In early August 1984, Rune and I along with George and Al, two of Rune’s friends made a successful attempt on Montana’s tallest mountain: 12,800-foot Granite Peak. Along the way, we had a series of misadventures.
The trip started off smoothly enough. We made it out of town at a surprisingly early hour, and George and Al were surely affable guys. George’s interests were to do a mixture of climbing and fishing. He had a new rod and reel with him, and he was excited about dipping a line, and about catching his first trout with his new gear. Al’s interest was strictly limited to fishing. I don’t myself fish, but having fishermen along on backcountry trips was great. I have gladly devoured many a rainbow trout provided by hiking buddies who prefer to bag fish while I bag peaks. As the trip unfolded, Al distinguished himself as a man who could not only catch fish, but who would go to quite extraordinary lengths to get those fish into the pan.
We drove the 5 hours from Bozeman to the trailhead along Rosebud Creek which drains the western slopes of the Granite Range. From there we had an 8-mile hike to our planned staging area at Princess Lake. We took an early afternoon break at Huckleberry Lake, a small lake which was about a mile short of our ultimate destination for the day. This lake had fishing potential and George was just bursting. The urge to test his new gear against an unsuspecting trout was simply overwhelming. Al joined right in, and Rune, though he didn’t have fishing gear with him, was not to be outdone. He stripped a green switch which he cut from the foliage on the lakeshore, and got Al to spot him some fishing line and a lure, and was in business. I just rested on a rock, taking it all in and dreaming of fried trout for dinner.
George was excitedly relating the features of his new rod and reel to us as he assembled his gear. “It’s a super light action Zebco rod, it’s very sensitive. I can feel the slightest tug of a fish on the line, and with the lightest flick of my wrist I can hook’em....” We all listened politely and nodded whenever he took a breath. And wouldn’t you know it, George was the first to get a bite. “I got one!” he exclaimed as he felt the fish tug. Our eyes all turned to George as he was flicking his rod back to hook the fish. We heard a dull snap and stared dumbfounded for a moment as the realization set in that the weight of the fish had snapped George’s new rod in half. With mouth agape and eyes bulging, and a “Did you see that?” look of disbelief on his face George snapped his head from side to side to look at each of us, to verify in our faces that what he had just witnessed had actually occurred. Maybe 5 seconds passed before laughter erupted, and the jokes began. “Did a fish sell you that pole?” was my favorite. George of course retorted that it wasn’t the rod at all. He had gotten a glimpse of the submarine that he had hooked and that it was the largest fish he had ever seen.
With that George’s appetite for fishing dissipated and the fishing adventure at Huckleberry Lake came to an end. Rune gave up his switch to George, and I unwound some duct tape from my water bottle and handed it to George. We packed up and made our way to Princess Lake.
* * *
Princess Lake sat up against the headwall of a cirque, which rose 700 feet up and blocked our view of Granite Peak and the other peaks of the Granite Range. Anxious to get a view of what lay ahead of us tomorrow, we set up camp, grabbed a few essentials, George and Al grabbed their fishing poles, which they certainly considered to be essential, duct tape and all, and we headed up to the top of the headwall. The headwall itself rose to a small peak about halfway across its length, and it appeared that one could only climb up to the right of the peak without technical rock-climbing gear. The right side of the headwall was a steep scree field for its whole 700 vertical feet that was just a grunt to climb. The only technical problem was posed by a single rock band about 10 feet high that spanned the headwall’s width.
At the top of the headwall we stood in the northwest corner of the Storm Lakes Basin, a huge upper basin that contained a number of large lakes including Avalanche Lake which was more than a half mile in length. Alongside the lakes were boulder fields. Our goal for the afternoon was to make it to the foot of Avalanche Lake in order to scout a route for climb up Granite in the morning. We couldn’t see Avalanche Lake from where we stood as the peak of the headwall stood between us and the lake. We had to head south along the length of the 3 small Snowball Lakes by hopping from boulder to boulder, and then east across a stretch of alpine tundra to get to the foot of Avalanche Lake. Now we were all used to hopping across boulder fields, but this was a big boulder field. We had to hop across a half mile of boulders just to get around these first 3 lakes. In addition, much to our chagrin, we discovered that it was spider season in the high Beartooth. Strung between these countless boulders were countless spider webs containing countless LARGE spiders. This made the crossing even more challenging as we had to jump from boulder peak to boulder peak, being careful never to get between boulders lest we get ensnared in some spider’s web and incur the spider’s wrath.
