blisters and such and the art of needing to be uncomfortable.

17 august 2009. There was a week back end of July that it was hot. As in hot. Not humid cos this is the Northwest but it hit a hundred and seven apparently in town while the house hit ninety-one. Seemed everyone rushed out to scramble for every last window a/c unit at the local Home Depots and such. It lasted a week then it was back to more normal temps.

But it made me think I guess.

So did our vacation to California the week before where it was really hot. Yes, hot. Sacramento and Bishop. Even Yosemite Valley. Oliver of course does not have a/c cos well this is the Northwest. Our a/c was a spray bottle that we would aim at each other for some respite. Windows down didn't help much. It was still hot. But we survived of course. And I thought maybe it would wind up Julian telling his kids years from now how he would take these road trips with his dad down to California for summer vacations and bake in the car with no a/c but that was just part of the experience cos we would see such fantastic things and have such amazing adventures. Just part of the fun in a way the suffering. Besides it being nostalgic we won't remember how uncomfortable it was. We made it twenty-five hundred miles and have some incredible memories.

And that made me think I guess.

But so did a weekend spent in the North Cascades a couple weeks ago. We were headed for Hidden Lake, a destination of mine for a couple of years ever since seeing a photo of it on Flickr. Up the trail steep of course cos it was the North Cascades in which there are no gentle-graded trails. Under the sun it was hot and the biting flies were atrocious. Just don't stop to put on sunscreen or drink some water. Bushwacking despite the fact there was a hint of a trail. Just a hint, mind you. Did I mention it was steep? No worries of course I was home. And before we knew it we're above it all on granite making our way to the saddle between the Hidden Lake Peaks the lookout peeking out from the summit off to our right.

And then there were blisters from shoes too small. Blisters but no complaining. And they were big and I felt bad. Granted I was fine that time but it would be me the following week socks worn too thin time to be retired up to Cascade Pass then Sahale Glacier and over to a ridge dropping off to glaciers on three sides. And even then no complaining. Want to go climb up Mixup Arm? Sure, we're in the mountains and I don't want to leave. Not yet anyway and there's no hurry.

But the second day of that Hidden Lake weekend a go then the day after on North Twin Sister not helping her blisters any. Hobbling on the way back I guess I wasn't supposed to notice. Thirsty. As in really thirsty since there is no water on the route after maybe the second mile. And we biked another eight miles or so before hiking about three and turning around. Running out of time. Someone running out of energy. Not us. No complaining.

So what?

So what about blisters and being thirsty and swatting at bugs? ... okay, the bugs are annoying. But get high enough and they're not a problem. I've never had to swat a bug on a glacier. Julian once said to me 'Dad there are indoor people and there are outdoor people.' Good thing I thought not everyone is an outdoor person or it would be impossible to get a permit for Boston Basin in August or the Enchantments in October. It's already hard enough. But for us outdoor people I guess what's the point? It takes a lot of energy to get up into the mountains. There are no lavish accommodations. It's exciting to find a flat spot with some rocks piled up to block the prevailing wind underneath (or right on top of) a summit of some peak or other in which to toss down your nylon bivy sack and half-inch thick foam pad. We're not forced to do it of course. It would have been so much easier not driving three hours along interstates and highways and gravel roads and hiking for miles and miles straight up sometimes whipped over by wind pelted by rain basking under intense suns. So why then?

I think it's like anything. We humans have a way of not remembering the negative. Be it a bad relationship or a bad vacation. We weed out the bad stuff and just remember the good. There's always something good. Or so I think. Walking down after nearly reaching the base of the west ridge on North Twin hot and thirsty and dying for some real food (and it had only been two days–it'll be something to do the John Muir Trail with Julian after he graduates and we're out for twenty-one days along that dusty trail) I remember thinking about blisters and such and the need to be uncomfortable. Because these days we're all too comfortable too much of the time it seems. Not that I'm complaining necessarily mind you. I enjoy an espresso in the morning on the way to work. My couch. My bed. My covered porch. Etc. But I digress. Hopefully you get the point and I'm not being too preachy.

So ask a climber why he climbs. Betcha one of the most-cited reasons would be to get away from it all. To get back to basics so to speak. To be hot. To be thirsty. To be in pain at least a little from something maybe a sore back maybe a scraped knee hopefully nothing much worse but just generally not the same as in sitting on a couch back home. It's all about the elemental. We won't remember the pain anyway. When Matthew and I climbed Stuart–a climb we naîvely thought we'd do car-to-car in a day but which ended up being probably our biggest epic except for possibly the blizzard on Eldorado–I swore after two days of up and down more than I had ever done or probably could have imagined exposure out of this world exhausting but elation at sleeping out under the stars slightly cold and uncomfortable but on Stuart's summit the Milky Way arching over us then the next day getting lost dehydrated trying to find the trail back up to Longs Pass for hours going crazy me thinking damn I would never climb Stuart again.

Heh. Of course I would. Didn't take more than a week and I wished I was back there standing on a ledge with about six thousand feet of air beneath me watching the sun set shouting to Matthew to yell when he reached the summit one pitch above us cos it was well getting dark and I was well standing on a ledge six thousand feet above real solid ground. We're going to climb it again in a couple of weeks. Hell we're going to traverse the whole range or at least as far as Dragontail or Little Annapurna.

But still ... why? After all this rambling on and on maybe I don't even know how to explain. Maybe I can explain better with a snapshot (ah, the venerable snapshot–candid and personal–love 'em for what they're worth) totally relaxed in the moment.



You can't get this view from a car. Definitely not from anywhere with a/c. But that's really not the point I don't think. I think the point is more along the lines of that's the whole point. That you can't get it without working for it. It wouldn't be the same if it were any other way. Blisters and all. Cos you won't remember the blisters.

You'll just remember the view.

You'll remember waking up out of a seemingly-dead sleep something like four in the morning to a perfectly clear sky streams of the Milky Way overhead like some fantastic dream ten thousand stars above cold air against your face not even a tent for protection but perfectly calm and silent surrounded by mountains silhouetted in the dark just able to be made out horizons closed in the walls of mountains or open to infinity high above. Oh yes, you'll remember the silence. The quiet. You'll remember watching clouds spill over ridges onto glaciers without making a sound. Who you spent it with. A good friend. Good times. You'll remember that moment in the snapshot of being in that place somewhere between reality and a dream. And it will last. Much, much longer than any blister or bug bite or frustration of sore limbs or bleeding cuts.

So I can't really say why I climb or why I am so in love with mountains in any meaningful way. But I look at photos that I took. Of snapshots from summits and along ridges and across glaciers and that helps. Cos it brings back all the memories. Just not of hobbling down thirty-six switchbacks aching to be back to the car to eat real food to sleep in a real bed to crash on a couch windows open or a heater and a blanket sore feet maybe a good espresso definitely a shower only to turn around and die to do it all over again.

Blisters and all.