Epilogue: Talkeetna, AK - May 22, 2010

Watch for links to video below, and click on pics for larger versions.

I woke this morning with a pretty good headache, and I look (and sorta feel) like death haha. Too much partying last night, I guess haha. I didn't get to bed until deeeeeeep into the morning hours... people kept buying round after round and slamming 6-ers on the table! What's a boy supposed to do? Sheesh. I think Denis and I were some of the last few people left in the Fairview Inn at closing time.

Luckily, some extra special anti-hangover medicine was made available at the table, and actual food included another pair of those mindblowing cinnamon rolls from the Talkeetna Roadhouse. After that, we all went back to the TeePee to get our crap and met in a back alleyway behind Denali Overland Transport--a weird combination of gift shop and shuttle service--to load up the van for the drive back to Anchorage. And already I longed for just one more look at the terrifying ridges of Mt. Hunter that I'd been staring at all week long.

It was a long drive. Or so it seemed to me, anyway. Reason is, I've had to PEEEE all morning, and I keep forgetting (this entry seens to be generally rather bathroom heavy hahaha).

Along the way, we stopped for coffee at a great little roadside stand in Wasilla for some excellent espresso, and then, like an idiot, I managed to get back in the van, sit down, and enjoy my espresso long enough to oops... realize I hadn't take a leak as the van started to move again for the next leg of our journey. Doh!

Aside from that, however, one of the things I learned on the drive back -- once again from Tyler -- was that the first big mountain range we'd driven through on the way in from the Anchorage airport to Talkeetna 10 days ago was the Chugach Range. He also informed me that it was visible from the Anchorage airport. I didn't even realize I was taking pictures of 10 days ago... (!) AWESOME!

But why is this really cool? Because the Chugach Range is very high on my list of places under consideration for my first heli-ski trip. Tyler mentioned an especially interesting fact about the Chugach that actually explains why it's such a good place to heli-ski: although the summit elevations of most of the mountains in it are rather unimpressive with numbers around 8,000 and 9,000 feet, the lowest points of the range pretty much dip into the sea, which means almost ALL of their 8,000 or 9,000 feet height is prominence--meaning exposed and skiable (or climbable).

On another mountain, your base camp might sit at, say, 5,000 feet above sea level, and you might climb from there to an 8k or 9k summit--only 4,000 vertical feet of prominence. A 9,000 foot Chugach peak, by contrast, is almost two vertical miles to its summit from where you start climbing (or skiing down, as the case may be). Many of the biggest mountains in the world have far less prominence than most of the peaks in the Chugach Range--an incredible fact, but such is the scale of things in Alaska.

Arriving at the Anchorage airport was uneventful (other than I finally BOLTED to the bathroom hahahaha) but then, after we all rescheduled our plane tickets, we were left with many many MANY hours of a whole lot of nothing to do--with my fellow climbers (Denis, Jeff, and Paul shown here).

I think I had something like 13 hours to sit in the airport and do nothing but think about how much I wanted to just sleeeeeeeep. Once again, I spent a lot of time hanging out at the same bar I sat at on the way IN (but this time with my climbing compadres).

The pizza at that place truly suuuuuucked... especially after such a good one at Mountain High Pizza Pie in Talkeetna the day before. Also, the  garlic knots suuuuucked big balls. Actually, so did the salads--and now that I think about it, pretty  much everything else, too, except the beers. The cheese sticks weren't bad, I guess. Hard to screw up deep fried cheese.

We spent some time wandering the hallways, shopping, goofing off, eating, and eventually, I became extremely bored and apparently rather easily entertained by... the floor...? Hours later, it got no better, and I became STUPENDOUSLY bored.

But the time passed, and as I watched each of my climbing compatriots peel off one by one, each headed back to their own worlds, the lives they left behind, I couldn't help but feel a little sad that it was coming to an end. All I trained for, all I worked for now behind me, and nothing but incredible memories now. And as they left, I became the last remaining RMI AK Seminar 2010 team member in Alaska, left to wander the marble hallways of the concourse for hours on end, a sunburnt ghost of an experience past.

Absolutely, completely, utterly, amazingly, mind-bendingly, incredibly, and ultimately magnificent... and here endeth my first Alaskan saga. Glad to be home safe and sound.

May 21, 2010, Kahiltna Glacier and Talkeetna, AK

Watch for links to video below, and click on pics for larger versions.

