It's just one thing after another, isn't it? I've gotten out skiing a grand total of three times this year - first I was sick and recovering from a thru hike, then I had a root canal, then I was sick again. Now, there's an arctic outflow warning. The mercury’s dropped straight to the bulb on my interior thermometer - overnight lows of -40°c with the windchill, -26°c in my van. Fuck that.
I was determined to hold out on refilling my propane until this coming Saturday. I have an appointment in Squamish that morning anyway, so there was no point in wasting the gas to get there and back. I wasn't watching the forecast, as I wouldn't be able to go out touring in our current avalanche conditions. No point in reminding myself of what was impossible. But then the Arctic wind swept down on Sunday night, and I had no choice. Curled up in layers of sleeping bags one morning, too cold even to change my jeans before bed, I assessed my condition as mild hypothermia. My fingers and toes, already impaired by Reynauds syndrome, were deadly white and covered in painfully itching chillblains. True frostbite would be next, and more serious hypothermia with uncontrollable shivering and impaired cognition. It was beyond uncomfortable, beyond usual my grin-and-bear-it approach to winter's hostility. This was a dangerous temperature to sleep in. This could not go on.
I left the cosy sanctuary of work that afternoon and jumped directly in the driver's seat, thoroughly exhausted of being cold. Even the short walk from the store to the parking lot was breathlessly frigid, an overwhelming sense-memory of Manitoba chill. I'd felt this killing cold before, but the freezing catch of the lungs can't be adapted to. The dry-ice burn of exposed skin, the involuntary shiver that freezes the tongue, the retreat of one's internal furnace down to a tiny flickering pilot light; these are sensations I'm intimately familiar with, but can never fully abide. Only one thought is possible in this type of cold - I must get out of this cold. The weather becomes a murderer, the air an enemy. You shuffle-run across the ice, feeling your feet spark and burn with each contact, swearing and gasping, snuffling back reflexive tears so as not to touch your face and stick to your frozen-stiff gloves. My lips and cuticles were cracking, my face a mess of white frozen skin and windchap. My hair was flayed to a rat's nest, crushed under hats and stripped of all moisture by the devouring thirsty air. I fired up Blue and cranked the heat, then shuddered as my fingertip made contact with the metal seatbelt tab, skin sloughing off with instant frostbite. Her suspension groaned as I steered us out of the parking lot, nervously peering through the patches of icy windshield I’d scrubbed open with a credit card. The card was so rigid that it snapped in two, forcing another masochistic gloves-off scramble through my wallet to find an empty gift card that I wouldn't mind breaking.
It was rush hour on the Ninety-nine. Sunday night, with all the weekend warriors headed back to their heated apartments and salaried jobs. As the cab warmed and the steering wheel became something less than painful to hold, I crept up to the turning light on Lorimer Road, feathering the brake to a crawl rather than a full stop. The roads were a skating rink, and if I stopped completely I would likely lose traction and be stuck spinning my wheels, unable to back up and rev past the slick spot in bumper-to-bumper traffic. This exact nightmare happened to a tourist bus just in front of me, awaiting its turn at the blinking green light. I backed up as much as I could, momentarily free to reverse as the Honda Civic behind me wallowed in snow, but the bus was well and truly stuck. Four cycles of red-yellow-green went by as the driver attempted to free the vehicle, all to no avail. I reached over with my scraper and excavated more of my passenger side window, to better check my mirrors. Finally, the traffic cleared. I pulled awkwardly out from behind the immobilized bus, nearly clipping a crosswalk sign in the process. My sketchy left turn was made blind by the bulk of the bus, and confused the oncoming traffic by coming from the dedicated right lane. There was some swerving and squealing of brakes, then a harrowing momentary skid as a Jeep wrestled with momentum on the other side. A T-bone was narrowly avoided. And then I was on the highway, puttering along in a line of red tail-lights with my nose up at the glass, fingers white-knuckled under cracked and damaged skin.
Squamish was no better. The gas station lot was strewn with wind-blown signs and pylons, and a rogue empty propane tank skidded back and forth in front of the pump. I pulled my gloves on and braved the psychotic wind to haul it into the ditch, frozen metal leaving an imprint that burned even insulated palms. I stuttered out a service request with a ice-bound tongue, apologizing to the attendant for needing his help out in the weather. My tank had shrunk in the cold, only able to take half its usual capacity. Pressurized gas is uniquely tricky to handle in these temperatures, and I was so frozen that I didn't mess with the pressure cap to persuade it into filling. I'd be back on Saturday - this would have to do for now. I flipped the furnace on and waited for the rush of warmth, heading over to Walmart for a portable back-up heater while the bedside thermometer rose past freezing. I didn't find a heater. I bought a 20-pack of chemical hand warmers instead.
