Running Down a Blizzard

Powerful rays of sunlight pierced through a low-hanging deck of ominous clouds and reflected off the ground—which was blanketed with ten centimeters of fresh, powdery snow. The new addition of heat changed the snow’s consistency from fluffy to sticky nearly instantaneously, causing it to clump on the bottoms of our trail runners and seep through their upper mesh.

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Regardless, the sun was a welcome respite from the morning’s unexpected blizzard, but the light’s omnipotent radiance was blinding. Orey squinted as he stumbled along the path, the ambient exposure having increased by a magnitude of five within an equal number of minutes. “Pull your cap’s visor down and pull your Buff up as high as you can to shield your eyes from the reflection,” I advised.

A couple of days earlier, Orey’s sunglasses had fallen from their perch atop his head during a mad, off-track downhill dash through a thick, deciduous forest while we were trying to outrun an incoming storm. Despite our best efforts, we arrived at the hotel muddy and soaked—wearing our only set of clothes. Fortunately, the three star establishment had an overnight laundry service—though we received strange looks from the Italians when we turned up in the dining room wearing bathrobes.

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There hadn’t been an opportunity to replace Orey’s optics in the days since, but with the near incessant rain it hadn’t mattered much. It didn’t matter much when the temperatures dropped and the rain transmuted into snow, either—but when the latter mixed with sun, it was a recipe for serious, potentially permanent blindness.

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Orey grimaced and pulled his buff up over his eyes, stretching the material thin in an effort to see through it—like some kind of pantyhose mask that a robber might wear while sticking-up a bank in any quintessentially-90's heist movie. Anything, to block out the light.

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The stumbling continued—accompanied by a chorus of cursing—but at least the underlying rocky surface had been made soft, and was consistently graded by its ephemeral white coating.

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I plodded along, postholing; and set a gradual boot-pack up the now-more treacherous pass, ensuring to kick good steps so that Orey could more confidently follow.

Four summers earlier, we’d embarked on our first-ever wilderness backpacking trip, together, in Yosemite. Neither of us knew what the hell we were doing at the time; and as a result, we carried way too much shit into the mountains. I hauled an eighty-five liter pack, stuffed to the brim with a bear can full of food; a survival knife and a survival hatchet; my digital SLR and extra lenses; and a negative twenty degree synthetic sleeping bag which weighed almost three kilos—despite nightfall temperatures which would hover around fifteen.

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That trip was arduous and slow; and it forced us to question our life decisions in the moment. Simultaneously, something was unlocked inside of me that I’d not known existed: up until that excursion, I’d never seen a mountain with snow on it. Then there was one, towering above us across a canyon, with a ring of white near its summit—in July. Seeing it blew my mind; and I confidently proclaimed to Orey that I’d climb it one day. He’d brushed the idea off. “I dunno, Man. That’s crazy.”

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A year later, I quit my job, gave away my things, and moved out of my loft in LA to forge a new path through literal and metaphorical wilderness as a professional adventure storyteller. Ultimately, I dedicated my life to mountain movements; and in the time since, I’d proceeded to complete unguided ascents of dozens of notable peaks around the world, including Switzerland’s Eiger and Zee Matterhorn; Whitney and Rainier in the US; and a couple of six-thousand meter peaks in Nepal.

“I quit my job, gave away my things, and moved out of my loft in LA to forge a new path through literal and metaphorical wilderness.”

Orey, on the other hand, hadn’t spent more than a night in the wilderness since our very first Yosemite trip; and to be honest, I think that our initial jaunt had turned him off to the same degree that it had motivated me.

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He’d been grinding hard in LA though; and we were due for another trip together, so I suggested that he meet me in the Italian Dolomites. “It’ll be awesome!” I exclaimed. “Remember those big heavy packs we carried in Yosemite? Forget all that! We’ll wear six liter running vests instead.”

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“Remember how we hiked twenty-five ‘k’ in a day with an equal number of kilos on our backs? Well, with these vests, we can move fast—running—and just about double that... Every day for ten straight! It’ll be no problem.”

“Plus, remember those crappy freeze dried meals we had to eat? In the Dolomites, we can spend every night in an alpine hotel where they serve three course meals, take breakfast from a buffet, and scarf down fresh apple strudel in the afternoons. And, get this! They have blankets, beds, and hot showers, too!”

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“Hot showers?” Orey asked, curiously? “That sounds awesome! I’m in!”

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“Okay, great! But—you have to train. I’ll send you a plan with plenty of time for you to prepare.”

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“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I play soccer.”

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“Okay... But, you really should train. Do some stairs at the hill in Culver City.”

