Colorado Ice Climbing
This January in Ouray
Mt. Shasta - Solo Climb
“Not until we are lost
do we begin to understand ourselves.” Henry David Thoreau
In August 2007 I went to Shasta to solo climb the Hotlum Wintun glacier route.
Sunday. 7am. At 7,000ft elevation, I am parked in a lot 50 miles from the main road. Pine trees tower above and pine needles lay a soft blanket over the brownish green dirt.
A couple are crouched next to their small truck making breakfast on their small stove. The smell of their coffee amid the fresh pine is delightful. I pause to say hello. ”What route are you taking and did you bring a rope and ice-screws?” asks the girl, who is younger and less grisled than her climbing partner. ”No I didn’t, why?” I respond with a tinge of hesitancy. ”We heard from a guide coming down that the top is all exposed blue-ice and you will need at least three ice screws” says the older guy. I pause. ”Well I’m climbing solo and wasn’t planning on roping up.” We trade pleasantries before I tell them the route I am taking and set off.
I wasn’t to see them again or anyone else until for the next two days.
The approach is nice, if long. I stop at each hour to drink 500ml of water and eat a small snack. I move fast but curse my my pack which, at roughly 55 pounds is far too heavy for such a short trip - I learn later how to repeat such a climb with 15 lbs less gear.
Sunday 10am.
9,000ft and I stop behind a stubby cold rock and sit in dirt to drink and eat with some shelter. The wind finds me just the same. I am cold when I stop, but I have energy. The day feels great so far so I set out again quickly.
Five longish hours later I pass 10,000 feet with no sign of the base camp that is supposed to be there. The snow starts here so I stop to gear up with crampons and ice-axe.
Grass and dirt and trees fade to loose rock, looser rock and snow and ice. Greens and browns are replaced by greys and whites. The wind bites into my skin. My “windbreaker” annoyingly fails to perform as advertised. Passing 10,500ft still no base camp. I feel good so I decide to continue climbing and camp on the ridge somewhere up above.
Steep is replaced by steeper and steeper still. Any loose snow that might provide purchase is scoured away, leaving the hard but brittle intense blue ice of the glacier below. The altitude intensifies the hammering sun reflecting back up from the blinding white snow. My windbreaker is soaked through. I feel my skin burning and regularly apply sunblock. Still my skin feels hot. I take off my dark glacier glasses for a few seconds, but its too bright to see much at all.
The errant gust catches me off balance and threatens to relieve me of my tenuous purchase on the steepening slope. It plays havoc with my nerves and forces me to slow down. I decide to traverse off the ice to the rocky ridge to my left. It looks like there is a flat spot about a thousand feet up, but on arriving, it turns out not to be flat at all. I begin to worry that I won’t find a suitable bivouac ledge. With no choice, I climb higher still.
Sunday 4pm.
With worry starting to fray my nerves I decide to go no higher and drop my pack to scramble around on the ridge looking for a suitable ledge to sleep on for the night. Eventually, I find a small once used bivy site which is flat enough.
By nightfall I have eaten and collected water from some glacier runoff I find close by. I settle down for the night with the base of the valley some 11,000 feet below. I fall asleep easily from exhaustion.
Monday 2am.
I am awake and it is dark with pin pricks of light from the stars only. No moon. My throat is on fire and I fumble around to find my bottle and take a long pull. Relief! I had never felt such a thirst. 11,000ft is the highest I’ve ever been, and I’m suffering from altitude sickness. After the pain in my throat subsides I notice that I have an intense headache. I am so tired I simply ignore it and go back to sleep.
My rasping throat shakes me to life regularly and I drink a few sips then pass out again. After a couple more hours of this shiftless sleep, I decide to just get going again. It is 4:30am.
With crampons, Ice Axe, headlamp, 2 liters of water a few snacks and a down jacket I set off onto the ice again. Thankfully this morning there is no wind. The foreboding stillness and quiet of mountains dark inky blackness gives me pause.
With the warnings of the previous day in mind I decide to climb to the summit but will turn around if it gets too steep and dangerous to continue with no rope.
Starting out, my legs feel they are filled with lead, and after 3 hours of steepening terrain, I am disheartened to realize I’ve only ascended 1,000 feet. At this rate I won’t summit till 2pm.
I told my wife that I’d be off the mountain by Monday at 6pm and would call her to tell her I am OK. I decide that I must turn around by 2pm even if I have not hit the summit. Otherwise it will get dark and I will risk getting lost wont be able to call her which would leave her worrying all night.
