Halfway up the Hill of Death, I paused. "Why did I think this was a good idea?" I asked. After all, for J's birthday, I had taken him to Hawaii. For mine, I was slogging up a mountain with a backpack, on snow that was alternately crusty and caused my snowshoes to slide out of control, or so deep that I could barely move. Why did I keep doing such hard things?
When we had arrived at the place where we would start our climb to 8.000 feet, sixty mile an hour winds lashed the truck. A wet snow fell horizontally, stinging my face. As I hoisted my backpack, I was glad we were going to a hut instead of trying to put up a tent (I doubt a tent would have held up in those conditions). Even though we were going to a hut, we still were carrying most of our supplies, so I am going to call it backpacking!
|Would you get out?|
Spartan yet welcoming, the hut provided much needed shelter. We set a pan of snow on the stove to use for drinking water. I shoveled out the outhouse (a tarp with a pit toilet). J bravely went for a quick ski run but I decided enough was enough. The wind howled ferociously all night.
|This is looking up at the Hill of Death which doesn't look as bad as it really is.|