There are seven kids hiking with us. Mt. Townsend is covered in fog, which isn’t disagreeable because it keeps us cool, makes the hiking easier. A view of the Cascades would be nice, but the kids who have cameras, Evan and Dillon, are content to snap macro shots of the dewy lupines. The other five—Nico, Will, Ethan, Hopi, and Josh—catalogue the sights in their heads, form memories easily as lasting as a digital image.
Tyler and I are the leaders, the chaperones, the teachers, but we act more like friends to the kids. After all, we are not much older than most of them, only seven or eight years. They are juniors and sophomores mostly, while Will, the youngest, is entering 8th grade. They are all old friends, Port Townsendites familiar with each other’s mannerisms and nervous ticks. I have known Ethan and Nico for a few years now, having played Frisbee with them over the summers, but the others I am just getting to know.
Finding common interests is easy. Conversation flows in natural pools and eddies, maintains a constant vocal undulation like the rushing Big Quilcene river below. Laughter is as common as serious discussion. Nico, who has a knack for insults, says something to Ethan, his close friend, while we’re hiking together at the head of the group.
“Your life is just a series of inappropriate events,” he says. Ethan is unphased by the remark. I try not to laugh but can’t help myself. I tell Nico I might have to steal that phrase to use on some of my friends.
The kids are all very intelligent, out-going, confident, happy. And they are damn strong hikers too.
After only a few hours, we reach the 6200’ summit and spread ourselves out for lunch. I offer smoked oysters to everyone. Some of the kids make disgusted faces while others enjoy the savory oceanic flavor.
They don hats and jackets and discover a lonely patch of snow near the summit. Snowballs come flying at me out of the mist. I realize that Tyler is the one throwing them, that the kids would never target me. I enjoy lazily dodging his noodle-arm lobs while eating smoked salmon and crackers.
Even though the mountain is shrouded, even though Ethan has blisters on his heels, even though Josh is only wearing shorts and Hopi is the only female in the group, everyone is having an awesome time.
Tyler captures a photo of the group jumping into the air. We are frozen forever, our feet inches above the summit earth, our frames silhouetted into a white background that is so quintessentially Northwest.
As we descend the trail, some of the kids are running. I am reminded of Ecuador, of Vladamir and Santiago tumbling down the slopes of paramo grass. Sharing your passions and seeing others enjoy them as much as you, is something very powerful.
Sometimes, when I’m standing on the top of a forlorn peak or anchored to a massive wall a thousand feet from the valley floor, I feel like the luckiest person alive. To be able to experience things like that, to be able to do what I love to do is an enormous blessing. The only thing more rewarding than having those experiences is being able to share them with other wonderful people and to give those people the opportunity to learn the skills that they need in order to have those same amazing experiences on their own.
So, hiking down the trail at the back of the group, I feel blessed. There is no place I would rather be and no people I would rather be with.
Evan stops in front of me, leans down and drinks a pool of dew off the leaves of a trillium. All the kids are finding collected droplets, drinking from the body of the forest. I follow suit, leaning down and sipping from spruce needles. When I look up, the kids have disappeared into the mist, but their generous laughter betrays their location only a few feet ahead, poised on the verge of the wilderness.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Lightning and Inspiration
I’m back in Mazama, back on Prime Rib. The middle of the sixth pitch is exposed—stratified ledges, knobs, holds like window trim. It’s raining. Dark clouds seem close when you’re this high up. The Methow valley, a thousand feet below, is veiled in spattering mist. The route is getting drenched like it’s cotton. Half the holds I would normally use become dangerously slippery. Still, I climb without falling, clip two ropes—one yellow, one blue—through the quickdraws, yell “Off belay” when I reach the top.
While I’m belaying Henry and Karen up, I notice that the team below us is deciding to rappel. There are two teams above us also, but they must be only a few pitches from the summit by now. I wonder if they will descend on top of us or if they will keep climbing in the rain. I wonder if we will keep climbing. I know the decision is ultimately mine.
In the same instant that Karen clips into the anchor next to me, an operatic crash of thunder explodes from the sky. My decision is made easy. We are going down. Now.
