The Mountain

This past weekend a couple of guys and myself set out to climb Mt. of the Holy Cross. A beast of a mountain just past Vail near Minturn.

Our goal was set, our gear packed and our hearts focused on the great outdoors.

The approach to the peak was a long one with a lot of elevation change. In light of the fact that the other two members of our party had to work Friday we set out Friday evening and arrived at the base of our climb at around 9:00pm. This meant that our approach to our intended base camp would have to be accomplished in the middle of the night.

After hiking the trail by day the following afternoon I knew that the trail was difficult to navigate even in the broadest of daylight. Little did we know this at the time.

So with the strapping on of our head lamps and the mounting of our packs we set out on, what one member of our group would later describe as, the worst night of his life.

The hike was difficult to put it mildly. My pack was 60lbs...a weight that I was not used to carrying. The other two guys were much more seasoned and experienced in the hiking of fourteeners than myself. They were used to the altitude and the weight. They kept a grueling pass in which my pride demanded I match.

The drum beat was my pounding heart rate and the accompaniment was my labored breathing. Drenched in sweat, hammered by the pain in my lower back from an improperly packed bag and haunted by the thought that the next hill we were to climb would only reveal yet another pass that had to be conquered before our marked camp site would reveal itself. Every step was a prayer. Every movement a plea for divine intervention.

Mother nature was my enemy that night. It would seem that the great mountain we had set out to conquer had set it’s malevolent will against us. We were ants in the hands of a cruel and unforgiving monster.

Climbing is as much a mind game as it is a physical endeavor. Physically I was beyond any point I had taken myself in a long while and mentally – all I was thinking about was what the next ridge would reveal. I had to tell myself that liberation would be found in a summating of each ridge, each peak, each step I took on this God forsaken mountain.

After making our way through a vertically gyrating landscape for an hour or so we realized that we had lost the trail. At first this wasn’t a big deal. We had a map and compass and soon found it again. But after loosing the trail for the third or fourth time we began to get desperate.

One can navigate any landscape without a trail if they have a map and compass and the accompanying skill to read the two properly. While this was true we were in pitch black night and we were all extremely fatigued. Mentally I was feeling drained. It’s one thing to climb knowing that you’re progressing to a final destination. It’s something entirely different to be climbing a 60 degree slope with a large pack on your back and not know whether you’re going in the right direction. Going up a hill with the knowledge that you may be going right back down it while every muscle in your body is screaming at you to stop is probably a good picture of what hell is like.

We made our way to a rocky out-cropping which contained boulders that we had to climb hand and foot over. At this point I knew that I was reaching the end of myself. The end of my endurance, the end of my strength, the end of my sanity. I felt the creeping, groping fingers of nausea making their inevitable way to my stomach. I knew I was coming to a point of total and complete exhaustion.

I said as much to Josh who was with me at the point when it seemed a storm was about to break right over us. He yelled to Martin, the other member of our group, that we would be following a stream to the lake which was our final destination. Martin’s reply was that he thought he would try the upper ridge....at least that’s what it sounded like he said. Needless to say it’s never a good idea to separate in the wilderness....especially in these conditions. But separate we did. Josh and I followed a shallow bowl that seemed to contain a stream that, undoubtedly, would take us to the lake and Martin followed his intuition up yet another blasted ridge.

The rain began to fall.

Josh and I decided to set up our camp where we were. As soon as I broke out my tent the lightening began and all hope of setting up a mobile shelter was lost to the wind. By some miracle we happened to be 10 feet away from a small cave underneath a large rock. Cave isn’t really the right word. It was more like an overhang with a horizontal crack that led underneath this large rock. The overhang was large enough for only one of us to sleep under. One of us had to squeeze through the crack and rest somewhere within this slumbering giants bowls. Josh’s sleeping matt was with Martin who was lost to the darkness.

It was up to me. It took me forever to climb into the crack. Every movement took more energy than I thought I possessed. Some how I made it. Sliding along my belly. With a little flexibility, a lot of strength and a willingness to get dirty (which wasn’t a problem for me at this point) I made it into nature’s womb. I promptly emptied my stomach and rocked to sleep.

I slept better than I thought. The $60 I spent on my Thermarest was the best $60 I have ever spent. Period.

The next morning Josh went to look for Martin. He had given me a radio through which we kept tabs on each others progress. He wound up climbing the Mountain while I nurtured my body and my pride.

