14162

Ah, Triumph. What a grand feeling. I know of but very few other emotions that surpass the greatness one feels following the accomplishment of a grand physical challenge. The conquering of Mt Shasta has been in my head since 2003 when brother Stephen and I were passing through Weeds, CA after riding our bikes down the length of Oregon at the close of summer. I beheld the steep slopes, the snow covered peak, and the majesty of the Volcano and yearned for an opportunity to sit atop. It took 5 yrs.
The first hinderance was dearest mum. You see, she feared for the life of her ‘baby boy’ after observing the claimed reckless exploits of her middle son Atom in his teenage years combined with the irresponsibility & seemingly dangerous stunts her youngest practiced as an amateur Builderer and Parkour enthusiast. In 2003, quite the battle of Italian wills (stubbornness) took place between baby boy and Moodest when it was suggested that that July he would ascend the highest peak in the contiguous US with longtime friends CarrotSlime & Co., Aaroneus & Butch.
Eventually he did, probably mostly due to the fact that her son threatened (and in fact did) to grow out his goatee until he was permitted to climb. The tipping point was the thought that her son would appear as an wild & ungroomed Groomsmen in his HS friend’s wedding.
Four years and 50 weeks after his nuptials, Hans der Miller and I waived goodbye to his wife Kaisa as we pulled out of his driveway and began the 3.5 hr drive northward from the state’s capitol to the mighty Mount Shasta. Following a good 3hr catch-up on life and even some religious philosophizing, we caught site of the mountain, our route and Hans quickly suggested I take a peek in Mountaineering : How not to Die 7th Edition.


I felt my briefing with the heavily illustrated mountaineering manual was similar to Neo’s when his brain was downloaded in seconds with all skills of a Kung Fu master. In fact, as Hans put his sweet Tacoma into park at Bunny Flats Trailhead, I opened my eyes, gasped and exclaimed, “I know mountaineering.”

The elevation of Bunny Flats is 6950, had no snow and a contained a warmth from the entire spectrum of colors in Nature. West Face Gully base camp lies at 9,750ft, was completely blanketed in snow and the only colors visible were white and rock. We pitched our tent, fell asleep for a few hours, woke up, practiced self belay & arrest in full gear on a nearby slope, chucked some rocks across the snow, ate dehydrated dinner, talked about the women in our lives, see if our burps would cause any avalanches, took some pictures and then went to sleep. By 10pm our eyes were closed.

4am we awoke not to our alarm (it was set for 4:14), but to the inhabitants of nearby Tentsylvania marching in droves (the Center for Irrefutable Studies defines a droves as multiple groups, regardless the size of each individual group, totaling more tan 20 individuals making forward progress in a single direction) toward the behemouth west face. Our gear was on in minutes, our breakfast cooked in 12 and our crampons engaged in hmmm, well about 35.


The first hour and one half was easy. Then I got to about 11,000ft and the 80 hour work weeks I had been putting in for the “Get More, For Less” Target Value July commercial jumped out and slapped me hard in the face. Altitude sickness coupled with fatigue made for a very sloooooow zigzagging up the 40 percent grade. I could only drink water. My stomach was disturbed enough by the ½ packet of Gu I forced down. 3.88 hours I was atop the first section.

Hans der Alpinist took a quick jaunt over a small hill and photographed a spectacular Bergschrund while I lay face down on a pile of rocks dreaming of fonder times watching Batman or Spiderman cartoons after swim practice in HS. Hans was back in a jiff and across the saddle we plodded until we reached the base of Misery Hill. Rightly named, it rises 700 feet over such a short time and lands you atop the last saddle to climb before you reach the rocky cliffs of the summit.

I actually felt better after my nap and Misery Hill wasn’t that miserable. In fact, I could see the peak atop that mound of misery and became full of as much energy as my sleep deprived, I-only-ate-one-power-gel and there-is-no-oxygen-at-13,878ft body could muster. It was a beautiful ¾ mile tromp with nothing but blue skies and an occasional peak 30 miles into the distance (Mt Lassen).
The last section was rocky with little patches of snow that wound directly to the top. We waited our turn, then spent about 4 min atop the 14162 peak looking around and making a video tribute to the Europeans who created crampons and then of course the late Sir Edmund Hillary. Total ascent time, right around 8hours.

So down we went, signed our names in the book, fell gracefully down the snow of the cliffs, traversed the saddle and then took off our crampons. I wasn’t exactly sure why we took off these beloved and faithful friends that guided our ascent until Hans strapped them to his bag and then sat down and started to slide straight down Misery Hill. For the next 1 hour we participated in the wonderful sport of glissading.


Yes, 8 hours to ascend, only 1 to descend.
Then a cool dip in Shasta lake and an awesome pizza and I was ready for the sweet ride back to Sacramento and the joys of tackling yet another 14,000ft CA peak.