Year of the Cow (33 page)

We head for the couloir we'll be following to the top, a fifteen-hundred-foot scramble up a forty-five-degree incline. Last time, this is where we turned back. This time is wholly different. The snow from our last ascent is absent now, revealing enormous boulders and yards of scree. The boulders are spaced in such a way that one can avoid the scree if one wants to, and I definitely want to. I clamber over the boulders, inch across cracks, and lever up onto ledges and higher paths to avoid trudging through the gravel. It's like playing a long game of The Floor Is Lava—only instead of lava, the floor is covered with barbed, pea-sized caltrops sprinkled a dozen feet deep.

Fifteen hundred feet above Iceberg Lake, we find what is called “the Notch.” Now, the hiking is done, and the climbing begins. We stare up at five hundred vertical feet of bouldering. Ledge after ledge, handhold after handhold, straight up.

This is where it really becomes apparent that we're at the top of the country. We're above everything. In all directions but one, granite cliffs fall away to glacier-carved lakes far below.

“Careful here,” Rich advises. “That's a twenty-five-hundred-foot drop.”

“Copy that,” I say. “That's a long way down.”

We turn away from the view and face the wall. It's the only thing left at eye level that isn't sky, Zac, Rich, or Uriah. We begin to climb. No particular maneuver is especially difficult. We put our hands on a waist-level ledge and mantle up onto it. Stand on the foot or two of horizontal space available, look around, and do it again. Easy.

After climbing onto a dozen or so ledges, we're four stories above the Notch. A fall would likely mean death—a bouncing, skidding death, perhaps, but still death. And that assumes we'd stop before we hit the 2,500-foot drop.

As at the Ebersbacher Ledges, death is one wrong step away. The trick is to just not take that step. It's good to recognize this, but bad to dwell on it. Death is always a step away, really. The trick is to focus on the next move, the next mantle up, the next ledge. I could stare into the abyss, but then I wouldn't be climbing. I'd be focusing on what could—maybe—be, instead of what definitely is. And what is definitely, incontrovertibly, happening is that I'm perched on the side of a cliff in a heartbreakingly gorgeous mountain range on a beautiful day, surrounded by dear friends. I don't want to get lost in the miasma of potential futures—I'd miss all this. I'd miss now. Next step. Next ledge.

“This is amazing,” Uriah opines, pausing to admire the view.

Zac nods. “Yeah. It really is.” He gestures to the vista around us. “It almost seems like a painting.”

I laugh, giddy. “I'm glad we did this again. I couldn't leave it like last time.”

Nods all around. A moment of silence.

Then, Uriah speaks. “Ready?”

Rich nods. “Let's do it.”

The four of us turn to look at the wall ahead of us. Here, so close to the top, we fan out, each of us picking our own line. Rich heads toward some fat boulders below a ledge and an uncertain ascent from there. Zac slips to the other side of the wall toward a notch at what he believes is the top. Uriah and I clamber straight up toward a stone balcony that looks like the descent point for groups headed back down from above.

We all clamber over the top of the ledge at about the same time. We step away from the cliff and walk in the only direction available to us: up. Across a broad landscape of granite boulders, toward a rough stone hut in the distance. Summit.

We did it.

We stand on the highest point in the continental United States and look down on the world. Everything we've ever known and everywhere we've ever been is below us now. Though my view is enormous, up here, my world is much smaller. I have only what I need in the moment.

Last time I attempted Mount Whitney, I enjoyed myself immensely even though I didn't summit. Then, I wished that my life could always be like this: simpler. Manageable—but exhilarating. Now, on top of the world, I recognize that life is always like this. Beneath the veneer of commerce and productivity and constant competition, there are the fundamental truths of what one really needs. What's really important. Family. Friends. Health. Appreciation of the small moments that build our lives the way trees build a forest. There is no fundamental difference between my time on the mountain and my time off it.

To “wish it could always be like this” is a nonsensical statement.
It always is like this
. The world is a magical place, abundant and full of opportunities for happiness. Moments of joy abound in the simplest of things and the smallest of moments. I just forget, sometimes. I get distracted.

I walk over to the registry book in front of the emergency hut at the top of America. I sign my name and dedicate my trip to my wife, Summer, my son, Declan, and my daughter, Nora.

Silently, I resolve to focus on what matters. And to hell with the rest of it.

 

Steak Frites

Time: About 90 minutes

Serves 4

Coming down from the mountain, I wanted nothing more than a big steak—and a little bit of comfort. Steak frites is both.

The traditional cut for this bistro dish is the hanger steak. It's tender and wildly flavorful, perfect for standing up to rich frites and a gorgeous pan sauce. The frites—French for “French fries”—are fried twice in duck fat. These will ruin your taste for all other fries.

1 (1- to 1½-pound) hanger steak

1 russet potato

2 cups rendered duck fat (many fine supermarkets carry it in their deli sections)

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 shallots, thinly sliced

1 cup red wine (Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot are good choices)

  1.
Trim your hanger steak and set aside. The steak has a lot of connective tissue that has to go away. First, trim the fat band of elastin that runs down the center (if your butcher hasn't already done so), to separate the cut into two pieces that look something like tenderloins. Then, carefully trim the silverskin off the outside of the cut as necessary.

  2.
Slice the potato into spears about
³
/
₈
inch thick using either a mandoline or mad knife skills. Soak the cut potato in cold water until you're ready to cook. The water bath washes starch off the surface of the spuds, keeping them from browning too quickly. You are frying them twice, after all.

