Mt. Elbert

I hadn’t expected to sleep so soundly at 9,300 ft. Staring up at the ceiling of the tent in the washed-out gray of predawn, I reached blindly for whatever would tell me the time: 5:15 am. Fifteen minutes before I had to move, but my mind had already rolled the sleeping bag, dismantled the tent, and packed it all into the car. Though arguably still in the sleeping bag, my body bargained that this and breakfast on the run couldn’t take more than half an hour. At any rate, the deliberation soon ended when the first pink glow of sunlight emerged over the hill, illuminating the lake below and an enormous collection of mountains to the west.

Affirming that I was indeed a visitor from the flatlands, I spent the next few minutes of cold dawn walking along the lakeshore snapping photos and falling in love with the incredible landscape. It was a John Denver moment, and I don’t care how cheesy that sounds.

There was hardly any traffic going in either direction as we flew northwest on Colorado 82, deeper into San Isabel National Forest and in the shadow of giants. A note-filled copy of Colorado’s Fourteeners by Gerry Roach lay open on my lap to a set of directions for the South Mt. Elbert Trailhead, and a highway map of Colorado covered the floor at my feet—along with an assortment of useful items: sunscreen, full nalgene, can of mixed nuts, iPod for the road, and innumerable stray test strips, the trademark trail of a diabetic. Amusingly, Peter’s silver Honda Element had been growing on me since our rendezvous at the Denver airport; tinted with dirt, plastered with unfortunate entomology from four states, and filled to the brim with clothes, food, an exceptional bike, camping gear, and all the additional necessities of a self-proclaimed “professional diabetic,” he fondly introduced the vehicle that’d become his headquarters and home-away-from-home since setting out from San Diego the week before.

For me, the journey to Mt. Elbert began as an email exchange with Peter last winter. He would be in Colorado in July and August, among other things preparing for the Leadville 100, a grueling ultramarathon event through the surrounding 10,000 foot mountain passes. We agreed to rendezvous in Denver and go from there. After returning home for the summer in mid-May, I began a more specific training plan for hiking in the mountains at altitude. (I loosely followed the three-month alpine climbing training plan detailed in the guide, Climbing: Training for Peak Performance, by mountaineer Clyde Soles.) Going to the gym, playing soccer, and hiking with a weighted pack all helped, but it’s difficult to prepare for altitude. Speaking with friends, family, and those who’d been there before produced a vast array of experiences, moments, advice, nightmares, recommendations, and a few dubious, yet sworn-by, traditions. But on the whole, acclimatization really is a highly individualized experience—the key is to give yourself the best chance by pacing your ascent, hydrating well, and paying attention to your body. Sean McKendry, a dedicated type 1 athlete and member of this year’s Triabetes team, kindly let us use his place in Denver as our “base camp” for the week. From there, we headed southwest toward the Sawatch Range—stopping outside Breckenridge to hike the Mohawk Lake Trail to Upper Continental Falls…a decent warm-up for the climb ahead.

