On mental mass: Split Mountain

Some mountains manage to cast a mental shadow that dwarfs their physical bulk. Maybe they tap into some strange, specific foreboding that we harbor. Perhaps they tie into a wild story we heard told by someone we respect. Sometimes they live a legend all their own, and to climb them is to weave your own rope and route into all the chaotically braided others.

There are perhaps a dozen truly technical major summits here at home in Glacier National Park; mountains where you really do want a rope and protection and the knowledge of how to use them. But because the vast majority of the high points force climbers to focus more on route finding up ledges and chimneys of first-rate choss, the few where the rope makes it into my pack seem to stand out a bit more.

Split Mountain is one of those technical peaks. It cuts an imposing profile from any angle, especially its most commonly viewed direction from the St. Mary area. From Almost A Dog Pass, the view is triangularly similar: steep, layered cliff bands forming a pyramid that’s crowned with the titular, halved summit block. I’d heard reports from friends at the Park Cafe a few years ago about the upper section and more recently, Ben Darce has been up there more than any normal climber should be.

Any one of them would have been happy to give me their thoughts on the climb and what to bring. However, the aforementioned mental shadow it cast merited a bit of a more sporting sort of trip. I’ve been lucky to learn a lot more about placing trad gear and alpine route finding in the past couple of years—it was time to test it out. Time to see if what I’ve learned would hold up without the beta from others, even in the shadow of how I thought about Split. I did manage to track down the partially helpful info on Split in the Edwards guide, put together a light alpine rack, and Beth and I took off from the Cut Bank trailhead at 9am without much idea of what exactly we were getting ourselves into.


Split from Triple Divide Pass, spring 2014


Split from Triple Divide Pass, July 5th, 2016

It’s worth noting that this trip report will totally ruin some of the surprises we found and the same sort of exploratory spirit I wanted to have up there. If you want an interesting experience without the benefit of the photos/info to follow, here’s the bare basics:

-Approaching from Triple Divide Pass is closer, and probably easier.
-Bring a light alpine rack and longer draws
-Bring a skinny 70m rope.
-Bring 20-30ft of tat in case you find the anchors wreckaged or lacking.
-Have fun!

Ok. Spoilers ahead.

Things were smooth in the Cut Bank valley, and Beth and I kept the pace brisk up to Triple Divide Pass on a trail that wasn’t as massively muddy or filled with bear sign as the last time I went in.  I’ve never actually been to Red Eagle Lake, or approached the pass from that direction, but the long flats in the beginning turned me off from heading in that way. Triple Divide offered more up and down, which appeals, you know? Plus, as the name indicates, Triple Divide Mtn divides the Pacific, Atlantic, and Hudson Bay watersheds from its summit. The whole Continental Divide thing is a bit less cool when you live and play on it constantly, but it’s neat to note.


Looking south from Triple Divide Pass.

We dropped down a few switchbacks on the north side of the pass, then glissaded the rest of the way until we were in the meadows near the moraines on the west side of the basin. It’s pretty easy to visualize the whole basin traverse from the pass—another reason to go that way.

From the slopes above Blueing Lake, talus and scree slopes plus some very minor vegetation offer access to the algal reef, a grayish band of rock that you can’t miss because you’ll need to find one the better spots to ascend/descend through it.


Beth looks down into the basin and back at Triple Divide Pass.


Walking up the summit ridge from the southwest.

Beth and I hit the top of the ridge and traversed towards the major castle of Split, climbing the loose ledge 3rd/4th class scrambling so classic to the upper sections of many of Glacier’s peaks.

Once we traversed around the south side of the upper castle and entered the big, eponymous slot, the climbing got real. Beth and I both soloed face/stem moves (5.8?) instead of removing packs to worm up the two sloping chimneys (probably 4th/5th), which proved attention getting with the way the slope drops away to the meadows below Red Eagle Pass. The “chockstone” mentioned in the Edwards description is above both of these.


Post-sloping-soloing face.

Quotation marks, in this case, indicate that the chockstone is more like a giant pile of debris wedged poorly into the split. Somebody slung the biggest chunk a while back, but it makes for a dodgy rap anchor and even more questionable as a belay point to bring somebody up from below. Some knifeblades and angles in the wall above could probably be donated to the cause, and if I head up there again, I’d improve it a bit.

I racked up on the “chockstone” while Beth did a bit of shivering—it’s a wind tunnel in there. For me, the expanded ability to protect 5th class climbing in the alpine comes from the cragging and trad climbing I’ve done over the past couple years. I’ve little doubt that a properly strong climber could free solo any of the technical routes in Glacier, but I want a bigger safety margin than that. Thus, it’s pretty amazing to take familiar climbing tools and apply them in our local alpine environment. The rock leaves a ton to be desired if you grew up on anything igneous—protection can be sparse and creative (or just plain bad), but I really do love the process of piecing it all together. It’s home. It’s funky. It’s ours.

It was also a good moment to take stock of how the climbing, in its physical actuality, stacked up against the mental thing I’d made of Split. Once there, in the moment, connected to rock and solving the problems of getting from A to B in little successions, the large problem of climbing a mountains becomes a series of small problems. Pulling out the microscope, I’ve heard it called. And in those moments, where the world is no bigger than the little bubble of what do I stand on now and what is next, focus blurs out the rest of the questions and its just one small solution stacked atop the next until a mountain mostly stands beneath my feet.

