Authors: Kim Meeder
With the triumph of heaven reflecting off the mirror of snow beneath
my feet, the world was transformed into a mighty, rising palace of silver splendor. Overhead, massive parapets of stone were draped in icy colors of royalty. Soaring in purple majesty, Sargents Ridge flanked my right, and the dark wall of Casaval Ridge rose to my left. Held between them, I was surrounded by their power. Beneath this starry robe every infinite detail of the mountain lay naked and unashamed for all eyes to behold its wonder.
Around 10,000 feet my friend and I climbed over a massive hump of snow mysteriously called Lake Helen. In my research I’d learned that only during excessive drought years does this phantom lake appear. Exhausted, my friend decided this reclusive landmark would be her summit.
The memory of my dad’s voice, my enthusiasm, and my pride combined to drive me to the first major mistake of the day. I chose to climb alone on a big mountain I did not know. My friend and I mutually agreed to reunite in this exact place on my descent.
Setting out alone at a high altitude is never a good idea. I rationalized my dangerous decision by noting the handful of other climbers strewn about the pitch above me. My desire to reach the summit became all the validation I needed. I pressed on with crampons firmly strapped to my boots. My feet were armed with menacing rows of two-inch steel spikes. I’d need these weapons to defeat a new opponent: ice.
As I climbed, Sargents and Casaval ridges continued their rise as if to challenge each other in a collision of titans. Crushed between these towering foes was a steep snowfield, 2,500 feet in length and ominously named Avalanche Gulch. Walls of snow had already thundered down the ridges’ flanks. Fresh avalanche tailings had cast alluvial fans of white destruction upon the same ravine I was trying to negotiate. The massive, rubbled remains were beautiful, intriguing, and frightening in equal measure. Weaving through their frozen skirts, the graveyard of ice gave silent witness to the awesome, foreboding power of the high places.
After an hour of crunching up the twisting and perilous incline, I stopped for a moment to relieve the tension in my calves and regain my
breath. Instead, what I saw
caught
my breath. The sun was cresting the horizon on the opposite side of the mountain, sending the bulk of its hulking shadow nearly straight up into the heavens. Until that moment I’d never seen a shadow reach toward the sky. Lost in a view reserved for mountaineers, I stood transfixed as the shadow descended through the firmament to the slumbering earth below. The mountain’s goliath silhouette, in perfect harmony with the rising sun, cast its swathed image over hundreds of square miles of Creation. Stretching like a visual prophecy, it joined the rising sun in heralding the imminent glory of this new day.
As the sun lifted in the sky, the mammoth shadow made a hasty retreat across the landscape below. It clung to the snowy slope for one last instant, then vanished completely as a laser beam of pure gold flooded down the steeps and consumed all darkness.
Washed in a baptism of new light, I felt the deep cold begin to loosen its grip. I continued to climb. Grateful for my ice ax, at 12,800 feet I safely passed through the vertical, crimson chimneys of compressed ash called the Red Banks. I knew this was the steepest part of the climb.
Immersed in irrevocable sunlight, I looked down the precipitous chasm to the east. I couldn’t help but marvel at the gravity-defying tenacity of the Konwakiton glacier. So vertical was the rock to which it clung that the head of the glacier had peeled away from the cliff. Framed by melting teeth, the resulting moat of ice scowled up at me with a menacing grimace. Appreciative of the new and relatively mild grade, I continued up a section sardonically called Misery Ridge. My guess is that the exhausted soul who named this windswept spine believed that the crest above him was the summit. Though it looked like it, it wasn’t (sad for weary legs). The true peak was still nearly a thousand feet above.
Finally I reached the summit rim. Like colossal pleats of a giant curtain heaving together, mighty ridges converged into a starlike pattern of immense, commanding beauty. The sheer physical power was overwhelming. Had someone been at my side, I doubt I would’ve been able to form words. This was as close to heaven as my feet had ever carried me.
Howling winds had carved strange and exquisite ice sculptures that adorned the frozen summit plateau. Among the nearly flat conjunction of arêtes, the true summit of this astounding mountain rose before me. Jutting fifty feet straight up into brilliant blue were the defiant remnants of an ancient lava tube. Fueled by exhilaration, I nearly ran across the lower summit col.
