Adapted from the 2023 trip report by Erik Hamilton.
"Throw the damn axe!" I beckoned Alanna as the once infrangible glacial ice deteriorated into slush, quickly becoming a four-inch-deep, wet avalanche under our twelve-point crampons. As the seconds ticked by and dawn grew near, the conditions were growing perilously unfavorable. That morning on the southeast face of Mount Ritter, at 10,600 feet, it took every ounce of practice, patience, and know-how to retreat safely down the mountain.
I have grown to appreciate hard things: the push to kick out that final mile of a long race, stretching that extra inch to reach and latch onto a secure handhold, standing in front of a crowd lecturing on the Leave No Trace principles, staying committed to five and a half years of sobriety when temptation lurks around every corner. Life is full of hard choices.
Perhaps this is what the American Alpine Club saw when I applied for their Live Your Dream grant a second time. I am not a sponsored climber or runner; I simply love life more in the mountains. From growing up in the High Peaks of the Adirondacks to traipsing the glacially scoured rocks of the White Mountains of New Hampshire, where I currently reside, it is safe to say I can appreciate exploring and climbing just about anywhere I'm found.
The Approach
An email landed in my inbox, and I dragged out the suspense while reading and re-reading the text before me: "The American Alpine Club and The North Face would like to congratulate you on being awarded a Live Your Dream grant!" Alanna, my girlfriend, and I tried to keep the big news a secret, but with each waiver signed, the reality of venturing together to the Sierra Nevada mountains became real.
While brainstorming climbs and adventures that would promote growth and challenge our abilities, I recalled a mountain I had read about, first ascended in 1872 by John Muir: Mount Ritter. It was a stunning peak adjacent to Mount Dana, a mountain my parents had ascended nearly 30 years prior, in a region I had heard countless tales of. It beckoned us to pay a visit.
Finally, with Mount Ritter decided upon, permits procured, and the Live Your Dream banner folded neatly in my pocket, my dream swiftly became a reality. We packed any gear we might need into Alanna’s 2019 Subaru Impreza, ready to celebrate and experience this beautiful life.
After road-tripping across the country, we finally found ourselves among wildflowers of all colors, jagged spires of broken mountaintops, and fast-flowing flumes of blue-green alpine water. It felt like home to us.
In the morning, the mosquitoes quickly found us as we strapped sleeping bags, tents, and bear canisters to our hefty packs. Whispering a few good mornings to the horses who inquisitively inspected us over the pen's wooden wall, we trekked by in search of the John Muir Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, and the Shadow Lake Trail, all of which would guide us to our next home for the evening, seven miles away, at Ediza Lake.
Immediately, we were in awe at the sheer magnitude of the conifers—the scale of nature out west was simply daunting, and life miraculously appeared much simpler in the presence of such enormous creatures. The Shadow Creek cascades were deafeningly fast-flowing, sometimes kicking up a sky-high plume of mist from which every spectrum of color might emerge.
We neared Ediza Lake and could see our objective across the calm, blue-green water. While searching for a sign to indicate where to begin backcountry camping, we located the water crossing a fellow hiker had warned of: "waist-deep, but slow-moving, you should be good!"
Back and forth, we scoured the edges for the safest place to cross. Alanna went first and made quick work on the algae-covered boulders. I stepped into the torrent, and my calves and shin muscles immediately went numb. Several paces upslope from the brook, we found a forested spot that appeared to have hosted many tents throughout the years.
Mount Ritter
As our first day in the Ansel Adams Wilderness drew to a close, we packed food and clothes into climbing bags and helmets to prepare for the next day. Confident that we could find a safe path up and down this massive chunk of rock, we sat calmly, telling stories and noting how incredible our surroundings were based solely on the patterns we found in nearby wildflower petals and the deep glacial scratches displayed in the bedrock atop which we sat.
We didn’t sleep deeply before the 3 a.m. alarm went off on my watch; 42 degrees Fahrenheit ensured we did not want to exit the warm cocoon of the synthetic sleeping bag. Despite the cold, we started our arduous trek up Mount Ritter. As we began to trek primarily on hardpacked and refrozen snow, we stopped to put crampons onto our mountaineering boots. We encountered a snow bridge that we carefully inched across, testing every step first with an ice axe. Methodically, we picked our way up the southeastern face.
At each rocky outcropping, we stopped briefly to check-in. Just as the morning sun began to glow orange and red behind the eastern peaks, I scurried to the next rocky ledge and looked below to check Alanna's progress. What I saw almost knocked me off my perch. She was stuck on a 50° wall of ice and snow with one crampon dangling off a boot. With one ice tool and one set of crampon spikes in the southeast face of Mount Ritter, we determined she could move neither up nor down in her current state.