Three months later, Orey met me in Chamonix; and we proceeded to take a series of trains and buses to the start of Alta Via 2, to run one of the most magnificent mountain routes in the world. We’d wear only six liter running vests during transit; and then for ten days in the mountains.

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In order to cram everything we’d need into such a minute volume, some concessions were made. Windbreakers replaced hard shells. A combination of both leggings and shorts provided more versatility than trekking pants. One t-shirt, each. Orey carried a lightweight synthetic zip-up hoody; I opted for an ultralight down vest. Beanies—because forty-percent of the body’s heat is lost through the head. Buffs. An extra pair of socks. One pair of underwear each, worn. No gloves—we wouldn’t be doing that much via ferrata; and no via ferrata kit—we’d solo the easy sections that we’d encounter.

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Trekking poles (used.) A headlamp (carried.) InReach (carried.) Phone charger (carried.) First aid kit—which was basically ibuprofen, bandaids, quick clot, moleskin, and duct tape (carried.) A silk sleeping bag liner (carried.) Phone, headphones, a GoPro, and a miniscule mirrorless camera (carried.) Sunglasses (worn.)

It was an exercise in minimalism; and a representative evolution from where we’d first started, not that long before. Most people that we’d encounter on the route wore bulky boots and were rucking forty-to-fifty liter packs filled with extra clothes. Overkill with the Alps’ expansive infrastructure. Instead, I led us onto the far, opposite side of the spectrum. Such an approach left little margin for error. To maintain optimal body heat, we’d rely on near-constant movement. And hope for good weather.

"It was an exercise in minimalism; and a representative evolution from where we’d first started, not that long before."

On the first day, we hiked uphill into a damp, dark cloud. On the afternoon of the second day, it started raining. Hard. We ran down. On the third and fourth days, more moist clouds. On the fifth day, it rained. On the morning of the sixth, it poured. We waited out the wettest precip in hotel Albergo Miralago; and hoped that the temperature would drop so that it would turn to snow and we could go. By one in the afternoon, we got our wish. Shoes on, along with every layer we possessed. Time to move.

It was cold, wet, and miserable—but we had a schedule to keep and the day required running thirty seven kilometers, along with a couple thousand meters’ elevation change. Big mission. Slim margins.

As the sun began blasting through the clouds, the snow got sloppier. Soaked through our shoes. Soggy socks. Gross. A consolation awaited, however; soon, we reached a “passo,” where a highway crossed over a mountain pass. There were hotels, cafes, and most importantly—a gift shop. Orey bought new sunglasses. Snow blindness crisis averted.

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I wish I could say that the rest of the day went off without a hitch. It didn’t. Big ascents under a cable tram rubbed salt into our blistered feet. Fast flowy sections were contrasted by wrong turns, separation, and needless waiting. We were on schedule to miss dinner at our stop for the night.

“You want to eat tonight?”

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“Yeah, of course...”

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“Well, you’re not gonna like this, but I’m gonna need to run ahead and make sure that they save us some food.”

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“Are you f*cking kidding me?!”

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“No.”

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“I don’t wanna get lost again!”

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“You can’t get lost. Just follow the trail. It’ll take you straight to the rifugio.”

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By that time, most of the snow at lower elevations had already melted; the path was pretty easy to follow.

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We split up. I found my flow. Blasted through the next twelve kilometers in an hour. Arrived at the hut just after dusk. It was shrouded in clouds. Requested a room. Ordered dinner. Asked for a plate to be set aside for Orey.

He arrived an hour later. Didn’t say much to me as he scarfed down the food. Catatonic, or the silent treatment? I could tell that he was mad, but I didn’t know if he was mad at me. Either way, a hot shower beckoned him. Not a word, the entire night.

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He’d dug deep that day; and as annoying as some of the mishaps had been in the moment, I was proud of my friend. I contemplated the day in silence as I drifted off to sleep.

"He’d dug deep that day; and as annoying as some of the mishaps had been in the moment, I was proud of my friend."

Up until that point in the trip, I’d been so regimented. The goal, my goal, had been to link two Alta Via routes in two weeks. The weather dictated we adjust expectations, but instead, due to my rigidity, I’d been stressing hard about the timeline—and pushing Orey to the point where it wasn’t fun for him anymore. I saw it in his silence that night.

I breathed. Took a step back, metaphorically-speaking. Thought back to our first mountain mission together; and remembered what it was all about.

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There was still snow on the ground the next day, but it was sunny. Bright. Hopeful.

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“Hey, you wanna finish this first route and then take the train down to Venezia? Go gorge ourselves on gelato?”

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“Really?! You wanna do that?”

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“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

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“Awesome, Man! That sounds great.”