Better Together

by Jules Williams

The incline was rapidly increasing below our crampons as the eight of us all looked up, oohing and aahing as the light emerged from behind Mt. Hood. Though we had talked about the climb for weeks, nothing could prepare me for this. I was unprepared for how breathtaking it would all be. How humbling. And how much I would love every minute. Everyone else had been up a mountain before, but this was my first time, ever.

After eight weeks of intensive mountaineering training with my Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP) team, now I understood: how difficult it was, what discipline it took, how much of a commitment it was, why it was such an accomplishment. Not just standing on the top, but every step to get there. And safely home, as my dad always repeated. 

When I was a little girl and our family friends came over for dinner, we often ended up in the basement watching slideshows of my parents’ peak-bagging heydays. In 1972, my parents transplanted from the east coast and immediately fell in love with the outdoors and joined the Mazamas. They eventually summited Mt. Hood 15 times—give or take a few attempts—along with the other 15 major peaks in the Pacific Northwest, before retiring after a third kid—yours truly—came along. All the slides of endless hiking and climbing up were a bit boring when I was five years old. I liked the pictures with the view from the top the best. 

While circumnavigating the Timberline Trail in 2017, I started dreaming about seeing the view from atop Mt. Hood myself. I had hiked and backpacked a ton, but could I climb mountains? I couldn’t know until I tried. 

Back when my parents taught BCEP in the 1970s there were only a couple thousand or so climbers in the entire U.S. In 2020, there were about 250 applicants to BCEP. I was elated to get accepted to a team, then bummed. The first and last class was on March 9, 2020. The world was officially in a global pandemic. 

My calendar was already reserved for weekly conditioning hikes in April and May, so I found as much elevation as I could while everything was closed that spring, then socially distant ways to adventure all summer, culminating in another Timberline Trail completion. Instead of taking the fall and winter off per usual, I kept hiking on trails with fewer people and more solitude. I was even more excited to get accepted in 2021 and finally be on a team. 

Our first conditioning hike was on a typical grey and breezy early spring morning in the Columbia River Gorge. I was nervous about my sore ankle and felt shy around so many strangers, so I lagged behind the rest of the ten-person BCEP team with one of the assistants. It didn’t take long for my body and heart to start warming up.  

Within five minutes, the assistant started answering my inquisitive questions with “real talk”—I liked her immediately. Divorce, losing parents, family dynamics, career changes, dating, having a family. We had covered all the big stuff in our past, present, and future by the time our team stopped for lunch on Cook Hill overlooking Mt. Hood. 

During the lunch break, we practiced rappelling down the hill from anchors attached to the trees. I easily replicated the completely-new-to-me sequence of steps with knots and gear because I could look and understand. But, the climbing commands repeated verbally just went in one ear and out the other. 

The next morning we had our first indoor rock climbing session at the Mazama Mountaineering Center to learn how to climb, belay, and rappel for real. After a week of online modules, textbook reading, breakout group meetings, working out, hiking, and then climbing, I was pretty pooped by the end of the session. 

“Jules. Hold up! Before I forget,” the assistant said as she walked over. She handed me flashcards that she generously made the evening after our hike so that I could practice the verbal commands on my own. 

Six weeks later at our final indoor practice session, I knew the knots and commands by heart. Now, I was ready to practice the harder stuff, like falling. And the hardest stuff, like trust and dependence. 

I had one more wall to try. Looking up, I saw the assistant nonchalantly leaning back into her harness and ropes on the one-inch thick and four-foot-long plywood ledge of the ice-climbing wall. Just like she was sitting in a hammock—made only of air.

Once I got up there, I immediately nudged my butt and back into the corner. We secured personal protection to the wall for me so I could set up my own rappel. Throughout the program, I specifically asked the instructors not to give me a hand unlocking a tricky carabiner or fixing the rope because I wanted to be capable of doing it all by myself. My mom used to joke that I tried to change my own diaper. 

“Wait, before I rappel, can you show me how to do that?” I asked.

“Do what?” she replied.

“Lean into nothing.”

Even though I had three points of safety, the tears dripped down my face as soon as I leaned back from the wall. Defying all logic, the attachment felt insecure. The assistant, a trauma nurse and a mom, gently reassured me over and over about how each anchor point, knot, and carabiner was attached until I breathed more steadily and sniffled “thank you!” through my face mask. We both giggled.

