Mount Moran
Time is a funny thing; I wish people were more aware of its passing, not in the movement of a clock but in a person’s growth. Often enough, time crosses my mind, especially in difficult situations, as in, in a few hours, this will be over.
Skinning back over a frozen Leigh lake, seeing the faint image of my track from 13 hours earlier, a track I made at the beginning of this journey, in the dark of night, lit only by the brilliance of the Milky Way. I had the eery feeling of walking through myself. At that moment, the veil of time felt so thin, like I could almost hear the whispers of this morning’s lake crossing. I could feel the fear, nervousness, and excitement in the air, like walking past someone on a busy street and recognizing them from another life, remanence from another self.
Mount Moran the ominous broad peak in the northern part of the Teton Mountain Range. The Skillet, a wide couloir at the top, opens into a broad face; it looks like a skillet or a shovel from Jackson lake. Six thousand feet of sustained steep, beautiful skiing, one of the 50 classic mountain climbs in North America. And the hardest thing I have tried so far.
I have spent many summers on Jackson Lake with Mount Moran in the backdrop, the Skillet visible and holding snow. Stories from friends on the climb’s difficulty, how scary and deadly it can be, how badass it is to ski. It has weighed on me for years, curious, awe, and wonder. What it would be like, to be someone that could do that. Never in my wildest dreams would this be for me; that would be for athletes and professionals, a separate kind of human better at things than I am. I’m just some girl.
The day before the climb, I tried to stay calm; I had worked this moment up in my mind. I almost said no; I don’t think I can; I was scared. I’ve anticipated the text saying Moran was a go, knowing I had been training for this in a non-training way. The Goal was set last year after Matty’s passing, knowing this was his favorite mountain. I wanted to climb it as a way to be with him in that vailed thinness of time. Knowing he had been here, excited, he had created memories on this mountain and shared laughter and curs words with friends. It’s in these places where memories are created that I think time thins. This is why Brad had been avoiding it all winter; facing the memories. Climbing six thousand feet with a heavy heart. That is a lot to carry up a mountain, walking in both the present and the past, to see a friend.
Crossing Leigh Lake, the astounding beauty of the Milky Way in a moonless sky overshadowed the terrifying realization we are walking on a frozen lake in close to pitch-black darkness. A low level of primal fear rushed through our vines with every step. The sound of the lake ice settling, large womfs like mysterious sea monsters coming to the surface, and back under, the darkness lets the fear sink into your bones. What if it breaks, never far from conscious thought.
In the darkness, we navigate around Moran with no trails, just our phones as a compass, digital guides. Trying to find the best path through the woods, carefully picking our way through uncomfortable underbrush and trees, icy side slipping down to steep boot packing up dark wooded terrain. Physically this is hard; the variation of activity, at least with skinning, you are comfortable with the repetitive movement; this is like gorilla warfare on your body, with no rhyme and reason to what you will be up against next. Finally, a break in the woods, the crescent moon peeks over the horizon, and I see the outline. Moran!
I am not the same person now; after, I know what ‘hard’ really feels like, which is a new place for me. Getting to the base we can barely see the outline of this massive mountain in front of us. My mind is screaming; I don’t think you can do this; this is too big. I was already a bit beat up; I had 4 hours of unrestful sleep, and the alarm went off at 12:05 am. To a cold 8.5-mile bike ride with all my gear and split-board on my pack. Made only possible by the e-bikes, in the darkness crossing String Lake and then Leigh Lake, then the woods around the base of the mountain. We had already traveled over 12 miles.
Brad asks, “how are you?” I just say “I’m doing ok.”
It’s 5:00 am; we start the ascent, wet slide avalanche debris, massive rivers of ice chunks from the past few weeks, like crossing lava fields, but of ice. I often count to 100 over and over to push through difficult climbs; this was different. I was scared; I was doubtful; my mind, in a stern parental tone, “you can’t do this. This voice in my mind always shows its ugly opinions when I face my fears.
I have spent the past four years battling with this voice; I’m familiar with the demons of self-doubt. A never-ending war, me against me, winner takes all. I win some, I lose some, but I’m battle-hardened; I don’t go down easy anymore.
I start an old mantra I’ve used many times, fighting my mind, every step gets a word; practiced at home, on the skin track, familiar like a worn-in pair of shoes. “Strong, confident, capable, beautiful, worthy, deserving. My Mantra, I slowly built over a few years as meditation and practiced hiking Glory. I use to drown out my fears of inadequacy, worthlessness, and failure.
I’m on the climb, watching the sun crest over the horizon, a frozen Jackson Lake, memories of me four years ago, on the boat looking up at this mountain, in wonder at the people that climb these. I feel as though I am looking down at myself, looking up at a version of me I never thought possible. A moment where time felt thin again as if I could reach back and touch her, me from then.
