Moran Again

It has been close to a year since I stopped writing.

I will forever be settled in my heart with the words,

We could have kept going; we could have made it.

The Mountains are my internal battleground, where the quiet whispers of self-doubt internally form, and we go to war. I watch my fears rumble under my skin, see my friends’ excitement and smiles, and watch them push through their pain and struggles as we all laugh at the difficulty and accomplishments.

I heard a quote not long ago.

 “If you want to go fast, go alone; if you want to go far, go with friends.”

Moran!

The weather window kept being pushed back, so the party changed and finally settled with Brad, Nick, and me.

Plan to leave town at 10 pm and start the long journey over the lake by 11pm.

A little late, we start the walks around 11:30.

A sky full of stars, a moonless night; there is to be a meteor shower, and we are excited to see some shooting stars.

It is 6 miles to cross the lake, the distant outline of the Tetons and Moran guiding us.

Light banter, we laugh, purgatory, feeling like we are walking and getting nowhere, the outlines of the mountains, so very slowly get bigger.

It’s spring, and rapid warming is our primary concern; we plan to summit soon after sunrise.

I know how much my little push off the mountain last year affected our fearless leader. Brad, who is not fearless at all, brave in a way, showing us all beautiful experiences and knowing a lot falls on his decisions, route, and timing. Guiding a group is hard, and I want to give everyone a great experience while keeping them safe. For me, letting people down and getting hurt takes up so much mental space; I don’t know how he does it.

Watching me get taken out by a small wall of snow, less than a hundred feet, still weighs on him.

We turn the headlamps off, and the only thing visible is the black outline of the Tetons and the Black silhouette of my companions. This view struck me as beautiful. So simple but with so much meaning

Under this surface is a vast history of adventures, laughs, tears, memories they share, memories we all share; just under these black silhouettes,

I felt like each black figure was a 2-dimensional door I could open into a world of memories they each held. A whole universe lapsed in time, within each of them, too vast for me to comprehend, grateful to be a part of.

We changed course to move into Moran Bay, a group behind us and one rustling in tents that came out early to camp the day before.

We make our way up the initial trees, the “Push Trees,” Weaving through light forest and a few steeper places.

It opens to the clearing, a place I remember from the year before. We are earlier this time, so I cannot make out the immense mass of the mountain in front of me, but I know it’s there.

The temperature has been shifting, and pockets of frigid air come and go.

It’s a little after 2 a.m.; I feel weak. The whispers of self-doubt are beginning to make their first appearances on the edges of my thoughts.

We stopped, snacked, and hydrated; it’s amazing how a little food and water can change your attitude. I was excited about a chicken salad sandwich I had made, but it was frozen, which was disappointing. I ate half of it anyway and learned a bit about sandwich maintenance and midnight lake crossings.

I had given Brad some caffeine and vitamin B energy drops for water a week ago. He gave me a gulp of his creation, and we both said something was wrong. He told me he put both bottles in, and that struck a red flag; I remember the little squeeze bottles saying something like 18 servings, but he said one squeeze per cup; I was not in a mental state to debate the issue, as a cold pocket swept in, and I started shivering. Time to keep moving.

I can’t see much; we are on the mountain, and the red light only shows me a 4-foot radius. Pro and cons of this.

I did not know where I was relative to anything; my mind spun with hope; maybe we were in the Handle, to despair; we had not even gotten to the Basin. I checked my phone at one point to say 4:15, and I knew I still had a long way to go.

We march up; the snow is hard and slick, and I’m fine with just my skin for the first hour. Then it gets steeper as we work over wet slide debris from past warming cycles. I’m slipping every third step, and it’s slowing me down, taking a lot of energy. My team was not far ahead, but I knew I would struggle, so I stopped on a 40-degree icy slope to put on ski crampons.

These were Mattys, and the first time I’d ever used them. Wise personal choice, as I stopped delicately making my way up and could march with the Crampons chomping on the track. I made good time to catch up.

The Basion,

We regrouped; I hope they did not wait long for me, maybe 5 minutes ahead. I kept thinking they were going slow for me, so we did not get too far apart, but also maybe not; perhaps I am getting faster.

Being too slow, I think, is one of the biggest fear for so many of us; the caboose.

Too slow and avalanches hold a similar sense of panic, the social fear of I’m not good enough and I’m not worthy of having people wait for me. Facing that fear holds so many back from even attempting to join.

I have been told I was slow my whole life.

One of my first memories.

Being left behind at a relative’s house as the family went on a day vacation to Victoria Island to see the Gardens. I was maybe 3 years old. Told I could not go because I was too slow, and no one wanted to carry me.

Accidentally making me believe I was too slow and not worth the effort.

I can understand as an adult, but at 3, it began to fracture my sense of self.

Undermine my value, an identity I was given; slow, a burden.

