The Pinnacle

by

A. Rod Paolini

2011
 I laid down against the slope of the pinnacle, waiting for my turn to climb to the top. The final
ascent was up a curved spine. There was no room for more than one person to stand at the top; and so we
decided that each of us, in turn, would climb the last pitch.

I was tired, having risen at 5:00am and having

hiked and climbed for seven hours. The spot where we
waited was not above the tree-line, though the pinnacle
was bare rock. The forest was quiet, and the wind still,
even though we were about 8,000 feet up. As I rested, my
gaze wandered up the gray rock of the pinnacle and then
to the bright blue sky that receded to infinity.

There were seven of us, all members of the dish-

room crew at Jackson Lake Lodge in the Grand Teton
National Park in Wyoming. Five of us were climbing
Baxter’s Pinnacle novices while Denny and Bobby were experienced
climbers. Denny was registered as the leader, but Bobby
led every pitch, which irritated Denny no end. My attitude was: if Bobby was willing to risk his life in
leading a pitch, and then belaying us, I certainly had no objections.

In climbing one pitch, I had reached for a crevice so as to pull myself up. It was about the size of the
blade of a shovel, and it was surrounded by shinny green moss and small flower-like vegetation. When I
pulled on it, it broke away, and I quickly saw that it was the top of fragment as long as an entire shovel but
about two-feet wide and probably weighing several hundred pounds. It slide passed me, brushing my side.
I then heard it crashing along the side of the mountain as it plummeted. I paused for a moment, a bit
shaken. What if someone had been below me? What if I had been below someone who pulled on that
rock?

It was beginning to dawn on me that the Tetons were a dangerous place, though until that moment,
it hadn’t occurred to me that I myself might be in danger. There had been a guy in my dorm who was
climbing up a scree area–loose rock–when he slipped and pitched over backward, striking his head, and
fatally injuring himself. I can still see his silhouette walking down the hallway of the dorm. And then there
had been a husband and wife team that attempted to climb Mt. Teewinot, he leading every pitch. He had
failed to put a sufficient number of pitons as he climbed, so that when he slipped, he fell to his last piton,
and then an equal distance past it. If he was just six feet above his last piton, he would have fallen twelve
feet, enough for the rope, cinched about his waist, to stop him so abruptly as to cause internal injuries. His
wife could not rescue him, and so she had to remain on a ledge the entire night, listening to his groans as he
expired. I was coming to realize that death was all around me, perhaps a few inches away, and a careless
moment was all it took.
 Cascade Canyon

It was now my turn to make the final ascent. I pulled myself up along the side of the spine that
curled to the other side of the pinnacle. As I neared the top, I realized that with the next foothold, I would
be able to see over the spine. I hoisted myself with my arms, straightened my leg, and poked my head over
the edge. Whap! A cold blast of wind slapped my face, forcing my eyes shut. I slowly opened my eyes,
squinted, and tried to focus. Over the spine was a shear drop into a canyon that yawned below me, such
that I was drawn toward it, giving me a feeling that I might pitch forward and fall. The wind was
howling–almost deafening–and the air was so cold that I felt icy pinpricks on my face. Across the canyon
were the peaks of Mount Owen, the Grand Teton, and the Middle Teton. They were dark gray with cold,
metallic-blue fields of ice, and white streaks of snow that swirled with the gusts of wind.

It was the face of God–or at least something divine. I was mesmerized. I was in another dimension,
and time stood still. I gazed at this wondrous sight until my left leg began to shake. I had to retreat, but I
took this vision with me for the rest of my life.