The Silent Call Skyward: Summiting the Pfeifferhorn

The Wasatch Mountain Range has been the single most important influence in my life. As far back as I can remember into my childhood, I was exploring those mountains. To me, the natural draw to summit those mountain peaks is that of the instinct of a baby leatherback sea turtle being drawn out to the ocean after hatching from its egg. When I begin my journey, there is no comprehensible reason for it, but after reaching my final destination and I am standing on top of the world, it all makes sense to me; this is where I belong.

        Out of all of the different mountain sports out there, nothing preoccupies my thoughts and passions for the mountains like skiing. However, in the winter of 2014-2015, I experienced a whole new form of exploring the mountains on my skis; ski mountaineering. That spring semester, I had the opportunity to enroll in the mountaineering class at the University of Utah. This class consisted of one classroom session where we learned the basics of mountaineering, one day of practicing what we learned in the classroom on a small snowy hill just outside of Alta Ski Resort. The final two days we put our skills to the test and were able to go out and get a new mountain summit under our belts; the Pfeifferhorn. It was this trip into the mountains that I became more in tune with nature, and myself, than at any other time.

        As I laid out all of my gear the night before, I tried to imagine what the trip was going to be like. I had done my fair share of backcountry skiing in the wasatch, but I had never used gear like crampons or a mountaineering ice axe. When I imagined these pieces of gear, I would picture extreme mountaineers climbing mountains like Mt. Everest or K2 in the Himalayas. I was thrilled with the idea of exploring mountains in this new way. I yearned to explore those extreme, steep peaks during my time in the mountains, but until now, they were out of my reach.

        Quickly after I had parked my car in the White Pine parking lot in Little Cottonwood Canyon, I slid my feet into my ski boots, threw my touring skins onto the bottom of my skis, and fastened my avalanche beacon to my torso under my windbreaker like I had done dozens of times before. Following beacon and equipment checks, we set off on the White Pine trailhead with great enthusiasm. The snow on the trail was packed down because of the frequency in which the trail was used. This allowed us to move swiftly along since we didn’t pack down our own trail.

        Once we had toured about three miles from the trailhead, we reached a frozen Red Pine Lake just as the sun began to peek over the snowy mountain summits. And when the sun comes out, the layers come off. As unwanted layers of clothing were shed, we reenergized and ate a short snack before we set off for the final four miles.

        As we started back up the trail, I made sure to keep close behind our lead instructor, Brian, so that I might pick his brain about his adventures and experiences in the mountains. He told me about his time working as a mountain guide in the famous French mountain town of Chamonix. I was honored to be learning so much of the mountains and my role in them from someone who had lived my dream and been among so many of the mountains that I long to venture.

        After a few more hours of adventuring through the towering, frost covered Engelmann Spruces and Quaking Aspens, we turned the last corner, and there it was, the Pfeifferhorn. I had never seen a more majestic mountain in my life. The surrounding basin was encircled by rocky saw-tooth peaks that all converged on the Pfeifferhorn, which projected out of the landscape in all her glory like a giant Rhinoceros horn. I could not wait until the next morning when we would set out for her summit. Once we had basked in the beauty of the surrounding wilderness, we set off into a small cluster of trees to set up camp for the night and continue our education of surviving in this snowy climate. Most importantly, we learned how to dig snow shelters.

      There was something very primal and natural about building my own shelter out nothing but the resources around me. I felt like a bear digging out a den for his long winter hibernation. My shovel was liken unto a bear’s enormous paw, excavating out huge amounts of snow downward into the landscape. Ultimately I reached the frozen tundra beneath the surface, where the the little warmth there was, would be insulated best. I then used my skis to anchor in a tarp above me to operate as the roof to my newly created shelter. Just as I completed my den, the sun began to set over the mountains, and my very first night of winter camping began.

     I rolled out my sleeping pad onto the snowy floor and slithered into my sleeping bag. Though it was sub-freezing outside, sleep took me quickly because of the warmth of my sleeping bag and because of how exhausted I was from the endeavors of the day. The next morning, I woke up surrounded by darkness and nothing but the noise of the rest of camp rustling awake. And as I turned my head lamp on, I saw a crystallized glaze of frost on the tarp above me from the condensation from my breath. Every voice in my head was telling me to stay in my sleeping bag where it was warm. Eventually, I mustered up the will to venture out into the cold. While eating a quick breakfast, I threw on my gear for the day and clicked myself into my skis.

    With an echoing hoorrah shout, we set out into the dark with nothing but a small beam of light emanating from my headlamp to lead my way. For what seemed like multiple hours, we treked into the pitch black wilderness. The cold of the morning crept its way into my bones, with no place for me to hide. I longed for the sun’s warming embrace.

   Just as the sun’s first rays of the day kissed the peak of the Pfeifferhorn, we reached the base. Until I was standing at the bottom looking up, I didn’t really know what I was up against. There I was again, playing this game with the mountain. Those that don’t respect the risks and the power of the mountains, won’t win that game with the mountain, and there are very few do overs when you make a mistake out there in the wilderness. In the mountains, timing is everything; it was early spring and once the sun comes out, the snow becomes gradually more unstable and you risk triggering a wet slab avalanche. So we began our ascent up the mountain, trying to get to the peak before the heat of the day baked the snow too much.

   Touring up the steep face of the Pfeifferhorn began to be quite frustrating. The skins on the bottoms of my skis were supposed to prevent me from sliding down the hill; however, the steepness of this face was pulling me downhill half a step for every step I took. After many grueling switchbacks up the main open face, we finally made it to an area where it was too steep to keep going on with skis. So we popped off our skis and stuck them in the snow, whipped out our mountaineering ice axe, and strapped our crampons onto the bottom of our boots. We then began to scale the side of the mountain, plummeting our ice axes and kicking in our crampons into the snow one step at a time. When I finally made it to the first shoulder of the mountain, I was able to see just how far we had come and how steep we had climbed. I then looked up the rocky, arduous ridgeline that took us to the summit and received a second wave of energy. It was time for the final push to the apex of our expedition.

   I tried my very best to keep my eyes on where I was placing my hands and feet and making every move deliberate; yet, my sight was consistently drawn over my shoulder to gaze toward the icy cliff that was just fifty meters below me. This kind of area is what we mountaineer call a “no fall zone”. The butterflies in my stomach were going crazy and adrenaline was coursing through my veins. In order to get my mind off of the peril below, I gazed onto the summit just above me, a few more steps and I was there. The grade of the mountain started to decline, and eventually, I could stand on my feet without the aid of my hands; I had reached the pinnacle.

   Standing on the peak of the Pfeifferhorn, at 11,326 feet of elevation, was an intangible experience that I will never forget. As I stood looking over the dazzling winter  landscape, I began to look inside myself. Our inner selves strive to find the way of least resistance, it’s just the way our DNA is programed. People in today’s world go throughout life with the same daily routine and slowly become slaves to modern society.  We were not given this life on this beautiful planet to sit idly by and let others experience it for us. When we seek the way of highest resistance, when we push our comfort zones past their limit, that is when we will begin to experience the adventure that is in all of us; the way life was meant to be lived.