We turned off the highway, now following signs for the trailhead. As with several of the well-traveled Colorado peaks, the South Mt. Elbert trail can either be accessed from behind a main parking lot or four miles up a rough and tumble four-wheel drive road. We decided the Element was up for the ride, so I set down my breakfast bar and Peter maneuvered that car like Indiana Jones. We rolled along steadily, winding up the uneven rock-strewn road until a couple hundred yards from the 4WD lot where the road degraded to an impasse. From there we embarked on foot up the road past a marshy clearing where a beaver had been hard at work. The road ended abruptly at a campsite near a dilapidated footbridge—we crossed beside it on a log and followed the path back toward the mountain, around the beaver pond, and over the river again toward our goal. I half-expected to find grandmother’s house situated somewhere over the river and through the woods… Not long after, we spotted the first sign for the trail. The famous Colorado Trail passes the east slopes of Mt. Elbert, and we hiked along through the woods for a half-mile or so, swatting a zillion mosquitoes, until we reached the junction where the Colorado Trail continues downward and the East Ridge Route begins. We paused to test, as a small friendly group of college-age hikers passed by. Hungry for a larger breakfast, I tested to find my blood sugar had climbed to 283 mg/dL; no food yet, so I took the calculated correction dose of 10.20 units and we continued on. There’s something wonderfully fantastic about climbing with a fellow diabetic, in that the time usually taken by explanation was instead filled with the ongoing dialogue and readily-available second opinion that is fostered by a shared understanding among people with diabetes. (You spend much of the time hoping people will understand, and the other half convincing them all is, actually indeed, well.) As we started off again, Peter asked what kind of correction I had given for the 283, in light of the climb ahead. Other than a flooring low blood sugar, I wanted above all to avoid the type of lingering, dehydrating, energy-sapping, high that had followed me down Mt. Washington this past winter. It was early in the day, and since we were still well below tree line, I took a more liberal dose of insulin to bring me back in range. “You took how much???” I remember him asking with surprise. (As is the case among most type 1s, an individual’s mileage on a unit of insulin can vary tremendously—especially relative to exercise.) We’d stop to test, eat, or rehydrate every hour or so on the mountain, so I wasn’t too concerned about missing the mark— though I found it amusing that Peter was convinced I’d bottom out when the insulin peaked in the next couple hours. The blood sugars, insulin doses, and basal rates I pulled from my meter at the end of the day have become a tremendously useful tool for me—when compiled with past hikes and climbs, I can look at the trends, take what has worked, and apply it to future adventures.

Around two hours into the hike, the stubbornly shrinking pine and aspen forest—pint size fully-grown trees had adapted remarkably well to the harsh environment—gave way into a rugged yet beautiful alpine meadow. We had finally busted out above tree line, and progress was now measurable. It was extraordinary to watch how much the ecosystem—the plants, rocks, habitats, level of exposure, and even the bugs—changed so rapidly as we gained elevation; all the time spent meandering upwards through the forest now revealed itself through the first of many stunning vistas along the way.

The group that had passed us earlier sat atop a small hill along the trail. We traded stories. (Most of the group went to school back in D.C.—one of the guys had a job with National Geographic, there was a woman from Littleton, and another was at Peter’s alma mater. They spotted his insulin pump, so he told our story and introduced them to Insulindependence. Before we returned to the trail, Alex, the geography nut of the bunch, gave us a piece of trivia that his group had been working on. (It was something along the lines of: name the eighteen letter nation whose letters alternate vowels and consonants—the type of challenge that one can dwell on—positively ruminate over— while self-assuredly blaming any lingering perplexity on the altitude.) Far below in Denver, Sean assured us that, even in the city, altitude (like the economy and the weather) is routinely held responsible for a host of irrelevant misfortunes, maladies, and minor dissatisfactions.

Close to where the ridge picks up steam, we pulled over next to a large boulder to test and eat. I had coasted down to a satisfactory 196, so I kept the normal basal rate and ate a handful of trail mix. There was still plenty of mountain left, and though the trail wasn’t exceptionally difficult, the deceiving distance to the summit allows climbers plenty of time to appreciate the peak’s enormous size. From the tree line, we turned northwest and met the East Ridge, climbing to 12,380 feet. The grassy slope steadily gained altitude, and we passed several hikers already on their way down—including one ambitious fellow who was honing his trail running skills. As the ridge became increasingly steep, rocky, and winding, we became more familiar with the half dozen or so different parties on their way up—a determined middle-aged woman walking slowly but surely with the help of a tall wooden stick, a friendly dog and the rest of his people family, a biblical-looking young man not far behind wearing a sahariane straight out of Lawrence of Arabia, a lone hiker in shades and a track sweatshirt—he never really spoke to anyone, and of course our affable geography buddy and his gang, who’d exact an answer and toss us a new trivia question whenever we’d meet up. Who would have thought there would be enough air up there to support a worldly conversation, but what I remember most distinctly about the upper reaches of that mountain, was the continuous exchange of stories, recollections, and lifelong ambitions—mostly revolving around faraway places and semesters spent abroad. It was inching past midday, and we could now see groups of people standing on the rocky, partially snow-dusted summit. It was much windier and exposed high up the ridge, but any effects of the high altitude remained hard to discern. At around 13,700 feet, we turned south and followed a series of irregular switchbacks up the talus-covered southeast face. Close to the summit, the Mt. Elbert Trail joins the Northeast Ridge Trail (the most popular route on the mountain, according to author Gerry Roach), and this where a majority of Elbert’s summit-bound hikers converge. (There are three additional routes that come from the West, Southwest, and Southeast.) No matter how tricky, the last hundred yards or so are always special because you can look at how far you’ve come (not just that day but in the months prior), and suddenly the sheer idea of standing on the summit—a motivator but by no means guaranteed—becomes exhilaratingly real.

