Up to this point, everything on this trip has gone amazing. I feel tremendous momentum, as if all the benevolence of the universe is with us, filling our sails and propelling us forward.

It was bound to happen sooner or later: the setback, the crash, the collision between unstoppable momentum and an immovable object.

That immovable object proves to be Tenaya Peak.

—

For years I have wanted to see Tuolumne, a high-elevation region in the northeastern portion of Yosemite Valley. The beauty of this area is legendary: lush meadows, granite domes, and the winding Tuolumne River, tucked away in the subalpine heights, far from the crowds and traffic jams in Yosemite Valley. The National Park Service’s webpage for Tuolumne opens with a fitting quote from John Muir:

Walk away quietly in any direction and taste the freedom of the mountaineer. Camp out among the grasses and gentians of glacial meadows, in craggy garden nooks full of nature’s darlings. Climb the mountains and get their good tidings, Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.

Tuolumne is also home to phenomenal rock climbing, including three relatively “easy” alpine mountain climbs: Tenaya Peak, Cathedral Peak, and the Matthes Crest. All three can be linked in a day by strong climbers, a feat known as the Triple Crown. In the runup to our trip, I studied all three routes. I read guidebooks and watched YouTube videos.

Although Hannah and I were still relatively new to multi-pitch climbing, I thought these peaks would be within our abilities. They would be bold, huge, and intimidating, making them a fitting climax to our trip. Before we returned to Alabama, I wanted to accomplish something that would take me to my limit.

—

I set my sights on the Northwest Buttress of Tenaya Peak, supposedly the easiest of these three classic climbs. The hardest pitch is only 5.5, which is well within my limits, and most pitches are even easier. However, the route is 14 pitches and gains 1400 feet, which is monstrous compared to any technical climb I have done. Completing the climb would require not just raw climbing skills but the ability to tackle a long approach hike, navigate an ocean of granite, make decisions in an austere and unforgiving environment, and find my way down a long descent trail at day’s end.

All this intimidates me, but I feel quiet, easy confidence. I know I have the ability to safely climb this mountain. I often shirk back from the boundary edge of my abilities, afraid I won’t be up to the challenge. This formidable mountain poses a question: whether I will trust myself. This time, I’m resolved, the answer will be “yes.”

—

Shortly before our arrival, I realize I made a rare planning mistake: I forgot that Tuolumne Meadows actually sits within Yosemite National Park. In June, Yosemite only required entry reservations on Saturday and Sunday. In July that changes to every day. It’s July now, and reservations are sold out.

Fortunately, the park offers a sensible option that limits the crowds in Yosemite while still allowing dirtbag adventurers virtually unlimited access to the park: visitors don’t need a reservation if they enter before 5am.

We leave our RV park at 3:30am. I make a bleary-eyed drive up the winding mountain road, past the deserted Yosemite entry booth, and towards Tenaya Lake. It is utterly dark; the sky is full of stars. I keep my focus on the winding two-lane road, but I can sense gigantic shapes rising up around me and am acutely aware of the black void to my left. This landscape must be breathtaking. I can’t wait to see it.

I park beneath Tenaya Peak, slouch back to my bed, and go back to sleep.

—

My alarm rouses us at 8:00am, the latest I want to embark on this climb. We rub our eyes, make coffee, and grab our climbing gear. Then we step outside and get our first glimpse of Tuolumne.

Tenaya Peak is immense, shining white overhead. It evokes my feelings of looking up El Captain. It’s only half as tall, but that’s still huge. Unlike El Capitan, which is starkly vertical, this granite sea is sloped, which is what supposedly makes the climb accessible to someone like me. Despite the peak’s formidable size, I feel good. We can do this.

We start up the two-mile approach trail, which gains considerable elevation through a series of overgrown deer paths, switchbacks, and low-angle slabs. Our good feelings quickly sour. I’ve never seen this many mosquitos; twenty or thirty cling to our clothes at a time, and we’re constantly swatting them away from exposed skin. We’re both feeling the elevation and the morning heat; after twenty minutes of hiking, I’m dripping with sweat. We both have daypacks and climbing gear, and I’m hauling a heavy rope over my shoulders. We’re also tired from our early-morning drive into Tuolumne.

At one point, we lose the approach trail. We need to go back down, I conclude. We have to make a sketchy move on wet, slippery granite. It’s only a few feet, but a fall would entail tumbling down the next slab. I take the time to set up a belay. It’s awkward and time-consuming. No sooner do we get down than another couple appears, telling us we had it right the first time; the trail continues above us. We climb back up the sketchy move, this time without the benefit of a belay. The back-and-forth leaves me tired and shakes my confidence; if I can’t navigate the approach trail, how will I routefind through 14 pitches of rock? We’re also chugging through our water quickly, and we aren’t even on the climb yet. We stop to filter water, which leaves us at the mercy of mosquitos. Hannah’s patience is cracking; she wants to charge ahead, away from the mosquitos, but without rests we’re both getting tired.

