Two Little Feet

I have often imagined what it would be like to be a child again. Carefree and away from the struggles that confront us adults. The worries of the world a distant obstacle. The laughter that flows freely, unabated, flowing like a river into a sea of worry free bliss. As I began to pursue climbing more and more, I often used an image of my kids, and my wife when I would struggle. I have talked about this in previous posts. You get to a place where your mind, body, and spirit are telling you to turn around. All senses are pulling you back, yet you know that there is a spark within that can engulf this negativity like a fire. Inflame your desire and passion to push you on. The summit is near, the crux move ever present, your senses tingling – yet all that you are is spent. Something internal telling you to give up. The ability to dig into something deeper within is exactly what often determines a successful climb from an unsuccessful one. The ability to tap into that extra energy, the ability to hold onto the untainted child like curiosity. That spirit of a child that knows no boundaries, has no fear, and is driven by an ever present curiosity. The sense of adventure within a child is a source that we all allow to diminish as we grow. To a child, all is possible. Their life experiences have yet to tarnish the unquestionable belief in themselves. The world has yet to tell them they can’t achieve whatever it is they set out for.


This is a fundamental trait that I believe makes a mountaineer successful when others around him fail. The unquestionable belief that they “can” achieve what they set out for. The child like presence within, and the ability to look into your mind’s eye and channel that energy to be present in each step. The curiosity of that mind- set allows you to drive your energies forward. Only when you can set aside the “what if’s”, the doubt, the unjustified fear, only then can you push beyond your limits. Like a child you lose the sense of limits. There are no limits when none have been set for you. You are the limiting factor that keeps you from your goals. I see this in my kids when I take them out for a day of climbing. They know no limits. Unless someone tells them that a particular climb is “hard”, then they just throw themselves and all their energy right at it. If we could all learn to find this place within ourselves again, we’d be a much better world. Less paranoid of our neighbors, more willing to risk for what we believe in, less fearful of a challenge. In my kids I see a simplicity that drives me to find “that” within myself. I know it’s there. I’ve seen it on climbs, challenging times, and during some really low points in my life when I thought I could not go on.


Five years ago I was on Mt. Rainier for a second time. Guiding a newlywed couple who were on their honeymoon. Yes a honeymoon climbing a big, hard, scary mountain. Only a climber could understand. I had been on the Summit a year or two before. I knew the difficulty; I knew the dangers were real. I had climbed in Canada for 6 weeks prior to summiting Mt. Rainier and knew what I was capable of when out on the edge of my ability. My senses were very keen at that time. My system was dialed, my abilities well defined. On the “Honeymoon Climb” I was still in top form. We began the hike up with an ominous sign looming over the summit. A big round cloud cap over the summit. No other clouds in the sky, just the round cloud wrapping the summit in its embrace. Those "round" clouds are called "cap" or "lenticular" clouds. They typically form over the taller mountain peaks, such as volcanoes (Mt. Rainier), as moist air is lifted high enough to cool and condense water vapor into liquid water droplets which produce clouds. The process is similar to what allows you to "see your breath" when you breathe out on a cold day. As the wind moves over and down the backside of a mountain peak, it sinks, warms and evaporates the moisture. Although it looks as though the cloud is "stationary", it's actually being continuously created on the upwind side, and dissipating on the downwind side. Such clouds are a good "early indicator" of approaching weather. As we stepped from the car I remember looking up and thinking “Oh Shit”!! I knew from watching the weather patterns over the last month or so that things were dicey. This was the same year that saw the mountain claim several lives. Here I was taking a couple up this monstrosity of a mountain to signify the beginning of their life together. We sacked up, packed up, and headed up. All the while I was discreetly watching the clouds over the summit. It was worsening. Everything inside me was saying stop. All alarms were sounding. I had a family at home, they had a future. We pressed on.


We spent the next day at 10,000 feet dialing in our system. Me showing them what to do should someone fall into a crevasse. Talking to them about the danger and our schedule. Letting them know that I intended to do as I normally did – start before anyone else started and haul ass. Stay in front of other parties where the prospect of crowds, someone dropping something, or someone falling on us was lessened. The lenticular was hanging onto the summit with a force to be reckoned with. I slyly walked off several times that afternoon to talk to other parties who were coming down. They reported high winds, low visibility, and freezing temperatures. We were cooking in the intense sun at our base camp. Just a friendly reminder of how variable the weather on a mountain can be. I prayed right there. For safe passage, wisdom, clarity, and the safety of myself and my partners. I also prayed that if God took me, he’d protect my wonderful wife and kids and keep me in their hearts all of their days. I was scared.