Though I knew of this extraordinary feature, I was still surprised to actually see it. To the left of the final buttress yawned an open, hissing cavern in the snow. From its boiling throat spewed a reeking, sulfuric stench. In a bizarre dichotomy, nature’s opposing forces collided here. As unquenchable heat escaped the volcano’s active core, the perpetual cold of this frigid altitude fought to extinguish it. The result was a sizzling cauldron of exposed basalt framed by a thick, glassy buildup of frozen steam. The continuous white plume rose in utter rebellion against the surrounding kingdom of ice. The combined effect was surreal.
Moving beyond what looked and smelled like an opening into the abyss, I glanced upward to evaluate the steep sides of the final buttress. Reaching high into a realm of cobalt, the jagged tower called to me. My ambition surged to a frenzied high. With a little more elevation, I would see “the box.”
I knew from photographs that it was old and dented, fashioned of steel, and oxidized to a dull red patina. Held secure on the highest summit pinnacle, the box kept safe the book. The book kept safe the names—a record of those allowed to stand victorious in this honored place. It was the same place and the same type of book that, years earlier, my dad had signed.
The formidable frozen walls that soared above me were no match for the siren call of the book. Not seeing a clear route to the top, I looked for the other climbers, hoping to gain direction from them. None were visible. Driven by my fevered rush, I had passed them all earlier in the day.
At this point my lonely epiphany was clear: I didn’t know which way to go.
Adding another link to my chain of foolish decisions, I chose
not
to wait for other climbers to guide me. I measured the wind-ravaged chimney with my eyes. It looked as if there was an uninterrupted section of steep but climbable snow that led to the summit.
I began my final ascent. With my ice ax firmly plunged into the frozen snow, I took two calculated strides, then checked the security of my crampons. Once assured, I removed my ax and plunged it into a higher position. I followed this purposeful progression until I had to relocate my ice ax with every increasingly perilous step. My anxiety climbed in mirrored unison.
I repeated this incremental method until I could step no more … until I could
move
no more! My novice aspirations had driven me into a no man’s land. I was stuck. I was not on the pinnacle; I was hanging twenty feet below Shasta’s icy summit on a glistening sheet of near-vertical ice. Now the only thing rising was my fear. I’d driven myself into a predicament beyond my ability to escape.
The slope was so steep that my left foot was placed nearly two feet above my right. I could clearly see that the slanted, two-inch ledge of ice that bore my left foot was fractured—it would
not
hold my full weight. I glanced over my right shoulder and saw nothing but blue. The ice was too steep to descend and too hard to ascend.
Standing with all my weight on my downhill foot, I fought my soaring sense of dread. Taking a few deep, steadying breaths, I evaluated my situation.
Blundering forward in selfish haste, I hadn’t noticed that previous northwest winds had blown the steam up against the slope long enough to freeze the excess moisture into a sheet of nearly translucent boilerplate. If I tried to put weight on my uphill foot, the fractured ice beneath my boot would splinter away; I would lose purchase and fall. Because I was already thirty feet up the narrow chute and on a frozen surface with this high degree of angle, I understood that I wouldn’t have enough time to self-arrest before I went into the sizzling cauldron of basalt. I would not
fall on snow but rock. A clear picture materialized—if I fell, I would not survive.
For long moments I hung suspended over the void. With both hands gripping the shaft of my ice ax, I wondered—
How did it come to this?
I realized that, in my haste and arrogant stupidity, I’d simply seen what I wanted and driven myself to obtain it. Nearly obsessed with the prize, I’d pushed reason aside. In the process I exchanged wisdom for foolishness—the first of many steps that often lead to death in the wilderness. Because my focus was only on what I wanted, I ignored the hazards.
I
knew
what I was doing was wrong. I simply chose to keep doing it anyway.
My pride and my foolish desire had brought me to this place—my pride in my climbing skills and ability to handle myself without help from anyone, and my desire to reconnect to childhood innocence, my father, his passion for this mountain, and his love for me.