At roughly 12:45 p.m., after four and a half hours of climbing, we reached the summit of Mt. Elbert and the top of Colorado. Peter turned around, and we high-fived before negotiating the last few yards of talus. Standing on that windy rock-strewn plateau is unforgettable, but I think there’s more to it than simply being up there at that moment. Climbers have struggled to describe it for centuries. You can read about a mountain hundreds of times, hear stories, study the various routes, and look at photographs, but for me at least, the summit is more than a geophysical point of reference. It is a frame of mind, an opportunity, a release where you can put the challenge into perspective and suddenly see the direct result—the convergence of blood sugar, training, research, preparing, acclimatizing, dreaming—whatever has driven and inspired you to be there.

Until then, these were separate actions toward an amorphous goal—but each mile, page, blood sugar, and conversation brought me a step closer to the place I wanted to be. The physical task of getting there is only part of the story, and standing on that summit, you feel it all. It is a long hike up any of the routes on Elbert, yet there was a remarkable level of energy among those at 14,433 feet—just talking with others at the top, you could hear it in their voice- it was like a party. The dog from earlier greeted us warmly; Lawrence of Arabia strolled in on our heels; the lone hiker rested below, a larger group sat in a sheltered semicircle, and the woman with the walking stick eventually made it too. Save for the one person taking a nap, most everyone was in some stage of rehydrating (some, with more than just water), binge eating, or taking pictures. I wish I could have stayed there for hours, just soaking it all in. Peter and I traded cameras with Alex, and he got us in some great summit shots. Then we tested and ate (BG was 172- yeah!), while taking in the spectacular ridgeline and summit of Mt. Massive to the North—only twelve feet shy of Mt. Elbert’s 14,433-foot record.

A worn blue flag tied around a tall wooden branch stuck on end into a pile of rocks marked the summit. What struck me about being up there was the mind-boggling fact that it would take another Mt. Elbert stacked atop this one in order to even come close to the staggering height of Mt. Everest. (It grows a few centimeters every year too.) Not today…but someday.

It was windy, and reception wasn’t too good, but before leaving the summit, I called my house.
My mom was surprised to hear from us and above the wind and poor reception, managed to yell into the phone something along the lines of, “You’re where??? That’s wonderful…how come you’re not down yet?!?” Then I called her mountain man brother, Uncle Steve, who lives in West Yellowstone, Montana. My uncle was at work and didn’t answer because he’s a mountain man. I left a message.


