An Open Letter to my AP European History Teacher

“Keep history as a hobby, and go make money.”

Those were your words of advice nearly ten years ago as I was about to graduate and head off to college.

And now I find myself casually reading books about European explorers in Africa, World War I, or ancient civilizations of the Americas and taking notes as though I were still in class.

History was – and still is – enthralling. I was intrigued by the idea of being able to go to college and study mostly history; I didn’t have to spend countless frustrating hours trying to wrap my head around mathematical concepts and scientific laws that I could never hope to understand. I could take a semester-long class entirely about Early Modern England. And I would inevitably end up with a degree that left me three options – teaching, working in a museum, or law school.

I eventually followed your advice, though it took me a couple of years to come around to that path. I majored in geology and excelled academically, earning the Outstanding Senior Geology Major award and graduating with honors. I landed a coveted internship with the US Geological Survey and got accepted into a fully funded M.S. program, where I used remote-sensing data to map fault systems on Mars. I built up a decent reserve of money working in the oil patch, and then I jumped ship to the geotechnical engineering industry a few months before oil prices took a nose-dive in late 2014 and left tens of thousands of oilfield workers jobless.

At age 27, I’m very nearly living the dream. Sure, there are days when I don’t like my job, or when the rush-hour traffic on I-5 becomes frustrating beyond belief, but that’s true of everyone. I work as a geologist for a reputable engineering firm in Seattle, and I like what I do more days than not. I make a good living – not as much as the Amazombies or Microsoft crowd, but what I don’t have in income I make up for in schedule flexibility. In the past year, I’ve taken a cumulative total of five weeks off – I went canyoneering in the jungles of the Dominican Republic, climbing in the Alaska Range, and SCUBA diving in Thailand.

I was in the right place at the right time. And one of the things I learned in your class was that much of history comes down to that.

Most famous political figures throughout history got where they were largely because they were born into the right family; most famous Western explorers were simply the ones lucky enough not to succumb to disease, environmental conditions, or attacks from native tribes. Joseph Conrad survived his voyages and lived to write novels and stories that would end up on the "must-read" list of future adventurers, but how many equally talented individuals journeyed to Africa or Asia and never came back?

You knew the reality that so many baby-boomer parents of millennial children refused to acknowledge – that we’re not special snowflakes, that not everyone gets to grow up and be an astronaut, that museum curators and psychologists are not exactly hot commodities in the 21^st century. The job market for people with social science degrees is small, and society is flooded with B.A.-toting twenty-somethings convinced that their specialization in Post-Victorian Multicultural Women’s Studies warrants something other than an $11/hour gig as a barista.

I still enjoy history. Having some understanding of it has helped shape the way I think and the way I live my life. It inspires creativity, fosters a life of continued learning, and above all else, it motivates me to travel. And because I have a good job – I can afford to do those things. I can read about the Khmer Empire – and then I can go to Cambodia and see Angkor Wat for myself. I can follow Morocco’s history from Carthage to World War II – and I can explore markets in Marrakesh and hike in the Atlas Mountains and imagine 17^th century caravans traversing the vastness of the Sahara. 

I admit: there are times when I fancy myself an explorer. I read about men like John Wesley Powell, Gordon Laing, and Thor Heyerdahl and envision myself embarking on similar journeys. I’m inspired by stories like Sterling Hayden’s Wanderer, Joe Simpson’s literary portraits of the Andes and the Himalaya, and films like 180° South.

Discontent with a stable life – the security of a consistent income, a family, and a place to come home to every night – was the source of motivation for many of the explorers now immortalized on the pages of the books that collectively form what we like to call “history.” And I certainly empathize with that discontent. I can’t see myself being happy with family life. But there’s one truth that no one can ignore: innovation and adventure cost money.

The aforementioned Western explorers had to start somewhere – whether it was through their own wealth or convincing someone in a position of political and financial power to support them – they still started into the unknown with at least a boat or some horses and a meager stockpile of supplies (however useful they may or may not have been). In an age when everyone is trying to convince the masses to give them money to fund their ridiculous enterprise through GoFundMe and Kickstarter, I know better than to rely on others to satisfy my own narcissistic ambitions of adventure.

Secondary and post-secondary education in the United States is failing young people by encouraging them to "follow their dreams" instead of preparing them for the 21st century job market.

Thank you for being upfront about the career implications (or rather, lack thereof) of pursuing the social sciences as more than a recreational pastime. Thank you for the healthy dose of realism that you added to my life. The world needs more teachers who understand the balance between fostering academic interest and preparing students for the world outside of high school or college. The world needs more teachers who aren't afraid of bruising a student's ego by encouraging realistic goals.