An eerie blue flash like a strobe light silhouettes Henry as he arrives at the anchors soon after Karen. Not more than a few seconds later, a bass chord that would rupture the voice-coil of even the most powerful subwoofer reverberates through the valley. We’re captured in some terrible nightclub where the sound effects can kill you. I quickly set up the rappel, throw the rope down the wall, make sure Henry and Karen are hooked into the strands correctly, and bounce my way down the soggy face, the rope’s nylon threads nearly burning through my hand.
Three rope lengths later, Henry and I are standing in sunshine, looking up at the route, swearing. The clouds have moved south where they accumulate along the eastern Cascade slopes. The weather here is completely clear. From this early afternoon position, three rappels from the bottom, eight pitches to the top, there is no way we are going back up, but Henry and I entertain the idea anyway.
“Maybe if we had just waited it out up there…but that is an impossible decision to make. When there is lightning and thunder, you have to get down,” I say.
Henry completely agrees. He knows that if we had kept climbing the laws of bad luck would keep the clouds hanging over us. Those same laws have made the clouds disappear now that we are halfway done with the descent. In the end, it is better to be rappelling in sunshine than it is to be sitting on an exposed ledge in a thunderstorm. After all, we did six pitches of great climbing.
When the three of us safely arrive at the car, we are jubilant. It has been a solid day and we still have tomorrow.
**********
We wake up at 5am, ready for another climb. Oatmeal with cinnamon, pecans and bananas, coffee, hard-boiled eggs are fuel. We will need it for Methow Inspiration, which extends five long pitches from slopey base to knobby top and is rated 5.9+. My shoulders are still sore from yesterday’s climb, or maybe more from hauling two ropes all day, but I’m feeling fresh after a warm shower, a mug of pitchy coffee. Henry and Karen’s enormous white kuvasz, Gibson, whines, furrows his eyebrows as we leave the cabin. He deposits ivory strands of fur on my climbing pants as he brushes against my leg.
The approach is typical: talus fields, boulder hopping, spider webs. I am already warmed up when we reach the base of the climb. The first ugly bolt is hidden in angles of rock, but chains are visible above. I put on my harness, flake two ropes, rack my quickdraws, runners, lockers, and climb when Henry is on belay.
The first pitch, a 5.8+, goes smoothly. Too-loose shoe rubber smears well enough, sticks firmly to the verdant patina. A few weeks of climbing has made my body accustomed to the movements again. The climbing comes naturally, for two pitches at least.
On the third pitch, something unexpected happens; I fall. I’m a few feet above the second bolt when my foot accidentally slips off a sloped ledge and I scream, “Falling!” Things happen instantly when you’re waiting for the rope to catch. The next moment, I’m sitting in my harness ten feet below the bolt and I’m unscathed. Henry had left some slack in the rope because he obviously wasn’t expecting a fall, but he caught me in the end. I’m grateful.
After asking each other “Are you ok?” about a hundred times, I get back on the route and ascend it to the next set of anchors.
A short, awkward roof, steep faces with little knobs, long lengths between the bolts take us to the top. It feels good to climb the last 5.9+ pitch clean after falling on the easier section below. About half way through the last pitch I experience an overwhelming sense of euphoria. I feel high in more ways than one.
It is almost a better, more meaningful climb because I fell. We take our time to enjoy the view from the top, to untangle the nest of rope and set up the rappel. Heavy clouds that probably contain more afternoon thunder prevent us from dawdling too long.
Challenges, opportunities to learn and progress, make for rewarding climbing. Henry accidentally loses hold of his rappel device. It bounces a few times, pinging the rock, and is eventually caught in a crevice of weeds a rope length below. I hand him my ATC-Guide and tie the Munter hitch to my large pear-shaped carabiner. Coincidentally, I was practicing the Munter hitch a few days before and, although I have never used it, I am confident it is correct. Sure enough, it works like a charm and I retrieve Henry’s device without difficulty.
Firm handshakes are slightly painful on my sanded palms. The discomfort, however, is essentially validation. I would shake a thousands hands right now if I knew I would receive the same gratified look in the eye, and if I knew my own eyes would be displaying the same honest emotion.
Scrabble trails like scars in a hairline lead to the river. The earth’s clogging heat, the scree’s percussive collisions, my backpack’s soggy shoulder straps melt into my body, feel in-grown, but not like a toe nail. The contrast between muscle and load, between a hurdle and a fall, blurs. What I am left with is every single moment. Gibson’s long white strands have clung to my pant leg until now. A breeze brushes them off, carries them into the atmosphere, and I can do nothing except follow.
