A long-time friend wrote a few pages about his years in the High Sierra. The following is a summary of his late evening thoughts before the next day of hiking.

Fears

Beyond the edge of wonderment there’s always a wisp of worry— that raw conditions lie just beneath all this wild beauty. Thinking about tomorrow’s unknown pass, or an ominous talus canyon with thousand-foot walls, or the weather itself— all of it can take on a life of its own. Nervous irresolution creeps in, undermining the grit it takes to push forward. Maybe that’s why, at the first hint of a cloud, there’s a frenzy to throw up a tent— that absurd little island of security.

Part ritual, part defiance, part comfort.

And in a storm, it works. A tent staked before the first drops becomes a small miracle of dry safety. Wait too long, though, and you end up in the frantic, ugly battle of mountaineer versus flapping nylon versus driving rain. Crawl in late, soaked to the skin, and find the inside as wet as the outside.

That’s when the storm wins.

(In memory of Doug Sabiston)