I can't play "Mountain Guide" on the weekends

Denali wasn't fun. The Alaska Range is an incredibly beautiful place, the expedition was a highly valuable experience that gave me more confidence in my skills and made me a better mountaineer, and I'm glad I went -- I'd do it again if given the choice. But it wasn't especially fun.

I spent hours editing this and internally debating how much detail to go into when writing something that would be published online, because I genuinely don't want to say anything that's hurtful to anyone else who was involved in the expedition. I might not hold certain people in the highest regard, but they are individuals living their lives the way they want to. 

This was not a climbing expedition of friends (or even mountaineers of similar skill and experience levels who have mutually agreed to form a team to attempt a specific peak or route). Essentially, we were what the National Park Service would define as an illegal guiding operation. Two people gave James* money to guide them on a climb of Denali. I essentially acted as "assistant guide" -- I was another competent mountaineer on the rope, I helped our "client" out with a variety of things on the mountain, and I split the majority of camp chores with James. In return, he used some of the money he got from them to pay for my air taxi from Talkeetna to basecamp ($550) and ground transport from Anchorage to Talkeetna ($180).

I went into it knowing this. I knew we were probably going to generally move slower than I would have liked, and that I'd have to carry more than my share of the group gear. I didn't realize how much this, along with the guide-client dynamic, would wear on me -- physically and mentally -- after 15 days on the mountain.

Another thing that absolutely played into this was the cultural difference between the clients -- both of whom are Indian -- and myself. Cultural differences are a difficult subject to write about in the age of political correctness where anyone who disagrees with the writer is quick to label their writing as "racist" or "prejudiced." But they exist. There were situations where I thought the clients were being rude and entitled, but I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume it was because of their own cultural norms, not because they are assholes.

At the same time, I know enough about the world to know that anyone from India who has travelled extensively and gone on numerous guided climbs of world-famous mountains is very wealthy. 

When I first met Diane* and Andrew* in Anchorage, they reminded me of the 40-somethings commonly seen in the Seattle REI preparing for their mid-life-crisis ascent of Mt. Rainier, sporting thousands of dollars worth of brand new mountaineering gear without the slightest idea of how to use it.

"I'm going to get frustrated on this trip," James told me as we were pre-cooking some of our expedition food in the hostel kitchen. At that point, I was trying to keep an open mind.

Less than an hour before we were supposed to leave Talkeetna and fly into base camp, Andrew was forced to leave the expedition due to a family emergency. I felt bad for him -- flying halfway around the world to climb a mountain and then not being able to do it because of a completely unforeseen circumstance would suck -- but I didn't really know him. And I couldn't help but think that this would make things easier and safer for the rest of us. Two experienced mountaineers on a rope with one inexperienced person is a manageable situation.

On July 1, we decided to take some gear up to the top of the headwall (~16,000') to cache to make our move up to Camp 4 (17,200') easier. After an hour of slowly slogging up to the base of the fixed lines, the weather was deteriorating -- it was beginning to snow harder and the wind was picking up. James asked Diane if she wanted to stay there while he and I took the gear up. She was obviously tired and having a difficult time with the climbing (I'm not sure whether that was because of the cold, altitude, or her fitness. It doesn't really matter), but still protested that she wanted to continue up with us.

"I really don't think that's a good idea," I objected. My self-preservation instincts were kicking in at this point -- we had to get up, drop our cache, and get down, fast. Diane was just going to slow us down. In the end, she decided to stay. James built her an anchor, and he and I continued on. "Sorry for being a dick, but we need to move," I told James as he and I prepared to ascend the fixed lines.

"Yeah, you were kind of being a dick," he replied. "Remember, she paid to be here."

If she had gone with us, things might have gone badly. At the top of the headwall, we were getting slammed with 50mph gusts. The task of digging a cache was hard enough without having to look after someone who didn't know what they were doing, and as we descended, fractures were forming in the snow off to the right (climber's right). It might have been a dick move to tell her to stay, but in retrospect, it was necessary. I'd do it again.

A guide's first responsibility should be to keep herself and her clients alive, even if that means a few bruised egos.

