I looked up at the sky, watching the clouds gather above me in a dark mass. “Oh shit,” I thought to myself as I picked up my pace, running down trail on a wide, sandy plateau at 11,000 ft. A perfect place for lightning to strike. I’d done some solo-ing before. Tenaya Peak was a regular circuit of mine this summer, as I found myself with swaths of free time between waiting tables and no climbing partners. But this was my first big day alone in the mountains. I vaguely tried to recall if I had told anyone where I was going, and often had images of Aaron Ralston screaming alone in a canyon with his arm fatally stuck in a rock from the movie 127 Hours. I trip a lot when I’m hiking. For some reason, I come embarrassingly close to rolling my ankle more than once on an approach or descent. “God damn you’re a klutz,” a comment I’ve tried to deny more than once. But when I lace up my climbing shoes, everything slows down — I am careful and in control, choosing each step wisely, making each move with confidence, always checking the quality of the rock I’m about to grab and trust with my life. Because when you’re entirely alone at 12,500 ft, miles from the road, there’s no room for error.
For eight hours I saw no one. For eight hours I was making my own calls, choosing when to rest and when to press on, route-finding, back-tracking, scrambling, pulling low fifth-class moves. I like being alone — for the sense of accomplishment it gives me, for the knowledge that I am choosing to challenge myself with something serious. It makes me feel that I have breached a new level of climbing — that I am confident enough in my own abilities to navigate mountain terrain, which to me proves more than ticking off a hard route at a crag.
The dark clouds dissipate as I make my way off the sandy plateau on the south side of Mt. Conness. I put on a favorite song, plug in my headphones, and float the last five miles back to the car.