Edwards speaks of traversing out above 1900ft of exposure while climbing the upper section, which has to mean that he traversed out onto the NE face. Pretty bold. I skipped the exposure, and opted to climb up the right side though the slot, stemming and then pulling face moves up some broken silliness while placing a red c3 and #1 c4 (both solid) on long slings. There’s probably more options for protection there, but by then I was at the upper rap anchor. A pile of choss and a .5 c4 provided a top anchor, and I brought Beth up to the summit block.

The views are pretty dang neat, especially of the smaller lakes beneath the sheer drop off the NE face. Beth and I looked back at Almost A Dog pass, where we’d been a couple weeks previous. Perhaps the wildest thing about the summit are the numerous large cracks and slots in the major rock itself—the whole thing feels like a big house of cards, and just sitting around doesn’t inspire much confidence in that part of me that wonders about the whole dang thing falling apart.

As I’ve written before, it’s such an honor to get to climb with my sister. Some people do family dinners, or reunions, or get together for a weekend, but the best thing about these sorts of adventures is that they offer even more time to think, talk, and build incredible, shared experiences in life. Beth pushed through a bunch of fear to make it up there, pulled some hard moves, and given that it was her fourth summit in Glacier, she’s off to a killer start. It’s a wonderful thing to get to combine the outdoor things I want to do with the people in my family.

We rapped off the double anchor on the E side of the split, and then again off the “chockstone”, but kept our feet on the walls most of the way for the second one. Both rope pulls went smooth, and we saw success retracing our route through the upper cliffs and algal reef.

From there, the traverse back to the trail went smoothly. It’s not proper screeing, but the footing is generally fine and there’s probably water there year round so you can fill back up for the hike back out. Once back on the path, the late hour meant that we kicked into high gear, blasted over the pass, and then down the other side and out the flats with no bear sign and even more good conversation to pass the quick miles.


We’re-gonna-rocket-out-the-trail-post-summit face.

Beth tried to change one of my car headlights at the trailhead, we couldn’t get the old bulb out, but just jiggling the apparatus made it come back on. Then, we missed closing at the St. Mary grocery store and I cursed all available malevolent deities for the lack of the Park Cafe. Seriously, St. Mary is badly in need of a food renaissance.

All told, our day was just over 21 miles, and in the neighborhood of 6300ft of gain/loss. Thanks again to Beth for coming along and crushing it, and also to Ben Darce for making me want to make it up there.

http://www.movescount.com/moves/move114026737

To find a foothold: a noob’s primer to Idaho’s City of Rocks

“That’s not a foothold. No way. You can’t just smear on that and move up.”

It was a cycle: I’d be climbing, sort of cruising, then hit a hard spot in a grade I thought I knew I could climb. First, I’d look down quizzically at the strange granite under my feet, searching for the edges that typically signal a proper foot placement in the rocks I normally climb. Not finding them, I’d perform the second step by reviewing the state of protection somewhere below the questionable way my feet were plastered on the rock. Sometimes it was a bomber cam, sometimes a spinning bolt. Then, I’d finish the routine with a string of curses, place my feet in the not-holds, and push off towards what felt like a certain lead fall down the sharp, slabby crystals. To my surprise, the final fall never actually happened, despite eight days of climbing at Idaho’s City of Rocks and nearby Castle Rocks State Park.


Leading Batwings, 5.8 Photo by Jed Hohf

The City, as it’s more locally known, looks like some massive dog did its granite business all over the 6000ft verdant hills in southern Idaho. Blobs of a granite pluton poke through the surface soil to make for an immense playground of sticky, patina’d, crack-infested climbing that still has an exceptionally frontier feel to it: entry was free, the well went rusty on day three, camping is primitive, and forget about cell reception. Oh, and the wind blew and everything was dusty, even when it rained. I half expected John Wayne to show up (not wearing lycra (John Wayne Never Wore Lycra is a route there)) and start sending next to us. No tumbleweeds heralded his coming though.

A long, long time ago, the California Trail passed through the area and left wagon wheel ruts still visible in the exposed rock along the route. It was a popular westward pioneer route similar to the Oregon Trail, so some enterprising folks also signed their names on the rocks in axle grease. Somewhere around the hundred year mark, graffiti gains historic significance or something.

I didn’t sign the rocks with anything but sweat and chalk, or whatever impression a hasty round of swearing leaves while on lead. But the pioneer theme continued: I arrived in the modern day equivalent of a covered wagon (John’s mid-conversion Sprinter Van), and left in a station wagon stuffed to the gills with people moving to Montana for the summer. We wore tights like the pioneers (of many the routes in the ‘80s and ‘90s) did. And for the first five days or so, I climbed like a man in a distant country, repeating my stange cycle as I lead haltingly upwards.


Following John up Morning Glory, 5.8  Photo by Jed Hohf

Twain famously commented that traveling is fatal to prejudice. He was correct: last spring, I finally had a showdown with the granite crack climbing I’d avoided at home. Leavenworth and the Idaho Selkirks left me walking away with bloody knuckles and a determination to get a trad rack and start stuffing my poor hands into the rock more better-er. Which shows that traveling is both fatal to my prejudices and also a bit like Stockholm syndrome: first I hated the “hard” footwork at the City and was scared, then I was less scared, and then I grew to love the way that I could throw a smear on nearly anything and just stand up. That just does not work on quartzite, as I found out while scrabbling around on some home turf routes last week.


John works on his professor look.

Of course, the best case scenario for willies on the sharp end is to have been put there by a climbing buddy who knows your abilities better than you do. I had the good fortune to climb for the first five days with John G., a self-professed “old school trad climber” who works sorcery with small wires and leads well into the 5.11 range. 5.11 represents strong belaying for me. Yet me climbing mid-5.11 is board certified struggle-bussing. John is classic mentor material. He looks dashing in a sending sweater and Italian capris (of stretch fabric with reinforced knee patches). And better still, we laughed the whole time. I owe most of the progress I made down there to John and trying to keep up with him. Thanks John; I’ll get your pug “Top Dawg” mug back to the van sometime soon.