Running into bad and stressful situations is inevitable on mountaineering trips. There's always something that doesn't go the way it's supposed to. It's almost like a twisted family vacation, only with dad getting pissed off at mom because there's always too much slack in the rope, the teenager complaining because the group is taking a rest day when he/she wants to keep going, mom can't figure out how to get her inReach to work properly so she keeps asking the teenager what's wrong with it, and instead of a toddler in a baby backpack, there's just a big plastic poop-can (aka CMC) that people take turns carrying.

Photo TR: Black Peak

Date Climbed: September 12, 2015

RT Stats: 14 miles, 4550 ft vertical gain, 11 hours (5 hours trailhead to summit; 45 minutes for route finding)

Early morning mist

Frost at Heather Pass

Colors starting to change at Lewis Lake

Looking back at Lewis Lake from just below Wing Lake

Clouds clearing ... kinda ... sorta ... not really 

The peak was socked in for most of the approach. Looking up toward the col.

Looking back during a moment of clarity

The final scramble up to the col, just right of the snow

I got off-route and climbed up some slightly sketchy 4th class rock here.

"This is really going to suck coming down," is probably not the best thought to be having repeatedly when solo and climbing on shitty, wet rock.

First dusting of snow in the North Cascades

Looking back at the route up from the col from just below the summit.

Lewis Lake and Wing Lake from the summit

Undrinking the Paleo and CrossFit Koolaid

I wanted the Paleo Diet to work. From a perspective based on evolutionary science, it makes sense. As a solution to a lot of the endocrine disorders that have run rampant in American society due to our overconsumption of refined sugar and processed vegetable oils combined with our generally sedentary lifestyles, the Paleo Diet makes sense. I wanted it to be the solution -- the ticket to lower levels of body fat and improved athletic performance.

But the king of scientific data -- empirical observations -- suggests otherwise. For the past two years, I've pretty much eaten whatever I wanted at the time and haven't followed any specific dietary regime, and I'm leaner and fitter than I've ever been. I'm 128 lbs and 18.5% body fat -- down from around 22-24% when I was eating Paleo. I can do five pull-ups, hike 3500 vertical feet per hour (at sea level), deadlift 160 lbs, and military press 75 lbs.

I cut out 90% of grains and refined sugars from my diet for the better part of three and a half years (February 2009 through December 2012). Throughout that entire time period, the changes in my fitness levels and body composition came almost exclusively from physical activity. In general, I was hovering around 23% body fat and weighed between 135 and 145 lbs. I slimmed down to about 130 during Field Camp (for those non-geologists, Field Camp basically involves spending a month hiking around and making geologic maps of an area), and then again during/after my expedition to Aconcagua. Overall, though, nothing changed dramatically.

After I got back from Aconcagua, graduate school happened and I pretty much just ate whatever was convenient. I didn't regain much of the weight I lost on that trip -- probably because I forced myself to work out for at least an hour, five days a week, to deal with the stress of writing my MS thesis. 

I reached an all-time low of 127 lbs in the summer of 2014 (and I've been within 5 lbs of that ever since), and my speed in the mountains improved dramatically. 

I don't know what the missing puzzle piece is, or if it was just one thing. But I do know that my endurance levels have skyrocketed. I don't struggle to keep up with people in the mountains anymore -- I'm kicking everyone else's ass. 

What I'm doing now works, so I'm going to keep doing it.

Empirically, the two things that seem to be the key to getting leaner, and doing it quickly are:

1) Physical Activity. This is likely equally physical and mental -- if I've had a bad day at work, hitting the stair master or throwing some weights around in the gym clears my head. Reduced stress leads to reduced levels of cortisol and... you get the picture.

2) Cutting back on the booze. I love beer, and I love having friends who I actually want to go grab a beer with. I love experimenting with cocktail recipes, making liquor infusions, and trying different whiskies. Craft breweries and craft distilleries are a part of Seattle's culture. But beer and liquor have a lot of calories, and studies have shown that giving up booze for a month leads to a dramatic reduction in liver fat, which, in turn, helps the body metabolize nutrients more efficiently. Overall, as cliche as it sounds, moderation is the key. 

Totally non-paleo post-workout meal: angel hair pasta with spinach, mushrooms,

grape tomatoes, and chicken sautéed in pesto sauce and topped with parmesan cheese.

I'm not sure what was inherently appealing about the Paleo Diet, aside from the link to evolutionary science. Perhaps it was the fact that it refuted the mainstream and pseudo-scientific claim that a vegetarian diet was inherently healthier than one that included meat. Perhaps is was the fact that it seemed to be adopted by athletes like powerlifters and MMA fighters, whereas the low-fat/vegetarian diets seemed to be more commonly associated with the women in color-coordinated workout outfits who read Shape magazine on the elliptical and then wave around pink 5lb dumbbells randomly and call that a workout.

