Ammi Midstokke: Plan B – Adventure control for the ill-prepared

I woke up to the sound of rain drops hitting my tent. I had left the fly off so I could watch the meteor showers and as I was jolted awake I remembered: I left Granny in the car.

My car was a couple of miles down the trail and it was the middle of the night, but Granny was safe in an amoxicillin container circa 1993. It just meant I couldn’t take her with me on this adventure.

This adventure happened a little spontaneously, and like most accidental adventures, began with a certain amount of irresponsibility and poor planning.

My climbing partner and I had opted out of a much anticipated ascent of Mt. Rainier. The heat had opened crevasses, while rain and thunder, snow and high winds were expected over the weekend. We needed a Plan B. In a moment of enthusiastic disappointment, without thinking, I blurted out, “I’m up for anything and my car is loaded with gear!”

Lesson number one: Do not tell someone who bags peaks with the enthusiasm of a wedding planner that you are hungry for a challenge.

Thus we found ourselves at the base of the Tatoosh range, just south of Rainier, where we would opt to summit 10 of the 12 peaks because we were too lazy to schlepp a rope and pro for a couple of the technical summits. We’d climb as high as we could though, because why not?

Honestly, I don’t think Granny would have wanted to come along or that she would have approved. Or maybe it was a sign. Because along with leaving Granny behind, I had failed to obtain the appropriately detailed maps for our adventure.

We woke up our first morning to thunder and pouring rain. We decided to begin climbing toward the ridge to see if the clouds lifted and they did, revealing an incredible ridge line of exposed peaks and steep talus fields.

As most of you know, I have a special place in my heart for loose talus. I had several hours of unscheduled PTSD therapy throughout this trip as I picked my way across certain death.

That day, we climbed peak after peak. We descended into great scree fields and skirted under cliffs and clambered hand over foot to the top of precarious mounds of ancient rock. Most of the time, I was petrified.

“This is like a highway,” Christi would say – which basically meant someone probably had set foot on that piece of land before. “There is so much traffic up here!” she said as we signed a summit log, noting that last human to have done so was more than a year prior.

“The next peak has a trail to the top!” she exclaimed. I tried to explain that her measurement for things is sort of inhuman. As I climbed (as in hand holds, foot holds, do not *$&#! fall climbing) up a hundred foot chimney, a group of climbers dropped their rappel line down next to me. She noted they were beginners, but their beginner anchor at the top sure looked sexy to me as I descended back down without protection.

After seven peaks on day one, exhausted and achieved, we found our campsite and stared out at the weather rolling over Rainier. “Sure glad we aren’t up there today,” we said as we fell asleep.

The rest of our journey was more of a “what not to do in the great outdoors” guidebook. Looking back, both of us are very aware of the type of moronic ego it took to get into the situations we found ourselves – though I look forward to your letters confirming this.

When we woke up the next day, it was pouring rain. We drank about four cups of coffee in our tent and agreed that climbing on wet granite was not very safe, that visibility was poor and our maps too general, and that we could hike out on an easy trail and go to the spa.

Somehow the excessive caffeine inspired us with new-found optimism. The rain stopped and we eagerly agreed that the clouds would burn off. We packed up our gear and headed toward our objective: Three peaks with no trail access, intercept a trail and descend to camp Longmire on the last peak.

For review: Poor visibility, poor maps, poor weather, late start. We also had: Diminishing food supply and no water filter. You’d think this was our first time out.

We scaled the first peak, crossed what seemed like miles of talus, and then gained the the ridge, only to realize we had no idea where the hell we were. It was foggy, windy, cold, and we were cliffed out again and again. Exhausted, we slid down slick, grassy slopes and clambered with exploding hearts and shaking legs around sketchy ridges.

But we did not lose our minds. We only lost our way. Seriously, for real, no idea where on God’s green earth we were, lost. We both know how to orienteer, but we couldn’t find points for bearings in the fog. GPS! I know. It exists. I didn’t bring mine. Add it to the list of ridiculous rookie errors we tallied here.

We spent the next eight hours moving at a break-neck pace through the mountains. To the west there was a road, this we knew, and the quickly setting sun would guide us.

If you’ve never had to back country in uncharted territory of old growth national forest, let me suggest you do not do so. It is steep, unforgiving, a network of fallen trees and creeks and rocks and devil’s club and at least one stalker bear.

Just before sunset, the forest spit us out onto a road. We were bleeding from every limb, covered in dirt and thorns, pine needles stuck in our eyelashes, my shoes shredded, jackets torn. We hooted and we hollered and we celebrated each other with high-fives and hugs.

“I would go anywhere with you!” said Christi in a statement that represented a bond of friendship, memories, mutual suffering, trust, and comfort that will remain as stoic as those impervious mountains.

“Okay,” I say. “But next time let’s bring a map.”

“We can never tell anyone about this,” she says.