Pete had just gotten over a respiratory infection. Sharon was strong and ready, yet inexperienced on a mountain like this. Pete was determined. I was the responsible one and slept little. We woke at 10pm and slowly lumbered onto the glacier, put on our gear, and away we went. The child like senses were nowhere to be seen, felt, or heard. This was serious business. We crossed the first glacier around 10:45pm via headlamp. I could see stars, yet I could see wisps of clouds as well. The wind was light, the air crisp. I could hear the glacier crack under our feet several times. Ever shifting and settling. I could feel my breath. I could feel the contractions of my lungs, my diaphragm contracting and relaxing. I was running on all cylinders. I remember crossing over a rock band onto the next glacier and hearing rocks falling around us, pinging down rock faces, yet I could not see them. The tension was mounting. I felt like a bowling pin in a dark alley. Waiting patiently for my turn to come.


We ascended the Disappointment Cleaver. A rock band that is notorious for accidents, fatalities, and severe injuries. Once at the top we took a break. That’s when I first noticed that Pete wasn’t doing so well. He was cold, somewhat slurring his speech, and unwilling to drink much or eat. This was before I had my EMT training, yet I had Wilderness Medicine training and knew this was not good. We were in trouble, serious trouble. I had brought along a portable pulse oximeter just for this reason. This device measures your pulse and the amount of oxygen in your blood, or more accurately your level of oxygen saturation. People suffering from altitude sickness slowly absorb much less oxygen than a healthy person. I knew Pete was getting over some stuff and knowing it was a respiratory infection made it more important that we monitored his well being up in the thin air. I checked is O2 levels and they were low. Not so low as to turn around, but it had my attention. I talked to both of them and let them know I was concerned, yet not enough to turn them around. They chose to press on. Curious, like a child, of what lay ahead and wanting to see what that was. We left from there. Up into the clouds we ascended. My worries slowly fading, my own curiosity surfacing slowly as my drive took over. Ultimately, we would be stuck in those lenticular clouds for about an hour as the storm within those clouds intensified and shut us down. One of two teams who pressed on into a total white out, unable to move up or down. Pete was getting sicker. We crossed a HUGE crevasse via an ice bridge. I remember crawling across and belaying Sharon across this block of ice wedged between two walls. Above a pit that I truly could not see the bottom. Stuck in a storm at just under 14,000 feet. She froze right in the middle. I believe she cried, I know I wanted to. I was scared. We were in deep. Pete was sick. It was time to retreat. I prayed hard at this point. Those prayers were answered when the clouds lifted just enough for us to make our exit. We eventually got down to the glacier below. After HOURS of climbing we knew we were going to be okay. The storm still raged above but all parties were down. As we sat on our packs, relaxing in the sun, drinking water and eating, I couldn’t help but feel giddiness. A sense of adventure and pride that we touched our limits. Tapped them on the shoulder. Said hello to near disaster, then found our way back. I was out there. Beyond what I thought I could do. All the while I kept an image in my mind. I wanted to do climbs like this with my son. I wanted to be the dad that showed him what it was to have an alpine breeze blow across your face at 14,000 feet. I wanted to be there when he stood upon his first summit and to feel that connection that only one who suffers with you can share. I wanted to look into his eyes and see the joy of accomplishment. To see his lungs pumping and heart beating and to feel his soul set free right before my eyes.


That is what got me up and down on the Honeymoon Climb. I was growing closer to my little boy in those years and I refused to lie down and just give up when all that was inside me was telling me to do just that. He needed me and I wasn’t about to let a few little obstacles stop me from sharing his first summit, or any other “summit” in his lifetime.