As for CrossFit -- well, I started doing CrossFit because I was eating Paleo. They don't call it a "lifestyle" for nothing -- but that's true of any sport. If you want to excel at what you do -- whether that's cycling, olympic weightlifting, martial arts, hockey, or mountaineering -- you have to tweak your training regimen for your specific goals, and you have to have a diet that fits that training regimen.

While I don't follow the Paleo Diet anymore, or do CrossFit, both of those things were still beneficial for me. 
1. I think certain endocrine functions were probably improved by the extended periods of time I spent eating less than 100g of carbohydrates a day, and by cutting sugar out.
2. I have a fat-adapted metabolism. Even though carbohydrates provide a lot of quick energy and are more easily digested at high-altitude, being able to use fat as a fuel is crucial in any endurance sport, especially mountaineering.
3. I understand the importance of good form when lifting.
4. I spend more time in the gym doing dynamic lifts instead of isolation exercises. Looking muscular is great and all, but being able to back up that look with actual abilities is better.

The Paleo Diet works for a lot of people -- I'm not denying that. I even have family members who have halted and reversed pre-diabetic endocrine conditions by eating low-carb, mostly Paleo diets. It just doesn't work for me. As a scientist, the only way I can figure out what works is by experimenting. 

Fortune Favors The Bold

Every climber's path passes a few milestones as they grow and evolve as people with a passion for rugged, wild places. Whether that journey takes them from an icy bunny hill to glaciers and steep couloirs, from their first "14er" to one of the Seven Summits, from the climbing gym to Fitz Roy, or becomes a journey of passing that passion on to their kids, these milestones are often a chance to reflect on who we have become -- about how climbing has changed our lives and made us who we are.

I don't remember where exactly I first heard the phrase "Fortune Favors The Bold" -- a proverb that traces its origins back to Virgil and The Aeneid -- but it resonated with me. It's what I try to tell myself every time I do something that scares me. And I haven't regretted any of the things that I've done that scared me. Usually, I was glad I took the chance and did them. 

Fortune Peak, a relatively obscure mountain in the Teanaway Forest of central Washington, seemed a good choice for my 100th summit. Not that climbing 100 unique mountains makes me any different than climbing 99 mountains, or 101 mountains, but to me it was symbolic of how far I've come as a climber over the past 8 years. Either way, I wanted my 100th summit to be something special. According to some recent beta, Fortune Peak was skiable, and easily doable in a day trip from Seattle, so I went for it.

I left Seattle around 07:00, and, after a momentary traffic jam in the omni-construction-zone of I-90, I cruised over Snoqualmie Pass to Cle Elum, then up about 20 miles of dirt roads (easily navigable thanks to Google Earth) to the trailhead. I chatted with some climbers heading for Mt. Stuart and started up the trail to Ingalls Pass about 10am.

After about 40 minutes of hiking, the trail disappeared under the snow, and I continued cross-country up through the trees. I met a woman hiking with her boyfriend (both probably in their 40's) and exchanged friendly "hello's," which somehow led to one of us making a comment about being Colorado, which led her to persist in telling me her life story for the next hour or so as we hiked across the snowfield.

The Teanaway Wilderness

They split off towards Ingalls Pass, and I cut across some rock bands leading in the direction of Fortune Peak. The terrain was roughly split between rock and snow, so I didn't bother to start skinning until I saw a relatively long, consistent snow slope leading up towards the ridge.

I put on my skis/board (I'm really curious as to the proper term to use when in touring mode) and started up the snow slope. I was instantly in heaven. Aside from the fact that I was no longer postholing with a snowboard on my back, there's something incredibly calming about skinning up a slope. I bought my splitboard, ironically, the year that winter never came (screw you, House Stark), but after my first day out -- New Years Day in Mount Rainier National Park -- I was hooked, and knew that snowboard touring would become a big part of my mountaineering life.

Fortune Peak in the distance on the left from just below the ridge

After about half an hour or so, I came to a point above a small bowl and just below the rocky spine of the east ridge. This part was mostly enjoyable class 2 scrambling, with maybe a couple of class 3 moves. Even though I wished I wasn't carrying my board, it was still fun.

Above the rocky ridge, I put my skis/board back on and skinned up the final 300-400 vertical feet to the summit. I reached the summit just before 14:00. I dug the beer out of my pack that I'd brought to celebrate and shoved it in the snow while I took some photos and transitioned.

