I have been up for nearly 24 hours. I am mired in a boggy wetland area which happens to be covered with a knee-deep spring snow. The water, runoff from the gorge's higher elevations, is up to the tops of my boots. Steve leans on his trekking poles, too tired to be vocal anymore about this exasperating approach. I look across the meadow at him, envying his position (thirty yards ahead of me), and feel glad that I am only lacking sleep, and not hemoglobin. For you see, I live in Wyoming, at about 6200 feet above sea level. Steve on the other hand lives at 55 feet above sea level. And right now, in Glacier Gorge, we're carrying heavy packs at 10,000 feet.
I would rather be lacking sleep any day, than to be in his shoes right now, even if they are drier than mine...
Steve, Todd & Matt are three members of a soon-to-depart contingent to Peru. They are an expedition, a well-oiled machine. It's a wonder to watch them in action. It takes me back to a time when my every climbing trip was a meticulously executed affair. It is so for these 3 men these days. Let's say Steve says something everybody is thinking, like how high are we, which comes out of his mouth in one articulate word:
Todd turns his head to Matt, who is immediately consulting his combination-chronometer-barometer-altimeter-metal-detector-wrist-watch, submersible to 18 fathoms and accurate to within 0.24 centimeters when allowing for an error gradient of 0.03 meters per 40 kilometers at a mean temperature of 37 degrees Celsius... and he says, succinctly, without any unnecessary words:
You can't hear the gears turning, but you know they are. You can see the results. It's That smooth.
So like I was saying, I stand in this soggy, beautiful place, looking at Steve leaning heavily, wasted, on his poles, his head hung so uncharacteristically low, as I am thinking of how I am going to write about this in a way that truly conveys this team. God, sometimes I just wish I had a video camera with me all the time, with a 360-degree lense.
Steve calls Matt on the little Motorola radio. They talk about getting a bivvy spot lined up before long, since darkness will be on us within the hour. Then Steve and I have to get on with this torture. Matt and Todd make phenomenal time in their snowshoes while Steve and I plunge through the surface crust in to the deepest, most exhausting holes on Earth. In my weakened state, I am certain that Todd and Matt are still on the move when they say they are making camp, because we never seem to get there. Suspicion Central.
When I see the absolutely level tent platforms that Matt and Todd have stamped and carved out of the snow, I am quick to point out how wrong I was. Steve just says what a good site it is.
The tents are set up, a very quick meal is prepared, and every one endeavors to sleep. I have been awake for thirty hours by the time I get in the sleeping bag. But can I sleep? Can anybody?
May 29, 1999:
Next Morning. Matt is up and the stove is purring outside the tent. I have spent a fitful night feeling cold and donning more clothes every time I was awake. Steve says he didn't sleep much better either, probably because his tent mate was tossing and turning (me!). He's up and at 'em like a tiger, and I'm slugging at my stiff boots, trying to muster more energy to haul myself out of my finally-warm bag.
We consume oats and various other fermentatious grains, then we shoulder light packs and head out, toward the upper reaches of Glacier Gorge. It's kinda late, but I keep thinking we'll get away with it. Is it possible that the weather-generated axioms of alpine climbing, first documented as early as 1492, will miraculously be incorrect for us this time? Ahhhhh, HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH!!!
Matt and Todd are away first, and I urge them to go ahead. I just can't stand to hold anybody up. Besides, it's inevitable that Steve and I will lag behind, once again falling time after time into holes, up to our groins. Might as well get these guys a good view of the objective.
I have a packful of climbing hardware, as well as a rope, but it is nowhere near the tremendous weight I bore yesterday. I should be fleet of foot and feel light as a feather. I don't. I can't find a rhythm. Typical first-mountain-of-the-year stuff. Only this isn't the first of the year. It's the second. Alas.
I have great expectations for the other lads. Maybe the spectacular Central Rib of Chiefshead. Perhaps the Northeast Face of Pagoda. Why not the North Ridge of Spearhead? Or even the Arrowhead Arete? Steve brings me a taste of the reality of things:
"We haven't done that much technical stuff. I think I could belay if you reminded me of a few things."
Great Expectations.
I mull this over in my mind. It will take a long time for the Truth to sink in. That's one of my nuances: built for sloth.
