Peak baggin’ Borah
July 13th, 2022
“Dude … where is the summit?!”
I croak out a desperate plea, breathing laboriously. I think my heart is going to jump out of my throat. My body is utilizing every minute of the single hour of sleep I got before Dani and I decided to hike this behemoth: Mount Borah.
The tallest mountain in Idaho, it towers at a hefty 12,662 feet—looming over the large plains that house the quaint towns of Challis and Mackay.
While the total elevation of this mountain isn’t astronomical compared to other famous peaks in the United States, its 5,200-foot ascent in four miles makes Mount Borah uniquely strenuous.
This moment, about a quarter of a mile away from the summit, is the culmination of my two quarreling instincts: rest for my struggling body and a hunger for the extraordinary.
***
Dani and I had this day marked on our calendars for a few months.
I almost backed out: I committed to attending The Lumineers concert with my mom the night before the hike, not realizing that we would begin the four-hour drive to the trailhead at midnight. I thought it would be sensible to reschedule, but Dani had different plans.
I feel in my gut that we have to do it now, texted Dani—my short, brunette, easygoing best friend who manages to balance nursing school and instructing hot yoga like it’s nothing.
That obscure message is all it takes to shove my logic behind me and let my youthful fondness for unfavorable odds assume the driver’s seat of my 2006 sage-green Subaru Outback.
We arrive at the trailhead at 4:30 in the morning, running on watered-down gas station coffee, Clif bars, and the kind of sleep deprivation that makes one oddly energetic before “crashing.” I back the car into a space of dead grass.
“Is this even a camping spot?” Dani asks.
“I’m not sure, but I’m going to sleep.”
We climb into the back of the Subie, jump in our sleeping bags, and try to catch some “z”s before the day of reckoning.
At 5:30, we are rudely awakened by my obnoxiously cheerful alarm. My throat hurts, and I’m parched. Condensation from our breath had accumulated on the windows while we slept.
I squint, watching a drop of water run down the glass. The sleep (or the contacts I had accidentally left in) sticks in my eyes as I slowly blink into the pastel morning light.
There is a soft lemon-colored halo cresting over what I assume is the summit. Mount Borah doesn’t have a pointy, spired peak; quite honestly, it looks underwhelming with its rounded bumpy edges, like a heap of buttery mashed potatoes.
While the summit’s splendor isn’t found in its ambiguous shape, its sheer height is enough to elicit great reverence.
It towers behind multiple other ridges, like layers of paint. Above all this, the sky becomes a deep lavender ocean. Sitting up in my sleeping bag, I look at Dani.
“This is gonna suck,” I announce with a smirk and a flicker of mischief in my eyes.
***
We take our first crisp steps on the frosted trailhead at 6:00.
Despite the dewy morning chill, we are in shorts; the rest of our outfits consist of hiking socks, boots, and multiple top layers to shed during the ascent. We are equipped with hiking packs, hats, sunglasses, and trekking poles.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize that we will shed those top layers sooner than expected.
The trail to Borah Peak wastes no time with a gentle introduction. Immediately, we find ourselves moving like a locomotive of arms and legs; we stab the earth with our trekking poles, heaving our bodies up the treacherous incline.
It’s a sacred morning, as there are no other souls on the popular trail, which is known to gather upwards of 5,000 climbers a year.
As we ascend, all we hear is the slipping of rocks and dirt beneath our feet, the jabs of our poles, and our rhythmic breathing. Other than our trivial sounds, a tranquil silence nestles into the crevices of the creek beds and small valleys.
A mile or so passes, and I see the landscape around us change from canopies of scrawny foliage to barren, exposed shale rock. The sun begins to beam over the peaks ahead, bathing the moon-like terrain in an optimistic orange hue.
A striking scene is ahead: sheer rock faces jutting out from the top of the mountain like razor blades.
On the side we’re approaching, an unforgiving cliff face bottoms out hundreds of feet below, where snowpack still melts in the heat of July. Dani and I look at each other, thinking the same thing: That must be Chicken-Out Ridge.