Exhaustion and some dehydration be damned, I push myself to climb faster. I set goals for each 10 yards. Just keep moving until I get to that rock up ahead then I can rest. Then the next rock, then the next.
Monday 11am.
13,00ft. I know I am supposed to traverse left across the ridge. I have a short description of the route memorized and realize that it is woefully inadequate. It says to look for a pyramid rock but there are at least 10 rocks around that look like pyramids. Seeing no other option, I rely on my altimeter and traverse the ridge.
The rock of the ridge is heinous and unstable. Every 2 feet up I slide 1 foot back. Even the big rocks are loose and I start more than a few mini rock slides. My nerves are completely shot from the loose rock and I finally get to the end of the ridge and back onto ice and thankfully back to some snow!
Putting the crampons back on my fingers get numb from the cold. The summit is nowhere to be seen.
The mountain is much bigger than I thought. It is enormous and looks nothing like the small 3×5 black and white photo I studied for months.
Worry dances at the edge of my awareness and I push it back with the idea that I’ll just keep climbing till 2pm then turn around. I start out up a steep chute and have now switched to front-pointing (using the front points of the crampons). It is tiring on my calfs but I press on. Noon comes and goes and the summit is nowhere in sight. An hour later I think I can see the summit. Still I have not crossed the “super steep exposed blue ice” that the other climbers referred to so I continue climbing.
I arrive at the summit headwall and here is the ice. It is steep and scary (as I have no experience on such) but I can see the summit just 100 feet above me. I have no rope and I know I should turn around. I don’t. The summit is so close. Fear battles determination. Determination wins and I attack the final 100 feet.
Monday 2:30pm.
I emerge onto the summit plateau. 14,400 feet! Two climbers appear from the opposite side and ask where is my partner. I have none. They are surprised and look strangely at me.
I spend 5 minutes there eating and drinking then start downclimbing.
Immediately I realize that it looks far more scary to go down what I already came up. I get scared but there appears to be no choice so I just go down anyway hoping not to slip.
A few minutes later, despite my caution, I slip anyway and slide for some distance, maybe 40 feet, but I can’t be sure. I manage to self-arrest with my axe. Adrenaline floods and my heart jumps out of my chest. A few minutes later I get myself under control and realize I’ve just stopped myself from a 7,000 foot fall down the glacier. I realize I have made a mistake by descending here but now it is too late. I must get back to my tent and off the mountain.
I resolve to move slower and more carefully. I try but the steepness is too much and I slip again. This time I catch myself sooner and regain composure again. With excrutiatingly slow motion I continue down until I have passed the steep bits.
The 4 hours that follow are a blur in my mind. Exhausted and dehydrated time seems to speed up. I see the other climbers going down and stop to talk to them. They are surprised I went to the top. They say they turned around at 12,000 feet due to risk. I mumble something about the conditions at the top and move quickly away back to my tent. At last I reach my tent and pack up with too much haste. I am not thinking straight.
Monday 6:30pm.
Getting back to the safety of my truck parked at the bottom is all I can think of. I have to get down to the trail before dark or I will be lost. I haven’t eaten anything for hours and begin to hallucinate. I see rocks in the distance and think they are tents. They end up being rocks and I feel I am losing my mind. I continue and move faster. I hear other climbers behind me, but turn and see no one. After what seems like ages, the trail finally appears just as the sun begins to dip below the mountain top and I finally stop to drink and eat. Getting the food and water quickly suppresses the mild hallucinations, and I jog the rest of the two miles down to my truck arriving just as the last light leaves the sky.
The battery in my truck is dead. My heart stops. I try again. Nothing. I look around and there is no one else in the parking lot. I am 50 miles from the highway and it is pitch black. I have no cell service. I try my emergency radio for thirty minutes and get no response. I pace around outside my truck, and the lack of food and water married with the cold of the night take their toll and I begin shaking with mild hypothermia. I begin to feel myself panic and I sit down to think. Stop my mind from racing. Think. Think. I get into my car and put on all my down clothing and get into my sleeping bag. I make a hot meal. The shaking stops. I return my mind to the problem of the battery.
A truck is next to mine. The one belonging to the other climbers. Maybe I can get their battery out and jump start my truck. A frustrating hour passes before I finally figure out how to use my ice axe to pop their hood and get their battery out. Hooray! I am saved. My celebration is cut short when I plug it into my car and it doesn’t work. Their battery is too small for my truck and fails to even turn the engine once! Finally drained of all hope I put their battery back and jump into my truck to sleep until dawn at which point I will plan out my escape.
