Walkin' Jim Stoltz: Tales from the Trail.

The Value of a Musical Instrument

The following is an excerpt from Jim's unpublished manuscript, "Walkin' With the Wild Wind," the tale of a trip in 1990.

I'm off the trail now, making my way past Painted and Cataract Lakes. The mountain's reflections shimmer only slightly in the mirror of the lake's faces. The silence is total. I'm tempted to stop for the night at Cataract, but this strange mood has spooked me. I'm nervous about the route I've planned. Better push on into the next basin to see how it looks.
A couple hours later, and one scary boulder field behind me, I camp on the edge of a wooded bench next to a wide rock outcropping. From atop the smooth rock I can see into the basin. The walls look steep and snow covered. They scare me. There's no way I'll get up them with a full pack. A pass directly south of me looks possible. Maybe. But it'll take me miles off my route and no telling what the other side of it will be like. I go about my camp chores, pausing every few minutes to glance up the basin at the snow and cliffs. My anxiety is building. I don't like climbing on snow.
1982 - Utah

The morning atop Tipanogos comes slowly, dragging rosy hues over the peaks to the east and spilling gray across the desert to the west. It's been a long night. Cold, with wind blasting nonstop here on the 11,750 foot summit. I haven't slept very well. The climb yesterday without an ice ax was nerve wracking. This morning I must face the descent.
Earlier this morning I was pelted by snow. It's still cold and I linger long in the coziness of my bag, putting off for as long as I can, the dreaded descent. After a short breakfast I pack up and walk down the narrow ridge. I'm feeling better until I get to where I must drop off the east side. (I guess I shouldn't use that phrase, "drop off".) Gee, it looks steeper than it did yesterday. Maybe I should try a different route. I pull off the pack and look at the map for the ninety-seventh time. Yep, this is it. This is where I should go down. Yikes!
The map goes back in the pack. Stella (my worn, beat up, case- less guitar) is strapped down tighter on the back of the backpack. The pack is hoisted up, and its straps tightened, too. I grab my walking stick, give it a shake of assurance, and step hesitantly onto the ice.
Not too bad. I try another. The snow is rock hard. I'm kicking my steps, but only getting an inch or so in. Below me the ice slides down 40 yards and drops abruptly off into hundred foot cliffs. One mistake and I can lose it all. My knees feel weak. I can put my elbow out and bump the side of the hill. Too steep, but if I can just make it across to where the cliffs peter out, not even a quarter mile away, I'll be OK.
I kick a step, go a step or two, stop, catch my breath, and then try another step. It's slow. It's terrifying. It's crazy! What am I doing here?! But I can't go back now; turning around on the sheer slope would be impossible. Kick. Step. Stop.
I'm trying not to look down. I'm trying to picture myself safely in the snow-filled basin below. My legs feel like rubber. I kick and step again. Not enough grip. My foot isn't holding! I'm slipping! I'm falling!
I'm sliding with my face to the mountain. I can't see the cliffs below me getting closer with every inch. But I can feel them just as clear as can be. My feet can't catch an edge. I kick them ,but the ice is too hard. Fingers claw at the sandpaper surface, skin ripping off with every inch. I'm not slowing down. In fact, I'm picking up speed, sliding steadily toward the cliffs. I'm trying to stop. Nothing's working! I'm a goner.
I roll onto my back to see what I'm going to hit when I fly off into space. The edge of the drop is ten feet below , racing toward me. I'm going to go over! And then, ..... all is still. I'm stopped.
I'm not dead. In fact, I'm still above the cliff. I'm dangling like a puppet from my pack straps, facing the world, the cliffs, the deadly drop into the basin. For a moment I just hang there. I'm still breathing. I'm alive! But what happened?
Hesitant to move, I tilt my head slowly, craning my neck in a manner to see, but not move the pack. Stella! My guitar! The old beater is lashed snugly onto the back of my pack without a case, with the neck pointed down. The neck of the guitar has gouged deep into the icy crust, sticking like an ice ax and lodging me firmly to the ice field in a spot five feet above the edge of the drop off. Soaked with sweat, and with pounding heart, I sigh and settle back. I need to think about this.

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