We took a few last-minute photos by the ragged, weatherworn Mt. Elbert flag and started back down the mountain. It was windier than before, and off in the distance, a line of clouds was emerging from the North. In light of this and the natural advantage of walking with gravity, the descent went by much faster. But in the Rocky Mountains, there is another law of nature that reigns supreme, by which no gravitational force, motivation of hunger, in-target blood sugar, or amount of training can ever rival. You can never outrun a storm. We were halfway down the ridge, between various groups of descending hikers and a pair of women still stubbornly attempting to reach the top, when the clouds began moving past summit from the Northwest side of the peak. Every few minutes, we’d turn and note their startling progress. I had never seen anything like it. We, along with the other hikers on the ridge, picked up speed and made for the tree line—still a good distance below. A lone marmot ambled over the rocks beside the trail, watching our comparatively slow progress before returning to the shelter of a small den in the rocks—not a bad time to be around eighteen inches tall, I remember thinking to myself. Although the storm was moving parallel along the far western side of Elbert and its adjacent slopes, when the first distant rumble of thunder announced itself, I harbored little objection to picking up the pace. The steeper, rock-strewn trail of the East Ridge eventually gave way to the long familiar stretch of wide rolling slopes. Being still quite exposed, we weren’t into the woods yet! A light rain began falling, and I passed a woman hiking down along the base of a rocky knoll—the first piece of terrain that rose high enough to offer some peace of mind. She wasn’t going at a pace that suggested much anxiety about the approaching weather. I learned that most of her group was higher up the mountain, as she lamented on how they had kept all the toilet paper. Over the interspersed thunder, she mentioned that her father had been struck by lightning once before; apparently it hadn’t hindered them enough to put an end to further adventures above treeline. Whether it was the darkening skies, the unnervingly close rolling of thunder, the ever-recurring opportunities to test the quick-drying properties of my clothes, or the plainly disconcerting notion that I was carrying two metal poles and an aluminum-framed pack, I didn’t share that woman’s relative ease at the prospect of being flash-barbequed without warning. Hiking on, I came across Alex and his friends near where we had first stopped to chat on the way up. They were just as happy to be off the ridge, seeing as another wave of the storm was darkening the sky once again. I’d never been so excited to see those scanty, paltry, lovely, pathetic-looking trees and shrubs in my life. Now into the forest, I slowed and eventually stopped to see how Peter was doing. The rain started falling again. Down below we came across a woman, her son, and their dog just as the second storm blew by. The rain came down hard for a minute or two, and the woman hoped it wouldn’t hail. It did, as a single incredible gale-force gust of wind ripped through the trees, sending the storm off on a westward course. Then the sun and sky appeared like nothing had happened. Unbelievable. Hats off to the weather in Colorado—I have never seen anything like it in my life. I didn’t think we were in Kansas anymore anyway. In any case, it was definitely a fundamental first-hand learning experience, and (as Peter pointed out) a good one to have early on. We reached the beaver pond and tested for the first time since early in the descent. The desert-like thirst and customary drag of a wickedly high blood sugar had settled in on the way down. The steady procession of target blood sugars I had seen on the mountain had been swiftly demolished by an average-busting 400. I took a quick correction—similar to the one I had begun the day with. You can’t win ‘em all I guess—especially amidst the adrenaline rush of a stormy descent. At around 4:30 pm, we reached the spot on the four-wheel-drive road where Element stalwartly waited. The descent had taken just two-and-a-half hours.

We rolled back down the 4WD road and into Leadville for a glorious Mexican feast. We put the setting sun behind us and drove northeast toward Dillon. Dave Shack, a member of last year’s Triabetes team, and his friend had invited us to join them at their backwoods campsite and celebrate the end of our summit day around the campfire. That sounded like a fitting way to finish the day…but we had to get there first. Dave’s directions were amusing: From Dillon, head east until we found a dirt road to turn left onto—a 4WD dirt road…sure glad that’s a rare commodity in Colorado, Dave. Once again, we left the pavement behind and plunged into the wilderness beneath the lengthening shadows of the Rocky Mountains.



We returned to Sean’s place on Monday night; the door was naturally open before we could knock, and as we stood there in the doorway of his pristine condo after three days in the mountains, the look on his face matched a forthright and well merited, “Whoa.” Sean, thanks for putting up with us. You are an incredible role model and proof positive of what happens when an inspiring amount of dedication to a sport matches a lifelong dedication to winning against diabetes.