Thoughts of my wife worrying the night away, and phone calls to the rangers fill my dreams.
I get started the next morning and plan to climb back to the base camp I couldn’t find earlier and find the other climbers for help. I am sore but I am desperate. I worry that my wife is worried. I almost run the three miles back up the mountain to the base camp at 10,000 feet. I find it but there are no climbers there!
Tuesday 10am.
Despondent and exhausted, I have given up on finding them and decide to head down the mountain. As fate would have it, an hour later I think I spot the other climbers coming towards me. Shaking my head and hoping its no hallucination, they still seem to be there. I quicken my step as relief begins to come to me.
Reaching the grisled old climber, I mumble about my battery and ask for his phone and quickly call my wife. Tell her everything is OK and I will call her back soon.
We get back to my car and it jump starts with no problem. I thank the climbers and hurriedly drive away. Back to town and safety and people. I am safe.
I realize that while I may understand myself better, I will never climb alone again.
Climbing Half-Dome in Yosemite
After getting stormed out of the U-Notch in the eastern Sierra’s, Beamer and I went to Yosemite and decided to climb the route named “Snake Dike”
on Half Dome. 14 hours car to car. It was a long day.
This was our route.
Climbing Polar Circus - Canadian Rockies
A demanding day with 9 hours of continuous climbing. 10 pitches of hard ice, up to WI5. Lots of fun. Made possible by my friend and guide Steve House. Followed by dinner in town with Barry Blanchard, his friend Pat and plenty of great stories from Alaska. Thanks Steve!
Mt. Shasta - Casaval Ridge
Last weekend, Lauren and I climbed Shasta to do some winter climbing.
They’ve only gotten 5-7 feet so far this year, so it was still in-shape and the weather was stellar. We started up Avalanche gulch on the south side, and climbed to Green Butte ridge, where we camped at 9,000ft. Out of camp by 8am the next day, we leisurely climbed back to the gulch and ascended to 10,000ft, where we found an access point to Casaval ridge, called the “first window”.
Here we roped up and began our real climb. The first pitch was easy climbing to a rock in the middle of the snowfield, where I belayed Lauren. We spotted a few small rocks careening down the field, and decided we’d best climb on the left where there was a few overhanging rocks which would give us cover from any falling rocks. The final 2 pitches led to the stunning crest of the ridge, which is 2 feet wide at the top, providing spectacular views in all directions.
We had lunch at the top, and began our descent (roped). After the third pitch, and watermelon sized rock screamed down and came ~10 feet from Lauren, which was a bit unnerving. We looked at each other and unanimously decided to unrope, figuring that it was safer than being hit by a rock and knocked off the face. 10 minutes later we got to the bottom of the snow-field and breathed a sigh of relief.
All in all, it was a great day of climbing!
Whiteout
This weekend Collin and I climbed Mt. Baldy as part of our regular training for big mountains. I get up there at least once a month, since its an hour from my house in LA and I can there and back easily in a day. But this time, the Baldy gods reminded us that the mountains are in charge.
Being familiar with the route, we packed light – ice axes, crampons, winter jackets, a litre of water, a bagel and an orange, one pack of GU, a first aid kit, a compass (on my watch) and headlamps. We got started at 9am and made decent time to the San Antonio Ski Hut – the half way point on this route. So far there had been only a light dusting of snow and no sign of the winter storm that was forecasted to be approaching. At the hut, we chatted with a craggy looking mountaineer and his wife who were training for Mt. Rainier in May and Denali in June. It would be his third attempt on Denali, getting “blown off” twice before. They were nice to chat with.
After a 20 minute break, some water and food, we donned our crampons and ice-axes and planned our route up the bowl. Looking up we could see an ant-line of at least 20 climbers slowly plodding up the bowl with heavy packs laden with a god awful assortment of unnecessary items, a lack of fitness, or a lack of confidence on the steep, exposed snow slope, or a combination of all three.
With our light packs we moved up past the other climbers and into the center of the bowl. The last group we passed was a mountain guide with two clients who he had short-roped together (connected together with 15 feet of rope between each). He was giving these new climbers a lesson in rope technique and self-arrest. The sun was shining and they looked like they were having a great time. Both clients smiled and said cheery hellos as we passed.