As we approach, we mull over navigating the rocky mess.
A significant percentage of people hoping to stand on the roof of Idaho turn around at this point, hence its daunting name. The hiking forums we read before the trip attempted to describe the route of this crux, but we both realize we will need to find our own way up due to the complexity of the terrain.
As we progress into an almost-vertical rock climb rather than a scramble on the back side of the ridge, I realize that we chose the most dangerous and technical route. Sketchy rock chutes, disintegrating footholds, and steep drop-offs leave no margin for error.
Putting our thin cold-weather gloves on to protect our hands from the sharp holds, we immerse ourselves in the precarity of the situation, avoid looking down, and climb onward.
Lowering ourselves down a slippery-smooth black rock chute to complete the notorious quarter-mile section, adrenaline raises every hair on my body.
Our boots crunch into the snow bridge that connects us to the rest of the trail, and we silently acknowledge that one misstep on Chicken-Out could have resulted in very real consequences.
Nevertheless, we suppress thoughts of our mortality and look ahead to the peak. The rocky summit is in sight!
There’s under a mile left to go. I look up at the peak—its rolling incline taunts us. We read about this trail’s false summits in the hiking forums, but if we learn anything from today, it’s that climbing this giant is an extremely individual experience.
Still scrambling, I see the top above us. Looking down, I try to catch my breath, hunching over to settle my mind and address the tunnel vision and altitude exhaustion.
I take a few more steps. Any forward progress is progress, I think. I look up. It seems we have reached what we thought was the top, but there is another “top” behind this one. Ah, we realize simultaneously. The dreaded false summits.
“It’s like running on a treadmill of rocks,” Dani squeaks out exasperatedly.
At this point, every ten steps require at least thirty seconds of recuperation. The false summits don’t let up.
The lack of altitude acclimation, deprivation of sleep, and overall exhaustion make me feel delirious—like I’m stuck in a wormhole.
My ears are pounding, my heart is pounding, and I vow not to look up until my hands are done clawing at the rocks above my head.
Finally, I take one last grab at the mountain, pulling myself up the 12,662nd foot of Mount Borah.
We’ve made it to the summit.
Dani and I blink our eyes and gradually take in the glorious view before us. On the back side of the peak, a spectacular image rewards us—its beauty reserved only for those who make it to the top.
Pristine blue alpine lakes, striking rock formations, and infinite mountain ranges delight our tired eyes.
We turn to ogle the vast plain that lies at the base of this mountain. Our eyes trail each ridge and valley, etching the path we just conquered. Far below, I recognize something familiar.
At first, I can barely decipher the object I am looking at, with its hard edges and metallic shine. My car, Walter, the sage green Subaru Outback—parked at the trailhead, just how I left it, unchanged, unbothered.
Seeing what an ironic contrast my car’s state was to the intense emotional and physical transformation Dani and I had just experienced was enough to make me laugh.
***
It’s a cliche, but Dani and I are changed after this experience.
It wasn’t particularly the hike itself that felt unique because many hikers traverse the same trail. We walk in each other’s footsteps but experience different journeys. Dani and I have found that our journey was committing to an idea and making it happen.
Later, I asked Dani what she took away from the experience on Mount Borah.
“That we’re strong,” she says. “We had so many things going against us; if we didn’t really want to summit, we wouldn’t have. We both had to be on the same page.”
I’ll fondly remember this experience with Dani for the rest of my life.
Feeling the crunch of the dirt beneath our boots, our ragged breath in the crisp mountain air. The sound of nervous laughter as we approach the unknown. The sporadic gusts of wind screaming over the ridges, playing with our hair and peeling our eyelashes back.
I’ll remember what it felt like to truly, wholeheartedly pour myself into a moment, immersing myself in the truly uncomfortable.
We may have stood on the top of the world there for a moment, but at the same time, we bowed humbly to the feet of a beautiful earth.