While I’m belaying Henry and Karen up, I notice that the team below us is deciding to rappel. There are two teams above us also, but they must be only a few pitches from the summit by now. I wonder if they will descend on top of us or if they will keep climbing in the rain. I wonder if we will keep climbing. I know the decision is ultimately mine.
In the same instant that Karen clips into the anchor next to me, an operatic crash of thunder explodes from the sky. My decision is made easy. We are going down. Now.
An eerie blue flash like a strobe light silhouettes Henry as he arrives at the anchors soon after Karen. Not more than a few seconds later, a bass chord that would rupture the voice-coil of even the most powerful subwoofer reverberates through the valley. We’re captured in some terrible nightclub where the sound effects can kill you. I quickly set up the rappel, throw the rope down the wall, make sure Henry and Karen are hooked into the strands correctly, and bounce my way down the soggy face, the rope’s nylon threads nearly burning through my hand.
Three rope lengths later, Henry and I are standing in sunshine, looking up at the route, swearing. The clouds have moved south where they accumulate along the eastern Cascade slopes. The weather here is completely clear. From this early afternoon position, three rappels from the bottom, eight pitches to the top, there is no way we are going back up, but Henry and I entertain the idea anyway.
“Maybe if we had just waited it out up there…but that is an impossible decision to make. When there is lightning and thunder, you have to get down,” I say.
Henry completely agrees. He knows that if we had kept climbing the laws of bad luck would keep the clouds hanging over us. Those same laws have made the clouds disappear now that we are halfway done with the descent. In the end, it is better to be rappelling in sunshine than it is to be sitting on an exposed ledge in a thunderstorm. After all, we did six pitches of great climbing.
When the three of us safely arrive at the car, we are jubilant. It has been a solid day and we still have tomorrow.
**********
We wake up at 5am, ready for another climb. Oatmeal with cinnamon, pecans and bananas, coffee, hard-boiled eggs are fuel. We will need it for Methow Inspiration, which extends five long pitches from slopey base to knobby top and is rated 5.9+. My shoulders are still sore from yesterday’s climb, or maybe more from hauling two ropes all day, but I’m feeling fresh after a warm shower, a mug of pitchy coffee. Henry and Karen’s enormous white kuvasz, Gibson, whines, furrows his eyebrows as we leave the cabin. He deposits ivory strands of fur on my climbing pants as he brushes against my leg.
The approach is typical: talus fields, boulder hopping, spider webs. I am already warmed up when we reach the base of the climb. The first ugly bolt is hidden in angles of rock, but chains are visible above. I put on my harness, flake two ropes, rack my quickdraws, runners, lockers, and climb when Henry is on belay.
The first pitch, a 5.8+, goes smoothly. Too-loose shoe rubber smears well enough, sticks firmly to the verdant patina. A few weeks of climbing has made my body accustomed to the movements again. The climbing comes naturally, for two pitches at least.
On the third pitch, something unexpected happens; I fall. I’m a few feet above the second bolt when my foot accidentally slips off a sloped ledge and I scream, “Falling!” Things happen instantly when you’re waiting for the rope to catch. The next moment, I’m sitting in my harness ten feet below the bolt and I’m unscathed. Henry had left some slack in the rope because he obviously wasn’t expecting a fall, but he caught me in the end. I’m grateful.
After asking each other “Are you ok?” about a hundred times, I get back on the route and ascend it to the next set of anchors.
A short, awkward roof, steep faces with little knobs, long lengths between the bolts take us to the top. It feels good to climb the last 5.9+ pitch clean after falling on the easier section below. About half way through the last pitch I experience an overwhelming sense of euphoria. I feel high in more ways than one.
It is almost a better, more meaningful climb because I fell. We take our time to enjoy the view from the top, to untangle the nest of rope and set up the rappel. Heavy clouds that probably contain more afternoon thunder prevent us from dawdling too long.
Challenges, opportunities to learn and progress, make for rewarding climbing. Henry accidentally loses hold of his rappel device. It bounces a few times, pinging the rock, and is eventually caught in a crevice of weeds a rope length below. I hand him my ATC-Guide and tie the Munter hitch to my large pear-shaped carabiner. Coincidentally, I was practicing the Munter hitch a few days before and, although I have never used it, I am confident it is correct. Sure enough, it works like a charm and I retrieve Henry’s device without difficulty.