It was a perfect bluebird day. A gentle breeze sent chills down my sweat-soaked back as I sat on my pack and enjoyed my celebratory Belgian Pale Ale and the views of the jagged black peaks adorned with sporadically crisscrossing lines of white-blue snow. Mount Rainier stood proudly in the distance, thinly veiled behind the faint afternoon haze.

Summit beer with South Ingalls (left) and Mt. Stuart (right) in the background

The descent started easily enough. I followed the mellow slope down the ridge, skirted the snow past the rocky outcrops on the rim of the bowl, and then embarked on about two minutes of pure transcendent ecstasy, carving down the soft snow. The slope mellowed out as I reached the bottom of the south face, and I rode it as long as I could, dodging trees and shrubs poking out. 

I still had a ways to bushwhack out through the forest, vaguely aiming for the Esmeralda Trail. I wasn't exactly sure where it was, as I'd never been to this area before, but I was confident I could get back to the trailhead. Still riding that euphoric high from the awesome turns I'd just made, the bushwacking didn't bother me.

One of the many streams in the Esmerelda Basin drainage network

Four years ago, the idea of being in the wilderness without an obvious trail or route description to follow would have been intimidating. I'm not sure what I was afraid of. Maybe the overly-cautious attitude prevalent on 14ers.com got to me. But after hiking all over the mountains surrounding the Gunnison Valley in Field Camp and a summer of trudging through the dense Northwestern forests fighting wildfires, I'm pretty confident in my ability to navigate the backcountry and get where I need to be.

And, just like that, I ran right into the Esmerelda trail about 1/4 of a mile from the parking lot.

The icing on the cake of the snowboard tour to the summit of my 100th mountain waited for me at my car. After the sweet relief of taking off my pack for the last time and changing from soft-shell pants and snowboard boots into shorts and Chacos, just as I was ready to head out, I found a note left on my car.

Spoiler alert: I didn't call the guy. Not that I wouldn't have, but at that point I just wanted to head back to Seattle and have a nice quiet evening. It made me laugh, and I really did think about it for a second. I get it. Guys think solo female backcountry snowboarders are hot.

This isn't the first time that I've been hit on (kind of?) for being a woman who doesn't give a fuck, who just does what she wants to do and lives how she wants to live. But I try not to think too much about it. I just live my life. I don't have many regrets.

View from the summit of Fortune Peak

I don't believe in fate. But I think that you have to be willing to take risks, to venture into the unknown, to be able to find whatever it is that you want in life. Fortune favors the bold. 

Travel is Not a Cure for Depression

In the mountains, being in a clear state of mind can mean the difference between life and death. When it comes to travel -- the lines are a little more blurry, more complex -- but bottom line is that the level of enjoyment from travel often comes down to whatever state of mind the traveler is in. 

Another sunset from 37,000 ft.

Being in a good place in your head is the first step towards having a fulfilling experience in any place on earth.

I wasn't in a good place when I went to Peru last summer. I was working what was supposed to be a good job as a mudlogger -- a field geologist on an oil rig -- in the Powder River Basin of eastern Wyoming. On the surface, it seemed like a great way to start a career -- it was well-paying, offered a flexible schedule with blocks of time off rather than the standard 8-to-5 routine, and kept me reasonably close to the mountains. In reality, it was a never-ending saga of being trapped for weeks on end in a cramped trailer with at least five OSHA violations in the immediate vicinity, working 12-hour shifts with no predictable time off, and slowly accepting the reality that the optimistic promise of a 2 weeks on/2 weeks off schedule was never going to happen. I was going to be stuck out there as long as I held that job.

Pretty sure storing flammable liquids and flammable compressed 

gasses right next to each other is a really bad idea.

This was the first time in my adult life that I truly felt like I had no freedom. Every other job that I've had that I didn't like had an end in sight -- I would graduate from my MS program, and fire season would end with the first big rainstorm. I could have walked away at any time, but I kept telling myself that if I stuck it out just a little bit longer, I'd leave with that much more money. The country was in an oil boom and making $300/day without having to pay rent was a hard situation to walk away from. 

I booked a plane ticket for a two-week trip to Peru in mid-July with the hopes of climbing some of the easier summits -- Pisco, Yanapaccha, Tocllaraju -- of the Cordillera Blanca. But my attempts were failed before they started. The complete and utter lack of freedom that had plagued me for the past six months left me in a state of anxiety, of feeling internal pressure to do everything right on this trip because I knew it would be a while before I had that kind of freedom again. And I ended up doing most things wrong.

