I’m standing at the edge of a small, rocky precipice, deep in the heart of the Washington Cascades. Fear courses through me like a vise, squeezing so tight it takes my breath. Crusted with ice, the yawning gap stares up at me with cold contempt, challenging me to leap.

I know I must. After spending hours traversing the glacier below, I’m exhausted and shaking. The day is waning, the sun just beginning to make its descent, bright light slowly giving way to milky shadow. In the mountains, time is not on your side. I know this.

The summit, a stony, jagged gray peak, is just out of view, beyond this craggy spot. I’m here with my partner, Mariano, and our guide Margaret. Both have already bounded across the void before me, Tigger-esque, feet like springs. They made it look easy despite the crampons we wear, metal “teeth” strapped to our boots, meant to give traction on sloped snow and ice. On rock, they have the opposite effect, making me feel unsteady and unsure. Cold sweat begins to form, beading above my lip.

Trembling and on the verge of tears, I make my case to Margaret. “I can’t do this with crampons.” “It will actually be more dangerous if you take them off, Kelli. Come on, you can do it.” I push back, glaring. “I don’t like this. What if I fall and get really hurt, break my leg or something? We’re so far from help.” I picture myself helpless, seriously injured, waiting for a rescue that may not be possible this far up the glacier. Margaret’s eyes meet mine, firm and direct. “Sometimes you just need to do it, even if you’re scared, right? Push yourself, let’s go!”

A flash of annoyance washes over me. I’ve climbed to the top of this glacier and that’s what she says? Haven’t I already pushed myself, proven I can do hard things?

 Every cell in my body is screaming “NO,” my most basic, primitive instincts kicking into gear. As I stare, frozen, unable to move, Margaret’s voice rises an octave:

“GO!”

I glance at Mariano, searching his eyes with my own. An unspoken communication takes place withing a fraction of a second. I breath in, the sharp, icy air filling my lungs with oxygen, muscles tense and ready.

***

I met Mariano the year before, the summer of 2007. At the tail end of a heartbreaking divorce, I felt ready to meet someone new, but I was also colt-skittish, wary and slow to trust. The foundation of my failed marriage, built upon what initially appeared to be firm and level ground, had in actuality been poured over hidden, vast sinkholes. The entire structure inevitably collapsed, the void below swallowing us whole. Now, I scrambled to gain purchase, the dust settling around me, testing the earth beneath for the solidity I craved.

Set up by a mutual friend, Mariano and I met over iced coffee on a warm Arizona Friday in June. As I pulled up to the coffeehouse where we were to connect that day, I was nervous. I had never been on a blind date, and wasn’t sure what to expect. My worries were quickly pushed aside as soon as I spotted Mariano, who offered a wide, welcoming smile. Soon realizing we had many of the same interests, minutes morphed into hours as we talked endlessly about our common passions. Mariano, a single dad with a grown daughter, had devoted the previous years to family and career. Despite this, he also found time to challenge himself, becoming a triathlete and eventually completing a full Ironman, an impressive feat by any measure. I was raising two daughters, then six and ten, and was a reading specialist in the Arizona public school system. Additionally, I had just earned my black belt in Tae-Kwon-Do alongside my eldest daughter, after years of hard work and commitment. We bonded over these commonalities, our first date leading to many more. It felt like Kismet.

A year later, we found ourselves planning a new adventure: a privately guided four-day long intensive mountaineering course in the North Cascades National Park. Mariano had summited Mount Shasta the year before, a towering, glaciated mass standing at 14,180 feet in northern California. Shasta is a challenging and technical climb, and Mariano had enjoyed this endeavor so much he was itching for another. This time he wanted me to join. I was nervous, but reflected that we had agreed early on to regularly challenge ourselves in new ways as a couple, and here was a chance to make good on that commitment. I took this pact seriously. Nerves aside, I was in.

