We were also assigned another young guide (whose name has been changed to Bob in this article — after all, he shouldn’t be held accountable years later). Bob was in a bad mood when we met, apparently due to some trouble with his girlfriend. He barely acknowledged our existence on the hike up and through Garnet Canyon, and walked many yards ahead. Well, at least he isn’t a screamer, I thought to myself. 

As we stopped in lower Garnet Canyon for a short break, Bob said to fill up on water if we needed. A more experienced guide, who fortuitously happened to be passing by with his own clients on their way to the saddle, told us to wait for an hour or so. “The water here is not clean,” he reported. I’m glad he happened along at the right time, or we would have been left with some epic bowel activity. 

We made it to the saddle without further adventure, or should I say misadventure. Immediately below the saddle is a small cliff with an old rope (large enough in diameter that I could not reach around it with one hand) hanging down from the top. A climber scales the cliff, using the rope. We made it up the rope with no problems, and once at the saddle, Bob continued to ignore us until the next morning. 

That first night at the Exum hut was wonderfully exciting for a middle-aged novice like me. I was finally in the mountains, and I was not disappointed. I could see all the way into Idaho, high mountain lakes peaked out at me, and clouds brushed my face. It was simply… Grand. I finally understood why the gods dwell in such places. 

The next morning we arose before light to begin the assault. (I just love these military descriptions. Testosterone again!) I was surprised at the large amount of snow on the ground and I asked Bob if we were going to put on crampons. “You will put them on only if I tell you to put them on, and not unless I tell you,” he snapped. What a delightful fellow. 

Off we went, with Bob walking so far ahead in the dark I couldn’t see him. I was left to ascend the Grand by trying to follow his footprints in the snow, which was less than fun. We finally made it to a point in the climb called the belly crawl, which is a ledge a climber hangs on to with his hands; then, placing his feet against the vertical wall below the ledge, butt out, the climber works his way across the ledge hand over hand. The exposure is thousands of feet, or so it seems. Because of the unexpected snow, there was a back up of climbers at the belly crawl, with three or four guides and their clients all milling about. Bob had us “sit down, with your backs to the wall, and don’t move!” as he and another guide went to chip ice off the rock. 

Waiting there in the snow, with my not-so-waterproof hiking boots (never take advice from teenage sales associates), I realized the gods had prevailed. I was not going to summit the Grand today. There was no way any rational, middle-aged person in my position would continue. I turned to David — without getting up, of course, which would have violated Bob’s latest dictate — and told him I was done. 

“I am not having fun, I am freezing, the guide is a jerk, and they are chipping ice off the rock. Chipping ice of the rock, for god’s sake!” I was not going any further. Bob seemed particularly delighted when I told him. He immediately suggested we summit the Enclosure, a shorter peak adjacent to the Grand, and then head down early. In all fairness to him, it was a wonderful suggestion. The summit of the Enclosure was spectacular — I had finally gotten to glimpse the long-awaited view from a mountain peak.