A glacial river flowing out from the Ishinca Valley

Feeling trapped for so long heightened my sense of awareness to situations where other people were taking the lead on trip decisions. When the climber who I'd met up with via summitpost kept trying to make choices about what we'd climb and when we'd climb it, I took it far too personally, and from there it was a downward spiral. We were still a poorly matched team, but this made everything worse.

I wanted -- needed -- to do things my way. After my partner and I split up in the Quebrada Ishinca, I might not get the mountain I wanted, but at least I could do the trip how I wanted. I befriended some Canadian climbers and my two summit attempts on lower, safer peaks went well.

Tocllaraju from the slopes of Ishinca

When I went back to Huaraz, I wasn't sure what I should be doing. For one, I had a minor cold, and my lips were terribly sunburned, so I needed a couple days to recover. I stayed in the hostel for a couple days, rested, and explored Huaraz. I befriended a few other travelers, explored some ruins, and did a day hike to Laguna 69 below the rocky, glaciated slopes of Pisco. In the end, I spent so much time trying to figure out what I should do with the rest of my time in Peru that I never did anything overly interesting.

The brilliant turquoise waters of Laguna 69

And the whole time, I was dreading going back to the confines of that cold, dingy trailer on a grimy well pad in eastern Wyoming and long, lonely nights spent reading articles on Matador Network and dreaming about the day when I could finally be done forever but with no end in sight.

I took an overnight bus to Lima, intending to spend a few days exploring the tourist attractions there. I visited the catacombs at the Church of San Francisco, went to the ChocoMuseo, bought some gifts for people back home at the Indian markets, and did a really amazing (and delicious) food tour of the city. In a way, I suppose a part of me felt so removed and disconnected from whatever it means to be a normal human that I wanted to do things that normal humans do when they travel. Go to museums and restaurants. Walk out to the beach.

A church in the Barranco district of Lima

Peru wasn't the best travel experience I've ever had. It's a beautiful country, and I'll go back someday. And when I do, I'll be in the right place, for the right reasons.

"Safe" Doesn't Have To Suck

Like most mountaineers, I have a bit of an ego. Like most people with GoPro's, I want to take video of things worth taking video of. But at age 25, I'm old enough to realize the absolute  stupidity of making a potentially dangerous decision solely for the sake of my ego and some sweet footage -- especially when there's an alternative that's much safer. 

I've been lucky in the mountains before. I know that there will be more "oh shit" moments to come. And I know that the more I play the odds, the more likely it becomes that the odds will win at some point.

It was May 29, 2014, and I wanted to climb a 14er and snowboard down it. I recently bought a GoPro and had been itching to try it out, and I wanted a good training climb for my upcoming trip to the Cordillera Blanca. The intent was to climb and descend the Cristo Couloir on Quandary Peak. With a maximum steepness of about 38 degrees, this would be steep enough to be a little scary to snowboard, and about perfect for a preparatory climb.

Temperatures hadn't dipped below freezing for several days prior, and there was plenty of evidence of recent wet-slab activity on the surrounding peaks staring me in the face. It was close to 08:00 when I arrived at the trailhead, which might be just enough time to be off the mountain by 11:30 (the couloir is south-facing).

But I was solo, and sunhit times don't matter when it comes to wet slabs. Not to mention I'd be in a terrain trap the entire way up and down.

So I drove back to the McCullough Gulch trailhead, hiked up the muddy trail and postholed through a really awful section of soft snow around treeline, and hiked the East Ridge to the summit. Not even remotely a special climb or ski/board descent -- it's about as steep as a blue trail at a ski resort.

But it was still fun, and I accomplished both my goals.

About 1000' below the summit, I met another climber on AT gear who shared the opinion that Cristo wasn't a very smart place to be that day. We chatted for the rest of the hike up, and he gave me some tips on using the GoPro.

After maybe 2000' of riding soft, slushy snow, we had posthole-hell to wade through, and then had to find our way through the forest back to the trailhead. There's some old, overgrown mining roads, and lots of private land surrounding the base of the mountain, but it wasn't too difficult.

We stumbled upon an old tin shack with piles of broken windows and retro furniture inside. This has nothing to do with snowboarding, but it was an interesting find.

Everything about that day was great (except for the part where I lost my sunglasses and got snowblindness, but that didn't kick in until the drive home). The hike, the descent, post-climb happy hour at Mi Casa in Breckenridge. 

It was a safe choice, and it was still an adventure.