On a glistening, crystalline morning as beautiful as today, it's sort of a shame that an unfortunate misinterpretation of our plane's arrival time on the glacier turned into another full-on hurry up and wait kind of day again. Also a bit comical... you shoulda seen us move. HAHA

Still tucked in our fluffy warm down bags at around 6am, we all heard Tyler head noisily down toward Kahiltna Base Camp to have a chat with Lisa, the Kahiltna Base Camp manager--and then heard him running back into camp shouting a rabble rousing call to wake us all up. "Get up! Get your stuff together! Pack up! Let's GOOOO!!!!"

Obligingly, we all bolted out of our tents, and now, having moved camp three times, we were able to  pack up camp, get loaded and moving all our packs and bags on sleds out of camp down the snowy trail to "Kahiltna International Airport" in short order, and in a surprisingly organized fashion--only to find once we reached the runway, out of breath and breakfastless, that the misinterpretation had itself been misinterpreted, and that we ACTUALLY had another hour before our plane was set to touch down on the glacier. Doh!

So here we were, standing around in the snow next to the NPS tent, wishing we were all back in our poofy down bags for another hour--or having breakfast--or something. Sooo funny how these crazy things go down out here. :-)

Anyway, NOW there's time to stand around the airstrip, and enjoy the serenely and strikingly beautiful sunrise coming up behind the Radio Control Tower peak we'd climbed several days before, pick our noses, put on  more sunscreen, and... wait a minute... is that Jason about to make coffee on the runway? HAHAHA Awesome!

But then... wouldn't ya know it... just as our heartrates came down and we'd all relaxed, and I'd unpacked the remaining food from one of my stuffsacks into a messy pile of Ziploc bags in the snow to rummage for a tasty morsel or two for "breakfast", sat down on my pack in the snow to snarf while enjoying a leisurely wait for a plane that was still an hour hence--wait... uhhh... what's that soun... omg, THERE'S THE PLANE NOW! Quick, put the food and coffee away! Repack your crap! HAHA

Turns out that the misinterpretation of the misinterpretation that had rousted us from toasty, fluffy slumber in the first place--was misinterpreted! (Ever hear of radios, people? Sheesh lol)

Total goofiness ensued as we split up teams to decide who would fly out first. The weather was certainly good for flying today, but having already jumped all over the front seat position for the flight in, I decided to sit in the middle of the plane this time to let someone else have a shot at it. As it turned out, my decision would have been overridden anyway, because there was some dude riding shotgun that, by all appearances, was from K2 Air's HQ. He seemed to be here to inteview pilots and ground personnel on the status of various operational and performance aspects of the company itself. Weirrrrd...

Whoever he was, he and the pilot proceeded to have a spectacularly boring conversation over the plane headphones for everyone in the cabin to suffer through the entire journey back to Talkeetna, so naturally, I took my cans off for most of it and focused on taking some fresh photos and video of the Range as we departed.

And with delight, I found I could now identify all the mysterious peaks, jagged crags, wicked outcrops, and crevasse-riddled slopes that, on the flight here, I had no hope of deciphering. I took great pleasure in doing so for as long as I could glimpse its staggering beauty.

Watching the snow and ice give way to black, rich, and wet glacial moraine and earth with rivers of crystal-pure glacial runoff snaking its way in giant rivulets in all directions, ultimately coalescing into what would eventually become the Susitna river (and other  major tributaries and waterways) was a reluctant joy.

On the one hand, I was sad to see mighty Denali and the Range fade into the distance behind us, but at the same time, I began to notice my own involuntary amazement at the new-again experience of the flash-flooding of vivid color that seemed to be rushing back into the world around me.

Having spent the last 9 days in a staggeringly beautiful but nevertheless austere world of pretty much just white, black, and glacier blue, seeing the deep and variously green-shaded forests, black earth, blue waters materialize around us below sent my brain into a pleasureable state of information overload.

Speaking of overload, it seemed like the plane was a bit overloaded, and the pilot for this leg of our journey, though clearly more "experienced" (read: old) wasn't nearly as much fun as the other guy. Lots of air miles on this guy.

But what do I care? All that matters at this point is a shower (and a second shower and a third one just for good measure, just to get 10 days of stink off haha), along with a nap and some good food back in Talkeetna, and he did just fine getting us back on the ground.

Once back in Talkeetna, we set to the mundane work of pitching the tents to dry, sorting out group gear, throwing away all the garbage we generated on the glacier (since it has to be packed out) and unpacking and repacking all the other crap we had left behind 9 days ago.

