Big Risks, Rewards in Facing the Wild Alone

With the alarming recent deaths in the icy Southern California mountains -- particularly of hikers who were traveling solo -- there’s been considerable talk about never going into the wild alone. In general, that’s a prudent rule. I came face to face with the pitfalls of solo travel many years ago.

While scrambling alone on Mt. Tallac overlooking the south end of Lake Tahoe, I found myself in one of those classic situations.

I couldn’t go up. And I couldn’t go down -- or was pretty sure I couldn’t. I was scared, breathing hard, shaking and nearing panic. Finally, I found a corner where I could sit, force myself to relax a bit and contemplate the situation.

There was no way up. The rock was too steep and dangerous. Retreat was the only option. I inspected the ledges and indentations in the otherwise smooth granite below me and traced a path. Within two or three minutes I was back on easy ground, relieved and scooting toward home.

I had, of course, violated the cardinal rule of law enforcement, search-and-rescue groups and others for hiking or climbing in the mountains: Never go alone. The never-alone rule is a sound one for many, even most, people and many circumstances. But, as with other rules, I have repeatedly violated it over nearly five decades of venturing into the mountains, and survived. Those solo trips have been some of my most memorable ones.

One time, my friend Terry and I had planned a hike into the Sawtooth Ridge of the Sierra above Bridgeport for some climbing. The night before, Terry called to say he couldn’t go after all.

I had taken the time off work. My pack was packed. My zest for a mountain fix was intense. I went. I drove down U.S. 395 from Sacramento, hiked up Horse Creek into the wilderness in the early morning hours, stopped for a nap halfway in and camped on a massive table of granite overlooking the Matterhorn Peak glacier.

It was an awesome mountain amphitheater, silent except for an occasional rockfall. As far I knew, I had it all to myself. In the middle of the night, a full moon rose and bathed the granite with a warm glow. I brewed coffee and by 3 a.m. I was up the easy northwest face. The first rays of the sun hit the peak just as I reached the 12,270-foot summit. It was magical.

The key to traveling solo is to understand that an accident or incident could kill, injure or strand you. Knowledgeable solo hikers are prepared to meet any reasonable contingency. They use judgment honed over the years. They leave behind an itinerary that could be used in a rescue and they stick to it. They know there is no shame in turning back before reaching the top. They know there are risks, but they minimize them.

In the introduction to the 1965 edition of “A Climber’s Guide to the High Sierra,” Steve Roper wrote, “Safety comes primarily from a state of mind and cannot be insured by the blind observance of any number of commandments.”

As we’ve seen repeatedly, large parties with experienced leaders are not immune to accident, avalanche or storm.

I was struck by a comment by hiker Douglas Roath in an article in The Times this week: “After years of hiking in these mountains, I’ve learned it pays to be humble....”

Indeed, hiking into the Sawtooth that day -- as on other occasions -- I was constantly aware of how small and vulnerable I was. I moved carefully, continually checking the route behind me to make sure I didn’t get in a spot like the one on Mt. Tallac years ago, testing each boulder against a slip and a possible ankle injury, keeping an eye out for any gathering thunderheads.

At the same time, being alone in such a setting was incredibly exhilarating.

The senses tingle. Everything is magnified. The sky is rich indigo. The rock is warm and welcoming. Sparkling water trickles from a snowfield. Wildflowers nod hello. You are intimate with the mountain. And it teaches you things you didn’t know about yourself.