Climbing the main section of the bowl must have taken us an hour and a half, and slowly, the line of climbers we’d passed receded in our view into what again looked like a line of ants. We felt good and the day seemed to be perfect to make good time to the top, however this was not to be.
As we reached the rocky outcrops which mark the center of the bowl, the clouds began to roll in, and within a matter of minutes a winter storm was brewing around us. The wind picked up and visibility dropped to a hundred feet. The climbers below us were swallowed up in a thick cloud remarkably quickly. I remained hopeful that we’d climb out of it to a sunny beautiful day at the summit.
We pressed on.
As we climbed the visibility continued to drop. 45 minutes later, as we crested the top of the bowl, we could barely see the ground in front of us, and it made every step slow to a crawl. Minutes later a couple of climbers emerged from the white. The guy in front has his nose pressed to his GPS. He called out to us in a thick accent (sounded like eastern european) “Do you know where the trail is?” — “No, we’re not following a trail” we responded. He continued on, using his GPS to find his trail back. I our compass bearing (due north) and continued up.
We continued higher, attempting to follow in the footsteps of the GPS climbers in the hopes they’d lead us to the summit. At some point we lost their trail and were left wandering up the barren landscape. Eventually, using the altimeter, we hit 10,050 feet, which is the elevation of the summit so we knew we were close (altimeters are not precise).
We decided to stop and eat. Donning our jackets we’d brought up here just for this purpose, we sat down and discussed options. Our original plan had been to downclimb a route called “the Devil’s Backbone”, and we quickly ruled this out as there would be no way to find that route in these conditions. We decided to head down, using our compass to navigate and get us off the summit plateau. We couldn’t even use the tracks we’d made coming up, since the snow was hard and windblown and we left very little visible marks.
Trusting the compass to lead us to the entrance to the bowl, it took us probably 30 minutes to cover the ground which would have taken 5 minutes in clear weather, but eventually we found the top of the bowl and started down. The downclimbing was slow with the poor visibility and the need to keep checking the bearing on the compass, but we made steady progress. Eventually, there was a break in the cloud cover and we briefly made out the ski hut a thousand feet below us. We took a compass bearing on it, so we could follow all the way back in zero visibility.
As we continued down the clouds began to break and visibility returned. The summit remained ensconced in clouds, but the path to the hut was clear.
The rest of the hike back to the car was uneventful, but we were reminded that the mountain is a harsh mistress.
Polar Circus planning
For the last year, I’ve been planning and training to climb Denali
(North America’s highest peak) in 2010. Due to weather and other
conditions, May and June are the only feasible months to climb Denali,
and due to my work calendar, June has been the plan. As some of you
know, several months ago, we got the great news that my wife,
Stephanie, is pregnant with our second child and due in June!
Technically she is due at the end of June, and I tried half-heartedly
to convince myself that I could still climb in the beginning part of
June and be back for the birth, but, ultimately, I knew that Denali
would have to wait until 2011.
So I put aside my Denali plans and called my friend (and guide), Steve
House and asked him to recommend an intense and “super hard” climb we
could do earlier in the year instead of Denali (recognizing that
“super hard” for me, and “super hard” for him are light-years apart).
He thought about it for a while, and then suggested a winter ascent of
the west face of Cirrus Mountain in the Canadian Rockies via an ice
route known as “Polar Circus”. The route involves 2,300′+ of vertical
ice, and is known in climbing circles as the “showpiece of the
Canadian Rockies…”.
“[Polar Circus] is one of the most sought after routes anywhere in the
world. Featuring 2300’+/- gain with over 1600’ of waterfall ice spread
out over 9+/- pitches, Polar Circus is a classic to say the least.
Charlie Porter is credited for naming the route while on first ascent
when complaining about setting up a station on one of the steep
pitches, referring to his situation as nothing more than a “Polish
Circusâ€. Polish became Polar in the translation. Within Polar Circus
is a feature named ‘the Pencil’ which rarely forms to the ground, but
when it does it is one of the finer [extremely difficult ice] pillars
anywhere.” – (http://www.summitpost.org/route/275420/polar-circus-v-wi-5.html).
