A Voice in the Mountains
By Gabi Daugherty
This was supposed to be my first alpine climbing trip. I was fired up about taking my climbing to the next level. After all the stories I’d heard from close friends and books I'd read, I was finally going to experience climbing on big walls. This wasn’t just another trip to my local crag here in Austin. It was remote. It was serious.
I went into this trip with high expectations, feeling like it was going to be the start of a new chapter in my climbing career.
Throughout my seven years of climbing, my focus has been mostly on bouldering and sport climbing. It wasn’t until the last few years that I consistently ventured outdoors. In January of 2023, before alpine climbing was even on my radar, I was invited on a sport climbing trip to Potrero Chico, Mexico, by my friend Tanner.
Tanner and I have been good friends for four years now. We met at the climbing gym we both work at in Austin. He’s dedicated a lot of his time and energy to climbing and has been guiding for a few years now. I would say he’s been a big teacher of mine as well. He has taught me close to everything I know about multipitch climbing, and he’s the reason I became interested in traditional climbing as well.
(Left to right) The Grand Teton, Mount Owen, and Teewinot Mountain, Wyoming.
Our trip to Potrero was my first introduction to multipitch climbing. I felt like I discovered a side of the sport I didn’t know I was looking for. Something clicked on our first day out there, feeling the exposure of the last three pitches beneath me. My first time being hundreds of feet off the ground, and all I wanted to do was keep going up. It might sound cliche, but I felt like I had opened a door into a different world. The climbing, the systems, the rappelling, the rest of the world below me. It was methodical, intentional, and it took time. It wasn’t a quick jaunt up the wall, it was an adventure. One I could only experience if I was willing to accept a vertical world as my reality for the time being.
After returning from Mexico, and high on stoke, Tanner came to me with the idea to do an alpine climbing trip in the Wind River Range at the tail end of August. He had mentioned that he had already double booked with two friends, Ray and Peter, so he thought it would be neat for all of us to just go together instead. Tanner had spent a lot of time climbing with each of them individually and said he was excited about the chance to bring two of his closest climbing buddies together.
Over the years, I’ve noticed that Tanner has had a tendency to try and blend groups of friends on climbing trips, but most of the time, it’s ended up with someone feeling left out or unwanted. This seemed like a solid group to get together, though, so I didn’t go into the trip worried.
Ray had been on our trip to Potrero and worked at the gym with us, but I hadn’t spent much time with him aside from that. Peter was a veteran gym employee from when Tanner and I first started and a close friend of ours. He’d moved to Utah before Ray’s time.
The hike up to Jackass Pass, Wind River Range, Wyoming.
Peter and I had connected over both having lost a parent in our early twenties. I confided in him when I first lost my dad in March 2020. I found a friend in him, someone who understood the deep grief I was experiencing. I didn’t have to say much around him. He just knew. Despite this, we hadn’t stayed in touch as much as I would’ve liked over the years, and I’d barely seen him since he moved, so I was thrilled he was coming along on such a big trip.
The Wind River Range, situated in the western half of Wyoming, is home to the Cirque of the Towers, where we planned to climb. The Cirque, which sits in the southern section of the range, is a semi-circle of jagged granite peaks rising to 12,000 feet. I was hesitant about climbing there at first. I had never led any trad climbs myself. I had only followed Tanner’s leads and carefully inspected where he placed gear, discussing the why and how as he went. But, I had no real experience placing my own gear, let alone forging up thousands of feet of granite at 12,000 feet above sea level.
Over the months leading up to the trip, Tanner and I talked through the logistics of the climbing portion of our trip extensively. Tanner, Peter, and I would be climbing together, and I would follow their leads. If there was a day they wanted to go do something harder, I would hang out at camp and do my own thing.
As August approached, though, my finances tanked. A personal emergency dwindled my savings. I had just been hired at Patagonia, and I wasn’t sure if I could afford to take ten days off from work anymore. In short, I was panicking.
After a sit-down ‘I don’t know if I can swing this anymore’ conversation with Tanner, he offered to pay for mostly everything outside of gas and my own personal food. He let me borrow a lot of gear and even lent me a 70L pack from the guiding company he worked for so I didn’t have to buy my own. My manager then helped me scrape together enough hours of PTO, and laid out a plan that would actually allow me to get paid while on my trip.
The author in her element, enjoying a sport climb.
The people around me had banded together to ensure this trip was going to happen. It felt like one of those ‘meant to be’ moments.