John leads Hairstyles and Attitudes, 5.11a at Castle Rocks. Photo by Devin Schmit


John does the pensive on Bath Rock.

John and I were hardly the only folks from the Flathead to make the trip to the City that week. Devin and Chris camped in the parking lot next to us. The Sherman and Cox clans put up their tenth straight year of climbing trips to the City, which represents the right way to raise your kids. Jed Hohf and his wife Carlie were there, Joe and his wife Kat (who need to go back to Smith), alongside a couple of gents I’ve met at the gym and since forgotten their names (sorry guys!).


Devin heads up on Tribal Boundaries, 5.10b


Chris Russell on Tribal Boundaries, 5.10b

Friendly faces continued at camp for the second half of the week. My sister Beth and her partner Matt rolled in from Seattle to meet my dad and stepmom, who came up from Logan. Then, in a seriously impressive display of intuitive thinking, my friend Akina made the drive up from SLC and instantly found us climbing with my dad at Practice Rock. All of the City to comb through, yet there she was.


Beth’s hammock at our second campsite. Photo by Akina Johnson

The arrival of family and Akina meant that I switched from chasing John into the role of showing folks around. We did some of the classics. Matt did his first proper multi pitch and first double rappel for his first route at the City on Raindance. The crew especially enjoyed Stripe Rock, climbing Cruel Shoes in two teams (5.7 bliss bolts the whole way).


Beth and I at the rap anchor for Cruel Shoes, 5.7 Photo by Akina Johnson

My favorite climb of the trip, though, was going up the spine of Stripe Rock (5.4?) with my dad. We did four pitches between super scant belay spots. I built a different kind of anchor every time. I forgot the camera, but not the look on my dad’s face when he topped out. Very lucky and gratifying to see him get back into climbing some thirty years after he last roped up.

Yet family and good travel partners don’t solve the bizarre and gap around 5.9 climbing at the City. Maybe it’s just the way the rock works, in that most of the granite flat enough to warrant a 5.9 slab has had much of the patina worn down, which seems to push it into harder or easier grades. Then, the steeper buckets that might be 5.9 often fall into the 5.8 realm, a catch-all for a frighteningly wide array of diverse and interesting climbing at the City. If nothing else, it stretched my mind out.


A nighttime climb of Private Idaho, 5.9 Photo by Devin Schmit

And similarly: all the stick clip toters at Smith Rock complaining about high first bolts should probably take a visit to the City, where my peasant notions about running it out right off the deck were quickly crushed and left to die. Take New York Is Not The City (5.10 or 5.9) as an example: a quick V2 move right off the deck leads to 40ft of unprotected, easy climbing. The first bolt is probably 50ft up there. If you need a place to challenge your gym climbing notions or refocus your understanding of the YDS, the City should be high on your list. Good skills with small TCUs and wires can cut down the runouts in many places, as John well proved.

The guidebook makes much mention of how the contentious practices and ideals of sport climbing were seen during the eighties and nineties at the City. However, with the advent of the area as a National Reserve (it’s still managed as a state park of Idaho), route development ran into a permitting process that seems to have slowed development to a glacial crawl. I’m keen to learn more about it, but it seems that most of the current work going into new routes and keeping up older ones is going on at Castle Rock State Park (which you should also visit) nearby. Expect some spinning bolts in various states of mank at the City. There’s a feeling of climbing inside of a time capsule, of visiting a different era of what rock climbing was.


Following John up some route in the Crackhouse area of Castle Rocks. He placed a hex in impeccable style, and then used a British accent for the rest of the climb. Photo by Devin Schmit

A note on cords: John and I wandered around the City for days with two 70m ropes in tow. Many of the climbs can’t even be toproped with a 70, so be prepared to tag line and double rope rap consistenly. Don’t bring a single 60m and be that climber.

Details I haven’t covered yet:

-Entry is free, yet camping overnight is part of an arcane and somewhat mystical process of reservations that you should take care of in advance. The park suggests that two cars, two tents, and eight people are somehow able to coexist in one camping spot—good luck making that happen.

-Pit toilets are near most the camping, but not all of it. A couple different water options meant it was fine when our well (at Bath Rock) went orange on day three.

-Showers, spotty cell reception, and a smattering of spendy groceries are available in Almo, as well as a hot spring that we didn’t visit. Definitely do your grocery shopping someplace much bigger before the trip.

-It’s high-ish desert: bring the salve/lotion, because you’re going to need it.

Recommended routes that we did (that I remember):

Five.fun

Bath Rock’s rebar route is the shortest via ferrata ever. Very worth it.

If you like long, flat, unprotectable runouts, the spine of Stripe rock can be done in 3-4 pitches between good gear anchor sections. My dad loved it. Bring a singles rack .3-4” and some big slings, plus two ropes to get down. 70m crosses the pitches well.

5.6-7

Raindance
Adolescent Homosapien
Intruding Dike
Wheat Thin
Cruel Shoes

5.8a-d

Rye Crisp
Carol’s Crack
Delay of Game
Batwings
Morning Glory
Fred Rasmussen
Too Much Fun

5.9

Private Idaho
Mystery Bolter
Scream Cheese

5.10

Bloody Fingers
Thin Slice
Lost Pioneers
Tribal Boundaries
Deez Guys
New York Is Not The City

5.11
Cairo

Huge thanks to all the partners, friends, and family for a killer trip. Also thanks to all the photographers who took photos when my single camera battery died.

