As we all oohed and aahed at light emerging from behind the mountain, the incline was rapidly increasing. Like when only one person sits on a teeter tooter and all of the sudden it’s pointing straight up. More light—pre-dawn shades of lilac—actually made it harder to see contrasts in the snow and which was a safe or unsafe step.
My trekking poles slid across the icy membrane of the surface instead of gripping the snow as they had been for the previous four hours since setting out around midnight. I felt my heart quicken. Yes, I had crampons on already. But if I fell these poles weren’t stopping jack.
You got this, girl.
My mantra brought me even more intensely into the moment. All attention focused on the next step—literally and strategically. The unseasonably warm and casual walk half-way up the mountain was over. It was getting real.
My instincts told me I needed my ice ax. But it wasn’t safe to stop. Breathing deeply. I slowed slightly to leave more space with the person in front of me yet maintain a steady pace to the next flat area where I could reset my gear.
At the next flat area and break, we watched in awe as the mountain’s shadow spread south across the forest below like a giant awakening. As magical as the crest of blood orange moon that had risen from the darkness in the east. Or the Milky Way that arched up over us toward the north. Or the twinkling lights of Portland we’d seen to the west.
Over the previous eight weeks of intensive mountaineering training with my Mazama’s BCEP 2021 team, I grasped: How difficult it was, what discipline it took, how much of a commitment, why it was such an accomplishment.
I was unprepared for how breathtaking it would all be. How humbling.
And how much I would love every minute.
The sweet, warm breezes wafting by like someone just opened the oven door to check on the cookies. And the “silent but deadly” sour stink of rotten eggs rising from the dormant volcano’s sulfuric fumaroles.
I felt so alive.
By 7 a.m. we only had 1,000 more feet to climb—we had covered 80% of the ascent mileage, but still had 80% of the difficulty to go.
After crossing the Hogsback, I paused at the top of Hot Rocks to wait for my teammates, looking down the scree field of exposed rock. This was the exact spot where a 64-year-old man died the previous weekend. The circumstances of the 500-foot fall have not yet been publicly released. I learned later that on average 1-2 people die on Mt. Hood each year. Of the 15,000-20,000 who attempt to climb it. This was the first death since 2018.
Yes. There was risk. “That’s the price of admission for life,” my Dad said when we discussed the recent death.
Don’t avoid living. Make wise choices.
It was getting riskier by the minute as the sun continued to rise. If we were going to do this, we had to do it.
With the agreement to proceed from our leaders, I took our first step up the crux—the hardest part of the climb. I felt my heart quicken.
You got this, girl.
Each time the steps got steeper, I repeated my mantra and set the fear aside. I challenged myself: take 3 steps, now take 5 steps, now take 10 steps. Can I take 20 steps? Oh yes, I can!
I focused only on the immediate with the occasional look up and back: Was there still further to go? Yup. Where people still behind me? Yup.
Keep moving.
Several small groups passed our group of seven and also returned from the summit to descend. They started knocking small bits of snow debris down the face. The team suddenly decided to abort. Looking up, I estimated I was about 40 steps from the next traverse that led over the edge and toward the summit, just out of eyesight some 200 feet further up.
Could I do it? Heck yeah.
And I would. Another day.
I turned and finally really looked down, surprised to find familiar-looking terrain. Just like the Double Black Diamond ski runs that I followed my older siblings down when I was 12. I realized I could safely sit down, say a metta prayer and take it all in:
The last 20 months, and especially these 13 hours on the mountain with the team—staying present, letting the universe hold me/us, easefully taking in every minute.
I was unprepared for:
- How humbling the view would be
- How much my life had prepared me for this
- How much it was in my blood
- How capable I am when in my element
- How much I would love it
Had the mountain been waiting for me to come to it all this time? Yes.
According to Victoria Erickson:
“When you’re a mountain person you understand the brilliance and beauty of contradiction. The way land can be your greatest teacher. How something can be both grounding and elevating, intoxicating and soothing, wild yet serene, intensely primal yet patient, and cycling yet predictable within the shifts and rhythms. Mountains keep us on the edge yet wrap us in the sensation of safety all at once. I don’t know of anything sweeter, or more magic-inducing than that.”
Now, neither do I.
This is just the beginning.
May you walk safely along your edge this week.
Love,
Jules
I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights!