11 Tips for Hiking 14ers Like a Grown Up

Step 1: Wear obnoxiously bright colors. (Just kidding. Sort of.)

1. The Information Is Out There

Don't ask for information on Quandary's East Ridge in August. There's no faster way to rile up the masses. If you have a question about the 14ers, it's already been posed and answered at least a dozen times. Invest energy in doing your own research. I promise, it's more fulfulling. The search function on the 14ers.com forum is easy to use, and there are thousands of archived trip reports containing everything you need to know. Nearly a half-dozen guidebooks specific to the 14ers exist. Pick one (or several) and read them. Still have a question? Frame it in a thoughtful, intelligent way and post it on the 14ers.com forum or Facebook group. The answers will arrive within minutes.

2. Do Your Homework

I can't emphasize this enough. Whether it's arrogance or naivety, too many people head into the backcountry with little to no information. Study your intended route. Read trip reports. A shockingly large number of accidents are caused by hikers getting off-route, and it's heartbreaking that many of these are avoidable. Fancy GPS units with programmed waypoints are a nice supplement, but they're not a replacement for genuine knowledge and intuition. A map is essential. There's no excuse for not carrying one -- free software such as Caltopo.com is readily available for easy printing.

3. Be Self Sufficient

Traveling in groups is a double-edged sword. Yes, there's an added measure of safety. The dynamics can also lead to a false sense of security. Regardless of party size, always ask yourself: "Could I make it up and down this mountain on my own, survive a night out if I become stranded, and somehow get the attention of Search & Rescue if necessary?" If the answer is no, pick another objective.

Carry and know how to use the 10 Essentials (see video below). Either bring more water than you think you'll need or a purification system. Most 14er routes cross or follow streams -- if you do your homework (hinthint), you'll know where to find them. If you don't want to invest in or haul a traditional filter, iodine tablets are cheap and weigh next to nothing. Sure, they taste terrible, but that's preferable to dehydration.

A whiteout in August is not uncommon. Be prepared.

4. Start Early

Yeah, that 5 a.m. alarm sucks. It's also your ticket to safety and success. A summer afternoon free of thunderstorms is rare in the Colorado high country. The risk of death via lightning may be overblown, but no one that's been caught above treeline in a thunderstorm is jumping to repeat the experience. For most 14er routes I aim to start at first light, which generally comes between 6-7 a.m. I'll start earlier for high-mileage days. Just get up and go. Missing out on an hour of sleep is better than having to turn around or putting yourself in a life-threatening situation.

5. Leave No Trace

I wish I was kidding, but last summer I saw a group hitting golf balls off Grays Peak. People have left lawn chairs, grills, toasters, flags and even human excrement on summits. On top of these extravagant affronts, there's the routine garbage such as food wrappers and discarded summit signs. The Front Range is attracting more and more people, and the overcrowding on 14ers is only going to get worse. Respect the resource; leave the backcountry as you found it. Take your summit signs down with you (or better yet, don't bring them in the first place), remove your trash, dispose properly of human waste, camp responsibly, follow Wilderness and Forest Service guidelines and most importantly, don't be a golf ball-hitting jackass.

Standard crowded 14er summit.

6. Respect Other Trail Users

We all hike for our own reasons, using our own methods. Want to smoke pot, let your dog off leash or blast music from a portable speaker? I'm not going to turn you in to the fun police -- as long as you aren't disturbing the experience of other hikers. Leash the dog if it's being a nuisance, find a spot off trail to smoke and turn down the music when you see other people approaching. If someone is faster than you, let them pass. Give a brief greeting to people heading the opposite direction and yield the trail if necessary. (The general agreement is that uphill hikers have the right-of-way, but most of them won't pass up a chance to stop for a breather. Communicate.) Mutual respect really isn't that hard.

7. The Mountain Ain't Going Anywhere

Smart decision making is not synonymous with failure. Many hikers consider it a point of pride to have only turned back "X number of times" because of weather, fatigue or other factors. It's not. There's more honor in good judgment than putting yourself in a dangerous situation to tag a meaningless summit. Listen to your body. Trust your instincts. Watch the sky. Turn around if necessary and return to the mountain when conditions are more favorable. Not only will you reduce the risks, I guarantee you'll also have a more enjoyable summit.

My first time on Capitol I called it quits at the subsummit "K2" because of slick rock, cloudy skies and a forecast that called for an 80 percent chance of thunderstorms after 9 a.m. Most of my party continued on, summited in a whiteout and safely returned to camp. The lightning started soon after. I returned three weeks later on a warm, cloudless day. Even with the benefit of hindsight and knowing my friends experienced no major issues on the first trip, I'd make that same decision 10 out of 10 times. You can only toss so many dice before you roll snake eyes.

A gloomy morning on "K2."

8. Put Effort into a Trip Report

Title: "Mt. Quandry - East Ridge"
Pictures: 3 (one rotated off-axis)
Words: "We climbed Quandry yesterday. It was crowded. Dan had a peanut butter sandwich on the summit. I could see Pike's Peak. On the way down I tripped on a loose rock. Overall the hike was fun."

Would you want to read that? No one else does, either.

