Evolution Range: Certainty and uncertainty

In this world of instantaneous communication, we have become accustomed to quick answers to our questions. Never before have we had such power of certainty in so many matters. Want to know the weather forecast? Google it. Need to find out where your daughter is? Just text.  Worried about traffic? Hit Navigation. So many questions in our daily lives so effortlessly answered. Of course, part of the appeal of the backcountry is that we can leave the flip-side demands of this technology far behind us: we can ‘switch off’ from the modern world and find rejuvenation, a process I normally welcome.

But this time the juxtaposition was jarring. Restless in the tent that night, I lay in a swirling sea of uncertainty. Would the beacon work? Al had doubts about his recent renewal of the subscription due to a credit card discrepancy. If it had worked, what form would the emergency response take? Would they send in a helicopter? A ground team? Horses? When?  How would we decide if the beacon hadn’t worked? Should we simultaneously work on a Plan B? A swarm of questions buzzed in the silent sphere of my mind. How to accept that some answers are unknowable?

When dawn came, Al’s ankle had swollen painfully, scotching any ideas of trying to move. It was now a waiting game. After doctoring the patient a little further, I once again ventured down to the JMT with the aim of meeting the French Canadians and possibly locating the ranger. Plan B. A helicopter buzzed overhead, and disappeared beyond the headwall of the valley leading up to Darwin Bench. Was it a rescue chopper, or did it have some other unrelated purpose? There was no way to know for certain. If it was the SAR team, would they wait for me to return?  

Sunrise over a lake on the way down to the JMT, in the valley straight ahead.

Team Quebecois turned up, less enthusiastic about a rescue after hearing of the air traffic (and after climbing the endless switchbacks out of the Evolution Valley). We joked about the possibility of climbing gear being left behind - it was an indication of how badly Al wanted to get himself out that he had considered abandoning his beloved rope, cams and quickdraws to lighten the load.  The prospect of booty to gearless climbers was insufficient enticement, however, and I trudged back up the hill alone.

At the campsite sat a pile of gear with a small yellow note carefully tucked in: ‘Flown out to Bishop. Said you would hike out Lamark. Love, Alistair’. Finally: certainty.

The pile left behind. Al had taken his personal climbing equipment, but had left all the food and shared gear. I would have a  heavier load going out than in