The climbing rope slithers ahead of me up the icy route, a psychedelic snake of Day-Glo green and pink tethering me to my partner, who is kicking her way up the Roman Wall, the final obstacle between us and the 10,778-foot summit of Washington’s Mount Baker. The slope falls away precipitously to our left, a big white slide into a bottomless crevasse for anyone who makes a misstep here.

Fear, my old friend, gets me in its familiar headlock and I freeze in my crampons, playing my death drop over and over in my mind until a gentle tug on the rope gets me moving again.

It’s the first time I have attempted to climb a major peak since I underwent surgery for prostate cancer a year ago — and I’m disappointed. Not with the outcome of the cancer treatment, which has resulted now in three consecutive “undetectable” PSA tests, full bladder control and drug-free boners. No, I’m disappointed in me, who I thought was done with all this ’fraidy-cat stuff.

I mean, hey, I had cancer, friggin’ prostate cancer. I had to listen to a doctor tell me I had a life-threatening illness. I had to lie awake for hours at night and try to decide what to do about it. I had to trust a team of surgeons to conk me out with drugs, strap me to a table and manipulate a robot to carve out my diseased organ. I had to live with the fear that I’d need to wear diapers and pop Viagra for the rest of my life. Yes, I’m Mike Friggin’ Stuckey and I had friggin’ prostate cancer and the yak route up a frequently climbed Cascade volcano should not scare me.

Well, to quote Woody Allen, a master of modern fantasy, if only life were like that.

Still not invincible
Like many people who have had an emotionally and physically demanding experience, I’d like to be able to sum up exactly how it changed me. Like many writers, I yearn to wrap it all up in one simple but breathtakingly true sentence. Here’s about as far as I get: “Cancer … ”

But my inability to put it into words doesn’t keep certain ideas from creeping in, such as the notion that beating cancer should somehow make me a fearless, studly mountaineer. Or vague thoughts that, having weathered this, the rest of my life will be a cakewalk.

I’m afraid it’s all part of that same grand, silly scheme that misinforms us in so many ways from the day we are born about our place in the world and our impact upon it, telling us we are more significant than we really are and that we’re in charge of things that will always be beyond our control. It's the voice that says if we prepare, practice, do everything just right, everything will be OK. When I’m not taking myself too seriously, I can get a good chuckle out of that now.

The best way that I can sum up the past year is to note that, like other valuable lessons in life, cancer taught me how physical and material experiences pale in comparison with spiritual experiences. Rather than feel like I learned many new things from having cancer, I saw the best previous lessons from my life underscored with a big red Sharpie.

Kelly J. Phanco Descending the Roman Wall on Mount Baker.