I COULDN'T REMEMBER the last time I was this cold. The wind was whipping in strong gusts, sneaking down the hood of my shirt and coiling itself around my chest. Another strong gust and the wind lightly powdering my face with bits of icy snow. My left hand was jammed into a crack, my feet were smeared on granite, and with my right hand, I was unsuccessfully trying to work a purple cam into a seam. The cold rock was sucking the warmth from one hand, while the alpine wind was vigorously at work numbing my other hand.
All I wanted to do was pull both my hands away from the rock and under my armpits, into the crotch of my pants, anywhere warm, just for a moment. I looked down at 350 feet of exposure; that would probably be a bad idea. I pulled my attention back to the cam and numbly tried to place it with fingers that had the dexterity of toes. Another strong gust, more snow on my face. I dug my chin into my chest, shrugged my shoulders over my ears, and yelled at the wind “just give me a minute!”
"ADVENTURE TIIIIIIIME" DAN was saying to me as I picked him up after work on a Wednesday. Dan has a kind rhythm to his speech and walk that exude an effortless cool. His deep, gruff voice wouldn’t be out of place as a voice over for a surfer in an animated film. Dan is a fighter, literally. I met Dan while learning Muy Thai and Jiu-Jitsu. We trained together for years, but over time life and distance did to our relationship what it does to most relationships; we lost touch. He went on to train for fights in Mexico, California, and NY. A series of injuries took me out of the sport.
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| Dan on the approach to the East Buttress |
We reconnected through social media and discovered our mutual passion for the mountains. One day over a bowl of noodles Dan casually mentioned wanting to climb Mt Whitney via the East Buttress. Did I want in?
I didn't know much about the mountain, or even what the route involved, so obviously I said yes. Then I leaned on years of sports-related experience to get ready for Whitney: train hard and understand the task at hand. I climbed multiple times a week, built cardiovascular endurance, shed just a few pounds to pull harder, and studied route beta. Four months and a cross-country flight later, I was picking Dan up from work to head to Lone Pine.
Hell yeah, adventure time.
GETTING INTO THE Eastern Sierra from San Diego means traveling on 395. Once you're on that road, you start seeing signs for "Lone Pine," "Bishop," and "Lee Vining." I've spent so much time in the Sierra, simply seeing the names of these towns bring back memories of skiing waist deep powder and gingerly traversing alpine ice, unroped, 500 ft above a glacier. Whenever I see these names, reality and the shell it forces me to create around myself melt away. The names of these humble little mountain towns inspire the humanity in me. They provide a cathartic release from the sometimes crushing weight of civilization, the weight that often turn out to just be balloons inflated with weightless air.
GETTING INTO THE Eastern Sierra from San Diego means traveling on 395. Once you're on that road, you start seeing signs for "Lone Pine," "Bishop," and "Lee Vining." I've spent so much time in the Sierra, simply seeing the names of these towns bring back memories of skiing waist deep powder and gingerly traversing alpine ice, unroped, 500 ft above a glacier. Whenever I see these names, reality and the shell it forces me to create around myself melt away. The names of these humble little mountain towns inspire the humanity in me. They provide a cathartic release from the sometimes crushing weight of civilization, the weight that often turn out to just be balloons inflated with weightless air.
I love the Sierra. As Dan and I were driving on 395 N, the sun was setting to our west, splashing the horizon and mountains with orangish-red, as if a painter was painting the landscape, tripped, and accidentally splashed a coat of orange on the canvas. There was so much possibility in front of us. Would everything go according to plan? Would we epic?
A friend of mine once told me that our lives today are designed for us specifically. Cruise the internet, you see advertisements for things you like. Turn on the TV, just watch the shows you like. Sit down at the office, the furniture is designed for perfect ergonomic posture and work efficiency. I think we all understand this in an intrinsic way, and it bores us.
The mountains, on the other hand, they aren't there to be bought or manufactured. They can't be anything other than what they already are. Nor can we mold them to be a reflection of the life we want. Instead, the mountains serve as a canvas for our honest self-expression. A ballet dancer can only paint the stage with dance and energy because that's what a ballet dancer does. So too can we only be who we truly are in the mountains; anything else is impossible.
The sun had set now, turning the mountains into one-dimensional silhouettes around us. I thought about this. Perhaps this idea is what I was driving towards. Or perhaps this was pulling me towards the mountains. Or perhaps it's much simpler than all that; the mountains are just an awesome place to be.
