12/14/07
This morning, when I woke up, the first order of business was to re-stoke the fire. Then I put on my slippers, my fleece and my parka… I pulled a ski cap onto my head and opened the big, wood door out into the morning cold. My slippers crunched loud through snow to the outhouse. This particular outhouse is pretty famous for having 2 of it’s 4 walls made of glass. The seat (however frigid and visually exposed) is an excellent vantage point for a stunning view. Back in the hut, sitting on my bed near the fire, the view out my window is a snow-covered mountain range, whose peaks are well above tree line, cutting a jagged white line into a pale blue morning sky. There are no clouds anywhere. All of the snow clouds of yesterday have rid them their stuff in big puffy white blankets and moved on. Yesterday, hiking up here, my pack was too heavy… again. (Someday I’ll learn). I thought a lot about the 14ers I had climbed. I had the same fatigue in my muscles; the same sense of knowing what my body can and cannot do. At times it seemed that my feet kept lifting and planting the snow-shoes strapped to them by sheer will alone. But we’re here. We made a meal last night of bison stew and gold beets. Food never tastes so good as when you’re in the backcountry. Then there’s the liquid warmth: hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps, and of course the smoky treats. Easy conversation among my teammates. Some, not so easy….
We learned a valuable lesson yesterday about ego in the backcountry. In short, there’s no place for it. Part of what makes this place so exhilarating to be in is that it can kill you. We started out yesterday 8 strong. About ½ way up, one of our number began to lose color. She was nauseous and had a headache and was clearly fatigued. She wanted to press on. She didn’t want to miss out on the fun we were sure to have when we reached our destination. She didn’t want to wuss out and be a burden on the group. After much deliberation we were finally able to convince her that she had altitude sickness. The first rule of altitude sickness is get down. She was full of apologies. We tried, in vain I think, to convince her that no apologies were necessary and that she had made the only decision she could make. Up here, miles from any town, snowing, cold (and getting colder as the sun makes it descent), if she were to press on and get her body to a place where she could not continue, she would be in serious danger. So, she and one other turned around. We talked at length last night about how, of all the skills you need to survive up here, maybe the most important one is just knowing your limits and allowing logic and safety to guide your decisions, not ego.
12/15/07
The morning sun struck the tallest peaks first, slowly bathing them in gold from the top, down. There are low clouds in the valley this morning. The mountains wear them like a skirt. It’s so quiet here. The only sounds are the cracking of the fire, the creaking of the wood of this old hut, and the scratching of my pen… which… is refusing to cooperate and starting to piss me off. Time to pack up and head home.
