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| Mt. Shasta |
Things get off to an auspicious start when Avis does not have the full size rental car and substitutes a Jetta. It does have a huge trunk and I decide to go with it, first collecting Marie-Luce from Palo Alto. Armed with Google maps and ML's excellent navigation skills, we make our way flawlessly through San Francisco's streets to Alex's, only to find that he's out grabbing a bite to eat. No worries, Arnaud lives four blocks away and can be picked up before Alex, but wait, Arnaud is naked in his living room trying to decide what to wear on this trip (He's French and you know how they have to keep up with fashion.)
The drive up is very entertaining, especially Arnaud's story of his uncle peeing on a car door lock in order to unfreeze it (winter in Grenoble). Turns out that his uncle was drunk and peed on the wrong car and when the owner of the car sees a man peeing on it, he knifes him in the back! Not to be outdone, Alex tells us of a time when he goes into a bar asking for a drink and the bartender pulls a gun on him. Alex leaves the bar with a big smile on his face. (Check with Alex to find out why.)
All this fun in the car leads naturally to a great evening at the Bunny Flat campground (located at the trailhead for our hike/climb up Shasta). Most of the group have never sampled Fred Steak, so this is a chance to try something new.
Salad, potatoes and a home-made rhubarb pie (Arnaud's famous French recipe) round out our meal. Everyone thinks the food is fabulous, although the two bottles of wine may have something to do with things tasting good. Arnaud cracks a few, "old man", jokes when he learns I'm 49, and we all laugh so hard we have tears streaming down our cheeks. I confess that I can't remember what the jokes are - guess my memory must be going.
The evening is memorable for another reason. It's such a beautiful night, and we're all bloated blimps at this point, that we set up our sleeping bags on our sleeping pads without bothering with tents. Thirty minutes later a few drops of rain scare ML and Arnaud into putting up their tent. Alex and I have read the weather reports, talked to the ranger and are confident that worst case will bring only sprinkles this evening. After several episodes of sprinkles, the rain fly of my tent is pulled over our sleeping bags.
An hour later finds both of us awake, itching mosquito bites. Alex and I are still tough and just pull the tent from its stuff sack, and drape it over our heads to deny the mosquitos their pound of flesh. It is stuffy and claustrophobic with the tent fabric lying on our heads, and neither of us gets much (any) sleep. An hour later brings enough rain that we shed our tough mountain men image and rush to assemble the tent and clamber in. So much for a good night's sleep prior to Saturday's hike to Hidden Valley.
The weather continues to be ugly on Saturday, with overcast skies, wind and occasional sprinkles. Although it seems like wretched weather, its actually much better for hiking. With a cloudless sky, temperatures can rise to 100 degrees or more in this area. Climbers coming down the mountain tell how they had to retreat from 12,000 feet when high winds, rain, snow and lightning forced them back.
We arrive at Hidden Valley by 11AM and are able to claim good spots for our tents. People continue to arrive until 8PM, with about 40 tents scattered over the valley.
The West Face is clearly demarcated and is, in fact, the only continuous strip of snow up the mountain. With such a narrow chute and so many climbers, we move up our planned departure time to beat the rush, in order to minimize the chance of climbers above us knocking rocks down. Waking up at midnight allows us to set off at 1AM. We have split our party of ten into two teams, Alex, ML, Arnaud, and myself comprising one team while Dan, Francesco, Ian, Nina, Bridget, Dan are the other.
It's cold, but we make great time and reach the summit by 6:30AM. I've been up Shasta three times before but still find the experience emotional, shedding a few happy tears this time. The obligatory photos are captured but it is cold and windy and lingering at the summit is not an option.
There is a glissade track on the main face and I volunteer to go down first, set up my camera at the bottom and get photos of the others coming down the track. The sun is only now starting to hit the glissade track so it is pretty icy. It makes for a memorable ride and I have to stop frequently and go slowly to avoid sliding out of control. Descending about 1500 feet, I reach a sunny area that looks like the best spot for photos. Getting out of the track, I realize that my shorts, poly pro long underwear and regular jockey shorts have all been abraded by the icy snow in the track. I suppose its a good thing the cold icy snow has numbed my butt, else my ass would be feeling the missing skin. Fortunately, the crown jewels are still intact.
