On the top of Cloud Peak in the Cloud Peak Wilderness Area of the Bighorn Mountains in Wyoming, I faced my first sense of death. The wind was whipping across the tops of the mountains, and the gusts were so strong that I was trying to stay upright on this rocky, flat summit. At about 20 feet by about 10 feet wide, the summit of Cloud Peak is a relatively easy place to stand. On this day in mid-July, however, gale-force winds shot over this peak.
My friend John and I woke early in late July 1981. We camped near Lost Twin Lakes and retraced our steps toward the Peak, past Misty Moon Lake and the long approach to the mountain. The hike was brutal and, in many ways, added to my anxiety as I stood on top of this mountain.
As gusts blew, we scrambled, bouldered, and climbed to the summit of Cloud Peak. The day was bright, sunny, and terrible with these constant wind gusts. I was dressed poorly, not accounting for the cold temperatures that buffeted my skin every time a gust blew past. The constant sweat on my body did a very good job of cooling my skin; so good, in fact, that as I scrambled to the summit and was in a kind of wind shadow, I was shaking. If you’re ever interested in climbing this peak, be aware of the lack of a clear trail, the constant up and down as you get close to the mountain, and the sometimes-difficult path to the peak. Too, this hike is exposed in such a way that you feel desolation all around you. The gray stone is interminable, and you feel like you’ll never find the summit.
Yet, here we were, on top of the peak. I pulled out my Nikon FM with color film and planned to take a series of shots from the top. As soon as I raised the camera to my head, a gust pitched me sideways, and the camera slipped from my hands. Reacting quickly, I reached for the strap, grabbed it in my hand, and was completely off-balance as I fell toward the cliff to my left. I contorted my body just enough so that as I fell, I hoped not to drop off the cliff into the roughly 1000-foot expanse. My shoulder hit hard, and I landed on my back, head cracking the rock, about 6 inches from the edge of the summit. John, in the meantime, had reached for my legs, and his hand was wrapped around my ankle as he too, fell onto the hard granite surface. We stopped moving, and I could sense as much as see out of the corner of my eye the terrible maw of the valley below.
I was in a kind of shock. Exhausted, cold, shaking, I couldn’t move for a few minutes. Somehow, my camera was in my right hand, safe from any harm. My left shoulder screamed in pain, and my hip was hurting. In the moments just as I fell, I had a powerful sense of death, that I was going to die, falling over the edge of the cliff and into the open space below. Fear gripped me, and I was stuck. John slowly stood and asked and then commanded me to sit up. He grabbed my camera, put it on my daypack, and then pulled me up to sit. I was no more than a foot from the edge, and I still couldn’t stand. Adrenaline coursed through my body, and rather than being able to move quickly, I was immobilized. After a few minutes, I got on my hands and knees and crawled a few feet before I could stand.
Putting hands on the stone and knees firmly planted on that same rock in an awkward cat/cow pose, I stood slowly, John holding my left arm as I came to my feet. I was unsteady. John and I looked to the West, and what was formerly a sunny day revealed a dark bank of clouds quickly forming overhead. How had the weather changed so quickly?
As one, we desperately gathered our packs, no time to talk, and headed down the summit along the rocky, loose surface we had just come up. In less than 30 minutes, a very light rain started, and the formerly dry stone became a kind of insane play of water on rock, as each step was a lesson in staying balanced and upright. My hand slid as I placed it on a flat surface, and my boots, formerly my most cherished piece of gear, became small sleds as rain and rock made for a slick, almost ice-like surface.
We half walked, half tumbled down the side of the mountain, searching for the cairns that were so prominent earlier, now impossible to find. Was this the right way down? At some point, we simply gave up trying to find the markers and used our eyesight and general understanding of topography to navigate the trail/scramble.
In my mind, this tragicomedy of a hike took hours and hours; in truth, we moved so quickly that we made it to flat land in about three hours, finally locating the Misty Moon Lake trail as light rain fell and the sunlight faded. We arrived at Lost Twin Lakes in the dark of night, the cold now a serious concern with us in shorts and t-shirts, rain jackets, and some snacks. Luckily, our flashlights were bright enough to light our way, and we found my tent: the poorly named “One Night Stand.”
We jumped into the tent, shoes off under a small vestibule. We drank water we had gathered earlier and quickly ate some GORP stored in my Nalgene. Climbing quickly into our bags, I was happy for this ridiculous 10-degree bag…the only one I had for backpacking. I warmed up quickly and was asleep in minutes.
While I have faced real threats to life in the backcountry at a couple of other moments (lighting strikes; crossing a ridiculously high stream in Montana, nearly falling on my ass), never have I ever faced something like the Cloud Peak Hike. For days after, John and I talked about our experience and my near death. At some point on another hike in Yellowstone, something snapped, and John cried hard about the terror of possibly having to recover my dead body and his own fear of being the one person who was last to see me alive. My reaction was, at first, openly muted, but internally, many things had changed. After we made it out of the Bighorns, I tossed my boots and bought another, more flexible pair. Then, I purchased some safety equipment: a better flashlight, more batteries, more First Aid for my kit, some socks, wool fingerless gloves, and a knit hat. I wanted to be more prepared for what could happen in the backcountry.
As far as the idea of death went, it was lodged in my mind. It captivated my attention, and I read as many near-death hiking experiences as I could. These stories followed a similar pattern: bad choices led to near death. Hmmm. Eliminate bad choices and NO DEATH! Yes.
Soon, however, I realized that things were not so simple.
Reflections on the Path 