It was steeper than I thought, longer than I thought, higher than I thought, and harder than I thought.... It was also more rewarding than I thought.
I jumped on Mt. Shasta feeling confident. In fact, I knew this was going to be a great climb before I even took off from Philadelphia. As the plane taxied before takeoff, the captain came on and said, “Good afternoon, everyone. We have a special passenger flying with us today--Ben Fetterman. Ben is on his way to California to climb Mt. Shasta. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give Ben a round of applause."
The whole plane clapped as I gave a wave of thanks to the hundred or so passengers.
Thanks to my colleague Susan (who just happened to have connections with Southwest Airlines and made some calls--thank you, Susan!), I felt this was a good sign that the summit would be mine!
I was right--the summit would be mine--but I soon found out the gods of Mt. Shasta were going to make me earn it! The original plan was to climb on Saturday and Sunday, but gale force winds of 60 mph ruled that out. In a flash, I arrived in Portland, Oregon, on Thursday evening; by 6 a.m. on Friday, my climbing partner Paul and I were on the road and climbing by 1 p.m., eliminating any chance I had to acclimatize.
Avoiding the high winds and negative temps by climbing a day early gave us a better chance to summit, but it forced us into a late start on the tail end of a 100-degree heat wave. We quickly gained altitude in slushy snow, which is great for kicking in steps up the side of the mountain, but with a 50-plus pound pack, it made for a lot of work as we’d randomly find ourselves sinking in snow up to our hips.
We made it to high camp at Helen Lake at 10,500 feet more than five hours later. (A quick note: Helen Lake is not a lake. It's a random round flat spot on the side of the mountain that looks like a snow-covered lake, hence its name). The climb to high camp was hot and steep, leaving nothing in our tanks. With this radiating in my mind, I began to wonder what was in store for the rest of the climb.
Paul and I set up camp and our summit packs and settled down for a few hours of sleep. My head was pounding due to a combination of a lack of sleep from traveling, the dehydrating climb to high camp and now the altitude. As I lay tossing and turning in my sleeping bag, I could feel my pulse throbbing in my head. This was't a good sign, as dehydration is one of the leading causes of altitude sickness. The worst part was because of all of the traveling I had done to get there, I was never even close to being hydrated from the start.
After sleeping for an hour, by 2:30 a.m., Paul and I were on our way to the summit. As the sun began to rise, so did the winds, as we became more exposed the higher we got on the mountain, making the climb cold and Misery Hill (13,000+ feet), well, miserable.
Misery Hill was steep, icy, rocky and windy as hell, to the point that the gusts of wind would blow us off balance, requiring us to lean on our ice axes to steady ourselves. I was feeling strong physically, but the wind and altitude were beginning to mess with me mentally.
My head was pounding, and everything seemed to take twice as much effort as it should have. I kept thinking, "How can my legs feel good, but the rest of me feel like I'm in slow motion?" I started to wonder if I was going to make it, knowing I still had another hour or two left to the summit.
As we crested Misery Hill, we had to traverse nearly a mile across the top of the mountain at 14,000 feet and scale up a rock tower to the summit in 40 mph winds. Looking across at the summit, I thought, "OMG! I am so done. Get me off this f'ing mountain!"
By now, my headache had turned into full-blown altitude sickness. I had no appetite, I was experiencing brain fog, and I felt like I was in slow motion. My head and mental thoughts were pounding me worse than the wind. I kept thinking, "Were my other climbs this hard? Why am I doing this to myself? Why do I like mountaineering?
Finally, we reached the summit at 8 a.m. What was a five-and-a-half-hour climb felt like 15 hours, but at last we were standing at the summit, overlooking the world from the rock tower at 14,179 feet.
After a quick celebration, we began our descent, as technically we were only halfway finished with the climb. By now, I could only drink. Food was out of the question, as I felt like I'd throw up anything I tried to eat. Altitude sickness is like your worst hangover, plus a weird brain fog that plauges you. I knew I was messed up when I opted to not even take photos of the amazing views of Mt. Shasta, including a cool look into Shastina, the crater 2,000 feet below the summit of Mt. Shasta.
Paul and I quickly descended, as the only solution for altitude sickness is to get to lower elevation. Continuing to fight the wind, I willed myself to focus, as most accidents happen on the way down, not on the way up to the summit. I fought through the brain fog and mental games and quickly made my way off of Misery Hill and into the steep gully of the Red Banks.
Four hours later, I was standing at high camp, which was such a relief after nearly 10 hours of climbing! Unfortunately, even though we were 4,000 feet lower, I wasn’t feeling any better. I lay down in the tent, not even ditching my crampons or gear, but I still felt like shit. I forced myself to eat a meal, thinking it would help, but no such luck. I knew the only way I’d get better was to get to even lower altitude. Despite the plan to stay another night and climb down the rest of the way the next day, I packed up my gear and continued to descend immeditely, as I was still at 10,000+ feet.
I made my way down by 5 p.m., and while I was in the parking lot shedding my pack and gear, I realized for the first time in 24 hours that my head wasn’t pounding.
I know the mountains I climb will never be easy, but this was the first time that I had felt any real impacts of the altitude. I wish I had felt better, because Shasta was a really beautiful mountain. Compared to Mt. Rainier--my biggest, toughest and most technical climb--I’d say Mt. Shasta was just as tough.
Mt. Rainier was more technical with the navigation of the glaciers and crevasses, and three feet of fresh snow, leaving me thinking I'd be found deep in a crevasse. With Mt. Shasta, I never felt I was going to die. But it was steeper and longer, and presented a different challenge with altitude sickness. Like I've said in prior blog posts, no two mountains are alike.
So the question remains: If climbing Mt. Shasta was this difficult and challenging, would I do it again, given the chance? The answer is yes.
With every climb, I always walk away with some new lessons learned. Mt. Shasta taught me that the harder something is, the more rewarding it is. Immediately after the climb, when I was feeling a bit down about how it all went, Lauren told me, "If mountaineering wasn’t hard, and you didn’t have to work at it, you probably wouldn’t be interested." She's right.
A perfect comparison is when I was talking about the climb with my father-in-law Steverino. He reminded me of when he ran a series of half-marathons. Doing long training runs, losing toenails and even taking a fall on one of his runs, leaving him picking gravel out of his hands and knees, he would often wonder the same thing I did on Mt. Shasta: “Why am I doing this? Is this worth it?” He reminded me that, yes, it is! The reason he is so proud of his races is because they were tough, and he didn't initially believe he could complete them...but he did! After all of the trials and tribulations, he came out transformed, proud, wanting to run more to learn what he was capable of when he pushed past his comfort zone.
The feeling you get when you finish a race, and they put the finisher's medal around your neck, is like standing on the summit and peering down on the world. You may not always get to the finish line in style, but it is those less-than-stellar times that make the finish line or summit that much more glorious. Surviving the struggle is that much more satisfying.
My Mt. Shasta summit was just that! Althouth the climb was tough, not much went according to plan or how I envisioned it, and I didn't feel well on the summit, I didn't let that define the climb or how successful a summit it was. Instead, it was a great challenge that pushed me to my limits, both mentally and physically, raising the bar and exceeding my own expectations. You think you know yourself and your body well, but then you endure more than you ever expected.
Strength--for both mind and body--comes from struggle. Shasta may have broken me down, but it also built me stronger for the next climb. That's why it took me so long to write this, as I needed to some time to reflect on the experience so that I could fully see the value and lessons learned from it: No pain, no gain!
Climb On!
P.S. Check out the Gallery for updated pics of my Mt. Shasta climb.