Risk

My boot pushes the snow back without a sound.

I rest by straightening my leg and leaning my body weight on the bone structure rather than the muscles. I breathe the thin, 10,000 foot air, and push my other boot forward. It’s not a walk so much as a shuffle.

It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, and I’m late. I should be near the summit of Wheeler Peak, the tallest mountain in New Mexico, and instead I’m futzing around below the tree line, looking for the approach trail. The blue blazons became scarce about a mile ago, and now I’ve lost them altogether. I’ve backtracked to the last one, gone another way, lost the blazons again, and tried to bushwhack. Nothing’s worked. The trail should lead over a low-angle slope, down an elbowed gully, and along Williams Lake before reaching the mountain’s west face. Only there’s no slope, no gully, and definitely no lake. Just endless conifers sprouting out of the clean, virgin white as though the snowfall had preceded them. Behind me, twin trenches crisscross and loop back and forth. Someone following my tracks would laugh –I must have covered every inch of the forest within a square mile. Still no sign of the trail.

There’s no one to ask for directions. I haven’t seen a soul since hitching a ride to the mountain two hours ago, and I’ve been breaking trail the entire way. I’m on my own.

I look at my compass for the umpteenth time. I’m still heading south. That’s good, at least. I’m not completely off track. If I keep going, I have to hit Williams Lake. From there, it should be easy to find the west face. I keep going straight ahead, checking my compass every now and then to make sure that I keep in a southerly direction. It’s hard work carving my way through the knee-high snow at that altitude, but I try not to rest too often. It’s eleven-thirty, and I don’t want to get caught up high by an infamous Rocky Mountains afternoon storm.

I’m breathing heavily, meandering between the trees, but always repairing south. On my left, the ground steepens –could it be the start of the west face? The forest is too thick to see. I trudge on into the woods, and notice that keeping dead south leads me to rising ground. Soon I’m panting and stopping every ten steps to rest my head on one of my trekking poles. I look at my altimeter: 11,000 feet. I’ve only been at that altitude once, on Mount Rainier, and I remember how much harder everything felt. How my arms would burn from carrying something for a few seconds, or how I would get breathless from walking across camp. It’s the same now.

The trees part further up, revealing a steep snow couloir cutting into the woods. Finally, I can see above the forest, and I’ve found the west face –no doubt about it. It’s looming two hundred feet above me where the treeline stops: a steep, two thousand foot wall of snow and rock capped by the twin summits of Wheeler Peak and Mount Walter. The couloir will spit me out right onto it.

I hesitate on the edge of the forest. This is definitely not the regular way up the mountain, and I know nothing of the hazards and pitfalls of this couloir. On the other hand, I can’t find the regular way, and it’s almost noon. If I go on and search the next stretch of forest for the right path, it’ll be too late to safely summit and get back down by the time I find it, if I find it at all. The sky and the forecast are clear for now, but afternoon storms materialize out of nothing in the Rockies. The direct route up the couloir is straightforward, and would likely get me to the summit within an hour or two. From there, I can surely find the regular way down. I examine the couloir more closely. My biggest concern is avalanche danger, especially given the recent snowfall.

It’s very steep –probably too steep for any loose-snow avalanches, which usually happen on north-facing slopes between thirty and forty-five degrees. That’s good, but it doesn’t rule out the

possibility of a slab avalanche, when a layer of snow hardens over a weak layer with no cohesion. In those instances, the entire layer, or slab, fractures and tumbles down the slope. Luckily, I notice a spot against a large tree where little snow has accumulated, which gives me an inside look at the snowpack. I can clearly see the layers of snow through this small pit, each delineated by a thin deposit of dirt and needles. The layers all seem compact and well bonded to one another –the avalanche risk is acceptable. No more hesitation, it’s time to get to business and climb. It’s noon on the dot, and two thousand vertical feet still separate me from the summit.

I trade the trekking poles for my ice axe, strap on my crampons, and start up the couloir. I fall into a rhythm quickly –it’s the same motions over and over. With the adze pointing upslope, I sink the axe into the snow, feeling the sharp tip at the bottom of the shaft grab the hard snow. Then I take one step up halfway to the shaft, crossing my legs and securing my crampon points in a similar manner. I bring my other leg up right under the shaft, and then repeat the process. Every few steps, I stop and suck in the oxygen-starved air in noisy, hyperventilating breaths.

I soon leave the treeline behind and reach the top of the couloir where a thick, vertical rock band bars access to the west face. It’s too broad to go around. I have to climb it. Normally, this would be an easy bit of technical rock climbing –but normally I would have rock shoes, a harness, climbing gear, and someone to belay me. I have none of that today.

