A Second Chance on Pyramid



A Second Chance on Pyramid

Time grows some mountains in the mind, if not in reality. Pyramid Peak is one of those mountains for me. A few years ago, when I started tempting the Colorado high peaks, Pyramid and surrounding loose climbs of Aspen naturally came under my radar. Life in the mountains made me bolder; in time, I walked the knife-edge of Capitol, and soloed the Maroon Bells Traverse. I loved the rugged beauty of the Elks. The splashes of green, brown, red, grey, and white, were unlike any other range I had yet experienced. But I had only seen their faces in summer; and I wondered how the snow would glitter on their terraced features. That's when I read about the dangers of Pyramid Peak, and I was naturally called. It would be a test of my winter skills, a chance to see the white Elks, and an opportunity to grow.



After climbing Long's via the trough a few weeks prior, and having felt confident in my mixed and ice climbing ability from the winter season, I believed that the Pyramid was within grasp. Unable to rope any of my fellow climbing partners into the task, I decided that I would attempt the peak solo. The vast majority of 14ers I have climbed have been solo, involving moderate 5th class terrain when possible; however, I am considerably less experienced in avalanche awareness and safety. Earlier in the winter I bailed on a solo attempt of Mt. Shasta's Caseval Ridge because I believed the snow to be sufficiently instable. Given that I could detect signs of danger, I believed that I would make the right call and return home. By no means did I have a death wish, I simply could not ignore the call to try.



On March 4th, I made the long drive to Aspen from Arvada. I remember the usual fear that I felt before a climb. It gripped me for the majority of the drive, and even prompted me to text my father, confiding in him my concerns. He naturally asked why. I realized at that moment that my fear was not of death, but it was of pain. I was afraid of the loneliness, the cold, the altitude, and the wind. Little did I know, I was about to get a lot more than I bargained for.



Snapshot of Pyramid on the road



Note: I was able to recover the climbing photos from my phone, as only the screen was destroyed in the fall.



Time grows some mountains in the mind, if not in reality. Pyramid Peak is one of those mountains for me. A few years ago, when I started tempting the Colorado high peaks, Pyramid and surrounding loose climbs of Aspen naturally came under my radar. Life in the mountains made me bolder; in time, I walked the knife-edge of Capitol, and soloed the Maroon Bells Traverse. I loved the rugged beauty of the Elks. The splashes of green, brown, red, grey, and white, were unlike any other range I had yet experienced. But I had only seen their faces in summer; and I wondered how the snow would glitter on their terraced features. That's when I read about the dangers of Pyramid Peak, and I was naturally called. It would be a test of my winter skills, a chance to see the white Elks, and an opportunity to grow.After climbing Long's via the trough a few weeks prior, and having felt confident in my mixed and ice climbing ability from the winter season, I believed that the Pyramid was within grasp. Unable to rope any of my fellow climbing partners into the task, I decided that I would attempt the peak solo. The vast majority of 14ers I have climbed have been solo, involving moderate 5th class terrain when possible; however, I am considerably less experienced in avalanche awareness and safety. Earlier in the winter I bailed on a solo attempt of Mt. Shasta's Caseval Ridge because I believed the snow to be sufficiently instable. Given that I could detect signs of danger, I believed that I would make the right call and return home. By no means did I have a death wish, I simply could not ignore the call to try.On March 4th, I made the long drive to Aspen from Arvada. I remember the usual fear that I felt before a climb. It gripped me for the majority of the drive, and even prompted me to text my father, confiding in him my concerns. He naturally asked why. I realized at that moment that my fear was not of death, but it was of pain. I was afraid of the loneliness, the cold, the altitude, and the wind. Little did I know, I was about to get a lot more than I bargained for.Note: I was able to recover the climbing photos from my phone, as only the screen was destroyed in the fall.

DAY 1 - 3/4/17

I started up the winter trailhead in the afternoon. The sun was beating down; there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I felt pretty silly wearing long johns with my ski pants, but tried to compensate by shedding all but my base upper. My plan was to skin up to Crater Lake, where I would dig a snow cave in preparation for an alpine start on Pyramid Peak.



There was heavy traffic on the road that day, snowmobiles, bikers, skiers, and hikers alike. I can't say that it was particularly enjoyable, as I sweat bullets and developed numerous hotspots in my ski boots. I'm a stubborn hiker though, and I didn't treat them until arriving at the summer trailhead where I found that a few nasty blisters were well under way. A quick patch, and I was out again, not wanting to get to my destination after the sun went down.



Enjoying being off the road and on trail



I followed ski tracks past Maroon Lake, and across Crater. The wind had picked up since the summer trailhead, and dusk was falling fast. But even in my haste, the views were breathtaking. The Bells were dripping with snow, frosting their steep faces like icing on a red velvet cake. With the lamplight of the sun in the background, I was fully taken in. And Pyramid stood to my left. It's triangular north face had dominating the views driving in, and as I walked finally the west had revealed itself to me. The west ridge blazed in the last rays of the sun. I imagined myself there, clinging to the rocks and digging my way through the snow. It filled me with fear, and a burning joy.



The beautiful Bells



The North Face of Pyramid



Just beyond the edge of Crater Lake I spied the creators of the track I followed. I speculated as to their destination, and was surprised when they turned right towards the snowfields that separated the Bells. It was too late for a summit push, and there did not appear to be a good site to bivy on the high slopes. But, as much as I may have enjoyed their company on my own route, I prepared myself mentally for the push alone.



I bivied in a patch of trees just south of Crater Lake. As I was digging, I heard a whoop and turned to see a figure racing down the slopes of the Maroon's towards the trailhead. His partner soon followed. As the wind was now blowing snow uncomfortably, I doubled over to finish my crude shelter. Even in good conditions, I tend to be a bit lazy with my snow caves. This one was no exception; but with my bivy sack, bag, and pad, I was plenty comfortable. I boiled water to top off the 2.5 liters I'd planned to take up the mountain, and chomped down on my favorite mountain dish: pesto angel hair pasta. I realized at my camp that I was missing an essential piece of equipment: a knife. I'd used it at the trailhead to slice a bagel, and my best guess was that it had somehow managed to evade my scrutiny as I packed up for departure. It didn't weigh heavily on my mind, and I happily spooned hot noodles into my mouth with my fingers.



Sleep came easy that night.



I started up the winter trailhead in the afternoon. The sun was beating down; there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I felt pretty silly wearing long johns with my ski pants, but tried to compensate by shedding all but my base upper. My plan was to skin up to Crater Lake, where I would dig a snow cave in preparation for an alpine start on Pyramid Peak.There was heavy traffic on the road that day, snowmobiles, bikers, skiers, and hikers alike. I can't say that it was particularly enjoyable, as I sweat bullets and developed numerous hotspots in my ski boots. I'm a stubborn hiker though, and I didn't treat them until arriving at the summer trailhead where I found that a few nasty blisters were well under way. A quick patch, and I was out again, not wanting to get to my destination after the sun went down.I followed ski tracks past Maroon Lake, and across Crater. The wind had picked up since the summer trailhead, and dusk was falling fast. But even in my haste, the views were breathtaking. The Bells were dripping with snow, frosting their steep faces like icing on a red velvet cake. With the lamplight of the sun in the background, I was fully taken in. And Pyramid stood to my left. It's triangular north face had dominating the views driving in, and as I walked finally the west had revealed itself to me. The west ridge blazed in the last rays of the sun. I imagined myself there, clinging to the rocks and digging my way through the snow. It filled me with fear, and a burning joy.Just beyond the edge of Crater Lake I spied the creators of the track I followed. I speculated as to their destination, and was surprised when they turned right towards the snowfields that separated the Bells. It was too late for a summit push, and there did not appear to be a good site to bivy on the high slopes. But, as much as I may have enjoyed their company on my own route, I prepared myself mentally for the push alone.I bivied in a patch of trees just south of Crater Lake. As I was digging, I heard a whoop and turned to see a figure racing down the slopes of the Maroon's towards the trailhead. His partner soon followed. As the wind was now blowing snow uncomfortably, I doubled over to finish my crude shelter. Even in good conditions, I tend to be a bit lazy with my snow caves. This one was no exception; but with my bivy sack, bag, and pad, I was plenty comfortable. I boiled water to top off the 2.5 liters I'd planned to take up the mountain, and chomped down on my favorite mountain dish: pesto angel hair pasta. I realized at my camp that I was missing an essential piece of equipment: a knife. I'd used it at the trailhead to slice a bagel, and my best guess was that it had somehow managed to evade my scrutiny as I packed up for departure. It didn't weigh heavily on my mind, and I happily spooned hot noodles into my mouth with my fingers.Sleep came easy that night.

DAY 2 - 3/5/17

Sad Robot by Pornophonic startled me awake at 3 AM. Always the worst part of a climb, I grumbled to myself as I dusted off my pack and fished out a quick breakfast. I ate in my bag, and when I was finished managed to coax myself from my warm cocoon. I've found that mountaineering never makes much sense to my freshly woken mind. Like dealing with a toddler, reason won't convince it otherwise. It just becomes a matter of will at that point.

In any case, I was up and at it faster than I expected. I still had a short snowfield to cross before I arrived at the west gully of Pyramid, so I opted to keep my skis on and skin across. The wind had died down, and as forecasted the sky was starry and clear. This I knew, would not last. A vicious late afternoon storm was predicted, giving me a hard turnaround time of noon, assuming reasonable conditions held even to that point.



When I arrived at the west gully, pushing through the moose tracked woods that guarded its base, I immediately noticed that it had been hammered by a large, recent avalanche. Cautiously, I skinned up through the deposit at the bottom of the gully, but the snow was very firm and the temperatures still cold. Nonetheless, I wasn't crazy about pushing the next few thousand feet through the gully, or returning via that route for that matter. I reached a small cliff band that bordered the gully towards climbers left, and I decided it was time to stash the skis and search for better terrain. I packed my Scarpa 6000m Phantom Guides for the real climb, simply because I hated cramponing on Long's with my ski boots prior. My feet thanked me in more ways than one for this choice. I tucked my boots, skis and skins into the rock wall, and loaded them down with stones in case the wind picked up. At this point it was consistently blowing, but was quite bearable.