The tundra beyond the boulder field was a mix of spongy, brushy hummocks, grasses, and rocks. We picked our way between the worst of the brush and soon found ourselves at the foot of Avalanche Lake. Granite Peak stood above the southeast corner of this basin. Avalanche Lake and a field of the largest boulders I had ever seen stood between us and the lower reaches of the peak. Directly south of us was an unnamed 10,800' spire, a single spike that survived the onslaught of the last glacial age. We dubbed this beautiful spire Storm Point. To the west of Storm Point stood the formidable north face of 12,063' Mystic Mountain.
George and Al’s hopes of frying up a few trout were not to be disappointed. Avalanche Lake was crystalline deep blue, and more importantly, it was loaded with trout. Now these weren’t trophy size trout. The biggest ones were maybe 10-12 inches in length, but what they lacked in size they made up for in quantity. The lake was literally teaming with small trout, and hungry trout at that. It didn’t seem to matter what George or Al threw in there, they were pulling trout out right and left. They had their fun, strung the largest 8 trout on a line, and threw the rest back. We began to head back.
Between the long drive in the morning, the 8-mile hike in, and now this exploratory hiking and fishing adventure into the Storm Lakes Basin it had gotten quite late. We began making our way around to the west side of the headwall as evening began to fade. We made it back across the rocky tundra and around the three Snowball Lakes and down the headwall just as darkness set in.
Crossing this boulder field a second time was exhausting, all the more so for Al as he was balancing his catch of fish in one hand as he jumped from boulder to boulder. We
celebrated when we got back with a trout dinner that couldn’t be beat, along with assorted other munchies. We hadn’t planned on catching trout so we had a full load of food with us, which in our case meant that we had way too much to eat even without the trout. So we overate in a big way and kept the fire going well into the night just lying back on our sleeping pads enjoying the cool air on this beautiful starry night.
Our reconnaissance indicated to us that we had a long day ahead of us if we were going to make it to the top of Granite and back. The climb from Princess Lake was only 3700' vertical, but the field of massive boulders alongside Avalanche Lake presented a formidable obstacle, as did the steep terrain on the upper reaches of the peak. We had read about the obstacles we would be facing tomorrow including a snow bridge at 12,400' and then the upper face of the peak beyond the snow bridge that was a class 4 climb if you took the right route, and class 5 if you didn’t. There was also the changeable weather that the Beartooth’s are famous for. It was a beautiful night tonight, but what would tomorrow bring? A 6 AM start was clearly called for.
We slept soundly that night, a delirium no doubt induced by our long day and full bellies. It had to be at least 8 before any of us crawled out of our sleeping bags, and it was at least 9 before we left camp. We had slept the night before without the rain flies on our tents. All the better to enjoy the beautiful night air. As we were walking out of camp that morning, George turned around to us and asked “Hey, you think we ought to put the tent flies on?” We all looked at each other, we were anxious to get on our way, and we were incautious by nature. “Nah” was the communal response. It was a beautiful morning. What could possibly happen?
We made the grunt back up the headwall, and hopped from boulder to boulder to boulder saying good morning to the infinity of spiders that were enjoying their morning feast of insects. When we reached Avalanche Lake, George and Al just had to stop and fish. Trying to resist fishing to them was like Roger Rabbit trying to resist the lure of “Shave and a Haircut.” It just wasn’t possible. So Rune and I hung out while the giant boulder field alongside Avalanche Lake awaited us. Finally, we could resist no longer, Rune and I headed out.
This boulder field was more challenging than the one alongside the smaller lakes as the boulders here were huge, house-sized one might say. My guess was that these boulders had calved off the Froze-to-Death Plateau which rose steeply above us. The task of hopping from boulder to boulder was time consuming, though since neither Rune nor I was wearing a watch, we had no idea how much time had passed.
Once around the lake the going got easier. We had to hike up a scree field of mercifully small rocks that fed into a permanent snowfield. We kicked steps in the snow and made our way to the ridge between Froze-to-Death and Granite at 11,800'. We could see George down below us on the scree field, so we sat down and took a break to await his arrival. We were not entirely surprised to see that Al was not with him. We knew that it was going to be difficult to tear Al away from all those fish.
