The Last Adventurer

Outside of the hut, the conditions had not changed one bit. After five minutes of walking, I took my wife’s trekking poles because she was struggling to carry them. As we began our gradual decent, the cold metal bit into my hands. I absently left them in my right hand and ignored the tingling discomfort. At the same time, I constantly checked on my wife, assisting her over sections of runoff and monitoring her mental state to the best of my ability. Six sections of runoff later, I began to shift the poles to my left hand. The first pole went over easily. The second didn’t move at all. Puzzled, I lifted my hand up to eye level. My fingers were mostly unclenched. The pole clung to my palm in gravity defying weirdness. I pulled at it and watched my skin stretch out uncomfortably, clinging to the metal.

My hand was stuck to the pole. A closer look revealed why my fingers were still slightly clenched. The tips were an unhealthy blue that was spreading down to the knuckle. It was frostbite. And it was stupid. I still had my gloves in my jacket pocket. I should have put them on, but I hadn’t because I had thought that it wasn’t cold enough, and I had been more concerned about my wife. It was a dumb decision. I immediately peeled off the pole, and yanked out the gloves while my brain let out a stream of vile curses at my mistakes.

The good news was that it wasn’t bad case of frostbite. Once the gloves were on, my hands thawed with that “needle through the capillary” feeling. However, even though the weather was bad, my wife had perked up, and was warmer and more responsive than she had been at the hut. Better yet, the temperature was beginning to slightly rise as we descended. All of these positive factors made me start to relax a little. Then, I saw the next creek crossing. It had rained all day. Before the cloud covered sun had risen, it had rained three-quarters of the night. From the moment we had started, new streams, rivers, washes, and falls had appeared, cascading from unknown places. All morning, it had been awe-inspiring to see all the fresh, full, new falls that had appeared.

Now, it was afternoon. The exterior of my boots was soaked, but my feet were still dry. Unfortunately, my dry feet were about to meet an immoveable object in a new river. We had been descending for a little less than an hour. On our left, was a drop-off of fifteen or more feet. On our right, there was a tall cliff that extended upward. From the cliff, a sixteen foot wide cascade of water rushed over and onto the trail for four plus feet in width, before continuing down.

There was no going around. There was only going through, even though it was running fast and deep. I passed out a walking stick to my wife, saving one for myself, and quickly discussed the “tripod” method of stream crossings. Then, I began to balance across the water on unsteady rocks. A little water leaked around my gaiters. Last, I held out my hand and helped my wife the last foot. I took a deep breath. Things were going to be fine. Then, I saw the next crossing.

It too was unavoidable. It was larger, faster, and wetter. With a grimace, I approached it, and began to ease across. Two steps in, the water was mid-calf deep, and there were still five steps to go. Four steps in, I felt the ice flow in and caress every portion of my feet. I kept easing across carefully, because the indignity and discomfort of frozen feet was better than falling over the edge. On the other side, I stamped my feet on the loose talus. My boots bled water. My feet were now soaked, and there was still at least five miles to hike before we reached Dumpling Hut.