Crampons and my mountaineering boots inspired confidence, and I poked around the gully for safer slopes. After plunging up a steep rise on climber's right, I realized that the mountain just north of the gully was blown clear of snow. Though chossy and loose, it was by far the best way up, and I quickly scooted across the gully and onto solid ground.



From that point on, gaining the northwest ridge was easy. I needed no crampons, and the rocks were relatively stable. The wind continued to blow, but came from the west and therefore gave me an assist uphill. The sun was rising at this point, but already the clouds were rolling in. Since I was still on easy and safe class 2 terrain, I opted to continue and keep a wary eye on the weather.



Near the top of the ridge, the clouds had the peak surrounded. I could still spy the precipitous face of the Maroons and their adjoining ridge, but the rest of the world was disintegrating into white. Peering up at the rocks above, I caught sight of a family of mountain goats nibbling at the barren earth. They watched my slow approach, and in due time deemed that I had entered their personal space. The next time I searched the rocks above, they had vanished.



The Bells on the climb



The top of the ridge revealed the true force of the wind. It whipped around the ridge from the west, threatening to send a careless climber into the amphitheater seated below the tremendous north face of Pyramid. I spent a short time hunkered behind some boulders, and choked down a snack and drink. The real climbing and variability was soon to come.



Windy Northwest Ridge



Looking into the ampitheatre



The so called "rubble gully" that gave access from the northwest ridge onto the west face proper was generously clear of snow. The summer trail had been blown clear, and only at the upper section of the gully would I be forced to travel through snow. When I reached the top of the gully, I came to face a tough decision: whether or not to traverse south to gain access through the chutes above. The trip reports I had read before had not been entirely clear to me; some traversed south while others seemed to push directly up the gully. But I had never ascended the peak in the summer, so I would be forced to rely on personal experience to navigate tricky terrain in the event that the route was non-obvious. I saw a cairn to the south however, and opted to traverse rather than to continue through the rubble gully.



The "rubble gully"



Why you don't want to fall



After the traverse, I found myself at the base of a narrow chute. Though it certainly appeared that the summer route passed through or underneath this chute, it seemed to me to be a bit more technical than 4th class. Not seeing a more obvious alternative, and with the knowledge that winter could bump 4th class into low 5th, I figured I'd give the chute a try. The first 20 feet went easily, but then I encountered a tight chimney. After probing the rock for what seemed like at least a half hour, I knew it was make or break on the route. Noon was still well off, but I knew that if my head wasn't in the right place for this chute (and the possible downclimb of it) that I shouldn't be risking more on the mountain.



The problem was that I wouldn't fit with my backpack on, so I would be forced to push it above me as I squeezed through. It would be awkward, but not very dangerous as I could pretty easily wedge my body in the chimney in the event that I slipped. A downclimb would be similarly awkward, but I felt that it was within my ability. With a proper rack and rope, I wouldn't think twice about continuing.



The wind was not increasing, and the snow was light. I shivered on that ledge and contemplated my options. This was the edge: I would need to commit to the mountain, or retreat to face it another day. Some mountains grow in the mind. Pyramid had grown over the years, and it had grown as I finally ascended its shoulders. It was no longer just a peak; not in my mind that day. This is perhaps my greatest danger: that I should take my love of mountains and their profound analogy, and accept their allusions as the naked truth. That I could find myself by facing fear; that true beauty exists only in the lonely mountains- I'm tempted by this notion always. It is my responsibility to temper it.



I don't know if my decision was wrong, or if I succumbed to the temptation despite rationalizing otherwise. In any case, I would not descend via the west that day.



I decided I would continue. The chimney was awkward, as I anticipated, but before I knew it I had emerged from its confines and was taking deep steps into steep snow. The rest of the chute passed under me slowly, for I frequently had to dig to find stable footing. And the chute was long; longer than I expected. As I was finally topping out of its loose, tricky features, I was pretty confident that I'd taken a more difficult route up the mountain, and my suspicion was confirmed when I stumbled past the summer trail on the wind scoured rocks above. I made a mental note to follow the trail back towards what I assumed would be the Keyhole and proper 4th class headwall crux. In the event that this didn't pan out, I would begrudgingly retrace my steps down the chute.



Armed with the hope that I wouldn't need to face that awkward gully in reverse, I checked the time and tanked up on water for the last major hurdle of the mountain. After navigating some meandering rises, I would have to cross the upper west bowl. It was this crux I had been most concerned for originally, however the windy conditions and lack of recent snow left it in a satisfactory condition. I fought my way up as close as possible to the cliffs that guarded it from above, and then proceeded to pick my way across the snowfield. The snow was deep enough in places to warrant some caution, but it appeared well consolidated. I pushed through until I reached the shortcut known as the JP Sneak. Feeling confident and strong, I scrambled up the short pitch, and was on the summit ridge.



Upper bowl traverse



The time was 11 AM. I was well ahead of my turn around time. The clouds were all around me, and the snow fell lazily. Strangely, the wind was gentle. When I clambered to the top of the ridge, I turned to face the summit. And, right where it should have been, the summit rose above. Only a few more stones guarded its rocky summit. If I had to venture a guess, I would say that it was about 40 feet away, and a class 2-3 scramble to reach. The ascent was basically over. Soon I'd be taking out my phone, and attempting to send off a message to my roommate and parents. I'd be turning back downhill, to retreat from the mountain that had given me permission to climb it.



My goggles were blurry from moisture and snow. I took a few steps, and squinted to see the proper path through the rocks that would lead me to the summit.



Approximate ascent route



I don't honestly know what happened there at the summit ridge. I can only guess that I unwittingly stepped on loose rock, or a cap of snow formed by the wind. I was not deliberately standing near the east edge of the ridge. I don't remember a stumble, or even a sinking feeling as I was about to fall. In the first few seconds, I knew that something was wrong, but recall feeling certain that it would soon be over. Years of feeling my harness tighten, and the soft bungee of a climbing rope, must have taught me that.



My body rolled against the mountainside, and I was not slowing. White flooded my vision as my face must have pressed deep into the snow. I was blind, and could only sense that my body had become a whirlwind of motion. When I first felt the earth disappear, and the air whistle in my ears, I believed that I would die. Fear was too complex an emotion I think to fully comprehend. I don't think that I ever was airborne for more than three seconds, and each time I dropped I believed that soon it would be over. I remember groaning out loud. I remember pleading for the motion to just end. I don't think I could fathom why I was still falling. When there was a stretch of snow I would claw at it, only to be thrown out again over an abyss.



When I remember the fall now, it only comes in bits and pieces. And those pieces are completely non-visual, composed entirely of sound and sensation. Between my involuntary groans and grunts, prompted by the impact of my body against the mountain, there was very little sound except the whine of snow and wind. It was odd when juxtaposed with the chaos rendered upon my body. It was so quiet that I could hear my voice distinctly when I cried out.



I fell for at least half a minute, or equivalently an eternity to my bewildered mind. Then, eternity broke, and the motion slowed. I felt the snow sliding under my chest, and my arms instinctively plunged deep. And it worked; I heard the whine of my waterproof jacket subside, and the snow eased itself under my body. I stopped. I rolled onto my back. That's when the pain hit.



Approximate fall line



I'm not sure which came first to my attention: my arm or my leg. In any case, my right hip blared like a trumpet, and my left elbow felt sickeningly locked out of place. I tried to move it, but it would not respond properly, and so I grabbed my left hand with my right and wrenched my arm around until suddenly the bones rolled back into their socket. Immediately the pain and discomfort stopped, and I breathed a sigh of relief.



The relief was short lived. I was still dazed from the fall, and when I tried to rise to my feet my hip promptly drove me back into the snow from the pain. I placed my left arm out to brace myself, but upon resting weight on it I felt a series of pops and the elbow slid out of place again. Howling and cursing, I worked the arm back into its proper position, and then slumped back into my snow seat.



Through the thin layer of cloud, I could see the opposing valley, and the valley floor a few thousand feet below me. Carefully, I twisted my body around, and looked up the slope I had fallen from. From my low vantage, the upper reaches of the mountain soared into the clouds. I saw only rocky faces, though I did not search for long because on the snowfield above me I spied a light trail of blood that led to my resting place. Immediately I set about probing my body for further injury, but found nothing except the taste of metal in my mouth. A spit and quick check with my tongue revealed that I had merely bitten my cheek.



My mind began to flood with emotions. My last clear memory was of viewing the summit itself; a memory that had been violently ripped apart by the fall. On one hand, I could not believe that I was alive after what appeared to be at least a 1,500 foot fall down rock and snow, and on the other it dawned on me that I was badly hurt on what appeared to be the east side of the mountain, the geography of which I was completely unaware of. On top of that, there was a bitter wind, and my pants were soaking in the soft snow. I was cold, and as the storm settled in I would soon be much colder.



At this point I still believed I would likely die on the mountain, but this time there would be no mercy of a quick death on the rocks. I was enraged that I should survive such a fall, just to succumb to the cold, and I let the wind and surrounding hillsides hear my frustration.



The situation on the surface didn't look great, so I set about taking inventory to see how desperate it really was. First off, upon powering up, my phone flickered green at the edge of its screen, and then refused to show any signs of life. It wasn't likely that I'd have any service anyway, so that was not a major loss. On the fall, I'd lost my technical ice ax, and my mountaineering ax had been stripped away from the outside of my pack. My pack, somewhat miraculously, appeared undamaged. I'd also lost my left glove, and only the ankle strap of my right crampon remained. Later I would discover that my headlamp, which I had left strapped to my helmet, had also been stripped away.