We break out of the endless wood and parallel Glacier Creek. Snow bridges and undercuts abound. We stand in places where we must shout at each other to be heard over the sound of the invisible, raging waters. It reminds me times when I found myself climbing snow routes over waterfalls which appeared in the evening after the summit, on the descent. I try to sound wise:
"This will all be gone by tomorrow."
"Gosh, really?" patronizes Todd, smiling.
"Obviously," agrees Steve.
Matt never stops, except to take a photograph, or to wait for his partners. Steve is paused to rig up his camera when a party of four overtakes us, plodding by energetically on snowshoes, wearing shorts and tiny day packs. Matt and Todd talk to the woman of the party, fresh from her Dutch homeland. She is having a tough time with the altitude, but then so am I. For me anyway. Steve and I join the other two for the final climb up to Black Lake. This is when I realize that I haven't been here in ten years!!
Black Lake holds a dozen memories for me. I keep most of them to myself, but can't help talking about the most dramatic one. The guys wag their heads as I speak, enduring my blather as they are trying to make their own memories. Luckily there isn't much to say about narrow escapes in retrospect. It's always Reader's Digest stuff. They take in the scene as I decide to head up onto the plateau. I can feel the snow getting stickier. The clouds are building. I hate to think that these guys aren't gonna get a chance to climb something.
Avoiding the other party, wh are going to hike up the backside of Spearhead, I clamber onto some rocks toward Pagoda, still a half-hour's hike away. I wait for Steve, Matt & Todd. I realize we are going to get rained on. I wonder if we'll have time to hike up the East ridge of Pagoda. It is Class 2, supposedly presents no difficulty, and the view from here is spectacular.
...And I wish that I had carried some of the food!!!
We have been pigging out on our snacks for thirty minutes as the first droplets start to make themselves known. A Council of War concludes that retreat is the best option...
I just feel terrible. For all of us. How many times has this happened? How many times have I started so late, knowing better? We head down.
The topography has changed dramatically. One snow bridge in particular has cracked and separated from its "motherland" and is slowly being eaten by the creek. We straddle its knifeblade remnant and scoot across to certain safety.
As we arrive at our campsite, the rain begins in earnest. Gear and people are stashed in respective tents. I apologize as much as possible for things I truly am not responsible for, because I feel so alike to the guys. I've been where they are before.
The Spearhead party comes by, thoroughly drenched, but elated at having been on the summit. They are long gone when the rain quits, and we get a supper break out in the open. The clouds are above us and in situ on the high peaks. We might be able to bomb up there early in the morning...
It begins to rain again sometime later, but stops briefly as we are shutting down for the night.
May 30, 1999:
I am worried that we may be rained out. The anxiety of this prospect furrows my brow, even in sleep. Then I awaken in the night, hearing the deluge outside the tent, and realize that there are no worries: We are finished.
I sleep better than I have for the last 48 hours.
We pack up everything under the cold grey sky. We have been up since Three or Four A.M., and can plainly see that the weahter is not promising.
I am not-so-secretly hoping that the weather remains like this, and does not improve, as so often is the case, to become a bright, sunny day.
We struggle down in record time, arriving back at the parking area just as the throngs are arriving from down in the valleys. With a brilliant, cloudless sky overhead, we devour the triple-berry/lemon pound cake that my wife made for us, and I fantasize about climbing Flattop, or even the Twin Sisters, mainly so these guys can get a summit. They can't believe the numbers of people. The Bear Lake Parking Lot, which was only half-full when we got here, is now Standing Room Only. We head out, into the biggest traffic jam yet of 1999. There is a line of cars heading in to the park over a mile long. I tell Steve, who is riding with me, that there won't be as many people at Twin Sisters.
But I am completely wrong. The line of cars at Twin Sisters stretches all the way down to the Lily Lake Visitors' Center. The guys decide to call it a day. After all, they can be in a crowd like this back home.
We wave goodbye. I wish them luck in Peru.
I dawdle on the way home, stopping by a used CD music store to buy something cheap and inspiring: a pre-owned ska selection!!
One last insult: I down the thermos of cold coffee on the way home. Victory over my character failures will have to wait until next time...