Sistertime in the springtime: The Tooth, Logan Pass, and Rainier’s DC

In my travails lately, I’ve had a few conversations with different buddies about the difficulty of finding people to get out on adventures. Scheduling seems to be the biggest issue, made worse by the relatively small numbers of more-epic outdoors folk in the rural area where we live. Their words ring true for me–but the variability of my schedule gives a bit more flexibility. Even better, the two trips I’ve taken to the pacific northwest this spring have yielded an especially nice series of scheduling benefits: getting out to play with my sister, Beth.

Some background is helpful: growing up, competition kept things somewhat rough between us. Two years of age gap keep us close enough to make a constant friction, to the point that our mother tells a story of pouring out juice in a measuring cup to satisfy that neither was getting more than the other. Scrabble, when we both play, is a blood sport. At one point in my early teens, I told her that snowboarding “was going over to the dark side.” Naturally, she found things that weren’t the ones that I wanted to do: karate, showing horses for a number of years, and eventually finding a passion for theater tech that now informs her job as a commercial lighting salesperson in Seattle.

The moment I left for college in 2007, the antipathy between us disappeared almost overnight. Physical distance seemed to erase the need to compete with each other under the same roof, and though I’ll admit it took me a couple months to realize what was going on, it was a new era of mutual affection. It bums me out now to look back on all the years that I let petty competition steer my emotions elsewhere. True sibling respect is an amazing thing. It was some level of factor in Beth heading to PLU after me. But it wasn’t until she took up indoor bouldering in her third year that we were doing the same active things.

Later, she started climbing on ropes too. For her graduation present last spring, we gave Rainier a shot. Bike commuting twenty to thirty miles a day in Seattle, plus climbing four days a week, has tapped the same endurance genes that I make use of. She’s damn fast in the hills. I can’t even hope to keep up on a bike. Another era has started in our siblingship: outdoor buddies. The three trips in this post are a celebration of the fact that I’m a lucky dude–I get to spend family time out in the vertical world.

Our first adventure this spring was on The Tooth, a four pitch alpine trad route (5.4-5.7) on Snoqualmie Pass. This happened during an off day of my Volcanic Activity tour. Beth has been leading in the mid 5.10s outside and in the upper 5.11s indoors, so the climbing was cake for her. With summer planning looming, I wanted to get out and see how she did with being an efficient rope team while trying to push our way up some multipitch trad. April 27th was the date we went. Snoqualmie Pass was barely open this winter for skiing, but even still, it felt too early. Rain had fallen the night before. Trip reports, though plentiful, didn’t seem too helpful what the approach was, exactly. My favorite includes this phrase: ” beautiful super-redundant nuclear blast proof rappel anchors located every 30 feet down the Tooth.” Which seemed positive.   Either way, Steve had lent us his trad rack (thank you kind sir!) and we wanted to make it happen.

So we rolled into the lower Alpental lot with a dim idea of where we wanted to go. For those reading this, the easiest approach seems to be to take the lake overlook trail, circle around the cirque, and then head for The Tooth. The gully separating the gendarme to the SE along the ridge has rap anchors in it (35m each) for the way down, and it looks like some people go up it too.  Beth on the way up:
Winter still clung to the upper alpine. Our postholes were up to the thigh. It was exactly the kind of snow that makes me wonder why anyone would ever want to walk through it instead of skiing. Still, we made it to the base of the climb, racked up, and I was off like a shot. Dry rock, blue skies, solid placements, easy climbing. Easy to see why everyone and their grandmother has climbed the Tooth–though it’s popular, it’s fun. Stringing the first two pitches together wasn’t at all difficult, even with a half rope doubled up. Running two 70s, you could do the whole thing in two pitches. First pitch:

Beth on her way up:

At change over, things went quick. Beth restacked the rope as I racked up and headed off up the next super short pitch. Third pitch was easily the most fun, with a couple of secure but airy moves on the face. We scrambled the pitch after that, and then I placed a few pieces on the final wall before the summit. Looking down the final wall as Beth comes up:

And with that, we were up top. We’d moved quick, climbed well, and had it all to ourselves. Really fun–I think my concentration on taking the selfie murdered my smile. Bigger fish to fry later: Then, we rapped off. I’ve found that the easier trad climbing I’ve done is actually the worst to rappel, since it’s not overhanging or even vertical. I was forced to punt the rope down over and over again through the shelves. To avoid snags, we rapped four times to where we started climbing, then twice more down the snow couloir to save the strange scramble around the gendarme. If you’re going, note that the second rap station in the snow couloir is on climbers’/rappellers’ left against the couloir wall and has multiple slings.
After that, we crawled our way back through the mush, then down the trail. It had been a really awesome day, Beth had crushed it with her follows and pulling gear. Her skills make me really excited to get out more this summer when she’s not busy with all her friends that are getting married.

Over Mother’s Day weekend, Beth and her manfriend Matt made it back to Kalispell on a mad dash from Seattle. They rolled in late, then we all packed into my grandparents’ pickup with four bikes for proper Mothers’ Day festivities with a ride up the Going To the Sun road. To be honest, I didn’t take much in the way of pictures because I was chasing Beth’s furious pace up the road. She puppy-dog’d the other three of us on the way up the Loop, and after I caught up and tried to hang on as she powered up the steep grade. Elevation and continued steepness aren’t what she deals with while bike commuting. Bicycling in general isn’t my forte. Lactic acid burned in my thighs and I repeatedly told my legs to shut up as we fairly flew up the road. Maybe she was just being polite in that she didn’t dust me. Either way, we made the top in time for another sibling shot.