To Daniel and Lisa also, for the ice cream, the stories, and for helping break the record for most diabetics at Sean’s in one evening. It was a pleasure meeting you.

To Tim and the guys at the Johnson Outdoors Store in Racine for going above and beyond. To Doug, W&M alum and mountaineer, who walked the aisles of REI with me over the phone from Seattle and shared his wisdom. And to Uncle Steve, the mountain man uncle and the only member of the family who will gladly partake in epic discussions on the merits of trekking poles over walking sticks, the advantages of one thermarest over another, and everything from wool socks to high altitude to bears.
We did it—two more diabetics have taken on Elbert, and I couldn’t have asked for a more willing, intrepid, and all-around fantastic climbing partner. It was quite a ride—no doubt the best this summer—and it left me with a broader insight into the world of diabetes, endurance, and the incredible dedication, persistence, and uniting ability it takes to build a nonprofit with such an extraordinary vision. This is your story too.

________________

For more stories, adventures, and diabetic inspiration, please visit the Insulindependence website, or my FirstGiving Insulindependence Fundraising Page!

Ice Climbing Encore

Spring Break on Mt. Washington

6:15 am – The sound of my cell phone—an obnoxious cuckoo clock—cut through a bombproof slumber and brought me ungracefully back to the dim closeness of my corner room at the Colonial Motel in North Conway, New Hampshire. In a daze, I shut the alarm off, glanced at the time, groaned, and rolled over. 6:15 am. The twilight zone. Where was my meter? I resolved to move, lest the fleeting comforts of warmth, sleep, and the blissful abandon of my dreams threaten my long-awaited appointment with Washington. Then, before I could react, the foreign sound of the clock radio alarm—my failsafe backup—announced itself to the room. The frigid New Hampshire dawn had seeped into the room leaving the inside almost as inhospitable as the outside. I turned the thermostat to high and barricaded myself in a steam-filled bathroom.

7:15 am – One pair of heavy-duty mountaineering socks, two pairs of pants, a base layer, fleece layer, shell layer, outer layer, double insulated gloves, balaclava, and one woolly hat later, it occurred to me that I wasn’t dressed for just another spring break. Double plastic mountaineering boots in tow, crampons at the ready, and an ice ax lashed to the outside of my pack, my friend and I set off down the White Mountain Highway to meet Jim for a quick hearty breakfast of champions. We looked like we were from the moon, but the people passing by and the waitress who took our order didn’t even flinch. Commonplace here…

9:15 am – As we sped vicariously down the ice-worn road in Jim’s navy blue pickup (with license plates that read, “Ice Jock”), I couldn’t help staring out at the unfolding landscape which we were soon to be immersed in. My mind was taking to the idea far faster than my body was. I’d never done anything like this in my life, and try as I may, it was hard not to ignore the realization that all these months of preparation and curiosity were giving way to the simple yet magnificent and stunningly real vista unfolding before me. (It still amazes me how mountains seem to possess the unique capacity for silencing all triviality and relegating the incessant minutiae of everyday life, the litanies of questions, and any unfounded reservations to the wind.) We parked the truck at the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trailhead and unloaded our gear. I laced my boots, tested my blood sugar, adjusted my pack, and followed Jim up an embankment and onto the wooded trail at the end of the parking lot. The fresh snow sparkled in the warm rays of morning sunlight, as the ground rolled gently along a frigid creek bed. Secretly I appreciated these first few miles of approach, as it gave me a chance to get acquainted with my hulking royal blue double plastic mountaineering boots. All in all, I felt energized—the momentary glimpses of the mountain through the trees were both outwardly mesmerizing and introspectively unreal. To literally see the goal ahead and the entire way up was so unlike the other challenges thus far in my life. In the triathlon, the finish line was always in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t see anything more than the particular section of the course I was occupied with. To see the entirety of the mountain, laid out before my eyes and rising below my feet, was invigorating and unparalleled, but also daunting. As cliché as it sounds, I felt at once close to the mountain and closer to something within myself.