I flew out on August 20th and met Tanner in Salt Lake City at Peter’s house. Our plan was to drive up to the Winds from there, stopping at the Tetons along the way.
The first few days were rather uneventful. The weather was far from in our favor, and rained us out of our plan to climb the Grand Teton. (This was a rather lofty goal given the insanely short amount of time we planned to be there.) This didn’t dampen our spirits, though. The main objective was climbing in the Cirque, and we had to be in the Winds soon anyway. We were meeting Ray and his fiancé, Meredith, who were driving up from Colorado.
So we spent a few days hiking and biking around the Tetons and took off.
From a long stretch of Wyoming highway, we turned onto a tightly packed gravel road that led into a steep, rocky incline. (And rain, a lot of rain.) The trailhead was filled to the brim with cars sporting roof boxes covered in stickers and many, many vans. We parked in the only spot we could find, waiting for the rest of the group to arrive and the rain to die down.
We also made our first mistake, getting to the trailhead at 3:00 pm and thinking we were going to hike the nine miles up to Jackass Pass in the dark, through a storm.
As Ray and Meredith arrived, we were blessed with a break in the heavy downpour and decided to take it. Ray made it clear before we started hiking that he was going to push forward with little rest until we reached the pass, so we needed to let him know when we needed a break. I thought this was odd, and a little patronizing, but I didn’t say anything.
The five of us headed off in a single file line. Ray and Peter got to know each other at the front, Meredith and I caught up in the back. Tanner floated between the two conversations.
I was fully aware that Tanner and I were likely the most out of shape between everyone. I had backpacked a handful of times, with my dad mostly, but Tanner had never been. Ray and Meredith lived, hiked, and climbed at altitude almost daily, and Peter did the same in Salt Lake. It quickly became apparent that we were the ‘weakest links,’ so to speak, as we both fell behind the group several times on the hike in, me further than Tanner. My ill-fitted, borrowed pack weighed heavy on my tired legs and lungs.
After four miles, I heard what sounded like a plane flying much too close to the ground behind me, followed by a gust of wind slicing its way through the trees. As I turned away from the clear skies in front, I saw what looked like an opaque wall of rain hurtling towards us. To my confusion, I saw the group, who was already a ways ahead of me at this point, running.
Big Sandy Lake. The author retrieving water during a break in the storm.
Why they thought they could outrun the storm that was very clearly on top of us already, I’m not sure. And why did I think it wise to start running after them? The fear of being left behind, I suppose.
Once reconvened and with our rain shells and pants on, we decided our best bet was to camp at Big Sandy Campground, five miles in from the trailhead, on the shores of Big Sandy Lake. We power-walked the last mile through the downpour, and began to set up camp. The plan was for Ray and Meredith to pair off in one tent, Tanner and me in another, and Peter in his own.
I had entrusted Tanner with the task of bringing our tent, one he said he was borrowing from a friend. As we began the assembly, I quickly realized we had a problem. The tent was likely 15+ years old, the nylon cord holding the poles together retained no elasticity, and it was very clearly not weatherproof.
Well… Shit.
Maybe this was both Tanner’s fault and my own. Maybe I should’ve inquired more about the kind of tent he was bringing, inspecting it myself beforehand. On the other hand, I was frustrated that he’d overlooked such a simple, yet important detail. That’d taken one look at this tent and still thought, “Yeah, this should hold up in the backcountry.”
But the rain was still coming down, and the only shelter Tanner and I had was this leaking tent we had just tied together. We threw our packs in first and sat in a puddle, our bodies half in with our legs sticking out of either door, afraid to muddy the tent with our boots. We were silent, both unsure of what to say, trying to think of what to do next.
I noted that we could’ve brought my tent or one of Peter’s. Tanner replied something to the effect of, “Yeah well, you should’ve offered sooner.” I felt a pang of anger, coursing hot through my head. That was his response?
I heard Peter calling for Tanner. I’m unsure if he didn’t hear him, or if he chose to ignore him, but Tanner gave no response. It wasn't until Ray called out from the tent next to us saying that one of us better get inside their tent, that Tanner turned to me and said, “You go in Peter’s. I’ll go to Ray's,” and shot out of the tent with his sleeping bag.
Once we split off into different tents, it felt like our group’s communication started to disintegrate. In hindsight, our communication never really started to begin with. None of us had been out in the backcountry together, and we weren’t familiar with each other’s reactions to stress. The minute we started from the trailhead we were all on different pages, whether we knew it or not.