(It's Quandary Peak, by the way. Mt. Lindsey. Longs Peak. Pikes Peak. Mt. Bierstadt. Grays Peak. Torreys Peak.)

Writing a trip report should be fun. Don't make it work, you're not getting paid for it. Relive your experience and inject some energy into the content. Tell the story of your hike. Include personal anecdotes, or if that's not your thing, provide unique details about the route and trail conditions. Trip reports are personal endeavors. Photographer with no interest in writing? Share a photo essay. English major with nothing but a flip-phone camera? Stretch that sucker out to 1,500 words. Bottom line, make the report interesting. Consider your audience and what they want to see, know and hear -- then deliver.

9. Share the Stoke

Whether you took a vacation from sea level to hike Mt. Sherman or just jogged Capitol Peak as a daytrip, you've just notched an awesome life accomplishment. Celebrate it. Share your photos on Facebook. Write a trip report or blog post. Blow up Instagram for a week. It's OK to be proud of yourself. More importantly, fellow hikers will benefit from your reports on conditions, the route and the overall experience. It's easy for veteran climbers to forget what it was like to try their first summit, first Class 3 or first couloir. It's always on to the next challenge, with little time for the rear-view mirror. Forget 'em. For every blowhard rolling their eyes at your accomplishment, there are 10 people who will find it inspiring.

Me (left), exhibiting my stance on selfie sticks. But hey, to each their own.

However...

10. Stay Humble

You are not a special snowflake. Regardless what you've accomplished, many people came before and many more will follow. Narcissism is a widespread disease in the climbing community. It's a constant game of oneupsmanship. An impressive climbing resume does not make you an awesome person. To be honest, no one except you cares. Even if you've finished the 14ers and climbed Denali, it's not an excuse to talk down to or consider yourself above a fellow human being. Mountaineering often serves as a cornerstone for a climber's sense of personal worth, and I'm not saying that you shouldn't embrace those self-esteem boosts. They're awesome. Just don't let your head get lost in the clouds. It happens all too often.

11. Enjoy the Experience

There is no parade or world-shattering epiphany when you finish the 14ers. Life beats on as it always has. You get a little street cred, a certificate from the Colorado Mountain Club and a sentence for the "Other" section of your resume. That's about it. So, what's the rush? Swap those three-peak sufferfest weekends for setting up camp in Yankee Boy Basin and climbing only Mt. Sneffels. Breathe the mountain air, observe the wildflowers, linger on campfire conversations, pause to ponder the world under a twinkling blanket of stars. Those are the moments you'll remember, not your round-trip time on Pyramid Peak.

Slow down and enjoy the ride.

Go Panthers! ...and Broncos?

In a sea of orange, I'm tired of being a stain of black.

No, I'm not rushing out to buy a Peyton Manning jersey or changing my Facebook cover photo to “United in Orange.” The Panthers are my team. Even if I wanted to, it would be impossible to have the same passion for another.

What I mean is that I'm tired of being a hater.

The main reason I've actively rooted against the Broncos is I don’t want to be surrounded by their celebrating fans. If the Panthers are eliminated, I'd rather the eventual champion reside in some faraway corner of the country with a quiet, ignorable fanbase. Denver, like any team, has some terrible supporters. They yell insults at opposing fans, turn into raging assholes if the team plays poorly, spew uninformed rants about how PFM should win the next Nobel Prize and just generally lose sight of what's actually important in life. This subset of Denver sports fans is a tiny minority, but be honest – you can probably name a handful right now without giving it much thought.

After Carolina's playoff loss to the 49ers last year, I realized I’d become one of them.

I wasn't fun to watch football around. Friends, even close ones, publicly cheered against the Panthers because they didn't want to deal with me. I'd often wake up with feelings of embarrassment on Monday mornings. Most importantly, I'd become a poor representative of the Carolina Panthers, a sports franchise with which I have a deep and largely unrelatable connection. It's that bond I hope to attempt to explain in this post, before turning over a new leaf in my expressions of fandom. I know, I know, “it's just football.” Hear me out.

The Panthers sprang into existence just as I was entering my formative years in Charlotte, where my family had relocated only a couple years prior. Underdogs from the start, Charlotte was low on the list of cities campaigning for an NFL franchise. Thanks to owner Jerry Richardson's tenaciousness and the revolutionary idea of Personal Seat Licenses (PSLs), Charlotte pulled a major upset. The Carolina Panthers entered the league in 1995 alongside the Jacksonville Jaguars.

After an 0-5 start, Sam Mills keyed the Panthers' inaugural win.

As a 9-year-old still adjusting to a new city, one of my favorite memories is riding nearly 300 miles round-trip to Clemson, S.C., to watch the Panthers take on the defending Super Bowl-champion San Francisco 49ers on Dec. 10, 1995. The Panthers were forced to play their inaugural season there, at Clemson University, while a permanent stadium was under construction in uptown Charlotte.