On the positive side, I had an MSR pocket rocket and some fuel, a handful of pills, some emergency repair tools, a compass, my shovel, small hand warmers, food, water, and an emergency bivy sack. It was the plastic kind, more akin to a reflective trash bag than anything else, but already I was counting my blessings. I knew I needed to conserve heat, so I dug out my down jacket and with great effort managed to layer up appropriately. I don't remember how many times I re-dislocated my elbow. It wasn't something I wanted to dwell on.



Sitting directly in the wind and snow isn't terribly comfortable, so my next thought was to find or create shelter while I continued to process my predicament. With my good arm, I started shoveling out the hillside to create a crude snow cave. About halfway through, my brain kicked in and I reconsidered my options. I was in the middle of the loaded east slopes, which could avalanche during the day or night. It was exposed to the elements, and I seriously doubted that I could boil water for more than one night. On the positive side, it was open, and would be an easy spot for search and rescue.



My eyes wandered to the bottom of the valley, and something caught my eye. There, at the very bottom, was a body of water. If frozen, the layer of ice was light, because it cut so distinct an outline in the snow. And if there was open water, I would not need to rely on my stove. With a steady supply, I knew I could last for days in a snow shelter. Water not only combats dehydration, but also frostbite.



The area around the pond was clear, providing an equally plausible location for search and rescue to discover me. The correct decision became obvious: I should build my shelter beside the pond instead of my miserable perch on the mountainside. This of course, left me contemplating its consequence: I would need to somehow transport myself down the remaining slopes of Pyramid.



Standing wasn't an option. I could barely rise on one foot, but any weight on my right hip caused me to collapse from the pain. So, I opted for a controlled glissade. Without an ice ax, and with my injuries, I was pretty wary of the prospect of self-arrest. In my mind, losing control was simply a non-option. Fortunately, the snow was soft enough that it was pretty easy to add friction as needed. Unfortunately, there was too much friction. I let myself slide onto the blade of my shovel. With the handle between my legs, and using my right hand to direct it, I could pull up to reduce friction or plunge the handle downward and brake reliably.



I pulled up, and started to slide. I realized pretty quickly that a continuous slide wasn't an option, no matter how slow it was, because I had very poor rudder control and would risk turning over on my side. Also, in the event that I had to brake, my right foot would sometimes catch in the snow and bend out of alignment, causing me a flood of pain. I must admit, I did learn my lesson the hard way when I was forced to bail on my side to stop from losing control. Neither my hip nor my elbow thanked me.



It seemed a scoot was the only viable option. I would inch my way down the slope, digging my left heel in the snow and jerking my waist forward. Each movement only earned me a few inches of distance, but I tried to put that in the back of my mind as I eyed the few thousand feet of snow below me.



Perhaps needless to say, it took a long time. My movements collected snow over my waist and below, and pretty soon my nether regions were going numb. It didn't help that I was essentially straddling a metal post. I stopped frequently to clear the debris, and cradle my groin which had begun to ache terribly. But, the act of movement was critical for my morale. I knew that even if it took me all day, I'd get to the water. I imagined crawling to its lip and drinking liter after liter. I even started to fantasize that it was a hot spring, and that I'd spend the next few days splashing about until search and rescue found me. After all, how else could there be open water amidst such cold? It made more and more sense as what must have been hours ticked by. Without my phone, and having foolishly left my watch at home, the sun would be my only sense of time.



It was on this leg of my adventure that I discovered the large hole in my helmet, and the loss of my headlamp. Not that I needed further convincing of my extreme fortune in having survived that fall.



When I was just a few hundred feet above the valley floor, I found myself peering over what would prove to be the last vertical obstacle of the mountain. The slope had steepened gradually as I descended, and I had feared that I was about to cliff out. I considered angling my descent, but in the end just decided to hold the course and see how the slope would play out. Sure enough, my suspicions were confirmed when dark bands of rock emerged from the snow. I was dropping right into a steep snow chute, guarded by a tricky network of rocks. I couldn't help but think how fun it would have been on skis.



I continued to inch along until I could no longer slide safely. Climbing out was a pretty unattractive option; I figured that if I could get around a small rock cliff another 20 feet below, then a fall in the chute would not cause additional injury and instead would just spit me out at the bottom of the valley. In the end, that's exactly what happened. I managed to turn into the slope, using my shovel in front of me to dig into the snow while I carefully kneaded my left foot through the surface powder and down the hillside. It was slower than scooting on the shovel, but eventually I found myself skiers left of the little cliff band, with only snow remaining below.



With this small hazard out of the way, I tried quickening my pace. This inevitably resulted in a loss of footing, and with a sinking feeling I surrendered to the pull of gravity. My hope was to ride on my back and let the chute do the work for me, and although this worked for the first 30 feet I soon turned on my side and my arm caught on the slope. I was mercifully close to the end of the chute by then, and in a blur of cursing and shouting I was ejected into the bottom of the valley. At this point fixing my arm was somewhat routine, and I wasted no time working it back into place.



The water was only about a hundred feet away now, but the slope was too shallow to scoot on the shovel. I tried again to stand, but failed. Instead, I rolled on my belly, and gently collected myself onto my knees. With both arms outstretched and gripping my shovel, I could place it in the snow and then support myself while I dragged my knees forward. My right arm was unfortunately not strong enough to support my weight on the still down-turned slope, so my left had to back it up. This, as one might expect, again resulted in a dislocation, but eventually I got the hang of it.



After much effort, at last I crawled to the snowy edge of the pond. To my dismay, about three feet of loose, powdery snow hung over its lip, and the pond itself was about an inch deep and more akin to a frosty marsh. Gone were my fantastical dreams of a hot bath. Not wanting to sink into the water, I carefully broke the edge of the snow bank, and used it to create a more stable foundation. At the break I sat myself upright, and started to dig. My goal was a small cave that would run parallel to the pondside. Because of my elbow's instability and my hip pain, I knew the door would be large, otherwise it would be impossible for me to excavate enough snow to rest comfortably.



My caves are more akin to coffins, and this was no exception. But in the end, I was overjoyed to have enough room to almost completely extend my legs. I took everything snow resistant out of my pack, and donned my remaining warm clothes. I had long johns, water resistant snow pants (which were already soaking wet at this point), a base shirt, a thin fleece, an 800 fill down jacket, a hard shell, and a wooly balaclava. My pack would serve as insulation between my torso and the snow. I opened the bivy, and spread the plastic out inside the cave. It didn't look warm, but it was better than any alternative.



Approximate descent line



To replenish my water, I found that I could not safely approach the pond without the risk of sinking into its marshes. Instead, I used my shovel as a ladle and spooned muddy water into my Nalgenes. I wasn't complaining: to have water at all was a game changer. I'd be dead or rescued before I paid for drinking the dirty water.



With bottles buried in the snow and my bed ready, I worked the boot shells off my feet, opting to keep my liners on. It was a challenge, like anything else, to situate myself in the shelter. But when all was settled, I was just happy for the chance to lie down. I was feeling far more positive about my condition; I firmly believed that I could last the night given my hydration and food availability. And I held the belief that tomorrow the sky would be clear, and I'd hear the blades of the Blackhawk overhead.



It's odd that I can't remember this rather significant detail clearly, but I'm pretty sure I ate a whole bagel in preparation for the night. Energy meant warmth, and I can't recall eating anything else. I'm sure at this point I was pretty hungry, and as the night would prove I was not inclined towards rationing quite yet.



I slept as the snow fell, and as the sun sank below the horizon. But when the temperature began to drop, sleep became difficult. It didn't take long before I was shaking uncontrollably. The temperature in Aspen that night was around 4 degrees Fahrenheit, as I recall. Whatever the specific temperature, I just knew that I was cold. So, I started to boil water. After boiling a pot, I'd transfer its contents into an empty Nalgene, and place that Nalgene between my legs or under my shirt. Doing so probably earned me a few minutes of fitful sleep for each boil, which I was grateful for.



Problem was, I got pretty greedy for warmth, and wasn't taking into account how much fuel I had left. After a few hours of relative comfort, I heard my stove choke and splutter, and the fire died. I placed the last bottle between my legs, and returned my lighter to its waterproof bag. In the back of my mind, I knew that I had just spent my fuel on the warmest portion of the night. But I was in a fitful state of mind, and could only think clearly enough to pop a few pills of Ibuprofen before bracing myself for the long night. And as the cold started to really set in, I became more and more desperate for insulation. I discovered that my boot liners made for excellent props under my legs, and after some finagling my body was completely insulated from the snow.



I've spent a few terrible nights out in the wilderness before. In high school, my friends and I enjoyed stranding ourselves in the mountains with limited supplies. The less we took, the more successful the adventure. We usually had the benefit of a fire, but without sleeping bags or shelter, the night was always a miserable experience. I distinctly remember nights where we were forced to burn our own shelter in an effort to maintain the flame, and we slept so close to the fire that our clothes never survived. One night, on top of freezing in the cold, I managed to get poison oak all over my face. That night was miserable indeed.



Even though this was the worst night I'd spent in the wild to date, I at least wasn't a stranger to the experience. My mind followed a familiar routine, numbing itself to the state of my body, and treating wakefulness as it would a bad dream. Not once did I feel I had to stay awake to survive: my body continued to shake throughout the night, reminding me that I had energy to spare. I honestly don't know if I slept at all. The night was like a flu-induced delirium; it seemed as eternal as my own discomfort. But, that's how a survival night always is.