I’ll have to climb it with crampons and ice axe, and without protection. If I fall, I’ll take a two hundred foot tumble down the couloir. Is it worth the risk? The rock band is short, only about twenty feet high, slightly less than vertical, and offers large, jug-shaped holds. In other words, it’s an easy climb, and even though falling would have nasty consequences, the risk of a fall is so low as to be almost negligible, so I climb up, hooking my ice axe into a horizontal crack and finding placements for the front-points of my crampons. I make my way up slowly, using my free, gloved hand for extra security while the pick of my ice axe searches for secure placements higher up. The moves are easy but I stay focused, too well aware of what a fall here would mean.

I hook my ice axe into another crack and give it a slight testing tug. It explodes out of the rock and I am flung backwards, clinging to a jug with my other hand. Black stones bleed out as if I had opened the rock band’s artery. I need to get up and over quickly. My ice axe searches for solid placements, but each hook-and-weight maneuver results in more black waterfalls –the rock here has the consistency of Styrofoam. I think of retreating, but I know down-climbing will be much harder than pressing on, so I grab the very bottom of my ice axe’s shaft, stand on the tip of my crampons, and stab the pick above the top of the crumbly rock band and into hard, compact snow. I pull down on it hard, and it doesn’t move. Trusting my full weight to this placement, I grab the shaft with both hands and heave myself up, my skittering crampon spikes sending more mini-avalanches of black rock down the couloir. I get a high foot placement, heave again, and find myself back on hard snow. 

Panting, I look at my watch. It’s twelve thirty; definitely on the late side, but I’m finally on the west face proper. The altimeter reads 11,500 feet –still fifteen hundred feet to go. I fall back into my rhythm. Plant my ice axe. Cross one leg over. Bring the next one up. Repeat. Stop. Take two deep breaths. Plant my ice axe. The

forest falls away below me, and broad, cone-shaped mountains across the valley recede as I rise above them. Every now and then, I turn back to look at the twin trenches snaking up the slope. Ahead, the snow is undisturbed. I will be the first, perhaps the only, person up Wheeler Peak today. I climb on. Plant ice axe. Cross leg. Bring next one up. Stop. Breathe. It’s tough work. I’m exhausted; every part of me demands oxygen, wants my muscles to stop this madness. I’m at 12,000 feet now, and it gets harder with every step. I have to stay focused. One wrong move, and I careen down the slope. Axe. Leg. Other leg. Stop. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Axe. Breathe. Leg. Breathe. Other leg. Breathe. 12,500 feet. I can see the saddle-shaped ridge between Wheeler and Walter. It’s not far. Maybe another half-hour. I look at my watch. One thirty. Weather’s holding up. Gray clouds on the horizon. They’re moving, but slowly. Should have time. Just got to hurry. Axe, leg, other leg, axe, leg, other leg. I’m heaving like a dog. Doesn’t matter. Almost there. I step onto the saddle. It’s thin and cluttered with wind-packed snow and bare black rock. Altimeter says 13,000 feet. Not far. I turn left. I’m on the final summit slope. Axe. Breathe. Leg. Breathe. Other leg. Breathe. Breathe. Come on. A few more steps. There’s the summit marker. Ten more steps. Breathe. Five more. Breathe. One more. No more.

I lean on the summit sign and resume panting. I made it. It’s two o’clock, and the gray clouds are roiling towards me –probably an infamous afternoon storm, but it doesn’t matter. I’m here, and the descent should be quick. I look around. Black and white giants beam at me from all sides. Some are jagged, some are humpbacked, but all soar above the small green forest, and all draw the eye more than the infinite sky. Half a mile across the ridge is Mount Walter, somehow seeming a bit taller than my summit.

It really does seem taller…

My stomach churns. I read the summit sign: “Mount Walter, elev.

13,141 FT, named for H.D. Walter who loved these mountains.”

I’m on the wrong mountain. I thought I was on top of New Mexico –I’m actually five measly meters below the high point, and on the wrong peak! I’ve come all this way for nothing unless I can get myself up the right peak.

No time to waste; the gray clouds are boiling towards me, and there’s work to do. I throw on my puffy expedition-rated jacket and a warmer pair of gloves, and start back down the ridge. It only takes me five minutes to reach the saddle, and for the storm to reach me. It’s a bad one. The wind gusts to fifty miles an hour, whipping up snowdrift and freezing me to my bones. I pull on my face mask and instantly fog my glacier glasses. I take them off and squint across the bright, gesticulating snowscape. Should I go down? The summit is only a hundred feet above me. The storm won’t be much worse a hundred feet above, and if I can withstand it here, I can withstand it up there. I start up the slope. Axe leg other leg axe leg other leg breathe hard. Gotta hurry. Gotta go down. I stop every time a gust rakes the ridge, leaning into my anchored ice axe.

