#maximum comfort vs absolute misery

[tardis--dreams]

Nothing more comfortable than lying in bed with the worst cramps in 3 years while your dog is taking a nap using your arm as a pillow (:

[uncharacteristicallyhonest]

Something Epic

I’m remembering more and more of my trip this weekend at Mount Shasta, but uncertain on how best to start the tale.

As I stumbled into a hotel late Sunday night to catch some much needed shut-eye, and upon seeing me painfully limp across the foyer in my sweat-stained trekking gear, wildly matted hair, and crusty sunburnt face, the young female clerk says to me, “You look like you’ve done something epic today”. Words often utterly fail me, but she nailed it. And its going to take me some time to fully appreciate exactly what happened and what it will mean.

There was a brief moment of clarity on an otherwise agonizing, sleepless night on Friday. Let’s just assume it was around 3:00 am, in the middle of the most horrific wind storm I’ve ever experienced in a camping tent. We had geared-up that morning, and backpacked some number of miles over difficult snowpack from the trailhead, across various ridges and gullies with the heaviest pack I’ve ever carried. This was only my second ever backpacking trip, so that’s not necessarily impressive, but it was back-breaking work for me, and in snowshoes. I had only two companions, including the guide, and a shadow guide-in-training.

By the time we had dug out enough snow to build a decent size windbreak for the tent, set up camp, melted enough snow to refill our water bottles, and consumed some warm and welcome calories, I thought sleep was going to come quick, deep and restorative. My guide had dissuaded me from packing my new ultralight (and super-comfy) sleeping pad in favor of an older, less compact (4X), and significantly heavier (3X) pad. I told him I’m a side-sleeper, and need the extra comfort afforded from the 3.75” of air goodness vs the 1.5” of the older one. He simply stated, in a flat monotone, that I wasn’t going to be comfortable no matter what, but the insulating capability of the older pad would mean I wouldn’t freeze to death while sleeping on snow and ice under my sleeping bag. I took note that even with the improved insulation, he carefully did not claim I would be warm. Of course I took his advice immediately (but secretly resented not being able to use my newer expensive one!)

The wind had picked up considerably by the time we turned in on that first night, well before sunset. As I watched the light fade ever so slowly, in expectation of that glorious sleep after a labor-intensive day, the wind changed to outright fury. Demonic fury. I had helped dig and build the windbreak we were in, and could not imagine how things might have been without it. Even so, the sides of the tent constantly whipped and slapped at my side and head. There was a continuous barrage of ice particulates on the exterior. Believe it or not, the guides (now sleeping very peacefully, curse them!) had left the door to the tent stashed open (to reduce condensation), with only the vestibule offering meager protection from this unending assault of wind and freezing temperatures. I was giving deep consideration to what the average wind speeds and maximum gusts were *inside* the tent.

So it was at this indeterminable hour that this one simple point of clarity had arrived (sorry for taking so long to get to it). Apparently I had cracked a fingernail during the day, and a painful hangnail had developed on that finger. I knew it was bleeding, and the searing pain caused all of my universe to narrow down into this tiny focal point of extreme discomfort. And then it hit me. I can’t deal with everything going on right then, but I could use all of my few remaining faculties to isolate and extract this god-damned hangnail. It took some effort and time, but ultimately succeeded.

Next, I could force myself to sit up and secure the tent door. By then, the vestibule zipper had blown open, flapping loudly (with all the other noise), and the tent had been completely exposed to the maelstrom swirling outside for some hours. It took several minutes in the blackness to will my fingers to unfasten the unknown and hidden straps and secure the door. I just couldn’t believe my two companions were sleeping through all of this. My body was freezing, shivering, tense and locked in a tight and rigid state of misery. Maximum pain peaked in my toes from the cold. And I couldn’t even touch them with my hands in the mummy bag. So I went to work on things I could control, like relaxing my body to improve circulation, and finding new features of my bag (like the pull strings) to reduce heat loss. Et cetera.

My toes never did fully warm up that night, and ultimately a heavy despair had set in. The wind had not let up once, and I was wracked with wave after wave of abdominal pains. After first light, I could lay there no longer, got dressed, and braved the cold and wind for my first-ever adult leave-no-trace, backcountry poop experience. We were above the tree line, camped on a ridge, and the only reasonable location I could find in the frozen snow was on a small out-cropping of rock. Space just enough to hold the “target” while going about my business. My view was of the whole valley below, majestic and pristine in the frigid arctic air, with my bits in full exposure. It was very difficult, and took a long time. But I did it, and despite just about everything totally sucking for me in the world, I fist-pumped the sky, packaged up my prize, and re-entered the tent a champion.