Sad Robot by Pornophonic startled me awake at 3 AM. Always the worst part of a climb, I grumbled to myself as I dusted off my pack and fished out a quick breakfast. I ate in my bag, and when I was finished managed to coax myself from my warm cocoon. I've found that mountaineering never makes much sense to my freshly woken mind. Like dealing with a toddler, reason won't convince it otherwise. It just becomes a matter of will at that point.In any case, I was up and at it faster than I expected. I still had a short snowfield to cross before I arrived at the west gully of Pyramid, so I opted to keep my skis on and skin across. The wind had died down, and as forecasted the sky was starry and clear. This I knew, would not last. A vicious late afternoon storm was predicted, giving me a hard turnaround time of noon, assuming reasonable conditions held even to that point.When I arrived at the west gully, pushing through the moose tracked woods that guarded its base, I immediately noticed that it had been hammered by a large, recent avalanche. Cautiously, I skinned up through the deposit at the bottom of the gully, but the snow was very firm and the temperatures still cold. Nonetheless, I wasn't crazy about pushing the next few thousand feet through the gully, or returning via that route for that matter. I reached a small cliff band that bordered the gully towards climbers left, and I decided it was time to stash the skis and search for better terrain. I packed my Scarpa 6000m Phantom Guides for the real climb, simply because I hated cramponing on Long's with my ski boots prior. My feet thanked me in more ways than one for this choice. I tucked my boots, skis and skins into the rock wall, and loaded them down with stones in case the wind picked up. At this point it was consistently blowing, but was quite bearable.Crampons and my mountaineering boots inspired confidence, and I poked around the gully for safer slopes. After plunging up a steep rise on climber's right, I realized that the mountain just north of the gully was blown clear of snow. Though chossy and loose, it was by far the best way up, and I quickly scooted across the gully and onto solid ground.From that point on, gaining the northwest ridge was easy. I needed no crampons, and the rocks were relatively stable. The wind continued to blow, but came from the west and therefore gave me an assist uphill. The sun was rising at this point, but already the clouds were rolling in. Since I was still on easy and safe class 2 terrain, I opted to continue and keep a wary eye on the weather.Near the top of the ridge, the clouds had the peak surrounded. I could still spy the precipitous face of the Maroons and their adjoining ridge, but the rest of the world was disintegrating into white. Peering up at the rocks above, I caught sight of a family of mountain goats nibbling at the barren earth. They watched my slow approach, and in due time deemed that I had entered their personal space. The next time I searched the rocks above, they had vanished.The top of the ridge revealed the true force of the wind. It whipped around the ridge from the west, threatening to send a careless climber into the amphitheater seated below the tremendous north face of Pyramid. I spent a short time hunkered behind some boulders, and choked down a snack and drink. The real climbing and variability was soon to come.The so called "rubble gully" that gave access from the northwest ridge onto the west face proper was generously clear of snow. The summer trail had been blown clear, and only at the upper section of the gully would I be forced to travel through snow. When I reached the top of the gully, I came to face a tough decision: whether or not to traverse south to gain access through the chutes above. The trip reports I had read before had not been entirely clear to me; some traversed south while others seemed to push directly up the gully. But I had never ascended the peak in the summer, so I would be forced to rely on personal experience to navigate tricky terrain in the event that the route was non-obvious. I saw a cairn to the south however, and opted to traverse rather than to continue through the rubble gully.After the traverse, I found myself at the base of a narrow chute. Though it certainly appeared that the summer route passed through or underneath this chute, it seemed to me to be a bit more technical than 4th class. Not seeing a more obvious alternative, and with the knowledge that winter could bump 4th class into low 5th, I figured I'd give the chute a try. The first 20 feet went easily, but then I encountered a tight chimney. After probing the rock for what seemed like at least a half hour, I knew it was make or break on the route. Noon was still well off, but I knew that if my head wasn't in the right place for this chute (and the possible downclimb of it) that I shouldn't be risking more on the mountain.The problem was that I wouldn't fit with my backpack on, so I would be forced to push it above me as I squeezed through. It would be awkward, but not very dangerous as I could pretty easily wedge my body in the chimney in the event that I slipped. A downclimb would be similarly awkward, but I felt that it was within my ability. With a proper rack and rope, I wouldn't think twice about continuing.The wind was not increasing, and the snow was light. I shivered on that ledge and contemplated my options. This was the edge: I would need to commit to the mountain, or retreat to face it another day. Some mountains grow in the mind. Pyramid had grown over the years, and it had grown as I finally ascended its shoulders. It was no longer just a peak; not in my mind that day. This is perhaps my greatest danger: that I should take my love of mountains and their profound analogy, and accept their allusions as the naked truth. That I could find myself by facing fear; that true beauty exists only in the lonely mountains- I'm tempted by this notion always. It is my responsibility to temper it.I don't know if my decision was wrong, or if I succumbed to the temptation despite rationalizing otherwise. In any case, I would not descend via the west that day.I decided I would continue. The chimney was awkward, as I anticipated, but before I knew it I had emerged from its confines and was taking deep steps into steep snow. The rest of the chute passed under me slowly, for I frequently had to dig to find stable footing. And the chute was long; longer than I expected. As I was finally topping out of its loose, tricky features, I was pretty confident that I'd taken a more difficult route up the mountain, and my suspicion was confirmed when I stumbled past the summer trail on the wind scoured rocks above. I made a mental note to follow the trail back towards what I assumed would be the Keyhole and proper 4th class headwall crux. In the event that this didn't pan out, I would begrudgingly retrace my steps down the chute.Armed with the hope that I wouldn't need to face that awkward gully in reverse, I checked the time and tanked up on water for the last major hurdle of the mountain. After navigating some meandering rises, I would have to cross the upper west bowl. It was this crux I had been most concerned for originally, however the windy conditions and lack of recent snow left it in a satisfactory condition. I fought my way up as close as possible to the cliffs that guarded it from above, and then proceeded to pick my way across the snowfield. The snow was deep enough in places to warrant some caution, but it appeared well consolidated. I pushed through until I reached the shortcut known as the JP Sneak. Feeling confident and strong, I scrambled up the short pitch, and was on the summit ridge.The time was 11 AM. I was well ahead of my turn around time. The clouds were all around me, and the snow fell lazily. Strangely, the wind was gentle. When I clambered to the top of the ridge, I turned to face the summit. And, right where it should have been, the summit rose above. Only a few more stones guarded its rocky summit. If I had to venture a guess, I would say that it was about 40 feet away, and a class 2-3 scramble to reach. The ascent was basically over. Soon I'd be taking out my phone, and attempting to send off a message to my roommate and parents. I'd be turning back downhill, to retreat from the mountain that had given me permission to climb it.My goggles were blurry from moisture and snow. I took a few steps, and squinted to see the proper path through the rocks that would lead me to the summit.I don't honestly know what happened there at the summit ridge. I can only guess that I unwittingly stepped on loose rock, or a cap of snow formed by the wind. I was not deliberately standing near the east edge of the ridge. I don't remember a stumble, or even a sinking feeling as I was about to fall. In the first few seconds, I knew that something was wrong, but recall feeling certain that it would soon be over. Years of feeling my harness tighten, and the soft bungee of a climbing rope, must have taught me that.My body rolled against the mountainside, and I was not slowing. White flooded my vision as my face must have pressed deep into the snow. I was blind, and could only sense that my body had become a whirlwind of motion. When I first felt the earth disappear, and the air whistle in my ears, I believed that I would die. Fear was too complex an emotion I think to fully comprehend. I don't think that I ever was airborne for more than three seconds, and each time I dropped I believed that soon it would be over. I remember groaning out loud. I remember pleading for the motion to just end. I don't think I could fathom why I was still falling. When there was a stretch of snow I would claw at it, only to be thrown out again over an abyss.When I remember the fall now, it only comes in bits and pieces. And those pieces are completely non-visual, composed entirely of sound and sensation. Between my involuntary groans and grunts, prompted by the impact of my body against the mountain, there was very little sound except the whine of snow and wind. It was odd when juxtaposed with the chaos rendered upon my body. It was so quiet that I could hear my voice distinctly when I cried out.I fell for at least half a minute, or equivalently an eternity to my bewildered mind. Then, eternity broke, and the motion slowed. I felt the snow sliding under my chest, and my arms instinctively plunged deep. And it worked; I heard the whine of my waterproof jacket subside, and the snow eased itself under my body. I stopped. I rolled onto my back. That's when the pain hit.I'm not sure which came first to my attention: my arm or my leg. In any case, my right hip blared like a trumpet, and my left elbow felt sickeningly locked out of place. I tried to move it, but it would not respond properly, and so I grabbed my left hand with my right and wrenched my arm around until suddenly the bones rolled back into their socket. Immediately the pain and discomfort stopped, and I breathed a sigh of relief.The relief was short lived. I was still dazed from the fall, and when I tried to rise to my feet my hip promptly drove me back into the snow from the pain. I placed my left arm out to brace myself, but upon resting weight on it I felt a series of pops and the elbow slid out of place again. Howling and cursing, I worked the arm back into its proper position, and then slumped back into my snow seat.Through the thin layer of cloud, I could see the opposing valley, and the valley floor a few thousand feet below me. Carefully, I twisted my body around, and looked up the slope I had fallen from. From my low vantage, the upper reaches of the mountain soared into the clouds. I saw only rocky faces, though I did not search for long because on the snowfield above me I spied a light trail of blood that led to my resting place. Immediately I set about probing my body for further injury, but found nothing except the taste of metal in my mouth. A spit and quick check with my tongue revealed that I had merely bitten my cheek.My mind began to flood with emotions. My last clear memory was of viewing the summit itself; a memory that had been violently ripped apart by the fall. On one hand, I could not believe that I was alive after what appeared to be at least a 1,500 foot fall down rock and snow, and on the other it dawned on me that I was badly hurt on what appeared to be the east side of the mountain, the geography of which I was completely unaware of. On top of that, there was a bitter wind, and my pants were soaking in the soft snow. I was cold, and as the storm settled in I would soon be much colder.At this point I still believed I would likely die on the mountain, but this