We all also took the time to divest ourselves of all the extra food we'd brought along, so we didn't have to pay the airlines to ship it back home with us. And since the food would all go into the food stores of an RMI Denali expedition two weeks hence that would be led by Tyler, assisted by Jason and Mike, it would not go wasted.

In fact, Jason and Tyler had told stories a few days earlier about how it was possible for a knowlegeable climber to come to the Alaska Range with almost no food at all and eat for free every day indefinitely, because there are so many climbers on the glacier eager to shed the weight of their extra food to any willing takers. I was astonished to learn that there's something of a minitaure grey market here for valuable items like salami, cheese, peanut butter, crackers, extra fuel, and all manner of other desireable, non-perishables.

Anyway, that all took us a few hours, and in the process, Tyler asked Denis and I to pitch the huge Mountain Hardwear Dome tent to dry it out along wit the others--the monster space station shaped canopy that was used to protect our hidden cache from enterprising ravens as we moved up the glacier to climb Mt. Frances on the 18th.

The comedy of this exercise was that neither he nor I had any idea how to pitch this one, but since it was just a drying out situation, we figured getting it perfect wasn't THAT important, as long as ventialtion was able to flow through it.

The lumpy, not-at-all-huge-or-correct tent-like travesty we erected resembled nothing of what a properly pitched MH Dome should look like... this was bumpy, small, lopsided, and totally hilarious--and once again, we cracked up laughing and shot a few goofy photos of us "expert mountain climbers" posing with our misshapen handiwork.

Once done, Denis and I headed back to the Teepee (our motel) for some much needed hygeine. (Lemme tell ya, a single pair or two of underwear just never seemed like enough for 10 sweaty days in the Range. LOL)

Anyway, after cleaning up, we decided to go for a wander through town to see what we could see, picked up Jerry somewhere along the way ("AWESOME!" haha)--love that guy--and maybe find some food and gifts. For food, we decided to go to Mountain High Pizza Pie... where we found Jason, Mike, and Tyler already sitting on the patio with beers and waiting for their pizza to arrive.

They'd ordered a Meat Lover's pizza, which is what we had ordered too, so it was decided that the 6 of us would all split both pizzas, thereby ensuring a constant stream of HOT pizza. It worked out great, and we all got drinking and reflecting and talking more about next plans and such. Good times.

I picked up the bill for the guides and the guys, and now fully satisfied, we set about finding some goodies to take home with us. I found an excellent SuperTopo book on climbing in the Alaska Range, some interesting antique glass fishnet floats that were used by Japanese fisherman in the Bering sea long ago, and are still washing up on shore to this day, and a bunch of other crap to take home... it was raddddd. (I even went for a much-needed espresso, as all the coffee we had on the glacier was dreadful.) Haha

There was some lazy time--chillout in the Teepee, hang out around town, whatever--and then we all reconvened for dinner at Denali Brewing Company's new restaurant, Twister Creek.

Everyone was all tidy now (thank god haha), and we shared a few well-earned toasts, talked more about the future for each climber, and started laying the foundations for our various AK enterprises next May. Sounds like Ben, Paul, and Jerry are pretty serious about going to Denali next year, while Denis and I will hopefully end up on Foraker.

After that came the obligatory partying at the Fairview--and parrrtyyyy we did. It's very strange, seeing pretty girls and nice civilized things after a while out in the wilderness. They smell good, they look good, and it's all brand new again. Odd. Sorta like the whole colors thing I mentioned earlier.

I felt like that old stereotypical image of a dusty, weatherbeaten, interaction-deprived prospector coming in from months in the desert with his mule and seeing civilization again. HAHA At any rate, the band, The Denali Cooks, was awesome. They had a nice, casual, easygoing bluesy-influenced and well-rehearsed, polished sound to just chill out to with lughs and friends, and this night was just what Dr. Ben ordered. (Dr. Ben is on the right... Jeff's on the left, Paul's in the middle of that pic. :-)

On my first bathroom break of the night, I noticed that nearly one whole wall of the Fairview's men's room was a chalkboard, and I was face to face with a huge chalk scrawl for the RMI party, presumably put up by Tyler and Jason (but they denied it). ;-)

I had some cool conversations outside with Jason and Tyler, and shared another cigar. One odd aspect of this whole guiding thing, I've decided,  is gratuities for the guides themselves. Maybe I'm unique in this opinion, but by the time we get off the mountain, we've already paid a shitload of money for the expedition and everything associated with it, and although it's nice for them, they ARE getting paid by RMI to take their teams out and bring them back safely... it's their JOB--and gratuities just aren't that necessary. It would be like me asking for a tip from any customer that uses my company's web site to do something. Silly.