It’s good to be humbled by your younger sister, but even better to see her so excelling at something athletic that she enjoys. I just hope she waits for me when she really becomes an athletic mountain terror and I’m panting in her wake. As my mom does now, maybe I’ll be able to take a little bit of credit for helping to get her there.

As I mentioned earlier, we gave Rainier a go last spring. Due to my inexperience leading and planning, and a general lack of experience with big packs, that trip didn’t get past Camp Muir. So I said we’d give it another try this spring. My initial trip to the PNW this spring didn’t see that attempt. Beth texted to say that she had a weather window, I hemmed and hawed a little, and then committed, seeing other possibilities for after our climb. As I did when some friends and I skied Rainier in March, my trip over detoured through Yakima, White Pass, and then to Paradise.

I camped in the parking lot Thursday night, and went in to get our walk-up permit for Muir on Saturday. Folks at the Climbing Information Center were supremely helpful both on the phone and also in person–thanks to them for route advice and their friendly demeanor. I walked out with our permit, climbing passes for Beth and Andy, a college friend of hers that would be accompanying us, and blue bags. Then, I hopped in the car for Seattle, shopped for food and other essentials at Feathered Friends, bought some trad gear on a steal from Rob (thanks!), and hopped in Beth’s car to head back down to Paradise. I’ll explain in a minute.

Details on Rainier climbing, in case you’re curious: A climbing pass ($45/$32 for ages 25+/<24) is required for anyone going above 10,000ft. You need to register for your climb, and during the offseason from Labor Day to Memorial Day, you can self register. If spending the night out, you’ll also need a backcountry camping permit, which you can reserve, or also pick up as a walkup if the prior reservation window has ended. Rainier’s climbing rangers have always been helpful, and they run the best kept NPS climbing info blog I’ve seen, with good posts on current route conditions. First timers typically take the Disappointment Cleaver or Emmons Glacier routes.

Back to our trip. Rainier poses a big elevation risk for folks living at low elevations, like nearly everything nearby, because they end up gaining nearly 14,000ft over a period of a few days. HACE and HAPE are a concern, plus exhaustion. A safe rule of thumb that I learned while in Alaska was to only move 1000ft of elevation for every night spent sleeping there. Essentially, if moving camp between say 11,000ft and 14,000ft, spend three nights at 11,000ft before bumping up. People can and do move much faster, and altitude affects everyone differently at different times, so I’m not sure how much that rule applies for quicker climbs like Rainier. That said, I’ve found that sleeping at Paradise the night before beginning a climb on Rainier offers the benefit of 5000ft of gain before the trip even starts. Plus, it cuts out any driving–you’re there, and an early start is easy. Hence our return to Paradise from Seattle. We sorted gear, did a z-pulley demonstration, and fell asleep in anticipation of our early start.

Beth and Andy all saddled up at 6am: I took skis, because the five grand of perfectly good skiing between Paradise and Camp Muir would be wasted if I walked. Beth and Andy moved along at a great pace. Once on the Muir snowfield, we took breaks every thousand feet.

We were among the first to pull into Muir, arriving just after 11am. Beth and Andy had done really well staying hydrated with their packs and the steady, fast pace. Andy sported a headache, but both Beth and I felt great, which should be a tribute to learning a bit more and good genes. Another benefit of bringing your sister: Beth set the lunch bar high with smoked gouda, triscuts, and dates. She made me little delicious sandwiches of all three while I dug out a proper snow kitchen next to the tent.

Remodeling at home is expensive and time consuming. But when you’re snow camping, you can build countertops, storage, seating, and windscreens wherever you please. I went out for a little ski lap above Muir, and snapped this picture. Since it was the weekend, the trail of mountain zombies stretched down the snowfield and camp quickly filled up with tents. Once back, I took a nap. Then we dove into crevasse rescue practice on the snow rollover just out of camp. Demonstrating a z-pulley in the parking lot had helped clarify a few of the complicated bits. Andy served as ballast, and I demonstrated. Then Beth did it under my supervision. Then by herself, as I hung on the other side of the rope  and thought about dinner. Andy, safely pulled out of the “crevasse” for the second time. Andy, during dinner, decided that he wasn’t planning on accompanying us on our summit push the following morning. His headache remained, even after a bunch of water and a nap. That left Beth and I planning on waking up at 1am, out of camp by 2am. We crawled into our bags, and proceeded to eat a whole bar of chocolate between the three of us, giggling about the ridiculous words printed into each different square of the bar. Mountain moments are like that: nerves or tiredness or the sheer tide of lunacy sweeps over a whole group of people together and you find yourself eating spicy, pop-rock, fine chocolate in a tent in the snow above 10,000ft. I hate that overused Kerouac quote about “the mad ones”, but lying there in my bag, it occurred to me that they’re the ones I truly understand and care for most.

