Hot Tub Time Machine: The Bishop High Sierra 100K Edition

Defeat is never easy to accept.  When we invest dedication, hard work, and precious time and fall short of accomplishing a goal, it can be demoralizing, and the temptation to give up rears its ugly head.  Such was the case with my failure at the Canyons 100K in April.  The days following my dropping out at mile forty-eight due to heat related nausea, exhaustion, and cramping, I had mixed feelings about what had transpired.  A side of me was remaining rational by reminding myself that not finishing a race once in a while is part of the sport of ultrarunning.  It presents a learning opportunity and proves that I am challenging myself.  But the other side was not so optimistic.  The other side of me took it hard.  I covered forty-eight miles which is no easy feat, but still, I didn't finish.  Something was missing and a part of me felt hollow.  After spending a week thinking and contemplating, I decided that I wanted redemption.  I knew I was capable of finishing a 100-kilometer distance race and I was determined to prove it to myself.  I had to get back out there and try again.

I left my home in Sunnyvale, California at 3:30 AM on a Friday morning, and after a six-and-a-half hour drive, I arrived in Bishop, California at the Looney Bean coffee shop.  It was a busy time of the month at work so even though I had taken the day off, I needed to hunker down for a bit.  I walked into the coffee shop, ordered some lunch, chose a small table near the window facing Main street, and opened my laptop to put in a few hours of work.  The remainder of the day consisted of checking into Motel 6 on Main street in the heart of Bishop, buying salt tablets, picking up my race packet at a local running store, eating half of a delicious, wonderfully crafted pizza at The Upper Crust, and a quick water purchase at the local grocery store before retreating back to my hotel room to get some rest.  The next day was the day that I was going to have the opportunity to redeem myself after dropping out of Canyons.  About a week after the race, I surfed the internet for other 100K races in California and came across the Bishop High Sierra Ultras.  Although the course did not appear to be as daunting as Canyons, it included 11,200 feet of climbing, most of the route was above 7,000 feet in elevation, and the terrain was almost entirely composed of 4-wheel drive dirt roads that ran into the scenic back country of the Sierra Nevada mountains for miles.  I decided that this would not only be the perfect race to redeem myself, but it would also be great for altitude training for the Tahoe Rim Trail 100, which is run at similar elevation.  The adventure would begin the next morning at 5:30 AM.  Sitting in my hotel room that night, I dissolved three tablets of Nuun, an electrolyte supplement, into a liter sized bottle of water, which I sipped as I lounged around.  We were going to have decent weather for race day with temperatures predicted to rise into the mid-seventies, partly cloudy skies, with a chance of rain in the afternoon.  Heat was what forced me to drop at Canyons, so despite the favorable forecast, I spent the week leading up to the race consuming ample sodium, and I made myself drink the bottle of Nuun-laced water in its entirety before going to bed.  As I laid down that night, I felt confident that I had done my best to prepare for the race.  All I could do now was hope for the best.  My alarm went off at 4:00 AM and as I finished my preparations and headed towards the door, I realized I had overlooked one particular detail.  What was I going to eat before the race?  It was the one thing I had forgotten to consider the evening prior.  Scanning the room, I saw the box from Upper Crust sitting on the table, which still had four slices of pizza from the night before.  I picked it up and headed out the door.  It was about a fifteen minute drive to the race start at the Millpond Recreation Area and after stopping for coffee at a gas station, I opened up the box and wolfed down a couple of slices.  Taking that first bite, I was delighted to find that the pizza was just as delicious as it had been the night before, despite sitting overnight at room temperature.  Pizza and coffee: breakfast of champs.  After arriving at the race start, choosing a parking spot, and setting my drop bag down on the tarp to be transported to an aid station, I walked around the crowded starting area.  As I scanned the surroundings, I spotted Catra Corbett and her boyfriend Phil near the tent next to the start line.  Catra is an amazing runner and I had the pleasure of meeting her the prior year at Ragnar Los Coyotes, where I purchased an autographed copy of her memoir.  I walked over and said hey to her and Phil and the three of us engaged in idle chat while waiting for the race to start.  When the Race Director got on the loudspeaker advising us that we had two minutes until race start, I gave them a knuckle pound and wished them the best of luck.  After a few brief announcements, the gun went off and the race was on.  Two hundred or so of us runners charged forward and made our way through the park to the entrance to the dirt road that would take us up thousands of feet into the High Sierra.  About fifty other people were running the one-hundred kilometer race, while the remainder of the field was running the fifty-mile, fifty-kilometer, and twenty-mile distance.  I admired the picturesque setting as we made our way along the dirt road through the back country.  The sun was making its way into the clear sky and the dirt road wound back and forth in front of me before disappearing into the horizon, which was dominated by towering, snow covered mountain peaks.

