Climbing Shasta

I’m a piss poor navigator. Ask Amber. No matter how many times I’ve been to her house, she has to navigate me out of her neighborhood. Or ask any of the poor souls who’ve asked me for directions and are probably still lost. “You’re going to want to turn where I saw that really cool dog that time…”

But despite my pitiful skills, we’ve there is a navigational beacon that works on even me. I know where Mt, Shasta is. Always. She’s forever been the “never” to my “never eat shredded wheat.” I’m aware when she needs to be in my windshield versus when she needs to be in my rear view mirror. I know how different the mountain looks from different locations. Look at it when you drop into the valley in Anderson on I-5. Look at it again when you’re headed north from Corning. It doesn’t even look like the same mountain. It’s a number of different kinds of gorgeous.

Three years ago today, with a great deal of support, I was able to climb to the very top of it. All 14,180 feet of her. 

The experience was surreal. To be told that it was a task that was in my wheelhouse, I disbelieved. The mountain that I see every day seemed far too daunting to tackle. My mountaineering education included watching Everest documentaries and seeing the annual KRCR news accounts of rescues and recoveries from the climbers of our mountain every summer. 

We decided to do it. I only told a couple people. Only so the kids would know their parents hadn’t run away and Amber so she’d also know that I hadn’t run away. From work.

I didn’t tell my mom. She’d be sure we’d die. 

Aside from Amber, I didn’t tell friends. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to accomplish it.

A guide was hired. Many around here are studly enough to climb without one. But I, like my mom, also kinda thought we would die. 

Our “training” consisted of CrossFit and a singular, 45 minute climb 7 days before the summit trip. 

There was a packing list. Of the numerous things required for the trip, the only thing I owned was sunglasses. Luckily, almost all the needed supplies could be rented.

Pulling up to the guide office was already daunting. Our climbing partners had a freakish level of fitness. They owned gear. They’d traveled from great distances to appreciate the mountain that we take for granted; Corpus Christie, Miami, DC, etc. 

We set out. We hiked roughly 100 hours (obvious exaggeration) with a 50 pound pack (I wish this was an exaggeration) to base camp at Lake Helen. Did I mention I’d NEVER carried a pack other than in school? We set up and learned how to use our ice axes to stop our selves in a slide. While we worked on that, the CHP helicopter “stopped by” for a pick up. Leg injury, if I recall accurately. “Comforting.” 

Bed time was early. We were scheduled to head out at 2 am. Before trying to drift off to slumber, I pointed out to our the small grouping of lights that I believed to be Cottonwood. “I’m pretty sure I can see the boys not using a coaster from here.”  

Sleep didn’t come easily. Throughout the night there was only the sounds of wind and the sound of rocks cascading down the mountain’s face. 

Climbing started long before sunlight. It was difficult to make sense of where I was, or how much progress was being made. Sure, the endeavor takes a degree of physicality, but mostly it was like a marathon. Just keep stepping. So of course, I complained just as much as I do in a marathon. My attention span is not wired for such activity. Nevertheless, just keep stepping. 

I can’t remember how many cliff bars I ate. But, I can remember the peace I felt at the top. They were right. I CAN do it. Hmmm! 

The sky is different. You can almost see the earth curve away. The wind is fierce. There is surprisingly large number of people on the top. It takes nothing away from each person’s victory/celebration/meditation. There are more languages than I can identify. There’s a book to sign. I didn’t. I wanted to be still and bask in the peace. And to take a picture of the Indiana Jones action figure that was carried all the way to the top. “Who was that guy in your group who was wearing the hat?” “Dad, that was my Indiana Jones doll.” In defense of my dad, who expects a 45 yr old to yard a toy to the top of a mountain. And,…it’s a pretty realistic Harrison Ford. 

The trip down had it’s own adventures. 

1) it was light… we could see how f’ing steep it was. So,…there’s that. Our rope full of climbers, at least 400 pounds of it, fell. All buck fifty guide Kenny had assured us that he’d be able to stop us all if we fell. Seeing his beaming smile poking out of his unruly beard made me wonder if he was happy he got to prove that he could, indeed, save our asses. 

2) Glacading is a fancy word for sliding at light speed on your ass down the face of a glacier. Fun for some. Sheer terror for others. I don’t need to tell you which camp I was in, you were probably able to hear me scream from the valley. 

I’ve spent a fair amount of time the last three years telling people they should climb our mountain. There are expert’s who can help you accomplish it. As it sit here and type, I can see the mountain in all it’s majesty. I am thankful that there’s such a prominent reminder of how good accomplishment can feel.