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Our song poured over each granite block and pooled into every undulation between Bighorn Peak and Lone Peak. The two summits soar above much of the Wasatch skyline, linked by a snaggle-toothed ridge nicknamed “Nope Ridge” by locals for its inhospitality.
He who sings scares away his woes.
— Miguel de Cervantes
“This crack is a little squirrely, but it goes!” Melinda hollered.
“Kinda step across that slab traverse at the bottom to the good safe spot on the right,” Lauren said, squinting from her vantage point twenty feet above on a granite pillar. The pillar did not go.
I tested the meandering crack, pleased to see that the ramp at the bottom was low-angle enough for confident footing. Below, a thousand-foot drop rolled down to Heaven’s Halfpipe, a famed basin of checkerboard granite slabs. It, in turn, cascaded another four thousand feet further to the trailhead where we’d ditched our cars and coffee mugs at dawn.
Below, a thousand-foot drop rolled down to Heaven’s Halfpipe, a famed basin of checkerboard granite slabs. It, in turn, cascaded another four thousand feet further to the trailhead where we’d ditched our cars and coffee mugs at dawn.
Freddy shimmied along, slipping past my perch to scout ahead while I spotted Lauren and Melinda’s moves. Mothers of children just old enough to love silly jokes, they recited punny one-liners as they downclimbed over the airy drops below.
Every moment, each of us is aware of one another’s locations. Tapped into one another’s body language, punctuating our steady stream of stories with directional pings.
“Don’t go left, but we can drop down a chimney on the right!” Freddy called from ahead over the alpine wind. We flowed over the ridge’s spine to reach her and, all together again, peeked into the chimney. Lauren gamely dropped in, then turned around to share the best foot placements with the next to follow.
Calls. Responses.
Our song poured over each granite block and pooled into every undulation between Bighorn Peak and Lone Peak. The two summits soar above much of the Wasatch skyline, linked by a snaggle-toothed ridge nicknamed “Nope Ridge” by locals for its inhospitality.
For multiple summers, in an ambulatory ode to the Wasatch, I’ve devoted myself to covering the little corners of its terrain that remained unknown to me. One of the very last sections to evade my commiseration was this mile-long stretch of ridge between Bighorn and Lone. It takes hours to even approach the granite fortress. I’d gotten to it multiple times but never felt confident there was enough daylight to figure the route out without being rushed.
As I gathered beta, I’d been told that the route was precarious, and hard to find at that. One friend said they’d never want to do it again. Another said they’d retried it three times and always feared for their lives, hanging off hand-jams in fifth-class cracks over a looming vacuum of exposure. Yet another reminded me of a beloved trail runner in our local community who had fallen off the ridge to his death.
I certainly didn’t need the discouragement. For years, even as I worked to establish myself as a respected mountain athlete, I’d lie awake the night before any new outing, a sinister self-questioning shadow dominating my inner monologue. The voice of trepidation would hiss, “Who do you think you are?”
Feigned confidence furthered a sense of isolation that compounded over time.
One day, I broke down after a fumbly ice climbing session. I talked through it with my mentor, Heidi, a sunny soul who remains easily approachable in spite of serious renown and a long list of sponsors.
“Fear is just excitement without breathing,” she said with a generous hug.
When it was 3am the night before an adventure, or when I was 15 feet above my last gear placement on a climb, or when I needed to make a clear-minded call about complex avalanche hazards—I’d pause for a breath.
I’d transmute the anxiety into anticipation. I’d visualize the outing as a moving meditation. A communion. A song.
I’d transmute the anxiety into anticipation. I’d visualize the outing as a moving meditation. A communion. A song.
I became increasingly selective about mountain partners—choosing to spend those sacred hours with people who made me feel grounded enough to ascend higher. Mostly women, these partners would happily chat with me as I navigated a crux, talk through every decision point, and band together through every quandary.
Now, on this late-summer day between Bighorn and Lone, our formation of four ladies chorused along the ridgeline, sticking with the day’s communal pact to never get unpleasantly scared, only pleasantly enlivened. Collectively emboldened.
As our calls echoed off the vertical walls of Lone Peak’s shaded northeast cirque, we fanned out, reported back, flowed together, and repeated. Building forward.
We kept a steady pace, each lady with her place in the greater harmony. Each with her own route-finding strengths and designated stash of snacks for sharing—mountaineering stokes the liveliest appetite.
We completed our final knife-edge crescendo to top out on Lone Peak, where we hunkered against the alpine wind and treated our goosebumped skin to a warm patch of sun. We peered down the 6,000-foot descent that would soon batter our toenails and hammer our quadriceps. And we smiled.
Apprehension had never gained a toehold. In sync with one another, the power of voice and presence cohesively carried us through. Our breath, our song, were enough. We were enough. I was enough.
Beth Lopez spent her formative years reading Dickens in a treehouse and negotiating with her teachers to catch the ski bus after the third period. Decades later, little has changed. Now a seasoned mountain athlete with skills, summits, and descents under her belt, Beth relishes any chance to get outside—and to make the outdoor world more inclusive and welcoming.
Beth spent her formative years reading Dickens in a treehouse and negotiating with her teachers to catch the ski bus after the third period. Decades later, little has changed. Now a seasoned mountain athlete with skills, summits, and descents under her belt, Beth relishes any chance to get outside—and to make the outdoor world more inclusive and welcoming.
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