When I step onto the tiny mountain-tip of a summit, I can only see ten feet in front of me. I double-check the sign: Wheeler Peak, the high point of New Mexico. No time for celebrations –I snap a selfie and turn heels, fighting the wind all the way back to the saddle. I’m back at the col in five minutes,

and now I have to down-climb the entire west face. I look around for the regular route, which should be marked by cairns or blazons, but everything is buried under the snow. No matter, I head straight down the face, bearing north so as to avoid the rock band.

It’s common knowledge in mountaineering that ninety percent of accidents happen on the way down. It makes a lot of sense –you’re tired, hungry, thirsty, fed up, no longer motivated by the prospect of reaching the summit, and instead of hugging the slope, you’re stepping out into nothingness. To true mountaineers, the summit is not the end game; rather, it’s the farthest point from safety you can possibly reach. Each step down takes you back to the real, triumphant summit: home.

My instincts tell me to hurry and get away from the storm, but I force myself to slow my movements. Everything has to be perfect. A tumble here would send me tomahawking down the west face. Each step, each stab of the ice axe, has to be perfectly secure. I quickly fall into the rhythm of the descent. One foot straight down and flat, all crampon points catching the snow, then the other foot straight down and flat right next to the other, and then the ice axe, which I bring down level with my feet. Breathe. Repeat. Breathe. Repeat.

Again, my gut tells me to hurry. The storm is beating me up –my core temperature is dropping, causing the blood to retreat from my extremities to keep my vital organs warm. I’m cold, shivering, and I can’t feel my toes. My fingers go numb too. I haven’t wrapped my ice axe in foam insulation as some mountaineers do, and the metal head is conducting the cold right into my hand. I switch arms periodically, beating my free hand against my leg each time to return the blood flow. It’s no use. I wiggle my toes, but they have no feeling. What if I get frostbite? Lose toes? Lose fingers? Gotta hurry. No. Can’t hurry. Better to lose digits than fall down the west face and die. Gotta slow down. Nice and easy. Foot straight down. Other foot straight down. Bring ice axe level. Breathe. Repeat. Nice and easy. No mistakes. Every step matters. Every step has to be perfect. My northerly course takes me onto a black scree slope barely covered by a scraping of snow. Each time I take a step down, the white snow belches out black stones down the slope. It’s all crumbling. More Styrofoam rock; my placements are not secure. The whole talus field is moving, alive and frenzied by my footfalls. I have to focus. Foot down. Other foot down. Ice axe level. Nice and easy. Breathe. The air is getting thicker –I feel my energy returning, but at the same time I’m thirsty and hungry. My burning muscles scream for calories, and my thick blood begs for water, but the wind is too strong for me to open my rucksack. Nothing to do but keep going. Foot, other foot, ice axe, breathe. I watch more black stones tumble down the slope. The altimeter reads 11,700 feet. I’m almost level with the rock band. My eyeballs burn. Am I going snow-blind? I wipe my glasses and put them back on. It feels better, but my eyes still hurt. My toes and fingers are still numb. The wind blasts more powder into me. Gotta hurry. Gotta get down. No! Can’t hurry. Snow-blind is fine. Frostbite is fine. Falling and dying is not fine. Take your time. Foot straight down. Breathe. Other foot straight down. Breathe. Ice axe level. Breathe. Repeat. I still can’t see anything. It’s okay. The treeline has to be close. Just keep going. Nice and easy. You got this. Ignore the burning eyeballs. Ignore the numb digits. Switch the ice axe to your other hand. Beat your free hand against your thigh. Keep going. Foot. Other foot. Ice axe. Breathe. Foot. Other foot. Ice Axe. Breathe. Foot. Other foot. Ice axe. Breathe. Foot. Other…

The wind stops. I can see. I’m back in the couloir, shielded from the storm by the forest. I stand there for a few seconds, shocked by the stillness of the snow, and then dash into the woods. I get my nalgene out of my rucksack and drink half a liter in a few noisy gulps, then devour a cliff bar in two monstrous bites.

I beat my hands against my thighs and stomp my feet on the ground, wincing as the blood flow painfully restores feeling in my extremities. It’s okay; it means there’s no frostbite. In the shade of the pines, I take off my glasses and don’t have to squint. I’m okay. I’ve made it down. I take off my crampons and strap them to my rucksack along with my ice axe, unfold my trekking poles, and start down and deeper into the forest.

A mile later, I can guess the storm-beaten mass of the west face looming behind the thunderclouds. I take a long look. It’s so utterly wild that I was down here, that I went up there, that I’m back down here. And you know what? There’s nothing better in the entire damn world. 

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This piece is dedicated to the memory of Ueli Steck (1976-2017), who inspired me to climb mountains. RIP.