"YO SAIF, I feel like Shit"
It was one in the morning and the cold mountain air pressed itself on my face. Dan and I were squeezed head to toe in a tent on Iceberg Lake, base camp for most parties attempting routes on Mt Whitney and Mt Russell.
"What's up Dan?" I responded.
"This headache. It's really bad. I think it's this elevation."
"You think you need to head down? Do we need to go down to lower boy scout lake "
"I don't know man, maybe."
"On a scale of one to ten, how much does your head hurt?"
"Seven."
My heart sank. I wanted so badly to summit Whitney. Months of preparation and hard work defeated by altitude sickness. This sucks, I thought to myself. And how would I explain this to my climbing buddies when I got back home, they wouldn't let me hear the end of it. "Elevation getting to you?" they'd say to me as I whipped on a project at the gym. I sighed to myself. Altitude sickness sounds like an excuse until all of a sudden it isn't. I remember being brought to my knees by it the first time I was at elevation. I knew what Dan was going through and how real it was.
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| Saif looking at Mt Whitney's summit |
I dug out my bottle of Advil.
"Take one, you'll feel better in the morning. It happens, some sleep and water and it will wear off." I wasn't sure if I was trying to convince Dan or myself.
Like a nurse eyeing a patient, I watched Dan dutifully swallow the ibuprofen with a quick chug of water. Then I laid back down. I wanted so badly for Dan to be OK. Please, I thought to myself, let Dan be OK in the morning.
"HURRY UP DAN, we need to move bro. We need to get to the summit and down before it gets dark."
"I know man, I know, you don't need to keep telling me" Dan yelled up to me as I belayed him.
Dan's not your little brother Saif, stop treating him like your little brother I told myself. I was getting anxious. We weren't making the kind of progress I had hoped for. The route had stopped being fun and turned into a race to beat the sun and the even colder alpine air it was holding back. Standing there, belaying Dan, there was nothing I could do but barrage him with my anxiety.
"We gotta go, Dan, just keep pushing yourself."
Dan just looked up and stared blankly at me. Eh, I couldn't help myself.
Meeting me at the top of the belay, Dan leaned against the rock. "Dude, do you have another Ibuprofen? This headache is killing me."
I slapped one into his palm and he swallowed it with a chug of water. As he took the gear off my harness and racked them on his sling to take the next lead, I looked up at the sky. The Buttress faces east and had lost all sun; the air was cold, the rock was cold, and we were cold. Working quickly, we both put on all our layers, and I put on my gloves. The next pitch was the hardest on the standard route. It consisted of a hand crack followed by a flake. I took another look at Dan, he was hurting. "I feel drunk," he said.
Dan's eyes showed fatigue. He was swaying slightly and had been bent over with cramps in his forearms, screaming in aggravation at the pain.
Dan excels at climbing hand cracks. I'm not sure I could even follow some of the cracks he could lead. So when I saw Dan approach the hand crack very cautiously, I knew he was in a mental and physical battle with the mountain.
He jammed his left foot and got into the crack, then placed a piece of gear. Watching Dan take the lead, it curred to me there was nothing I could do for him, this was a battle he would have to fight on his own. As I saw Dan work up and left through the crack, ginger movement by ginger movement, I wasn't just watching my friend climb, I was witnessing Dan push through the oppressive conditions the mountain placed on him. He would move, then stop. Shake out the cramps in his arms, let out a low aggravated rumble, plug a piece, then continue moving, continue suffering. Following Dan up the pitch, I noticed how artfully he had placed his protection. He had been able to see through the fog of his overwhelming pain and discomfort to still climb artfully.
It occurred to me that the mountain doesn't care if you're rich, if you went to the best schools, who you know, what grade you climb, or even where in the world you've climbed. What the mountain respects, even requires, is character. Someone with a strong will and positive attitude in the face of challenging and intimidating circumstances to literally rise to the occasion. That's what it means to be an alpinist I thought to myself. What Dan did up there, at 14-thousand-something feet... it was inspiring.
He jammed his left foot and got into the crack, then placed a piece of gear. Watching Dan take the lead, it curred to me there was nothing I could do for him, this was a battle he would have to fight on his own. As I saw Dan work up and left through the crack, ginger movement by ginger movement, I wasn't just watching my friend climb, I was witnessing Dan push through the oppressive conditions the mountain placed on him. He would move, then stop. Shake out the cramps in his arms, let out a low aggravated rumble, plug a piece, then continue moving, continue suffering. Following Dan up the pitch, I noticed how artfully he had placed his protection. He had been able to see through the fog of his overwhelming pain and discomfort to still climb artfully.