The forest receded into a small clearing where upon Jim halted and turned around. I had been wondering where and when the trail was planning on gaining the elevation necessary to ascend the peak. I had no qualms about continuing on at this particular grade, except that the summit wouldn’t get any closer this way. When Jim turned around and suggested that we stop to put our crampons on, it got real. We took our packs off, stuffed our top layer of clothing in, and unstrapped the legendary mountaineering hardware. Sitting atop my pack, I attached each set of pre-fitted jagged metal spikes to my boots; it reminded me of an ancient pair of snap-on plastic roller skates I used to wear with my tennis shoes when I was little. (Though I must admit that it was easier to learn crampons after nineteen years than it was to master roller skates at age four.) I checked my blood sugar (88 mg/dL) and downed some Gatorade to keep my numbers steady. Once we were set, Jim proceeded to familiarize us with the art and science of the ice ax. As Jim covered one facet of alpine climbing after another, I would recall its respective chapter in my copy of Freedom of the Hills, the mountaineering bible that I’d carried with me across the country and studied near-religiously during the past few weeks. Jim, finding this humorous, began to quiz me on the content of the book whenever he stumbled upon a potential lesson. In that clearing and along the hill at its edge, we learned how to traverse and ascend any type of snow-covered ground with these two basic, yet incredibly versatile, tools. Plunging the ice ax into the hill above and crampons into the frozen ground below, we practiced French, German (front-pointing), and sidestepping techniques. I found sidestepping awkward at first, but it proved to be incredibly efficient when the trail steepened later on. After a short while Jim judged that we’d gained sufficient confidence in our newly acquired skills, so we shouldered our packs and continued onward and (more dramatically and refreshingly) upward. Unlike reading Freedom of the Hills, the experience quickly revealed itself as a practical lesson in trial and error—much akin to learning how to walk. Error was inevitable, unavoidable, and essential. We each had our moments—slipping, tripping, and teetering—even Jim involuntarily hit the deck when it got icy. Moving up the mountain was ungraceful at first, but it became more natural as I discovered which techniques best fit the changing pitch and grade of the mountainside. From the clearing, Jim led us up a steep and windy section of trail at a more ambling pace. Assisted by two trekking poles, our guide made his way steadily and confidently up the slope, kicking steps in the snow for us who followed. He reminded me of a lead goose flying at the headwinds of a flock, and I completely content just to learn and follow in his footsteps. The trail led persistently higher, but it was hard to gauge our true progress from below the treeline under the canopy. It was getting warmer, and Jim had warned us about the dangers of perspiration and ensuing heat loss in a winter environment like this. We paused to shed a layer and rehydrate. As I dropped my pack and went to remove the fleece layer, my friend remarked with surprise that there was steam rising from where the fleece had covered my arms. I wasn’t sweaty, but apparently all it took was a tiny amount of perspiration magnified by the cold air and I was smokin’! With a couple of jokes and a chuckle, Jim carried on. Though the trailhead was now miles behind, the treeline lurked still imperceptibly higher. I began to fall into a solid regular tempo, and my thoughts drifted across the landscape, among faraway peaks, and alongside those who climbed here before me. As I looked around, the trees began to recede as the trail suddenly opened to a stunning overlook. It was our first real glimpse of our progress upward, and it was exhilarating to look down across the forested vista toward the trailhead far below. I hadn’t realized just how far we had come in just a couple hours. We turned and rendezvoused with the stream, crossing over a shallow pool and stumbling up a steep slope toward its source. After crossing the stream, Jim stopped for a moment to look up trail and I stopped abruptly behind him… perhaps too abruptly. Though quite stationary, I managed somehow to spontaneously trip and belly flop into the fluffy snow. And though I tripped on even ground and slid nowhere, Jim turned around just in time to hear me bellow “self arrest!” and see an impishly delayed version of the self-arrest technique we had just learned, plunging the pick of the ice ax into the snow beneath. To my amusement, the tradition lived on whenever any one of us slipped while negotiating the frozen ground.

