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Whiteout
Switchbacks through the forest. My heels were aching, so I loosened the laces. Everything seemed perfect — until my boots began to bite. The trail zigzagged endlessly upward through the steep woods. Each turn promised the ridge, but the ridge never came. A chill wind picked up, driving a wall of cloud across the crest. And yes, a wall — a solid, shifting barricade of vapor.
We gained the glittering ridgeline and walked straight into wind and whiteness. Two hikers descended toward us.
“How is it up there?” I asked.
“Windy. Foggy. We turned back,” one of them replied.
Damn.
We pressed on, kicking steps into the steep firn, climbing deeper into the cloud. The wind scoured the slope, lifting ice crystals and lashing them against our faces. I spat, and the gust ripped it away into the void. Soon we were engulfed in the white hell mountaineers talk about but never quite define. Above was white, below was white. Left, right, ahead, behind — white. Only the faint rise of the rounded ridge gave us bearings. To our right, a drop; to our left, an icy slope. One misstep and gravity would do the rest.
“Careful!” I shouted.
“Of course I’m careful!” she shot back.
After half an hour, the incline softened. We must have joined the main ridge — but with that, we…
