The wind burned my lips. Snow blurred out the peak, and the guides waiting at the end of the trail weren’t all that visible either. For a moment, it was easy to imagine myself alone — just me, the blistering wind, and the soft clinking of the gear on my harness.
We were cutting a path across a gully one person at a time to reduce the possibility of triggering an avalanche. It had stormed all night, leaving a fresh deposit of powder and making the relatively packed snow more sketchy.
This semester my friend and I decided to take PRTS 1404: Introduction to Mountaineering. After a three-hour information session for the class, our three guides — Andrew, Parker, and Will — took us out for some Friday field practice. We snowshoed up Bear Gulch near the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon. By the time we reached our training area, I was already pretty tired. Snowshoeing with double plastic boots is not an easy task. We spent the day practicing techniques we would need on our actual journey.
It all started on a Saturday morning. I woke up at 5 a.m. in order to double-check my gear and meet at the White Pine Trailhead by 7 a.m. After consolidating equipment and discussing what to expect, our group began our ascent from 7,580 feet to our base camp at 10,100 feet.
I’ve never been much of a cardio-lover, and I quickly found myself regretting skipping leg day. Nonetheless, our group made great time, and within a few hours we were at our basecamp. We set up our tents, then convened to build our kitchen.
As someone who has never done winter camping before, I found this to be one of the coolest parts of the trip. We spent time shoveling out and sculpting a wind-protected area, complete with snow benches and a large table. While we were doing this, Andrew and Parker traveled to Red Baldy to scout our path for the next day. But soon we were interrupted by a large storm moving our direction. The wind grew more powerful, snow began streaming down, and suddenly lightning came.
“Get into your tents immediately,” Andrew yelled from across the small valley that separated us.
Thunder exploded in the surrounding air. We all stopped digging snow, looked at each other for one frantic second, then rushed towards the tents. The storm lasted for about thirty minutes, but it was intense. When it calmed down, we emerged from our tents to resume our work on the kitchen, surprisingly still in good spirits.
Andrew and Parker returned, and we began preparations for dinner. We set up our stoves and broke out the food. For the first time during the trip, we all had a moment to forget about our goals and just live in the moment — that’s the beauty of being on the mountain. Here were people who I had spent less than a day with, and we were all immediately friends, sharing stories of past adventures, expressing our excitement for the next day, and basking in the joy of having something warm cooking in front of us.
We sat around for a few hours, then called it a night. It was not difficult for me to fall asleep, despite it being only about 8 p.m. During the middle of the night, we were woken up by an even bigger storm than before. Wind threatened to blow over our tents, snow pelted around us, lightning illuminated our living spaces, and thunder shook our chests. I’ve never felt so small, yet so in awe at the power of Mother Nature.
We woke up at 6:30 a.m. to a fresh inch or two of snow. It was still lightly snowing, and the peaks were hidden behind a thick veil of precipitation. Our guides let us know the situation — the storm had caused an unsafe accumulation of snow near the peak. We couldn’t summit. Still, we packed our ascent packs, donned our harnesses, and snowshoed up to the east ridge to practice rope teams and glacier travel techniques.
On the ascent, we had to cross the open gully. Andrew performed an isolated column snow test and determined that although it would not be smart to trek across the expanse of snow all at once, it was safe enough to cross. We were sent across one at a time and convened at the other side into our designated four-man rope teams. This was the part of the trip I was most excited for.
We traveled to a sloping indentation about 20 feet deep. Andrew lovingly called the place “Sarlacc Pit.” Here we set snow anchors, tied prussic cords for our feet and harnesses, and practiced ascending techniques. At least, we did until the snow anchor proved too weak and collapsed, bringing the anchor, two students, and Parker tumbling down. Adrenaline coursing through our veins, but still laughing at the fickleness of the snow, we headed back to camp in the flurry and packed up. We were out of the canyon at about 6:30 p.m. that Sunday, leaving both tired and fulfilled.
Simply put, trekking across thick snow in crampons and attached to three other people was nothing short of awesome. There’s a trust to this rope system. If you’re in the middle or back, you spend most of your time carefully placing your feet. You must blindly trust the leader. If one of you were to fall, it’s up to the rest of your rope team to self-arrest and keep you anchored until you regain your footing or can be pulled up.
Mountaineering is a reminder that nature doesn’t exist to accommodate humans. I was hungry. I got cold. My feet were the sorest they’ve ever been. But it’s not about that. It’s about collapsing on your pad at 8 p.m. after a long day. It’s about the crazy stories your guides tell you, and the thunderstorms that humble you. It’s the fact that few other things have made me feel so alive.
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