The first eleven miles went well.  I was happy, feeling good, and chatting with other runners.  The dirt road followed a steady incline that would take us up 5,000 feet over about sixteen miles.  I had eaten at the first two aid stations and was drinking plenty of fluids.  Between my two handheld water bottles, I carried a quart of fluids, and I refilled them at both aid stations.  Because the course traversed mainly through the Sierra high country, the route was very exposed with little shade to hide in, except for a few short sections where we traveled through alpine forest on single track trails and crossed a few streams.  At the thirteen mile mark, shortly after passing through the third aid station, the rising sun was heating up my back behind me.  As sweat dripped down my face, a wave of fear came over me.  It was 8:00 AM, I was already sweating, and it was only going to get warmer.  Despite becoming a bit shaken, I kept myself focused.  I drink from my water bottles and kept moving forward.  The aid stations at the race were providing an electrolyte replenishment drink called Tailwind, which was known to be quite popular among ultrarunners during warm races.  I was greeted by an enthusiastic crowd as I climbed up the hill to the Edison aid station, which I would be passing through three times throughout the race.  A volunteer informed me that from there, we would need to climb 1,000 feet over the next mile and a half to the turnaround point at 9,385 feet, where we would grab a sticker out of the jar at the turnaround marker and stick it to our bib to prove that we made it to the turnaround point.  After powering up the climb, the terrain began to level out and patches of snow began to appear on the trail.  I traversed through two snow fields and along some rolling hills until finally making it to the turnaround point.  The view from top was a stunning scene with sheer drops on all sides of the flat top of the hill, and snowy mountain peaks surrounding me in every direction.  I would have loved to enjoy the view for longer, but I was only a third of the way through the race and some dark clouds were beginning to roll into the area.  Probably best to keep moving forward.  After sixteen miles of steady climbing, running downhill felt great.  I had a nice cadence going back down to the aid station and felt good mentally, knowing that the hardest part of the race was now over.  I passed through Edison again and headed out to the next loop of the course, which would be a twelve-mile out and back, turning around at Bishop Creek Lodge.  The loop was composed of several rolling hills, many of them featuring abrupt ascents and descents.  About halfway to Bishop Creek Lodge on the way out, dark clouds had taken over the sky and I began feeling rain drops.  Within minutes, a steady downpour began, but promptly transitioned into a hailstorm.  Grape-sized hailstones pelted my arms and the brim of my hat as I ran.  By this point the field of runners had spread out considerably, and I watched as a few runners in the distance struggled through the stormy weather.  Fortunately, the hail only lasted about ten minutes and had dissipated by the time I reached the highway 168 crossing.  Shortly after, I reached the junction where the dirt road deposited me onto a back country paved road which I would follow for about a mile before turning around at Bishop Creek Lodge, mile twenty-nine.  Passing through the Intake Two aid station during the return trip, I was impressed with the provisions.  Not only did the aid station have typical ultramarathon aid station goodies (M&M's, chips, peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, pickles, etc.), but the volunteers were slicing up avocados, making guacamole, and serving up cheese quesadillas fresh off the grill.  Many of the volunteers at this aid station were older men from the Eastern Sierra Youth Outdoor Program.  The Bishop High Sierra Ultras were offered as a benefit to the organization so the men were enthusiastic and incredibly thankful that we were out here running.  After spending a few minutes refilling my water bottles, chowing down on some peanut butter & jelly and salty snacks, and chatting, I thanked them for their hospitality and continued onward.  About a mile up the trail, I had reached the thirty-three mile mark and took mental inventory.  Overall, I was feeling good, physically.  The weather had been warm, but not hot, I knew I was hydrating properly because I had peed a few times, and I had minimal soreness.  But I still had twenty-nine miles left to go.  "Oh, boy.  A lot can happen over twenty-nine miles" I thought to myself, remembering what happened at Canyons.  I attempted to restore my confidence by reminding myself that I was three hours ahead of the cutoff, meaning I could power hike the next twenty-nine miles and still finish.  It helped a little, but I remained wary.  I knew that soon enough I could be in just as bad of shape as the guy I had just passed who was slowly and painfully hobbling his way out to Bishop Creek Lodge to the turnaround.  At this point, I saw Catra and Phil coming the other way as well and exchanged words of encouragement with them as I passed by.