Gazing around at the rugged beauty all around me, I was suddenly filled with angst. “I’m going to miss this place,” I said. Last year had been our friend Huk’s turn to leave, to move on from our adopted home. This year, the end of this month in fact, it would be my turn. I was in the final stages of my master’s thesis and I had been accepted to the Ph.D. program in Economics at Duke University for the Fall semester.
Rune queried me, “Are you excited about going?” “I don’t know. The school will certainly be challenging. But it’s in the Deep South, how am I going to relate to people there?” Rune empathized, “It will be hard to explain this to people who haven’t had any similar experiences.” I offered, “Maybe it’s just a matter of not having a clear enough perspective of what life there will hold for me.” “Yeah, you can hike through the shopping malls,” Rune gibed me. I smirked and shook my head no. “Fuck off dude. What about you, how much more time do you get to spend here” I queried Rune. “I’ve probably got two more years of work left on my dissertation. At least that’s how long I have funding for, and I’m in no hurry to leave.”
We felt like we had something special. Over the past few years our little group shared a multitude of experiences that were outside the purview of most. These experiences had formed a strong bond between us. We depended on each other out here. We screwed around sure, we weren’t half as hardcore as we liked to think. We didn’t have much discipline, but what we lacked in discipline, we made up for in our drive to explore and have fun. These were great journeys of discovery crammed into long weekends, or even just mornings in the outdoors before afternoon classes.
On the other hand, there was one thing about Bozeman that I would be glad to be leaving behind; the financial straits imposed by a place with few jobs. It didn’t cost much to live here. Living in married student housing we could squeeze by on $600 per month, but my monthly graduate assistantship was only $500, and making that extra hundred was difficult each and every month. I had recently done a night auditor stint at the local Super-8 Motel. Two nights a week for minimum wage while I was going to school because my wife, Terry, simply could not find work in town. She finally landed a part-time job for minimum wage at a local department store and I was able to quit the Super-8.
Season ski passes to Bridger Bowl were only $160 per year. A mere pittance, especially considering the 40 or so days of often incredible powder skiing that I got in each year. But finding that money in the budget was an annual struggle.
Rune asked, “So have you ever heard the song ‘Moving to Montana’ by Frank Zappa?” “Is that the one that goes something like, ‘I’m moving to Montana soon, gonna be a dental floss tycoon...’” Rune shook his head yes. “What about it,” I asked. “That song is the reason I moved here.” “Say what, you wanted to be dental floss tycoon?” “No, I had just started college back in Stavanger, Norway, and I was thinking of transferring to a school in the US. Well, I was in process of writing letters to send to colleges in the US to ask for applications forms. One of the schools that I was interested in was Oregon State University. I was listening to ‘Moving to Montana’ while I was filling in the address for the letter to Oregon and I accidently wrote Montana State University. So, instead of tossing away the letter, I checked a list of acceptable colleges for economic support from the Norwegian government and found that MSU was on it. I also applied to Oregon State and a few other places. In the mean time I did a little research: I saw a real nice picture in National Geographic of Lone Mountain with the heading ‘...close to Bozeman...’ That, combined with some old family story of some grand uncle who had settled in Montana in the pioneer days, pretty much settled it.”
“I always wondered how a Norwegian boy finds his way to Montana,” I said to Rune. “Your grand uncle’s pioneering spirit is alive and well in you if you ask me. Hey Rune, what time do you think it is?” I queried. “Oh, I would say...maybe two o’clock.” Rune replied as he glanced around to check the position of the sun, “George has a watch on maybe he can hear us.” Rune shouted to George who was making his way toward us up the snowfield. George
yelled back “4 o’clock.” Alarmed at the response I gave out a disbelieving “Did he say 4 o’clock?” A different kind of angst now filled my mind. “We have to go, now, or we’ll never make the peak and get back before dark,” and with that I got busy putting my pack back together for the assault on the final, and most difficult 1000 vertical. “But we have to wait for George,” was Rune’s reply. I was not to be reasoned with, “You wait for George, I’m going up.” And with that I headed up the steeply angled boulder field that would take me to the snow bridge at 12,400 feet. Adding to my angst was the fact that thunder heads were blossoming all around us and a late afternoon thunderstorm seemed to be in the works.
