A
ROCK AND A HARD PLACE
An
Adventure on Northern California's Mighty Mount Shasta
©
1998 Tor Pinney - All Rights Reserved
photo
courtesy of John Crenshaw
I
had been living in Mount Shasta for a year when I decided it
was high time I hiked up to the summit. After all, it seems
like hundreds of people head for the mountaintop every
summer, so I figured it couldn't be all that hard. Of
course, now I realize that many of those who start out for
the 14,162-foot high peak do not make it. I also realize
that I'm lucky to be alive after what happened to me up
there.
It
was 5:45 am, September 22nd, the autumnal equinox, 6,800
feet above sea level. As we set out from the Bunny Flat
trailhead, my friend, Robert Dow, and I were psyched and
ready. We had checked topographic maps, equipment lists and
weather forecasts, and had talked to forest rangers and
mountain guides about the best routes to the top. We both
carried crampons and ice axes rented in town the day before,
and bore knapsacks carefully packed with plenty of drinking
water, layers of warm clothing, high-energy snacks and an
assortment of hiking paraphernalia. Mountain men to the
core!
Actually,
neither of us had ever done any real mountaineering, but
we're both in pretty good shape. Well, at least Robert is,
thanks to his penchant for marathon mountain biking and a
lucky set of genes. I already knew he was capable of going
uphill like a goat on the lam. It had become painfully
obvious to me when he had practically galloped to the top of
9,000-ft. Mount Eddy a few weeks previously, while I had
marched stoically behind, separated by an ever-widening gap.
But I am tenacious if not fast, and I often hike the higher
mountain trails around here, between 6- and 8,000-ft., so
I'm acclimated to altitude. As we started out by the dawn's
early light, I never doubted for a moment that we would both
get to the top of Mount Shasta that day.
After
about an hour's walk we arrived at Horse Camp. This is the
staging area for many who come to climb this mountain. A
stone and timber cabin, owned by the Sierra Club, serves as
an emergency shelter. Here, too, is the last source of fresh
water, a pure spring where we topped off our water bottles.
Several tents were pitched in the surrounding woods, but no
one stirred as Robert and I passed.
We
reached the tree line a little below 9,000 feet, and the
trail narrowed and rose steeply in a series of switchbacks.
The solid earth of the forest gave way to loose scree -
gray, brittle volcanic rock and sand that tended to slide
away underfoot and required a careful step. Before us rose
the huge, snow-covered southwestern slope of the dormant
volcano Mount Shasta, still in shadow as the sun rose behind
it. I had never seen the mountain's face so close. It
appeared bigger and much steeper than I'd expected.
By
this time, we'd been hiking for a couple of hours with only
a brief break at the Horse Camp spring. Robert was plowing
forward effortlessly, of course. I felt strong, too, but was
beginning to notice a slight soreness in my knees, in the
tendons on either side of the joints. Well, there was
nothing to be done for it, so I plodded on over the lunar
landscape of pumice and shale, past automobile-sized
boulders in chaotic clusters, hoping the tendons would
somehow loosen up.
When
we reached the snow line around 9:00, we had to stop and
strap on the crampons. These steel spikes are designed to
fit against the soles of your hiking boots. They grip snow
and ice with a certainty that would comfort Sasquatch and,
though neither of us had ever used them before, we
immediately appreciated the ease with which we could now
move on the snow. The ice axes also came off our packs to
serve as walking sticks - and as a safety brake if need be.
The
storekeeper who had rented us the ice gear had given us a
2-minute lesson in its use. He was particularly careful to
explain how to shift your grip on the ice axe if you should
slip and fall on the high slopes, and dig in the point to
stop your downhill slide. Otherwise, once you start sliding
down the face of a steep ice field you cannot stop yourself.
There are places where a person could slide and tumble for
several thousand feet, with little likelihood of surviving
the fall in tact. In fact, quite a few people have died on
Mount Shasta over the years, most of them from falling. So
Robert and I drilled ourselves in the ice axe maneuver while
still on a relatively gentle slope. As things turned out, it
was a wise precaution.
The
broad trail over the packed snow was easy to follow,
trampled as it was by a whole summer's-worth of hikers that
had passed this way before us. Now it began to rise sharply
once again and our conversation ceased as we concentrated on
trudging forward in the thinning air. We were nearing
10,000-feet and my knees were definitely becoming a
nuisance. Each step brought with it a sharp little jolt of
pain and I silently prayed it would not worsen; we still had
a long way to go.
Lake
Helen, at "ten-four" (10,400-ft. elevation), is a
relatively level area that many climbers use as a base camp
for their final push to the summit. We didn't see a lake
there, but I understand that in drier years the snow and ice
actually melt enough to form a little pool of water in a
rocky basin. That day it was no more than a frozen field of
snow at the foot of Mount Shasta's very steep, upper-most
slope. Nevertheless, it's a popular hikers' mid-way station
and over the years people have piled stones into a series of
windbreaks for pitching tents and sleeping bags. You can
stay there overnight and so get a fresh start for the summit
in the morning, gaining a 3,600-ft. head start over the
Bunny Flat trailhead where Robert and I had begun.