Firm handshakes are slightly painful on my sanded palms. The discomfort, however, is essentially validation. I would shake a thousands hands right now if I knew I would receive the same gratified look in the eye, and if I knew my own eyes would be displaying the same honest emotion.
Scrabble trails like scars in a hairline lead to the river. The earth’s clogging heat, the scree’s percussive collisions, my backpack’s soggy shoulder straps melt into my body, feel in-grown, but not like a toe nail. The contrast between muscle and load, between a hurdle and a fall, blurs. What I am left with is every single moment. Gibson’s long white strands have clung to my pant leg until now. A breeze brushes them off, carries them into the atmosphere, and I can do nothing except follow.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Chimacum Rock (Big Rock)
It is easy to complain about a moss-covered rock speckled with old bolt hangers, shrubs, and Hadlock grime, but at least we have a local place to climb. Visible from Highway 20 behind Carl’s Building Supply, Big Rock (or Chimacum Rock) is basically a chossy pile of grey stone that protrudes from the residual forest behind a trailer park. A white heart is spray-painted on the wall’s left face, just one sign of the multiple applications that the rock provides. From painter’s canvas to drinking spot to after school smoke den, the rock has served the greater Chimacum area since, essentially, the beginning of time. For me, it is a noteworthy training ground however, and since it is the first place I truly rock climbed, it abides in a nostalgic stronghold in my heart.
This time of year, evenings are actually just afternoons. Twilight bright enough to illuminate footholds lasts until 10pm. My long day of work ends at 6:30pm, which leaves me with three solid hours of not-so-solid climbing. Mosquitoes, madrona branches, runout second pitches are normal. But disregarding all of this, the rock boasts a generous variety of climbs.
Approaching the rock, the first visible face is the most diverse. Routes range from 5.4 on the far left arête, to 5.10c(?) in the middle, and a challenging 5.9+ on the right hand corner. All the climbs are bolted and, like the rock itself, the protection is sometimes questionable but generally safe. A few old bolts are like pimples, they’re waiting to pop, though some anchors are as shiny as a new toy car. It simply depends.
Contrast and eclecticism are themes. Coming from Port Townsend, I’m already accustomed to this.
I climb three times this week. The rock is two pitches tall, and the top half is less mossy because of the constant sun that hits it. The lower half is shaded by trees, a grove for hidden bugs, sap, refuse.
I lead beyond it, am touched by sunshine while I belay my partner up the first 5.9 pitch. From this hanging belay we can see the trailer park, and beyond it: the Cascades, snow-capped peaks gleaming, forest. Harness ache is a welcome discomfort. It simultaneously signals the fragility and solidity of our stance. Two shiny 3/4” bolts hold us to the wall. There is no way we can know their history. Some of the worst problems are invisible. But we are ERNEST: Equalized, Redundant, No Extension, Solid, Timely. The only way we can fall is if both bolts rupture. I’m confidant that this won’t happen, so I lead the second, more challenging pitch.
The second belay is from a gnarly madrona trunk. The tree’s branches hang over the route, release curls of rusty bark that settle on ledges, crumble beneath flexed fingers and rubbery toes. Scotch broom smell, dense ocean air, the highway buzz, sun-warmed nylon fibers are passing over me and through me. I feel full.
Evening prevents us from climbing more full pitches, but our arms still have juice. We boulder around caves, along railings and bulges on the rock’s backside. Two bolted routes ascend unstable, severely overhanging rock. The ratings must be around 5.11 or 5.12, perfect for a top rope. It gives me something to work up to, a project to complete. This backyard crag, I think, could be a lot worse.
Nostalgia is outweighed by honest appreciation. As I smear my feet on sweet nothings and avoid the juggy holds, the movements, for the first time in a long time, feel completely natural.
This time of year, evenings are actually just afternoons. Twilight bright enough to illuminate footholds lasts until 10pm. My long day of work ends at 6:30pm, which leaves me with three solid hours of not-so-solid climbing. Mosquitoes, madrona branches, runout second pitches are normal. But disregarding all of this, the rock boasts a generous variety of climbs.
