The Summit

Mount Ina Coolbrith and an unwritten poem are alike. Both are wild with no established entry points, no trails to follow, and no signs telling you which way to go. They are also different: While a poem has a metaphorical peak to scale, few have climbed Mount Ina Coolbrith, an 8,068-foot-tall mountain in the Sierra Nevada, six miles southeast of Beckwourth Pass where Ina crossed into California at eleven years old.

On a June day in 2018 I scaled it at sixty years old. We rose before dawn, but it took hours to find a good starting point. Though Mount Ina Coolbrith is on U.S. Forest Service land, its base is a sea of sagebrush, fences, and “No Trespassing” signs. With me were my husband, Dave; Wade, our fox terrier (dumb idea); and Debbie Bulger and Richard Stover, peak climbers in their retirement.

Mount Ina Coolbrith was the last item on my bucket list of Coolbrith-related pilgrimages. As her biographer, I visited her birthplace in Nauvoo, Illinois; walked the cities where she lived; and paid my respects at her Mountain View Cemetery gravesite, which had gone unmarked for years until the Ina Coolbrith Circle righted the wrong with an elegant pink marble headstone.

At around 10 a.m., we began our ascent on the west side of the mountain with its arid expanse of sweet-smelling sage and yellow mule’s ears. Up, up, up we went. By the time we neared the summit it was nearly five p.m., and clear to me that the effort was beyond my stamina. The sun was low, and the vehicles several ridges away.

Debbie pointed to the summit where we would register our names and leave a copy of Coolbrith’s “In Blossom Time.” As the others climbed the Volkswagen-sized boulders to reach it, I chose to stay behind and gather my resolve for what I knew would be an arduous hike down.

We descended by a different route, and with ankles askew, slid on loose talus, skirted sage brush, and pushed our way through dead manzanita bushes. After hours of walking on the near-sheer terrain, my thigh muscles went rubbery, and it was harder to catch myself when I slid. Wade, our terrier, had reached his limit, too, and was hitching a ride in Dave’s backpack.

The sun went down. It was a moonless night and by 10 p.m. it was pitch dark. Dave and I were unprepared. We didn’t have headlamps or a flashlight; I had a light on my phone, but Dave’s phone was dead.

The second time I fell, my heels touched my butt, and I knew I was in trouble. “I think we have to spend the night on the mountain,” I said for all to hear.

“No!” Debbie said sternly in the dark. “I won’t let you die on this mountain!”

Richard took my backpack, and we continued to walk for another hour on a black hillside that slanted near the angle of repose.

Finally, we made it back to the vehicles at 12:30 a.m., drove to our campground, and collapsed. The next day I couldn’t walk, and days of hot baths didn’t help. I saw a physical therapist and used a cane for five months until my knees began to track again.

I didn’t reach the summit, but I am at peace with that. Like writing a poem, a pilgrimage is about the journey, and summit or no, I still climbed Mount Ina Coolbrith.

By Aleta George, written for The Gathering 16, The Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Anthology 2024-25

Dave George, Aleta George, Richard Stover, and Debbie Bulger