We emerged from our tents once there was a break in the rain, to reorganize and eat dinner. There was a palpable tension between Tanner, Peter, and me that I couldn’t tell if anyone else felt. Through what seemed like resentful remarks and agitated tones from Tanner and Ray, we ate dinner, hung our bear bags, and settled into our respective tents with the hope of some refuge from the cold, wet day it had been.
The storm was fluctuating every hour from a light pitter-patter on the rainfly to a downpour that caused the sides of Peter’s tent to cave in on us. We spoke very little, mostly about how to keep the tent from leaking and how we were going to dry out my down jacket, which had gotten more wet than I liked. I hadn’t the slightest idea how Peter was feeling. Was he also sensing the coldness from the rest of the group? I couldn’t tell if I was just exhausted from the day, and needed to sleep.
I woke up from the little sleep I was able to get to very cold, wet feet. Most of what was in my possession at this point was soaked from the storm, most of my clothes and sleeping bag had been sitting in a puddle of water at the foot of our tent. I was neither surprised nor disappointed. This felt on par with how the last 16 hours of our trip had gone.
I knew our situation was not ideal. I flirted with the idea that maybe we would have to turn around. I wasn’t sure whether our sleeping arrangements were sustainable for another five days in the backcountry, or if we would have enough time to dry out our gear before the next nightfall.
American Alpine Climber's Ranch. First glance of the Tetons after the storm cleared.
When Peter woke up he remembered he had another tent in his roof box, at the trailhead. We lay in our tent, discussing a plan to leave our packs at Big Sandy to run down and swap Tanner’s leaking tent with Peter’s working one.
I was giddy. It felt like things were starting to fall back into place… Or at least fall into the inevitable oscillation that occurs on these kinds of trips, ebbing and flowing between ‘Oh shit’ and ‘We figured it out.’
I awkwardly crawled out of Peter’s one-person tent, shouting (not intentionally, I just tend to talk loudly when I’m excited) to the rest of the group that we had another tent to use. Our problem had been solved! We would be able to continue on despite losing a day of climbing. Bummer, for sure, but not the end of the world. We still had at least two or three good days of climbing left on the trip, even with the delay and forecasted storms that lay ahead. Better than nothing, right?
Ray, Meredith, and Tanner were unfazed by my excitement. Ray said they were leaving.
They had deliberated, just like Peter and I, over a night with no sleep, and decided the best decision was to bail. They didn’t want to be stuck in the rain again, and even if we swapped the tents that day, we would still have to hike up to Jackass Pass and potentially get caught setting up camp in another storm. Ray seemed set on this decision, Meredith wasn’t saying much, and Tanner echoed his support.
We can’t possibly be bailing, I thought, my head racing. None of what had happened was a surprise. If anything, Tanner had extensively prepared me for this over countless talks about how quickly these storms roll in. That our key to success was going to be getting up early to climb and getting back down as quickly and safely as we could, to avoid getting caught in them. I knew Ray and Meredith understood this as well. This was a part of the deal.
Yeah, it sucked, but it was the mountains. We hadn’t planned for a walk in the park. What we had faced thus far was less than ideal conditions, not an issue of safety. Not a reason to bail.
The anger I had felt in the tent with Tanner the day before was beginning to resurface. Now it was aimed at the three of them.
I wanted to push back on their decision, press for more information on why. But I had already come into this trip feeling like the least experienced. Having settled into the role of “tagging along,” I doubted my own expertise. I acquiesced.
In hindsight, this is the point I would go back in time and change. It’s unfair to let myself escape the blame for contributing to a lack of communication with the rest of my team. It was fully in my control to speak up, instead of idly agreeing while secretly fuming.
But this was nothing new. It’s always been difficult for me to speak up for myself. It’s been that way since I was a kid. I suppose it comes from wanting to always be the good guy, to be cast in a positive light. Keeping the peace, people pleasing, or ignoring my needs has always felt safer than the discomfort of someone not liking me.
We stood around and ate breakfast, mulling over a game plan, and exploring where else we could go. I offered Devil’s Tower, which was quickly shut down by Ray, echoed by Tanner, again. “Wyoming is a big state. We’re on the opposite side, it’s too far. We’re not going to Devil’s Tower.”
The feeling started creeping in that my input, whatever opinion I did have, didn’t really matter anymore.
“Okay, but since we’re hiking out anyway, let’s take our day packs up to Jackass Pass so we can at least see the Cirque before we leave,” Peter chimed in.