At the snow bridge, I turned to look back and saw that Rune and George were maybe 10 minutes behind me. But I was crazed. There were 2 other climbers at the snow bridge, they were making their way back from the peak. The snow bridge was a couloir that dropped at a 50 plus degree angle for a 1000 or so feet down the east side of Granite. It was about 30
feet across and had to be “bridged,” or hiked across, hence the name snow bridge. The two climbers on the bridge had tethered themselves to rock pillars on each side to minimize the risk of taking an untimely slide down the couloir. Having no time or equipment for such niceties, I simply jogged across. There was a well-worn trail across the couloir and the risk of a fall seemed minimal. From here the real challenges began.
I found a cairn marking a climber’s trail just beyond the snow bridge. From that cairn I searched out the next, and then the next. I moved quickly. The climbing was exposed along this route, but a fall wouldn’t be deadly. Then the cairns led me into a chimney. I could see that I had to climb the chimney for about 10 feet before stepping out on a ledge above. The chimney was nearly vertical and had no bottom. A fall would mean death, but the holds were solid. My mind raced, could I do this? I stepped into the chimney, and then backed out. “Shit, this is dangerous.” I did this a few more times, my legs were shaking like piano wire. Then I finally mustered the resolve and stepped into the chimney, climbed the 10 feet, and stepped out onto the ledge. I was still shaking. The ledge was also dangerous. There were good handholds, and a flat expanse of rock for sliding my feet, but the wall bulged out in the center forcing me to suck in my gut and curl my back to get across the ledge. Just as I’m beginning to work my way across this ledge it began to rain. Big drops, the kind that herald a thunderstorm.
I had to get back down the chimney before the sky broke loose, so I worked my way back across the ledge and climbed back down the chimney. The chimney was the point of no return in a storm. If I was above it, I was stuck up top waiting out the storm on this exposed pile of rock. My gear wasn’t that good, I didn’t know if could survive the full brunt of a storm up here, besides, I was sure this peak was a lightning rod.
As I stepped out of the chimney, the rain stopped. “Damn it, what to do, what to do.” The urge to bag the peak was strong, but so was the desire to continue living. I took a deep breath and climbed back up the chimney, inched my way across the ledge and then went for the peak.
Racing against the approaching storm, I scrambled up the last hundred or so vertical to the peak. Finally, I was on top. I checked out the view as I caught my breath. The peaks of the Granite Range swept off to the southwest. It was a world of rock and ice. Not even a hint of green hung along the ragged ridge. Granite Glacier clung to the steep north face of Granite Peak which swept down below my feet.
My moments at the peak were few. I dug around and found the register. My brain was too harried to write more than just my name, the date, and the comment “The vista was a swirl of approaching black clouds.” I put the register back and headed back down. I wouldn’t rest until I was below that chimney.
The rain held, I made it below the chimney and saw Rune and George going for the peak. In their haste, they hadn’t seen the cairns, but looking at their route, it seemed that they were better off. They were climbing what appeared as a steep rock staircase that was strictly class 4. The chimney I was in was probably rated a 5.6 climb. I yelled to them that I would wait for them over by the snow bridge. I was calming down; I had made the climb and the worst of the dangers were behind me.
I saw them descending toward me from a long way off. “Good work dudes,” I yelled as they got within shouting range. Rune flashed me a thumbs up in reply. “Good climb, eh,” George exclaimed as he and Rune reached me. “Ka-Dook-a Doo, boys, that was one fine piece of climbing,” I replied and high fives were exchanged. “We had better get going...the sky is looking gnarly.” And with that we took off across the snow bridge and started making our way down the boulder field to the pass. Rune was in the lead, followed by George and then me. I started to ask, “Did you guys sign the register?” When we suddenly heard a metallic ringing coming from George’s pack. Rune stopped and turned around. “George, your fishing pole is singing,” I blurted out. George reached behind him and grabbed the two halves of his fishing pole which were sticking up out of his pack and pulled them out. At that moment, George and I both watched in amazement as Rune’s straggly shoulder length hair began to rise heavenward. It happened slowly, as if it were being willed upward by some magical force. George and I stood watching, too dumbfounded to do anything but stare. Rune saw us staring, and looked up to see what we were staring at. Maybe he saw a few stray hairs, or maybe the electrical sensations were beginning to penetrate his scalp, because he slowly lifted his right hand and felt his hair. He pushed it down, ...it sprang back up. A few seconds passed as we stood there groping for comprehension, then all of our eyes lit up at once, and we started bounding down that boulder field as quickly as we could. The air was rich with electricity and a lightning strike seemed to be imminent, ...but somehow our luck held.
