In the Shadow of Mountain and Man.

It was there in photo and in story. It loomed overhead every time we chugged up the winding road to South Lake Tahoe, always too distant to fully grasp, yet too monumental to ignore. All year long its snowmelt cascaded down to the highway in an awesome display, inspiring even the most ignorant of wayward traveler. I'd listen to the retellings of my father's post-high school adventure up its face; how he and his friends set off with gear-burdened packs and Scotch-Guarded Levis. He showed me snapshots of the United States Coast and Geodetics Survey marker at its summit, adding an official seal to its intrigue. Pyramid Peak was always more than a mountain; it was a looming rite of passage waiting to bind me to wilderness, to the endurance of its struggle, and to my father.

This was the year. This was the summer.

By carefully avoiding hunting, fish gutting, heavy equipment operating, and prolonged exposure to dirt and mud, I know I'm a bit of a softy compared to my old man. With this all spinning in my head during the trip’s planning, I’d come to believe that my infallible father’s trip happened in a day. A day! Moreover, my research from a certain website led me to believe it could be done in a similar amount of time.

All excuses aside, I admit the trip into Desolation Wilderness and eventually up the giant rock pile was hastily planned. My good buddy Matt and I decided we’d hike the east face from Twin Bridges, following the Pyramid Creek Trail up Horsetail Falls. We’d stay to the left of Avalanche, Ropi, and Toem lakes and settle in at Gefo, the closest body of water to the peak. We’d relax by the water, plan the morning’s climb and full wilderness descent, and enjoy a nice dinner. Somehow, I failed to realize the final three miles to the summit meant a sheer scramble of vertical bouldering and a near 2,500-foot rise in elevation. All told, while day 1 included an afternoon trek of four miles and 1,000 feet, day 2 meant an ache-awakening three-mile climb immediately followed by a blistering ten-mile descent.

Somewhere before the ascent, I conceded underestimation, and was ready to throw in the towel. Matt wasn't, however, admitting that it would be unbearable to face my dad having not done what we set out to do. It didn't help matters that I was somehow convinced the guy'd originally done it in one huge push.

Did I enjoy the natural splendors, the star-strewn sky, the quiet solitude of the wilderness? Did my lineage, like a magnet, pull me through my vision quest as I resolutely marched into the clouds? One thing's for sure: I am my father's stubborn son, and despite the requisite planning flaws, I trudged on in enjoyment--or by God I faked it.

So with that, I present shreds of the trip. The photos below recount the all-encompassing nature of the ascent. You’ll see backpacking, camping, hiking, mountaineering, sight seeing, cliff scaling, trailblazing, and trail scouting.

Concern nowhere to be found, Matt is still not convinced I ever followed a trail.

Toem Lake, 3.5 miles into the journey, and far nicer than our destination of Gefo.

Consulting the map at something labeled "Kama Lake." Pyramid in the hazy background more than a ridge away.

Base camp, sheltered just below Gefo Lake.

Matt in the kitchen just before we lost the sun.

From left to right: cabernet, lentils, rice medley, and pita.

Looking down on Toem, Ropi, and the pointed shadow of the fabled beast.

Matt in repletion.

Me, satiated.

The calm before the storm.

I can't tell you what time we woke up because we left our watches in the car.

Matt scaling rocks above Gefo Lake without oversized backpack or complaint.

One of many heave/water breaks while scaling the east face.

I'm not even close at this point, but I've convinced myself I'm making progress.

The view became increasingly expansive. At the top of the image you can see the south shore of Lake Tahoe. At the bottom, a spec of Matt.

How sweet it is.

Looking quite accomplished, though still less than one-third done with the day.

Summit view west.

Summit view east.

A bit more in focus than the copy my father took nearly thirty-five years earlier.

You’ll notice no pictures posted from what I’ve built up as an extremely grueling descent. Truth be told, only three exist, and all of them were taken before arriving back at Gefo and rekindling our affairs with fifty-pound bags. (Ironically, the final photo from the trip is of a flower.) Naturally, the compulsion to document got lost somewhere between fatigue and delirium.