After passing through Edison aid station for the third and final time, I reached the section of the race that I was looking forward to the most; a twelve-mile steady downhill, going back the way I came earlier in the day.  I chatted with more runners and kept a strong pace going down the steady downgrade.  By this time the skies had become partly cloudy and the sun was warming up the trail again, but I kept moving forward.  At one point I was on my own and there wasn't a sound to be heard except for my feet hitting the ground when two mountain bikers passed me abruptly, zooming down the trail at warp speed.  About a minute later, I heard footsteps behind me, but they sounded too light and choppy to be from a human.  Before I could look back, an off-leash Black Labrador ran right past, startling me.  Thinking he may chase me, I ran off to the side of the trail and stopped, but he resumed his course, and kept charging forward.  "Wow, you scared the hell out of me, buddy!" I said with nervous laughter.  He disappeared as quickly as he came, but I was only alone for a few seconds when a second dog came running by.  I assumed the dogs belonged to the mountain bikers, which proved to be true a few miles later when I passed by them as they all rested on the trail side together.  It was a little after 4:00 PM when I arrived at the Buttermilk aid station, mile forty-three.  I retrieved my headlamp from my drop bag for later use during the night, wrapping it around my wrist.  Shortly after departing the aid station, I came upon a runner who asked if I wanted to pass by.  Even though I was feeling good, I wanted to maintain a modest pace, so rather than passing him, we began running together.  After some small talk about the course and the crazy weather we had, we introduced ourselves to each other.  His name was Robert, a thirty-year-old married man and father of four originally from the Bay Area but now living in Henderson, a suburban city in Nevada, just south of Las Vegas.  The distraction of chatting with him served me well, and my running at times felt effortless.  We shared stories and when I asked him how he got into ultrarunning, he explained that in his early twenties, he was overweight and lived a hedonistic lifestyle of drinking and partying while working as a bartender.  One night after returning home to his wife and two-year old daughter, he walked up the stairs to the second floor of his outdoor apartment building, but was shocked at how winded and exhausted he was after only climbing one flight of stairs.  Looking down and watching his daughter playing outside from the top of the stairs, he had a moment of clarity and realized that he needed to get healthy quickly not only for himself, but for his family.  He began running on the roads, but after meeting some ultrarunners through the local running community, he took the sport to the trails, and the rest was history.  Robert and I shuffled along together for the next several miles before arriving at Tungsten City, the final aid station, at mile forty-eight-and-a-half.  For the fifty-mile runners, it was only a mile and a half downhill to the finish at Millpond Recreation Area, but the 100K runners had to contend with a twelve-mile out and back through Sage Summit and return to Tungsten City and onto the finish line.  It was 5:47 PM when I began heading out towards the turnaround.  Robert had stayed at the aid station for few extra minutes to rest, but three miles later, he caught up and eventually passed me as I struggled on an uphill climb.  I wasn't too sore, but exhaustion had set in and I was out of breath, barely able to say more than a few words at a time.  The going was getting tough, but I kept moving forward, as Robert powered along a few hundred feet ahead of me.  Coming over the top of the hill, I was pleasantly surprised when a small outpost appeared in the distance with two men and a camping table full of provisions.  "Man, I'm glad to see you guys" I exclaimed cheerfully as I approached.  "I didn't think there was going to be an aid station along this section of the race and I was worried about conserving fluids".  The two guys manning the aid station had hauled the supplies into the area in a pickup truck and seemed just as happy to see me as I was to see them.  After refilling my water bottles, they advised me that it was another two miles down the switchbacks to the turnaround point, where I would again need to retrieve a sticker to put on my race bib to prove that I went all the way to the turnaround.  Shortly after taking off down the switchbacks, I passed by Robert and gave him some words of encouragement as I pressed on.  As I reached the bottom of the switchbacks, it was about three quarters of a mile up the dirt road to the turnaround point.  The pitch had a very modest incline and was almost flat.  