Or, another example. Any episode of Jack Ass. Or, another. Buying size 16 "skinny" jeans. You get the picture.
So, when Larry casually mentioned that we should climb Mt. Adams over a two-day period, I should have stuck to my guns and ran the other way. The conversation started nonchalantly, "Mt. Adams is a really easy climb. I've read that it is really good for beginners." In my head I am thinking...Well, that's good. Considering I haven't climbed any mountain, or the hill behind our house, I guess I would be considered a beginner.
He let me stew on that for a few hours and then he casually mentioned, "If you think you might want to do it, we really need to rent you an ice axe and some crampons."
What? Why the hell would I need an ice axe and crampons? And what the hell are crampons, anyway?
In a very calm, soothing manner he explains that I might need to "self arrest" during a fall down the glacier. The crampons, which strap to the bottom of my hiking boots will keep me from slipping and the ice axe can be used to save myself during an out of control fall to my impending demise.
This really isn't sounding so "beginner-like" to me anymore. Sure, I am flattered that he has so much confidence in me, but seriously? What makes him think I can hike up 12,000 feet and get myself down safely without the help of a rescue crew?
I must have been high because I agreed to this insane adventure. First, we had to hunt for our backpacks that were buried deep in the bowels of our garage, somewhere under the "high school memorabilia" boxes. Once he located mine, I had to remove the Spanish Air luggage tag from the shoulder straps that carbon dated back to 1999 - which was the last time I ever had on a backpack.
We had to take a quick trip down to the Tri-Cities to rent a 2-person tent - one that was suitable for the side of a glacier at 9000+ feet. I was in desperate need of a very warm, sub-zero sleeping bag because this sissy does not like to be cold. And, I had to rent my crampons and ice-axe of course!
We encountered one small hiccup at REI when we found out they gave away the crampons we had reserved. Larry, being extremely resourceful (he was a boyscout after all), managed to locate a man who rents crampons out of his Richland, WA home. When we pulled up to this guy's door, you would have never known he had any love for the outdoors. His lawn was a fire hazard and all of his windows were blacked out and/or had the blinds completely shut. I was a little scared sending Larry in there by himself, but I wasn't about to take my three children in there. We both thought the whole scenario was reminiscent of that scene from Silence of the Lambs at Buffalo Bill's house. After being in there for 15 minutes or so, I finally had to text Larry, "Does Precious want a biscuit?"
Luckily, he escaped without becoming this man's new dress. But, when he showed me our crampons, I about died. Let me explain... Larry's were very state-of-the-art, easy on, easy off crampons. My crampons, however, consisted of these very old, weathered, leather straps that connected to a pair of the rustiest, metal spiky things that looked as if they were the first crampon ever invented. The pictures are below. I'll let you guess which crampons were mine.
So, this was worrisome to say the least. But the plan was already set into motion, and there was no turning back now. We had the gear, we packed our bags, and we were driving to the base at zero-dark-hundred the very next morning.
Once we made it to the Ranger Station, we had to "check-in" and purchase a permit to climb. The Ranger asked,"You have a GPS, right?" Uh. No. She cringed ever so slightly and handed us our forms to fill out. Apparently a few people had gotten lost recently and a GPS device was strongly suggested. Nahhhh. Who needs it? Not this beginner.
When we got to the trail head, Larry handed me my back pack. This felt somewhat like a small adult hanging on my back. Within the first 5 minutes I was thirsty, panting, and seriously doubting whether I was going to pull this off. I think Larry was a little worried to. It turns out, I have an extremely long adjustment period. It takes quite awhile to get my groove on. And you can't really call it a groove.We soon learned that there is "average time" and "Amy time" - it takes me nearly twice as long as the average newbie to go the same distance. But that aside, I did push through it.
I found myself day dreaming about ham and brie sandwiches with spicy honey mustard on a hard baguette. Wouldn't that be nice to eat at base camp? Or, how about a smudge of foie gras on a cracker. Yummo. In between my food daydreaming, I thought about my next eyelash appointment - which was long overdue. I really hoped I the sweat wouldn't adversely affect the last remaining lash extensions that clung to my eyelids for dear life.
