear that from Josh Wax, solo climber extraordonaire.

(Josh Wax, who lost two finger tips due to frostbite, was contacted at his home in Sunderland, Mass. He declined to be interviewed about the incident).