He had a point. If we were leaving anyway, the hike out would only take a few hours, and it was only 7:00 am. We had plenty of time to hike up to Jackass from our campground and back down to the trailhead, a total of 13 miles. Especially if eight of those miles were in a day pack. At least that will make everything we’ve been through thus far worth the struggle.
No bite. They didn’t want to get caught in the afternoon storms again. They wanted to hike out, drive to Lander, and have a nice, cold beer.
I finally spoke up. “I want to hike up to Jackass, too. We have two cars, so if you guys want to hike out now we can meet you guys somewhere once we’re done.”
“Alright, well if that’s what you want to do then you guys better get going. We’ll all meet in Lander,” Ray responded.
Peter and I exchanged looks, followed by a nod, and proceeded to quickly pack our day packs. We said a quick and awkward, “Alright we’ll see y’all later,” to the rest of the group and quite literally ran off to the trail that led four steep miles up to Jackass Pass.
Our decision to stay felt like it split us officially from a party of five to a party of two. Peter and I hiked in silence for a few minutes, the silence feeling loud as we put distance between us and the rest of the group. The distance that felt more and more like it was representing the disconnect that had happened between all of us.
Over the next four miles, our conversation between bouts of breathlessness quickly went from small talk to breaking down everything that had happened. As we traversed meadows and around alpine lakes, honesty, and emotion flowed out of both of us like a fast-moving river with strong rapids. Carrying us up and down as we detailed our own experience. Different in some ways, but similar enough to leave us feeling like we had peeked inside of each other’s brains and read one another’s thoughts.
It was like a six-hour psychotherapy session, but instead of sitting staring at a stranger, we were outside, where we felt the most at home, doing what made us feel the most connected to ourselves. It was empowering.
The feelings coming up for us were multi-faceted. When everything started hitting the fan, Tanner was short and snappy, but only with Peter and me. He barely talked with us outside of those interactions, which wasn’t normal for him. Just as much as we were at a crossroads about how Tanner was showing up with us, it was equally a wake-up call about who we were choosing to put ourselves in the mountains with. Most of all, we were feeling hurt. It felt like a switch had been flipped the minute Ray and Meredith got there, suddenly they were his focus, and we were left in the background.
As we deliberated, it felt like a filter began to lift, one that I had been hiding behind. The filter that has always led me in the direction of not creating commotion or disruptions. To be agreeable. Before this talk, I was feeling defeated. Not wanting the hike to end, dreading our return to the conflict might lay ahead. But as we made our way up what seemed like endless switchbacks, the dread began to fall away. In its place came a sense of groundedness.
Despite our heavy commiseration, it didn’t take away from the excitement we felt heading up to the Cirque. We scrambled over a boulder field that led right to the bottom of a steep incline, the last climb up to Jackass Pass. The final climb before the Cirque of the Towers was finally in front of us.
Peter standing in awe of the Cirque of the Towers.
Our conversation dwindled as we made the final push for the pass. The massive, sawtooth spires of the Cirque began rising up into the sky, coming into view for the first time. My stomach filled with butterflies, that feeling you get when you’ve been waiting for a moment to arrive, and it finally does. The Cirques grew as we arrived at the top of Jackass, towering over us and casting shadows on the valley below.
Peter and I were in awe. We cried. We hugged.
It felt like such a rare thing, to be awestruck. To feel so present in your body, all five of your senses are fired up, listening.
It wasn’t the granite peaks or the feeling of my insignificance in their presence that brought this out of me. It was everything that had led up to this moment, exactly how it had all happened, that made it feel that much more significant.
Peter and I took our time at the Cirque. Taking pictures, having a snack, sitting, and soaking up the semi-circle of granite towers in front of us. We were sitting with gratitude, for each other, for this trip.
We hiked back down to camp, keeping with the same pace, intentionally not rushing ourselves. After eating some lunch and sunbathing for a bit, we started our slow jaunt out to the trailhead.
Hiking down from Jackass Pass.
We jokingly coined the trek down the “Hike of Shame,” due to the insane amount of people noticing the ropes on our packs and asking us, “Wow! Climbers! What did you guys get on?” After our short description of what had happened, most everyone replied with something to the tune of, “Screw ‘em! You guys should hike back up. The next three days are the weather window.”
It was 5:30 pm when we got down to the car, and around 7:00 pm when we rolled up in Lander. Peter and I opted for food and drinks, not yet ready to be back with the group and already feeling the thirteen miles we just hiked. We spent dinner letting our friends and family, who knew we were supposed to be in the backcountry, know that we were back in town.