We made it to the pass and then down the snowfield, the scree field, and we were busy hopping across the boulders on the shore of Avalanche Lake when George commented “we should have brought an inflatable boat with us, traveling by water would have been much easier than this.” The way he said boat caught my attention. It was more of a ‘bowt’ than a boat. I thought to myself, he’s from the northeast. It was the word water, pronounced as ‘wauta,’ with just a hint of nasal overtone that pegged him to the New York metro area. Long Island was my guess. “So George, what part of Long Island are you from?” “Say what, ...ah Queens, how’d you know,” George asked as he continued to leap from boulder to boulder. “Your inflection gave you away. People from New Yawk say wauta.” George stopped, “get out, Rune told you, right...you told him right Rune.” “No, didn’t breathe a word about where you were from,” was Rune’s reply, as he launched himself across a particularly large gap between two large boulders. “I’ve been out here for 6 years. I figured that I’d overcome my New York dialect.” “Not hardly, sounds to me like we can take the boy out of New York, but we can’t take New Yawk outta ‘da boy,” I replied laughing. “Hey, if it’s any consolation, the same thing happened to me earlier this summer. I was in downtown Bozeman, and some tourist stops me to ask for directions. After I finish speaking, he looks at me and says ‘So what part of New Jersey are you from.’ I was flabbergasted. I consider myself a Montanan. It was like, dude your busted. I was bumming.”
I continued, “So George, what brought you out here. Did you also want to be a dental floss tycoon?” “No,” Rune cut in, “he wanted to ride pygmy ponies.” He was alluding to another verse in the Zappa song. George laughed, “So Rune told you how he found his way to Bozeman, eh. Me, ever since I remember, I have just always yearned for the great outdoors and the wide-open spaces of Montana. After graduating high school, I hopped on the first plane out of La Guardia and took off to Bozeman. I met Rune in the dorms shortly after I arrived, and we’ve been raging around together ever since.”
“Did your parents take you out camping a lot, or did you watch a lot of episodes of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, or something. I mean, Queens is at least as far removed from Montana as Norway in terms of living environment.” “My parents weren’t campers, but they packed me up every summer and sent me to outdoor camps in New England. I learned to ride horses, and became a riding instructor and horse trainer, and found that I just generally dug being outside. And Montana especially, there was just something about it that lured me to it.” “Yeah, lured you in like a trout, eh,” I added.
“I can relate. From the moment I graduated high school, I just couldn’t wait to get out of New Jersey. Had me a real jones for wandering. I made four trips out west in the summers over a period of three years. On the first trip, I didn’t know anything about where I was going, I like to think of it as my Discover America tour. The other trips were all about hiking and backpacking in the Tetons, Yellowstone, and Glacier.” “How’d you get around,” George asked. “Anyway I could,” I responded. “I put 10,000 miles on my thumb during that period. The first time I saw Bozeman was Sunday of Labor Day weekend in 1978. Terry and I were hitch-hiking from Glacier Park to a friend’s house in Woodland Park, Colorado, where I had left my junk car parked while we hitched rides through the parks. Anyway, we were sitting in the back of a flatbed truck when we cruised down Route 90 through the Gallatin Valley. We liked what we saw.” “So that’s why you moved here,” Rune queried. “That, and some additional research I did. Like you guys, I too had my criteria. I checked out maps and saw that there were plenty of high peaks, and there was a ski area in close proximity to the town. And, unlike you guys, I even had a criterion for the University: roughly half the student body had to be female.” “Yes, I could see how you’d want the University to have such substantial assets,” Rune joked.
“You know it’s funny,” I said as I took a leap and then stopped. “I remember being bummed that these mountains weren’t big enough, and I was bummed that Bridger Bowl only had 2600 vertical feet of skiable terrain. Even with all my travels out here, my perspective was still so limited. I wanted Montana to have a few 14,000-foot peaks like Colorado. I thought that hiking here wouldn’t be challenging enough, and that I’d get bored skiing at Bridger.” I jumped to the next boulder. “...Haven’t gotten bored yet.” “No boredom definitely hasn’t been a problem for me,” George chimed in. “How about for you Rune?” “I think I have the opposite problem ...so many peaks, so little time.”