I’d staked so much on obtaining these things. I’d allowed them to become my life’s purpose, my value, my god. My sense of self-worth had become intricately woven into the design of this new selfish masterpiece.
It was clear I had chosen the wrong path. Hanging just below the summit, I had plenty of time to contemplate how I’d arrived at this perilous place. With a grip that made my knuckles ache, I held fast with both hands to the aluminum shaft of my ice ax. Slowly I realized this wind-tortured peak was
completely
still. There was not a breath of wind. The only sound was my own heartbeat thundering against my eardrums.
As minutes crept by, the cold air seemed to target my fists. I could not only hear my heartbeat from within, but I could also feel it pound inside each knuckle. Yet as uncomfortable as I was, I knew I had no option. I could not let go. If I let go, I would fall. If I fell, I would die.
I held on and waited.
Then, in the stillness, the familiar voice of my Lord quietly rose within my heart.
Child, if you would only hold on to Me like this. I am not
a mere metal shaft; I am your King. I am your true Anchor. If you would choose to hold on to Me, you would know I am the One who always has—and always will—keep you from falling
.
I was ashamed. He was right. God designed me to cling only to
Him
with such lifesaving passion and determination. I needed to confess that it wasn’t a metal stick that held me up. It was my Lord. Because I could move nothing else, I bowed my heart before Him and prayed. The prayer that streamed out of my heart was a simple confession of pride and a plea for help.
Jesus, help me … Please help me … Once again I’m reaching out to You. Although I’ve failed You miserably, You’ve never failed me. I’m sorry that I’ve chosen to serve the only other god there is—my desire, my will, my way. I’ve chosen to worship me instead of You. I’m so sorry for my awful pride and for how I’ve allowed it to block a close relationship with You. Will You forgive me, Lord? Will You wash my heart clean of my selfishness? Will You lead me again? I acknowledge that no matter how far If all from Your presence, it’s never beyond the depth of Your love for me. You’ve proven that You always have been and always will be with me. Again, Jesus, with this life, I choose to serve You
.
In the moments that followed, something happened, something remarkable, something that changed my life. When I raised my eyes, I was still in
exactly
the same predicament as before. God didn’t take my hardship away. God didn’t fly me off to a safe place. He did something even better. He helped me realize that I was
in
a safe place—because He was with me.
He didn’t take me out of my adversity; He took the adversity out of me. He revealed how He would go through the battle with me. I might fall; I might not. Either way, He was still my King, and I would trust Him with the outcome.
I knew what I had to do.
With my right hand I reached down and helped move my left foot down a few inches. From this new position I carefully sawed my crampons
across the surface of the ice beneath my left foot. After several minutes of this, I had worn a groove that would hold half of the spikes on my boot. In one of the greatest acts of will I’ve ever known, I began to cautiously remove my ice ax.
Acutely aware of the vast expanse around me, I drew a deep breath and held it. Slowly I pulled my ax free from the only physical anchor I had. Exhaling steadily, I breathed another prayer of thanks to my Lord. The two-inch rim under my left boot held nearly all my weight.
Balancing almost completely on one foot, I moved nothing more than my eyes and left arm. By repositioning my ice ax slightly higher up the translucent incline, I would be in a stance to take another step. My unstable posture did not afford any leverage to drive my ax into a secure position. With my ax firmly clutched in my right hand and its strap around my wrist, I began tapping the spike into the ice with my closed left fist, using it against the ax like a hammer. This tedious process took nearly twenty minutes.
Finally, when my ax was securely driven deep into the ice, I slowly shifted my weight off my left foot to the new, higher position of my right. As all my weight shifted slightly upward, I repeated the entire process of sawing deep grooves into the ice with my crampons and repositioning my ax higher and higher. By doing so, I climbed the remaining distance to the summit. Though it was only about twenty vertical feet, it took nearly two hours to complete.
Emotionally exhausted, I crawled on trembling hands and knees to a safe nook on the summit spire. After shucking my pack, I leaned back against the frozen gray rocks and closed my eyes. It was only by God’s redeeming grace that I’d survived the consequences of my foolish pride. I slumped, curled into a ball, and wept.