My parents had divorced not long after I was born, and as a pre-teen my main passions in life were reading fantasy novels, playing video games and being as difficult as possible for my mother. That roadtrip, just the two of us, was the beginning of something special. The game was forgettable – Carolina lost 31-10 – but the experience made us both lifelong fans, and the bond between us intensified. To this day, no matter what’s going on in the world, I can count on a stream of texts from my mother during every Panthers game. Huddled under a shared blanket on metal bleachers in a half-empty college stadium in December, a mother and son found common ground. My first-ever NFL game will always remain my favorite.

The next year, the Panthers went 11-5 and made a shocking run to the NFC Championship Game. If there were any remaining doubts that The Queen City could support a professional football team, they evaporated in 1996. The city was whipped into a football frenzy. Carolina lost to the eventual Super Bowl-winning Green Bay Packers at Lambeau Field, but a new legion of fans was created, and I was one of them.

We got season tickets soon after. My mom and I went to as many games as we could and watched the rest in our North Charlotte living room. The franchise's strong start didn’t last, and we suffered through a string of disappointing seasons, including a 1-15 clunker in 2001. Hey, you have to experience the bad times to appreciate the good times. It all became worth it two years later.

It will take a Super Bowl win to dethrone the 2003 season as my favorite ever for the Carolina Panthers. In his second campaign, John Fox and newly acquired quarterback Jake Delhomme went on the most exciting and improbable playoff run in NFL history. The Panthers won close game after close game, including seven fourth-quarter comebacks to earn the nickname “Cardiac Cats.” They won four contests in overtime (of five) that season, the highlight being a double-OT victory over the 14-2 St. Louis Rams in the divisional round of the playoffs. 

X-Clown.

“X-Clown,” the play that resulted in a game-winning 69-yard touchdown from Delhomme to Steve Smith in the first play of the second overtime, will never be topped. I clearly remember lying on my living room floor in a nervous heap before the play, and then jumping and screaming and hugging my mom as Smith went the distance.

Carolina went on to lose one of the greatest Super Bowls ever played, 32-29 to the New England Patriots. The Cardiac Cats simply ran out of magic.

I graduated high school in 2004 and departed for college three hours away in Wilmington, N.C., thus ending my days as a regular attendee of home games. My mom sold off our season tickets, and a couple years later she moved to Delaware. I still watched all the games on TV, but only traveled to a handful of home games. The Panthers returned to the playoffs in 2005 and 2008, but 2003 remains their only Super Bowl appearance.

The last home game I attended, against the Bucs in 2007.

I bounced around a lot after college, from North Carolina to New Mexico to Boston and eventually to Denver. No matter where I am, the Panthers always give me something to look forward to on Sundays. A series of dismal seasons finally ended with last year's playoff berth, and honestly I think I’d just forgotten how to handle success. I was consumed by the 12-4 team and lost perspective, especially in regards to the even-better 13-3 Broncos. I was surrounded by people who only wanted to rave about the home team, while I felt my poor small-market Panthers were largely ignored.

Even worse, in my eyes, were the bandwagon fans. Denver is a city of transplants, and I watched as one-by-one, fans of other teams or people who didn't even like football slyly slipped on the orange-and-blue. I felt cheated by the fact that, if the Broncos won the Super Bowl, these first-year supporters would experience the jubilation that I've thirsted for during 20 years of Panthers football. It made me bitter, angry and spiteful. I publicly taunted my friends when the Broncos lost to the Seahawks.

In retrospect, I'm ashamed by the fact I was openly cheering for people I care about to experience sadness. Whether it comes from football or anything else in life, I should root for my friends to be happy and not let misguided jealousy hinder my relationships.

Don't get me wrong, a little lighthearted trash talk is a huge part of what makes sports fun. It just has to stop short of becoming personal. Keep the “Scam Newton” jokes coming, as long as you’re prepared for me to fire back.

A dirty little secret: I'm a bandwagon Panthers fan. Even after that first game I attended in 1995, I was split between the Panthers and the Miami Dolphins. I'd spent my youth in South Florida before moving to Charlotte, and Dan Marino was my childhood hero. It took the 1996 playoff run to fully convert me to the Panthers. So who am I to judge if someone who just moved to Denver wants to hop on the Broncos bandwagon? That's how fans are made.

Over the course of this season, I've made an effort to let go of my hate. Despite some lapses, it's been a largely successful experiment. I've stopped letting losses affect my mood (it IS just football), I've had friendly conversations with opposing fans and I've eliminated the word Sewer Dome from my vocabulary. Will I still make jokes at the Saints’ expense? Of course. I'm just trying to take the actual maliciousness out of it.

As the playoffs start, I know there are some people out there who will be rooting against the Panthers because they “don't want to have to hear about it from Golden.” That’s fine. I’m vocal, especially on social media, because I love my team. I sometimes feel my eyes get a little misty when I read about Sam Mills or watch “X-Clown” on YouTube. The Panthers remind me of home, of family, of childhood, of dozens of formative memories. They are the one thing still connecting me to my hometown of Charlotte. Posting about them is part of the experience for me, and I realize that can gett annoying, because almost no one cares about little ol' Carolina. What I do promise is that any posts will purely be celebrating the Panthers, and not putting down other teams or their supporters.

The Panthers don't have six rings or a rich history; they've yet to even record back-to-back winning seasons. What tradition they do have, however, is something I've experienced from the very beginning. I don't have to read about it in books or hear about it from my grandpa. That's pretty cool, too.

