In 2012, Backpacker’s cover story featured the top 10 American camp sites. I kept that copy on my desk for more than a year, regularly staring at the cover photo. In it, an orange tent perched on the edge of a cliff; and rows of jagged mountain peaks filled the background.
The magazine’s editors weren’t overselling it. I’ve got a Pinterest board filled with other photographers’ shots from that same vantage point. This summer, I’ve been following visitors there via Instagram. I’ve lived a bucket list kind of life, and camping there has been near the top of what’s currently left on my list.
Until last Wednesday.
I cashed in some American Express points and headed out to the North Cascades in hopes of nabbing a spot. The sites are not reservable more than a day in advance, and all reservations must be done in person. On less than three hours’ worth of sleep, I raced to the ranger station from Seattle to learn they had no permits available that day. “We have one left for tomorrow night, though. Do you want that?” asked the ranger.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take it. I flew all the way out here for this site.” What I didn’t tell the ranger is that I had also bought a used DSLR, an ultralight tripod, multiple GoPro accessories, a powerful headlamp, crampons, glacier glasses, new hiking shoes, a more photogenic tent, and other gear for the express purpose of documenting this expedition and looking good in that documentation.
She gave me some suggestions for hikes and campsites to fill the day, assigned my portable bear canister, and handed me the coveted backcountry permit to attach to my pack.
Wednesday morning came with the realization that my stove was not functional. That meant no hot meals or—more importantly—no celebratory hot cocoa at base camp. The forecast for that altitude showed a high of 39ºF and clouds until the following morning. Undeterred, I carried all my camera gear with the hope of a Thursday morning photo shoot.
Half way to the top, the clouds started lifting. I wondered if they might burn off, as they had on other backpacking trips. The trail climbed steeper. As I reached an exposed section, I could feel strong wind gusts and see a large bank of clouds approaching. I could also see a couple groups of backpackers behind me. I pushed myself to keep my lead on them. I had encountered multiple groups descending from Sahale Glacier Camp, and my math indicated I might get my pick of the camp sites.
The clouds arrived, as I got to the boulder field; and they brought wind and mist. As I neared the scree slope for the final ascent, cold, hard rain soaked my upwind pant leg and pelted my rain jacket. The slapping rain stopped long enough only for snow flakes to scurry around me. Then back to rain. My hands stung from the cold, but I had to keep them out of my pockets for balance and dexterity in the steep, slippery gravel.
There was little relief when I found the campsite, because I had to erect a tent in sustained winds of at least 30mph. My trembling hands were so cold, that it hurt to don my gloves (which were soaked in less than a minute). I took a visual sweep of the area: no other tents, though visibility was limited. Then I jumped into my tent. Other than a quick bladder break, I didn’t leave that tent for more than 16 hours.
I shivered until my 0º sleeping bag and emergency blanket got to full heat. Then, I snacked, finished reading a book, napped, snacked some more, and played Othello on my phone. When I discovered I had a wavering bar of cell service, I tried for most of an hour to text a prayer request to some close friends and family. When that didn’t work, I popped a melatonin and called it a night.
I woke to the sound of light rain on my tent and decided that waiting out the weather might not be possible. I looked at my crampons and came to grips with the reality that I wouldn’t get to summit the mountain by climbing on the glacier. I had hoped to tag along with a couple of other glacier climbers that had gotten permits for the same night. When I popped out of my shelter for a morning leak, though, I didn’t see them anywhere. In fact, in my survey of the whole base camp area, I didn’t see a single other tent.
I was alone.
As I packed and prayed, I let worship music blare from my phone. After tear down, I put Nicole Mullen’s “Redeemer” on repeat. I held my arms out and slowly rotated to soak up the reality of the moment. With a voice that hadn’t been used since 2:00 P.M. the previous day, I declared a list of things for which I was grateful in the moment. With trembling voice, I tried to sing along. I wept until the water on my cheeks was warm.
They may have been tears of joy or gratitude or just a sense of smallness in light of a single, humbling mountain in a wilderness full of even less-approachable peaks. I felt grateful for the chance to have slept where I did. Candidly, I felt accomplished for being the only one to press into the altitude’s wrath while others, I learned, had hunkered down by the Subarus in the parking lot.
I may have been grieving the loss (or postponement) of a dream to climb a glacier. I also may have been grieving the loss of the epic vacation photos my ego wanted to trump my Facebook stream’s salvo of cliche shots from Atlantic beaches. Hours of contemplation in the tent had already let me process how that unhealthy motivation had been too large a part of my drive up the mountain. I wondered if maybe God had assigned this weather like Jonah’s sudden, sweltering heat to expose the stench of my soul garbage.
What I knew is that I had a story. And, really, the chase of a story—along with some solitude for contemplation—was why I had traveled as far and as hard as I had. I smirked in acceptance. It was an altered mission accomplished.
The weather didn’t favor any ceremonious goodbye to what seemed like holy ground. I hit repeat a couple more times on the phone in my rain jacket and dropped into the 6-mile descent to my rental car.
After almost two hours, I started meeting groups of smiling day hikers and backpackers, climbing under thinning clouds to where I had just spent the night. “Did you camp up there last night!?”
“Yep! Yep, I did.”
“How was it?”
“Cold. Wet. Horizontal rain. I even hit some snow.”
“Wow.”
Yeah: wow. Those three letters succinctly captured what was an indelible memory, an ambiguous emotion, and a satisfactory accomplishment. Wow summarized the catharsis I was about to bring home.