On fresh legs this section could have been run easily, but I was too exhausted to run even at a sluggish pace, so I walked.  At this point in the race, even flat terrain was difficult to run through.  Just as I started wondering where the hell this turnaround was, I saw a post with blinking lights about two hundred feet up the trail.  If this wasn't the turnaround point, I was going to be pissed.  Thankfully, it was.  I joyfully peeled a sticker off the wax paper in the jar beneath the sign, applied the sticker to my race bib, and headed back the other way for the return trip.  I only had six miles left, but I would need to hike up all the switchbacks I had traversed down on the way out here.  I would just take it step by step.  It was 7:30 PM and I still had plenty of time to hike out and make the nineteen-hour cutoff.  A few minutes later, Robert emerged.  "Robert, how's it going dude?" I shouted cheerfully.  "Ugh, I'm in a deep low right now man" he grunted.  He was fatigued and not feeling good, but I attempted to lift his spirits by letting him know that the turnaround was only a few hundred feet ahead and then we only had six miles to go.  I continued on and began powering up the switchbacks, eventually arriving back at the two man aid station I had passed through earlier.  "Just four miles left man, you can't go wrong!" one of the guys said.  "Thanks man, I hope so, but the race isn't over until it's over".  Even with four miles left to go, I remained humble, knowing that anything could happen.  At this point, darkness had taken over so I switched on my headlamp to light the path.  I kept moving forward, encouraging oncoming runners, and after what seemed like an eternity, the Tungsten City aid station finally came into view in the distance.  As I passed through, the volunteers recorded my number and informed me that I only had a mile and a half left until the finish.  I thanked them, and shortly after departing, the realization came over me that I was actually going to finish.  For the last five weeks I had doubted my capability of completing a 100K distance race.  I was disappointed that I had to drop out of Canyons and I was annoyed that I had fallen short of my goal of reaching the finish line.  There were feelings of self-doubt, frustration, and emptiness.  But all that was about to change tonight.  For the first time in fifteen hours I knew I was going to make it.  I had climbed 11,200 feet, powered through a hailstorm, taken in beautiful mountain scenery, climbed up hills, ran down hills, made friends along the way, and now here I was, a mile from the finish line, on the cusp of finishing this epic journey.  The realization was electrifying and I was disoriented with euphoria and excitement.  At that moment it felt as if nothing else in the world mattered.  The epiphany made me loopy and I began singing out loud.  "You know I wish that I had Jessie's girl!  I wish that I had Jessie's girl!".  This particular song was burning through my mind because my thoughts had drifted to a scene in Hot Tub Time Machine, one of my favorite comedy movies.  In the film, three friends who are dissatisfied with their lives inadvertently travel back in time and are given a chance to change history.  One of the main characters portrayed by Craig Robinson had previously played a music gig at an open mic contest and gave such an awful performance, he chose to abandon his passion for music.  While reliving that same night after traveling back in time, he is presented with a chance to redeem himself.  This time, he regains his confidence and performs a cover of Jessie's Girl, winning over the crowd, and turning the tables for his future.  I felt as if I had just stepped into that movie and done the exact same thing.  As I tore down the trail towards the finish line, I looked down at my water bottle.  "There must be liquid crack in this Tailwind stuff" I said.  Eventually, the colored lights of the finish line appeared in the distance.  I ran towards them, crossing the finish line in fifteen hours and forty-nine minutes, clapping my hands in celebration.  "That was awesome!" I shouted.  Todd Vogel, the Race Director, draped my finisher medal around my neck and seconds later, a light from another runner approached.  It was Robert.  The two of us immediately embraced in a hug as he crossed the finish line and I gave him kudos for pulling out of the low point that he was in, and finishing strong.  I later found out that Catra and Phil had successfully completed the fifty-miler a little while earlier, and several other runners I had met along the way were now finishing as well.  After a celebratory beer and spending a few minutes socializing with other runners, I jumped into my car, drove back to my hotel room, took a quick shower, and promptly went to bed.