In the likely scenario the Panthers are eliminated before the Super Bowl, will I become a Broncos fan? No. But I will become a fan of the Broncos fans who enrich my life. As the poignant American History X quote goes, “Hate is baggage. Life's too short to be pissed off all the time.”

iPhone photo taken while watching the Panthers win the NFC South this year -- which I got to watch with my mom.

Keep Pounding.

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

The Carrot on the Stick

June 27, 2014. That's exactly five months post-surgery, the timeframe my surgeon gave for a full recovery. If I played a contact sport, and my rehab went as planned, that's when I'd be cleared. So walking around on some glaciers and swinging an ice tool or two should be fine by then, right? It's not like I'll be slinging baseballs or performing swim-moves against Offensive Tackles.

At least that's what I've told myself since the day I decided to have surgery. I'd miss ice climbing, winter 14ers, the beginning of couloir season -- but June 27 wouldn't so bad, because that just so happens to be the sweet spot for climbing in the Pacific Northwest. A hazy outline of a potential trip formed in my head even before I went under the knife, and it continues to serve as the carrot on the proverbial stick.

A return to Liberty Ridge, despite offers from solid partners, wasn't what I wanted. Part of the joy I derive from mountaineering is exploring different places and reveling in new experiences. I'll go back to Liberty Ridge one day, probably soon, but attempting it a second year in a row just doesn't instill the same sense of wonderment. I want to immerse myself in an unfamiliar route and get to know a new slice of mountain. After much research and discussions with potential partners, an extended glacier romp has finally taken shape for June 28 (or 29...or 30...) through July 6.

Mt. Adams: Adams Glacier, Grade III, AI2

 

Adams Glacier

This route is appealing for an obvious reason: I've never climbed Mt. Adams. Much easier options exist on the south side of the volcano, but the Adams Glacier is considered by many to be the most classic line on "Washington's Forgotten Mountain." Basically a giant icefall, the route weaves its away through crevasses and seracs on 40/50-degree snow and ice for 5,000 feet. The technical sections allow access to the easy summit plateau, where the successful climber is rewarded with a half-mile snow slog to the true summit.

The glacier changes from year to year, with trip reports varying wildly from protection-less moderate snow climbing with only a piolet to 70-degree ice pitches with screws and pickets. I'm hoping for somewhere in between. The descent is via the infamously loose and rocky North Ridge. Sam Sala will be my partner on this climb.

Mt. Rainier: Kautz Glacier, Grade II/III, AI2 

 

Kautz Glacier

In terms of difficulty, the Kautz Glacier falls somewhere between Liberty Ridge and the standard DC/Emmons walk-up routes. Early in the season it's a straightforward snow climb, but as the powder transitions to neve and ice, many people prefer a second ice tool. Starting from the Paradise trailhead with the masses heading for the DC, the Kautz route variates at Glacier Vista to cross the Nisqually Glacier. The Turtle Snowfield and Wapowety Cleaver lead to rocky Camp Hazard at 11,500'.

The most dangerous part of the route is traversing under the massive Kautz Ice Cliff to reach the Kautz Ice Chute, a moderate-to-steep section of ice and snow. Above the chute, a couple hours of glacier-walking leads to Point Success and the true summit at Columbia Crest. Our permits are for 6/30 through 7/4, allowing for maximum flexibility. Sam Sala and Keegan Young will be my partners for the Kautz.

Others?

The routes described will take two days each in ideal weather. We haven't bought plane tickets yet, but it's possible we could swing as long as an eight-day trip. The need for weather days is pretty much a certainty in the PNW. If we get a miracle week-long window of bluebird skies, however, we're even looking into options for a third route. The possibilities are endless. Now if you'll excuse me, writing this blog post has inspired me to hit an extra set of rubber-band exercises...

The Shoulder Story

PART I: Injury

Partly for my own recollection and partly to answer the FAQs from my friends, I figured it would be smart to write down a timeline of my shoulder issues to date. With this baseline established, I can provide periodic updates and track my progress going forward. I've spent a few hours this week trying to find similar rehab stories (Bankart Repair) on the Web, and there aren't many out there. Maybe this will help someone a year or two down the line as they Google search for first-hand info like I have.

I had no history of shoulder problems. In fact, I've always considered my right shoulder to be particularly strong. I was an above-average thrower with many years of baseball (3B), football (QB) and more recently kickball (3B/Pitcher) under my belt.

My shoulder experienced an anterior dislocation for the first time on Saturday, Sept. 28, 2013, at the age of 27. I was playing in a charity kickball tournament. Diving back toward first base after a caught fly-ball, my hand got stuck on the grass and forced my shoulder back and up. I knew immediately what had happened. I could only move my arm at the elbow and the pain was excruciating. The trainer on the field decided not to reduce the dislocation on-site, so after he applied a masterful splint I was on my way to the University of Colorado Hospital in Aurora. My girlfriend, Kate, managed to hit every pothole in her path. I think she was doing it as revenge for some unspoken wrong I'd caused her.