It
occurred to me that that might have been a good idea,
because we had been trekking for four hours now, the hardest
half of the climb still lay ahead, and I was already limping
badly. The tendons of my knees, particularly my right knee,
were very sore. It may have been a reaction to the altitude,
or to the unaccustomed weight of my backpack, but whatever
the cause, each step was becoming an ordeal of mind over
pain. (I kept repeating that Rocky phrase, "no pain, no
pain", like a silent mantra while I walked. Rocky
always triumphs in the end. I was beginning to suspect that
I might not.)
We
took a 10-minute break at Lake Helen. The rest stop did me
some good and I was able to hike a bit afterwards with
little discomfort. But soon the pain returned and
intensified. My limp was by then so pronounced that I
finally told Robert I would have to slow way down. We agreed
that he would forge ahead, since he surely had a better
chance of reaching the top without me. For my part, I would
continue more slowly to the summit, or else turn back after
awhile, depending on how I felt. My partner charged off like
a greyhound through the gate and soon disappeared up the
slope ahead of me.
Relieved
at no longer having to keep up with Robert's pace, I found a
comfortable gait and moved on determinedly. I couldn't step
forward any longer with my right leg; it simply hurt too
much to bend and load it with the weight of my body. But my
left knee was still not too bad, and I could step upward on
that leg, then bring my straightened right leg level with
it. In other words, I was limping like Chester in the tenth
episode of Gunsmoke and only making half time up the
mountain, but I was at least ascending steadily. Even at
that slow pace, I overtook and passed another hiker - the
only one I'd seen besides us so far that day. At that
altitude, people tend to move slowly and rest a lot, and
this fellow was sitting more often than walking. A little
later, I saw him give up and turn back. Soon after that
another man came carefully down the icy slope from above and
passed me, saying he'd had enough and was giving it up. He
had passed Robert higher up and assured me that my partner
was progressing well.
Moving
at my own pace gave me more time to observe my surroundings.
The first thing that strikes you on this high side of Mount
Shasta is the feces. The entire, broad path to the top is
absolutely littered with freeze-dried human waste dotting
the snow like chocolate chips in a giant bowl of ice cream,
but much less appealing. Hundreds of hikers cannot leave
nature entirely unscathed, but here the hikers have
collectively managed to pollute the landscape to an
astonishing degree. There are no "facilities" up
there and people just go where they are. In an effort to
stop this grotesque desecration of the upper mountain, the
Forest Service, together with a local environmental group
called Friends of the Mountain, now provide airtight
"pack out your waste" bags for free at the Bunny
Flat station. They even put kitty litter in them!
Unfortunately, it appears that too few hikers have the
decency and consideration to use them.
Another
phenomenon I witnessed was an amazing abundance of insects
lying about in the snow - many dead, some still alive. I can
only suppose that strong updrafts of wind carry them up from
the forest and deposit them here. Flocks of woodland birds
have discovered this and can be seen hopping and pecking on
the snowy slope, enjoying the easy feast.
Of
course, the views are spectacular, panoramic, awe-inspiring,
breath-taking...how many adjectives can I use? I gazed out
through wisps of cloud, across the deep valley to Mount Eddy
and Castle Crags and beyond for a hundred miles and more to
distant, layered mountain ranges, pastel shades of
gray-green overlapping silver-blue that fade into a misty
waveline as sensual as a reclining woman.
The
route we (and so many before us) had chosen for the ascent
is called Avalanche Gulch, and for good reason. It's an
exceedingly steep slope, a broad scoop between two great,
jagged ridges that converge toward the summit. The gulch
forms a 3,000-ft. funnel from the mountaintop down to Lake
Helen, a natural slide for winter snows. Now, in late
summer, it merely provides a chute for falling rocks. I
didn't pay much attention to the scattered stones and
boulders that dotted the snowy slope around me. I did notice
one or two small rocks skidding down a distant part of the
gulch, broken loose from the high bare bluff above, but they
didn't particularly alarm me. I was concentrating on my
step-at-a-time progress. By now the slope was so steep that
to sit and rest was like pausing on an icy playground slide.
I had to face downhill with my crampons dug in firmly, drop
my rump back against the ice, and hold the ice axe at the
ready for fear of slipping.
So,
when I spotted a large boulder lying on the slope a short
distance above me, I headed straight for it. Happily, I
discovered a broad, flat side of it facing uphill, forming a
comfortable backrest for me to sit against. I unslung my
pack and sat back gratefully, giving my knees and all my
tired muscles a much-needed rest. I remained there for ten
minutes or so admiring the view above me, the final few
thousand vertical feet to the top of Mount Shasta. At this
rate, I thought, I just might make it yet!
