The Art of Suffering

For 63 hours, snow and ice pounded my tent like a medieval siege. A dark cacophony of thoughts fill my head and my mind turns towards the mistakes that I've made. As my subconscious wages a mental jihad on my sanity, I tortured my conscience. Clear skies and fresh air was very welcome.

By the fourth day, the storm had moved its way out of the basin and I made my way to Helen. Her beautiful song rang in my ears and my gaze lured upward by her winsome shape - such is the nature of the Siren. Unlike the Siren's appeal to the spirit, Mt. Helen attracted my flesh. I longed to measure myself against her towers and gullies.

I learn best by doing - trial by fire. I throw myself at something until I come out with a basic understanding. Of course I read books, watch videos, talk to those more experienced than myself.. But there is no substitute for holding the tools in your hand. By learning what NOT to do, you learn best. Nothing about this trip was different.

I engaged my front points and slammed picks into the ice. I subconsciously registered how dense the ice was; it took three or four heavy-handed swings to break through the wind blown layer of verglas formed from the recent storm. Moving slowly at first, I started to gain a sort of rhythm - a twisted fox-trot, absolutely beautiful but haunting. The ribbons of ice gleam like fangs, waiting to ibibe my being, a blood sacrifice to the mountain.

The complete consciousness of it all doesn’t penetrate my thoughts enough to register mentally, but the concept is present all the time. The worry is there, always, cloaked by different emotions. That all-to-familiar "what the fuck" feeling crept in and and the music stopped. My right foot skated off the ice and reality hit me like a dump truck. I traversed off to the rock on the right, sucked down a liter of water and analyzed my situation. Doubt euthanized my desire. Well, doubt and the fact that I've never climbed vertical ice.

Physically wasted, I lay in the tent, digesting the Chana Masala that will certainly make me shit like a horse tomorrow. The dark clamor of my mind sets in again and I'm reminded of how my selfishness has hurt others. The familiar ritual sets in, I zip my bag shut around my face and settle in for yet another night.

With the wind whipping around my fragile body at 60mph, I frantically searched for the lone piton I’d packed as an emergency anchor, only this time it would be used as a different kind of anchor. Listening for the soothing ping, ping, ping, ping, pung of my Lost Arrow over the wail of the wind was impossible, but I finally seated the pin into what would be my lifeline for the next hour. Putting on what clothing I could, I lastly girthed myself into the newly pounded pin. As if to mock my finiteness in a sea of rock and ice, Gannett sneered at me from behind. She intended to teach me a lesson.

As I curled into the fetal position, I soon became alone with my thoughts. At first they screamed at me to be anywhere but where I was. A primal, heart-popping fear overcame my body as I began to shake uncontrollably - one recurring thought wormed its way onto my eyelids: this storm will kill you. No cliché light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel or life flashing before my eyes.

Accepting death is much easier than I ever thought possible. In that moment, the soothing stillness of the abyss was most welcome. But crammed between two rocks was my Being - every thought, memory, experience…

A very wise man once told me that we are simply visitors to that strange land we call the mountains. The ones who survive here are the ones who raise themselves to meet the mountain. There are many old mountaineers, and there are many bold mountaineers, but there are few old, bold mountaineers. The latter part of that advice never quite stuck.

So, pinned to the wall at 13,000 feet, my body continued to strive toward the fleeting glimpse of life. Curled in a ball like a newborn, I felt the life slowly drain from my extremities. My mind raced between thoughts of giving up and the pint of ice cream I left in the freezer at home. I could feel my mind concentrating on nothing but keeping my vital organs alive. I knew, no matter how strong my will, that I couldn’t keep up the charade much longer.

Darkness crept in. I screamed, it laughed. I got angry, it felt no pity. I cried, it drowned me in my own inadequacy.

Just as fast as it all started, the light crept in and the darkness made a fleeting promise to be back soon. The sun ripped from behind the clouds and illuminated the area where I had laid, dying. I sat upright with my arms around my knees, mentally and physically unable to do anything except allow the life to flow back into my body.