time there would be no mercy of a quick death on the rocks. I was enraged that I should survive such a fall, just to succumb to the cold, and I let the wind and surrounding hillsides hear my frustration.The situation on the surface didn't look great, so I set about taking inventory to see how desperate it really was. First off, upon powering up, my phone flickered green at the edge of its screen, and then refused to show any signs of life. It wasn't likely that I'd have any service anyway, so that was not a major loss. On the fall, I'd lost my technical ice ax, and my mountaineering ax had been stripped away from the outside of my pack. My pack, somewhat miraculously, appeared undamaged. I'd also lost my left glove, and only the ankle strap of my right crampon remained. Later I would discover that my headlamp, which I had left strapped to my helmet, had also been stripped away.On the positive side, I had an MSR pocket rocket and some fuel, a handful of pills, some emergency repair tools, a compass, my shovel, small hand warmers, food, water, and an emergency bivy sack. It was the plastic kind, more akin to a reflective trash bag than anything else, but already I was counting my blessings. I knew I needed to conserve heat, so I dug out my down jacket and with great effort managed to layer up appropriately. I don't remember how many times I re-dislocated my elbow. It wasn't something I wanted to dwell on.Sitting directly in the wind and snow isn't terribly comfortable, so my next thought was to find or create shelter while I continued to process my predicament. With my good arm, I started shoveling out the hillside to create a crude snow cave. About halfway through, my brain kicked in and I reconsidered my options. I was in the middle of the loaded east slopes, which could avalanche during the day or night. It was exposed to the elements, and I seriously doubted that I could boil water for more than one night. On the positive side, it was open, and would be an easy spot for search and rescue.My eyes wandered to the bottom of the valley, and something caught my eye. There, at the very bottom, was a body of water. If frozen, the layer of ice was light, because it cut so distinct an outline in the snow. And if there was open water, I would not need to rely on my stove. With a steady supply, I knew I could last for days in a snow shelter. Water not only combats dehydration, but also frostbite.The area around the pond was clear, providing an equally plausible location for search and rescue to discover me. The correct decision became obvious: I should build my shelter beside the pond instead of my miserable perch on the mountainside. This of course, left me contemplating its consequence: I would need to somehow transport myself down the remaining slopes of Pyramid.Standing wasn't an option. I could barely rise on one foot, but any weight on my right hip caused me to collapse from the pain. So, I opted for a controlled glissade. Without an ice ax, and with my injuries, I was pretty wary of the prospect of self-arrest. In my mind, losing control was simply a non-option. Fortunately, the snow was soft enough that it was pretty easy to add friction as needed. Unfortunately, there was too much friction. I let myself slide onto the blade of my shovel. With the handle between my legs, and using my right hand to direct it, I could pull up to reduce friction or plunge the handle downward and brake reliably.I pulled up, and started to slide. I realized pretty quickly that a continuous slide wasn't an option, no matter how slow it was, because I had very poor rudder control and would risk turning over on my side. Also, in the event that I had to brake, my right foot would sometimes catch in the snow and bend out of alignment, causing me a flood of pain. I must admit, I did learn my lesson the hard way when I was forced to bail on my side to stop from losing control. Neither my hip nor my elbow thanked me.It seemed a scoot was the only viable option. I would inch my way down the slope, digging my left heel in the snow and jerking my waist forward. Each movement only earned me a few inches of distance, but I tried to put that in the back of my mind as I eyed the few thousand feet of snow below me.Perhaps needless to say, it took a long time. My movements collected snow over my waist and below, and pretty soon my nether regions were going numb. It didn't help that I was essentially straddling a metal post. I stopped frequently to clear the debris, and cradle my groin which had begun to ache terribly. But, the act of movement was critical for my morale. I knew that even if it took me all day, I'd get to the water. I imagined crawling to its lip and drinking liter after liter. I even started to fantasize that it was a hot spring, and that I'd spend the next few days splashing about until search and rescue found me. After all, how else could there be open water amidst such cold? It made more and more sense as what must have been hours ticked by. Without my phone, and having foolishly left my watch at home, the sun would be my only sense of time.It was on this leg of my adventure that I discovered the large hole in my helmet, and the loss of my headlamp. Not that I needed further convincing of my extreme fortune in having survived that fall.When I was just a few hundred feet above the valley floor, I found myself peering over what would prove to be the last vertical obstacle of the mountain. The slope had steepened gradually as I descended, and I had feared that I was about to cliff out. I considered angling my descent, but in the end just decided to hold the course and see how the slope would play out. Sure enough, my suspicions were confirmed when dark bands of rock emerged from the snow. I was dropping right into a steep snow chute, guarded by a tricky network of rocks. I couldn't help but think how fun it would have been on skis.I continued to inch along until I could no longer slide safely. Climbing out was a pretty unattractive option; I figured that if I could get around a small rock cliff another 20 feet below, then a fall in the chute would not cause additional injury and instead would just spit me out at the bottom of the valley. In the end, that's exactly what happened. I managed to turn into the slope, using my shovel in front of me to dig into the snow while I carefully kneaded my left foot through the surface powder and down the hillside. It was slower than scooting on the shovel, but eventually I found myself skiers left of the little cliff band, with only snow remaining below.With this small hazard out of the way, I tried quickening my pace. This inevitably resulted in a loss of footing, and with a sinking feeling I surrendered to the pull of gravity. My hope was to ride on my back and let the chute do the work for me, and although this worked for the first 30 feet I soon turned on my side and my arm caught on the slope. I was mercifully close to the end of the chute by then, and in a blur of cursing and shouting I was ejected into the bottom of the valley. At this point fixing my arm was somewhat routine, and I wasted no time working it back into place.The water was only about a hundred feet away now, but the slope was too shallow to scoot on the shovel. I tried again to stand, but failed. Instead, I rolled on my belly, and gently collected myself onto my knees. With both arms outstretched and gripping my shovel, I could place it in the snow and then support myself while I dragged my knees forward. My right arm was unfortunately not strong enough to support my weight on the still down-turned slope, so my left had to back it up. This, as one might expect, again resulted in a dislocation, but eventually I got the hang of it.After much effort, at last I crawled to the snowy edge of the pond. To my dismay, about three feet of loose, powdery snow hung over its lip, and the pond itself was about an inch deep and more akin to a frosty marsh. Gone were my fantastical dreams of a hot bath. Not wanting to sink into the water, I carefully broke the edge of the snow bank, and used it to create a more stable foundation. At the break I sat myself upright, and started to dig. My goal was a small cave that would run parallel to the pondside. Because of my elbow's instability and my hip pain, I knew the door would be large, otherwise it would be impossible for me to excavate enough snow to rest comfortably.My caves are more akin to coffins, and this was no exception. But in the end, I was overjoyed to have enough room to almost completely extend my legs. I took everything snow resistant out of my pack, and donned my remaining warm clothes. I had long johns, water resistant snow pants (which were already soaking wet at this point), a base shirt, a thin fleece, an 800 fill down jacket, a hard shell, and a wooly balaclava. My pack would serve as insulation between my torso and the snow. I opened the bivy, and spread the plastic out inside the cave. It didn't look warm, but it was better than any alternative.To replenish my water, I found that I could not safely approach the pond without the risk of sinking into its marshes. Instead, I used my shovel as a ladle and spooned muddy water into my Nalgenes. I wasn't complaining: to have water at all was a game changer. I'd be dead or rescued before I paid for drinking the dirty water.With bottles buried in the snow and my bed ready, I worked the boot shells off my feet, opting to keep my liners on. It was a challenge, like anything else, to situate myself in the shelter. But when all was settled, I was just happy for the chance to lie down. I was feeling far more positive about my condition; I firmly believed that I could last the night given my hydration and food availability. And I held the belief that tomorrow the sky would be clear, and I'd hear the blades of the Blackhawk overhead.It's odd that I can't remember this rather significant detail clearly, but I'm pretty sure I ate a whole bagel in preparation for the night. Energy meant warmth, and I can't recall eating anything else. I'm sure at this point I was pretty hungry, and as the night would prove I was not inclined towards rationing quite yet.I slept as the snow fell, and as the sun sank below the horizon. But when the temperature began to drop, sleep became difficult. It didn't take long before I was shaking uncontrollably. The temperature in Aspen that night was around 4 degrees Fahrenheit, as I recall. Whatever the specific temperature, I just knew that I was cold. So, I started to boil water. After boiling a pot, I'd transfer its contents into an empty Nalgene, and place that Nalgene between my legs or under my shirt. Doing so probably earned me a few minutes of fitful sleep for each boil, which I was grateful for.Problem was, I got pretty greedy for warmth, and wasn't taking into account how much fuel I had left. After a few hours of relative comfort, I heard my stove choke and splutter, and the fire died. I placed the last bottle between my legs, and returned my lighter to its waterproof bag. In the back of my mind, I knew that I had just spent my fuel on the warmest portion of the night. But I was in a fitful state of mind, and could only think clearly enough to pop a few pills of Ibuprofen before bracing myself for the long night. And as the cold started to really set in, I became more and more desperate for insulation. I discovered that my boot liners made for excellent props under my legs, and after some finagling my body was completely insulated from the snow.I've spent a few terrible nights out in the wilderness before. In high school, my friends and I enjoyed stranding ourselves in the mountains with limited supplies. The less we took, the more successful the adventure. We usually had the benefit of a fire, but without sleeping bags or shelter, the night was always a miserable experience. I distinctly remember nights where we were forced to burn our own shelter in an effort to maintain the flame, and we slept so close to the fire that our clothes never survived. One night, on top of freezing in the cold, I managed to get poison oak all over my face. That night was miserable indeed.Even though this was the worst night I'd spent in the wild to date, I at least wasn't a stranger to the experience. My mind followed a familiar routine, numbing itself to the state of my body, and treating wakefulness as it would a bad dream. Not once did I feel I had to stay awake to survive: my body continued to shake throughout the night, reminding me that I had energy to spare. I honestly don't know if I slept at all. The night was like a flu-induced delirium; it seemed as eternal as my own discomfort. But, that's how a survival night always is.