Climbing in the winter in the Canadian Rockies is itself a challenge
due to the extreme cold (temperatures average 30 degrees below
freezing). According to Steve’s plan, as long as it is not too cold
(which he defines as “below 0f”), then we’ll bivouac (sleep) half-way
up the climb “to make it more enjoyable”, then finish the final, and
most difficult vertical ice at the top on the second day. This means
we’ll bring sleeping bags and “bivy sacks”, but no tent. We’ll be
carrying a bare minimum of the lightest gear you can buy, since the
more we carry the slower we’ll go. Steve is famous for his “Light and
fast” climbing style, which, according to him also means “Cold and
Hungry”.
For those of you who don’t know, or haven’t heard of Steve House
(http://www.stevehouse.net), he’s been named “the world’s finest high
altitude mountaineer” by Reinhold Messner, and for many years has been
setting world records and logging first ascents of the worlds most
dangerous and technical climbs in Nepal and around the world. Many of
Steve’s climbs have never been repeated. He’s currently planning a
first ascent of an extremely difficult route on the west face of K2.
His book, Beyond The Mountain
(http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Mountain-Steve-House/dp/097906595X), was
recently awarded the Boardman Tasker prize for mountaineering
literature and I highly recommend it!
Weather and avalanche danger permitting, we plan to climb sometime
between February 12th and 17th. Will keep everybody posted.
Climbing in Colorado
Just after the new year, we spent a week in Colorado in Ouray climbing Ice and attended the Ice festival climbing competition.Tuesday we went out to the Skylight area to climb with Steve House, who led us up some sketchy thin mixed (ice & rock) route called Slip and slide – I would never have thought about climbing that scary ass shit on my own, so thanks to Steve for showing us how a real man climbs!Next, we found a long gulley which had a good variety of rock, frozen dirt, logs and all kinds of fun stuff.At the top there was a short 15 foot vertical ice headwall then a big tree. Steve led again, followed by Beamer and I. To save time, Beamer and I tied in 20 feet apart, which was the stupidest idea ever, because every time beamer stalled on hard climbing, I’d catch right up to him, then when I was stuck on the hard stuff, he’d be hanging precariously from bad holds. Meanwhile, he’s kicking down snow and rock and junk in my face, so it was like climbing through an avalanche. I got wet. Thankfully I had a cool new face shield which made it way easier. Anyway, it was an awesome climb and we were all stoked.The rest of the week was morning to night climbing in the park, which got us all sore and was super fun.
Check out photos here on Facebook:http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=153079&id=533161680&l=7c0e9146b7
Climbing The U-Notch - Eastern Sierras
Check out the video of our climb: Rowan Trollope, Collin Davis and Beamer Hodge climb the U-notch
We made it to ~13,400 feet, about halfway up the U-notch couloir. After our fourth pitch of climbing, we had gotten past the crux of the climb and all of the somewhat difficult ice climbing, but heard the sounds of water rushing underneath the ice and a deep ominous crack from the ice. We decided to turn around, a decision made easier by the fact that we were quite tired.
Day 1 – 4am on Friday morning we met at our house and started our drive. By noon we got started on the approach hike at 7,900ft. Our first night was spent at ~10,000 ft at the scenic second lake above Glacier lodge.
Day 2 – 8am on Saturday morning we start up to our high camp at the base of the Glacier. We arrive in the mid morning and setup camp. ~12,000 ft. After lunch we ascend the glacier to the base of the couloir at ~13,000 ft. We cross numerous small crevasses, but nothing big enough to fall in.
Day 3 – 12am on Sunday morning (Saturday night). We start in darkness. It occurs to me that its 25 degrees in the middle of August in California. Strange. By 2am I lead out the first pitch crossing the Bergschrund on the small remaining snow bridge on the right. Half-way up I find an old fixed line left by a previous party, and clip to it to protect myself from a fall. Easy ice climbing follows where I place a single ice-screen and some rock pro.
Beamer leads out the next two pitches, which are mostly ice climbing on the hard, exposed blue ice. Beamer is a strong climber and that was his first true ice-climbing experience. Yay Beamer! By 6am we hear the aforementioned water and cracking and all decide it would be safer to turn around. A few rappels later we’re heading back to our high camp to get out of dodge.
After a LONG descent (it was 12 miles back to the car and maybe 4 hours of hiking), we arrive back at the trailhead, hungry and tired but really happy!
Congratulations to my partners Collin and Beamer who are totally rad newly minted alpine climbers!
U-Notch Plans
Colin, Beamer and I are heading to the U-Notch on the Palisade glacier. We plan to climb the 1,000 ft ice wall and summit on Sunday. We’ve got 10 ice screws, 2 ropes, 1 tent and a six pack. Good luck team!
