Last Updated on October 18, 2011 by James Dziezynski
Happy hikers on the summit of Mount Audubon, 11 PM mountain standard time.
Every once in a while, I’m a big fan of hitting a mountain summit at night (on purpose). There’s something mysterious about being on such a big stage after hours, especially if you get above treeline on a clear, moonlit night. The whole world is illuminated in darker shades. Clouds pass in front of the moon in black, fluffy caravans, negatives of their daytime counterparts. Animal calls are primal and lonely and the only normal palette of colors is found within the boundaries of your headlamp.
This is markedly different from an alpine start, at least for me. I’m usually so tired and fuzzy in the head, getting on the trail at 2 AM seems like a blurry dream. In fact, the barrier between sleep and consciousness is so thin that by the time the sun rises, the entire approach is nothing more than a vague memory. Alpine starts often imply an early morning summit, so the night journey is really only a prelude to the bigger story.
But hiking at night while being fully alert in the shadows and stars is something else. Gazing at the faint glow of the Milky Way resonates with our sense of wonder at the much larger universe beyond our humble planet. Grass bends differently to nocturnal winds and fields of snow are not white but faded blue. Your senses are treated to pleasant variations of mountainous themes.
Descending Mount Audubon Blair Witch style.
During a recent harvest moon ascent on local favorite Mount Audubon (13,233 ft.) our group was beset by a dastardly wind that tore through the crystal clear night. It was not until the brief summit ridge did the full force of the gale become apparent. Gusting at over 60 MPH and transforming normally sure-footed adults into oversized toddlers, it was only in the safety of wind shelters did we have much of a reprieve.
But strange as it sounds, I loved it.
If you can pardon the overindulgent naturalist in me, I was amazed at raw wind. Not diluted by forests nor deflected by mountainsides, this was a blast straight from the lungs of Aeolus himself. Cold, forceful and at times unnerving, it reminded me of the unfettered gales that sweep across Antarctica and unleash their power in the Patagonian highlands.
Of course, actually dealing with rushing, swirling winds isn’t nearly as poetic. For over 90 minutes, we trudged down on lose rocks getting pushed around and occasionally swept off our feet (note to romantics: it’s not as enjoyable as the metaphor implies). A haze of dust rose from the chalky ground and until we made it to the relative stillness of treeline, we were churned in that airy cauldron, at the mercy of the ever increasing wind.
When we finally made it back to the trailhead, we were a tired but accomplished group. We had been enervated by the wind and flat out exhausted from the labor of simply staying up past midnight, but oddly we were happy and perhaps in some itty-bitty way, a little more enlightened. If nothing else, our faces and eyeballs received a good exfoliation.
Typical Mount Audubon summit winds, the daylight edition.