The ER doctor popped my shoulder back into place without pain killers or sedation roughly 1-1.5 hours after it dislocated. This part was much easier than I was anticipating. He positioned my arm by my side like an "L," with my fist extended in front of my ribcage. Then he slowly rotated externally while a nurse applied pressure to my chest to hold me in place. A few seconds of intense pain later, there was a gentle click and all was well.

Ouch

All patched up

I wore a sling for about a week. My range of motion returned and the pain faded. I knew I was now prone to subsequent dislocations, but I figured I'd never had issues before and physical therapy would have me as good as new.

Well, almost exactly two months later, I was watching the Panthers vs. Patriots game on Monday Night Football. I felt like my shoulder was back close to 100 percent. When Ted Ginn caught the go-ahead touchdown for my beloved Carolina Panthers, I pumped my fist. Nothing dramatic, not a full blown punch or anything, just a subdued little fist pump. There wasn't much pain, but I recognized the sensation and the tingling right away. My shoulder had slipped out again. I asked my buddy Ryan sitting next to me to repeat the motion the ER doc had performed, and sure enough it clicked right back into place. The next morning my range of motion and pain level returned to what it had been about a week after the initial dislocation.

Ryan, the hero of the second dislocation, with some poop on his shirt

Surgery now became a serious option. I throw, I climb, I'm active. Recurring shoulder instability would completely change my lifestyle. I met with a surgeon who explained that I'd experienced something called a Bankart Tear (or Bankart Lesion).

As I understand it, whenever anyone dislocates a shoulder, part of the labrum rips away from the bone. All of the correlating muscles, tendons and ligaments thus become looser than they were before, resulting in instability of the shoulder socket. A Bankart repair procedure reattaches the labrum to the bone using dissolving sutures as anchors.

PART II: Surgery

I scheduled my surgery for Wednesday, January 29, 2014. I spent the interim two months of purgatory enjoying myself as best I could, even squeezing in a few 14er hikes and an ice climbing trip to Ouray. I didn't have much pain, but the best way to describe it was my shoulder just felt unstable. Loose. I couldn't trust it, and that's not a good feeling when you're hanging by an ice tool 60 feet above Uncompahgre Creek.

Ice climbing in Ouray over New Year's

My only prior experience with surgery was a knee scope in high school (Lateral/Collateral Release), and by comparison this one was a breeze. The anesthesiologist stirred up a cocktail of drugs that kept the nausea at bay, the pain upon waking was minimal and I avoided the need for a nerve block. I hardly even felt any discomfort and stopped taking the pain medications after only four days. I returned to work seven days later and wore the sling continuously, except for typing and bathing, as directed for the better part of three weeks.

Even out of the sling, the only physical therapy I was allowed to do were pendulum swings. Recovery progressed rapidly. Unfortunately, during my first checkup with my surgeon's PA, I was informed not to start setting real PT appointments until the six-week mark. That wasn't what I wanted to hear. I felt good and was eager to take a more proactive stance toward recovery. Mostly abiding by his rule, I set my first PT session for five weeks post-op.

It went better than I could have imagined. I could do all of the exercises the therapist assigned without pain, so much so that he gave me extras usually reserved for later weeks. I skipped right over the entry-level yellow rubberband and onto the intermediate orange. The therapist said I was way ahead of most people, and I left energized and grinning from ear-to-ear.

PART III: Peaks and Valleys

I climb peaks as a hobby, and six weeks after surgery I felt like I was on top of one. My range of motion was still severely limited, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt much pain. I was doing PT for an hour a day, went on a couple hikes, and enjoyed the company of friends for my girlfriend's birthday and St. Patrick's Day. No pain. I was even starting to feel strong.

Then I woke up Monday, March 17. The pain had returned with a vengeance. I could hardly drive my stick shift, something I'd been doing since about 2.5 weeks post-op. Panic set in. What if I'd done something to tear the sutures, or if those had dissolved already, the labrum back away from the bone? I went over everything I'd done the previous day. Nothing stood out as dangerous. I'd spent most of it on the couch.

So I went back to the weekend. I'd gone for a short hike/run Thursday, also the last time I'd done my PT exercises. As part of a WFA class, I'd helped drag a person about three feet in a mock scenario. That night I'd gone out to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. I got a few hugs, shook a few hands, supported a friend's legs (with help, using mostly my good shoulder) during a keg stand. Sunday I threw a frisbee -- once, about 15 feet, using mostly my wrist -- for my dog. I definitely hadn't fallen, which my surgeon said was the most dangerous threat.

Hike of Bear Peak, early March

Yet, my shoulder felt back to where it was two or three weeks after surgery. There was a deep, burning, throbbing ache right over the largest incision. Monday night I even had to sleep in my sling again for comfort. What gives? Everyone told me I was being paranoid, or exaggerating. To be honest, I was terrified. What if I'd somehow damaged the repaired area? I kicked myself for not babying it more, for doing all of those activities listed above.

It's gotten better throughout this week, but even sitting here Friday morning, some pain remains. More than there was last Sunday, for sure. I'm optimistic I'm fine, telling myself I just slept on it wrong, or that all of my activity last weekend had a cumulative effect. But a lot of lingering doubt remains. If I did somehow manage to re-tear my labrum, the result would be five months and thousands of dollars down the drain.