On our way to Lander City Park, which is where we were meeting the rest of our group to stay for the night, Peter said that he was going to drive back to Salt Lake the next morning. He wanted to see how the dynamic felt when we all reconvened, but he just wasn’t sure he wanted to continue with the trip. I understood. I was unsure what I wanted to do. Everything that had happened thus far had put a bad taste in my mouth.
When we arrived at the city park, we were the first ones there. A few minutes later Ray, Meredith, and Tanner pulled up next to us. The passenger side windows rolled down. “Long day, huh?” Ray commented. Followed by Tanner, “Gabi, you’re sleeping with me in Ray and Meredith’s tent. They’re sleeping in their car. Peter, you’re in your own tent.” With that, they reversed the car and parked further down the lot.
I shot a look at Peter. I was fuming, again. Were they mad at us? No questions about how our hike went, not even a hello? Just the same energy we were met with earlier that morning. “The decision has been made, and this is what we are doing.”
Peter pulled his tent out of his roof box, quickly set it up, and turned in for the night. Neither Tanner nor Peter made an effort to speak with each other that night. I knew this was a big deal, for both of them.
Meredith soon ran over to me as I was getting my stuff together, gave me a big hug, and asked me how the hike was. I appreciated her interest. Even though she hadn’t said much over the course of the last 24 hours, she also hadn’t been anything but sweet to me. She told me the plan was to just stay in Lander and sport climb for the remainder of the trip, which put a knot in my stomach.
I walked over to the tent Tanner had set up for us and started blowing up my sleeping pad. I hear Tanner as he walked up say, “Remember, nothing dirty in the tent.”
I felt my ears growing hot with resentment. I knew what he meant by this. The day before, as we were frantically throwing our packs in the leaking tent during the storm, I accidentally stepped inside with my muddy boot, making a wet and muddy mess on my side of the tent. The filter that I felt had fled on my hike up to the Cirque started creeping back in, inviting me to avoid the conflict unfolding in front of me. I said nothing, but felt heavy with emotion. I no longer wanted to stay. It felt impossible to picture the next few days with everyone. As I settled in for the night, I decided I was leaving with Peter to Salt Lake the next morning.
I woke up with a pit in my stomach. My internal voice wrestling the unwanted filter for a spot at the table. Peter announced to the group that he was leaving, and I relayed some excuses as to why I was going with him. It wasn’t the truth, but it would get me out of the rest of the trip.
Filter-1, Gabi-0.
I’ll work on that, I told myself. We said a round of awkward goodbyes and well-wishes, and then Peter and I took off.
I was hit with a mix of emotions on our drive back to Utah. I was exhausted, more mentally than physically. I was feeling sadness around my friendship with Tanner, and gratitude for my deepened friendship with Peter. I was coming to terms with my part in things, trying to steer clear of displacing the blame on everyone else for how things went. Most of all though, I felt lighter. I was proud of myself.
To most, maybe me leaving seemed like a no-brainer, an easy thing to do. But really it was a huge step in a different direction. I had finally used my voice, albeit a shaky (and in this scenario, maybe not completely truthful) one. But I’d trusted myself, and did what I wanted to do. What felt right for me, despite the repercussions.
It was the first time I had valued my own peace over that of others.
The remainder of my trip was a gift in itself, beyond anything I could’ve envisioned. On our drive back, Peter gave me the idea to spend the last few days of my trip backpacking solo in the Wasatch Range surrounding Salt Lake. My first-ever solo trip into the mountains felt fitting after the last few days we had.
We arrived in Salt Lake in the early afternoon that same day, and after some research, I set my sights on summiting Mount Pfeifferhorn, an 11,000-foot peak in Little Cottonwood Canyon. Peter dropped me off at the trailhead the next morning, and over the course of three days, I basked in solitude.
The author atop Mt. Pfeifferhorn (11,331’), Wasatch Range, Utah.
This time imparted on me the chance to process, to write, to be still. I went into this trip looking forward to a new chapter in my climbing, to being physically challenged in the mountains. My expectations were struck down. But in their place came an opportunity to ground myself in my own voice. I left this trip with an immense amount of gratitude for my ability to rely on myself, and a deeply rooted appreciation that I chose to do so.
To be scared, to be uncomfortable, and to do it anyway.
Gabi Daugherty is an avid environmentalist, climber, and cyclist with a deep love for the outdoors. She is new to the world of writing, having freelanced for a little over a year. You can find more of her work at GearJunkie.
