Nearly Becoming a Statistic on Shasta
SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING. Fuck. Have you ever thought you were going to die? A imminent, raw, and real thought of death? Well, I certainly hadn't before I peeked my head out from my tent and watched a lightning bolt as bright as the sun strike the mountain that I was currently camping on. It was 7 P.M, and I was 2,000 vertical feet above the nearest tree, holding a metal ice axe as the skies unleashed their fury. Now, how did I get here?
It was an idyllic morning. I woke at a lazy hour with no alarm to the sun beaming through my window. It was gonna be a great day. The plan was to head up the Helen Lake campsite on Mt. Shasta before getting an early start towards the summit the next morning. A simple trip on a simple mountain to kick off my mountaineering journey out west. I was on the trail by 10 A.M, making solid ground on the 3,000 vertical feet I had to gain in just a few miles in order to set up camp at the spot I wanted.
Making my way up the approach trail to Mt. Shasta.
In just a few hours, I made it! I setup camp as planned, made dinner, and realized tent stakes work just as well as a spork if you forget yours. I lounged around and took in the views (which were absolutely killer, by the way). I had it all to myself! Not a good sign in case you're wondering! What's happening here is a classic case of overconfidence and pure arrogance. I was climbing this mountain and I didn't care what anyone had to say about it. Now, some of you may know that this is precisely the wrong attitude to have when doing something like this…
My (planned) campsite for the night.
However, it wasn't long before my perfect day was ripped away from me. As I passed time in the tent, I neglected to check the weather. Before I knew it, the sun that had flooded through the tent walls vanished. Then the rain started. Light, at first, like your typical afternoon summer shower. But slowly, it ramped up, eventually dumping water on my camp site, Then came the wind. It ripped at my tent, pulling stakes out of the ground, and collapsing poles. No, I hadn't pitched it properly, and I found that out pretty fucking fast. As I struggled to deal with the ongoing onslaught on my presence on the mountain, the thunder started.
Watching a thunderstorm from the comfort of your porch is one of the most peaceful experiences you can have. Watching it envelop you while standing on one of the highest points within several hundred miles is one of the most harrowing. As the lightning began, I made my decision. I was not staying here, summit be damned. As such, I activated my Garmin inReach SOS to let some capable people know I might need some help at some point, packed up camp in the pouring rain, and started back down the mountain as the sun dipped behind the horizon.
The sunsets are always better from the ground.
Cold, tired, wet, and angry, I walked. No, ran back down the trail, losing it every so often. My goal was to make it back to the alpine hut that sat between the trailhead and my campsite before becoming a lightning safety statistic. I wish I knew how long it took me to make that journey, but it felt like hours. Eventually, through sheer hate, I made it. Thankfully, there was somebody else waiting out the storm there, who was watching me come down the mountain. I collapsed onto the bench inside the hut, and was immediately offered a hit of this guys' weed and a cup of hot water. Just like that, my horrible night was transformed into one of the most memorable conversations I've had with anyone on this trip so far, (He was a character).
Many may not believe me when I say it's possible I could have died that day, and that's okay. I know in my heart that I looked death in the eyes and smartly turned my ass around and walked away, humming a tune. The best and worst part about climbing alone is that you’re at the mercy of your risk tolerance and awareness, and yours only. There's nobody around to tell you what to do, or what to look out for. It's you, your brain, and the mountain. What you do with that combo is up to you. When you're in over your head, nobody is there to tell you.
I gained a newfound appreciation for living that day. Despite my experience on the mountain, I've never felt more alive than when I was closest to death. I went back two days later for another attempt on Shasta, this time planning to do it in a day. Of course, this time I turned around before the weather had a chance to get bad. Leaving the summit a second time was hard, but I looked at it as something I could come back to. During this attempt, I ended up matching pace with a couple, Eric and Sarah. They had been climbing for over a decade, and I was interested to hear their answer to the question of why. Why do they do it? Of course, there's many reasons and they listed a lot of them. The challenge, exercise, views, being outside, and just plain having fun. Then they asked me why I do it.
It’s not about the summit, but rather the journey you take to get there.
So, why do I do this? Why do I willingly and selfishly put myself in harms way, just to climb some rock? Why do I keep going back even though I'm miserable half of the time? For me, especially after that night I spent soaking wet, it's because there's nothing else in my life that makes me feel as present. When you're on the mountain, your brain is empty. No taxes, no due dates, no budgets. No bullshit. You're locked in, so to speak. To fully disconnect from the world around you and be wholly self aware is something not many people get to experience. To have the only thought in your head be how you're going to survive. And maybe how that cheeseburger is going to taste.
Yes. Mountaineering is inherently selfish. You're risking your life for personal fulfillment. Actively spitting in the face of your loved ones who are back at home, worrying about you all the damn time. To me, that's a terrifyingly beautiful thing. To know that nothing in life gives me the same fulfillment as walking the fine line between living to the fullest and dying in the process is inherently beautiful. For what is the purpose of life if not to see how much we're capable of before we die. That being said, you're not a hero if you die on the mountain. You're a statistic. Don’t let the mountain check your ego before you check it yourself. Stay safe, and remember why you do the things that you do. Live a life of purpose. I'll see you in the next one.
The beauty lies in the danger.
