Shasta: Certain Uncertainity
"The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today."
Everything went according to plan. Almost.
It was a trip rife with uncertainty. This was a first for me in many respects. First time climbing Shasta. First time attempting a 14'er, and really first time over 12,000 feet. First time hiking through the night to destination unseen and virtually unknown. I had good reasons to feel uncertain of the journey I was about to embark on.
I left work on Tuesday afternoon around 3:30pm. On the drive up, I had plenty of time to think about a lot of things. I found myself having driven the whole 4 plus hours without listening to a single song on the IPOD. Now that is unheard of for me. But given the things I had to think about, music would have had no use or effect on me, I was deep in thought. Everyone on that mountain tomorrow was climbing for a cause, Cancer. More specifically breast cancer. I needed to look only near to my heart to find my inspiration to climb. Cancer will affect us all in one way or another throughout our lives. I chose to think about someone that I know that has been threatened by cancer, not someone that has lost the battle. Not that my meager steps can cure anything, but my intent thoughts about the significance of this person in my life and how to possibly make a difference in theirs when they might need it the most. That is powerful.
Before I knew it, I was in Mt. Shasta City by 8:00pm. I grabbed a big chicken pesto sandwich at the local Italian restaurant and I headed up the mountain to the trailhead; Bunny Flat, elevation 6950ft. I changed out of my work clothes into some shorts and a t-shirt, pulled on my boots, took one last check of the equipment and threw on my pack. There was a blanket of clouds covering the peak, and it smelled like rain. I was already nervous that this was going to turn into a wet slog and an exercise in futility. But I press on, ready for what comes at me.
My first section is a simple 2 mile hike to Horse Camp, a place where in the olden days, mountaineers would ride their horses to and tie them up while they climbed up Avalanche Gully. The Sierra Club has built a small warming hut there fully stocked for emergencies, and general shelter from the elements for hikers and climbers. It is at Horse Camp that I am going to meet up with some co-workers from Clif bar, Kim and Jennifer. They have been selected to raise money and climb for the Breast Cancer Fund. I knew that there would be a lot of people on the route on Wednesday morning, which is the only reason I decided to go Solo. I would be climbing alone, but there would be 35 people around me if I got into any trouble and needed help.
I managed to let my nerves get the best of me at the start. I waffled around the trailhead, not quite sure which trail I needed to take. There was one very distinct trail I followed for about a mile or so, but it felt like it was going too far to the left of the Avalanche Gully. So I backtracked to the main junction. I then followed the trail the seemed to go a little more to the right and it too was feeling all wrong. I pulled out my map, took a good look, in the dark, under headlamp, and retraced my steps back the the junction. I then took the original trail off to the left. I felt some relief that it was well traveled, unlike the last one. The rain started to fall ever so lightly. It smelled good, and it felt even better. It was 9:30, and it was still in the low 80's at 7500 feet. I noted that at my cabin last weekend, 2 days prior, we arrived around 11:00pm and it was still in the 70's, but much lower in altitude. I was in for a warm hike. My thoughts were if I were to get "lost" I had my GPS with the location of the car locked in, so I could at least find my way back to there. I was just going to hike till I got tired, sleep, and then access where I am in the morning. If it started to downpour, I would retreat to the sanctuary of my car and reassess the situation. Finally, if I made it to Horse Camp, I would reset my goals for the summit with the same parameters.I arrived at the Sierra Club hut at Horse Camp around 10pm (right on time according to my plan) and immediately checked in with my support crew of Seth and Caron by sending a text. Caron's response was "Glad you made it. Sleep tight and good luck tomorrow." If she only knew where I was going to be sleeping, and for how little time. It amazes me that I can be on the side of some crazy mountain and have cell service. Thank goodness. I left my climbing plans with both of them and promised I would check in at regular intervals along the way if there was service. (Which there was the whole time.) They were my safety net. It always feels good to know somebody out there is aware of your existence. I managed to run into a couple of people that will be climbing with the BCF. I mentioned that I worked for Clif Bar and that I was there to cheer them on. One lady noted that my co workers were departing around 1am and that I could find them up on hikers right of the trail.