It compounded as an issue and snowballed, gaining mass speed as I grew older. I think Therapists call these “Initial Traumas.” The creation of a filter, how I saw myself within the world. Slow and Burden. So many harmless actions and words were seen through this filter, looking for a reaffirmation of the original belief.

One of the battles I have with myself as I climb these mountains.

Slow at math and reading, to being named “polly polly,” meaning slowly slowly, given by a girlfriend when she would take me to the backcountry. The filter darkens.

How often was I told I was not good enough to go?

No matter how often Brand, Nick, and my friends tell me I’m fine and fast enough, those scares are there and ache like arthritis in my mind.

I took the crampons off as we continued up The Skillet, longer switchbacks and softer snow without the warm slide debris to struggle with.

Still just watching the 2 red lights above me in different places, we continue. The switchbacks are steep and rugged for me. I’m not sliding, but the level of balance and gymnastics I need to accomplish is strenuous and time-consuming.

Finally, after six hours in the dark, sunrise approaches, the black turning to grey, the light slowly lifts our spirits, exhaustion is lingering in the distance of my thoughts, and none of us has had any sleep.

I picked up this mental habit of counting my steps to 100, over and over and over and over. It stops my mind from questioning my capabilities, One two three four, watching my steps, forty-five forty-six, I’m tired, forty-seven for eight.

I can feel part of my brain that wants to complain and start down that spiral, 78,79,80. It is enough to drown it out. I have more mantras for when things are at their worst. But here, it keeps me focused.

Brad and Nick have stopped one switch back up; they are transitioning from skinning to Verts. Small snowshoes that fit with snowboard bindings

We are in the narrow part, the steep Handle. I’m grateful for the change; different mussels and being the caboose have their advantages. My friends make the steps nice and solid so I can catch up quickly.

I rarely see Brad pull back. Something is wrong, so we stop and chat. He said he had been feeling ill most of the morning and could not eat. I can see the “bonk” in his face.

He thinks the caffeine water he drank made his stomach too upset to eat. My guilt for giving him the drops takes over. I passed Nick a few feet below as he grabbed a snack and water.

I climb above and attempt setting the boot pack. It’s over two feet deep and crumbling on a 50%- degree slope. This is miserable hell! Wallowing, it’s called.

I can make it maybe 10 minutes before my body and muscles give out.

This is a testament to how insanely strong Brad is; I keep saying his muscles live in another dimension on his almost 6 foot 140 lb frame.

Sick, with no food and no sleep, he has made it this far, setting the track. He is a machine and a really good man.

The sun peeks over the horizon; we stop to admire where we are, and how far we have come. The beauty of it all.

Nick perks up after some food and takes over. I know he is also growing a few nasty blisters from the lake crossing. So he can’t be feeling terrific. And pushing through foot pain.

We rotate,  I maxed out at 100 steps. But so proud I was even able to help! That’s huge for me; I’m not dying 100 feet below everyone. The joy in being able to help almost equals the absolute suffering this is. So we continue for about an hour, moving too slowly for comfort.

Then we feel it, the sun on our faces and the heat on!

Memories flood; I’m just a few hundred feet above where I was pushed off last year. When the snow got too warm, the sluff came and got me.

I feel ok, miserable but ok. Brad stops, and we talk; it will take at least an hour and a half to summit in this snow. I realize how much last year affected him; he will not chance any rapid warming, as it can go from safe to “Get off the fucking mountain!” in 5 minutes.

Brad had not eaten in 5 hours, Nick was hitting his physical limits, and we still had to get back.

It was not an easy call, but I do not mind stopping and turning back as long as I’m not the one calling for it. The well-being of our group is the priority, not a summit.

I had already summited so many internal mountains. I was so happy to be standing with 2 friends in a beautiful place. And I did not give up on myself; I was able to keep up, kind of help, and was not a burden to the group!

I was just overjoyed to be there; the summit was never the goal. The goal was to spend the day doing hard and beautiful things with people I love to make memories with.

We called it and started the descent. One at a time.

When we got back to the lake,

Brad said we could have made it.

I replied. I’ll take 1,000. “We could have made it.” over one, “We should have turned around!!”

Brad said that was one of the worst conditions he had ever experienced on Moran.

And the Gravity of all of this hit,

Brad: “I don’t know how many more Moran’s I have in me.”

He has summited Moran at least 10 times.

And I was reminded so hard and so fast,

There will always be a last time. The last time to see the sunrise from there, the last time I’ll try and summit that mountain with my friends.

How sad that seems; it made me appreciate sitting in the parking lot, comparing blisters with Nick even more special. Knowing that there will be the last time, we will bitch about how hard that was, looking across the lake, amazed that not long ago, we were right up there. Almost on top of that huge mountain.

For Matty, It’s for you. I try and make you proud and be the friend you would have been! You left some pretty big shoes to fill, buddy!