The pains, cold, discomforts, and despair did not leave however, and neither did the wind. I gave considerable thought to how badly (if at all) I wanted to even attempt to climb this mountain. I figured my guide would simply announce the weather was bad enough that the climb was too risky, we would wait for a break, pack up and out of this miserable (but beautiful) place. Despite all the training I had done over the past 3 months, I was over it. The experience so far, would suffice. I rationalized that enough had already occurred for my goal of increasing tolerance for discomfort.

My guide is a genuinely awesome person. Ruggedly handsome, amazingly experienced in the backcountry, and an enjoyable adventure companion. He is also a man of few words. And as we lay tent-bound during those morning hours, I attempted to coax his assessment of the weather with regards to our objectives and options for getting out of there alive (and as soon as possible!). The most he was willing to offer was this: “We’ll do what we can do today.” It was frustrating and vague. But he would say no more about it. And of my climbing pessimism, he was having none of it. Honestly, I was scared to even contemplate continuing on with the climb. So I took a different tack, and discussed some of the problems (like my freezing toes), and he indicated these were solvable. After our discussion, and with the storm slightly easing, he got up, dressed and went to work in the “kitchen” (an alcove in our snow-brick windbreak) to melt more snow, boil water, and prepare some oatmeal and coffee. The only thing I could do was follow suit, gear up, and shake off that sleepless nightmare of the past 12 hours or so inside the tent.

During breakfast, the wind died down, and we shortly commenced what my guide called “Snow School”. This involved a fair amount of mountaineering history, and he demonstrated the various techniques for using crampons. Frankly, I was rather surprised at how expansive the “science of cramponing” can be! And I spent the rest of the morning marching up and down a large and dangerously steep incline in crampons doing the “duck”, then “French” technique, followed by the “German” technique and later Canadian, “Plunging” and various combinations thereof. It was fun and educational.

There was a break for lunch and then we moved onto all things “Ice Axe”, which as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, is rather more nuanced than might be guessed at first glance. This culminated in a lengthy series of exercises where I would have to repeatedly launch myself down this same dangerously steep incline in various poses (sitting, on my belly, and headfirst on my back!) with the axe (AKA: deadly object with many sharp points), and after enough speed develops, use the ax and a complicated series of fatal-looking maneuvers to stop myself in various conditions of ice and snow. Frankly, I’m a bit surprised I survived the afternoon. But it was more fun in the snow than I’ve had since snowball battles with 6th grade classmates. Wow. During dinner, I began to re-evaluate my earlier despair over climbing the mountain. I was in the tent and heard my guide outside mentioning to the shadow how excited he was to climb the West Face later that night. “Me too!” replied the shadow. The words “Me three!” escaped my lips. And I never looked back.

Mount Shasta, at 14,178 ft and an impressive prominence of almost 10,000 ft above its surroundings, is the 11th most prominent peak in the US (96th in the world). It is considered a potentially active volcano, and the USGS rates it as “Very High Threat” for eruption. It absolutely dominates the landscape in that region of California, and is a popular destination for extreme backcountry activities of all kinds. When you tell someone you are going to climb a mountain like this, the first thing they will ask is if you “summited”. My guide says less than half of his clients actually make it (and these are vetted folks, who’ve paid a fair sum for guides). Either fatigue, extreme conditions, or sometimes altitude sickness can lead to unsuccessful attempts, and this is quite common. So asking “Did you summit?” is totally a “thing”. And a positive response is in no way a sure thing.

We woke up at 12:00 am, midnight. I say “woke up” with a high degree of generosity of what was actually a very meager few hours of total sleep time. But my toes were not cold thanks to the expert advice from my guide, and the weather was looking like ideal conditions. (Note that ideal for climbing means extremely cold!)

Imagine, if you will, the sky that I saw in that remote backcountry location. It was one day from a new moon, and an hour’s drive from any reasonably-sized city. I want to say it was pitch-black, but I’ve never seen so many stars in brilliant display, at such elevation, with crystal-clear skies, and thin, brisk night air. I ask you to imagine that, because words often fail me.

We had re-packed our packs with only essentials, downed a cup of instant Folger’s, and bid goodbye to the relative comforts of camp. Without belaboring the point, I do say “relative comforts” honestly, keeping in mind how miserable my body was the night before. I knew perfectly well (in perfect ignorance) that this was not going to be an easy day.

During gear-check, my guide asked how I felt, which I replied “almost comfortable”. He then told me to remove one of my insulating layers. I knew better than to question his instructions, and later he explained that we need to be “cold” starting out, because the effort of climbing will generate a lot of heat. Slightly after 1:00 am, the three of us were trekking out into the blackness, single file, with red headlamps, and crunching snow with crampons. Out, and up. 