After a delicious breakfast at Denny's the next morning, I made my way back home along the scenic highway, completely wiped out physically, but wired mentally.  Those feelings of self-doubt and frustration that I felt after Canyons had now ceased to exist.  I felt like a new man.  Although I wished that I had finished Canyons, I wouldn't change a thing because I gained a valuable piece of wisdom through this experience: when you fall short of achieving a goal, if you want it badly enough, you must always try again.  A bad race does not make you a bad runner.  We all have setbacks in life, but if we live life the way it was meant to be lived, we don't let the setbacks beat us down.  We try again.  Even if we don't succeed a second time, we just keep trying.  I had set a goal to redeem myself after a bad race, and I had done just that.  It's like that Japanese proverb goes; fall down seven times, get up eight.

Mount Shasta Round Three: Frozen To The Core

It was as if I had stepped into an action/thriller movie that has viewers eager to see what happens next.  I was all alone, it was 3:30 in the morning, and darkness completely engulfed me.  The beam of my flashlight illuminated the white, snow covered ground and the tall pine trees surrounding the small clearing in which I was standing.  I had left the parking lot at the Bunny Flat trailhead thirty minutes earlier and was heading towards the base of Mount Shasta but somehow I had wandered off the snow covered path and was now lost.  I scanned the area with my flashlight in search of any signs that marked the trail but all I saw was snow and trees.  Backtracking wasn't an option because I didn't know exactly where I had gone off course and it would have only made things worse.  I had no idea where I was and the situation was becoming unsettling.  I turned around and shined my flashlight in the direction I had come from hoping to see distant lights from other climbers, but it was just me, myself, and I in this small wilderness clearing somewhere between the Bunny Flat trailhead parking lot and the base of Mount Shasta.  There were no lights from other climbers, not a sound to be heard.  "Oh man, this isn't good" I thought.     

I had been looking forward this weekend of adventure for some time.  Throughout the spring I had thought about when I wanted to make my annual attempt and climbing Mount Shasta.  I had thought about going solo, but when my friends Dave and Iris invited me to join them on their trek that they were going to be doing during the second weekend in June, I jumped at the opportunity.  When Friday evening came around, I left work after a very busy but productive week.  When I got into my car, I clapped my hands.  "Mount Shasta, I'm coming for you!" I said excitedly.  The plan was for me to go home, get a couple hours of sleep, wake back up around 9:00 PM, get on the road, get something to eat along the way, make the five-hour drive to the Bunny Flat trailhead, and start trekking around 3:00 AM.  The drive, which consisted of a stop at McDonald's early on, and a stop at a Valero gas station in the town of Red Bluff at 1:00 AM for some coffee and provisions, was fairly uneventful.  When I finally arrived in town, I began the eleven-mile drive to the trailhead.  This winding, uphill road on the outskirts of town that would eventually dead end at the starting point for the trek, is extremely remote.  It was pitch black beyond the beams of my headlights, and enormous pine trees lined the road on both sides.  When driving through such a desolate area all alone in the dead of night, your mind plays tricks on you and any little thing will make you jump.  Anytime I came around a bend and saw a reflector, road sign, or a parked car, I would be mildly startled.  I drove up the road with reserve, knowing that there were several animals in the area and they can appear in the road without warning.  I was the only car on the road, so when I came to a straight section that had adequate distance between bends, I slowed to a stop and shut off my headlights just for the fun of it.  "Oh my god!" I said with nervous laughter.  The no-headlight fun only lasted about five seconds before I got too freaked out, turned them back on, and kept going.  Arriving at the trailhead, I was surprised at the unusually large amount of cars in the parking lot.  I chose a spot further down the road and gathered my supplies.  Mountaineering requires additional gear that I had to rent, and as I made my preparations, I went through my mental checklist; helmet, ice axe, crampons, water, food, sunscreen, flashlight, bandana, snow goggles.  The thermometer in my car read twenty-nine degrees and as I stepped out, the chilling air came pouring in.  The night was filled with shining stars, trees, snow, and Mount Shasta rested majestically in the distance above the treeline in front of me.  Dave, Iris, and our two other friends Scott, and Tara had begun their trek on Friday afternoon.  They set up camp for the night at the Helen Lake camping area, elevation 10,460 feet, about halfway up the climb, and were planning on starting their trek to the summit at 3:00 AM, about the same time that I was going to be leaving the parking lot.  My plan was to hopefully catch them either on the way up or at the summit and we would hike back to the parking lot together.  