We hiked, and hiked, and hiked, and hiked some more. Our goal was to get to about 9000 feet where we would stay the night at the "lunch counter." I thought to myself, "This sounds fabulous!" It just sounded like Mel's Diner. I envisioned Flo serving me hot coffee and powdered doughnuts. And to get there, we had to put on our crampons and pull out our ice axes and hike up Crystal glacier. We reached the lunch counter at about 6 p.m. We did not see Flo. We did not have doughnuts. Instead of coffee, we had water that Larry pumped from a small glacial run-off. And we ate freeze dried spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. My lower abdomen was so sore from carrying that dang pack up the mountain that it felt like my uterus might fall out of my vagina. Hunkered down in our tent, on the side of Mt. Adams, we would awake the next morning to begin our climb to the summit.
We got up early, but probably not as early as we should have. Out in the distance you could see fifty or so stick figures beginning their climb up the false peek. I was definitely nervous and contemplating what the hell I was doing there, but I had made it this far and I was not about to give up.
With my archaic crampons and ice-axe in had, we started for the top. At some point you just start climbing up these ice steps that other's have created before you. First, you throw down your axe into the snow, and then step up as you lean down on the axe to help you take your step up. It is so steep and so high, that I had to take 10 steps at a time and then rest. I repeated this over and over. Annoyingly enough, there seemed to be one buzzing bee by my side the entire climb. It is the only time in my life that I did not flail out of control at the prospect of having a bee near my face.
Did I mention I am afraid of heights?
Did I mention it's near impossible for a woman to pee or poop in any sort of privacy when you are on a glacier?
So, here I was. Ice axe. Crampons. An annoying bee. Vertical ice steps up a steep glacier. I had to pee. The freeze dried spaghetti and meatballs were making me have to poop. And at this point, there was no where else to go but up. Step...one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, REST! I essentially climbed Mt. Adams in 10 step increments with a full bladder and bowel and refused to look down. I couldn't. I was terrified.
But, as they say, what goes up, must come down. The entire trip Larry kept saying how amazing, fun and easy the "down" would be. I didn't really give it too much thought. But, when you take off the crampons - the only thing that makes you feel safe and stable on a body of ice, and you look down from the top of Mt. Adams, it pretty much scared the shit out of me. You don't just walk down either. You "glissade" or slide down on your ass. When you get going out of control, you wield your ice-axe like lumberjack, bury it in the glacier, and pray to GOD it slows you down. This was not as easy as it sounds. I also cannot describe how cold your butt cheeks get and the size and sheer magnitude of the snow wedgie that builds up in your vaginal area. Not so good.
We glissaded down to the lunch counter where we were supposed to break camp, put our packs back on and hike all the way back down the mountain to our car. I wasn't feeling so hot by the time we got back to our tent. Larry was worried that I was both exhausted and experiencing elevation sickness - and I think he was right. I could barely think and I was shuffling my way down the mountain in typical Amy time. On our last little bit of glacier, I tumbled down a steep embankment and did not wield my ice axe correctly. My "self-arrest" occurred by slamming into Larry at the bottom which luckily broke my fall just in time. It was then and there that the mama drama began. I was terrified and started crying. I knew we had so much longer to go and I was feeling horrible. The only good news was the fact that we had made it off of the snow and had hit dry land once again. Teary and practically hysterical, we only had approximately 2 more hours of daylight to get off the mountain.
My skin flushed. I was hot, clammy, and super nauseous. I could only shuffle my feet down the mountain at a snail's pace. And, no, I am not exaggerating! Larry is trying to politely coax me down faster because we were going to be screwed if we didn't get to our car. And then it happened. The "911" of diarrhea emergencies. There is no portapotty. There are very few trees. There is absolutely no privacy. Larry had to re-con the area to find me a suitable rock to sit on. At this point, I didn't care who saw me. I was so sick. And on my way to humiliate myself on this rock, I started vomiting profusely. I couldn't stop. There I was, halfway down Mt. Adams, leaving tiny little bits of myself everywhere- from both ends. I really just wanted Larry to throw that sub-zero REI sleeping bag at me and leave me under a tree. I was in no position to go anywhere.
At about 7000 feet, Larry made a decision that probably saved my life. He carried his backpack on his back, and he carried my backpack on his front. He was literally wedged between two human-sized backpacks so that I could walk a little faster. This went on and on...and on and on. But, it seemed to work. It took us an hour and a half to get to our car from that point. Poor Larry was exhausted, and I was barely feeling better myself.
When we finally reach our car, I was over-joyed. Elated. Amazed. Proud of myself. Grateful for my husband. I felt victorious. Like million bucks! Larry loaded our packs and got in the Jeep. As I mustered the strength to get in the passenger's seat, I looked at him and asked, "So...when do you want to climb Rainier?"
No comments:
Post a Comment