Act I - June 2012

A few weeks back, I didn't summit Mt. Hood. At some level, that's
pretty unremarkable - I mean, there were about 7 billion other
people who didn't summit Mt. Hood, either. But they didn't try, and
I did.

I should step back. I'm on the wrong side of fifty. I was a sickly,
unathletic kid. I first put my hand to granite at 32, and by the
time I actually started climbing in earnest a few years later, I
had a Ph.D., a divorce, a job, a mortgage. I was lucky to have a
girlfriend who also wanted to climb, and we haunted the local dirtbag
climbing gym and connected with a group of like-minded late-life
starters. As a group, we climbed together, learned to lead together,
fell away from climbing together. I've never really progressed
beyond 5.9 outside, and I probably never will - and that's OK.

I came to the mountains even later - for my 40th birthday, I decided
I need to fight back, and signed up for a climb of Mt Shasta, the
closest fourteener to me. That trip ended up a disaster, as so many
beginnings do - but I wasn't deterred. After a lot of training and
a few years of apprenticeship in the Sierra, I came back to Shasta
and summited - admittedly while attached by a short rope to a guide.
But slaying that particular dragon really opened some doors for me.

I was in the best shape of my life, I did well at altitude, I enjoyed
training and feeling improvement. Ibuprofen was my friend. I kept
at it. More California fourteeners fell - with, and then finally
without guides. Life was by turns good and bad. I turned fifty.
Life fell apart.

The mountains were always there, and I slowly - too slowly - realized
that I *always* feel happier in the mountains.

I joined a local mountain rescue group, perhaps the best decision
I've ever made in my life. I gained a new circle of like-minded
friends, mostly about 20 years younger than I am, which I used as
motivation to train even harder so as not to be the "old slow guy".
I decided to learn to ski (at 52!). Backcountry, of course. I found
a new mountaineering partner, much younger than I. She had an
eagerness that I recognized from an earlier life - age and treachery
meet youthful exuberance! We started spending our weekends driving
to the East Side in summer, Tahoe in winter. I led pitches up perfect
Sierra granite, and she coaxed me down blue, then black runs.

More Sierra summits, then a trip to the Cascades. A soul-crushing
slushfest through Glacier Basin, a glorious storm at Camp Shurman,
and an unguided summit of Rainier. We were stoked. I was filled
with trepidation the whole way, but so, so stoked.

Something has changed. I think that for a long while, I didn't know
any better, I was learning my craft, having successes, and gaining
confidence. But as I started going farther into the back country,
I found myself discounting my successes and always wondering if
this trip, this time, was the one where I wouldn't make it, where
I'd finally realize that the decline is starting.

It's not pretty sometimes, what goes on in my head.

This season has been a slow start; it was a crappy snow year
everywhere, no less so in Tahoe. We turned our attention to climbing
early. I've wanted to climb Mt Hood for a number of years and the
Memorial Day weekend was perfect for a road trip: to catch up with
old friends who have escaped the Bay Area, and if the weather gods
allowed make an attempt on Hood. So we planned, and we trained
(some), and we went.

Man, did you know that climbing Hood is all about a midnight start?
I sure didn't. I mean, there are all these pictures of folks lining
up on the Hogsback in full sun, if *they* started at midnight,
they're even slower than I am, which is right sad. But ... a midnight
start it is. Sleep in the Timberline parking lot is basically
impossible, between the wind and the "Eye of Sauron" mercury vapor
lamp. We toss and turn for an hour or two, the alarm goes off. I
can't find a good excuse not to go, much as I try, so we do. There
had been so little sleep that we didn't even bother to brew coffee.

Packs on ("why is this thing so damned heavy?"), crampons on,
starting hiking up the ski slope. Right away, it felt wrong. I was
struggling, more than I could remember struggling in quite a while.
Within the first hour, I was counting steps, willing myself to get
to 100 before whining. This was bad. Stop. Drink. Eat. Continue.
Better.  But not great. I was getting worried.

A few hours in, we reach the top of the Palmer lift, where the ski
slope ends and the real climbing begins. Despite temps in the low
30s, I was shivering. I put on all my clothes. I ate. I drank. I
put on my warmest gloves.

I struggled mentally. I knew that in my current state, I was not
safe higher up where it was going to get tough. I didn't want to
admit it, to myself, to Eszter. I needed to get through this, to
break up this mental *thing*, to dig deeper.

I cried.

I failed.

I said "I need to go down."

So ... we went down. Within 15 minutes, I was joking and refreshed
and feeling fine. Not so fine that I was tempted to turn around,
but fine. The sun came up, we kept walking, we hit the car, we
wandered off to find hot chocolate and breakfast.

We'll be back, I know that. What I don't know is what I need to do
now to produce a different outcome.

This is where it gets really interesting.

Intermezzo - June 2014

Two years of spinal problems. A thirty day skiing season. Contrasts that
describe the challenges of my physical - and relatedly, my mental - condition.