A Cascades escapade
Welcome
Light seeps into the sky. Dawn breaks but mountains hide the sun. There’s movement in a nearby sleeping bag. Shift deeper into the duvet. Pull the hood over. Trap the heat. Fall back asleep.
Someone is moving again. A deep breath flushes oxygen into waking muscles. Stretch. Hands search for the zipper. Peel open the sleeping bag; the fabric is stiff with frost.
Blink away a lingering dream and welcome the day. The other sleeping bags are empty and one is already rolled. There’s gear everywhere. Pour coffee. Watch the steam rise.
This Is
The day’s last sunlight drains like syrup. Our campsite is a perch scooped into the mountainside. We are nourished and warm. Sleeping bags are unpacked. A lump of heather becomes a nightstand for book and headlamp. Turn the lights off. Make darkness for the stars.
Starlit thoughts process the day. One down; four more. Each day is a five mile journey to the next lake. Each day crosses glaciers (glorious), climbs rock (spooky). Crampons off; crampons on. Take it all in. This is the Ptarmigan Traverse.
Embark
Embark on a new day. Lose the trail, find it. Inch between cliff and glacier. Tighten backpack straps. Climb loose rock. Breathe. Look up. Grasp an outstretched hand.
Behold
Behold this glacier, this creeping river of ice. It’s as wide as the sky. A body, so small, hardly matters on this scale. A mind is made free. We link our fates with rope and wind our way between crevasses like gaping mouths. Peer down. Step closer. Look deeper. How close is too close?
Treasure this
Set up camp and take a dip. The water is cold and the silt is slippery. Rince off that sweat. Let the sun do the drying. Feel the nervous system slow down… but don’t get distracted! A marmot chews on a salty strap.
Make tea, make a cup of miso. Bask in this view. Treasure this moment.
Huddle
Night ebbs. Daylight flows. Light the stove but stay in the sleeping bag. The flame whispers, “huddle closer.” Share old stories over oats, new hopes. Laugh. Set intentions for the day. Voice concerns. Compromise.
Pour coffee. Watch, through rising steam, the sun warm icy peaks.
Take one more step
From afar, steep rock and snow intimidates. Don’t turn back yet. Take one more step. Reassess. How about now? Is it safe to take one more? Go all the way to the beginning of what scares you. It might look easier up close.
One more step becomes another becomes four more. Five miles a day for five days—assume two steps per yard—that’s eighty-thousand steps. How many increments make up a daily task? How many moments compose a life’s achievement?
But what use is there in climbing metaphors? Mountaineering is personal, like prayer. Its lessons are experiential, they transfer poorly from the page.
Ache
Last leg, last lake. Drop into the tree line, lose altitude. Time has made this forest enchanting; isolation has made it impassable. Go the wrong way down a slope. Turn back. Fight up a current of saplings. There’s no ground, just branches too limber to stand on or pull against. Now wade into avalanche debris. The trail is smothered under shattered canopies. Stumble; land on bruised knees. Ache. Summon strength and a hand. “Help me up, please!”
Emerge
A few more miles, a few more blueberries. Emerge. Thank God the car is still there. Hug. Hydrate. Eat salty chips. Rest. There will be time to relive this later.
Stars, like salt. 