Things got pretty hairy early on.  It had been an extremely snowy winter in California, especially in this southern stretch of the Cascade Range.  No sections of the path that led from the parking lot to the base of Mount Shasta were visible; the whole trail was covered in several feet of snow.  I put on my crampons at the very beginning, but the left one kept coming off.  It took me several minutes, but I finally was able to secure it properly so it would stay on my boot.  I followed the signs and managed to stay on the path for a little while, but at some point I wandered off course and found myself in a small clearing in the darkness.  I had gotten lost and despite the large amount of cars in the parking lot and observing a few other groups preparing for the trek, it seemed that no other climbers were anywhere to be found.  Trying not to panic, I reminded myself that worst case scenario, I could wait here for a couple more hours until the sun began to rise, which would provide just enough light for me to navigate my way through the trees and get back onto the path.  Just as I began seriously considering that option, I heard voices.  I turned around and sure enough, there were lights from a group of climbers glowing in the distance.  "Thank God" I thought.  I made my way towards the group.  As I emerged in the beams of their flashlights, I asked "hey guys, do you know how to get back on the trail?"  It was a group consisting of one guy and three girls who turned out to be not climbers, but nordic skiers.  They were from San Francisco and planned to nordic ski up the mountain as far as they could, and alpine ski back down.  They were a friendly bunch and seemed as happy to seem me as I was to see them.  We made our way through the trees and crested some small hills as we followed their GPS directions back to the trail.  Eventually, the trees cleared, and the base of the mountain emerged prominently in front of us.  We all cheered and celebrated that we successfully navigated our way through the dark wilderness.  We stuck together for a little while and as the sun began rising, I thanked them for their help, bade them farewell, and pushed on up the mountain.  Trekking through the snow up the mountain face, I arrived at the Helen Lake camping area about an hour and a half later.  Arriving at Helen Lake was almost like stepping into a small village.  One minute I was alone on a mountain face with snow stretching as far as the eye could see, and the next, I came over a hill and there were dozens of tents set up with shovels, skis, and mountaineering gear strewn around.  As I passed through camp, climbers were outside their tents preparing for the push to the summit, and several climbers were on the slope making their way up already.  I assumed that Iris, Dave, Scott, and Tara were somewhere up the mountain, about halfway to the summit by this point.  The sun had now made its way into the sky and it was going to be a warm day.  Even though the temperature was twenty-nine degrees at the start, the effort during the demanding trek had my blood pumping, and I had taken off my fleece to keep from sweating.  I sat on a pile of snow admiring the spectacular view and ate some food to refuel.  As I prepared to head off for the climb to the summit, a blast of frigid air swept through the camp, flapping tents, and almost blowing me off my feet.  I decided it was probably a good idea to put my fleece back on as I began the steep climb to Red Banks.  Several other climbers were making their way up the route with me and it was slow going.  The slope was at a forty-degree angle and approaching 11,000 feet in elevation.  It was challenging to maintain anything beyond a snail's pace.  I watched as other climbers further up the slope had adopted a technique that entailed created their own switchbacks.  They were climbing in a zig zag pattern, about twenty steps in each direction, gradually making their way up.  This method was not only effective in conserving energy, but was also faster.  Going straight up was much more physically demanding and resulted in smaller steps due to the steep grade.  I decided to give it a try in an effort to make better time.  