Photos are taken but everyone agrees that putting crampons back on and walking down the remainder of the way is the thing to do. We take a break after a while, removing our packs to fish out food and water. I'm fifty feet lower than the others during this rest break, and when I see a water bottle come loose and come hurtling down the hill towards me I attempt to be a hockey goalie and stop the errant bottle. It's coming fast and I have no time to watch my foot placements, instead keeping my eyes fixed on the incoming bottle.
Moving quickly, my right foot lands on the side of a snow cup, rolling on its side, sending a shooting pain up my leg, and causing me to collapse on the slope. I don't hear anything pop so I assume its a bad sprain and not broken. After a few steps, it's clear that I cannot put any weight on it. Putting our heads together, we try to figure out a way to get down the steep snow slope. I dismiss anything that involves walking as it is way too painful to load my right foot.
Glissade! That's the way down, my bottom protestations notwithstanding. But how to do it safely and keep my right foot from bumping on the snow? Somehow, going down the track needs to be done in a controlled manner. Answer: fasten a tether to my backpack, someone walks beside the glissade track holding my tether, thus lowering me at walking speed. I still need my ice axe in case my, "keeper", stumbles and lets go my tether. The plan works and slowly we make our way down the hill. At some point Alex sees some blood on the track. We determine that liposuction is a better option for reducing the size of my butt and place a garbage bag under my bottom. Ahhhhh, the simple pleasures in life. So much more comfortable!
The grade starts to level off and the snow starts to run out. I don't fancy the idea of being pulled on my ass over the sharp rocks between me and our camp, even with the garbage bag to sit on. About this time we notice a CHP chopper circling overhead. They've probably been wondering what the heck is going on down here. I conclude that there is no way I will be able to walk from our camp back to the trailhead and suggest that we signal the chopper and see if I can get airlifted out.
The chopper tries to communicate with us via loudspeaker but it is unintelligible over the sound of their engine and the blades beating the air. They eventually land and Alex piggy-back's me over to the helicopter. The California Highway Patrol chopper has been looking for a couple who phoned in the night before saying they were unable to continue down the mountain and are lost. The two officers, Bob and Tara, are incredibly nice. They first express their amazement that Alex has been able to carry me 1/4 mile over rocks and snow cover. Tara especially has her eye on him. Then they load me in the back seat, tell me not to touch ANYTHING or I'll make the chopper crash, and off we go.
They spend a few minutes searching for the lost couple, before flying me over to Shasta's Mercy Hospital. After landing, Tara takes my blood pressure (122/80) and wants me to remove my boot so she can have a look at my foot. She and Bob must justify picking me up and they want some evidence that I am sufficiently hurt that I would not be able to walk out from camp. Bob jokes that he wants to see broken bones sticking out and blood spurting but they settle for a big bruise on the right side of my foot.
The hospital is all of 100 feet from the helicopter landing pad but they must send an ambulance to greet me. What a day of firsts for me! First helicopter evacuation, first ambulance ride, what's next??? Perhaps I shouldn't ask!
The staff at Mercy Hospital are incredibly friendly, admitting me immediately, and Dr. Grover Shipman is in to see me within minutes. I learn later that he has an ulterior motive, to learn about snow conditions on the mountain. He and his girlfriend are planning to hike in to Hidden Valley and climb Shasta next Thur, Fri, Sat. I give him all the details he'll need and in return he sends me in for X-rays.
The technician takes two X-rays and has me wait on the gurney while she develops them. When she returns and takes a third, I'm suspicious that something in my foot is not quite right. Grover shows me two fractures, one in a metatarsal called a pseudo-Jones fracture and a distal fibula fracture. He is surprised that I am not in more pain, and sends me on my way with a splint, telling me to check in with my doctor in Palo Alto within the next five days. He also gives me some vicodin, a powerful painkiller.
So ends our Mt. Shasta expedition. Several of the team will travel to Rainier next weekend. I wish them good luck and hope that none of them share my fortune of having a helicopter ride off the mountain!
FYI, I actually make the news in some papers that print the US Forest Service press release verbatim. I'm the male with the broken leg mentioned in the last sentence in the press release below:
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