It occurred to me that the mountain doesn't care if you're rich, if you went to the best schools, who you know, what grade you climb, or even where in the world you've climbed. What the mountain respects, even requires, is character. Someone with a strong will and positive attitude in the face of challenging and intimidating circumstances to literally rise to the occasion. That's what it means to be an alpinist I thought to myself. What Dan did up there, at 14-thousand-something feet... it was inspiring.
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| Iceberg Lake base camp |
Meeting Dan at the next belay, I could see the the pitch had taken a toll on him. Mentally and physically he was drained.
"I'm not tryin' to be a little bitch. I don't want you to think I can't. I'm trying..."
Dan wasn't completely coherent, but I just placed my hand on his shoulder. Dan is relatively new to alpine routes. Climbing for only two and a half years, this was only his second time at elevation. So much of alpinism is about time in the mountains and experience. Dan was getting a very valuable lesson now, and I'm sure he'd remember it.
"I got you, man. It's just one more pitch then we'll cruise to the summit. I'll take them."
THE LAST FEW pitches were supposedly 4th class moves. Staring at me instead was a 30-foot section of what looked like 5.9 hand crack. I didn't know if this section would take me to the summit, or if there was yet more climbing after. I would later learn that the finish was just around a blind corner from the crack, but in that moment all I saw was an intimidating finish. I felt my nerves wither high in my chest; I don't lead 5.9. Not wanting to be completely overtaken by fear, I shook out my shoulders and arms, pulled off my gloves, and shoved my left foot ankle-deep into the crack. I stood up and lay back with my right hand. Next, I placed my right foot above my left and turned it down to get some friction. I stood up and reached high with my left hand to what looked like a solid hand jam. What I found instead was an awkward jam that was slick. I tried making a fist, I tried keeping my hands straight and shoving my thumb into my palm, I tried a layback. Nothing felt good. I looked down at a potential ground fall, "this isn't good" I thought to myself.
In desperation, I went to reach for my yellow cam, but I had worked myself into an awkward position. My left hip, which had all my hand sizes, was pressed firmly against the rock. Panic was beginning to set in as I tried to finger the cams with my right hand and blindly identify the yellow. I tugged at one, wrong size. I pulled at another, it was pinned between my hip and the rock. I felt my hand jam slip a little. My forearms were starting to cramp. The awkward position was putting a strain on my hip. Oh god, please don't let me fall, I thought to myself, please don't let me fall. Please don't let me fall. I reached up with my hand to resettle my grip. I tried to move my feet and instead felt my body slip. The more I tried to move, the more awkward my position in the crack became.
Once at a seminar, the famous ice climber Will Gadd had said to consider climbing like the health meter on a video game character. Once that health meter starts to drop, you need to think about alternatives or you're in trouble. I knew I was in trouble. I bounced my hip off the face of the rock to catch a glimpse of the yellow cam; I did it again and this time in one fluid motion I pushed back the gate of the carabiner and pulled up the cam from my harness. As the energy in my left arm was expiring, I plugged the cam, slipped the rope through the carabiner, and moved my right hand up to settle myself. Mentally and physically fatigued, I made a few more moves, plugged another piece, and was at the top.
THE LAST FEW pitches were supposedly 4th class moves. Staring at me instead was a 30-foot section of what looked like 5.9 hand crack. I didn't know if this section would take me to the summit, or if there was yet more climbing after. I would later learn that the finish was just around a blind corner from the crack, but in that moment all I saw was an intimidating finish. I felt my nerves wither high in my chest; I don't lead 5.9. Not wanting to be completely overtaken by fear, I shook out my shoulders and arms, pulled off my gloves, and shoved my left foot ankle-deep into the crack. I stood up and lay back with my right hand. Next, I placed my right foot above my left and turned it down to get some friction. I stood up and reached high with my left hand to what looked like a solid hand jam. What I found instead was an awkward jam that was slick. I tried making a fist, I tried keeping my hands straight and shoving my thumb into my palm, I tried a layback. Nothing felt good. I looked down at a potential ground fall, "this isn't good" I thought to myself.
In desperation, I went to reach for my yellow cam, but I had worked myself into an awkward position. My left hip, which had all my hand sizes, was pressed firmly against the rock. Panic was beginning to set in as I tried to finger the cams with my right hand and blindly identify the yellow. I tugged at one, wrong size. I pulled at another, it was pinned between my hip and the rock. I felt my hand jam slip a little. My forearms were starting to cramp. The awkward position was putting a strain on my hip. Oh god, please don't let me fall, I thought to myself, please don't let me fall. Please don't let me fall. I reached up with my hand to resettle my grip. I tried to move my feet and instead felt my body slip. The more I tried to move, the more awkward my position in the crack became.