DAY 3 - 3/6/17

As the temperatures began to rise with the morning, sleep finally found me. Occasionally, I'd awaken and peer out of my shelter, only to be dismayed by the unrelenting snow and clouds. I knew that today there would be no helicopter. But that did not stop me from shouting or blowing my backpack whistle at every slight sound that broke the norm.



I nibbled on half a summer sausage between naps. It was a luxury item, purchased only because a close friend had recently sent me a Safeway gift card. Other than that, I had a cliff bar and three packets of tuna. All things considered, it was a pretty good stock of food, and I was content to wait out the storm in my cave.



I love reading stories of mountaineering strength and survival. A recent book I'd read, -148, retold the story of the first winter ascent of Denali. A group of three were forced to spend eight days cramped in a hasty snow cave near the summit, waiting out 100+ mile an hour winds and temperatures dropping below minus 148 degrees Fahrenheit. While I rested in that cave, their story spun in my mind. I felt that if they could survive such rotten conditions, then surely I could as well. It gave me hope, which was precious.



I knew that I had fallen on the east side of the mountain. What I didn't know was the geography of this side of the mountain, though I dimly remembered reading that a ski descent was possible from the east face. I had no map; I'd saved images of the route and area with my phone, but that was now useless. Although printing a map used to be standard practice for me, I'd become complacent over time and found my memory to be more than adequate. Now, the result of this typically harmless habit was life threatening.



That map would have been very handy, because I was now considering escape from the valley. On my scoot the day before, it had crossed my mind as an option until I reached the bottom of the valley. Unable to walk, and without a steep enough grade, movement was pretty much limited to a crawl. Given that I was already soaking wet, wallowing in deep snow for hours seemed a poor choice.



If I could manage to walk, then I stood a reasonable chance at self-rescue. From the approach on the Maroon Lake Road, I recalled how the road diverged into the west valley and trailhead from a larger, north to south running valley. In this valley, there was running water. I suspected that the east side of Pyramid Peak was a short valley that must feed directly into the larger, primary valley I had approached in. And given that I had running water at my cave, and there was running water below, I was certain that I'd have a steady supply for the trek. If I could reach that primary valley and get to the road, the chances were pretty high that I could catch a snowmobiler or skier on an afternoon hike, saving me about 5 extra miles to the winter trailhead.



If everything I was assuming was correct, then I probably had 4-ish miles to hike if I wanted to reach the road. Possibly, I had more, if this valley did not feed directly to the junction with the Maroon Lake trailhead. The fact that I could recall there being a ski descent helped bolster my confidence, because I know how skiers hate taking a long way around (after all, that's not really the point).



As comfortable as I was in my cave, a few things were weighing on my mind. I knew by now my family and friends would be worried sick. Although I believed I could last for some time, I hated the thought of them coming to terms with my death. Also, they would have called in search and rescue, who would naturally scour the west ridge to no avail. It was risky for them, and worst of all it was futile.



I also had no idea what the weather was going to do, and at the moment I had strength to spare. It seemed a terrible waste to whittle away my valuable energy in a cave, where I would inevitably start developing frostbite and other potential maladies. Additionally, I thought that movement would help me to dry. Everything on me was damp; sleeping in what amounts to a tubular space blanket traps all the moisture and produces condensation. If I stayed in that cave, I'd never dry out.



My final thoughts were probably a product of fear alone: I thought that search and rescue would not find me here. I am not familiar with search and rescue techniques and policies, but after a few days a missing climber is in all likelihood dead. I thought that if the bad weather held, or efforts to the west became too dangerous, the effort would be called off. Furthermore, I had fallen off what was perhaps the most unlikely slope of the mountain. Literally the only place I could have fallen off the east face was in the last ~100 feet to the summit. It seemed implausible, even to me, that if a climber successfully navigated the technical aspects of the mountain he could still fall off its maximally class 3 summit ridge. If I sat around waiting, it was to me grotesquely within the realm of possibility that I would never be found.



Another famous mountaineering story, told in Touching the Void, played out in my mind. Even with significant injury, and a pace limited to that of a crawl, just the will to survive was enough to save the life of Joe Simpson in the Andes after a terrifying fall into a crevasse. It inspired hope in me, and prompted me to test my limits. It was in the afternoon that I first put on my boots and tenderly rose to my feet. My arm was still unstable, and I couldn't use it without risking dislocation. But my legs felt stronger beneath me, and I could place enough weight on my right hip to take a quick step with my left. It still hurt, but was not the same blinding pain I had felt the day before.



Initially I felt encouraged, but when I looked at the deep snow around me and tried a few timid steps up the nearby snow bank, my confidence expired. It just didn't seem plausible to plunge step for miles with an injured hip. I had no idea what the extent of my injury was, only that it seemed to be limited to my right hip and was most painful with sideways pressure or torque. Defeated, I refilled my Nalgenes, including the bottle I'd used for urine the night before, and wriggled back into my cave.



The snow had paused briefly for my little excursion, but quickly resumed when I had nestled back into my shelter. I watched the snow morosely, wondering how long I would be confined to this cave, and if ever I would be discovered alive. I thought that maybe if I waited another night, my condition would continue to improve. But another voice told me that such a thought was foolish: I was in a survival situation, and the longer I remained outside, the weaker I would become. These thoughts bickered against one another in my mind for hours as I battled to silence both and gain precious sleep.



In the end, the battle was won not by rationality but by emotion. It is usually a surge of feeling that prompts me into action when indecision has plagued my mind. It was a strong feeling that goaded me into pushing my way through the chimney, when perhaps a better route existed just around the corner. I know that emotions should not serve as guides in the mountains; they have the ability to fly up in the face of actual fact. But when the facts are confused, or imprecise, or contradictory, how then can we make decisions? Part of the beauty of the mountains can be found in their uncertainty. Inevitably, even the most practical climber must come to terms with their feelings. Fear, confidence, pain, joy: they are all an integral part of the mystical experience the mountains offer us. I climb because it is an emotional experience. I climb because I love the interplay of these feelings as I navigate the mountain and myself. It's a complete story, all wrapped up into a brief outing.



Should I have stayed, and waited for search and rescue? I know now that they were planning to visit the east valley, and would in all likelihood have crossed my path. But in the moment, all I felt was an insatiable urge to continue to move. Survival, to me, meant movement. Movement too, meant returning to those I loved sooner, and saving them from unnecessary grief.



Anger is a powerful motivator, and I became enraged at my condition, and my passivity. Before I knew what I was doing, I had strapped up my boot shells, and was wriggling out of my shelter and into the falling snow. I uncovered my buried gear, and jammed them back into my frosty pack. Carefully threading the left strap over my shoulder, I was able to avoid another elbow dislocation. It felt good to have my home on my shoulders again.



I faced the snow bank again, and using my shovel as a cane with my gloved right hand, took a few careful steps into it. I winced at the sparks that shot up my hip in protest, but so great was my anger and emotion that it was easily ignored. It was difficult to place weight on my right hip for long, so I developed a limp that eventually granted me access over the bank and onto flat snow. I turned right, and faced down canyon. The mountains ran all the way down, and disappeared into the clouds. I could not see any obvious diversion to the west, but tried not to dwell on the thought as I placed each step before the next.



My pace was absurdly slow, but it was all I could do not to stumble while plunging through the soft upper layer of snow. On average, each step probably sank me to only my calf, and for that I was grateful. Furthermore, I discovered that as I continued to move, the pain had become surprisingly manageable. As long as I focused on maintaining proper form and position, my mind was sufficiently distracted from the discomfort. Years of hiking will teach anyone how to put mind over matter. Putting in 12+ hour days on blistering feet, screaming knees, and starved lungs had been training enough. Frankly, it was far from the worst pain I had been in during a hike.



That of course, was only true while the conditions were good and I did not stumble. As I followed the creek which for periods dived under a blanket of powder, the snow would occasionally swallow me up. If and when I plunged past my knees, sometimes up to my hip, I would flop and flounder to free myself, all the while shouting and cursing in anger and pain. Anyone who has boot packed in deep snow knows its frustration. Now imagine doing it with a broken hip and unstable left arm, and only a shovel for additional support.



I think I walked for a few hours that evening, and likely managed between a quarter to a half mile of distance. When the sun dropped over the ridge and dusk closed in, I knew that I had to quit for the day and produce another shelter. I hadn't seen running water for some time, but I had water remaining and decided there wasn't enough time to go searching. Without a headlamp, darkness was pretty much a curtain call on any activity.



Approximate hike on Monday



I dug into a bank that faced away from the wind, under a large tree. I wanted this shelter to have a narrower doorway to conserve heat, so I thought I'd try to dig the cave perpendicular to the slope. I've never had formal training on snow caves, and mine leave a lot to be desired. With only one good arm, and basically unable to lie on either side, I pretty quickly realized that I wasn't going to be able to dig deep enough to stretch out all the way. Unfortunately, I didn't realize this faster than the sun set, so I had to cut my losses. On top of that, after a feeble attempt to wriggle into my cave to continue excavation at the back end, I managed to cave in a third of the shelter.



With the last remaining rays of light, I prepped the unfinished cave for sleep. Again my backpack and boot shells would serve as insulation, while the bivy sack would shield me from the snow and reflect my body heat. To my great disappointment, the sack now had tears down both its sides, a product of the day's clumsy attempts to get in and out of my shelters. It was like a sleeping bag, if the bag had two zippers stuck open and was paper thin. So basically, not much like a sleeping bag at all. I hoped that at least the extra ventilation would keep the bag from collecting as much condensation.



When I slipped into the shelter, I found that even with my legs curled up into a fetal position, my head still stuck out of the doorway. I couldn't move without knocking into the walls or ceiling. Exhausted, I jammed my water bottles into the snow by my head, and tucked the corners of my bivy sack in to ward off the wind, which was mercifully light. I had no fuel for boiling water; my last defense would be the hand warmers I still carried.



