Of First Peaks

Every person has a set of turning points in their lives. First prom, first time winning the game, graduation. I can confidently say that all of these (especially prom) pale in comparison to the experience of reaching my first “true” summit.

On May 23rd of this year I set off with several aspiring mountaineers to ascend our first glaciated peak – Mt. St. Helens. A talus heap in the truest sense of the world and a mere speedbump for most climbers, but it represented 8,365 feet of effort and follow-through.

As the sun set that first night on the mountain, I felt a sense of serenity, calm isolation, and awe unlike anything the desert or the lowlands had ever delivered. I sat on a rocky outcropping with four men with whom I’d developed an amazing sense of trust, and we watched the sun slip beneath the horizon.

Summit day began rather uneventfully. We pulled on our long underwear and stuffed cold feet into our boots and started trudging up to what our leader kept pointing out as the “false summit,” telling us that once we crested it we’d our true goal – the true summit. Progress was slow-going as we kicked steps into the snow and traded off leads.

About three quarters of the way up, I was struck with a terrible thought. What if I’d made a mistake? What if I got to the summit and felt nothing? What if my financial investment in gear, the time I’d spent in conditioning, and all the effort I’d put into dipping my toes in the proverbial waters of mountaineering all culminated in disappointment and the realization that mountain-climbing wouldn’t be my next great passion?

This promptly ended when I, leading our group, crested the “false summit” only to be faced with a giant crater below us, and the knowledge that I’d just summited my first peak. People whipped out their cameras, shook hands, clapped each other on the back.. and I cried. Covertly, of course.

It was an infinitely more magical experience than I’d been prepared for. At that moment I understood why people took the biggest risks imaginable, all in the name of a mountain. I stood in the company of friends and felt proud, overwhelmed, and excited – knowing that I’d found the thing that would consume my thoughts and calendars for years to come.

An Introduction

Hello all!

Over the years I’ve occasionally been hit with the desire to start a public blog devoted to my passion of the moment. Past inspirations have included veganism (ongoing, and likely to come up in this blog, too!) and rugby. Rugby proved too violent and physically damaging, so I’ve switched to the calm and serene hobby of mountain-climbing. The title is drawn from my mountaineering club’s official motto – Nesika Klatawa Sahale. Loosely translated from Chinook it means “We Climb High.”

Despite a minor obsession with gear that all mountaineers quickly acquire, I don’t know nearly enough about the technical aspects of gear to ever review it here, so I’m going to stick with photos, trip reports, and the occasional comment on vegan options for climbs and backpacking trips.

Having grown up as the child of a Foreign Service officer, I spent my time moving around the world every few years. However, my travels took me from the vast dunes of the Persian Gulf to the low-lying swampy climate of Washington, DC to the rolling hills of Indiana where the highest point in the state – Hoosier Hill – clocks in at a whopping 1,257 feet. Mountaineering never once appeared on my radar since mountains were foreign to me – infinitely more remote and terrifying than the sand dunes I scaled and the flights of stairs in the Washington Monument. Once I graduated from college I set off with a good friend of mine to drive from our home state of Virginia to our new, chosen city – Portland, Oregon. Our stops along the way included St. Louis, Missouri where we ended up at the St. Louis Science Center (because that’s what we do for fun). While there, we fell victim to the draw of the Omnimax theatre and watched “The Alps.”

“The Alps” covers the story of John Harlin III who sets out climb the Eiger Nordwand – the route which killed his father 40 years prior. The film included stunning footage of Eiger and a rather chilling story, especially considering the manner of John Harlin II’s death – falling 4,000 feet after his rope snapped near the summit. My friend (now roommate) tells me that she turned to me upon exiting the theater and made a comment about how unhinged a person would have to be to climb mountains. I said I had a new goal in life.

Thus began my continuing affair with mountaineering.

I’m in the early stages of my technical skill development and still walking up “talus heaps” as David Roberts would call them, but every book needs a first chapter.