I called my mom the next day to wish her Happy Mother’s Day, and let her know that I was ok from my Shasta adventure. After telling her a few details about what it was like climbing the mountain, she demanded of me (as only a mother can), “Brian, my son, why did you choose to do this??” I didn’t (and don’t) have a great answer for that. Adventure is its own reason, as little sense as that might make. On my whiteboard at home, I have a list of my activities for the past 4 months that terminates at the bottom with the label “Shasta”. Every line above was planned with the purpose to prepare me for this trip. 10 weeks of climbing Mission Peak, Double hike of Mission Peak. Running. Mount Diablo. Mount Umunhum. The freaking Grand Canyon in one day! 100km bike rides. Mount Sizer. Backpacking classes and my first backpacking trip to Pt Reyes with the Sierra Club. I’ve been obsessing over backpacking books and on friendly terms with the staff at REI. “It just sort of happened”, is the best I could offer my mom for an explanation.

And despite all my efforts and preparation, nothing could have prepared me for this trip (and nothing short of my preparation would have enabled its conclusion). I simply had no idea of the magnitude of the challenge.

It starts out rather simply, just one crunchy step after the next in the snow. Follow the leader. His headlamp is the only thing I can see in the blackness, (besides all those stars!). You don’t even need to think about it. That next step just happens all by itself. We’ve been camping at the foot of this mountain for 2 days, and my mind is able to envision the slope we are on, heading into the center of the local snow “bowl”. As promised, my body warms (for a certain definition of “warm”) and all seems magical in the universe. It will be a good four hours or so before first light. The headlamps play tricks on my eyes with the snow slopes, rock outcrops, and effort needed to sustain this climb. As the incline steepens, the effort increases. We switch from “duck” crampon technique to a mix of French and Canadian, and swap trekking poles for the ice axes. Approximately every hour we find a relatively safe location (“relatively” because it is all perilous in the extreme) and rest for 5 minutes. We have to immediately don our puffy down coats. The body temperature plummets dramatically, and the effect is startling and most disconcerting. After a few mins, and a quick snack, I am already shivering visibly, and my hands begin to ache with freeze. Re-stashing the puffs, we get on our way.

I never asked what the temperature was, although it was always on my mind. It really didn’t matter. It was what it was, and it varied greatly from moment to moment. The coldest time of the day is at first light, and I’m guessing it was probably low-20s or high teens, with an impressive wind chill factor. My two guides have a ton of experience between them in far worse conditions, and they were fairly ecstatic about how great conditions were for the climb. To me, it was fucking cold. It doesn’t get that cold, anywhere, ever. And if it does (and it did where I went to college) I’ve either never gone out in it, or have completely blanked those memories. But here I was at first light, about half way up the West Face, in this freezing cold. Each time after a break, my hands would turn to excruciating shards of searing pain. This would last for a long time. And when the fingers would slowly thaw out of it with climbing exertion, like a panel of LEDs that would eventually all turn green, it was a good feeling that all systems were functional at nominal levels! But other body systems would turn amber or red for other reasons, and need a break. So there was this cycle of pain and discomfort that defines existence while climbing.

As the sun rose behind Shasta, there were many amazing views that I struggled mightily to NOT see. Every time I took my eyes from the snow directly in front of me, there was a certain degree of disorientation. To be honest, the disorientation happened often, even without losing focus, but either looking up, over or down definitely made it much worse. Like I could lose my balance and fall off the edge of the world. It seemed vitally important (and its interesting to look back and agree that “vitally” is used here without exaggeration) to not look both up and down during the same moment of appreciating a view. But my guides were determined that I should see some unforgettable and utterly unique views. Like the razor sharp shadow of Mount Shasta projected as a triangle unto the landscape below, perfectly encompassing the Black Butte pyramid-shaped “mountain” far, *far* below. Or looking down into the fully intact summit crater of the nearby peak of Shastina (looking DOWN into a 12,000 ft mountain! — Shastina on her own is the fourth largest peak of the Cascade Range)

By the way, the West Face ascent is somewhat longer and more difficult than the much more popular Avalanche Gulch approach. We saw no other living creature (outside of a few ravens) until reaching the aptly-named Misery Hill about six hours into it, where the WF route meets up with that from AG. (And for the record, I had no idea we were doing the WF, or that it was longer than AG. Looking back, I might have made better choices with a bit more research and attention to detail.)

