Somewhere out there is a parallel universe which is virtually indistinguishable from ours, with one odd quirk: everyone there is the exact opposite gender of everyone here. A couple of weeks ago in this reality, the female me found herself sitting high on an isolated mountainside with her BFFs female Steve and female Josh, broiling in the harsh sunshine but freezing in the icy social climate. A few hours prior, they had found themselves dangerously close to scratching each others' eyes out in hormonal rage. Now things had settled down a bit, but the tension was still heavy in the air. What little conversation existed was clipped, each word dripping with fake congeniality. Inwardly each of them was thinking the same thing: “As soon as I get some signal, I’m going to absolutely destroy these bitches on Facebook.”
Back in our world, the exact same situation existed, but we were dealing with it differently: each of us was searching for the perfect rock with which we could vigorously bash the skulls of the others.
Earlier, we had found ourselves happily climbing towards the summit of a 12,335’ volcanic peak named Shastina, located in northern California. As in previous climbs, I had spent most of the day scrambling over ice and rock with a big goofy grin fixed on my face. I can’t help it; mountaineering is easily one of the top three passions in my life, and I had spent the entire previous year planning out this trip in great anticipation. Naturally Steve and Josh were there as I could hardly even consider doing any climb without my usual team. Many summits had proven that we are very compatible with each other, especially given that the difficulty of a technical climb will quickly expose any cracks in the team.
Under usual circumstances, we are the best of friends. However, on that particular day our close relationship was in danger, and we were clueless that anything was wrong. All of us were feeling a building edginess on our fringes, but it was such a slow transition that none of us took much notice. In the other world, the last traces of reason and logic began to drain from the team's feminine brains; pure emotion began to take a stance of dominance. Unfortunately, what we had failed to realize is that a couple of unhappy babies had compromised our trip from the very start.
Two days earlier, Steve’s large frame was squeezed into a tiny cattle class seat while the lady next to him overflowed miles into his private space. Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, was going to make the kid in her lap happy. He screamed bloody murder nonstop from the east coast to Sacramento, prompting the rest of us to wonder if life in prison might be worth the brief pleasure of cramming a rolled-up Sky Mall magazine deep into his windpipes. Since it was a redeye flight, Josh and I were doing our best to get a little rest, when the kid behind us began a show of solidarity with its wailing counterpart. Not to be outdone, she also could not be satisfied. A few hours of this guaranteed that everyone on board got a little homicidal. I could see Steve writhing in his seat, trying to find just a little relief from all the turmoil. Suddenly he arched and grimaced in pain. The seat that had been specially designed with torture in mind had found its mark. Steve had pulled something in his back; it would plague him for days. Grumpy, exhausted, and in pain, we at long last spilled from the airplane and set out for that night’s hotel. We had a long drive capped by a two mile hike the next day.
Our original plan was to do a “Grand Circuit” style climb on both Shastina and its 14,179’ neighbor, Mt. Shasta. What this means is that we would set out on a seldom climbed route to first reach the summit of Shastina, then traverse across a saddle that connects the two peaks to reach the summit of Shasta. Finally, we would descend Shasta on a different, more popular route, thereby completing a large loop over and around the mountain. The one hitch in this plan was that our ascent would have to cross the Whitney Glacier, which greatly increased the danger and technicality of the climb. Adding complication to all this is the fact that California is right in the middle of a drought of historic proportions. Over the past year the mountains have gotten very little snow; we were told that usually this time of year there should be nearly 11’ more snow than there currently is. This was bad news for us. Solid snow and ice makes a climb much easier and safer. The bottom line was that climbing conditions were very poor. What little melting ice was present was very slick and slushy, and the vast majority of our climbing would have to be on dangerously loose rock.
As we approached the summit of Shastina, we could see the approach to Shasta across the saddle. It had been a long, tiring day of spinning our tires with each step. As we looked at the Shasta route in the distance, Josh and I decided that it looked like total crap. One side of the approach was steep, melting snow stretching up the length of a long face. The other side was steep talus that looked like misery incarnate. Frankly, fear played a factor in our decision, but we disguised it by using “safety lingo” like that which is pounded into our heads every day in the workplace: "It would be unsafe to continue, and we need to demonstrate a willingness to stop." We began the unpleasant conversation about how reaching the summit of Shasta might not be in the cards this year. We never took the time to notice that Steve was largely silent. On Steve’s inside, a situation was brewing, but on the outside he seemed fine.
Had we been able to peek into the other world, we would have noticed that female Steve had turned several shades of crimson. Had our feminine selves looked into our world, they might have noticed that Josh and I were wearing pretty floral skirts, which we would discover later when it was much too late.
We completed our Shastina climb, then descended to the saddle and set up camp. We ate dinner. We filtered water. We engaged in light chit-chat. We did all the usual things that one does on a usual camp night. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Then out of the blue something never before seen happened: both Steves went ballistic.