Once at a seminar, the famous ice climber Will Gadd had said to consider climbing like the health meter on a video game character. Once that health meter starts to drop, you need to think about alternatives or you're in trouble. I knew I was in trouble. I bounced my hip off the face of the rock to catch a glimpse of the yellow cam; I did it again and this time in one fluid motion I pushed back the gate of the carabiner and pulled up the cam from my harness. As the energy in my left arm was expiring, I plugged the cam, slipped the rope through the carabiner, and moved my right hand up to settle myself. Mentally and physically fatigued, I made a few more moves, plugged another piece, and was at the top.
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| Dan on the East Buttress |
In life, rarely do moments in time matter as much as they do on a spicy lead. Rarely in life does something have your attention, demand your attention, the way climbing does.
I looked up; I was now in front of the summit plateau. Four months of training, weekends away from my forgiving wife, training through an injured knee and finishing with my first 5.9 lead at over 14000 feet. I let out a whoop and a howl. In that moment, I was the supreme master of my destiny. Everything, all the anxiety, the worry, the fatigue, it disappeared. I whooped at the valley below. As if to acknowledge my cry and congratulate me, it echoed back to me. Again I howled, louder, incoherently. Everything I felt for the past few hours, past few months, came spilling out in an orgy of emotions. I couldn't tell if I was crying or laughing. Again the mountains and valley acknowledged my summit with an echoing howl. The louder I screamed, the louder the valleys responded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hiker approach me, was I crazy? I didn't care. In that moment, everything I had wanted, everything I had worked for, everything I had suffered for, came into focus and the world made sense. My chest felt light, again I let out another long incoherent whoop. When people tell you to live in the moment, this, I realized, is what they meant. Wild with excitement I inhaled for another whoop.
I looked up; I was now in front of the summit plateau. Four months of training, weekends away from my forgiving wife, training through an injured knee and finishing with my first 5.9 lead at over 14000 feet. I let out a whoop and a howl. In that moment, I was the supreme master of my destiny. Everything, all the anxiety, the worry, the fatigue, it disappeared. I whooped at the valley below. As if to acknowledge my cry and congratulate me, it echoed back to me. Again I howled, louder, incoherently. Everything I felt for the past few hours, past few months, came spilling out in an orgy of emotions. I couldn't tell if I was crying or laughing. Again the mountains and valley acknowledged my summit with an echoing howl. The louder I screamed, the louder the valleys responded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hiker approach me, was I crazy? I didn't care. In that moment, everything I had wanted, everything I had worked for, everything I had suffered for, came into focus and the world made sense. My chest felt light, again I let out another long incoherent whoop. When people tell you to live in the moment, this, I realized, is what they meant. Wild with excitement I inhaled for another whoop.
Then I heard Dan yell up "hey, it's getting cold down here... can you bring me up?"
SOON DAN WOULD meet me at the summit. We'd high five, hug, and congratulate each other. Then we'd have trouble getting down the Mountaineer's route, and have to go down Whitney via the hiker's trail. That would involve appealing to some Germans for a little water and food, hiking 11 miles with the coherence of a zombie, a throat so parched from a lack of water I gagged when I would swallow, and the two of us squeezing into a bivvy for a cold 30 min nap on the side of the trail.
But all that pain that awaited us, that was all in the future. Dan cruised through the hand crack and was meeting me now, just beneath the summit; we both finally relaxed.
"That's the hardest thing I've done in my life," Dan said.
I smiled in agreement. For a moment we were both staring silently into the distance. I was so proud of myself. I was so proud of Dan. In that moment it occurred to me that the route we sent wasn't extremely difficult; we live in an age where athletes are sending 5.14 regularly. I questioned if what I had done really mattered or warranted pride. But it was a fleeting thought. Instantly it was replaced with the euphoria I had a moment ago and pride in what we had done. I decided that was the emotion I wanted to hold onto, not self-doubt. A few weeks later, I would read a passage from the now late Hayden Kennedy's father, Michael Kennedy: "Don’t think about how your life or climbs will look to anyone else. Make choices based on your values, your analysis, your intuition and your dreams.” Dan had a dream to summit Whitney. His became mine. And now on the summit, we had done it.
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