MILE 6,018; JUNE 8; GANNETT PEAK, WY; 13,809 FEET I lean back against a cold granite boulder. My back still hurts. The 50-pound pack I have carried all day to our campsite here at Titcomb Lakes doesn’t help. The peaks around me are gargantuan, rocketing skyward like the fingers of a god. Seven months ago, when I first came up with this quest, it was Gannett Peak that stood out as potentially the hardest. The Wind River Range is already remote, and the required 50-mile round trip was as foreboding as the size of the peaks. It seems crazy—even for my often excessively ambitious self—that this is the place where I’m restarting my journey. I don’t feel ready; mentally, emotionally, physically, logisti-cally. But I don’t think I will ever be. It is time to continue into the mountains, doing the one thing that has always brought me peace: Skiing. The alarm rings at 1 a.m. Adam and I don’t say much. We just put on skins and start walking, our headlamps unneces-sary thanks to the nearly full moon. As we crest Bonney Pass, the first hints of pink light up the snowfield just below the stout pyramid of the summit. Seven months ago, Gannett also stood out as the most anticipated. We climb, and all the dangers surrounding me—including every rock—become frighteningly obvious. I am scared. Atop the summit are some of the best views I have ever seen, mountains so beautiful and so empty I can barely begin to wrap my mind around them. The weight of being here dawns on me. It is a great day to be alive. The snow turns to perfect corn under the spring sun, and, for a fleeting moment in each turn, all feels right again. My back doesn’t hurt, I feel the speed and freedom of sliding on snow, and my mind stops racing. I smile. 076 The Ski Journal
The Ski Journal Volume Eleven, Issue Two: Page 76