I retraced my steps to Alanna. We assessed the situation and determined that descending was our best option. Given the precarious circumstances, I cranked on her crampon and reattached it to the best of my ability. The descent was agonizingly slow as the snow melted and became treacherous. Despite trying to make the situation as simple as possible by kicking deep steps into the mountainside below Alanna, there were several quick instances where I'd hear her start to slide. At that time, I'd fear the worst and, out of pure reflex, kindly instruct her to "throw the damn axe!"
While we didn't get our objective, new surprises were around the corner, and before long, we had descended through a sea of deep sun cups, finding our footprints from when we had first donned our crampons in the early morning. We stopped to snack and soak in the stunning view of the shark tooth-shaped peak. I momentarily turned to locate the small, handstitched box I had secretly stashed the day prior. As we rested and dried base layers in the steadily rising morning sun, I crept onto one knee and nervously opened the box. Before long, we both had tears of joy running down our sweat-soaked faces. We felt a full spectrum of emotions in the mountains that morning.
Before attempting Mount Ritter, I wanted to stand atop its summit, but this adventure was about so much more than simply bagging a peak. For me, it was learning how to trust your instincts regarding route finding, knowing how to read a situation, and getting everyone down safely before circumstances worsen. If Alanna's crampon had stayed on for even a few more steps, we would have been in worse snow conditions and possibly have witnessed a harrowing slide down the slushy surface while attempting to descend. I don't like to think about how serious this climb could have been had we made any calls against our intuition that morning.
The Descent
The adventure wasn't over, and there were far more mountains to explore. Only days later, we found ourselves lining up a visit to Crater Lake National Park in Oregon. During our short stay, we went on to summit one of the most satisfying climbs of my life, the old 9,182 foot shard of a volcano, Mount Thielsen. The next day, I stared, mesmerized by its unmerciful shape and splendor, from the summit of Mount Scott. What a dream it was to have stood atop its highest reaches!
We then slept at the Alpine Campground at 5,450 feet on the shoulder of Mount Hood; with warm coffee in hand, we watched the sunrise as we did similarly on many other days. We had ideas of places and sights we might want to visit or climb, but overall, the itinerary was freeing and non-restrictive.
With no last-minute climbing permits available for Mount St. Helens, we roamed the nearby trails, seeking out waterfalls and other picturesque vistas off the beaten path. We stopped in the Enchantments of Washington and basked in what seemed to be an entirely dreamt-up world of jagged peaks and lofty spires.
We began seeing daytime temperatures well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit in Washington, returning to the trailhead one day to a stifling 118 degrees Fahrenheit. While ascending Mount Defiance of the Cascade Range, we stopped on the descent for a dip into an alpine lake to cool off from the mid-day sun.
Making our way through Montana and Wyoming, we drove through Yellowstone and paid a visit to see its offerings of natural splendor. With mountains still on our minds, we hurried southward toward the Tetons. High above the shore of Jackson Lake, we sat together on a rocky escarpment, watching the sun dip behind Mount Moran and the subsequent Teton mountains.
I called the kind folks at the AAC Grand Teton Climbers' Ranch on a whim and booked a second night in the Tetons. We moved into our cabin for the night in a seemingly remote and picturesque setting.
I called the kind folks at the AAC Grand Teton Climbers' Ranch on a whim and booked a second night in the Tetons. We moved into our cabin for the night in a seemingly remote and picturesque setting.
We continued along on our cross-country route toward Colorado. Upon starting this massive journey, I could never have predicted the voracity with which I would fall in love with the Rocky Mountains. While camping at Elbert Creek Campground, we ascended Mount Elbert at 14,433 feet, Colorado's highest peak, and the following day, I could not pass up an opportunity to explore the state's second high point: Mount Massive at 14,421 feet.
Exiting southbound along the Rocky Mountains, we resided overnight in an upcycled shipping container near Taos, New Mexico.
We headed to Texas, scoring a secluded tent spot in Pine Springs Campground in the Guadalupe Mountains National Park. Just in time for a 6:24 a.m. sunrise, we stepped onto the summit plateau of Guadalupe Peak, the state's natural highest point, to a stunning display of alpenglow emanating from the ball of orange and red on the horizon. The timing could not have been better for summiting Guadalupe Peak.
Such is the reward sometimes for just letting events unfold around us.
The destination is never the final note at the sonata's end, just as the peak is merely a place in time during the climb. The actual destination should encompass the entire adventure, soaking in each moment.