It turns out that neither of them were at all cool with the thought of not summiting Shasta. Before long, the three of us were engaged in a shouting match, pounding out the finer details of various topics such as personal cowardice, what it takes to hold a man card, and living life burdened with massive failure. It never descended into being a fistfight, but it got real ugly real quick. After what seemed like an eternity of heated arguing, by mutual agreement we all decided it was a good idea to give each other some physical space and try to cool down. Steve moved a short distance outside of camp and spent the night. Since Josh and I seemed to be the two still on relatively friendly terms, and since we were both still extremely rattled, we decided the best plan was to finish off the rest of our liquor (several days’ worth) and go to bed.
In the other world, sworn enemies were born. Forgiveness would never, ever, ever, like ever, be an option.
The next day was awkward. Josh and I broke camp, feeling like the trip was over. The original plan after summiting Shasta was to drive south a couple of hours and climb Mount Lassen, but we wondered aloud if even that could happen. We decided that our best option was to rejoin with Steve, descend the mountain, then play it by ear. In town there were showers, food, and beer, all three of which were necessary components for the healing we desperately needed.
Female Josh and female me glared coldly at each other across the rocky plain on which they were camped. They too felt like they needed to descend so they could quickly and permanently part company. Female me searched her pack for the metal nail file she always carries just in case someone’s rope needs to accidentally get frayed.
As we were heading out, Steve basically begged us to make a partial ascent on the snow face that had spooked us so badly the previous day. With a sideways glance at each other, we decided to humor him in order to help everyone’s feathers get smoothed back down. We donned our crampons and started up. Despite how it had looked, it turned out to be some of the easiest climbing of the entire trip. I muttered an obscenity to myself, embarrassed.
When it became obvious that female Steve had been right all along, female me knew that this crap wasn’t going to ever go away.
I’m not sure why we didn’t continue the climb at that point. I think we were all just wrung out, both physically and emotionally. We were just done with it all. Later I learned that Steve had wanted to continue upwards and was just hoping we would come to our senses. What they say about hindsight is true: we *should* have stuck to the plan and continued to the summit. Instead, we headed towards the nearest bar so we could drown our regrets.
After the descent, our female versions never spoke again, at least not directly. Hatreds flourished. Rifts widened. What started out as small hostilities grew in frequency and enormity with the passage of time. Lines were drawn by succeeding generations, and soon violence changed into atrocities. Thousands of years of open warfare later, buttons were pushed and entire worlds were burnt into cinders.
Meanwhile, back here Josh and I bought Steve a beer. We spent the night talking about women and football. Everything good in the world was put back in place by a light buzz.
I turned to Steve. “Hey man, are we ok?”
“Yeah. We’re all good here.”
***A FEW PICS***
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033364569995092866&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033406628375650834&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033408973353361634&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033411807014860946&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033426920302395698&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033430833465470674&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033443147005440610&oid=107350358277110666971
Back in our world, the exact same situation existed, but we were dealing with it differently: each of us was searching for the perfect rock with which we could vigorously bash the skulls of the others.
Earlier, we had found ourselves happily climbing towards the summit of a 12,335’ volcanic peak named Shastina, located in northern California. As in previous climbs, I had spent most of the day scrambling over ice and rock with a big goofy grin fixed on my face. I can’t help it; mountaineering is easily one of the top three passions in my life, and I had spent the entire previous year planning out this trip in great anticipation. Naturally Steve and Josh were there as I could hardly even consider doing any climb without my usual team. Many summits had proven that we are very compatible with each other, especially given that the difficulty of a technical climb will quickly expose any cracks in the team.
Under usual circumstances, we are the best of friends. However, on that particular day our close relationship was in danger, and we were clueless that anything was wrong. All of us were feeling a building edginess on our fringes, but it was such a slow transition that none of us took much notice. In the other world, the last traces of reason and logic began to drain from the team's feminine brains; pure emotion began to take a stance of dominance. Unfortunately, what we had failed to realize is that a couple of unhappy babies had compromised our trip from the very start.
Two days earlier, Steve’s large frame was squeezed into a tiny cattle class seat while the lady next to him overflowed miles into his private space. Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, was going to make the kid in her lap happy. He screamed bloody murder nonstop from the east coast to Sacramento, prompting the rest of us to wonder if life in prison might be worth the brief pleasure of cramming a rolled-up Sky Mall magazine deep into his windpipes. Since it was a redeye flight, Josh and I were doing our best to get a little rest, when the kid behind us began a show of solidarity with its wailing counterpart. Not to be outdone, she also could not be satisfied. A few hours of this guaranteed that everyone on board got a little homicidal. I could see Steve writhing in his seat, trying to find just a little relief from all the turmoil. Suddenly he arched and grimaced in pain. The seat that had been specially designed with torture in mind had found its mark. Steve had pulled something in his back; it would plague him for days. Grumpy, exhausted, and in pain, we at long last spilled from the airplane and set out for that night’s hotel. We had a long drive capped by a two mile hike the next day.