  3.
Melt the duck fat in a large skillet and heat it to 325°F on a deep-fry thermometer.

  4.
As the fat comes to temp, remove the potatoes from the water and pat them dry to remove any excess moisture. Don't skip this step! If the fries are wet when they hit the hot oil, the water will evaporate instantly, throwing oil everywhere: on your counter, on you, and possibly onto the flames of your burner, starting a fire. Dry those fries.

  5.
Working in batches so as not to overcrowd the pan, fry the potato spears until they just begin to color. (The point of this first fry is to cook the fries through—not to crisp them. The fries should be soft and slightly blond when you pull them from the heat.) Set aside on a plate or baking sheet lined with paper towels.

  6.
Slide the skillet to a back burner, but don't empty it—you'll be using it again shortly.

  7.
In a new skillet, melt 2 tablespoons of the butter over medium-high heat. Season the meat with salt and pepper, then gently lay it in the pan. Sear the first side of the meat for about 2 minutes, until the surface is appropriately brown. Flip and cook for an additional 2 minutes, or until the internal temperature reaches 125 to 130°F. (Do
not
overcook. Check the internal temp with an instant-read probe thermometer.) Remove the meat and set aside to rest, uncovered, on a cutting board.

  8.
Working quickly, add the shallots to the meat pan and cook until crisp—1 minute at most. Add the wine to deglaze, scraping up the browned bits stuck to the bottom of the pan. When the sauce has reduced by about two-thirds, after 3 to 5 minutes, remove from the heat and whisk in the remaining butter.

  9.
At the same time, reheat the duck fat to 375°F. When the duck fat is at temp, fry the frites a second time, just until they reach the appropriate level of golden brown and crisp. The frites are already cooked through; this is just to make them pretty and delicious. Remove them to a fresh plate or baking sheet lined with paper towels and sprinkle them with salt.

10.
Now, slice the steak very thinly against the grain. Fan across a plate and pile a stack of frites alongside. Drizzle a stripe of the pan sauce across the meat.

11.
Enjoy. Pair it with a big pale ale and a shower.

 

12

Bones

O
FF THE MOUNTAIN. ALL GOOD.
Send.

I sit in my car at Whitney Portal, thumbs poised over the virtual keyboard of my phone. Slowly, I crack a grin.

MADE SUMMIT. CHASED OFF A BEAR. SEE YOU SOON.
Send.

A second later, my phone chirps and displays a message:
WHAT?!

I chuckle and toss the phone into my glove box. I don't touch it for several days.

*   *   *

Back at home, I put my feet up on the coffee table. Unlike last time, I'm not sore in the slightest. But I don't smell any better. Odors rustic and unassuming in the high wild places acquire a distinct and noteworthy pungency in a suburban living room. My wife is a woman of endless patience.

“I'm so glad you're home.… We missed you,” she says.

I smile, remembering her parting words. “Yeah, likewise. I'd like to take you and the kids to the mountain sometime. You'd love it.”

“Maybe,” she replies, before changing subjects. “So, I was thinking about what we talked about.”

Summer cranes her neck to look out the window to our kids, playing in the backyard. Then back to me. “And?”

As a result of my new job, my schedule has become more manageable and I'm less subject to the whims of remote meetings and anonymous edicts. Now, however, Summer and I are considering a more dramatic change. “I think I want to do it,” she says.

“It's completely your call,” I say. “It'll present some challenges. But if you want to try it, I'm on board.”

She nods, considering. “We'll have to stick to a budget.”

“Sure. I'm not a bad cook now. I think I can keep us fed.”

“We could grow more vegetables, if you want.”

“Makes sense.”

We both sit for a moment, silent. “It's a big change,” Summer says.

“Yeah,” I say. “If we do it, I just don't want you to regret it. To feel like you got left behind in your career, or whatever. I'm fine with anything you decide.” I pause a beat. “It's your job. Only leave if you want to. I don't want you to feel like you missed out.”

She smiles a little. “I appreciate that.”

Just then, the door bursts open and Declan leaps into the room. “I need string!” he shouts, before disappearing back down the hallway to his room. In his wake, moving as fast as she can toddle, is Nora. She's nearly a year old now, and walking is a very new, very exciting experience for her. She beams at us as she passes.

Summer laughs and turns back to me. “I don't think I'll miss out.”

*   *   *

Together, Summer and I resolve to make our lives more livable. After she leaves her job, the kids come out of day care and stay home with her. This arrangement presents its own challenges, but we work through them. We're losing her income, but we're also losing the expense of two kids in day care. And in this case, less is more.

We're gaining immeasurably in time with the wee ones. Summer is with them both all day, and I'm around as much as I can be. My new position, in addition to being more family-friendly in general, is a chance to start fresh—a moment where everything is mutable, and we can step back and decide which routines we really want to keep and which we can let fall away.

Back at sea level, I do my best to retain the lessons I've been learning for the past few years that suddenly became abundantly clear on the mountain. The aspects of life that are actually important aren't necessarily the ones cultivated by the workaday experience of career and commute and grind and striving to get through another day. Even that phrasing—
to get through another day
—is asinine. Who wants to
get through
another day? Who wants to trudge another twenty-four hours toward decrepitude and the grave without taking a little time to drink in the glory and wonder of another few hours on planet Earth?

I want to go play for a while.

“Dec,” I say one morning as he's coloring in his room. “Let's go for a hike.” Nora is with Summer, out running errands.