We flew into Seattle-Tacoma International on a beautiful and sunny August day, the bright, cobalt sky welcoming us. Mount Rainer, royally majestic, hovered in the background reigning over its subjects, wispy cotton candy clouds kissing its tip. As we drove northeast toward Marblemount where we were to begin our adventure, we rolled down the windows, breathing in the fresh air, the spicy scent of sagebrush lingering. We would spend the night in Marblemount at a small inn before heading out early the next morning to meet our guide Margaret at the ranger station. From there, we would head to Boston Basin Trailhead, the launching point for our adventure. That night, sitting fire-side at the inn, accompanied by the crackle and dance of the flames, we toasted the challenge with earthy red wine, our excitement growing along with our nerves.

The following morning dawned crisp and clear, the first rays of buttery sunlight peeking through the window, beckoning with promise. The aroma of crisp, sizzling bacon welcomed us in the dining room as we grabbed our last hearty meal, knowing it would be freeze-dried food on the mountain for the next several days. Heading out, packs in tow, driving toward the ranger station, my stomach twisted in knots as I considered the challenge ahead. Mountaineering would be a completely new experience for me, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. I glanced anxiously at Mariano.

“How far did you say the hike in was? These packs are really heavy.”

“Just a few miles. We’ll be fine.”

“But our backpacks are fifty pounds! It’s only a quarter of your weight. It’s almost half of mine.”

“You’re strong. You’ll be ok. I’ll help you if you need me to.”

Our packs were stuffed to the brim, but I accepted the reassurance. I was learning that what Mariano said, he meant. He wouldn’t leave me hanging. It was a new comfort for me.

Margaret was patiently waiting at the ranger station. Six feet tall, with closely cropped blonde hair, broad shoulders and an athletic build, she smiled and shook our hands with firm confidence. She certainly looked capable, and, reminding myself of her outstanding credentials, I felt reassured. We double checked our gear, and with a thumbs up from Margaret walked to the trailhead. Hoisting our packs with a grunt, we headed out, Margaret taking the lead, the whooshing sound of distant streams providing a musical backdrop.

Boston Basin Trail is an unmaintained climber’s route, the first mile or so gently following the overgrown and eroded remnants of an old mining road. No big deal, I thought, as we trudged our way up the trail. Breathing in, I closed my eyes, the woodsy scent of local pine and cedar carried by the wind. Heaven.  

My moment of bliss was quickly interrupted when we turned a corner and caught a glimpse of the path before us, which ascended precipitously up a rocky, brushy gully. An avalanche chute in the winter, it was the only way up. Boulders and fallen trees littered the path, and I turned to Margaret, confused.

“Is this the trail?” 

“Yep.”

I stared ahead, eyes widening.

“How do we get up it?”

“We climb, pull ourselves up.”

I watched as Margaret tackled the challenge, at times on hands and knees as she ascended. I was next. Hoisting myself up a boulder, pulling with all my strength, I suddenly lost purchase and fell with force, my pack pulling me backward like fifty pounds of wet cement. Heart pounding, I yelped in fear, the possibility of broken bones, a concussion, flashing through me like lightning. I knew this was going to be bad. It was a long way down. Suddenly, I felt a firm weight pressing against me, stopping my fall. It was Mariano. Sure and steady, he pushed me forward until I was able to grab hold. Leveling myself, I pulled back up using the thick, gnarled root of a tree for leverage. Shaking, adrenaline sprinting through my veins, I turned to Mariano. “You ok?” he asked, brow knit in concern. Still trembling, palms slick with sweat, I managed a smile. “Yes, fine.”

Crisis averted, we continued up the path, which finally wound through a sloped, gentle forest, the lush, leafy canopy above providing a welcome break from the heat of the day. As we trekked, my thoughts drifted back to Mariano. Reflecting, I recognized a shift, however small, had taken place.

Our foundation was being strengthened, laid brick by brick, each placed squarely upon the other and cemented by the strongest of bonds. I was beginning to gain confidence as the months passed, that those bricks were real, that they were solid, unbreakable. That they would last.

Still, there was an uncertainty I couldn’t shake. I had been hurt badly in my marriage, and like a small child hunched over, protecting a wound that had bled bright red and not yet healed, I held my deepest fears close to my chest. Unfurling myself completely was a step I was not yet ready to take. Sensing this, Mariano was patient, but we both knew we could not truly move forward, build a life together, until I fully opened up, trusting enough to expose my vulnerabilities.
The rhythmic gurgling of rushing water pulled me from my thoughts as we came around a final bend and caught our first glimpse of Boston Basin. Relieved to have arrived and easing our packs down with weary gratitude, we stopped and reverently took it in the ethereal beauty of what would be base camp.