Refreshed,
I got up and got going again. I'd only taken maybe a dozen
steps when some rustling sound caught my attention and
directed my gaze ahead and upward. There, careening down the
mountainside, was a rock about the size and shape of a large
cannonball. It was coming so fast - at near-terminal
velocity - that it flew and skipped over the snowy surface
almost not touching at all. For one second, I thought it
would pass to the left of me. Then it bounced sharply off a
groove in the snow and I thought it would pass to the right.
Another bounce and...Oh, shit! Instinctively, I turned
sideways to the projectile just as it shot past, literally
inches from my legs at about knee level. It flew by, a
whirring blur, and an instant later smashed into the flat
face of the boulder, into the very spot I'd just been
sitting against. With a sharp thwack! the stone exploded
entirely, sending fragments flying in every direction like
shrapnel.
I
was stunned. My life had been spared by inches - six at the
most. Or else by seconds of time, the time it had just taken
me to stand up from the boulder and take a few steps. I
realized that if I hadn't turned sideways when I did, the
stone would have surely broken my legs at the knees and sent
me tumbling down the icy mountainside. Or, if I'd remained
sitting against the boulder for another minute as I had been
for the past ten, the flying cannonball would have caught me
squarely in the chest. Either way, I'd had a very close
encounter with a disaster that left little chance of
survival.
Yet
I was strangely unmoved by it at the moment. I suppose the
realization didn't sink in right away. I remember wondering
whether the event might have been some kind of personal
warning or threat from the mountain itself. Mount Shasta is
reputed to be the abode of spirits and phantoms of every
description (see "Shedding Light on the
Mountain"). But I concluded that what it meant was
that I'd better keep a sharper lookout for falling rocks
above me. So, resolving to do that, I plodded on.
It
wasn't much after that that my other knee gave out. It
happened suddenly, with an odd twist and a spasm of white
pain. I grunted and fell, and as I started to slide I
grasped the ice axe as I had been taught and stabbed it into
the hard surface. It caught and held, and for a moment I lay
there on my stomach catching my breath. After awhile I was
able to squirm around to a sitting position with both my
legs straight out before me, knees rigidly locked and
throbbing terribly. I tried to bend them and cried out at
the intensity of the pain. Obviously, I couldn't continue
the ascent. But then, sitting alone in the snow at
12,000-feet, it occurred to me that I couldn't go down
either. I couldn't walk.
The
clouds, which had been building slowly all morning, chose
this moment to close in on the mountaintop. My world became
a white semi-sphere, a 30-ft. radius of shifting mist and
frozen snow. There was no sound other than a gentle wind
sighing. Then a muffled clatter somewhere nearby! More
falling rocks? I didn't know. I couldn't see.
I'm
not sure how long I sat there, letting the pain and the
apprehension subside. I knew I would have to get myself back
down off the mountain somehow. I wasn't equipped to spend a
night up there. If I waited for my buddy, Robert, to return,
he might not see me in the thick fog that now enveloped
these solitary heights. He wouldn't even know to look for
me; he'd just assume I had headed back on my own. Besides,
what could he do? No, there really wasn't any alternative.
It was up to me to get down - even if I had to crawl!
I
tried shifting my position and one leg was instantly seized
by a massive cramp. I yelped aloud and pounded on the
hardened muscles. Gradually they released their fierce grip.
I took several deep breaths and started to inch myself down
Avalanche Gulch on my back. Then I tried sitting up and
sliding on my rear and got a bit farther. Finally, I stood
awkwardly, using the ice axe as a crutch and, stiff-legged
in an almost comical parody of the monster Frankenstein,
took my first wobbly steps.
With
much trial and error, I invented a combination of techniques
that gradually propelled me down the mountain. I found I
could indeed take short, cautious sidesteps downhill,
keeping my knees stiff, legs straight. It was slow, painful
and tiring and I had to rest often. Sometimes I switched the
leading leg; often I chose a course that tacked across the
slope to ease the angle of my descent. But whatever I did
hurt, and when walking was no longer possible I sat and
slid, using the ice axe to brake my speed as gravity
overcame friction and I began to slide too fast. Soon,
however, one muscle or another would cramp up, or I'd grow
tired of the unfamiliar position of keeping my upper body
twisted halfway around to hold the ice axe in place. So I'd
resume the straight-legged baby steps.
I
eventually did get myself down, hobbling out of the woods at
Bunny Flat nearly thirteen hours after our pre-dawn
departure. Robert came sauntering in about an hour later. He
had made it to the top, but he admitted it hadn't been easy
for him. In fact, he said it was one of the hardest things
he'd ever done. Somehow that made me feel a little better.
Clearly,
we had both underestimated the climb, and we each came away
with a story to tell. Robert's is one of triumph over
gravity and fatigue and the crushing solitude of high
places. Mine is simply a tale of surviving, by luck and by
pluck, between a rock and a hard place.
~
End ~
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