I remember when the clouds broke and I was right behind Pete, he was sick but he wouldn’t quit either. He pushed himself harder than most people ever push themselves. There is a picture that one of us took as we were heading down and it always makes me think of my mantra that day. It wasn’t words this time, as most mantras are. I was short roping Pete. Right behind him making sure he didn’t fall. I remember thinking about Kai and the life I wanted him to have. I was looking down at Pete’s feet. Making sure he didn’t trip. I see it clearly as if it were yesterday. Looking down at his feet and imagining my son’s feet in his place. The visual mantra of my son’s feet pushing me on. The two little feet of a child who was becoming the hero I never expected. The inspiration I routinely found in him, right there in the snow in front of me. I imagined his two little feet walking with me through that storm. His little face full of hope and joy. Smiles and adventures. Carefree and free to be whatever he wanted to be. I was running from a storm that could well have taken me yet I was free. That image of those little feet in front of me kept me pushing forward. Down out of the storm. I knew I wanted to make it to another day where I could turn that illusion into reality. We made it down – all the while my son was my guide that day. He walked with me out of that storm.


Today I face a storm that is exponentially worse than any I have known. Unfamiliar and surreal it engulfs all that is around me. The challenges I face are ones that I am not prepared for. The cold and bitterness not from a wind, but from a heart grown bitter and distant, silent and gone. The raging storm is one for which I have no way to protect myself. My son is with me in this storm, as is my daughter. All the shelter, comfort, and protection I have worked so hard to surround them with since their birth, is utterly useless. We are exposed. Out there. At our limits, at the limits of what human nature is equipped to deal with. The storm shows no sign of subsiding. All I can do is be the guide to my kids. Be the rock that provides them any shelter that I can. Set aside my tears and pain and shelter them as best I can. Show them that after every storm, there is an amazing light. Look into the sunrise that follows and know that tomorrow is another day. Point their eyes to all the good around them. Hold them and tell them that I will walk with them. I may not be able to shelter them from the elements of this storm, but I will be RIGHT THERE with them. Putting one foot in front of the other. Pushing on to new summits. One foot in front of the other. Like their spirit, I will have no pre-conceived notions. I will not fear, I will only walk forward with them and share a sense of adventure. Unsure of what lies ahead but unwilling to turn around. We will make this journey together and I will pick them up when they fall. We will walk from this storm and onto a summit above the clouds.


After years of waiting for the day I could ascend a peak with my son – the day came this weekend. I have been spending more and more time with both kids, figuring out the dynamics of a new relationship with them. My time limited and “assigned”. No more waking and walking into their rooms to see their faces. I have been trying to find ways to keep the connection we have always had, even when I feel it being pulled from my grasp. I was looking at photos from the climb on Mt. Rainier and it hit me. I wanted those two little feet to experience all of the joy of climbing above the clouds, to experience what climbing has given me if he so chooses. I asked Kai if he wanted to go climb a peak with me. I don’t think I got the entire sentence out before he said “heck yes dad”. We set out late, giving him plenty of sleep. Neil and Linda were along for the ride. He was amped. Full of energy, questions, curiosity, and utter joy. The smile on his face was all I needed to see in order to realize this was a great opportunity. We did the approach with little more than light sweat glazing our heads. When we started up the ridge, it got steeper and scarier. Kai was a chatter box. I wondered if he was doing it to keep his mind off what he was doing. Neil was even a little nervous. As the climb steepened and the slopes slid away under our feet, I could only worry about him. His asthma! The kid has been in the hospital numerous times with a partially collapsed lung (Spontaneous Pneumothrax). I CONSTANTLY monitored his breathing. He was pushing himself, yet he wasn’t struggling. He was happy – smiling. I kept staring down at his feet, drawn to the symbolism. Here they were with me, two little feet. The same two little feet that pulled me from a storm were now walking with me as I had imagined. When we made the summit, Kai was a kid that I haven’t seen in a long time. We walked the last few feet together and I will NEVER forget those arms wrapping around me and the words he said – “thanks dad, I love you”. The kid put aside his doubts, fears, and walked on in that carefree spirit that he has. He pushed hard and he persevered. His wonderment and amazement at the top were worth all the broken bones, falls, anguish, and pain that climbing has brought me. The storm that is my life right now blew away. We descended and on an August day – snow fell upon our heads. It didn’t last long, but it was like angels dropping flakes of comforting peace upon our heads. An hour later we were down on flat trails for the hike out. The sun was shining its brilliant energy onto our heads. The innocent child before me was free from the worry of life…if only for a moment. I looked down one last time as we approached the car..at the two little feet that have carried me across so many mountains and back down again.