Approaching the rock, the first visible face is the most diverse. Routes range from 5.4 on the far left arête, to 5.10c(?) in the middle, and a challenging 5.9+ on the right hand corner. All the climbs are bolted and, like the rock itself, the protection is sometimes questionable but generally safe. A few old bolts are like pimples, they’re waiting to pop, though some anchors are as shiny as a new toy car. It simply depends.
Contrast and eclecticism are themes. Coming from Port Townsend, I’m already accustomed to this.
I climb three times this week. The rock is two pitches tall, and the top half is less mossy because of the constant sun that hits it. The lower half is shaded by trees, a grove for hidden bugs, sap, refuse.
I lead beyond it, am touched by sunshine while I belay my partner up the first 5.9 pitch. From this hanging belay we can see the trailer park, and beyond it: the Cascades, snow-capped peaks gleaming, forest. Harness ache is a welcome discomfort. It simultaneously signals the fragility and solidity of our stance. Two shiny 3/4” bolts hold us to the wall. There is no way we can know their history. Some of the worst problems are invisible. But we are ERNEST: Equalized, Redundant, No Extension, Solid, Timely. The only way we can fall is if both bolts rupture. I’m confidant that this won’t happen, so I lead the second, more challenging pitch.
The second belay is from a gnarly madrona trunk. The tree’s branches hang over the route, release curls of rusty bark that settle on ledges, crumble beneath flexed fingers and rubbery toes. Scotch broom smell, dense ocean air, the highway buzz, sun-warmed nylon fibers are passing over me and through me. I feel full.
Evening prevents us from climbing more full pitches, but our arms still have juice. We boulder around caves, along railings and bulges on the rock’s backside. Two bolted routes ascend unstable, severely overhanging rock. The ratings must be around 5.11 or 5.12, perfect for a top rope. It gives me something to work up to, a project to complete. This backyard crag, I think, could be a lot worse.
Nostalgia is outweighed by honest appreciation. As I smear my feet on sweet nothings and avoid the juggy holds, the movements, for the first time in a long time, feel completely natural.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Mt. Constance
Last ridge before summit.
Traversing on descent.
(Here is a link to Tyler's Trip Report on Cascade Climbers. More great photos!)
“You know what would be nice right now? Bikes,” says Tyler with more than a hint of sarcasm. There are four of us this time, the all-star team. The team members are: Mike Haft, a past co-worker who is now guiding for IMG on Mt. Rainier. Eric Quiggles, a trip leader for Grey Wolf Ranch and experienced ice climber and backpacker. Tyler LaPettito, whose experience and poise are detailed in many entries of this blog. And myself. Together we are massively over-prepared for this trip, an overnight climb of Mt. Constance. However, we decided not to bring bikes, which means we have to walk the 5-mile stretch of road up the Dosewallips River to the trailhead.
Verdant overgrowth where cars once passed chokes the roadside and is bright in the late morning sun. I am hot and sweaty by the time we reach the trailhead. The next 2 miles climb 3400 feet to Lake Constance at the base of Avalanche Canyon. This trail is touted as the steepest in the Olympic Mountains and the first quarter mile lives up to this reputation. High-steps, root handholds, decaying maple leaves characterize the trail. Soon the grade lessens some and we are hiking like normal. We stop often, are in no rush to get to the lake, want to conserve energy for tomorrow’s long climb.
Just when we think the trail couldn’t get any easier it becomes vertical again. Complex movements are required to ascend. Loose rocks and roots are the danger here, and our heavy backpacks, loaded with climbing protection, rope, ice screws, and pickets, are awkward mounds on our otherwise nimble bodies. We ascend without incident though, find snow the moment we reach the lake, break trail to the northern edge and settle for a campsite shaded by trees, a view of the half-frozen crystal water, the icicle formations that stretch finger-patterns further across the open spaces, eventually encasing everything in night-ice.
I bivy on a flat perch five feet from the water. The sky is a blanket of pinholes. Nestling into my down bag, I remember the unique pleasure of sleeping inside a warm cocoon surrounded by a magnificent boreal frontier.