1am came way too early. My breakfast pastries (pain au chocolat and cinnamon roll) were delicious. At 2am, we trundled out across towards Cathedral Gap, one other party starting up Gib Ledge. We moved well, and not long later at the gap, were treated to a sight: the lamps of a whole pile of teams that left around midnight shone above use, illuminating the route we’d take under the canopy of stars. I wish my camera and skills could capture things like that. We layered down a bit there, then continued through the flats, up the mixed rock and snow at the bottom of the Cleaver, and up to the top. Given the low snowfall this winter, things above the Cleaver were not as normal. The route typically jags climbers’ right to connect with the Emmons shoulder. Then, it ascends up to the crater rim. Instead, we traversed the top of the cracks in the Ingraham, went over a ladder, and found ourselves above Gibraltar Rock, still traversing. It was one hell of a sunrise. The big holes weren’t new territory for me, but they cemented the reason we’d done the practice the day before for Beth. It was a packed, prepared route designed for guided clients. Hand lines and placed running protection guarded the most exposed sections. Even still, it had all the massive grandeur and scale that big, humbling piles of snow and rock should. Beth later told me that she hadn’t ever felt that small. Her courage in that new environment was really impressive, and she handled the holes and exposure like a veteran. After crossing above Gibraltar Rock, we wound across to the Nisqually Cleaver, where the route ascended again. Wind had been blasting us since turning the corner. Fog reached down and obscured the group of five we’d begun to catch. Whether or not the lenticular was coming down, the summit was fogged in, and we still had 1300ft to go. So we talked about the weather worsening, comfort levels, and how we felt. The weather worried me. Beth agreed, and we turned around to make the walk back down. But first, a sibling selfie:

It didn’t bother me to retreat. We’d made it to 13,100ft, and fast. Things looked potentially grim. Sure, we’d worked hard and as always, it’s frustrating to fall short of the summit. But to see Beth move to so confidently and well in that kind of terrain is the the type of thing that doesn’t require reaching an arbitrary point atop a big hill. Plus, the benefit of turning back there is that we can go and do it again next year. Hopefully the weather will be better, because I really want to pick out the Seattle skyline from the summit.

On our way through Ingraham Flats, we detoured to try and tie down a tent that wasn’t staked into the snow at all, but simply corded to the tent next to it. Each gust would flap it completely up in the air, only to set it down. Maybe we helped. You can see that the cloud had come down to the top of the Cleaver in this photo. All the way back to Seattle, we’d turn in our car seats to see if the cloud would lift–it never did, and that’s some consolation for our decision to turn back.

Back in camp, we spent a while trying to find Andy, only to realize that he’d gone off for a little exploration on the rock buttress above camp. He was stoked to see us, and his headache was gone. We pulled camp, and they took off. I loaded up, and made turns all the way to Alta Vista before walking the rest of the way to the car.

The snack spot at Paradise has a huge benefit compared with some of the other ones I’ve experienced: soft serve. It was 10am, I’d been up since 1am, and so it felt totally justified to be lying on a rock in my sandals, looking scruffy, waiting for Beth and Andy with my ice cream.

Getting to do outdoor stuff with your family is a huge gift. Anyone who spends their time in the hills knows the amazing things that happen when you disappear into the lofty realm for a few days, and how the experience  lingers on afterward. Infusing that into a familial bond is amazing. Sharing it with my sister is a tremendous honor, and just like the expanded ideas that come from my own experiences, there’s a shining future of climbs out there for us. Thanks to Matt for his care and driving late at night and belaying, Andy for accompanying us on Rainier, Steve for the rack, and most importantly my parents for giving me such a rad adventure buddy. Love you, Beth.

Volcanic Activity: Mt. St. Helens

Note: all conditions current to April 20, 2015.

There’s much to be said for gnarly descents, untouched lines, and pushing the envelope in search of self discovery, untold riches, and the fawning accolades of battalions of internet followers. However, the truth about some days is simply that, even when everything goes completely to plan, they’re worthwhile but not because of any of the aforementioned qualities.

St. Helens, via the standard route, is a standard sort of day. Made different in this case because of the extra approach work from a poor winter snowpack. But we walked, we skinned, we summited, and headed back down. I guess we got a little lost on the approach, but it wasn’t much to write home or blog or video about.

So instead, I offer you this compilation video of the things I did find interesting, with more explanation below.

Thing #1: Excessive morning motivation. Some people just wake up more easily and quickly than others. You guessed it–I’m one of those exceptionally annoying people who goes to sleep in a wink and bounces right back out of bed. Maybe Mike didn’t actually need coffee, but I’m still impressed with his Geiger counter reference at 5:30am.

Thing #2: Dumb mountaineering jokes. Especially in the vacuum of context brought by a quick video.

Thing #3: Seasonal flux. Winter route over tons of dry trail from a Sno-Park with no snow in sight. Then, it’s blazing hot up even on the upper parts of the mountain. Really not looking forward to climate change.

Thing #4: Shanghi.

Thing #5: Not falling over the cornice. Always hard to get a good read on where the edge does lie, so I probed hard to find it. Still didn’t feel comfy with getting close, so in a storm of Mike inspired inspiration, I put the go pro on the end of my avie probe. Insta-crane.

Thing #6: Poor man’s drone. We then tried skiing with the Gopro on the avie probe. Worked better than I thought.

Thing #7: We saw lots of people walking up and down. Which made me thankful for having skis, so I didn’t have to slog through the slop.

Thing #8: Mike’s shirtless post-trip commentary, selectively edited. The eyes closed thing is hilarious to me. He should be an actor.

Thanks to Mike for rallying down from Seattle, for his zealous company, and for the Cheezits he produced after we got back. So tasty.

Volcanic Activity: Mt. Adams, superstition, and science

Note: all conditions described and depicted are current to April 18th, 2015.

Superstition and I have a suspect relationship. There seems to be enough evidence to suggest that it happens, and plays a small but important role in what happens to me outside, yet the science part of my head that uses terms like “evidence” scoffs at such notions. Even so, I had a nasty feeling that after writing about non-adventure, it might happen to me again relatively soon. The problem with that theory, though, is that you’d have to pick a minor, unimportant trip to waste the potential non-adventure on. And weather lately has been far more conducive to days of the epic variety. So as I got in the car and headed for Washington, the two sides of that decision coin rattling back and forth in my head.

