Summit Day
The mountains are calling and I must go- John Muir
As we crested the final teensy hill leading to the view overlooking the football field, I didn’t know I could continue. Every fiber of my being was screaming for a turn-about. Instead I called for a sit-down. Brian was near some cool basalt boulders that would be great seats. I flopped down on the black rock next to him after he reeled-in the rope between us. I took off my pack and fumbled around with gear adjustments all the while trying to relax; I had developed a headache. 19,300 feet elevation isn’t for sissies. After all I was dealing with less than half of the oxygen available at sea level. The lack-of- atmospheric pressure wasn’t pushing the oxygen into my lungs at the same comfortable level I was used to.
“ How you doing?” he asked.
“ Good.”
It was a soft lie. I was the epitome of total exhaustion. Ever since Denali pass we had progressed in eight pace increments. Eight paces were followed by a minute to minute-and-a-half-rest. This was the amount of time it took to fully catch my breath. This was the amount of time it took for my legs to flush clean from the suffrage of lactic-acidosis.
The view from our perch on the rocks was surreal. Pillowy clouds filled the North side of the Alaska range far below us. It’s thick plumage extended to the North as far as the eye could see. Some of them were beginning to spill over Kahiltna pass. Mt. Foraker, unimpressed with the barrage of cumilous interlopers stood guard high above, holding an air of masterful certainty.
The south side of the range was bespeckled with a sparse allotment of less ambitious clouds. Unsure of really what to do, they hovered nonchalantly and mingled and floated about as only clouds can do. Mount Hunter standing alone, unbothered by the whims of the clouds sparkled in the sun illuminating it’s cascading hanging-glaciers and precariously perched seracs. An occasional avalanche thundered from it’s flank, perhaps as a warning or maybe it was like a dog shaking-off excess water after a soaking.
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| Brian, on the summit, looks towards the cloudy North. |
High above all of this we sat on two charcoal black rocks, two friends on a mission, tired as hell. We wouldn’t confide until later that night in the tent but both of us had been harboring feelings of doubt and uncertainty. Neither of us wanted to pull-the-plug so close to our goal, but we were hurting. We both elected to keep our whinings and whimperings to ourselves.
Just then a light breeze cropped up stinging my ungloved hands reminding me of my own frailty. I put my gloves back on and lifted my pack to my shoulder.
I looked up at the ominous Pig hill that leads to the summit ridge and didn’t want to continue but I knew something. I knew that we had been patient this time. I knew that we had been acclimating slowing over the course of two whole weeks. We had skinned-up and back country skied over a dozen runs on the way up as a rouse for our acclimation. It had to work; This was my third try.
I knew other things too; I knew that, since my first failed attempt in 2002 I had developed a nagging itch, an itch that worked it’s way into my dreams at night sometimes. I will finish what I start- an axiom that defines a person at their core wrangled me and prodded at me and taunted me. I knew I had to get back up there. This had to be my time.
“ Let’s go” I uttered with as much enthusiasm as I could manage. Down we went to the football field making our way over to the dreaded Pig hill. One surge at a time we inched up the steep hill. I leaned on my ice axe whenever I could and let my mind wander, hoping that I could escape the agony and trick myself long enough to make it. And then after what seemed like a small eternity, we were at the top of Pig hill. We had gained the summit ridge!
I’m going to make it! The mere thought stirred-up emotion and caught me by surprise. The moment had played out in my thoughts and dreams for eleven years and now that it was actually happening I was astounded. The rope between us swung and slithered and slid along the trail one step at a time as we moved slowly along the ridge.
The trail snaked along the sharp snowy ridge and led up the backside of a giant overhanging cornice. The summit itself was perched innocently and quite neatly up and just behind the cornice providing a nice plateau.
Brian, having summited on our first trip eleven years ago, gave me way, granting me access to the top first. In a teary mess, I dropped to all fours as I touched the top, tears joining and freezing to my beard, adding one more icycle.