I was a little behind, but I usually am, I’m comfortable here. Before sunrise, we transition to crampons and verts. I am strangely impressed by my boot packing strength. But last in line, I have the most settled steps. I am wearing Matty’s crampons. Pink light on the walls above us as the sun peaks over the horizon. This moment is frozen in my memory. I can bring myself here, time travel in a way. It’s a little fuzzy as I blissfully forget the intensity of my doubt, the pain in my quads, the strange rubbing in my right boot that could take me out if it worsens. I remember telling myself that just saying yes to this was a victory. It was a win over doubt. I could always stop and go back down, I was not going down easy, and I was not going to quit because I wanted to, I would keep going until told to head down.
We had switched back to skinning, the guided group ahead of us had set the track. We are in the handle, they delayed us a bit, standing on the side of the couloir. Waiting for them to descend, they were 2 hours ahead of us, waiting for the fog to clear at the summit—slow going for them as visibility was close to nothing at the top. I wish I could have used that time to catch up or hydrate and fuel; I was not being effective, and the thinning oxygen always makes me weak.
I can’t see the summit, and grateful, as the sun would have warmed things even faster. I am 15 minutes behind the guys, and they are 30 min from the top, about 500 feet. I stopped to get some water and food; my body was weak, tired, knowing we were entering our time window and not at the top. The sun came out, and it was hot. I hear the snow falling from the cliffs around us, the rocks holding the morning heat, melting the new snow off.
I hear it in my mind. Get off the fucking mountain; this is not my negative voice. It is different; I don’t question it. A voice from slightly outside, it’s not entirely mine.
I plan to radio the guys at the next switchback, I think it’s a good time to ask about their status; I can see two of my buddies. On the next kick turn away from the warming cliff wall with the snow falling off it, I will ask if it is safe to continue or if heading down would be best for me. I can hear the danger around me. “Get off this mountain;” maybe it was Matty. I hear more snow release above me from the cliff; it hits the fresh snow in the couloir and grabs momentum and mass as it continues gravity’s path down. I’m in the middle of a kick turn. I see a small bubbly wall of snow, about 10 feet wide little over a foot tall, coming at me.
I brace myself.
I will never underestimate the force of moving snow, like a wave in the ocean; it took me, I can’t see, it’s all white, I am digging for anything solid. Yet, I’m aware and grateful that so far, nothing hurts, and I am still upright. I know this is a steep slope, and I can go a long distance; I thought this could get better or worse; either way, it will be over soon; awareness of time, an unknown future coming at me fast. I feel myself slowing down and crawling to a stop, not buried but having to shake the snow off myself. I traveled perhaps 60 or 80 feet.
I am cold and scared; I’m ok! I yell; I find my radio and reattach the antenna that always detaches. I think to myself; I need to duct tape this. I radio up. I’m ok, just scared, and I’m going to transition and head down.
It took some time to unbury my split board, tangled up, my polls further down.
I hear Ian coming down to check on me; he stops a little above, sending slight snow debris my way; I freeze in terror at the noize, aware that I might have some lingering trauma from this event. I find a safe place, needing to transition quickly, to get down so the rest of the group can descend safely. In a reassuring calm voice, Ian reminds me that slow is safe and safe is fast. The last thing I need is to drop anything down the mountain. I get my board together and shove all my stuff in my backpack.
This mountain is a steep mother, with a maximum slope angle of 50 degrees. I’m sore, weak, and shaking with adrenaline, and now I have to make turns. Fuck I say to myself; each turn, I coach myself through. You are a strong badass bitch; now make that turn. Sheer willing myself down the mountain.
We make it to a safe place; Brandon comes down, watching his beautiful turns; this kid can ride. He stops to let us know he will continue his line. I waited for Brandon to get into a safe location and follow him down; my insides shook, stiff. We watch Brad come down; I know he enjoys the turns and is also concerned about me. We meet up, and just a hug, are you ok?
Yes, I’m ok, just scared. The heat of the sun turned the snow from morning ice to fun slush, it’s a fun ride out.
Regroup, laugh, smile, and tell stories, talking about the almost summit today—all of our struggles and moments of sheer awesomeness. We talk about my push off the mountain and the warming, and we laugh overall. We all look up at Moran in full light, beautiful, lightly aware of time passing; not long ago, we were up there, hidden from our current views. Aware of an unknown impending future that is always coming. We still have 3 hours to get out of here, a long walk, unhurried in the light, and the warm day, filled with funny stories and dumb fuckery, time can move with more ease now. Everyone takes a few moments to check in with me and make sure I am ok. The light-hearted banter on the walk back was healing and reassuring.
We are crossing the lake back the way we came, warm sun, a little slushy; I see our skin tracks, and I can almost hear myself; through the veil of space and time. To the person, I was 12 hours ago. I want to hug her; she is brave for sure. Tell Her I am proud of her. I am curious; I may have heard myself this dark morning crossing the lake, a future self telling me how proud I am, drifted through the thin places in time.
The Mountains Inside 