We saw animal tracks in the snow, but the only nature that wasn’t scared away by our passing were the stunted trees along the summit route. With the short, yet steep, section over and having gained the ridge above, we took a water break and removed our crampons. I checked my blood sugar and was surprised to see it had already risen well into the 300s! My correction was on the conservative side, as I figured the ascent would soon catch up with me (which it definitely did!). Jim pointed out the Lake of the Clouds Hut as we traversed along the ridge. As we climbed past the hut, the mountain all but disappeared behind a thick, but momentary, fog also traversing over the mountainside. As we passed through the cloud not only sight but sound too was muffled surreally.

The Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail now merged with the Crawford Path on the long ridge toward the still-elevated summit. (For one not familiar with the topographic footprint of Mt. Washington, it rises about 2500 feet from the Ammonoosuc Ravine trailhead to the Crawford Path intersection at the Lake of the Clouds Hut, and when at last you become generally content with the trail, the view, the boots, and the skills—when the summit tower is within grasp—the mountain throws one last curve ball, one last challenge in the form of a miniature mountain set atop the principle one. We were deceivingly close to the summit, yet there was still the realization that the biggest challenge was presumably still ahead. I was starting to feel low and stopped briefly to test my blood sugar again—in about an hour I had dropped about a hundred—back into the normal range—but with a steeper climb ahead, I was concerned my blood sugar would progress in the opposite direction. After a few fast carbs, I was hoping my race against the low was over, but we were still racing the clock. The unconditional turnaround time was approaching faster than I was comfortable with, and Jim warned us about being on the mountain too late in the afternoon. (The weather, while still beautiful, was predicted to worsen that night.) We hadn’t gone very far, but I had become increasingly aware that it was my blood sugar, and not fatigue from a relatively light section of trail, that was slowing me down. Only a half-hour had passed, but I had dropped another hundred to 68. I knew my blood sugar was falling, but I hadn’t expected to fight a plummet—especially as the most demanding section was just ahead. This wasn’t a time to sit and ponder a course of action—I couldn’t have been more determined to keep going, and it would have taken a meteor to slow me down. Resolving that lows just weren’t allowed at this point, I whipped out my extra water bottle, two packets of Gatorade, and some highly-caffeinated crystal light energy mix, combining them into an unspeakably sugary pick-me-up, which I downed in seconds. It was ludicrously sweet, but it did the trick. I cut my basal rate, and we set our sights once again on the summit. (In retrospect, I probably over-treated the low, but I wasn’t about to take any more chances.) I asked Jim how much time remained before turnaround time; we had a little over an hour. The early afternoon was wearing on, and for the first startling moment of the journey, I sensed that we were running out of time. Up until then, I had taken somewhat for granted that we would make it to the top. And Jim, whose expertise far outweighs my own, was doubting with the better part of reason, intuition, and time on his side. The hope of a successful first climb had fueled ambition and action since the beginning. I knew that Jim was probably right—Jim and all the books, stories, websites, and all that I had read and heard about mountaineering. After all, reaching the summit is only half the battle.

Jim asked on a scale of one to ten what my remaining energy level was—I looked up at the summit directly above, looked him in the eye, and said seven. He considered it, looked back at me, and we proceeded on. In retrospect, my legs were probably closer to a three, but in my mind, if that seven was what was going to get me to the top, then that was that and my legs would just have to get over it. My blood sugar was ideal, so the only thing standing between me and that summit was the ground beneath my feet and the strength of my resolve.