We made it to the foot of the lake to find Al smiling, he held up his string of fish for our inspection. “Looking good,” we all congratulated Al on his fine-looking string of fish. A minute later the sky finally let loose. We found some protection under an overhanging rock that Al had spied earlier in the day. The rain didn’t last long but the tundra was now slick.
It was late. We slowly made our way across the stretch of tundra as darkness descended upon us. The sky had cleared. It was a beautiful moonless night; there was an incredible profusion of stars but not much light. The silhouette of Mystic Mountain above us was framed by a million pinpoints of light. We of course had foregone flashlights--weight that could not be eaten.
We made it across the tundra as the last hint of light had vanished from the sky. We now stood facing the boulder field along the three small Snowball Lakes, the boulder field and its profusion of spiders. The temperature was dropping, our choices were grim; we crawl across the boulders in the darkness, or we spend a miserable night outside right where we were. There was no wood to be had up here, and so no fire could be built. If we stayed here it meant just sitting on rocks in the cold all night long. The grass was soaked, and lying down in the wet grass would simply be too uncomfortable and could induce hypothermia. We chose the challenge of the boulder field over the misery of staying put. We expected the worst, faceful after faceful of spiders as we crawled our way back to camp. Who would go first? We couldn’t draw straws as it was too dark to see who got the short straw. Finally, Rune volunteered. Squatting on all fours on a boulder he would stretch out a foot as a feeler, then would move one hand, the second hand and the second foot to the new location. We all hung back momentarily expecting the Rune to reach into a spider web, recoil in horror as the web entangled his fingers and the spider started crawling on him looking to exact revenge. Maybe we would be staying put, shivering in-place after all. But Rune didn’t recoil in horror. There didn’t seem to be any spiders. It seems that the rain that prompted the spiders to take down their webs. What luck. We started across.
It took hours, but slowly, inexorably, we made our way through this half mile of boulders. We formed a line. The lead guy chose the path. We repeated the process of searching for purchase with a foot and then our hands a thousand times each. At one point, while Rune was leading, he directed us into one of the Snowball Lakes. It was a little cove at the lake’s edge, and he stuck his foot in the icy water before realizing where he was. Rune quipped “We have to head to the right here, unless you want to stop and fish.” Al perked up, “Did somebody say something about fishing.” We all giggled. Moments like these helped to ease our predicament.
Awhile later, Al called out, “Check it out.” We all looked around to see what he was talking about. Then we noticed a small campfire burning in the woods above Princess Lake. “I wonder if the guys we saw up at the snow bridge” I said. “It’s got to be,” responded Rune, “there’s nobody else up here.” And so it appeared that the other team of climbers had also been caught out after dark. George informed us that their camp was down at Huckleberry Lake. Their location suggested that they had tried to avoid descending the headwall by staying high and hiking through a steep wooded area on the opposite side of Princess Lake. However, they too, had not made it back to their camp before dark.
“Hey if we can see across Princess Lake, we have to be getting near the headwall,” Al perked up. Sure enough, we were only a short way from the point where the boulder field petered out near the top of the headwall. This was the final obstacle between us and camp. Hiking down the scree in the dark would be a slow process, but it was doable. But how were we going to climb down the 10-foot rock band in the dark?
There was a lone tree that grew right at the base of this rock band about halfway across the face that offered the possibility of down climbing. It stood about 30 feet tall. Rune suggested that we head for this tree. “We can grab its branches, and then get hold of the trunk, and shimmy our way down.” It seemed a good plan. George suggested that we hold hands for the descent. Al commented, “Damn George, you’ve been wanting to get fresh with me since this trip started.” George replied with a well-deserved, good natured “Fuck off.”