Washington hasn’t had the best winter, as our time on Rainier back in March foreshadowed. Things are downright summer-y out here right now. Even so, that same time on Rainier got me inspired to do more volcano skiing. So here I am in Portland, taking rest days in between sleeping at trailheads and smearing my face with sunscreen.

The plan for Mt. Adams was simple: Rowen would drive down from Seattle, I’d roll in from Montana. We’d meet in the parking lot, and go from there. The permits and passes that Summitpost suggested I’d need weren’t actually required–goes to show that calling to verify with the local ranger district is always a good policy. But as I swung up the bumpy, super rutted road as evening faded into stars in a black sky, it dawned on me that not only was this road really bad, like really bad, but without cell reception, finding Rowen’s car might be a bit more difficult than I’d thought. Third gear moved to second, then crawling uphill in first around potholes big enough to bury somebody in. Superstition started to creep into the dark beyond the reach of my headlights on the ever steepening turns.

But as the saying goes, all midnight-dark-mud-trench roads end somewhere, and I got there about 9:30. My recollection was that Rowen drove a newish Cherokee after his old one burned up, so I wandered about with my headlamp looking for him. No dice. I made some lunch, prepped my gear, set the alarm for 4am, and dropped off to sleep in plain view of the road, thinking he was delayed.

Headlights woke me at midnight, and I was pretty sure it was a Jeep. Summoning the effort to get out of my bag was difficult. Even so, I wanted to plan for the morning. Walking up on the Jeep, the side windows were tinted such that I couldn’t see the face of the guy now sleeping in the drivers seat. I knocked on the door, and whoever it was stuck his head out in confusion to greet my immediate apology: “Oh geez, I’m sorry, I was looking for a buddy.”

Morning came, and I got my stuff together, leaving the trailhead by 5:30am. Part of the way up, I ran into a guy from Texas who was hiking his snowboard up with no poles. He planned to do St. Helens the next day. Got to give him credit for going at it, though I never saw him later in the day, so no idea if he made it onto the upper mountain. He told me that he was happy to run into me, as he wasn’t sure of the route. That made two of us, as I informed him that I didn’t know either. Then, later, I met a couple gents from the Seattle area who didn’t quite know where the Lunch Counter was–so that made four.

I wanted to wait on the summit for things to soften up–the wind had other plans, and sent me back down, skittering on the ice. Plenty of that in the video. Halfway down the upper face, I saw some pants I recognized. Rowen was maybe 2/3rds of the way up, and as it turned out, he’d been in the lot before I was the night previous. His new car had thrown me off too. But his boots were bothering him, and so we took off down into the slushy, nice, less-scrape-y lower levels. Overall, the ski was really quite fun and the view north to Rainier was a jaw dropper. Very worth all the wandering around in the dark. Best of all, the superstition about non-adventure didn’t hit on this trip, leaving me with just mis-adventure–and of course, I’m pretty used to that.

It’s worth noting that many of the climbs/skis/volcanic activities I’m doing on this trip aren’t very hard from a technical standpoint, but since I’m going places I haven’t before, these are about discovery, not unabashed and balls-to-the-wall gnar. There’s cool stuff to find here, and I plan to scout it and come back on a spring when the snow goes further down into the foothills–expect more about that when my St. Helens post goes up.

Thanks to Rowen for making the drive and forgiving me when I didn’t find him.

Right on, Rainier: a ski jaunt up and down the Fuhrer Finger

NOTE: All photos/videos current to route conditions as of March 5/6, 2015.

Unfolding on layers of rock, or ice, or the accumulated winters of a snowfield, geology and weather can be so patient. On their own time scale, they’re moving right along. But on ours, they fairly stand still, and following their slow lead informs a safer mindset: the mountain isn’t going anywhere. We can come back. There’s nothing wrong with stepping down, turning back, making the harder choice.

The truth, though, is that when something catches my notice, or lodges itself in the folds of my brain, that patience is tested. It’s hard to pick good conditions, good people, plan well, and not succeed on an objective. The thought of turning back when many things have aligned can be burdensome. Worse, it’s the feeling of work not yet done on a big goal that eats at me. Such have been the past couple years on Mt. Rainier. I’ve written about those climbs, both our attempt on the Finger in 2013, and our group attempt via the DC last summer.

The net result of both was that I learned quite a bit, but hadn’t been anywhere near the summit. So for this spring, I’d put that goal pretty high on my list. May or June seemed like the time to do it–until a couple weeks ago, when it occurred to me that with the vicious cycle they’ve been having, a March attempt might make some sense. March might be the new May, to quote a local friend.   Of course, the trip wouldn’t have been possible without partners. Blake Votilla was heading to Rainier to interview for a guiding job with RMI (which he now has–congrats!), so we shuffled dates, brought Miles and Mike on board, and hoped to meet up around 9am Thursday.