Our original plan was to do a “Grand Circuit” style climb on both Shastina and its 14,179’ neighbor, Mt. Shasta. What this means is that we would set out on a seldom climbed route to first reach the summit of Shastina, then traverse across a saddle that connects the two peaks to reach the summit of Shasta. Finally, we would descend Shasta on a different, more popular route, thereby completing a large loop over and around the mountain. The one hitch in this plan was that our ascent would have to cross the Whitney Glacier, which greatly increased the danger and technicality of the climb. Adding complication to all this is the fact that California is right in the middle of a drought of historic proportions. Over the past year the mountains have gotten very little snow; we were told that usually this time of year there should be nearly 11’ more snow than there currently is. This was bad news for us. Solid snow and ice makes a climb much easier and safer. The bottom line was that climbing conditions were very poor. What little melting ice was present was very slick and slushy, and the vast majority of our climbing would have to be on dangerously loose rock.
As we approached the summit of Shastina, we could see the approach to Shasta across the saddle. It had been a long, tiring day of spinning our tires with each step. As we looked at the Shasta route in the distance, Josh and I decided that it looked like total crap. One side of the approach was steep, melting snow stretching up the length of a long face. The other side was steep talus that looked like misery incarnate. Frankly, fear played a factor in our decision, but we disguised it by using “safety lingo” like that which is pounded into our heads every day in the workplace: "It would be unsafe to continue, and we need to demonstrate a willingness to stop." We began the unpleasant conversation about how reaching the summit of Shasta might not be in the cards this year. We never took the time to notice that Steve was largely silent. On Steve’s inside, a situation was brewing, but on the outside he seemed fine.
Had we been able to peek into the other world, we would have noticed that female Steve had turned several shades of crimson. Had our feminine selves looked into our world, they might have noticed that Josh and I were wearing pretty floral skirts, which we would discover later when it was much too late.
We completed our Shastina climb, then descended to the saddle and set up camp. We ate dinner. We filtered water. We engaged in light chit-chat. We did all the usual things that one does on a usual camp night. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Then out of the blue something never before seen happened: both Steves went ballistic.
It turns out that neither of them were at all cool with the thought of not summiting Shasta. Before long, the three of us were engaged in a shouting match, pounding out the finer details of various topics such as personal cowardice, what it takes to hold a man card, and living life burdened with massive failure. It never descended into being a fistfight, but it got real ugly real quick. After what seemed like an eternity of heated arguing, by mutual agreement we all decided it was a good idea to give each other some physical space and try to cool down. Steve moved a short distance outside of camp and spent the night. Since Josh and I seemed to be the two still on relatively friendly terms, and since we were both still extremely rattled, we decided the best plan was to finish off the rest of our liquor (several days’ worth) and go to bed.
In the other world, sworn enemies were born. Forgiveness would never, ever, ever, like ever, be an option.
The next day was awkward. Josh and I broke camp, feeling like the trip was over. The original plan after summiting Shasta was to drive south a couple of hours and climb Mount Lassen, but we wondered aloud if even that could happen. We decided that our best option was to rejoin with Steve, descend the mountain, then play it by ear. In town there were showers, food, and beer, all three of which were necessary components for the healing we desperately needed.
Female Josh and female me glared coldly at each other across the rocky plain on which they were camped. They too felt like they needed to descend so they could quickly and permanently part company. Female me searched her pack for the metal nail file she always carries just in case someone’s rope needs to accidentally get frayed.
As we were heading out, Steve basically begged us to make a partial ascent on the snow face that had spooked us so badly the previous day. With a sideways glance at each other, we decided to humor him in order to help everyone’s feathers get smoothed back down. We donned our crampons and started up. Despite how it had looked, it turned out to be some of the easiest climbing of the entire trip. I muttered an obscenity to myself, embarrassed.
When it became obvious that female Steve had been right all along, female me knew that this crap wasn’t going to ever go away.
I’m not sure why we didn’t continue the climb at that point. I think we were all just wrung out, both physically and emotionally. We were just done with it all. Later I learned that Steve had wanted to continue upwards and was just hoping we would come to our senses. What they say about hindsight is true: we *should* have stuck to the plan and continued to the summit. Instead, we headed towards the nearest bar so we could drown our regrets.
After the descent, our female versions never spoke again, at least not directly. Hatreds flourished. Rifts widened. What started out as small hostilities grew in frequency and enormity with the passage of time. Lines were drawn by succeeding generations, and soon violence changed into atrocities. Thousands of years of open warfare later, buttons were pushed and entire worlds were burnt into cinders.
Meanwhile, back here Josh and I bought Steve a beer. We spent the night talking about women and football. Everything good in the world was put back in place by a light buzz.
I turned to Steve. “Hey man, are we ok?”
“Yeah. We’re all good here.”
***A FEW PICS***
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033364569995092866&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033406628375650834&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033408973353361634&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033411807014860946&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033426920302395698&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033430833465470674&oid=107350358277110666971
https://plus.google.com/photos/1073...6033443147005440610&oid=107350358277110666971
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