Deadend on Mount Shasta

Back in 2005, a coworker mentioned that a friend of hers could guide us up Mount Shasta, a towering stratovolcano visible more than 100 miles as we drive north. Shasta is as unforgiving as it is magnificent; step off the wrong ledge, and a simple miscalculation turns fatal.

Vicky, Dave, Robert, the guide, and I packed into two cars and set off from the San Francisco Bay Area. Dave and I rode together, chatting casually about the weekend plan. The strategy was textbook: hike up to base camp on Saturday, reach the summit early Sunday morning, and drive back to the Bay Area before midnight. I had a high-stakes meeting scheduled for Monday morning with an executive who had flown all the way from India, so making it back in time was non-negotiable.

The initial trek to base camp was exhilarating. We set up tents, cooked dinner as the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks, and popped our prescribed Diamox to stave off altitude sickness. The medication worked its magic, and the whole group went to bed feeling strong and acclimatized.

At dawn, we began our steady push toward the peak and successfully summited under clear skies. I have always been fast on alpine descents, so I glissaded and navigated my way back down to our base camp in just a couple of hours.

By 11:00 AM, I was back at camp, relaxing and watching the mountain slope. Hours dragged on. Between 11:00 AM and 4:00 PM, I watched the distant silhouettes of my four companions pick their way down at a glacial pace, frequently freezing in place for long, excruciating stretches. As the afternoon sun began to tilt, my anxiety spiked. Every passing hour put my Monday morning meeting in jeopardy.

It was nearly 8:00 PM by the time the rest of the group finally stumbled back into camp, thoroughly exhausted. I immediately pulled Dave aside and pleaded with him to pack up and drive back to the Bay Area with me right then. He flatly refused, saying he was far too tired. Instead, he handed me his car keys and tossed over two white pills. "Take these Provigil," he said. "You won't feel a trace of sleepiness."

I was usually dead on my feet by 9:00 PM, but the desperation to make my meeting won out. I packed my gear, swallowed both pills, and plunged down the dark, rocky trail alone into the night.

The solitude was immediate and suffocating. As my headlamp cut through the pitch-black wilderness, doubts began to multiply. Could I actually navigate this treacherous terrain alone in the dark? And even if I reached the trailhead, could I safely drive four hours back home on empty?

After an hour and a half of careful downhill picking, the trail suddenly vanished. I took a few cautious steps forward, only to find my boots resting on the precipice of a sheer, bottomless drop-off. I paced sideways along the edge, desperately probing with my headlamp for a bypass, but there was nothing. Traversed in the dark, the mountain had led me straight to a cliff face.

Realizing the extreme danger, I turned around to backtrack toward base camp. But in the disorienting darkness, every boulder looked identical. I walked for what felt like miles, panic creeping into my chest as the camp failed to materialize.

Frustrated and breathless, I instinctively turned my head toward a rustle in the brush. Two brilliant, reflective eyes were staring right back at me out of the pitch black. A second later, two more pairs flashed open beside them, followed by an entire cluster of glowing eyes locking onto my position. My heart hammered against my ribs as I froze, completely exposed in the night.

I whipped my light back in the opposite direction. Just through the gloom, I caught the faint, unmistakable geometric outline of our tents. I didn't look back. I bolted through the rocks and threw myself back into Dave’s tent, gasping for air as I recounted the cliff and the eyes in the dark.

Dave listened to the horror story, shook his head, and gave it to me straight: "Forget about driving home. Blow off the meeting."

Conceding defeat, I crawled into my sleeping bag. I wasn't going anywhere, but sleep was entirely out of the question, the double dose of Provigil kept my eyes wide open, staring at the canvas roof until dawn.