To give myself the energy I would need for the night, I chewed down my frozen cliff bar. I don't know why I keep buying those things, I always hate eating them. The night cold settled in right away, and the shivering began. It would not stop that night, and it was more violent than I've ever experienced before. Still, my mind somehow managed to sink into that familiar, delirious defense.



My body cramped and ached from maintaining that sideways, fetal position. It also turns out that boot shells are not very comfortable to rest on with the full weight of one's legs. Still, it again never occurred to me that I had to stay awake to stay alive. My shivering was so intense that I was actually pretty confident of my remaining strength. What did give me pause however, was the numbness I felt in my toes. Water, through sweat and wicking snowmelt through my long johns, had saturated my socks. There wasn't anything I could do to fix it, except for jamming two hand warmers down into my socks. To my disappointment, it didn't help. On top of that, my right glove was completely damp, and my hand becoming quite chilled. I opted to remove the glove, and warm the hand as I had done the left by retracting it in my clothes or slipping it within the layers of my upper body.



What actually became worse than the shivering was my thirst. Out of sloppiness, I didn't fully bury my water, and I polished off what remained in my first thinking that I would have a full 1.5 remaining for the rest of the night. Well, as I should have expected, that bottle froze up. I was out of water, and already dehydrated. As the night progressed, that thirst grew. I would suck on the frozen neck of the bottle, or chip at it with my teeth to produce a hole with which the remaining dribbles of water would flow. After I had gleaned what water still remained, I turned to the inside of my bivy sack. With much cursing and unintelligible muttering, I probed for condensation, licking it off the bag where I could. Needless to say, it did not satiate.



That night sucked.



As the temperatures began to rise with the morning, sleep finally found me. Occasionally, I'd awaken and peer out of my shelter, only to be dismayed by the unrelenting snow and clouds. I knew that today there would be no helicopter. But that did not stop me from shouting or blowing my backpack whistle at every slight sound that broke the norm.I nibbled on half a summer sausage between naps. It was a luxury item, purchased only because a close friend had recently sent me a Safeway gift card. Other than that, I had a cliff bar and three packets of tuna. All things considered, it was a pretty good stock of food, and I was content to wait out the storm in my cave.I love reading stories of mountaineering strength and survival. A recent book I'd read, -148, retold the story of the first winter ascent of Denali. A group of three were forced to spend eight days cramped in a hasty snow cave near the summit, waiting out 100+ mile an hour winds and temperatures dropping below minus 148 degrees Fahrenheit. While I rested in that cave, their story spun in my mind. I felt that if they could survive such rotten conditions, then surely I could as well. It gave me hope, which was precious.I knew that I had fallen on the east side of the mountain. What I didn't know was the geography of this side of the mountain, though I dimly remembered reading that a ski descent was possible from the east face. I had no map; I'd saved images of the route and area with my phone, but that was now useless. Although printing a map used to be standard practice for me, I'd become complacent over time and found my memory to be more than adequate. Now, the result of this typically harmless habit was life threatening.That map would have been very handy, because I was now considering escape from the valley. On my scoot the day before, it had crossed my mind as an option until I reached the bottom of the valley. Unable to walk, and without a steep enough grade, movement was pretty much limited to a crawl. Given that I was already soaking wet, wallowing in deep snow for hours seemed a poor choice.If I could manage to walk, then I stood a reasonable chance at self-rescue. From the approach on the Maroon Lake Road, I recalled how the road diverged into the west valley and trailhead from a larger, north to south running valley. In this valley, there was running water. I suspected that the east side of Pyramid Peak was a short valley that must feed directly into the larger, primary valley I had approached in. And given that I had running water at my cave, and there was running water below, I was certain that I'd have a steady supply for the trek. If I could reach that primary valley and get to the road, the chances were pretty high that I could catch a snowmobiler or skier on an afternoon hike, saving me about 5 extra miles to the winter trailhead.If everything I was assuming was correct, then I probably had 4-ish miles to hike if I wanted to reach the road. Possibly, I had more, if this valley did not feed directly to the junction with the Maroon Lake trailhead. The fact that I could recall there being a ski descent helped bolster my confidence, because I know how skiers hate taking a long way around (after all, that's not really the point).As comfortable as I was in my cave, a few things were weighing on my mind. I knew by now my family and friends would be worried sick. Although I believed I could last for some time, I hated the thought of them coming to terms with my death. Also, they would have called in search and rescue, who would naturally scour the west ridge to no avail. It was risky for them, and worst of all it was futile.I also had no idea what the weather was going to do, and at the moment I had strength to spare. It seemed a terrible waste to whittle away my valuable energy in a cave, where I would inevitably start developing frostbite and other potential maladies. Additionally, I thought that movement would help me to dry. Everything on me was damp; sleeping in what amounts to a tubular space blanket traps all the moisture and produces condensation. If I stayed in that cave, I'd never dry out.My final thoughts were probably a product of fear alone: I thought that search and rescue would not find me here. I am not familiar with search and rescue techniques and policies, but after a few days a missing climber is in all likelihood dead. I thought that if the bad weather held, or efforts to the west became too dangerous, the effort would be called off. Furthermore, I had fallen off what was perhaps the most unlikely slope of the mountain. Literally the only place I could have fallen off the east face was in the last ~100 feet to the summit. It seemed implausible, even to me, that if a climber successfully navigated the technical aspects of the mountain he could still fall off its maximally class 3 summit ridge. If I sat around waiting, it was to me grotesquely within the realm of possibility that I would never be found.Another famous mountaineering story, told in Touching the Void, played out in my mind. Even with significant injury, and a pace limited to that of a crawl, just the will to survive was enough to save the life of Joe Simpson in the Andes after a terrifying fall into a crevasse. It inspired hope in me, and prompted me to test my limits. It was in the afternoon that I first put on my boots and tenderly rose to my feet. My arm was still unstable, and I couldn't use it without risking dislocation. But my legs felt stronger beneath me, and I could place enough weight on my right hip to take a quick step with my left. It still hurt, but was not the same blinding pain I had felt the day before.Initially I felt encouraged, but when I looked at the deep snow around me and tried a few timid steps up the nearby snow bank, my confidence expired. It just didn't seem plausible to plunge step for miles with an injured hip. I had no idea what the extent of my injury was, only that it seemed to be limited to my right hip and was most painful with sideways pressure or torque. Defeated, I refilled my Nalgenes, including the bottle I'd used for urine the night before, and wriggled back into my cave.The snow had paused briefly for my little excursion, but quickly resumed when I had nestled back into my shelter. I watched the snow morosely, wondering how long I would be confined to this cave, and if ever I would be discovered alive. I thought that maybe if I waited another night, my condition would continue to improve. But another voice told me that such a thought was foolish: I was in a survival situation, and the longer I remained outside, the weaker I would become. These thoughts bickered against one another in my mind for hours as I battled to silence both and gain precious sleep.In the end, the battle was won not by rationality but by emotion. It is usually a surge of feeling that prompts me into action when indecision has plagued my mind. It was a strong feeling that goaded me into pushing my way through the chimney, when perhaps a better route existed just around the corner. I know that emotions should not serve as guides in the mountains; they have the ability to fly up in the face of actual fact. But when the facts are confused, or imprecise, or contradictory, how then can we make decisions? Part of the beauty of the mountains can be found in their uncertainty. Inevitably, even the most practical climber must come to terms with their feelings. Fear, confidence, pain, joy: they are all an integral part of the mystical experience the mountains offer us. I climb because it is an emotional experience. I climb because I love the interplay of these feelings as I navigate the mountain and myself. It's a complete story, all wrapped up into a brief outing.Should I have stayed, and waited for search and rescue? I know now that they were planning to visit the east valley, and would in all likelihood have crossed my path. But in the moment, all I felt was an insatiable urge to continue to move. Survival, to me, meant movement. Movement too, meant returning to those I loved sooner, and saving them from unnecessary grief.Anger is a powerful motivator, and I became enraged at my condition, and my passivity. Before I knew what I was doing, I had strapped up my boot shells, and was wriggling out of my shelter and into the falling snow. I uncovered my buried gear, and jammed them back into my frosty pack. Carefully threading the left strap over my shoulder, I was able to avoid another elbow dislocation. It felt good to have my home on my shoulders again.I faced the snow bank again, and using my shovel as a cane with my gloved right hand, took a few careful steps into it. I winced at the sparks that shot up my hip in protest, but so great was my anger and emotion that it was easily ignored. It was difficult to place weight on my right hip for long, so I developed a limp that eventually granted me access over the bank and onto flat snow. I turned right, and faced down canyon. The mountains ran all the way down, and disappeared into the clouds. I could not see any obvious diversion to the west, but tried not to dwell on the thought as I placed each step before the next.My pace was absurdly slow, but it was all I could do not to stumble while plunging through the soft upper layer of snow. On average, each step probably sank me to only my calf, and for that I was grateful. Furthermore, I discovered that as I continued to move, the pain had become surprisingly manageable. As long as I focused on maintaining proper form and position, my mind was sufficiently distracted from the discomfort. Years of hiking will teach anyone how to put mind over matter. Putting in 12+ hour days on blistering feet, screaming knees, and starved lungs had been training enough. Frankly, it was far from the worst pain I had been in during a hike.That of course, was only true while the conditions were good and I did not stumble. As I followed the creek which for periods dived under a blanket of powder, the snow would occasionally swallow me up. If and when I plunged past my knees, sometimes up to my hip, I would flop and flounder to free myself, all the while shouting and cursing in anger and pain. Anyone who has boot packed in deep snow knows its frustration. Now imagine doing it with a broken hip and unstable left arm, and only a shovel for additional support.I think I walked for a few hours that evening, and likely managed between a quarter to a half mile of distance. When the sun dropped over the ridge and dusk closed in, I knew that I had to quit for the day and produce another shelter. I hadn't seen running water for some time, but I had water remaining and decided there wasn't enough time to go searching. Without a headlamp, darkness was pretty much a curtain call on any activity.I dug into a bank that faced away from the wind, under a large tree. I wanted this shelter to have a narrower doorway to conserve heat, so I thought I'd try to dig the cave perpendicular to the slope. I've never had formal training on snow caves, and mine leave a lot to be desired. With only one good arm, and basically unable to lie on either side, I pretty quickly realized that I wasn't going to be able to dig deep enough to stretch out all the way. Unfortunately, I didn't realize this faster than the sun set, so I had to cut my losses. On top of that, after a feeble attempt to wriggle into my cave to continue excavation at the back end, I managed to cave in a third of the shelter.With the last remaining rays of light, I prepped the unfinished cave for sleep. Again my backpack and boot shells would serve as insulation, while the bivy sack would shield me from the snow and reflect my body heat. To my great disappointment, the sack now had tears down both its sides, a product of the day's clumsy attempts to get in and out of my shelters. It was like a sleeping bag, if the bag had two zippers stuck open and was paper thin. So basically, not much like a sleeping bag at all. I hoped that at least the extra ventilation would keep the bag from collecting as much condensation.When I slipped into the shelter, I found that even with my legs curled up into a fetal position, my head still stuck out of the doorway. I couldn't move without knocking into the walls or ceiling. Exhausted, I jammed my water bottles into the snow by my head, and tucked the corners of my bivy sack in to ward off the wind, which was mercifully light. I had no fuel for boiling water; my last defense would be the hand warmers I still carried.To give myself the energy I would need for the night, I chewed down my frozen cliff bar. I don't know why I keep buying those things, I always hate eating them. The night cold settled in right away, and the shivering began. It would not stop that night, and it was more violent than I've ever experienced before. Still, my mind somehow managed to sink into that familiar, delirious defense.My body cramped and ached from maintaining that sideways, fetal position. It also turns out that boot shells are not very comfortable to rest on with the full weight of one's legs. Still, it again never occurred to me that I had to stay awake to stay alive. My shivering was so intense that I was actually pretty confident of my remaining strength. What did give me pause however, was the numbness I felt in my toes. Water, through sweat and wicking snowmelt through my long johns, had saturated my socks. There wasn't anything I could do to fix it, except for jamming two hand warmers down into my socks. To my disappointment, it didn't help. On top of that, my right glove was completely damp, and my hand becoming quite chilled. I opted to remove the glove, and warm the hand as I had done the left by retracting it in my clothes or slipping it within the layers of my upper body.What actually became worse than the shivering was my thirst. Out of sloppiness, I didn't fully bury my water, and I polished off what remained in my first thinking that I would have a full 1.5 remaining for the rest of the night. Well, as I should have expected, that bottle froze up. I was out of water, and already dehydrated. As the night progressed, that thirst grew. I would suck on the frozen neck of the bottle, or chip at it with my teeth to produce a hole with which the remaining dribbles of water would flow. After I had gleaned what water still remained, I turned to the inside of my bivy sack. With much cursing and unintelligible muttering, I probed for condensation, licking it off the bag where I could. Needless to say, it did not satiate.That night sucked.