I settled down on the side of the hut, sitting on some foundation rocks, just enjoying the warm evening when it started to pour rain. I gathered my stuff and moved to the inside of the little hut. After about an hour, the rain stopped and I could then head back outside, where it was much cooler than inside the hut, and now it was clear. I laid down on the same rock foundation wall and I could see a gazillion stars which reminded me of sleeping on the deck of my cabin only two nights before. I needed to rest my eyes, for I only had an hour or so till I was to start climbing.
Sure enough, at midnight I could hear lots of people rustling in their tents, getting ready to climb. My plan was to let the first group go out front so I had somebody to follow in the dark and let the other groups follow me. That way, I could see where to go, and have back-up if I was to get into trouble. Hiking in the dark is a trip. Your headlamp is your only source of light. While you are out in the great wide open, your realm of reality is really only the small cone of light coming from your headlamp. While I was not scared, I was respectful of the severity of what I was doing. I did have the confidence in knowing that it was not too hard to find my way. Just go up. And coming back, just go down. Simple...right? And it was, but still, 6 miles and 7000 feet of climbing is no walk in the park. If there is anything to create uncertainty, it is the environment that I was currently challenged with. A baby cone of light all by it's lonesome in this vast space on the side of this serious mountain. My only guidance is gravity. I know to walk in the direction of most resistance...and that is about it.
Within an hour, I caught and passed the group ahead of me. As per my usual luck, the guide taking up the rear is a friend of a friend from Jackson Hole Wyoming. We chatted for a few minutes before I passed the group. Luckily, I met up with two guides that had no clients and were there for additional support if need be. They were traveling fast, like I, and they allowed me to tag along. We got up to Helen Lake at 10,500 feet (which is not a lake, but a big pile of avalanche sluff) where we took a break. I refilled my water bottles in a nearby spring. It was still incredibly warm. I had on a pair of running tights and a turtleneck. Not bad for the middle of the night.At 11,000 feet, the snow climbing started. I have been essentially hiking up a large, inverted funnel. The higher I get, the tighter it gets and the steeper it gets. From what I hear, at the top, the slope is over 50 degrees in pitch. The guides tell me that the easiest route I had intended on climbing is unclimbable due to severe lack of snow. Oh, oh! What does this mean for me? I am certainly not going to climb something out of my comfort and ability zone. They tell me that we can only make it up "Left of the Heart." I remember reading in the guide that this is a more direct route to the top, but it is much steeper and a bit more of a challenge. Is my climb over? My uncertainty grows, yet I continue. I figure, I will go as long as I feel like I am not in danger to myself or anybody else.
The two guides and I manage to make it up to 12,000 feet before the sunrise, still 1,200 feet below the crux of the climb, the 50 degree section of ice. Upon the first light, as we climb by, we all notice this rather large rock precariously balanced on this pedestal of unmelted snow beneath it. Imagine a Volkswagen Beetle balanced on a garbage can, but not quite as high. Later, we all mention that we just had a very bad feeling and energy from the rock, yet none of us mentioned it at the time. We continued on, and at this altitude, coming from sea level the night before, I noticed I was moving in slow motion. Breathing was becoming a bit laborious. Still, I keep moving, and feeling nervous about what was to come.
"Rock! Rock! Rock!" I hear repeatedly from down below. The yell was not of caution, but of fear. I quickly look uphill to clear myself. Whew, okay. I whip my head downhill to see that large rock we passed rolling quickly towards all of the teams of women below us 1,000 feet. They were all directly in it's line while it gained speed. People were diving right and left like crickets trying to avoid the oncoming locomotive of a rock. You could hear panic in their voices, and I could hear my heart stop. Someone was going to die, I thought. At one point the rock hit another rock and it split in two. Now people did not know what to do. Dive from one into the line of another. I knew my co-workers were at the bottom of the chute, directly in it's path. As the rock careened out of sight, there was an erie silence that came over me and the two guides. Quickly, they were on their radios, getting a damage report. I thought for sure we would be switching into rescue mode. We could hear the other guides all report in one by one. Two women were shaken up pretty badly and in shock, but nobody was directly hit. Nobody died.I sat there for a good few minutes, collecting myself. What did I want to do? Continue on? or down climb and just go home. My mind was strewn with thoughts of home and loved ones whom I desperately wanted to see right then and there and let them know how much they mean to me. But alas, I have lived my life in such a way that they already know this. I tell them all the time. Still, I am uncertain as to whether this was a sign from the mountain that she did not want us to climb her today, or was it just a test of desire to continue despite the uncertainty at hand. After a good mental inventory, I decided to continue on, but with great respect and caution. I want to climb high, but I don't want to die. I have people at home I want to see again, now more than ever.