For half a year, this shoulder issue has prevented me from doing the activities that sustain me. I might be paranoid or exaggerating, but not exactly without cause. I'm in the prime of my climbing life, and instead of accomplishing all of the dreams and goals I'd concocted for this winter, I've spent most of it in a sling. I'm ready to be healthy. Considering the possibility of a failed surgery and continued instability makes me break out into a cold sweat.

PART IV: Climbing Out

I've leaned exclusively on my girlfriend during my recovery, and my recent week of nagging worry has been especially draining on her. I can't say enough how thankful I am for all of her love and support. She's imploring me to be more positive, and she has a point.

San Francisco with Kate, during the sling's final days

There's always someone that has it worse. In my case, lots of someones. My surgery was unbelievably minor in the grand scheme of things. I can still walk, I can take care of myself, I can work. I have my mental health. I'm not dying. I met with my doctor Monday for my six-week follow-up, and he seemed very unconcerned about my newfound pain. I'm not entirely sure I voiced correctly what I was trying to convey (I left out the keg stand part), but still, he kept on coming back to falls being the big danger. I hadn't fallen.

The doctor said there would be no way to tell if the surgery failed, unless another dislocation occurs. Re-tear or not, the next step is the same: total dedication to physical therapy. That's all that's in my control, so I might as well stay positive.

I was told five months for a full recovery, meaning if I played contact sports or pitched baseballs for a living, that's when I'd be cleared. For more normal stuff, I should have full range of motion and limited pain by the three-month mark -- the end of April. That's the next goal to work toward. If I clear that hurdle, maybe I'll even be able to squeeze in some snow climbs by mid-May. A boy can dream.

Did someone say snow climb?

Whatever happens, I'm going to try to be more upbeat and keep everything in better perspective. If I don't and the surgery did in fact fail, the next time Kate is driving me to the hospital after a dislocation, she might hit even more potholes.

-Jeff

The Road to Recovery

I haven't updated this blog in months. Oops. At least I have a good excuse: I sprained my knee in early September, and once that was about healed up, I dislocated my shoulder in a charity kickball tournament. The shoulder instability lingered and I ended up having surgery Jan. 29, after a second dislocation, to repair a Bankart Tear.

I got outside plenty in the fall and winter, but didn't accomplish much I considered blog-worthy. A failed attempt on Fletcher and successful trips up Silverheels, Buckskin, Homestake, Pikes, Sherman, Gemini and Evans (my lone new winter 14er this season) kept me sane, but all of those are relatively short walk-ups. I was even lucky enough to go ice climbing a few times, most notably during an amazing New Year's Trip to Ouray. It was tough sticking to easy WI2-3 and not being able to trust my dominant shoulder, but I'm thankful I was able to at least swing my tools a few times this season.

Pikes Peak summit with Kate, Remy, John and Loren.

It's admittedly difficult watching friends out there accomplishing great things. On one hand I'm happy for them, and on the other there's an undeniable pang of envy. There's even a sense of being left behind as I see people I was once on par with skyrocket past. With avalanche danger reaching atrocious levels, the only thing I'm not internally conflicted about is hoping they all stay safe.

Paraphrasing something my close friend Mark said recently while going through a much more difficult situation with a torn Achilles, there's nothing to do now but hit the rehab hard and stay focused on the future. What's done is done, and there's no use wallowing in my own tears over a lost winter season. All I can do now is focus my energy toward getting back to 100 percent.

Three things will see me through: Kate, who's been (mostly) patient despite my best efforts at milking the recovery; an obstinate hope that I'll be able to climb by couloir season in May; and an early July trip to the Pacific Northwest for the third year in a row. There's certainly a lot of fun to look forward to on the horizon.

I'm off now to my first post-op appointment. I'm hoping to learn when the sling gets retired and when physical therapy will start. Once those dates are set, it's go time. Recoveries are a lot like climbing a mountain -- if you stay fixated on short-term goals and take it step-by-step, before you know it you'll be on top.

Climb on.

-Jeff

Ouray Ice Park

A Legend Passes

I'd planned on a couple of trip reports being my next blog posts, but the events of the past 24 hours take precedence.

Steve Gladbach, a preeminent Colorado mountaineer and by all accounts one of the finest human beings on the planet, was killed in a climbing accident on "Thunder Pyramid" near Aspen. The details are still emerging, and I won't speculate on the cause except to say "Thunder Pyramid" is regarded as one of the most difficult Centennial 13ers. It's infamous for its steepness, loose rock and routefinding challenges. Steve had summited the mountain at least once before, and I believe he'd done it twice or even several times.

Steve Gladbach (courtesy Facebook.com)

Steve, 52, was the quintessential role model for 14ers.com. If the website had a Mt. Rushmore, he'd be on it. He mentored wave after wave of novice climbers, and did so in such a way that everyone who had the privilege of meeting him felt a special bond.

