Bonus Episode: The Moth Wrapped
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Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Sarah Austin-Ginness. The year is coming to a close, and on this special bonus episode, we're reflecting back on the stories we shared in 2024. Because we shared over 250 of them on this podcast. Yes, 250 stories.

Some of the stories were laugh-out-loud funny, some were heartbreaking, some surprising and profound. Maybe some of the stories made you see things in a different light.

Thank you for listening and for sharing these podcast episodes with your friends. We love it. And we thought it might be fun to highlight some stories that most resonated with you, at least according to the vagaries of the social media algorithm. So we made a video compilation of our most shared stories. A moth-wrapped, if you will. A moth-cocoon, if you will, even more. Moth-wrapped, get it?

Anyway, you can find the list and the videos on the Moths Instagram at Moth Stories, where you can follow us for more great moth videos, news, and yes, stories. We also have a link in the episode description. And now from your 2024 most shared list, Monty Montapar.

Monte told this at a moth main stage at St. Anne and the Holy Trinity Church in Brooklyn, where the theme was "Slight of Hand." Here's Monte live with the moth. At 23 years old, I was in my third season working as a glacier guide in Alaska. I took people hiking on glaciers, ice climbing on glaciers, and that spring I had successfully summited the 16,000 foot glaciated volcano that looms over town.

I was feeling very confident in my skills in the mountains and I could finally grow a full beard. So when my friend Elizabeth asked if I wanted to be her assistant on a fly-in base camping trip, I said, "Oh yeah, that sounds super chill." She told me the four clients were the women that I had met that afternoon on the deck of the guide service.

They were decked out head to toe in brand new Arc'teryx rain gear, which is a red flag. Not only is Arc'teryx the Prada of outdoor equipment, but generally speaking, the newer the gear, the less the experience, which was exceptionally true in this case. They were from New York City and had never been camping.

They had never slept in a tent. I lived in a tent. Elizabeth said, "Yeah, that's why they want you along." She said, "They really like the idea of a full bearded Alaskan along to protect them from the wilderness." How could I say no? Fly-in base camping is like car camping with a bush plane. So all six of us get into an airplane the size of a minivan with wings.

We fly for 40 minutes over forests and rivers and mountains and glaciers, some of the wildest landscape on the planet. And the plane lands on a little gravel strip in a giant valley next to an even bigger glacier. We're surrounded by snow-capped peaks dripping with ice. There's these babbling creeks.

beautiful green alpine. I'm pumped because I just got a free plane ride to a place I've never been before. Our clients are in a state of shock and awe and stimulation overload. And as the plane leaves and goes out of sight, I watch all four of them have the gut-wrenching realization that they just paid somebody to strand them out here.

They wanted their own personal space because it was the end of a long trip, so they each wanted their own tent. But they also wanted to sleep next to each other because they were afraid of camping. So I set up four identical tents wall to wall like a nylon apartment building in the wild. And that night Elizabeth cooked dinner and I entertained and their first night out was like an REI ad come to life.

The goal of this weekend was to have a relaxing trip, maybe take a couple day hikes. So the next day we set out to hike to this area of Alpine on the other side of the valley. And it was a beautiful, sunny summer day. But after a couple hours of rocky walking, morale was low. This was the end of their whirlwind, let's go everywhere in Alaska trip. And they were kind of over it.

And I'm pulling out all the stops too. I'm doing interp on geomorphology, pointing out the patterns glacial output streams carve, telling lichen jokes. Fun stuff! None of it is landing. We get to the head of the valley and we see that the easiest way into the alpine is over this glacier.

And Elizabeth and I take people hiking on glaciers all summer long. We don't have our full kit, but it's good weather, good hikers, we're good to go. And when we get up on the ice, everything changes. Summer glaciers are alive. The ice is sparkling. There's these creeks carving these beautiful channels. There's these blue pools of water that are reflecting that glacier blue from the inside.

It's stunning. And our clients start enjoying themselves. They're engaging with the environment. They're taking selfies, doing yoga poses. This is what they're here for. And then we encounter a little bit of snow and then a little bit more snow. And when you are on a winter glacier that's covered in snow, it's customary to rope yourself to each other in case somebody unexpectedly breaks through the snow and falls into a crevasse.

In the summer, the snow is gone and you can see all the crevasses and just walk around them. This is a summer glacier but there's some patches of winter left over. So Elizabeth goes ahead to scout our way off of the ice which can be problematic.

And I stay behind guiding our clients. And I've got them behind me in a single file line, and I'm making sure to stay as much as we can on the exposed ice. And if we have to step on snow at all, I use my ski pole to probe it first to make sure that it's snow over ice, not snow over air. And now I'm having a good time.

I'm moving my clients through terrain, I'm picking lines that are mostly ice. If I got to deal with a little bit of snow, I probe, I step, I probe, I step. I'm thinking, "I am a good guide." Then the next step I take is just in front of my probe pole, and the snow beneath me disintegrates instantly, and I begin to free fall into the glacier immediately.

and for long enough to think a few things. First, I'm gonna die. Followed by, "What an embarrassing way for a glacier guide to die." And then, "Hey, let's try and not die." And I put my arms and legs and ski pole out to try and slow me down, and I come to a stop on this rotten pile of snow. I'm 20 feet below the surface of the glacier,

It is dark and cold. It's like a long, narrow hallway with tall ceilings and a single skylight. I have been inside glaciers before but never involuntarily. Not to mention that being swallowed whole by the earth is an immensely humbling experience.

