I usually take advantage of this blog to write about my adventures in the great outdoors. Today, I’m struggling to conjure the right words because I’m attempting a more daunting task: writing about my lack of adventures.
It’s been a tough winter. My beloved mountains have been drowning in dangerous snow, resulting in less than reassuring avalanche forecasts -I’ve had to stay away from the big peaks. In the meantime it’s been too warm for the handful of ice formations that normally grace Washington to form up -I’ve yet to swing a tool this season. There are eight shiny, brand spanking new Petzl ice screws in my closet that have never seen ice. They’re so clean and polished I can see my face in them.
To put it more succinctly: there’s been tons of snow and unusually warm temperatures. The bottom line: I haven’t been getting out.
For those of you who know me (and I’m pretty darn sure my entire readership indeed does know me...hi mom!) I’m sure you can imagine how it’s affected my psyche. I live for the outdoors, the fresh mountain air, the self-discovery and the indomitable spirit of mankind, which can only find its fullest expression when pitted against the elements, and blablabla...basically all that crap John Muir wouldn’t shut up about.
Speaking of which, the mountains are indeed calling...and I can’t go. My outdoor activities were limited in the month of January. In fact, I only got out for a grand total of four days, and they were all bitter disappointments.
I spent the first weekend of January chasing ice with some friends. On Saturday morning, we trudged in snow-shoes through a mile of breakable crusty snow covering four feet of powder, hoping Gil Creek Falls would be climbable. After getting lost, fighting our way through snow-covered trees that were literally raining on us in the heat, and fording a creek covered by a questionable snowbridge, we found a running waterfall covered by about an inch of ice. A hole had started to melt right in the middle, revealing the roaring water. We tried our luck at Rainbow Falls in Leavenworth...the whole climb was a slushie, and much too thin to take a screw. My friend and I spent a good hour trying to hang a good toprope above it just so we could climb something, even this thin, melting mess, but we couldn’t find a good anchor, and neither of us had brought snow pickets.
The next day we hoped the Practice Wall at Alpental would offer a change in fortunes -no dice. Only one pillar was thick enough to climb...a guided group had already picked it to shreds. We walked away, wondering how it hadn’t collapsed yet. All in all, my ice tools went for some lovely walks and got plenty of fresh air without the slightest wear and tear...lucky them.
A week later, I spotted a lucky weather window over Mount Saint-Helens. I drove down there with two friends on a Saturday night, climbed all night and all morning, pushing through headwall after headwall. We covered 5,700 feet of elevation over five miles, reaching the crater rim around ten in the morning. I could see the summit farther down the ridge, beaming down at me, just a quick walk and a hundred vertical feet above me. We’d be there in a half hour. And then, unthinkably, the prize was snatched away. My climbing partner got sick, probably from the rapid gain of altitude, and we made the tough decision to turn back without summiting. I knew it was the right thing to do, but it didn’t ease the disappointment. 
The following weekend marked my last day out in January 2018. The weather was awful everywhere, so I went skiing with my brother at Crystal Mountain, hoping for the minuscule taste of being in the mountains that resort skiing typically brings me. Sadly, there was none to be found. We stood in line to get ski lift tickets, to rent skis, to rent boots, to catch the ski lift, to buy a disgusting lunch at the lodge -we did more standing in line than skiing. I’m honestly incapable of grasping why people enjoy resort skiing...I love cross-country skiing and the feeling of being in nature, gliding along in the woods, but all that standing in line to go down some slopes in five minutes and then freeze my ass off on a ski lift for twenty minutes...it beggars the imagination. And all for the modest price of a hundred and fifty dollars! If I ever seriously get into skiing, it’ll definitely be backcountry.
I’d hoped to at least see Mount Rainier that day, to admire its beautiful summit crater and wistfully think back on the few steps I’d been lucky enough to once take there. Only Little Tahoma stuck out of the fog, as if my favorite hill was giving me the middle finger. It pretty much summed up the month.
Now I know what you’re thinking at this point: are you done bitching yet? And I don’t blame you; I am bitching, after all. Boohoo, poor me, I can’t go out to play. And that’s just it. I can go out to play. I just haven’t been. Why? Because conditions haven’t been perfect. So what? Am I only going to get out in good weather? Then I picked the wrong state to live in!
Starting today,I’m turning a new leaf, and going back to what I love. It’s not about conquering peaks, or sending a climb, or accomplishing so and so...it’s about being in the mountains. Sometimes that means staying below the tree line because the avalanche danger is too great, but that doesn’t mean you have to stay home. It can also mean going to your favorite crag instead of doing an alpine climb...and wearing gloves in between climbs because it’s forty degrees and the rock is numbing your fingers. Or even going for a nice snowshoe hike knowing full well you won’t find any ice. Or winter-camping somewhere flat and freezing your nuts off for the hell of it!
The point is, unless there’s a bone fide winter storm that actually puts you in danger of severe frostbite if you’re exposed to the elements too long, you can always get outside in some capacity. Today, I’m recommitting to that publicly, because I want to be held accountable, and because life is far too short to spend my weekends not doing what I love...and that’s being in the mountains. Maybe at their feet, maybe somewhere in the middle, and maybe occasionally on a summit. But definitely in their general vicinity, and not on my couch bitching about the forecast.
The mountains are still calling...and this time, goddamnit, I’m goin’!
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