I have no checklists

Reflections from an aspiring Alpinist.

Cecilia Timberg ’24 (she/her)

Standing on Pigeon Peak, a 13,972 foot peak in the Colorado San Juan Mountain Range, I felt both infinite and incomplete. I was 27 feet from being at 14,000 feet, from being able to say that I was at 14,000 feet, and I had no more land left to climb. If I jumped high enough, would I be able to touch it? Even if I could, would it matter?

I am an aspiring alpinist. I want to gain confidence in my decision-making skills at high, exposed places. I want the patterns of the mountains to become intuitive to me. I want to spend time at elevation, but I already know that I do not have the time and resources to attempt Everest, or stand on the highest peak in all fifty states, or even climb all the Colorado 14ers. I have no list of set goals to guide my trajectory as a mountaineer, and for that, in many peoples’ eyes, my legitimacy as an alpinist is greatly diminished. Climbing mountains is a goal-driven sport, so to be a mountaineer without set goals feels deeply oxymoronic.

As I catch my breath from the Pigeon peak summit push, I look up to find myself completely encircled by the jagged, snowy San Juan Mountains. Some of which I could identify, like Sunlight Peak and Mt. Eolus, two beautiful 14ers on the horizon. Other mountains looming among them not even Dave, my climbing partner who had lived in Colorado his whole life and summited all the 14ers, could name.

Coming down off of Longs Peak a week after summiting Pigeon Peak, my climbing partner, Maggie Mixer ’24, asked me “Do you think it is possible to stand everywhere?” The exhausted delirium brought on by our three miles of mixed climbing contributed to the meta quality of the question. I was perched on this little sliver of earth that gave me a vantage point to see a seemingly endless landscape, most of which I would never interact intimately with. Essentially Maggie was asking if it was possible to stand on every peak and in every valley that cut beautifully messy shapes in the horizon in front of us.

Cecilia on a snowfield on Pigeon’s Peak [Photo] Dave Papineau

San Juan Mountains, CO.

“No,” I responded. I do not think it could be done. I looked down at the mountain below me. I studied the route we had taken up as it wound through class three talus fields, cut quickly below mountain goats prone to dislodging rocks, and skirted dangerous exposure. I was proud of the route, it was the first time I had ever fully taken the lead on route finding that difficult. I had to be so immensely attentive to patterns of the mountain that I had not ever previously considered: snowmelt and instability and weather shifts. Also below me I could see the snowfield where Dave had taught me how to use an ice ax to self arrest and cut kicksteps into the snow. I could see how much I had learned about alpinism in the past two days. As we sat on the peak and watched the Durango train which had, 24 hours ago, dropped us off 5,000 feet below, wind along the Animas river, I made note of an alpinism goal: to learn. I did not put a box for a future check mark by it. 

When I ask people what their definition of an alpinist is, even those who identify as one find themselves stumbling over their words. I know that I do.

I googled the definition. According to Merriam-Webster, alpinism is “mountain climbing in the Alps or other high mountains.” The other results were similarly blunt and euro-centric. It is unsurprising. Alpinism has always been a sport that has a deep history of people with enough free time deciding to spend it conquering landscapes. 

“When I ask people what their definition of an alpinist is, even those who identify as one find themselves stumbling over their words. I know that I do.”

Of course, the idea of conquering a landscape makes no sense when you think about it. The mountains are constantly teasing you – offering a dose of adrenaline, a mesmerizing view, an oddly satisfying  sufferfest. We might complete an ascent, sure, but we never quite conquer it. The mountains are always there, waiting with their insurmountable power. Plus, the conquer rhetoric neglects to acknowledge the Native peoples who have been occupying these lands far before white alpinists starting “bagging” peaks.

Cecilia at an alpine campsite [Photo] Dave Papineau

For me, being an alpinist means that you are someone who is able to mitigate risk at exposure, to sustainably walk the line between danger and the lure of gratification. This is where the checklists come in. The more mountains you have climbed, the more experiences you have had, and therefore the more knowledge you can bring to future climbs. It makes sense that people use checklists as a way to structure their learning. It makes sense, to some extent, that someone’s ability at elevation is measured by the completion of those checklists. It means they have the experience. It is a way to quantify experience. What does exposure mean when we aren't actively ranking the risk against other feats? How does risk calculus change or evolve as we learn?

Mountain climbing is littered with ways to quantify danger for the sake of not only comparison but also so that we as aspiring alpinists ramp up our danger exposure safely. It does make some sense to chase those lists, but for me it is not a sustainable goal, and for that I may never be labeled a “real alpinist.” 

