Standing at the base of a mountain, looking up at an unknown region desired; man is positioned at the physical symbol for all of his hopes and desires.
It is in man’s nature to strive, to desire, and to fight for what he has decided he wants. It is not the erasure of this desire, but the orientation of this desire, which marks the maturity of the man.
One’s desires are most potent when clear and without opacity. Any shred of doubt, uncertainty, or indirection seem to greatly dissolve the magnetism generated by the focus on said desire.
Nowhere is man’s desire more precise and clear than with the mountain. There is one summit, one place to stand, and at the end of the day you either stood there or not.
One stands at the base of the mountain, as we did this weekend in Arizona, peering up at the summit a great distance away. There is a clear vision and goal in mind, make it to the top.
There is no obscurity in that desire. No vague washing considerations. No questioning or settling for something other than the absolute truth.
All these feelings, and more, are what we experience when we enter the wilderness and stand at the base of a mountain to be climbed.
We choose Mt. Wrightston in the Coronado National Forest as our objective this weekend. A peak standing 9,456 ft above sea level, towering over the rippling Arizona mountains, and peering over into Mexico.
The summit can be obtained with relative ease. No technical climbing required. Only putting one foot after the other and navigating a few spots on the rock where the winter ice still cleaves hard to the stone.
On day one we set off from the trailhead and ascended the Northern ridge to Old Baldy Saddle, where we spent our first night. A consistent climb of appx 1,000 ft/mile made the hike a hearty one and left us ready to cook a hot meal when we finally found our camp.
At appx 8,700 ft elevation we set up our shelters, sparked a fire, and settled down into our new home. We cooked a slab of pork sausage and mashed potatoes for dinner, drank whiskey to our heart’s desire, and settled in around the warm fire on a cold night. Never have I experienced such a beating wind as we did on that saddle. For the entirety of the night it battered and bruised that ridge. The temperature dropped to 32° the first night.
The second day, after letting the sun melt what it could for the first few hours of the day, we began our move to the summit of Mt. Wrightson. The mountain was named for for William Wrightson, a miner and entrepreneur in the region killed by Apaches in the 1865 Battle of Fort Buchanan.
We moved onward up switchback after switchback, carefully crossing sheets of ice that offered only suffering if unrespected, and eventually passing over the final crest to a beautiful summit where we spent the afternoon in glorious reverie and contemplation.
We made our way back down from the summit to camp a few hours before sunset, giving us some good time to spark our evening fire and cook ourselves another hearty feast on the mountain. We stayed on the same saddle as the first night, where the wind was just as brutal as the evening prior.
On Sunday morning we packed up our camp at sunrise and began to make our way down the mountain. As the ascent was an entirely uphill climb, our departure was an entirely downhill stroll. It took only a few hours to get back to the car and make our way back to civilization, where cold Bloody Marys awaited a celebratory toast.
Such is an account of my weekend on the mountain.
WARREN STEURY