On the timbered slopes beneath Kulshan, I take a strip of blotter acid from my pocket and put it under my tongue. I give Forrest his share as his face contorts into a delighted grin under the glare of his headlamp. “I can’t wait to ski down the Roman Wall!” Forrest exclaims. I give him a half-assed laugh, my mind elsewhere. Waiting for psychedelics to come on is nerve-wracking, especially while setting out at two in the morning to climb to the summit of a volcano and then ski down it. A chug of water helps the nerves, but the combination of cold glacial water and strong coffee churns in my stomach. As Forrest and I resume our blistering pace toward the Coleman Glacier, my head is already buzzing, my limbs gelatinous and elongating.
Every time you go into the mountains, you’re chasing a childhood dream first ignited by Bradford Washburn’s stunning photographs of the Great Ranges that hung in your father’s office: the steep serrate ridges of the north face of the Grandes Jorasses. The wind-swept heights of Denali against a stark foreground of rolling tundra. The glacial plain of the Ruth Gorge stretching like a cracked white tongue to the sea. You have wanted to be an alpinist since you first saw those photographs at age six.
Four hours later, the first rays of alpine sun illuminate the icy spine of Kulshan’s North Ridge. The massive seracs of the Coleman Headwall flash their vicious teeth. Forrest and I are on our skis, skinning up deep snow below the Roman Wall, laughing excitedly about how lucky we are to live so close to such an epic spot on earth. To the west, the Twin Sisters Range melts and reforms as earth and sky blend in a parabolic flux. The long tendrils of Forrest’s deflated red Mohawk dangle down his back like tropical snakes. The clack of heels on ski bindings sounds far off, like an echo in a vacuous room made of steel.
You are firmly aware that people die climbing. The majority of your climbing heroes are dead: Mugs Stump fell into a crevasse in 1992. Alex Lowe died in an avalanche on Shisapangma in 1999. In late-October this year, Joe Puryear broke through a cornice in Tibet. The list goes on and on and on… It doesn’t matter how well you climb or how long you’ve been climbing, mountains don’t discriminate. Sooner or later, a house-sized serac will break off above you and atomize your fragile body. Or an avalanche will sweep you down 2,000 feet of cliffs and bury you in an icy tomb. Climbing high peaks via technical routes is a gamble played with the life token. A game of Russian Roulette. But you’re a climber and you have no choice: climbing chose you. You want to climb the most difficult routes in the world. You’ve never felt more passionate about something, never felt so alive as you do in the mountains with a friend you love.
A break for water and halva before the final climb up the Roman Wall to the summit. Forrest is thinking out loud about the philosophical implications of water bottles. I try to keep track of his acid logic. “You know, water is contained by Man in plastic. If you dump it out onto the snow, it’s free, no longer contained. Evaporate into cloud, then rain on China two months later. Water conforms to its surroundings. I want to be as receptive and adaptable as a collection of water molecules.” Forrest’s voice trails off with the wind as we shoulder our packs and continue skinning to the summit.
Last Christmastime another group of climbers died on Mt. Hood. You were sitting around the TV with your family watching the news coverage of the accident. The wine dulled your senses and casted faint shadows on the elephant in the room. The climbers were described as “experienced” and “cautious,” but you didn’t believe the newscaster. “No way an experienced climber falls while ascending the gentle snow slopes of a pedestrian route!” The tone of your voice said everything your parents didn’t want to hear about what you had seen in the mountains. You feel nauseous, start to doubt your ambitions and where they might take you. Later that night you awake in a full sweat from painful dream images: your family and friends on the banks of the Nooksack as they watch your ashes flow downriver toward Bellingham Bay.
Sitting on the icy crown of Kulshan, I look down at the sea of peaks around me; I have climbed the majority of them. Looking at each distinct peak floods my brain with beautiful memories of friendship, and fantastic, blue-bird days in the mountains. Forrest and I sit quietly like humble pilgrims on the summit, occasionally mumbling awestruck words into the wind. Then Forrest looks at me excitedly, suggests we start skiing back to the car. As we link graceful turns in heavy spring corn down slopes of the Roman Wall, laughing and wooping as we go, I’ve never been more sure of my calling.
Glossary of Terms:
Kulshan: Lummi term for Mount Baker meaning “great white watcher”
Roman Wall: a slope of approximately thirty degrees steepness below the summit of Kulshan.
Great Ranges: the major mountain ranges of the world. The Himalaya, The Alasaka Range, the Cerro Torre Massif in Argentine Patagonia, etc.
Serac: a block or column of glacial ice in an ice fall. Seracs are one of the many objective hazards of climbing, as they often topple without warning.
Skinning: a term used to describe the action of ascending snow on skis. Skins are traction devices that allow a climber to ascend snow slopes with free-heel skis. On the descent, they are taken off and the heels clicked in, as in alpine skiing.
Cornice: an overhanging chunk of snow/ice that form on ridges. Fragile, they often break without warning.
Corn: a creamy, granular snow that often forms in the spring on south-facing slopes. Skier’s delight.
