Ever since I read “The Old Man and the Sea” as a kid I’ve wondered what it would be like to catch a massive fish. Don Rodrigo the Magnificent may not have been the underwater giant Hemingway describes. But he surely was enormous.
Like the rest of the climbers who abscond to the remote yet burgeoning village of El Chaltén, Argentina each austral summer, we had put our trust in the multi-directional arrows and EKG-like squiggles of NOAA’s meteogram forecast.
When a series of unfortunate (or misguided) events found me in Utah nearing the end of my proverbial rope, in an act of desperation (or salvation?), I caved; I gave up on my monolithic faith in climbing. I needed another out. I bought a bike.
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.
Over the course of 24 hours in the fall of 2014, the Baja Peninsula was hit with a major Category 3 hurricane, a tornado, and an earthquake. And for a short time—that felt like days or weeks—my friend Autumn was missing amidst the destruction.
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