Rune led the way, followed by me, and then George and finally Al and his fish. Strung out in a line we inched our way down the scree field until Rune felt only air below his lead foot. “I think I’m at the top of the rock band.” He let go of my left hand and reached up to grip my wrist, and I locked my hand around his right wrist. “Hold tight, I’m going to feel if there is anything but air beyond where I’m standing.” Rune reached his left foot out into the darkness, and felt around for solid ground. I leaned my weight into the hillside to act as a counterweight. “Nothing out there but air.” Rune commented as he set his foot back down. “Which way to the tree,” Rune queried. “It’s got to be to the right,” I responded. George said, “No way, we’re way over to the right already. It’s left.” “No,” Rune replied, “I think Chuck is right, my guess is that it’s just a little way over to the right.” “Al, which way do you think it is,” I asked. Al thought for a moment. “I’m just not sure. I don’t have a good sense of where we are.” “Majority rules,” Rune quipped, “we try going right first.” “All right,” George agreed. Rune and I tightened our grip on each other’s wrist, and he started to inch his way along the top of the rock band while feeling around with his left arm in hopes of making contact with a tree branch.
A few tense minutes passed as we inched along. We had to stay close enough to the edge of the rock band to have a chance of finding the tree but not so close as to fall off it. We were all linked together, but we all had loose scree for footing. We did our best not to fall, and not to let go of Rune. Finally, we heard the rustle of leaves as Rune made first contact with a tree branch. “I got it,” Rune exclaimed. He grabbed the branch, and felt his way along it, but the trunk was beyond reach. “Let go of my arm, I need to reach for the trunk.” I let go. “I can’t quite reach it. Whoa!” He lost his balance and fell with a thud and an “OOF.” “Rune, are you alright?” we yelled. “Yeah,” Rune replied though obviously in pain, “the trunk was just beyond my reach, but I managed to grab it on the way down. Scraped the shit out of my hands though. Move further to the right, and Chuck, hold onto George’s arm until you grab the trunk.” So I did this, blindly flailing around in the dark while George hung me further and further out over the cliff. “Got it,” I stated when I gripped the trunk with my left hand. “Now let go.” I swung my right hand around and now gripped the trunk with both hands, then jumped off the ledge, hit the tree with an “AH SHIT,” as my shin had smacked against a branch. With throbbing left shin, I shimmed down.
It was George’s turn next. Al was concerned “Who’s going to hold onto me when it’s my turn?” “Ask the fish,” was Rune’s response. We all had a good laugh, but he was right, Al could get George down, but how were we going to get Al down. “Is there anything to grab onto up there?” Rune queried George and Al. George knelt down and felt around near the edge of the cliff. “Feels like there are some good hand holds,” he replied. “If you want to work your way down the cliff, Chuck and I can grab your feet and help you place them on the rockface.” So George tried this. “You guys had better catch me if I fall.” “Don’t worry, Chuck will catch you,” was Rune’s smartass reply. “Don’t look at me,” I responded. He started down. Rune and I were feeling the face for placements, and George, hanging on for dear life, was scrapping his feet around the face. “George, slide your right foot toward me, I’ve got a hold here,” I said. “OUCH, George get off my finger!” “Sorry man, I can’t see what I’m doing.” “It’s okay,” I replied, as I held his foot firmly on a small ledge on the face. Then Rune found him a placement for his left foot. He moved his hands down the face, and with one more foot placement for each foot he was down the face.
“Al, hand me down the fish,” George said, “then we’ll get you down.” “Not so fast, Al replied. How do I know that you’re not just going to leave me up here once you get the fish.” We lost it, we were punch drunk exhausted by this time, and the laughter just poured forth. “You’ll just have to trust us,” Rune said as he caught his breath. “Nothing doing,” said Al trying to act serious, “the fish stay with me.” “Give me the damn fish,” George said. “Okay, okay,” Al said as he handed down the fish. “Got ‘em, let’s get out of here,” said George. He turned around to feign leaving and he smacked his head into the tree, BONK. “SHIT, that hurt,” he screamed, and with that another round of laughter exploded from the troops.
Once we regained our composure, we helped Al make his way down, and we continued our slow progress down the headwall. At the bottom, we waded across the icy creek that pours out of the Snowball Lakes and feeds Princess. We didn’t bother trying to hop across the rocks to keep our feet dry. It was 2 AM when we dragged our butts back into camp. We were exhausted, dehydrated, and starving, and our sleeping bags were soaked. The folly of our decision to leave the flies off this morning was now clear to us. Since sleep was out, and since Al had crawled across the boulder field with his catch of fish in hand, we figured that a roaring fire and another trout feast that couldn’t be beat was in order. So, we laid our bags out to dry in the beautiful night air, built a fire, and feasted and laughed about our adventure.
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