I hear movement at 4am. In my groggy, half-dream state I think it is a bear sniffing around the camp. As the fresh morning light fills my eyes, I realize that it is only Tyler and that it must be time to climb. Breakfast is a Clif Bar, barely enough to sate the hole in my stomach. Combined with black tea, it is just enough to get me moving, plodding through the snow. By 5am we are climbing Avalanche Canyon, watching the sun blast the Thumb, wondering which chute is the right one.
This, according to the guidebook, is one of the most difficult parts of the climb, finding the right chute. It takes a few discussions, a few looks at the map and the route description, to decide. Scree fields interspersed with snow and huge boulders; the pointy “Cat’s Ears” are the distinguishing characteristics. And the first chute we choose is the right one.
I am amazed with how little snow there is. Two weeks ago on Marmot Pass the snow blanketed everything above 5000 feet. Here, at the same elevation, snow is like white squares on a checkerboard. Crampons scratch talus. The sound of forks raked over ceramic echoes through crisp air. Our layered breathing is the background noise to the climb.
Cresting a notch in the torn-paper ridge, the massive Puget Sound, Mt. Rainier, Adams, St. Helens, and Seattle gleam in the August-like sunshine. We plant our pickets in the snow, clip our ice screws to them, and leave it all behind.
After an hour of scree climbing, during which Eric bats a falling rock away from his body and lets it pass, tumbling down the gulley, the traverse begins. 50-degree snow slopes are getting softer in the strengthening sunshine. Every so often, one of us plunges hip-deep into the corn, struggles out, continues traversing along the steep wall.
By the time we reach the “terrible traverse,” all ledges with deathly payouts, we still haven’t roped up. Eric’s “protector” mentality comes out. He suggests we rope up and sling a horn for protection. The other three of us disagree. We are happy to climb this section without protection, knowing that a fall means death, but that none of us will fall. Climbing decisions should not be made democratically, so we discuss both options thoroughly and Eric eventually agrees that it is safe to continue without roping up. The climbing is indeed easy, the rock surprisingly solid, although there are a few shaky holds worth avoiding. After all, it is the Olympics.
Powder clinging steep to orange rock, ridge like a dinosaur spine, boulder chocked notch, warmth, the summit, everything is beautiful. 360-degree views from Mt. Olympus to Port Townsend to Seattle are stunning. Tyler snaps photos like crazy. Mike opens some smoked salmon. Eric puffs a cigarette. Six hours after leaving camp, we bask on the summit, contemplating each distant peak, captured in a state of pleasant solitude among friends.
The reverie lasts just long enough. The snow is quickly melting, the traverse becoming slushy, unstable and dangerous. We have two energy bars left between us. It’s time to descend.
Along the way we set off mini-avalanches. My steps sometimes rupture the rotten snow along the boot pack, my foot sliding downhill. The tiny snowball that I have created is enough to fracture the soft surface layer, which catalyzes the slope into an opaque waterfall, an ominous whoosh. We move quickly through this section and, for once, we are happy when we make it to the scree.
Going downhill in soft talus can actually be quite enjoyable. The feeling is akin to skiing. We move quickly, almost jumping down the gulley. By the time we reach Chute’s Notch, where we left our pickets and ice screws, it is past midday.
“Well, I’m glad we brought the rope,” I say, shaking my head.
“Yeah,” says Mike, jangling the carabiners on his harness “and all this protection too.”
Of all the gear we carried we didn’t use a single piece. We probably even could have got away without crampons, but, as Mike points out, it is always the times you don’t bring something that you end up needing it.
Tyler runs off down the gully. When he reaches the snow he starts making giant leaps, basically sprinting through drifts. I try to keep up, but before long Tyler is out of sight. I turn around and find that I cannot see Eric or Mike behind me. Flaky canyon walls, the Thumb, unidentified peaks in the distance are my companions for the hike to the lake. I have always enjoyed the solitude of hiking. It is nice, especially in a group of four, to have a few moments of alone time in the wilderness. The descent passes quickly. Soon I am shedding layers, repacking my bag, filling my water bottle for the steep hike to the river.
Face inward to safely down-climb this part. My quadriceps are throbbing by the time we reach the Dosewallips. Now I wish we had bikes, except for how slowly the serrated alder leaves pass, rustled by the wind and the smell of clean ocean as it flies through the valley. 12 hours after leaving camp this morning, we are back at the cars, utterly exhausted, groaning, stretching, laughing, and ready for more.
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