His accolades as a mountaineer are staggering. He became only the fourth person in history to climb all 59 Fourteeners in winter, a quest he completed in 2011. He finished four laps around the 14ers and was only 12 peaks away from meeting his goal of climbing all the ranked, named AND unranked 13ers in Colorado. That's more than 750 peaks. Only one other person in history is known to have accomplished this feat. Steve was also trying to become the first person to summit the state's 100 highest peaks, called the Centennials, in winter. He put up several first and second ascents in pursuit of this dream.

Yet, his climbing accomplishments pale in comparison to his quality as a human being. His capacity to give was unmatched, and despite having earned several lifetimes worth of bragging rights, he was one of the most humble people on earth. That's a rare trait in high-level mountaineers. I can't even imagine how many messages he received on 14ers.com asking for advice or route information, and yet he took the time to reply to all of them in detail.

I first met Steve, who was already a rockstar in my mind, at the Winter Gathering he organized in 2011. It was my first snow-camping trip and only my third attempt on a winter 14er. Battling up the ridge of Mt. Columbia in winds exceeding 40 or 50 miles per hour, I considered turning around like most of my partners already had. Then I encountered Steve, who was on his way down with several others. He yelled over the blowing gale to provide much-needed support and encouragement. Steeled against the elements, I successfully made the top. I've always held the belief I couldn't have done it without him.

On our way to Mt. Lindsey in the spring of 2012, Rob Jansen, Greg Fischer and I stopped at Steve's home in West Pueblo. Fish was a school teacher, like Steve, and needed equipment for his fledgling high school mountaineering club. Steve was generously donating box after box after box of old gear. Once Fish had everything he needed, Steve offered to let each us take anything we wanted, as well. Greg ended up with a Grivel pack we immediately labeled "The Gladpach," which entitled the wearer to superhuman powers in the mountains. That's how we viewed Steve. He was our hero.

Steve was also a dedicated family man. He leaves behind two girls, who were absolutely the center of his universe. I was on Mt. Belford in spring 2011 when he was hiking the same mountain with his pre-teen, Alise. The first thing I noticed was how proud he was and how much he obviously cared for her. His facial expressions showed everything. When the pair glissaded away down the mountain, it was with unbridled joy. I'll always remember Steve as I saw him that day.

Rest in peace, Steve. Thank for your all your contributions to the Colorado climbing community. I wouldn't be anywhere near where I am without you. There are hundreds of others who would say the same.

Climbing for Rob

Robert A. Jansen, Memorial Day 2012.

The Colorado 14ers are comparable to freshman year of college. Deciding to pursue them typically leads to a shocking change in lifestyle, a whole new circle of friends, newfound freedoms that weren't previously known to exist, penny-pinching for gas money and a fanatical infatuation with canned beer. The main difference is most 14er addicts prefer a good IPA to Natty Light.

Completing the 14er List is like becoming an upperclassman. You've completed the prerequisite courses with your horde of peers, and now you have to choose a major. Individuals who have climbed all the 14ers scatter into all sorts of specializations: ice climbing, trail running, trad climbing, hiking, family raising, thru-hiking, ultrarunning, ski mountaineering -- ad infinitum. It's surprising and somewhat baffling that few 14er finishers choose to continue progressing as mountaineers, chasing progressively higher and more difficult summits. Even those that do remain in the School of Alpinism rarely have similar goals. So many mountains, so many routes, so many countries, so little time.

That's what made my partnership with Robert Jansen special. It wasn't uncommon for me to mention a mountain, only to have him blurt out he'd been researching the same route earlier that day. When I queried a bevy of my regular climbing partners to ask about putting together a big trip for 2013, Rob was the first -- and as it turns out, the only -- person to respond seriously. As usual, we were on the same page. It didn't take long to settle on Liberty Ridge, with a warm-up trip to El Pico de Orizaba the preceding winter.

Shortly before he died in a rockslide in August 2012, Rob summed up his climbing ambitions in one poignant sentence.

"I just want to see how high I can go."

I couldn't agree more, bud.

Liberty Ridge will be an odd bookend on the shelf of my life; it will be the last climb I'd planned with my good friend. Nearly every major accomplishment I've achieved since Rob's death was something we were supposed to have shared: finishing the 14ers on Mt. Sneffels, the winter summits, Orizaba. I'm sure I'll remember and honor Rob for the rest of my days, but once Liberty Ridge is done, I can't shake the feeling that I'll be out there on my own, rudderless, instead of with him alongside me. It's an emotion difficult to put into words.

The climbers and friends who were close to Rob have memorialized him in myriad ways. Personally, I've carried a can of his favorite beer, Dale's Pale Ale, to several significant summits, and I hope to do so again on Liberty Ridge -- as long as I can squeeze it into my pack. Worst case scenario, it'll be the first beer I have once we're off the mountain.

Summit of El Pico de Orizaba, Dale's Pale Ale in hand.

Soon after Rob's death, his father encouraged us climbers to keep pursuing our passion, to "carry the torch" for his son. Those words have rang in my head ever since. I'm not a very spiritual person, but on several occasions I've felt Rob's presence as I worked my way up a peak, typically ones on which we shared a special memory. I have no doubt he'll be there on Liberty Ridge. Knowing he'll be by my side is an inexpressible comfort, and an honor of which I hardly feel worthy.

Climb on, Rob.

