Every year, my friend Parker and I try to link up for one big adventure. We don’t always manage, but when we do it feels like slipping back into something grounding — like, oh yeah, this is what friendship feels like. For years I’d stared at the Bear’s Tooth while driving over the Beartooth pass, that sharp spire poking at the sky. It had this mythic pull on me. So when Parker and I finally carved out the time, we decided this was the year.
We met at Red lodge, spread maps on the back of his Element, and double checked our plan: hike in, camp, and leave a couple of buffer days for weather. The forecast said our second day was our best chance, so we packed up for a push then.
The trail was beautiful — mellow at first, winding along the creek, huckleberries everywhere. We ate handfuls, laughing about how slow we were moving. Then the terrain kicked up through a couple passes, and soon we were tiptoeing across this endless talus field — refrigerator-sized blocks that turned miles into hours. That kind of movement makes you feel small and tired fast.
We decided to keep going as far as we could instead of stopping early. I didn’t realize until we got to camp that I had brought a broken water filter. For a second, I felt that familiar pang of ugh, seriously? But in the mountains, it’s never the end of the world. The mishaps — the forgotten gear, the detours, the little mistakes — always end up making the best stories. They’re also why I carry such an easy, nonchalant demeanor out there. It’s not carelessness; it’s just knowing that things will never go perfectly, and that’s half the point. Luckily Parker, ever the reliable one, had iodine tablets as backup.
We camped near the base that night, tucked in, and set alarms for the early start. Morning came, and with it all the nerves I hadn’t felt in a long time. I hadn’t done a real mountain objective in years — no trad, no multi-pitch, no alpine scrambles — and suddenly it all felt really big.
The climb itself is only a few pitches — nothing crazy by the numbers, 5.6 with a harder bit at the top — but that didn’t matter. Early on, there’s this exposed slab section, unroped, covered in little pebbles that skitter under your feet. I froze. Just full-on paralyzed. It was embarrassing and frustrating and honestly scary — not because the moves were hard, but because I couldn’t shake the thought of how fragile life is.
I’ve lost people in the mountains. That weight shows up at random. It showed up there, on that slab, right when I wanted to feel strong. And behind it was another weight I hadn’t admitted out loud yet — the quiet reckoning of finally naming myself as queer. It’s strange how the fear of falling, the fear of dying, and the fear of being fully seen can live in the same body. They feel different, but they hum with the same electricity.
Parker was patient. He let me take my time, talk it through, breathe it out. Eventually I got moving again. I followed Parker for most of the climbing — plugging into the rhythm of belay, climb, anchor, repeat. I did lead a small section, but mostly I just let him lead. By the time we topped out, the frustration had loosened. Standing on that tiny summit, the wind moving around us, it felt like we’d stepped into another time. We found out later that we were the last people to summit the Bear’s Tooth that year. That made it feel even more rare, like we’d been let in on a secret.
There are days in the mountains where you’re the one pushing through, carrying the weight, leading every pitch because your partner needs you to. And then there are days when your partner is the strong one, brimming with confidence, and your job is to lean into that and let them lead. That give and take is what makes a good partnership. I’ve been on both sides of it, and on Bear’s Tooth, it was my turn to hand over the reins and trust.
The descent went smoothly, and by then I was finding more of my footing again, literally and mentally. Back at camp, we moved closer to the lake, cooked dinner under a big rock, and uncorked the bottle of wine we’d hauled in. We read books, ate sour patch kids, and felt smug about our summit.
Then the weather turned. Dark clouds rolled in, thunder cracked, lightning flashed, and rain pounded all night. We woke up to more of the same. I had a migraine — something I deal with too often, especially in the mountains — so I just crawled deeper into my bag while Parker read. We spent the whole extra day huddled in camp, listening to rain hammer the tent and what sounded like boulders rolling down around us (thankfully they weren’t).
When it was finally time to hike out, everything was soaked. The talus field that had slowed us on the way in was now slick with moss and water, every step sketchy. We picked our way slowly, not wanting to slip between the blocks and wreck an ankle. Honestly, it was more mentally exhausting than the climb itself. But once we were past it, the rest of the walk out was almost joyful — just two friends, drenched, laughing, hiking back to the trailhead with everything we’d hoped for already behind us.
The Bear’s Tooth wasn’t about pushing grades or checking a box. It was about coming back to the mountains, shaking off fear, and remembering that joy and fear and frustration can all live in the same trip. And tucked in there too was something deeper — the beginnings of finally coming into myself, of naming the truth I’d been circling for years. Sometimes the rarest summit is the one you share with your best friend, high on a lonely spire, while starting to admit to yourself who you really are.
