Incredible Shrinking Trips
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The first thing you have to get used to is being led around on a piece of rope. You feel a little like a pet. Then you start enjoying the feeling of putting your life in someone else's capable hands--it takes away a lot of stress. And when you get to 13,000 feet, climbing up a sheer wall of snow and ice, you have no other choice.
Even a beginner can climb a mountain, and, as it turns out, a lot of them do. Exum Guides, a well-respected outfit based in Wyoming's Grand Teton National Park, has about 5,000 clients each summer, and 1,000 or so do the two-day ascent of the 13,770-foot Grand Teton, the most iconic of the range. That's the trek I signed up for--the price is $410 to $800, depending on the route and number of climbers in a group (details are at exumguides.com). You do have to be in reasonably good shape. And the climb is not to be taken lightly. In 2003, a group climbing without a guide was hit by lightning; one climber was killed.
Before the climb, the guides need to know you're prepared. My guide, 34-year-old Nat Patridge, has me practice walking on rocks in mountaineering shoes with sticky soles. I learn to trust my shoes to stick to the rocks and feel a little like Spiderman.
The night before the climb I take a walk at sunset. A hush falls over the valley; the clouds slowly turn pink. The Grand, as it is known, with its multipointed peak, rises in a chain of mountains across the plateau, lakes in front of them bowing before their grandeur. It's hard to imagine that in a day and a half, I'll be standing at the top.
The next morning, the climb begins with a 7-mile hike up the glacial valley called "the Meadows," which should be a slam-dunk except that it involves a 5,000-foot gain of elevation. It's mid-June, the start of climbing season. Temperatures can hit the 70s, but a thick, avalanche-prone layer of snow and ice covers the ground. Nat and I wear shorts, our packs on our backs with ice axes attached. As we gain altitude, we see dots zig-zagging down the mountain face, which turn out to be skiers carving their way down. Fifteen minutes later, we hear a sound like a jet plane. Nat looks up and yells, "Holy s---!," pulling me aside as a mass of ice and snow slides down next to us, exactly where the skiers had descended.
Even a small misstep can be treacherous. As we near the headwall, the steepest section before the base camp where we are to spend the night, Nat lassoes my waist with a rope and ties it quickly. He moves ahead; I follow. When my foot slips, the rope tightens. The snow dislodged by my boot rolls down the wall, becoming a snowball. "Here on the mountain, every action you take you are responsible for," Nat says. "And it has a consequence--if you step in the wrong place, if you plant your ice ax the wrong way."
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