Anyway, well before reaching the aptly-named Misery Hill (and yes, if you have climbed it, you’ll also never drop the “aptly-named” prefix for that particular “hill”), the steepness and generally horrific conditions at the top of the West Face become another one of these all-consuming universe-vortex-of-focus moments. We skirted a few glaciers up there (there are seven named ones on Shasta). Glaciers! My guides are pretty stoked about the whole experience. This is what they do, and exactly how they make their living. And although neither has actually completed this particular route (in previous attempts their clients had all bailed before this point), they are in very good spirits. But my experience was a little different. My body (considerably older than theirs; I’m entitled to point out!) is nearing exhaustion, and at the limits of what it can physically do. Every step I take means that I will have another one, equally dangerous, to get back to camp. (Oh, and I should add that my guide would often make note that upon return to camp, we will be immediately packing up and undertaking the also-treacherous -- if rather less so by my new standards for such things -- hike back to the car!)

So try to imagine yourself nearing the top of this incredibly tall mountainside, with a crazy steep slope of snow (hello!? Right over there its called *Avalanche* gulch for a reason!). You are now tethered to your guide via a short rope, but that doesn’t change the fact that every move you make is purely on your own power and judgement, and any misstep might very well lead to your death or life-changing injury. Your body is nearing its limits of production. You’ve had 2 hours of sleep over the past two nights. The air you are breathing has significantly less oxygen that you are used to. The wind can literally blow you off your feet, (and you’ve already experienced that on safer terrain). After about six hours of this, I got to the point where I was faced with a fateful decision. Do I try to take another step? Just one more step? There is a surprisingly large number of risk factors that went into it. Can you even take another step, and still return to camp? There is no other route out of this; no escape plan. I *think*, with enough focus, I can lift and place my right foot just so, using correct technique, pulling my body (and pack) just a little bit higher and maintain my delicate balance. And do I want to? This time, yes, ok. And then, go through that whole process again with the left foot. Et cetera. That wasn’t my favorite part of the climb (at least at the time). But I think there is some important meaning for me. Or something. Still trying to sort this out.

At one point, after a break, and my hands were in that excruciating state, I lost feeling in one or two fingers. It felt different. I’m told that is not good, although a lot of the pain subsided. It felt like the glove itself was frozen, so I couldn’t move it. I knew from my guide that I couldn’t lose the ice axe. It was absolutely critical. If you lose grip (and it needs to change hands often - we practiced this in Snow School), it will obviously fall down the mountain and be lost forever. Your climb is done, and everyone will have a most unpleasant decent from there, trying to get you down alive. Somehow. There are pros and cons to using a tether for your axe, and we were of the school that concludes with no tether. And I couldn’t feel at least one of my fingers, and I still had to use that axe during every single step. So yeah, I was scared. And focused.

With renewed effort of exertion over several minutes, the feeling in my fingers gradually returned (much to my relief), and became among my most intensely painful moments (that haven’t been already blocked out of memory). But I survived.

I can’t say things got better from there. The aptly-named Misery Hill earned its name. The actual summit was a long, steep and perilously narrow path through craggy rock outcroppings and fiercely high, and bitterly cold winds. We took a few pics. My guide shared some “summit” bitter dark chocolate, he had graciously carried for the occasion. I think I broke off too large of a piece because I couldn’t finish it. Adhering to the “leave no trace” policy, I stashed it in a pocket, and enjoyed it much more nibbling on it while writing these notes :) The return trip was also difficult, and due my knee issue (diagnosis: Chondromalacia of both patellae) took a much longer time than anticipated and caused no end of pain. Because our summit was a relatively quick one (at 8 hours from West Face), the conditions were not appropriate for Glisading until the very last leg (which was seriously fun!). We packed up camp, and marched out the way we came, with these very heavy packs, and exhausted from 18 hours of straight hiking. Note that with “leave no trace”, the packs literally weigh the same going out as when you came in (gross, I know!)

I will never look at items of my backpacking gear as simple checklist boxes that they were when purchased at REI. These precious items enabled me to survive in extreme conditions. My life relied on their construction and proper functioning.

I’ve written way too much here, and didn’t cover many interesting aspects of the experience. They say that girls bond easily during everyday life, but for guys it takes either a war or extreme adventure. There were times of both love and a little bit of comical hate for my two companions, and they both deserve far more words here than I’ve given them, and I will always remember these two magnificent men who led me up my mountain and got me back down alive. Thank you Richard and Will. (Fyi, I tipped them as much as I could afford)

When I got into my hotel room (after that “epic” greeting by the clerk), I was finally able to peel off the socks and inspect the damage first hand. It wasn’t pretty. It’s going to take a few days to recover, from all over. I made a list of everything that is currently hurting, which I won’t share, haha.

Although I “left no trace” of my adventure on top of Shasta, I wonder what effect the experience had on me. Certainly significant, I can feel. But it will take more time to digest and observe. It’s time to erase my whiteboard, and find out what comes after “Shasta”.