And I just left the four New York never campers who had just spent their first night in a tent after being flown into the middle of nowhere and then watched the guy they brought to protect them from the wilderness vanish into thin air. I assessed my situation and I was not injured besides my ego. I couldn't see or hear my clients. I didn't know where Elizabeth was. So I decided the best thing to do was to wait.

My mind was racing. How was I ever going to get out of here? How was I ever going to live this down if I did? How big of a mistake did I just make? I knew that I was already starting to get cold and I knew that our emergency equipment and technical gear was over a two-hour hike from where we were. I knew that even if we initiated a helicopter rescue, it can take up to eight hours for them to show up. I knew that this was not the bottom of the crevasse.

I guessed the ice in that area was anywhere from 600 to 800 feet deep. And what I was standing on was just rotten snow bridges that had collapsed from two or three years ago and gotten lodged in this constriction. I started to do some like preliminary investigation of the snow beneath me, but I didn't want to poke on anything too hard, feeling like I might trigger a second trap door.

And that's how most people who perish in crevasse falls go, is they fall down to a point where they get squeezed by the walls of the ice and are slowly crushed. Glacier ice is so dense that it eats sound. So I sat there in the quiet with just my thoughts, constricting and releasing my muscles to try and stay warm without moving.

Finally, Elizabeth looked down at me through the hole that I had punched in the snow. We made eye contact and neither of us needed to say we should have brought a rope. We went into problem-solving mode and I told her I thought that I could climb up a ways but I didn't know how to get past the overhanging lip of snow at the top of the crack.

It's hard to get past the snowy lip even if you're roped in and you fall into a crevasse. By punching through, you create this overhang that you have to somehow get over. And Elizabeth's eyes lit up and she said, "If you can get up here, I can get you past that lip." And then she disappeared. By the time I started climbing, I had been in this crevasse for at least 20 minutes.

and I'm cold and I'm stiff and it was narrow enough that I could touch each wall and I start pushing and pulling on the walls with my hand and using smaller cracks as hand holds, improving tiny ledges with my ski pole and I climb up five feet and ten feet and then I look down and I do not like what I see. This snow I had landed on looks like cotton candy.

and there's darkness through the holes and anytime that I knock an ice crystal through them, I cannot hear it hit the bottom. I climb up five more feet until I'm finally right below the snow, a place that I can't go any further by myself. And I establish this icy stance and the reality of this situation hits me really hard. I have just turned a relaxing weekend in the wilderness into a life or death situation.

And I'm terrified. And just then, I hear the flap of fabric and a flash of color. And the first of four brightly colored, brand new Arc'teryx rain jackets, tied sleeve to sleeve, is lowered down in front of me. And I had never been so happy my clients had brand new rain gear.

And I grab a hold of what is at least a $3,000 rope. And Elizabeth and those New Yorkers pulled me past the lip and into the sunshine. And when I got there, I was embarrassed. But they tried to soothe me. They said things like, we're just really impressed that you climbed out of there. And you know everyone makes mistakes.

They even swore themselves to secrecy to hide my shame. Which I hope they told some people, because that is one doozy of a first-time camping tale. I myself didn't tell anybody for years I was so ashamed of this incident. But these days I own that guide service and I tell all the new guides this story under the heading, "The glacier does not care how full your beard is."

Because the truth is we all do make mistakes and the real shame is not being able to admit them and share them with others so that we can all learn. Thank you. That was Monty Montepierre. Monty is a comedian and adventure guide originally from Breckenridge, Colorado. He's been the keynote speaker at the Year A Ice Fest, is on the cover of the Alaska Packraft Guidebook, and

and is part owner of the Kennecott Wilderness Guides in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, Alaska. He now performs weekly at the Upright Citizens Brigade in Los Angeles and lives in a little house on a hill with his partner Jill, their kid Rocky, and their little dog Sage. The night Monty told this story, it was also his birthday, and when he walked off the stage, the packed house serenaded him.

The New Yorkers in the crowd, including myself, also loved that the New York Never Campers saved the day in the end. As I mentioned up top, Monty's story is part of our countdown of 2024's most shared moth stories. If you'd like to watch that video compilation, follow the moths Instagram at moth stories. We'll also have a link to follow us in this episode description.

What are your favorite moth stories from 2024? We'd love to hear about them. Just tag us on Instagram or TikTok at mothstories. Or even better, tell your family and friends in person about the moth stories that have made this year a little brighter. We hope to see you at a moth event next year. That's it for this episode. From all of us here at the Moth, we hope that 2025 brings you even more stories you can't wait to share.

Sarah Austin-Gines is a director, the Moth's executive producer, and a co-author of the best-selling How to Tell a Story, The Essential Guide to Memorable Storytelling from the Moth, which is available now wherever you get your books.

This episode of the Moth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Denesse, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Sollinger. The rest of the Moth leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Leanne Gulley, and Patricia Ureña.

The Moth would like to thank its supporters and listeners. Stories like these are made possible by community giving. If you're not already a member, please consider becoming one or making a one-time donation today at themoth.org slash give back. When you give to The Moth, you help us bring storytelling to students and community groups across the country. Thanks for your support. All Moth stories are true, as remembered by their storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.

The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the public radio exchange. Helping make public radio more public at PRX.org.