But unless I am truly willing to go there I have no right to write,
"I was here."
I take a step forward. My boot presses down on a surface of ice, cracking the layers into panes with the sound of shattering glass. I squint at the ice with curiosity and take a quick video of my boots in the act of breaking the delicate formations. There is a beauty in the fragility of structures created by the godlike power of extreme weather. Yet, when I break through the icy surface I quickly reach the immutable mountain beneath. Then it is I who is fragile. The mountain permits me to walk upon it. Never forget this.
I finish climbing the shoulder of the volcano and reach a flat ridge. The walk to the summit block is brief. Level ground means speed. I pull off my glove to operate my little climbing camera — days later I would notice the skin on my fingertips peeling off from the combination of high winds, 20 degree air, and exposed skin. The traverse across the summit block is a new experience in my short climbing career. Two inches of wind-blasted dry snow dusts hard blue ice: a product of recent hurricane-force winds and arctic temperatures. It is within my ability. I slowly shuffle across, using hands, crampon front points, and my daggered ice axe to move. It’s time to go up and I dig my crampons in as I fit through a narrow chute flanked by mushrooms of rime ice. I step up and pat my hand on the summit. I made it. I am here.
All there will ever be, all there ever was, and all there ever is is right now
My end-of-winter climb of Lassen Peak has become a symbol for how I approached 2017: I took what I learned in 2016 and shot into the unknown — except I chose to see how far I could go alone. In some ways it was reckless and selfish. Solo, you take on more risk, you make people worry, and you exclude all but yourself.
I was alone in California, but not lonely. Saying goodbye has a way of renewing relationships. Still I decided I would go it alone in my adventures and while I, on rare occasions, reconnected with old adventure partners I made no attempt to find new ones. I wanted to be in the right now and rode that feeling through the year. I left for trips on a whim, with little planning and little forethought. I’d get an idea stuck in my head and wouldn’t move on until it was realized: I wanted to go to Yosemite to bring in the New Year, I wanted to complete a solo winter climb, I wanted to camp at the top of a mountain I noticed on the way back from my winter climb.
I didn’t want to do the same thing over and over and over again saying “I’ve always wanted to do that” — this phrase was replaced with a proclamation of “fuck it” followed by action. My Subaru and my driving playlist as my adventure partners, I set out. I slept in my car and my tent and drove for thousands of miles. Alone.
Go find whatever it is you’re looking for
Don’t ask for directions, follow your heart
As for your path — be your own
Maps have borders you
Do not.
California is a massive, beautiful place. After moving here, I was lucky to be in the right mindset to explore and privileged enough to be able to just go. I followed my heart to four different national parks in five trips, as well as nearly a dozen state parks in the first few months I lived there. Within days of getting settled into my new apartment and starting my new job I had reserved a campsite to bring in the New Year at Yosemite. I found myself adding two, four hours to my road trips to explore side roads because “fuck it.” I threw myself at my adventures with a recklessness reflected in the solo climbs, scrambles and overnights I intended on doing. I became immersed in photographing these places and honestly, the only solid plans I ever made were to ensure I made it to the right spot by sunrise, sunset, or when the Milky Way would be arcing over a landmark. I have so many moments and photographs to share.
Are you ready? Take my hand.
Sunset from Mt. Tamalpais. Tamalpais State Park, California.
In the caves. Pinnacles National Park, California.
The textures and terrain of Death Valley National Park, California.
Farmland of the American West. Somewhere in California.
Sunrise over the summit block of Lassen Peak. Lassen Volcanic National Park, California.
A fiery sunset to remember. Lassen Volcanic National Park, California.
So if I’m gonna go I better go
Because right now I’m the oldest I’ve ever been
And the youngest I ever will be
Here we are at the end, but I need to take you back to the present. I learned two things in my tornado of adventures: I want to share them with people and my confidence is growing. These are strange feelings for me. I’ve shared a lot to Instagram and Facebook, but there is one story about confidence I have been holding back until the right moment. Disclaimer: sorry Mom.
“Mike? Is that you?”
“Yes? Is that Pierre? Are you up at the top?”
“Yeah. Just seeing if you’re down there.”
“I’m about to come up.”
Standing at the base of the dry waterfall, I study the chute above to make sure there is a safe way up the first couple dozen feet. I had already chosen a route for the second half of the climb — out of sight from here — from the vantage point of where I left my pack at the top of the waterfall 100 feet above. I had met Pierre in passing on the trail and during our conversation I told him my plan. He is an experienced climber and understands what I am about to do. I step toward the base with no gear except climbing shoes and a sling carrying my emergency beacon.
I place my hands on the rock at the start of the climb. I had noted this as the hardest part — totally vertical, probably the only 5th class climbing I’d encounter on the chosen route. With careful ease I scale the 10 feet and top out over the vertical, walking hands and feet up some easy slab in the narrowest part of the falls. I look up the line I had chosen and see a decent stretch of near featureless, steeper slab. I study it for several seconds. I don’t have the experience on rock to climb that. I need to find another way.
It is at this point I note my distinct lack of fear. I’m about to improvise a route up rock I’d never climbed and all of the climbing is harder than anything I have scrambled. I trace a new line up moss-covered rock to my right. It is steeper, but there are workable ledges the whole way up. I climb. The rock is much worse here than in the chute — some of it is balancing precariously like pieces in a Jenga puzzle. I pull out a piece and send an fist of stone bouncing down the chute. I am not afraid because I know I can do this. I make it halfway up and look back down — I’m standing on a 2-foot ledge above a 20-foot drop. I am not afraid because I know I can do this. I get stuck briefly and I have to backtrack to continue upward. I am not afraid because I know I can do this.
You see, I’m a anxious person which makes me a nervous climber. Confidence erases this nervousness, and as I relax I climb better: it becomes normal and I become focused. The week before the climb I did the same hike, looked at the dried-out waterfall and thought, “I can climb that” with a confidence I didn’t know existed in me about anything. I came back the next week with climbing shoes to do it, and I did it without any doubt in my mind.
I reach the top after carefully mantling over some loose rock and Pierre is there eating lunch with his friends. He looks at me and asks, “Do you want some chips?” No acknowledgement of where I came from or what I did. Just offers me some chips. Climbing is normal to Pierre — one moment you’re climbing, and the next you’re eating chips. Maybe Pierre senses that in this moment, for a few dozen feet, climbing is normal for me too.