Rimmed by spectacular, snow-capped peaks on all sides, Boston Basin is wide and expansive, with dozens of streams and sparkling waterfalls cascading gloriously toward the main creek, which lies a short distance from camp. Lush greenery and wildflowers abound, sweetly floral lupine and Indian paintbrush washing the valley in riotous color- blush, magenta, deep crimson red. Huge slabs of speckled granite litter the valley below Quien Sabe Glacier, which lies north of camp and just below Sahale Peak, where we would make our summit attempt in just a couple of days. Taking it in, mouth agape, I reflected on the Zane Grey phrase “Climbin’ up through hell into heaven.” It seemed an apt description for our grueling trek to the paradise before us.     

Setting  up camp that afternoon alongside Mariano and Margaret, I hummed to myself in relaxed content while we worked. Local marmots, abundant in the area, chirped along with me as the day waned, welcoming us to their home in the wild. That evening, work complete, we sat around the campfire talking with Margaret, trading stories and laughs as we shared our first dinner in the basin. At last, blanketed by the glimmer of what seemed a million celestial fairy lights, woodsy smoke from the fire lingering, we crawled into our tents and collapsed, exhausted.

The Boston Basin has been called a compressed version of the Swiss Alps due to its moderate altitude at 6,000 feet, and easy access to the surrounding peaks and glacier. It’s the perfect outdoor classroom, and the next morning found Margaret headmaster, teaching us our first new skill: how to build a snow anchor, used to provide stability and safety when descending a snow couloir, a steep gully in alpine terrain. Snow anchors are created using an ice axe, climber’s rope, locking carabiners (oblong metal rings used as connectors), and a metal picket.
Margaret began the lesson, showing us how to use the ice axe to dig a capital T into the hard-packed snow. Next, she embedded the metal picket horizontally and securely along the top of the T and attached a carabiner. Threading rope through this metal ring, she connected the other end to her harness using a figure eight knot. This creates a pully system that provides leverage for climbers on steep descents.

Mariano and I were next, each digging our own snow anchor, practicing the necessary skills again and again, then checking each other for accuracy and safety. As we worked alongside one another, I realized we were truly a team out here on the mountain. Mutual faith was not only necessary, but vital. As Mariano steadfastly lowered me down the slope, I felt safe, secure. I realized at that moment that day after day he was showing he was dependable, truthful, a solid and stable anchor not only on icy and treacherous terrain but in my life, our life. Out here, feet planted firmly on the mountain, Mariano slowly and safely guiding me, I felt incredibly lucky to have him as my partner. I wondered if I could be the same in return. He deserved to have someone just as sure, someone ready to fully trust. A partner who was “all in.”

I pondered this as we wrapped up the day, heading back to camp as the sun set, framing Johannesburg mountain to the west in its honeyed, celestial glow. I was quiet that night as we ate, the hazy, pungent smoke of the fire an obstruction to clarity, paralleling my internal struggle. Leaving Mariano and Margaret to chat, I retired early, physically and emotionally drained, and fell into a fitful sleep.  

“Good morning, guys!” chirped Margaret as we crawled out of our tent the next day, wearily rubbing sleep from our eyes.
She explained that today we would be learning a technique called “glissading,” when a climber sits, then slides down a steep slope of snow or ice with the support of an ice axe.

“Margaret, that sounds dangerous. I thought we were supposed to build snow anchors on steep slopes?” I interjected.

“Yes, but this technique is used when the slope is a bit gentler. It’s another choice for descending, and much faster than building an anchor.”

Curious now, we grabbed our day packs and headed up the mountain, crampons crunching as we made tracks in the snow alongside those of local critters, a chilly breeze biting our exposed faces. Pulling my woolen beanie a little lower, I shivered in anticipation, wondering if I had the nerve to slide down the icy glacier, relying only upon myself.