Unfortunately, things got ugly pretty quickly.  That initial blast of frigid air at Helen Lake was only a prelude to the conditions I would face during the climb to Red Banks.  Seventy mile-per-hour winds howled down the gulch and blew ice and snow straight at us.  Every thirty seconds a massive wind gust would blow through, and we would have to get on our knees and duck to avoid being blown down the slope or pelted in the face by snow and ice.  By this point, I was about two hundred feet shy of Red Banks.  From there, it was about a 1,600 foot climb over about a mile and a half to the summit.  After being hit hard by a slurry of ice pellets from another seventy mile-per-hour gust and in need of a break, I turned towards the the downward slope and sat down on the mountain, pondering my next move.  Several other climbers around me deemed the conditions unsafe and were heading back down towards Helen Lake, which rested in the distance, about 1,400 feet down.  I grabbed the tube of the internal bladder of my backpack to drink some water, but as I bit down on the spigot, ice crunched inside;  The contents of my internal bladder, along with the water that was in the tube had frozen solid.  So much for being able to drink water.  I made another troubling discovery a few seconds later while moving my right arm in front of me to look at my watch.  Apparently while I had my fleece tied around my waist during the trek up to Helen Lake, water had leaked all over the right sleeve from the tube of my internal bladder; I had forgotten to seal the spigot.  The frigid temperature, which at this point was in the low teens, along with the overwhelming winds had frozen the water and created a thin layer of ice that covered the entire back of my sleeve.  I wore snow goggles for eye protection, and the bandana that I wore to protect my face was now also frozen solid from the condensation that was created from my breath making contact with the frigid air.  Scariest of all, I couldn't feel the tips of my two middle fingers on my left hand anymore.  I took my glove off, flexed my fingers, and touched them to my thumb, but they had gone completely numb.  I put them in my mouth in a desperate attempt to warm them, which seemed to remedy the situation after about thirty seconds and the numbness was replaced with tingling.  As I prepared to put my glove back on, another gust blew snow on my bare hand, turning my fingers red.  When I got my glove on, my hand was so cold, the pain felt as if someone had sliced my fingers with a knife.  I gritted my teeth and my left eye misted up with a few tears of excruciating pain.  This was the first time in my life that I was seriously afraid that I was going to get frostbite.  It was a desperate moment.  I decided that I simply could not continue in these conditions and began making my way back down the slope along with several others.  It was tough going back to Helen Lake down the steep slope and high winds, but I flexed my fingers as I made my way down, and was eventually able to restore the feeling in my hands.  I hadn't seen my friends yet and was unsure if they had made it to the summit, so when I got down to Helen Lake, I decided to wait for about thirty minutes to see if they would show up.  There was no cell phone service, so I decided it was better to get out of the bitter cold and make my way down to the parking lot where I could send the group a message and find them.  

Because Helen Lake is a flat surface followed by a hill, it shields most of the winds that barrel down from the summit of the mountain, so after I made my way down the slope from Helen Lake, the winds dissipated.  The mid morning sun had partially melted the snow, turning it soft and fluffy, so when I came upon a two hundred foot slope, I decided to glissade down to the flat surface, meaning I sat down with my legs stretched out in front of me and allowed gravity to take me down the slope, using my ice axe to control my speed.  It was a fun descent and I let out a hoot as I slid past a group of climbers going up.  As time passed and distance was covered, the daylight made it much easier to navigate the way back.  It was shortly after 12:30 PM when I arrived back at the parking lot, so the trek had taken roughly eight and a half hours.  As I changed into shorts and flip flops at my car, I took off my sock and saw that I had lost a toenail that had become loose during the previous weekend at the Bishop High Sierra 100K.  This was the third toenail I had lost in the last three weeks from all the training I had been doing lately and I was relieved that it was gone because it had been driving me crazy.  I still hadn't seen my friends so I messaged the group thread on Instagram and found out that they had also not made it to the summit, but they had made it down safely and left the parking lot ten minutes earlier.  They had just arrived at a pizza restaurant and I made my way down the winding road into town to join them.  Our post climb pizza and beer meal was full of laughs and story telling.  Iris had told me that when they woke up at Helen Lake at 2:00 AM to prepare for the trek, it was so cold and the winds were so strong that no one wanted to get out of their sleeping bag.  After waiting at Helen Lake for four hours with no signs of the winds calming down, they decided to pack up their gear and head down to the parking lot.  I was happy that we had all made it back safely and even though we didn't get to climb together, it was so great to see my friends, even if it was for a short amount of time.  They had come up from Los Angeles and were going to be spending the night in Sacramento and driving back the next day.  As we parted ways, we embraced in a hug and promised that we would make plans soon for some summer hiking in the Sierras.  Driving through the night and climbing into the morning was great preparation training for Tahoe Rim Trail 100, but I was pretty wiped out and needed to pull over to take a forty-five minute nap at a rest stop thirty minutes into my drive back home.  Other than that, the drive back was smooth sailing.  It was unfortunate that I was unable to summit this mountain yet again due to unfavorable weather, but the experience and time with my friends made it all worth it.  No summit is worth putting yourself at risk.  The great thing about mountain summits is they will always be there and there will be plenty more opportunities to climb them.  Mount Shasta doesn't have a history of having cooperative weather, but I will get out there and reach the summit eventually.  "Cheers, Mount Shasta, until next time!" I said, as I drove down the freeway and the mountain disappeared in my rear view mirror.