Two hours after we set out, we finally arrive at the granite slabs marking the start of what I think is the first pitch of the climb. We’re exhausted, covered in bites, sweaty, and emotionally rattled. We need to rest, but rest means a feast for the mosquitos. The path ahead is all exposed slabs, with easy walking but the potential for long falls. I feel ill at ease. A long way ahead, I can see climbers gathered beneath a tree that marks the start of the second pitch. Above that it’s pure granite.

Hannah and I look at each other silently, inquiring. We’re both in the same headspace: fatigued, sketched out, swamped with negative emotions. “I’ll keep going if you want,” Hannah tells me, but I know she doesn’t want to. I don’t either. Not today.

We turn around.

—

The onslaught of negative self-talk is immediate and relentless. I ache with self-loathing. I feel worthless, cowardly, a failure. This is supposed to be an easy climb. I know I can do it; the only thing holding me back is my own lack of confidence.

“Jacobsen is a whiny sissy,” begins the harshest review I’ve ever received for my book. I stopped reading right there, but those words lodged in my brain like a splinter. They perfectly embody one of my deepest fears: that I’m not strong enough, that I’m singularly weak or fearful.

I have come a long way over the years, recognizing these disparaging internal monologues, analyzing them, and leeching them of their power. I wonder why these thoughts and feelings are attacking so strongly now. Why is it, I wonder, that my feeling of self-worth is bound up in climbing a mountain peak that would utterly terrify most people? Clearly, this is unhealthy. I wonder what I am trying to prove, and to whom. The only coherent answer is myself.

I’m frustrated and angry, trying to swim my way out of the black whirlpool of emotions. I know I’m being irrational. I know this response is deeply unhealthy, and that it’s pointing me towards something important I need to learn about myself. Maybe that is today’s task, I think: to battle this demon, to face something in myself even harder than the mountain.

—

A short ways into our descent down the approach trail, we meet two climbers on their way up. They look like brothers, lean and strong, wearing sunglasses, day packs, and identical sun shirts. When they ask us about our plans, I sheepishly tell them we’re bailing. I’m embarrassed, I say, but we weren’t in a good headspace to do the climb.

Their tone changes immediately: they become overwhelmingly kind, gracious, and encouraging. Bailing is normal, they say. They do it all the time. The guidebooks might advertise easy climbing, they say, but climbing in an alpine environment is radically different than crag climbing. They applaud our decision and offer thoughts on other, easier climbs. We learn they are Yosemite Climbing Rangers, which sounds like the best job ever. Their names are Eric and Gus, and they are the kindest and most encouraging people I’ve ever met on the trail. They arrived at a crucial moment, like angels.

I feel marginally better. We continue down, through the mosquito-infested forest, to our van.

—

Hannah and I spend the afternoon at Lake Tenaya, where the breeze keeps the mosquitos away. We don’t feel like climbing; instead, we read and nap in our hammock. It is a perfect day, a day of unexpected, blissful rest in each other’s arms in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

I try so hard to fully relax into the beauty of the day. Even as I savor this beautiful togetherness, I can’t quite shake the demons. They still prowl in the shadows, whispering hate. My eyes keep drifting up to Tenaya above. We discuss possibly trying again tomorrow; now that we know the approach, we’ll be in a better headspace.

We depart early to find a dispersed campsite. A helpful app leads us into the Inyo National Forest, which doesn’t look much like a forest at all; it’s a bleak landscape of gravel, dirt, and desert shrubs. I feel cranky. I don’t want to camp in a dirt patch in the desert, but that’s exactly where we end up.

I turn off the engine and climb out of the van. Almost immediately, my feelings change: it is truly beautiful here. We are utterly alone in this desert wilderness. The sky is enormous. Mountains range from north to south as far as we can see, layered behind each other, some of them snow-capped. It looks like Middle Earth. It’s warm, but pleasantly so; we’re still at considerable elevation.

We cook dinner and open a bottle of wine. The quiet is incredible. Our spirits settle as we yield to the stillness. We sit on a rock and watch the sun go down over the mountains to the west; they are shrouded with haze, each successive peak a lighter shade of blue than the one before. We talk for hours, about everything under the sun.

I can tell already that this will be the darkest sky I’ve seen in years. We are miles from anything, and tens of miles from a city of any respectable size. The moon won’t rise until 3:00am. We lay a blanket and sleeping bags out on the sand. The stars begin to appear, Arcturus and the handle of the Big Dipper at first, then others I don’t know. Thousands of smaller, fainter stars fill in the remaining emptiness. The Milky Way reveals itself as the last blue light melts into the mountains, a winding river low over the horizon, so faint I can’t be sure it’s real.

Hannah curls into me. I teach her constellations. We watch for shooting stars and count satellites. We are alone in the universe, and the stars are our own private possession.

—

I wonder what I learned this day.

I confronted something in myself I don’t like, a painful but necessary reckoning.

But I also learned something about relaxing control. I failed to climb a mountain; the ensuing space became fertile ground for Hannah’s and my relationship. This unexpectedly became a day for us. I could never have planned something like this, with so many magical unfoldings. To appreciate these little miracles I needed to be still, quiet, and receptive to serendipity.

I’m not sure how to put all these disparate pieces of the day together. But maybe I don’t need to; maybe lying here beneath these stars, marveling at the mystery of it all, is enough.