Beyond that, I have come to understand that, like many other profound events in life, cancer is an experience that takes and gives. It leaves its marks, even if you can’t see and describe them with precision.

Cancer stole from me an entire climbing season, days and weeks in the mountains, an untold number of summits and peak experiences. What might have been? Cancer took from me sweet spontaneous sexual arousal. It stole, for a time, confidence in my ability to do things I had always done.

But, odd as it may sound, cancer also gave. It gave me the opportunity to share my experience with millions of readers, some who know me very well, others who see me only in the halls at work and most of whom have never met me. In return, readers shared their stories with me. Cancer showed me that I am not alone, that I am loved, that we are all connected in ways that are both obvious and that we can never see.

Shifting ground
The end of my year battling cancer coincides with the start of a new climbing season. I am simply grateful to be back on the mountain again, happy that it’s such a fine, clear day on Mount Baker’s summit despite a stinging wind. My partner and I can see peaks that we have climbed together, such as the nearby Mount Shuksan, and separately, the distant Mount Rainier. In between is the enormous and enchanting Glacier Peak, which we will attempt next. We hug and snap a few photos and begin our descent.

The big idea in glacier climbing is to get back down as early in the day as you can. Noon is usually our limit, but we won’t be down to 7,000 feet and off this river of ice until at least 1 p.m. As the sun softens the snow, all kinds of potential hazards emerge, not the least of which is a heart-stopping plunge through a softened surface layer of snow and into a crevasse.

At 8,000 feet, the snow balls up in our crampons to the point that the risk of tripping outweighs the advantage that the spikes would give us in crawling out of a hole, should one of us fall in. Besides, this part of the glacier has few cracks. We remove the crampons and revel in the simple new freedom of plunging unhindered down the soft snow.

Inside of a minute, my right leg sinks nearly to the knee at the tail-end of a narrow, 50-foot-long fissure that is clearly visible just to the right of the route. At no point is it wide enough to swallow a person, but how could I possibly have missed it?

All our preparation, all our planning, all our caution — in one unguarded moment, it makes no difference. When I stop scolding myself, I find the irony as amusing as it is instructive, and chuckle softly most of the way back to camp.