At 7:30 am, I climbed up through the 50 degree chute "Left of the Heart" and onto the ridgeline at 13,200 feet. I had made it past the hardest part. I was elated that I had made it this far, higher than I have ever been on my own two feet. Upon my joyous celebration, I quickly looked in the direction of the summit to learn of my next hardship. Thunderclouds.I still had over 1,000 feet to climb up Misery hill and finally onto the summit, and I could not even see the summit. It was covered in clouds. My heart sank. My climb was certainly over. I walked to the base of Misery hill and started up the first switchback when the rain came. Being on a peak or a ridgeline in a thunderstorm is no place to be. The risk of lightning is way too high to sit around there. I retreated to below the rocks in the chute. I was safe from lightning, I had a commanding view of the the climb below me and I was out of the rain. I figured I would sit there a while and enjoy the fruits of my view. It was a great time to reflect on the reason I was there, climbing in the name of someone else. Every step to this point had a hint of significance, and not of my own, but that of someone else. I was bummed that I was not able to make it to the top and raise my hands in dedication, sign the summit registry, enjoy the feeling of accomplishment of reaching the summit. Or could I still make it???
My mind quickly shifted from quiet defeat to the air of uncertain possibility. It was 7:30 am. My designated turn around time is 12:00 noon. I still have time. The weather may clear. Pigs may fly. I have a chance still and I am not leaving till that chance is gone. I reached in my bag and started eating my Clif Bars and drinking my water, prepping for a summit push if I get the opportunity. The rain has stopped. I think I will go topside and check it out.As I climbed to the ridgeline for the second time, i was elated to see that not only had the rain let up, but there was a noticeable change in the density of the clouds shrouding the summit. I looked out onto the horizon and I could see blue sky. The winds tell me that that blue sky is coming my way. I time it and figure that I have an hour till the clouds open up and the summit will be in the clear. I start back over to the base of Misery Hill. My stomach is in knots. I am now not nervous, but scared. What if I am wrong? What if I get struck by lightning? What if the leaning tower of Pisa topples? All things are possible. I carefully and calculatingly walk up the trail leading to the top of Misery hill. The wind is fierce. As I walk on the switchbacks from into the wind to away from the wind, I have to catch myself from toppling over from the side wind. Slowly and nervously, I continue. I keep an eye on the clouds behind me blowing my way and I keep another eye on the summit. As time passes, the summit becomes more and more clear. I take another look behind me to notice that my plan is working. The clearing is soon approaching. As I crest Misery hill, I can see that the summit is now within reach, and the clouds are all but vanished. This is the final push. Every step at this altitude is intent. You don't want to be wasting valuable energy and oxygen. I scramble over the final scree field and climb up the last bit of trail up to the peak.
Upon reaching the top, an elation has overcome me. I have conquered all the uncertainty to be here, and it was worth it. I thought a lot about how I had made it and what it all meant. I thought about the person whom I dedicated the climb to and I well up with emotion. I thought finally about the fact that I was only halfway to the finish and I should enjoy it for a bit more, than head on down, carefully. Get home.
All the way down the mountain, back to the car, and finally all the way home into bed that night, I thought a lot about how so many times I thought the climb would never take me to the summit, yet I never stopped believing it could be done, and that made all the difference."Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we often might win, by fearing to attempt."
Addendum: I keep getting e-mails asking who this mystery person is that I climbed for. It is a personal thing, between me and them. If you really must know, climb up there yourself and read the summit registry from July 11, 2007.
