Time To Climb

"Write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know." - Ernest Hemingway

Most writing, especially that by mountaineers, fails to follow this simple mantra. The essence of an experience is often lost somewhere between the rampant self-delusion, passive-aggressive posturing and bleeding need for external reinforcement. That's why the question of "why we climb" is often impossible to answer. I'm not trying to point fingers. I am as guilty as any, if not a chief offender. 

My goal for this blog post is to write one true sentence. And then another. And then maybe a couple more.

Sam and I leave tomorrow for a week in the Pacific Northwest. I'm more nervous than I've ever been before a climbing trip. Neither of the routes we're planning is particularly harrowing, but compared with my past resume, they'll rank among the toughest of my life. The difference between those previous endeavors and the present is that I now have something to lose. For the first time, I'm truly happy -- happy enough to have an eye toward the future.

I have the love and support of a woman who makes me smile every hour of every day, even when she's being purposely difficult; a dog that makes me feel like the center of a universe; dozens of great friends who could keep me partying eight nights a week if I let them; a relationship with my parents that's finally starting to make me feel like a respectable adult; two great jobs and a million other positive influences.

I used to climb to fill a hole in my being. I craved respect. I needed to prove to myself and others what I was worth. I wanted girls to swoon over me and men to want to be me. It's a harsh self-critique, but it's real. A few true sentences. I suspect I'm far from the only climber who's had such a mindset.

I don't need that anymore. Somewhere over the past year, I moved past it. I view life through a new filter. 

The deaths of those six climbers on Liberty Ridge in early June hit home like never before. I found myself reading all about them, browsing their Facebook pages, peering through a partially cracked window into the world they left behind. They not only lost their lives, but shattered dozens that surrounded them. For what?

Death in climbing has touched me more than most. I've seen what it does to families, and I've personally experienced the heartbreak of lost friends. Loved ones can display incredible strength, picking up the pieces and stitching their wounds as best they can, but no one can fully recover from such trauma. The thought of my family going through that makes me sick.

The Adams Glacier, and to a lesser extent the Kautz Glacier, include sections where we'll be sticking our necks out. No matter the skill or speed we possess, if a block of ice breaks away at the wrong time, it's curtains. For months I've struggled with this thought. If that's the case, why bother at all? What draws the human spirit to deadly challenges?

Life contains a surplus of everyday joys: season finales, family get-togethers, boozy weekends, promotions, vacations, kisses, hugs, laughs. I can't speak for anyone but myself, but forays into the mountains amplify the feelings associated with these wonderful moments a hundredfold. It's like taking an old black-and-white photograph and colorizing it. From atop a lofty mountain summit, especially one that was hard-won, you view not only the endless countryside but also the depths of the human experience. You can see forever, including inward.

I'm nervous. It's a familiar feeling that will fall away as soon as Sam and I are tied into a rope, staring up the 5,000-foot icefall that is the Adams Glacier. With every swing of the ax, kick of the feet and friendly joke, the world will become more colorful.

We are prepared, we are able and -- I've failed to mention through all this -- extremely excited. It's going to be the trip of a lifetime. Something to tell the grandkids about. Feeling a little anxious isn't a bad thing; it's when you get too cocky that you get into trouble. Time to go to work.

Jeff

Chasing Ice: A Dress Rehearsal

MOUNTAIN: Longs Peak
ROUTE: Flying Dutchman (Steep Snow, WI2)
RT GAIN: ~4,100'
RT DISTANCE: ~11 miles
RT TIME: 10 hours
CLIMBERS: Keegan, Sam, Jeff


Sam, Keegan and I had never climbed together as a team. Keegan had a little jaunt to Alaska to worry about, I was recovering from shoulder surgery and #SSSala was always busy trolling Facebook. With only two weeks before our trip to the Pacific Northwest, we figured at least one dress rehearsal probably wouldn’t be the stupidest thing we’ve ever done.

We settled on the Flying Dutchman because it replicates what we’ll be facing up in Washington (Kautz and Adams Glaciers) -- a multi-hour approach, steep snow and a brief section of WI2/3. The Dutchman ended up being one of my all-time favorite routes. Better yet, we spent the day in solitude while party after party swarmed Dreamweaver. As an extra bonus, if you're a teenage French-Canadian, you can climb it in tennis shoes!

We set off from the trailhead a little after 5 a.m. and reached Chasm Junction on a dry trail in about two hours. I’d been up that way several times before, but somehow this was my first trip ever taking a left and heading toward Chasm Lake. Always love treading new ground. Snow patches began to appear, but most of the route remained dry and easy to follow. We crossed around the left side of the lake on boulders and snow to arrive at the base of the route.

 
By the time we’d taken a break, geared up and discussed tactics, it was about 9:15 a.m. We decided to rope up from the start to practice glacier travel and pacing. Sam was to lead, so we saddled him with all the gear and rejoiced as our backpacks dropped dramatically in weight.

The fun started from the get-go with a small, low-angle ice and mixed patch  to enter the couloir proper. From there it’s an ever-steepening snow climb up about 1,000-1,200 feet to the ice crux. I’d estimate it started around 40 degrees and maxed out at 55 or 60 degrees on the WI2 step. Sam carried a couple pickets for protection, but we never felt the need to place any. We pulled off to the rocks a couple times when a good rest ledge presented itself, belaying each other in and out.

Finally, the ice step appeared. We weren’t really sure what to expect and were thrilled to find what looked like good ice, though a bit sunny and wet. It was much shorter and lower angle than we were anticipating. A few sticks saw us over and back onto lower-angle snow. Sam briefly considered building an anchor for a proper belay, but it looked easy enough that we just simul-climbed it. Sam placed two cams (one below, one above the ice step) and a picket for peace of mind. It was my first time swinging tools since shoulder surgery in January, and even though I was horribly inefficient, the stoke levels were off the charts. 

We reached the exit and regrouped on easier terrain at 12 p.m. The wind had been annoying all day, and now dark clouds were building to the northwest. None of us really cared all that much about a summit after having so much fun on the route. With burgers and beers at Oskar Blues beckoning, we unroped and set off down Lambslide. The snow was still hard enough to warrant crampons. No glissade, unfortunately.

The Chasm Lake cirque is simply stellar. I found myself stopping every few minutes to just stop and look around. You hear about all these famous features, but it’s a totally different experience when you see them in person, close enough you can almost reach out and touch. We went around the opposite bank of Chasm Lake this time, hoping for good views of the Dutchman. We weren’t disappointed.

The rest of the walk was pretty uneventful, with each of us retreating into our own thoughts (mostly of bacon cheeseburgers and Dale’s) for the slog out. The snow is melting quickly up there. Go get after it while you can!