I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to make it back down the mountain so at about midday I decided to begin my decent while Josh was summiting. As I said before the trail was hard to track even in daylight. Patches of snow revealed tell tale signs of the path. Footprints of previous hikers were clearly seen in these small patches of snow.

I saw other things to.

I came across a print that looked like a bears. Interesting. Except it wasn’t a bear’s prints. Bears have long prints that come to a point. These were way too round. No, these prints belonged to a cat. A very large cat. These were the largest cat prints I have ever scene. The prints were going in the same direction as the hiker’s prints. I believe that it was at this juncture that I thought to myself, “you know that $12 you spent on renting that ice axe was probably a good investment after all”. My thoughts wondered to the crampons that were strapped to my back (spikes you attach to the bottom of your boots to gain traction on steep snow packed climbs). I wondered if I could manufacture some kind of barbaric replica of a ball and chain using crampons and my prussic cord in which I could wield against a large mountain cat.

After curbing my wild imagination and the freshly told story of a mountain lion tracking down and killing an unsuspecting backpacker in the mountains I pressed on. Ice axe in one hand, my hunting knife in the other and the thought of whether or not, if I was to be attacked, I would have the presence of mind to use either.

After loosing and finding the trail numerous times all while keeping a wary eye out behind me, I found myself looking across a stream. A stream I had remembered crossing the night before. I felt sure I was on the right course – everything looks different in the dark. Up until this point I hadn’t been sure whether I was on the right trail or not. I performed some sort of odd ballet. Crossing the river from rock to rock, it was truly a thing of beauty, I started the long trek back up the side of a large ridge that would take me down the final stretch of my journey back to the car.

One’s definition of the word “grueling” tends to be redefined as he/she experiences things that happen to be more grueling than their last grueling experience. My reinvention of the term was completed by the last stretch of uphill climbing I made on Saturday.

At one point I had to stop and verbally curse at the mountain a few times before continuing on knowing that the mountain's impenitent ears heard neither, word or emotion. For some reason I felt that if I screamed blasphemous names at this rock embalmed beast I could conquer it on some level.

I was reaching the pass that indicated that I was near the summit of the ridge when I heard a rhythmic slapping of something against something else. It sounded a lot like running. It was moving fast and it was right behind me. At the moment I was knee deep in snow. That combined with my heavy pack meant that I couldn’t turn around without loosing my balance. Of course I panicked. The vision of that giant paw print in the snow was seared into my mind. All I could think about was where I was going to hit this hairy abomination of nature. Would I go for the neck or side...or maybe it’s face as it came down upon my throat.

It was at this point that I realized that one of my straps had come loose on my pack and was flapping rapidly in the wind.

Idiot.

Upon reaching the car I took my pack off spasming shoulder muscles, blew up my mat, threw on some headphones and went to sleep next to the car. Josh showed up 2 hours later and Martin, much to our relief graced us with his presence by 5:00pm. The emotional Martin’s report included: sleeping in the rain the night before, virtually getting struck by lightning, sliding down the face of a near vertical cliff and in general almost dieing 6 times.

I decided not to inform him of the horse sized, man eating monster up in the hills that was no doubt chewing on his last victims femur as we spoke.

In some ways I felt like I went to hell and back that night. I definitely went to the edge of myself and found out what character is made of. I have a new found respect for nature. I most certainly have a new respect for owning a sidearm while backpacking in the wilderness.

It would be easy for me to consider this a failure. After all I never made it to my final destination. It would be easy to give up. To never go up there again and to never conquer my fear of pain and suffering in the midst of a cruel and harsh environment.

I have to go back though. Adventure is found up there. Life is found up there. Maybe the heart of a man is found in attempting to reach point B from point A. Taking himself to the edge of everything and staring the abyss in the face. We’ve told ourselves that in order to be men we have to reach B. That’s where our manhood lies. If we don’t we’ve failed in our quest to be men. But it’s a lie. Failure cannot conquer us. It mustn’t conquer us. If it does our only true failure will be our failure to see the growth that happened on our way up.

Maybe I will never reach B. But growth will occur on the way there. I know I’ll learn something about myself in trying.

Observations

1. The weather effects my mood way too much.
2. Florida is really hot.
3. I’m way too sappy.

After going to Ricardo and Sally’s wedding I’m experiencing some post-wedding depression. Anyway last night I found myself watching “Father of the Bride”. I’m such a girl.

When I get engaged I’m going to drive my fiancé nuts with all the opinions I have about how things should be at the wedding.

I think I’ll watch “My Best Friends Wedding” tonight.