It was not about the fear of falling. It was about trust. Depending on the anchors—set by others—and the personal protection—set by myself—for safety and support. Asking for and getting help. Being vulnerable to unknown weakness and strength. 

According to Victoria Erickson, “When you’re a mountain person you understand the brilliance and beauty of contradiction. The way land can be your greatest teacher. How something can be both grounding and elevating, intoxicating and soothing, wild yet serene, intensely primal yet patient, and cycling yet predictable within the shifts and rhythms. Mountains keep us on the edge yet wrap us in the sensation of safety all at once. I don’t know of anything sweeter, or more magic-inducing than that.”

Just so, teamwork keeps us on the edge yet wrapped in the sensation of safety all at once. 

Over the next seven weeks, we became a team: Catching mistakes as we safety checked each other’s gear, deciding not to complete a hike when folks didn’t feel well, navigating unclear trails, walking in each other’s snowy footsteps, and learning others’ fears and needs. 

We were in it together. We all applied and were accepted for a Mt. Hood climb, though an unpredictable weather front of high winds and low temperatures moved in on our climb date. We had to be patient. Keep training and preparing. We wouldn’t set foot on the mountain for another two weeks, but the climb had begun. 

The wait was well worth it. It was a perfectly clear night. The sweet, surprisingly warm breezes wafted by like someone just opened the oven door to check on some cookies. And carried the “silent but deadly” sour stink of rotten eggs rising from the dormant volcano’s sulfuric fumaroles.

Around 5:30 a.m. we stopped and watched in awe as the mountain’s shadow spread west across the forest below like a giant awakening, as magical as the crescent of blood orange moon that had risen from the darkness in the east. Or the Milky Way that arched up over us toward the south. Or the twinkling lights of Portland we’d seen toward the west. 

My dad said he always enjoyed the journey of a climb, whereas my mom was driven by the goal of getting to the top. I did both—savored the beauty and worried about the slow progress of our large group. More stops, cautious steps, mild altitude sickness, varying speed. I wondered: How were we going to summit in time?

By 7 a.m. we only had 1,000 more feet to climb—we had covered 80% of the ascent mileage, but still had 80% of the difficulty to go. It was getting riskier by the minute as the sun continued to rise.

We paused in the Devil’s Kitchen to assess. It was only early June and the creek below the snow was shockingly visible with only an ice bridge across the fumaroles. We consulted briefly with another seasoned mountaineer, a father leading his 15-year-old son’s first ascent as they roped up together as a precaution and then promptly set off. There wasn’t much time for deliberation—instead, we needed decisions. Do we keep trying or turn around?

After crossing the Hogsback, we paused at the top of Hot Rocks, looking down the scree field of exposed rock. This was the exact spot where a 64-year-old man died the previous weekend while descending. The circumstances of the 500-foot fall had not yet been publicly released when we climbed. Of the 15,000-20,000 who attempt to climb it, one or two people die on Mt. Hood each year, on average. This was the first death since 2018.  

This mixed extra fear into the excitement as we took the first steps up the crux of the Old Chute. We slowly progressed up the very steep incline following in others’ hardened bootsteps. Several small groups passed us and also returned from the summit to descend. Three skiers started descending above us and knocked small bits of snow debris down the face. We paused so we could communicate with them and assess safety. 

Looking up, I estimated 40 steps to the next traverse that led over the edge and toward the summit, just out of eyesight some 200 feet further up. I turned around and finally really looked down, surprised to see familiar-looking terrain, just like the double black diamond ski runs that scared me while alone, but which I willing followed my older siblings down when I was a kid. 

I heard one of the leaders make the call from below. We were turning around. The debris was the last straw. It was likely safe to proceed, but folks were done. I realized I could safely sit down, say a prayer of gratitude and take a few minutes to take it all in—not just the stunning blue sky view but everything that led up to that moment. Instead of disappointment, I felt fulfilled and capable. The dream came true. The goal was achieved. We gave it our all. So we weren’t at the tip-top, but we did climb a mountain together! 

Sitting around the Timberline Lodge parking lot afterward our team shared salty snacks while celebrating and debriefing. Not only the climb, but everything we’d learned together—that climb, in the program, and during the pandemic. Could we do it? Heck yeah. And we would. Another day. This was just the beginning.

This article originally appeared in the January/February issue of the Mazama Bulletin. You can read other articles in that issue, and past issues, here.