Avalanche Gulch — Page 5

Stricken by a rare migraine headache, the author's vision explodes into the chaotic light show known as "aura", seeming to crush any chance of reaching the summit.

Meltdown

1. Reflections
2. Bunny Flat Adventures
3. Headlamps in the Dark
4. Lake Helen at Dawn
5. Meltdown
6. Beneath the Red Banks
7. To the Summit
8. 7000' of Skiing

The skis on my pack draw stares and a few curious comments as I follow one of the many sets of footprints heading up Avalanche Gulch.

Amongst all the climbers, I am one of perhaps two or three skiers on the route today. People seem surprised I'm carrying skis.

I'm surprised they're not skiing—I can't imagine climbing up all this way and having to walk down.

It's interesting to see such a wide range of climbers on what must be called a technical route.

Avalanche Gulch, as its name implies, does see regular avalanche activity, most commonly in the form of large (even massive) wet slides and rockfall.

This is why people rise so early to climb the route: to get up and down safely before the sun warms the snow too much, and things start a-sliding.

And the sun is on the move. Shasta's shadow pushes out to the west now, a great pyramid cutting across the peaks of Castle Craigs State Park.

As I slowly gain altitude, the tents at Lake Helen look like a small city beneath me.

Beyond Lake Helen, the snow steepens quickly, reaching a sustained pitch near forty degrees.

On hard snow, that's steep enough to make for a nasty fall. A few teams of climbers are actually roped, though I imagine they're training for future ventures.

Everyone, as far as I can tell, has crampons and axe, though I wonder how many are using these tools for the first time.

Normally, even coming from sea level, I am a fast climber.

Not today.

I'm slightly below average as compared to the fresh but green climbers coming up from Lake Helen. I expect they'll slow a bit as the day wears on, but for now there's nothing I can do to match them. I'm just trying to hold on.

As the sun lights the top of Avalanche Gulch, I begin scouting the route ahead for possible lines of descent. While I'm interested in the Trinity Chutes, clearly the steepest terrain in the area, I find I'm having trouble seeing the snow to assess its condition. Soon, I'm having trouble seeing the Chutes themselves. They seem to fade in and out view, replaced by an alarming nothingness.

I'm losing my vision.

And, with great dismay, I know at once what is happening. It is, in all honesty, a personal doomsday scenario: a migraine attack in the backcountry. Thankfully, these merciless headaches have largely become a thing of the past for me, except very rarely, in times of great stress. Now, however, the combination of travel, no sleep, exertion, and altitude has just triggered one. And it looks to be nasty.

I've got to stop. I veer off the main trail and find a place to sit amongst piled avalanche debris. I drop my pack, take all the ibuprofen I have in my inventory, and wait. My entire field of vision is now glowing with brilliant, flashing fractal spirals of blue-white diamonds.

This is the Aura, the painless, initial phase of the headache. If the migraine runs its course unaborted, the Aura will fade in twenty minutes, to be replaced with crushing pain.

There's a chance the ibuprofen will halt the headache's progression. Also, since it has been triggered by physical rather than emotional stress, I'm hoping the headache won't have the full punch. I nibble on some salty pretzels and sip water, trying to remain calm, as lines of climbers slowly march past. Will I be rejoining them—or asking for help?

Just stay calm. Wait. Time passes and my vision gradually returns to normal, replaced with sweeping numbness and tingling across my entire body—but no significant pain. The ibuprofen has done its work. And now what? If at all possible, I'm determined to reach that summit. I tentatively put my pack back on and rejoin the group headed upward, moving slowly, just hoping my body will hold together.

next: Beneath the Red Banks »