Village People

It takes a village to raise an idiot. I had nurtured the stupid idea of summiting Mount Hood, and nobody could stop me. My village consisted of two eager members, unaware of next. As West Coast dirtbag, I was bestowed the title of trip lead. Which was insane, for I live in Jersey City, and I spend as much time climbing mountains as any old East Coast shmuck who takes his yearly vacations in Telluride or Aspen and knows how to start a fire most of the time. I was as qualified to lead this expedition as my landscaper is to fix my blown head gasket. But as I said, it takes a village.

I sent my victims a Portland Mountain Rescue video the day before to assist in the gathering of bearings. The video summed everything I knew about Hood, as I just finished watching it. The 5,200’ climb was technical and dangerous, so I decided to buy a couple of ice axes and pretend everything would be okay. I asked Chat GPT the “Weather on Mount Hood” and “If I can ski off Hood’s summit ”. I packed crampons and a helmet, for my ski boots did not have enough traction, and who knows what may come knocking.

12:30 am, Hells Bells were ringing. I cut the alarm before the chorus beat my eardrums. Must be on snow by 3:00 am. I wake Victim #1, my brother. We are to meet Victim #2, Gabe, at 6,000’, the climbers’ lot at Timberline Lodge. Brother groans, knowing the meager four hours of sleep would bite back. At the parking lot Pow Wow we discovered what we forgot to bring, and I went over an ice axe tutorial. We exchanged tools and knowledge with each other, so we all had gloves, headlamps, and knew where we were going. It takes a village.

We find the sign for the climbers’ route, then head up the wrong path. The no footprints and the first 100’ of the walk was enough to instill fear in a crawfish. Struggling to get out of the parking lot, I feared the journey ahead. Hiking to Devil’s Kitchen was unremarkable; I am still catching my breath. Halfway up we realized crampons made the hiking bearable, but no matter how you sliced it, lugging up downhill skis and assorted metal objects sucked.

The Devil’s Kitchen smelled of sun-ripe rodents and three rancid climbers, as fumaroles spat around us. God's wrath exceeded the stench of rot, and further wrought an intrusive headache upon us. We ski stashed and circumnavigated Crater Rock to the bottom of Hogsback. Looking up at the Pearly Gates, the last major push to the summit. A flock of down climbers concerned us. There must have been an accident; they were huddled together, blocking the summit’s exit. Nearing the scene of the climb, we realized the magnitude. There was no accident, only a tedious climb up and Hell the way back down. The climbers inched along, the huddle descending no faster than the most mortified member.

Our late arrival offered us protection from the crowds but subjugated us to the rockfall of the sun-cooked cliffs overhead. Fueled by nothing but adrenaline and summit fever, we picked our way through the Pearly Gates, leaving the idea of climbing back down for later. Three points of contact and a half-hour climb, we straddled the Hogsback. The giants of Washington and Oregon assembled: Rainer, Adams, Jefferson, St. Helens, and the Three Sisters. We strolled along the knife’s edge to the summit, where we embraced each other in a special moment. Cloud 9 was followed by stormy weather, my brother’s headache from the sulfuric gas was exacerbated. It was joined by nausea, fatigue, and confusion. A silent battle. His eyes began to wander in the distance, and malaise took the reins. This would take a village.

Hell out of dodge is the only cure for altitude sickness. We ripped down the ridge carefully, considering each step, or it would be our last. I took charge through the Pearly Gates, stomping study footholds for my brother to use. Gabe trailed, keeping an eye on the operation, but could do no more than watch if tragedy struck. Reality rolled in when I heard crumbling above, leaving me just enough time to pull out my ice axes and shuffle aside. The rock that ripped past was no smaller than my head, which would no longer exist if I hesitated. I could hear the clock tick, but my brother couldn't move faster. He continually collapsed in exhaustion, but we pushed him on.

The mountain collapsed around us. My brain darted around, any noise could be fatal. The next hour of retreat was torture; fate out of hand. Our nostrils burned as we descended into the fumaroles of Devils Kitchen, but we no longer faced imminent death. Going through the motions, we located our skis, oh glorious sight. Strung out but unscathed, time now to breathe. The sun that previously pummeled us with rocks now gifted us summer corn. Still locked in the motions, my brother descended to safety, as Gabe and I into bliss. Together we returned to the parking lot and ravished our cars of any remaining calories and water. Shell shock euphoria flooded my system; we were alive. Up as a village, down as a village, nothing is possible otherwise.