Rob on the summit of Mt. Massive, Feb. 2012.

Living My Dream

Liberty Ridge, Mt. Rainier (image courtesy summitpost.org)

It's impossible to avoid it now. After months lapping at the edges of my scattered brain, a dim intangible prospect not yet real, the climb of my life is less than two weeks away.

Liberty Ridge on Mt. Rainier has earned innumerable superlatives; many consider it THE climb in the Pacific Northwest. Featured in Roper and Steck's prestigious Fifty Classic Climbs of North America, the Grade IV snow-and-ice route on the insidious North Face of Rainier has captured the attention and imaginations of thousands of would-be alpinists since it was first ascended on Sept. 30, 1935. The ridge splits the Liberty and Willis Walls -- infamous playgrounds for massive avalanches and falling rocks that are rarely climbed -- providing a relatively safe line to the summit at the cost of an arduous approach, sustained steep snow, at least one pitch of alpine ice and an alternate descent route requiring climbers to carry heavy packs up and over the 14,411-foot summit.

I feel ready. I've lived the past two months wearing a 45-pound pack, climbing to 13,000' or 14,000' nearly every weekend. I'm 12 days sober and don't plan on having another drop of my beloved beer until we're back down in the microbrew heaven of Seattle. (I might be more excited for that than the climb.) I've never felt so physically fit, and I'm raring to get on the mountain. On the mental side of things, there isn't a trip report or route photo on the Internet I haven't studied to delirium. When I close my eyes, I see Liberty Ridge.

The team, assembled by James Graham (aka Big Bird), couldn't be stronger. Two autonomous rope teams of three will travel together across the Winthrop and Carbon Glaciers, keeping in proximity to assist each other in case of a crevasse fall. Once on the ridge, the ropes will continue to work together as we assault the many formidable difficulties between us and the summit. Each rope has its own moniker that derives from our team name, but our crude sense of humor means I probably shouldn't share them publicly. For the purposes of this blog, we'll stick with Rope 1 and Rope 2.

Rope 1
-Darrin Nicholas, who has climbed all 58 Fourteeners in Colorado and Rainier via the Disappointment Cleaver route. The navigation expert.

-Keegan Young, Development Director for the American Alpine Club, climber of 57 of the 58 Colorado Fourteeners, Rainier, and much more. My partner during a Thanksgiving 2012 climb of 18,490-foot El Pico de Orizaba in Mexico.

-Jeff Golden, me, 14er finisher with summits of Rainier's Disappointment Cleaver and the Ridge of Gold on Orizaba.

Rope 2
-Nao Takano, climber of way too many mountains to mention, including Rainier via several different routes. Crevasse-rescue instructor.

-John Fatseas, certified mountain guide and the team's most talented ice climber.

-James Graham, organizer and leader. He's climbed all over the Western U.S., including a successful ascent of Denali. Proud new father of a beautiful baby girl.

Team ******* and *******, minus Nao. Left to Right: James, Darrin, John, Keegan and Jeff.

The crew has gelled during training climbs, dinner meetings and beer dates the last several months. Perhaps the most defining characteristic of the group is a wonderfully shared sense of humor. Success or failure, no matter how tough things get, I know these guys will keep me laughing and in good spirits.

I won't lie and say everything is rosy, that I don't have any concerns about the climb. I do. I also have faith that everything will work out for the best. I trust these guys, their decision making and their skill sets. All you can do is take what comes, when it comes. There's no point in worrying about scenarios that have not yet come to pass. If for any reason Liberty Ridge doesn't come to fruition, we have a plethora of backup options that will present comparable, fun and unique challenges. We have eight days to play in the idyllic Pacific Northwest and plan on maximizing our time there.

This climb wouldn't be possible without the support of a few key benefactors. The American Alpine Club awarded me a Live Your Dream grant worth $400, which provided much-needed relief for my meager bank account and helped with airfare, food and travel arrangements. The AAC runs the Live Your Dream program to allow amateur climbers to "fund unforgettable experiences that give you the skills and confidence to realize your climbing ambitions and allow you to dream even bigger next time." In layman's terms, the grant is for AAC members looking to push their limits and experience their dream trip. It's such a great program. I can't sing its praises loud enough.

I also must thank the Park Meadows location of Eddie Bauer/First Ascent for allowing our crew to demo a First Ascent Katabatic three-man expedition tent during the climb. We've used it on a couple training weekends and it's getting glowing reviews from the team. A day spent tent-bound on Rainier in that thing might not be so bad.

I start this blog with a bit of hesitation. Some of my well-meaning trip reports on 14ers.com have been misconstrued as attention-seeking ploys, which couldn't be more off-base. All I ever wanted to do was tell a good story, supply a little comic relief and provide timely, useful information. I simply and earnestly just love writing. At the urging of some of the dearest people in my life, I've decided to ignore the detractors and continue sharing my adventures, because I believe there's sufficient interest and it's what I like to do. I hope you'll enjoy taking the ride along with me.

I plan on posting to this blog before and after Liberty Ridge with detailed, personal thoughts and a thorough trip report. You can also follow me on Twitter, and I've created a SPOT Shared Page that I'll activate once we depart Saturday, June 8.