Arriving at the glacier’s base, then climbing up a bit, we finally set down our packs and grabbed our ice axes, the only glissading tool required. Margaret demonstrated, sitting first, then holding her ice axe firmly, right hand just under the base of the blade, left hand crossed over her body, securely holding the wooden handle. She began sliding, slowly at first, then faster, suddenly flipping her body over, chest to the slope, swinging the pick of her axe squarely into the dense snow on top of the glacier, arresting her fall. Mariano was next, making it look effortless as he started to slide, then quickly turned and struck his axe firmly into the snow, completing the exercise.

It was my turn. I picked up my axe, white knuckled and palms sweaty despite the chill. Shaking visibly, I sat, griping the axe tighter. The slope looked steeper from this angle. Biting my lip sharply, gathering courage, I pushed off, quickly gaining momentum as I slid faster and faster, heart pounding wildly.

“Now!” yelled Margaret, my cue to self-arrest.

I flipped over onto my belly, heaving the axe in an adrenaline-fueled burst, planting the pick deep into the snow and quickly coming to a halt.

“Perfect!” encouraged Margaret, as I whooped with joy.

I felt a burst of pride as we practiced again and again, trusting myself a bit more with each attempt. Day by day, on the mountain, I found my confidence growing, the wounds of my past healing with each reminder that I was capable, strong. I felt a rush of joy as I acknowledged this unexpected shift. Glancing at Mariano, elated, I laughed with glee, feeling like a kid on a playground as we slid. Finally, forced to pack up by the setting sun, we headed down the slope toward camp, ready to tackle what would be our big day, tomorrow’s summit attempt.

We awoke to the sun’s first fingers just reaching above the eastern peaks, sky bright and clear, a good omen. Huddling around the campfire, we wolfed down peanut butter sandwiches and slugged steaming mugs of coffee as we discussed the day ahead. It would be a long trek, Margaret explained, nine to ten hours total, and we would need an early start to make good time. Donning our packs, we set out for our final push.

Nearing the glacier, we pulled on crampons and securely tied rope to our harnesses, each connected to the other for security. “Roping up” is an important part of glacial traversing, each climber acting as an anchor for others. If a team member slips, others immediately self-arrest using their ice axe, which is always kept in hand. I reminded myself of the arrests we practiced successfully the day before while glissading. The stakes were high, but I knew I could do this. Determined, I stepped onto the slope, thirty feet behind Margaret, Mariano trailing at the same distance, a measure of safety.

Hours passed like minutes as we crossed the glacier in tandem, our steady breath and rhythmic footfall a moving meditation, the sun’s warmth welcoming us in its gentle embrace. As we came around a final bend the lull was broken as we approached Sahale Col, a narrow ridge we would need to successfully navigate before reaching the peak just beyond.
Stepping onto the rocky ridge, uncomfortably exposed, the mood shifted as a frigid, howling wind suddenly pushed against us with force. Shivering, we turned and viewed our last obstacle, a gaping precipice rimmed with ice. Deep and too wide to step across, we would need to jump, crampons on.

***

Frozen, legs unsteady and trembling, I stare at the chasm before us. The summit lies just beyond, taunting in its proximity.

“Almost there!” encourages Margaret, leaping gracefully across, followed quickly by Mariano. They turn, beckoning.

My breath quickens. Can I do this, take this final leap? Squeezing my eyes shut, reflecting on the previous days and all I have learned, I deliberately, consciously, push fear aside. Blocking vision, light, and sound I slow my breath, place a hand over my heart, feeling it beat, slower now.

I open my eyes, glance at Mariano. He nods, eyes warm and reassuring. Suddenly, I know. In that split second, that fleeting moment of time, an undeniable truth, one that has been building day after day, crests, washes over me, engulfing me in its certainty. Despite the icy void before me, my quivering legs, the unwieldy crampons, despite everything, the ground below has never felt so solid and sure. I see Mariano on the other side, patiently waiting. 

Breathing in, I leap.

-Kelli Borges

Kelli Short Borges is a former reading specialist and forever reading enthusiast. Her work has been published or is forthcoming at Across the Margin, WOW! Women on Writing, Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Pure Slush, amongst other journals. Kelli also enjoys hiking the Arizona foothills, photography and traveling the world in search of adventure. You can find her on Twitter @KelliBorges2.