Excerpts

From the introduction, Day 73: Forester Pass, describing my most trying day on the Pacific Crest Trail in 1982. 

     About 100 feet below the pass, we turned a corner and saw what I had dreaded.  Our trail was covered with a fifteen-yard section of pure snow and ice sloping at a deadly angle.  Our eyes followed the chute down to where it disappeared over an edge, like the lip of a waterfall captured in a photograph.  Thoughts flew quickly:  We couldn’t go back.  That would take days.  It would take even more days – perhaps weeks – to walk around Forester on the Sierra’s snowless eastern slopes and eventually regain the PCT. 
     But if I fell here, if I slipped, I was dead.  Or perhaps worse, I'd wind up jammed between ice and rock at 13,000 feet with a broken leg – my last breaths spent watching my life-blood soak into the ice, like a gruesome snowcone. 
     I can’t explain why, but there was never a question about turning back.  We all knew we would go north.  A fifteen-yard ice chute would not stop a 1,700-mile hike.  We had a rope with us – if our pencil-thin string could be called a rope.  We knew that, if we fell, the rope would probably break.  If the rope did hold the weight of a body and a pack, the knife-sharp granite surrounding the chute would surely slice it.  We used it anyway.  Somehow our thin rope helped us to feel connected.  We needed all the help we could get. 
     Our first plan was for me to cut steps across, then Cindy and Pat would follow.  I got out my ice ax, reshouldered my pack and tied the rope around my waist.  As soon as I stepped out on the ice, I knew that I couldn’t get across.  I couldn’t feel anything underneath my feet.  I saw my feet and willed them to stay still, but they moved.  When I wanted them to move, they wouldn't.  Before I took one full step, I came back to solid ground. 
     "I can't do this."  I looked at Pat.  He was our strongest hiker – he had power that I did not have.  "You've got to do this.  When you get across, Cindy will follow your steps, and then I'll come last." 
     Pat looked across and said simply, "OK." 
     My brother hacked at ice, taking sure, confident steps, making his way across this deathfall ice chute.  I took great joy in letting out each handful of rope.  The rhythm was mesmerizing – chop, chop, chop, chop, step, chop, chop, chop, chop, step.  I was proud of him.  A picture of this belonged on the cover of Mountain Magazine.  With a final step, his boots met the iceless trail. 
     Cindy was next, with both Pat and me holding on to the rope.  This chivalrous plan, however, had one problem.  The rope was too short; there was very little slack between us.  My brother’s steps formed a sort of arch reaching from one side to the other.  Cindy couldn’t follow this route because the rope threatened to pull her down.  She had to start all over and cut a new route straight across.  She joined Pat on the other side. 
     Now I was alone.  Pat looked at me across the chute and yelled; “Now it’s your turn.  You can do this.” 
     By this time I was in bad shape.  I had been sitting in the shade and wind for a long time.  I was really cold.  With shivering hands, I shouldered my pack and tried to grab my ice ax.  I couldn’t get my hand to grip.  I saw a hand on top of the ax and said to this hand, “close – grip”, but no connection was made.  Finally, I reached over with my other hand and wrapped the lifeless one around the top of my ax. 
     The obvious presence of death is a great motivator.  Each step was a labor.  So much had to be done.  The first foot had to find solid purchase in the newly cut steps.  Then I had to balance on that foot while I brought my ax forward, ensuring that it too was securely wedged in the snow and ice.  Then, the back foot had to go that perilously long distance from the back to the front, where I had to do all this again.  Any problem anywhere and ZING!  I was very cold, hovering between life and death, between north and south.  Step, ax, step, rest.  I shouldn’t be here.  Step, ax, step, rest. I have no business in these mountains.  Step, ax, step, rest.  I could be dead in ten seconds. Step, ax, step . . . .
     I fell into Cindy’s arms. 
     “Hey, good job,” my brother said. 
     As I let go of Cindy, I tried to unbuckle my belt strap, but my hands were useless. 
     “I can’t do this.”
     Pat saw my struggle and looked at Cindy, “Let’s get his pack off.”  He unbuckled my strap and they lifted my burden.
     As I sat down, I said slowly, “I don’t feel very good.” 
     Cindy said to Pat, “He’s cold.  Come on, let’s hug him.” 
     So we embraced, gently swaying against the wind.  Their warmth flowed to me.  Sandwiched between them, I could see the chute.  After several minutes, I managed a smile.