I’m not a mountaineer. Truth be known, my hiking roots began inside shopping malls. Living in nature the past 25 years has shifted my taste for the great outdoors. Since coming to Mount Shasta, I’ve longed to get up close and personal with this revered mountain. Last January, I decided to climb by my fiftieth birthday. Setting this goal, as it turns out has many rewards: a healthy, well-conditioned body; stretching beyond old physical and mental limits; exploring trails and making all kinds of inner and outer discoveries along the way.

		July 11, 2006 is my first attempt to climb Mount Shasta (14,162’). It’s a beautiful, clear Monday. DeRay and I, along with my climbing buddies, David and Tom, backpack up to Horse Camp (7,800’), about a mile up from Bunny Flat parking lot. We arrive in the late afternoon. The plan is to spend this first night and the next day acclimating here. DeRay, intending to hold down camp on the snow while the rest of us climb, learns he can trek with us as far as Lake Helen (10,400') without crampons.
DeRay, Missy, Tom, and David

After setting up camp, one enthusiastic David is ready to climb that night! I am tired, assuming my fatigue is from hiking uphill with nearly 40 pounds on my back. I ask, "What's your hurry?" David and Tom are agreeable to wait.

The following morning I awake with an unanticipated surprise, my period has unexpectedly started! I am not prepared, and realize now why my energy level is not too spunky. Fortunately, I find kind-hearted women who stock me with regulars. I tell David & Tom that while unsure how this may affect me, I am still planning to go. They understand. After a day of acclimatizing and relaxing, we retire into our sleeping bags at a very early 7pm. I lie there in the still daylight, wakeful. I didn’t think I slept, except I awake to a beeping alarm at 11:45pm.

Missy and DeRay		David, Missy and Tom

By 12:15am, with headlamps on, David, Tom, DeRay and I set out in the soft snow, one step at a time. Large, cumulus clouds have rolled in and are thickening. Occasionally they part to allow a mystical, full moon to shine our way. In this light, I see the mountain, but not as a whole. Instead it is revealed in up-close detail--the ice crystals, the outline of a ridge, the changing textures of snow. Not always sure we’re on the correct route, we silently continue climbing up.

The moon in hand

While our route, “Avalanche Gulch,” isn’t necessarily technical, it is physically demanding, rising over 6,000 feet in just 4.1 miles and, near the top, reaching slopes that angle 35-degrees. It’s high enough to cause altitude sickness and steep enough to make a fall deadly. Shasta is dangerously underestimated when dismissed as a walk up the mountain, especially when unsuspecting climbers attempt it under-prepared--wearing tennis shoes, shorts and neglecting proper clothing, helmets, ice axes and crampons. In reality, the climb holds some surprising challenges. David, Tom and I are prepared. We even have a mountaineering class under our belts--having learned how to do basic steps like the French Step; plus glissade; self-arrest; use crampons and make friends with the ice axe.

After ascending the first two hours, we stop for a longer break. I take this opportunity to ask the guys to turn their backs and discover what’s in store to change a tampon on a dark, snowy slope. With a summit pack on my back, while gripping my poles, I hold the baggie with tissues and supplies in my teeth. I don’t remember reading about this in the guidebook, yet I know we have to pack out all human waste. When I’m finished, I can’t help but wonder what frequently needed stops like this will be like on higher, steeper, icier slopes, with more folks and no privacy, and with my new friend in hand, the ice axe. Psychologically, I’m on thin ice.

Physically, I feel good. We keep moving in the wee hours of the morning, in slow meditative steps. I feel the expansion of my lungs and occasionally clear them with a massive breath out. I’m enjoying the quiet experience, except for thoughts of the next pit stop. After four hours, we reach Lake Helen. The flat, protected areas around Lake Helen are popular for campers to acclimate at a higher elevation closer to the summit. There is no lake and there are no facilities. As we continue climbing above Lake Helen toward Red Banks, the snow becomes crunchier. It’s clear that DeRay will have to turn back soon, not having crampons or ice axe. I am so appreciating his presence. I feel the conflict of wanting to continue, yet internally I’m aware that it’s not my time to go further and that needing to make frequent pit stops will compromise David and Tom’s climb if I continue.

We part ways, hugging David and Tom and watching them as their headlamps move on up the mountain. DeRay and I descend back down to explore Lake Helen. In the dim light, we see only a few tents. With the moon peaking through thin shrouds of clouds, it feels otherworldly.

The moon

Along the flat, barren surface, I find a privacy pit dug out in the snow and I am grateful for the decision to turn back. Some time after 5:00am, we begin climbing down from Lake Helen. The winds have picked up. Below, we can see a sea of thick clouds; we wonder about the weather we’re heading into.

Walking into the clouds	Dawn’s light show

The first crack of dawn takes our breath away. For the next couple of hours, we are treated to a phenomenal light show. The cloud formations glisten with rings of fire and shadows from the mountain’s crags create what appear like fantastical cities in the sky. We take each step down in awe and carefully for the snow is now icy. I am disappointed that we don’t get to glissade (slide) all the way down, but the lighting and panoramic visuals more than make up for it. Our worry about descending into nasty weather is for not; the clouds below dissipate as the sun comes up. However, wind and mysterious activity are brewing where our friends are climbing. Meanwhile, we are held spellbound as we observe a rare treat: the mountain’s shadow on the world below.

The moon and the sun

Pausing

Mount Shasta’s shadow on the valley below

Clouds forming over Red Banks

As the vista before us clears more and more, the situation behind us becomes more ominous. We notice lenticular clouds starting to form around the top of Red Banks. Famous for their flying saucer shape, the lenticular’s powerful winds are a climber’s nightmare. Plus clouds above Red Banks means no visibility for finding the route to and from the summit. We offer up silent prayers for our friends’ safe descent. Our own trekking becomes dicey in the mountain’s icy shadows. I put my crampons on and walk down a smooth glissade track. DeRay carefully navigates a well-worn boot track.

Feeling happy, tired and gratitude

About a half hour away from our camp, the sun has begun to soften the snow. Coming down a gentle slope, DeRay and I find a glissade track and have great fun sliding down. At 10:30am, ten leisurely hours later, we are back at our tents, feeling happy, tired, and gratitude for an extraordinary experience. David and Tom arrive two hours later, with big stories of their own, including spending a freezing hour perched under a precarious snow ledge in high winds; losing visibility and having to turn back, self-arresting after bouncing off track on a high-speed glissade run; enduring an ice axe wound; and more. Though not a summit day, they are thrilled with their adventure. I smile, knowing I made the best choice for me. The mountain will still be there when I choose to climb again. Three days later, David does climb again – solo – and summits! Ah, but that is David’s story to tell.

Photos by DeRay

Climbing route

About Mount Shasta