The drive back was even worse somehow. The screaming wind blew directly into the windshield most of the time, and Blue is about as aerodynamic as a brick. We crawled along the mercifully empty highway at 50km/hr, her suspension yawing like a rowboat in a storm. She shimmied sideways at every uphill curve, heaving to and fro while I fought to stay in control. I was afraid. It was the clean, precise fear of a life-threatening situation, almost a relief after so many weeks of amorphous unease. I drilled down into my adrenaline - radio off, hands gripping just so, attention keen and sharp as a laser. I could handle this. Her engine was revving hot, the oil pressure low. Deal with it later; stay on the road. Stay on the road. The radiator was bubbling and steaming when I pulled into the parking lot - mysterious, not good. I'd figure out why that was when I was warm and alive tomorrow morning. In that moment, I had only my focus, the wind, and the cliff-edge road.
I've felt that useful fear many times, and on this occasion I was reminded strongly of Sonora Pass on my PCT hike in 2018. I was not consciously experiencing the thought during my perilous drive, but once I was home safe in Lot 5 (parking cop nemesis be damned), I found the memory waiting patiently at the top of my mind. Sonora was wind and cliff edges too, and the parallel was clear.
I was leaving the High Sierra at the end of a chilly May, brutally thrashed by a too-early entry and a food miscalculation that left me hungry for days. I'd nearly frozen to death when my headlamp died on Pinchot Pass, stranded in a flurry at 12,000ft. The next day, I got my leg trapped in a boulder-well on the northern side of Mather, and I had to work for an hour to dig myself out. I'd post-holed twelve miles while descending John Muir and lost the trail in sharp glacier sludge, shredding my calves through my cheap, useless rain pants. At one point, I’d crashed through the ice of a hidden shallow lake and gotten soaked to the armpits, forcing me to trip and crawl and stumble over the sinking snow before nightfall’s hypothermia set in. I had bawled shamelessly and yelled curses at the pain of frostbite and scraped shins, furious with myself for being so stupid as to enter these mountains alone. None of those injuries were acute or disbling, but I was keenly aware that I was one bad choice away from a rescue - or worse. I knew I was on my own. Judging from the empty trail logs and sparse Guthook notes, I was the only human in the valley each time I crossed a pass, one day behind the front-runners and two ahead of the pack. This is a dangerous place to be. To make matters worse, I had picked up a determined stalker on trail, and so had been deliberately spreading false information about my pace and itinerary. If I didn't show up in town one day, I wouldn't register as missing at all. I desperately needed to get out of the high alpine. All that stood between me and the mellow drop to Tahoe was the wicked black spine of Sonora Pass, a notorious knife-edge at 10,000ft. I camped just below its base at 9,400, and lay happy and exhausted at the relative reprieve. The wind began to pluck at my tent. I told myself it was fine, as it increased intensity and built to a shriek.
I don't remember exactly how the next day went - the details of the mundane hiking that morning are lost, overshadowed by the trial of the afternoon. And it was afternoon, I recall that perfectly. The precise angle of golden-orange light is imprinted on my memory forever, the strange and deadly beauty made indelible by fear. There are places on this earth that people are not meant to be. Sonora Pass in a windstorm is one of them.
As I crested the ridgeline and left the trees behind, all appeared calm. It was somewhat windy, but sunny and not terribly cold. The precarious three-mile ridge was mostly free of snow, a weaving catwalk between black shale summits and broken granite walls. It was loose underfoot, sloping steeply to one side or another even within the borders of the trail, but the route rose and fell in gradual dips without the need for switchbacks. The sky was clear of threatening clouds. I had plenty of time. I was lulled into an easy confidence, the safety of Tahoe Rim just a few hours away.
Sonora Pass, the only photo I could manage to take from the shelter of a cliffside cave. This is the least exposed section of the ridge, looking deceptively calm.
A keening howl brought me to attention. Looking below, I could see the scrub brush waving curiously at the edge of the talus field, and I scrambled down the gravel for a closer look. What I had taken for knee high bushes were in fact stunted Krumholz trees, head high or taller, absolutely flattened by gale-force winds. The gap in the surrounding cliffs created a perfect wind tunnel, channeling the oncoming air to the noise and fury of a jet engine. I reached out my hand to the torrent and was immediately wrenched backwards from the elbow, so hard and so fast that I punched my own shoulder. The trees looked sturdy. I wasn't so sure about me. I clambered back up the slope and thought for a moment as the wind grew stronger. This is the moment when I could have turned back. I didn't.
I took a step, then another, sheltered for now by a high granite wall. The wind slapped me in the face and tore at my clothes head-on, forcing me to remove my ball cap and clip it to my belt. I tucked my pack straps into my shorts; they were flying up, battering my chest and face. Later, I would examine my belly and see tiny shrapnel bruises, as if I'd survived a grenade. Grit from the loose shale whipped into my eyes and nostrils, forcing me to blink rapidly against the onslaught of gravel rain. Despite the high altitude, I was breathing through my nose, periodically ducking my head to my chest and panting like a dog. I could barely breathe. I pulled up my bandana, but it wouldn't stay secure on my face. I hadn't yet experienced the worst of the wind, but I knew what was coming for me. Just ahead, the trail turned at a gap in the cliff wall, the area below it totally scoured of vegetation and snow. I would have to pass through it, and pass by many, many windward gaps if I didn't want to be trapped up here at nightfall. I had no choice. I stepped forward and out of the lee.
