BOZEMAN, Mont. – Bars back in Bozeman have been closed for an hour. Drunk people are still stumbling home. We stand on a rock ledge that is dry and free of snow, a comforting rarity, small pleasures at 10,000 feet. We can look out across the large Montana valleys toward the close tender glow of Bozeman, which lays about 40 miles away. Moonlight ignites the frozen land around us, the world glows silver. Too early to talk or think too hard. Sawyer Kesselheim, my 25-year-old brother, packs his backpack, stooped over, shoving things in place. Everett Coba, my partner, 22 years old, serves up breakfast, savory oats. We chug them down in silence, fueling the fires, each of us pondering the day ahead, keeping our worries private.
Terrain in the Absaroka Mountains is rugged and in-your-face; the beauty is both breath taking and fearsome. Never more so than with Black Peak looming in the moonlight overhead and prospects of a questionable route. At promptly 4 a.m., we set out on a partially frozen, moonlit snowpack by headlamp, skinning up a steep, big tube toward Black Peak above Pine Creek Lake. This is Plan B. Our original route, created on Caltopo and Google Earth from the comfort of a couch two weeks prior to departure, turned out to be impossible. The day before, we were confronted by a 35-45-degree couloir which looked good from the comfort of the coach during the planning phase, but in reality, it would have popped us out on a saddle NE of the summit. On the edge of a sheer cliff.
Orange and purple erupt in the sky behind Sawyer. The sun slowly ignites the tips of mountains, and we pause to appreciate it, our heavy breathing the only sound. Our hope is that at the top of Black Peak, we will find a wide ridge which looks promising on our Gaia map. If it goes, we’ll promptly get back on our planned course. If it doesn’t, we will have spent a lot of energy only to face Plan C, whatever that is. I focus on our goal, that hopeful ridgeline. The tube is steep and firm, our ski crampons claw into the snow with their metal prongs. We all rely heavily on that metal grip, balancing and trusting it, but it is a constant tension. Every step requires focus. My legs burn from two days of hard skinning over passes and through basins, navigating tough terrain while carrying a 65-pound pack. We inch upward toward the dark peak, each of us deep in our personal calculations, or just breathing. Dawn fires up the sky when we make it out of the tube. To reach the peak, we have to drop down and boot up a wide, steep couloir.
I sink waist deep, carrying skis on top of my pack, ice axe in hand, struggling to keep up with my tall, long-legged companions. Head down, I work my legs through the snow following Sawyer and Everett’s deep boot holes. We touch the summit as the wings of the sun spread. The vast, raw range unfolds before us, the views dazzling. Everything drops away, even my aching legs, in the face of this beauty.
I turn to look at the route ahead. Dread and fear seep into my gut. The east ridge is not so much a ramp as an 80-foot cliff. We can see our route, a tantalizing 200 yards away, over a sheer drop and dangerously out of reach. Unwilling to surrender, we search for routes onto the ridgeline. We scramble with skis and heavy packs over icy loose rocks. Each of us denies the growing certainty of turning back. We have worked too hard to get here. It has to go. Sawyer and Everett probe methodically, meticulously, pushing for an opening. Desire threatens good judgment. We all know that our expedition hangs in the balance.
In the midst of all this, I am ambushed by the thoughts of our dear friend Dee Dee. Dee Dee passed away due to a hospital mistake just a week before we left. It was a sudden jarring death for our family, community and for her partner. Being in the ICU when she passed was a very real reminder of how fragile life is. She has been with me a lot on this trip, riding along in my thoughts, her ring on my finger keeping her close. But then I snap out of it, watching two other people I love dearly take risks in order to get back on a route we had created looking at a computer screen.
“Guys, this is not worth it! It’s too dangerous. Let’s go back to the summit and re-evaluate.” They both look back at me, at each other, and turn. We retreat.
Back on the summit, we have cell service. I pull out my phone to call home. After the first two rings my dad picks up. He and my mother have been intently following our progress. Each message we send in the evening from our SOS device gives them our location. This device allows us to contact the outside world by text and has an SOS button in case of an emergency.
His voice fills me with warm comfort. We relay our current situation, where we are and that we are off route, but to not worry. Most important we remind them how much we love them. It’s only after I hang up that the loneliness of our situation swoops back in. I look at my two partners, forcing down the urge to burst into tears. Still, we don’t talk much. There isn’t anything to discuss. We turn together, defeated, and start back down.
Our descent takes us down the iconic Y couloir, a fall line pushing 50 degrees. Fear quickens my breathing. We stand on top, doing our best to not over think the danger. Everett drops in first, ice axe in his upper hand. Conditions are firm, not quite ice but on the verge. He slowly makes his way down, side slipping most of it, tucking into safety about 500 feet below. Sawyer goes next, talking to me as he descends with confidence, encouraging me. My turn comes quickly. Legs shaking, I focus on breathing. Slowly, I make my way sliding down the firm snow, time ticking, everything else fading away, just the icy chute, my clattering skis, the two dots of life watching me come. Out of my peripheral vision, I notice the car-sized overhanging cornice dripping water. The day is heating up quickly. With it, the growing danger of unstable avalanche conditions.
Finally, I make it to the small nook of safety. I sit down and begin to cry, my legs cramping from exertion, my heart heavy with defeat, our camp from the night before just below us and our expedition in doubt.