Personally, alpinism is an adopted passion from a past romantic partner. He had the goal of climbing the highest peaks in all 50 states, a goal we spent some of our gap year before college chasing. His aspirations led me to some of my most treasured memories: a sunrise summit of Guadalupe Peak in Texas, scaring a group of wild ponies on Mount Rogers in Virginia and watching them take off into a frozen forest. I have also driven hours out of my way to stand on a hill in a city park in Arkansas. Such is the nature of checklists.

When he and I broke up, I took a huge step back from mountain climbing. I had been following his passions, plans, and goals to every summit I had ever stood on. Without those things, I did not know how to interact with the mountains. Mountain climbing became a ghost -a reminder of a past self that sought adventure in other peoples’ dreams because she was too scared on her own.  

 It was not until a group of my friends asked me to help them plan and climb Mount Elbert last fall that I stepped back into that world. They wanted to stand on the highest point in Colorado and I had the experience to do the planning and preparation to help them get there. I was eager to share the experience of mountain climbing with them. I did the planning, made the packing lists, and answered their questions about how to mitigate risk at elevation. Their excitement fed my own and soon I found myself bubbling over with it. I was going to share something I loved deeply with people I loved deeply.  

I did not end up summiting with them. One of my friends got altitude sickness 500 feet below the summit and I turned around with him. The rest of my friends did summit and seeing their exhausted smiles as they collapsed into the car at the trailhead awoke a type of happiness in me that I had not known existed. I made note of two alpinism goals that day: to share and to teach. I did not put a box for a future check mark by either of them.  

At 2am the next morning, I drove back to the base and retraced the five miles of trail I had done before to the light of a full moon. I summited before the sunrise. Waiting alone in the howling wind for the sun to dim the stars, I found for the first time in my recent memory that my thoughts were silent. They had been replaced by the static energy of emotions that were impossible to translate. I was calmed by the knowledge that I was alone, that I had no need to tell anyone else about the experience. As the sun turned the ghost silhouettes around me into red-haloed peaks, I found my own individual love for being in the mountains. I made note of an alpinism goal: experience for the sake of experience. I did not put a box for a future check mark by it.  

Ultimately, I do have goals. 

I want to learn. I want to learn as much as I can about being at exposure:  how to communicate well with climbing partners, how to react to dangerous and unexpected situations, how to trad climb, how to climb in a rope team. I want to learn when to turn around, when it is safe to celebrate. I could spend my whole life learning. 

 I want to share. Accessibility to the mountains is an extreme privilege. I would like to use that privilege and the knowledge that I gather to bring other people safely into the mountains. I want to show people where I am disappearing to every weekend and why. I want people to see that the mountains are a space for everyone and everything to exist, whether you are standing on top of them or at the base of a waterfall running thick with the snowmelt from the summit, whether you are climbing them or painting them or listening to them.  

I want to teach. I want to pay tribute to all the people in my life who have and will give me the knowledge to exist in the mountains. I am excited to pass on the knowledge of all the things that I don’t yet even know that I don’t know. 

Another shot of the Pigeon’s Peak adventure [Photo] Dave Papineau

I want to use the mountains as a form of activism. I would love to bring the history of alpinism into the foreground of all the experiences I have and the conversations with the people I have along the way. The history of alpinism can not and should not be rewritten because to rewrite would be to silence, but I want to work towards a future where conquering is not central to the experience of mountaineering. I want to advocate for the changing of the names of some of the mountains, preferable to their Indigenous names, so that the reminders of colonialism do not loom quite as high on our horizon, so that this country and this landscape and the people who it was stolen from can do what they can to heal.  

I want to experience for the sake of experiences. There are no words needed for that one.

I have a list of goals. They have been written on granola bar wrappers and scrap paper and the palm of my hand. I have a list of goals but it is not a checklist. I will never be able to complete any of them. Maybe that makes me less of an alpinist, but it means I am lucky enough to never find finality in my mountain experiences. I will always be learning and experiencing and teaching and I would trade that for the title of “real alpinist” any day. I get to keep aspiring.  

The activities featured in this piece occurred on the occupied lands that make up a vast terrain for Indigenous peoples: the Ute Tribe, Jicarilla Apache, Arapaho, Comanche, and the Diné Nations, among others. Pigeon Peak is located in the Weminuche Wilderness, named after the Weminuche band of who the Ute Mountain Tribe are descendants.