Alpine Divorce?

I clawed my way toward a short and solitary conifer rooted at the center of the snowfield, stomping hard on my crampons to gain what little traction I could. I stayed low to the ground, moving in a dangerous and inefficient manner, sobbing and trembling, a sight to behold—if anyone had been around to see it.

The night before, I’d invited myself to join Nate, my partner of several years, and two of our friends on a day of mellow ski mountaineering in the Mission Mountains, north of Missoula, Montana. East Saint Mary’s is a relatively simple, nontechnical springtime ski objective. You park on tribal land, struggle your way up a relentlessly steep and muddy slope until you reach snow, then skin or climb your way toward the ridge. I’m not good with heights but had managed to get up and down East Saint Mary’s once before with a different group of pals. Though that day I was recovering from a stomach bug, I