My difficult progress slowed to a step-by-step crawl. The wind turned from an obstacle to a full-on assault. My nose was flattened into slits, cheeks pinned to my skull, vision totally obscured by a maelstrom of stinging dirt. I was grateful to be wearing my glasses despite the fact that they dug painfully into my face, slammed against my temples by the furious wind. I made progress only by planting my trekking poles, first one then the other, into whatever small patches of soil I could find, heedlessly destroying the delicate alpine flowers. I couldn't see. I could barely keep my balance, and every time I lifted a foot, I risked being snatched off the mountain entirely. I turned my head to the side to breathe as if I was swimming the breaststroke, choking on mouthfuls and nose-fuls of brown grit when my nostrils weren't forced shut. I began to imagine Sisyphus in Hell. Step. Plant, plant. Brace yourself. Step. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
I was in mortal peril now, that much was clear. While my trials before had been dangerous and difficult, hypothermia and darkness are slow killers. That type of danger comes from overconfidence and hurry, and gives you time to consider you next move. You can't always get yourself out of that situation, but you can usually hold steady with planning and good luck. There was no way I could plan myself out of this now. There was no option to retreat to the safety of the trees now that I'd begun, as I could not turn around without being pitched sideways out of control. A single false step would send me off the cliff edge, down to my death below. My only choice was to keep moving forward against the enemy wind, to watch the bushes and the flying dust storm carefully as I wrestled in its changing, twisting grip. I could not stop. The fear was in me then, that same useful narrowing of focus I felt on the snowy road from Squamish. Forward, forward. Pay attention.
Obviously, I lived. The three miles of Sonora Pass took me something like three hours of relentless struggle, occasionally relieved by towering boulders. I collapsed into these makeshift caves and sat precariously on the slippery rock steeps, gulping down water and food. I spat brown saliva, snorted out brown dirt, pulled on my tattered rain pants for protection from the brown hail of stones. The sun sank low behind the mountain, lending urgency to every hesitant step. I wanted to linger in those islands of peace. I was aching all over from effort and projectile blows, but my fear of being caught after dark was stronger than my reluctance. Every time I lost my footing and dug my hands into the dirt, I rose from my knees and faced the chaos anew. My nose began to bleed. I had the persistent illusion that I was actually underwater, pushing through a current that would drag me down into the depths, to the death zone. In this fearful, tunnel-visioned way, I made progress against the assault, dropping to one knee when the gusts threatened to shake me loose. Finally, I crossed the gap that marked the end and threw myself down a shifting zig-zag of rock and snow, slid the last few hundred feet in an ill-advised glissade. I was down. I was safe. Below the talus it was calm once again, the murderous wind cut instantly to a strong breeze. I stood, shaking and panting and wet with snow, bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts and for the first time tasting my bloody nose. What the fuck was all that about? I was staggered by it, then triumphant. Shale dust spiraled down from the pass, the higher wind still hammering as if in a rage. “I beat you! I win!” I hollered at the mountain, laughing crazily with the shock of being alive. My adversary only blew harder in response, a final gust of spite. Arrogant little mammal. What a lucky fool I'd been.
What I'm listening to:
It's blowing a gale out there once again, but I'm safely inside and away from the lethal cold. My van is having some kind of problem with the coolant system - hopefully not the head gasket, which would be horribly expensive to fix. Baleine is at the mechanic, warming up inside the garage so they can drain the radiator and see what the problem is. I scored an inexpensive AirBnb for a couple days - inexpensive for Whistler, anyway. Central heating and cable, and indoor plumbing, what joy! I'm making a real zero day out of it, sprawled on the bed in only my socks and a towel, pizza box in easy reach. As I've said before, happiness is determined by expectations. I was expecting to shiver in a sleeping bag, only peeking my hands out to turn the pages of a book. Despite the expense, I'm bursting with happiness, drunk on the comfort of the Great Indoors. I made a friend this week too! I didn't even mention it, since mortal terror makes a better story. But I hung out with my new friend on Monday and we talked about everything, spirituality and music and Whistler's peculiar lonely gregarity, passing the aux cord back and forth as we showed off our mutual good taste in metal. Homewrecker fucking rules - here's a song that impressed my new friend.
Talk to you next Thursday! I'll do my best not to freeze in the meantime.
-Magpie
Homewrecker fucking rules! Lovely near death experience stories, glad you survived the 99 and Sonora Pass! Enjoy your zero day and pizza, stay warm