DAY 4 - 3/7/17

I was awake with the dawn, because I never really slept. That night, I watched as the clouds blew out of the valley, and the stars took their places in the sky. The day would be windier than the day before, but the sun was already coming out in full force. I was eager to catch some rays and tank up on water, so it was with very little hesitation that I returned my boot shells to my feet and packed up my bag.



Today, walking was easier than before. I found my rhythm; a meticulous right step followed by an abrupt plunge with my left. I fixed my attention on reachable targets ahead of me, and enjoyed small victories upon reaching them. Despite this, I couldn't help but notice the mountain group to my left, and how they infuriatingly refused to budge. My pace was ridiculously slow, but there wasn't much I could do about it.



When I tried zipping up my left pant leg's built-in gaiter, it stuck. My fingers were still chilly, and I was reaching the point of obstinacy, so I just left it flapping wide open as I walked. I hoped that my boot gaiter would keep most of the moisture away from my foot, but this was wishful thinking. It quickly became a frozen blob of ice and snow surrounding my calf. But the weather was so pleasant that it could not put a damper on my spirits, which had begun to soar. I maintained optimism even when I tripped on a slope, and fell heavily on my side- dislocating my elbow again. After a bit of floundering and screaming, I managed to find my footing in the deep snow and continue my march.



I hungrily watched as the sun drew a line on the east side of the valley. After a short distance from my cave, I stumbled upon a pond. Ducks played at its edge while I carefully made my way to the edge of its tributary. The snow still created a three to four-foot bank that dropped steeply into the water, and I had to tread extremely carefully so not to break its edge and crash into the water. My technique was to first break the bank, and prod it into the river so that it would not surprise me on my way down. Then I would gently knead my feet downslope, until they sank to the level of the river and hopefully found purchase on river stones. Because I couldn't squat easily, I usually took to dropping my bottles in the water and fishing them out with my shovel when full. I used one bottle to fill the other since it had a larger strap that I could hook with my shovel handle.



I drank to my heart's content before moving out from the pond. I had a good vantage of the valley at this point, and I spent some time searching for a sign of the larger valley I suspected my own fed into. To my dismay, it seemed that the valley ran indefinitely. Doubt swirled in my mind; I knew my hypothesis was reasonable, but that didn't stop me from second guessing each premise and conclusion. So unsettling was it, I even checked my compass several times, each time out of skepticism from the last. When fear is behind the wheel, it becomes hard to think straight. I was so afraid that my lack of geographical knowledge would strand me, without energy to spare, far from the slopes where a helicopter might search. Nevertheless, I kept walking.



The hours rolled by slowly. When I had reached an open space in the valley, the sun finally crossed my path. I spread open my layers, and removed my hard shell. It was the first bit of direct sunlight I had felt in three days, and it was wonderful indeed. I filled my water at the river once more.



As the day progressed, I began to see a number of airplanes pass over the valley. Although that helicopter still refused to show itself, I began to devise ways in which I might catch a pilot's eyes. I tried using my stove as a reflector, before realizing that my flayed bivy was like an orange and silver flag. When I heard the sound of turbines overhead, I'd drop my pack, extract the bivy, and start waving it like a madman. It didn't work, but I thought it was the best idea I had. Starting a signal fire might have been an option, if my stove wasn't out of fuel and if I hadn't left my knife in the car. I did take the time to stamp out an SOS in 30-foot lettering. I have no idea if it was big enough to see, but the less I had to walk, the better.



Although I continued to try and flag down each passing plane, a more immediate problem soon developed. My right glove was wet, from the previous night and likely from handling the water I retrieved from the river. Even though the air felt warm, that warmth was relative. A wind still blew, and the combination of cold air and wind was enough to freeze my glove to my hand. The ability to ignore pain and discomfort is powerful, but there is a reason our body protests. As I gripped the shovel with my right hand, and the fingers gradually froze, I didn't even notice.



I stopped when I realized I could no longer move my fingers. The glove was frozen, so I tried bending the fingers to loosen them. I stuck a fingertip in my mouth and bit down- I felt nothing. Worry consumed me, and I worked at the glove until it and the liner popped off. Each finger, from the tip to around the first knuckle, was a bluish grey. I had frostbite. I couldn't believe it: after two nights in the snow, I got frostbite because I left a wet glove on during the day. On top of that, I still had two handwarmers in my pack, and the hand without a glove was perfectly fine. Sometimes, I suppose, lessons are learned the hard way.



Now that I was in the sunlight, I could remove layers comfortably. I took my beanie, and wrapped my right hand in it for warmth. I still needed the shovel for support, so my hand couldn't retire just yet. I honestly had no idea how severe the frostbite was, but I was even more motivated now to escape the valley. I didn't think my hand would survive another night in its current state.



I plodded on. As I walked, I talked to myself, to my grandfather, and even to a God I hoped was listening. And then, I saw a sign. Literally, I saw a wooden sign sticking out of the snow. It had an arrow, and was engraved with one word: ‘trail. My spirits soared. Some shadows of doubt still roamed in my mind, wondering how long this trail might be, or where it terminated. But I finally had concrete evidence that I was far from nowhere. What was more, I followed the sign, and identified the trail through the woods. Although still fully covered in snow, it marked a gentle path that was clear of debris or pitfalls. I would remain approximately on this trail for the remainder of my hike, only deviating significantly near the end.



I kept walking. When I was hungry, I ate from the tuna packets I still had left. When I was thirsty, water was available to drink. The sun was on my shoulders, and I wore only a base layer. I was in a good mood, and as I searched down the valley I even thought I saw a junction where another valley split to the west from my own. If that was the path of the road, it meant that the valley I currently walked in was the primary I had approached in. As I thought more about it, it made more and more sense. The compass heading agreed; and I became convinced that this trail would lead me directly to the junction with the road.



My progress was still infuriatingly slow, and I was forced to process my new hypothesis for hours before it would be confirmed. The trail ran on the east side of the valley, turning high above the river. If the road was where I thought it was, I would have to cross the river to reach the road. The trail would almost certainly cross using a bridge, but I didn't like how far above the river it currently ran. It was becoming more and more apparent that the trail would not cross for some time. I of course, was as eager as possible to reach the road before sundown in the hopes that a hiker or skier might find me.



The trail continued on the steepening east side of the valley. As I walked I caught glimpses of the other side through the trees. In time, the adjoining valley I suspected came into view. Sure enough, I spotted maroon splattered mountain tops in the other valley. Eventually, even the shoulders of the Bells crept into view. The road was just across the valley- I knew I would reach it today.



The trail paralleled the road for much longer than I anticipated. When I finally broke out of a patch of trees, and reached an open space with signs that seemed to point in counter-intuitive directions, I decided I'd had enough of the trail and was going to cross the river below. I plunged down the steep snow, and navigated the tricky terrain until I reached the river bank. Unfortunately, the point I had chosen was virtually un-crossable. On a hunch I wandered upstream, and was rewarded when I found a large pond with a snow-covered dam