Jim sensed this, again reminding us to be aware of our energy level as we started up the final section of the climb. At this point, the trail wound about the mountain in way too gradual an ascent than any of us were willing to put up with. Jim made a quick but calculated judgment, and we turned ninety degrees, kicking steps and moving slowly, yet deliberately, up the steep face directly en route to the top. All peripheral ambition and inessential thought melted away as the sole object of my concentration became the ground directly in front of me. The key was to find a rhythm and stick to it. If you hesitate, you lose not only your outward momentum, but more importantly, your inner concentration. The prospect of reaching the awaiting summit within a matter of mere feet or minutes was energizing. Jim would pause to look down every few dozen yards, and I’d just smile, nod, and perhaps even muster a wave. Then, in a combination of anticipation and disbelief, I saw Jim disappear over the crest of the snowy slope. The long climb upward had ended, and with a grin I joined Jim and my friend on the summit. The skies were overcast and it was understandably windier up there than anywhere else on the mountain. That didn’t matter though; it was just incredible to be there, at the highest point in the East. We climbed up a small snow-covered rock pile and snapped some photos with the famous summit sign, the sturdy weather observatory towering behind us. There wasn’t a whole lot of time to enjoy it though, as the downward half of the journey still awaited. But first we sat down behind a partially enclosed wind shelter, and took a well-earned break. Jim’s only advice was to re-hydrate and put away as many energizing calories as we could in that short interval of time. Even though our journey was only half over at most, it felt like an indescribable weight had been lifted; and I couldn’t help but smile at the rugged “hi-ho Silver” mentality that guided every step and brought us all the way from Virginia. While no one could complain about the weather atop the mountain that day, there was still plenty of evidence of the extreme wind and bitter cold that makes this summit, “Home of the World’s Worst Weather” (William L. Putnam, author of The Worst Weather on Earth). Three major storm systems converge at the summit of Mt. Washington, and it holds the record for the fastest wind velocity ever measured on Earth: 231 mph on April 12, 1934. The windward sides of all the outbuildings were coated with rime ice, windswept formations that develop when water vapor freezes instantly on hard surfaces.

Fifteen minutes later, after a quick rest and refuel, we began our decent. As most would guess, moving down a mountain requires the use of different muscle groups, techniques, and foot placement. Jim gave us a crash course in plunge stepping with the ice ax—it looks a lot like a snow-laden goose-step. Coming down the mountain was not only easier, but much more exciting. When the trail came to a smooth unobstructed decline, Jim scanned the slope below and sat down; holding the ice ax in self-arrest position he kicked off with his boots and demonstrated a spotless glissade. We followed suit, although not nearly as impeccably. At first, I dug my boots into the snow and proceeded at a pace somewhere between a scoot and a crawl—a velocity I was perfectly happy with. But Jim yelled something like “faster!” so I picked up my feet and let gravity do the rest. I had no idea there was something better than sledding on an inflatable doughnut, but glissading is definitely the most stylish and efficient mode of transportation out there. I tried the standing glissade too, but the result wasn’t quite as graceful. Blisters and boot bang, two of the infamous menagerie of mountaineering souvenirs, are often acquired during long steep descents, and I definitely brought home my share of the fun. Wonderful conversation pieces in the weeks following the climb, the attractive blisters on my lower shins and heels were so dreadfully worth every second on the mountain. (Besides, there’s nothing that a little tape and moleskin can’t fix.) Even though we descended at a good clip, the comparative ease allowed plenty more room for conversation. The three of us had a half-spent half-enlightened, but absolutely entertaining, discussion of politics, history, philosophy and literature that rambled and hit bottom as much as we did. For the most part Jim tried to stay out of it, but every once in a while he’d throw in his weathered mountain man two cents. It was a different mountain on the way down—relaxed to the point that everything said was funny. Even though Mt. Washington’s 6,288 feet pales in comparison to the Rockies, the Cascades, and beyond, I felt—and still feel—an incredible sense of excitement and accomplishment because this was, and always will be, the first climb—the place where I first held an ice ax and stepped into crampons; learned the ropes and fell on my face; where I tested my blood sugar and tested my resolve; and it’s the place where I fostered a deep respect for and affirmed a growing love of high places.