Late on Wednesday afternoon, I loaded up and headed on out from Kalispell. The drive was most interesting going over White Pass. Snow guns with lights trained into their tubes of snow made for a remarkable sight in the dark. A kind lady helped me with directions to the Skate Creek Road at 1:30am. Just an hour later, I pulled into Ashford, shuffled gear, and fell asleep. Six hours later, Blake, who must have been out on a walk, casually strolled by. We chatted while I packed, discussed a couple things, and headed into the park to find Miles and Mike. After half an hour of waiting for them in the Longmire parking lot, we realized they were in the ranger station–waiting for us. Our permit secured, we headed back out to organize. Then Miles walked up to the group: “Turns out there’s going to be another group on the Finger. The best part is that my ex-girlfriend is in it.” This set off all kinds of speculation about camp that night, though we’d later realize that the other party wasn’t planning to camp anywhere near us. Everything went into two vehicles for the trip up to Paradise. We reorganized, and were off to a great alpine start of almost exactly noon. Looking out across, with the red line indicating our route. Things went smoothly. We dropped off the main trail near the base of Pan Point, traversed over a moraine, and roped up to cross the lower Nisqually and Wilson Glaciers en route to camp. Blake and Miles took one 30m, with Mike and I behind. Perhaps the biggest thing that I notice every time I’m on Rainier is exactly that: it’s big. The scale is way off for most of the mountain environments I’ve played in. For reference, compare the route picture above. The first line covers about 4000ft feet of gain, while the second is over 5000ft. Another angle on the vastness, of Mike and me: We found things more cracked out than we expected. Paradise, and I assume the mountain at large, has seen only a fraction of its yearly snow, and I remember fewer detours around broken areas from our April trip two years back. Other than that, some fresh snow from a few days prior make for easy skinning. We made it to camp at around 9200’with daylight to spare, and only a little bit of treacherous ice. Mike and Miles sidle in. Citing the good weather, we took a Megamid just in case, but never needed it. A wind drift below a massive rock offered a nice floor and room for bunks. As I’m demonstrating, it’s important to check the softness of your mattress in these wild climes. Once settled, we melted a preposterous amount of snow to rehydrate. Its amazing how much water you go through at elevation, with a medium sized pack, trying to make good time. Past trips haven’t seen me succeeding at drinking enough, and paying a price performance wise. Then, Miles pulled a small deli’s worth of veggies, cheese, and sauce out of his pack, and cooked some incredibly delicious backcountry pizzas. The secret seems to lie in a just add water crust, mixed in a ziplock and then squeezed out to cook in a pan. Rich eating, that’s for sure. Very tasty. Though our kitchen and dining room was nice, I wanted more counter space for making sandwiches. Snow walls make for easy remodels. Somewhere in there, we all bedded down in the alcove, passing off to dreamland. The moon was bright and further across the sky every time I woke up. Then the alarm jangled out of my watch at 3am, and we were up again. We took forever to get out of camp, mostly because we really hit the water hard. I’ll take the blame there. 5:30 saw us skinning across the glacier, ski crampons crunching into the refrozen surface. Navigation happened at the length of a headlamp, and it was strange to watch the beams of Miles and Blake searching the mounds of snow and ice ahead of us for the route across the basin and into the bottom of the finger. Above us, ice and snow hung and loomed in the dark. On my end of the rope, I felt pretty dang small there, just moving forward across the snow in the direction we knew the Finger’s couloir to be, the rope to Mike tugging behind me. Eventually, light came and we began to angle up into the couloir. I dropped the rope to Mike, and continued up. Ski crampons would bite in, then sometimes slide. Switching to crampons would be more secure as our feet punched in through the thin surface of crust, but then we’d lose the efficiency of out skins. The angle forced our hands (or maybe more appropriately, our feet) as the sky began to go those pastel colors you see on Lisa Frank pony coloring books. Here, Mike chews on a ski strap to keep his energy up. Leader shot from Blake, the rest of us chugging along behind him: We had to high side on climbers left to avoid cracks radiating off the Nisqually Icefall towards the upper part of the Finger. There wasn’t enough snow, to our eyes, to allow a glacier traverse. This meant a steep pitch to that top that we belayed up to avoid a roped tumble into the open crevasses below. It’s worth noting that we couldn’t see a good line for a traverse into
the Nisqually, though I know that’s sometimes good route finding, as when Wildsnow did it.
Once there, we found our way across a little pass and onto the summit glaciers. Things were starting to slow down in our rope team. Water and exhaustion were taking their toll as we strolled upwards. Mike takes it in. The Finger proper is down and to the left. Rainier so dwarfs any of the foothills around it that it doesn’t have the feel of Mt. Baker, the other stratovolcano I’ve climbed. Plus, because the base is so broad, the upper reaches feel more like a big plateau than the top of an individual mountain. It goes on, and on, and on. The scale constantly messed with my head. Maybe five hundred feet above where the last picture was taken, Mike had had enough. He’d pushed super hard, but was exhausted. It was smart for him to stop and save his energy for the trip down. With the emergency sleeping bag in my pack, he could bundle up and wait. The weather seemed fine. Part of me wanted to call it off and wait for him, but I’ll be honest–the part of me that wanted to finish what the two trips previous hadn’t done was really strong. I wanted to make the summit. With his urging, I tied in with Blake and Miles to finish the last 700ft or so to the top. Rope snagging on wind sharpened sastrugi, we fairly flew up the last bit of glacier to find the summit decorated with small plates of ice and a bitingly cold wind. I would have liked to hang out, but the wind was fierce. Plus, Mike was waiting. Plus, the gate to Paradise would close and lock at 5pm. It was just after 1pm. We’d need a nearly record setting pace on feet to make it in time. Of course, we weren’t on feet for the 9000ft we were about to descend. We had skis. It was rattley, chattery, and strange. We crossed snow bridges, dodged sastrugi, and made scrapey turns down big panes of wind affected snow. Mike was awakened from his nap by our hollers of glee. Once the whole band was back together, we took off again.

Arriving at the lower part of the Nisqually, we skinned back up to join the main trail. Miles, Mike, and I forwent our shirts for the last bit to Paradise. Whippets and ripped abs, I tell ya…

Thanks to Blake, Miles, and Mike for a terrific trip. Thanks also to Blake for photos.