On August 31st I climbed Mount Blanca, 14,345 feet above sea level, overlooking the beautiful San Luis Valley of Colorado. Mount Blanca, White Shell Mountain, is sacred to the Navajo, the Dine, people. She is the transitioning woman. Sacred Mother. I wanted to honor her, to connect with her.
I had heard that the view from the top looked like a woman's body.
I had heard that Adams State students and faculty had been climbing her since the 1920s.
I knew Search and Rescue personnel who almost died rescuing and recovering bodies from the Blanca Massif.
I set out that day to have a spiritual experience, to be open to possibilities, to experience love.
I mediated on the strong women who live in this part of the world; surely we could find a way to see these women as assets to Adams State, to the veterans organizations to which I belong, to our communities, our schools.
The women here are amazing--people climb mountains with their grandmothers. Women deliver calves and lambs in the middle of the night and make it to their 9 to 5 job the following morning. Women hold families together in these tough winds, these tough economies. There is hunger, poverty, cancer, drought, and there are women who hold everything together.
I climbed this mountain, alone. I started with a partner, but we went at different paces. As we neared the top, the winds howled, she continued moving ahead, and I froze in place. I was 400 vertical feet from the summit and could see her ahead, looking back at me. She was within a few feet of the summit. I waved to her, waved her on: "go ahead. Summit." I wasn't sure if I was going to go any farther. Perhaps 13,980 ft was going to be my personal summit that day, and that was just fine. It is good to honor one's limits. It is good to feel safe, to stop when one needs to.
The wind at the saddle between two peaks funneled all of the energy of the cirque up and over that lip; it blew so hard that the snot was blown horizontally out of my nose. I sat there for several minutes as climbers passed me. I couldn't seem to find my way--I couldn't see the cairns ahead of me or below me. My mind started playing tricks on me--I had been hearing voices that my partner didn't hear. Altitude does that. I didn't trust myself. It was windy and cold. Eventually a voice in my head said "push just a little bit farther." Other voices chimed in: "we get better by doing, so I'm doing it, so I'm getting better." "That looks like a good foot hold; go for that. Then I can put my hand there..." I made a bit more progress.
A few minutes later an older man passed me as he descended from the peak. He said, "Keep going--you are almost there." I thanked him and told him I almost turned back a little while back. He stopped, became very serious, imperative, declarative: "You must keep going. I was on the summit 10 minutes ago. You will be there in 30 minutes."
So I kept going. I had these ridiculous climbing poles which made a lot of sense for the first 7.5 miles of the approach but were worse than useless now. I was able to collapse one of them, but the second pole was stuck permanently extended and my hands were too cold to twist it and collapse it to a manageable size. Consequently, I felt like a half paralyzed insect with these awful gangly appendages getting caught in the crags as I tried to scramble up the mountain.
Then I heard a kind voice behind me: "would you like help with those poles?"
I am in love with you.
A trio of kindness were ascending behind me. I explained that I felt stuck; I couldn't seem to find my way. Svet, a mountaineer from Bulgaria, asked if I wanted to continue with them--I could follow in his footsteps if I liked. It was exactly want I wanted and needed.
The last few hundred feet have a lot of exposure. I couldn't look down--I just looked at the footholds a few feet ahead of me, and Svet was kind enough to wait, to watch as I navigated tricky parts before he moved further ahead.
Eventually we encountered my partner on her descent--I was almost to the summit myself. She gave me some water and then continued down.
Aaron of the trio summited and called down to Svet over the radios the different options he could see: "if you go about 5 feet to your right you will traverse some loose snow-covered rock for about 20 feet but then it's class 2 all the way to the top. If you go to your left, there is a lot more exposure but a clear ascent." What a difference another person's perspective makes--being aware of multiple options and their consequences. We choose the snowy loose rock path. Again, I didn't look down, just followed the lead. Svet's encouraging voice, even and positive, talked me through the worst of it as if it was the best of it. We summited.
At the top, people shared food, water and clothing with me. My partner and I had decided to share one pack, which I wore for the first part of the climb until I started getting disoriented near the top, when she took the pack. I felt quite sheepish not having any food, water or rain gear. People were eager to not have to carry the weight of food and water down, or so they said, so I was blessed with their generosity. I ate and drank as much as I could, drank water every time it was offered to me, and knew to ask for water when I needed it.
I felt the urge to get back to my partner quickly since she certainly would have been worried about me. After a few minutes at the summit, I suggested that I'd be leaving now, when Svet and Aaron suggested that I descend with them as well, since it might be sketchy in places. Again, it was exactly what I wanted and needed. I was delighted to descend with them.
We had a leisurely lunch at the summit, took photos. They had a tradition of taking a photo of themselves leaping on their first ascent of a peak, and to take a photo of themselves doing a headstand for their second ascent. Svet took a photo of me leaping.
There was a couple on the summit who had just traversed from Little Bear Peak, which is insane. The traverse looks like walking a tightrope for about 2 miles, with high winds trying to blow you off your course. No net. She said to her partner that she had forgotten how much that traverse scared her, that she probably wouldn't have wanted to do that route again had she been able to remember. Mountain Memory is funny like that.
Our little quartet began our descent. It is easier to descend--all of the choices seem more obvious. We worked to lose altitude. We laughed and told stories. We parted ways before Lake Como--I knew that my partner wanted to get back to the vehicle that night, and the trio of Svet, Aaron and Sarah planned to spend another night at the lake before hiking out the next morning. We said our goodbyes, and didn't exchange numbers or Facebook or anything. I wanted to live with them in the mountains forever, together, but knew that this moment was only this moment.
Perhaps they were fairies; no, I took a photo of Aaron standing on his head on the summit. And Svet took this photo of me. (Note the properly collapsed poles secured to his pack)
I hiked down and met up with my partner and drank and ate, then we continued down the hill to our vehicle.
I may not have been wearing a pack, but I sure carried some baggage with me up the mounain that day, and for the past several years for that matter. I had some baggage about mountain guides. I had some baggage about what I perceived to be the Colorado courtship routine of a man and woman, which involves the man pushing the woman beyond her comfort zone, and the woman proving she is tough enough to keep up with him. I am so grateful to the trio of mountain lovers who taught me their kind of mountaineering, a pulse to move toward the top joyfully. I still carry this lesson with me as I try to flow through my days with effortless ease, moving joyfully with others.