Thing is, it's not like they're getting paid on commission based on the number of climbers they bring back alive, and RMI doesn't give them a reduced salary with the expectation that they'll make up the rest of their living expenses in tips like a waitress might, either.

That said, I don't mind giving them $40 or $50 each as an extra thank you for the experience and knowledge, but more than that seems excessive to me... especially when it's $50 x 3 guides. And I'd already bought a big meal and beers for all three of them earlier. Still... it seemed like they weren't all that happy with that. Maybe it's just me, though. I dunno.

Regardless, with our first AK expedition now behind us, a massive amount of fantastically interesting and critical information packed into our brains by direct experience and hands-on training, and the bonds of friendship growing amongst various people on the team, it was time to pack up and say goodbye--for now.

Denis has had an interesting fascination with Denali since we got here, but since he and I have been chatting more and more about the possibility of coming back to AK next year--after spending a lot more time on mountains like Shasta and Rainier--his attentions have turned more and more toward Foraker. I can't tell you how much that would please me... Denis and I get along great, and we seem to share similar levels of acceptable risk, as well as climbing values.

As I write this, I'd say he's probably the stronger climber of the two of us, in part attributable to the fact that he's just had more experience doing it, where I came here brand new. BUT I'm a quick learner, and a highly motivated one. A chance to climb something as formidable as Foraker with Denis is something I'm very interested in.

As such, my drive to reach new heights, improve my knowledge, build on my experience and to put in plenty of time between now and next May on big mountains, ever-more-challenging terrain, and higher elevations is very stong. Foraker is definitely in my sights... it's just a question of whether those more expert than me think I'm up to it. I am absolutely confident that I am, but whether it happens in 2011 or beyond, I will definitely be back  to AK to climb Mt. Foraker's magnificent Sultana Ridge.

One more AK entry to go...

May 20, 2010 - Kahiltna Base Camp, Alaska Range, AK

Watch for links to video below, and click on pics for larger versions.

 8:32am
We got about a foot of snow last night, so Denis and I have spent the last 40 minutes or so digging out our tent and tightening all the guy lines that anchor it to the snow. Today, I think, is real-life crevasse rescue training, if the guides think it's suitably safe weather for it, and mostly hanging out if not. In that case, it would be maybe some more in-camp discussion of other skills.

If the snow doesn't let up by tomorrow morning, we may have to wait, and even stomp out the glacier runway with other teams here to clear a path for planes to land.

6:04pm

The weather cleared to bright blue skies by about 10am, so as promised, we all suited up and took a walk up the glacier to find a crack to throw ourselves into, so we could all practice the crevasse rescue skills we were taught on our weather day earlier this week.

Before we headed up the glacier today, though, we spent a couple hours on some education in the basics of high altitude medical--made especially interesting by the fact that Ben is a doctor. He was able to illuminate some of the physiological mechanics of conditions like cerebral and pulmonary edemas... interesting stuff.

Anyway, the guides found a good crevasse that wasn't too overhung but was nevertheless huge--60 or more feet across--and we set up 3 stations, where we were all able to rotate efficiently through the training taking place at each. I started by getting down and dirty over the edge, hanging for a few minutes in midair by my harness as I set up for the real task at hand.

My job was to attach two prusiks to the climbing rope in a reasonable amount of time, prusik up the rope, and climb out of the hole--which I did. Prusiks make for hard physical work shimmying up the rope, but it sure beats having to do it with just hands and feet.

Still, getting out was some seeeerious work! I can see now why this is such an important skill to have. I imagined myself exhausted after a long day's climb, falling into a crevasse, and having to do this.... HARD!. Anyway, I climbed out of the hole totally steaming in the cold air from sweat, but I had a great time doing it :-)

Down over the edge when I started, I needed a little extra time getting the prusik setup right--took me a minute to figure out what I was doing wrong, but eventually nailed it, clipped in, and up I went.

Everyone else was rotating through different positions on a mock 4-man rope team. One guy was in the crevasse as the fallen climber, one was the primary anchor position, and two uprope to help anchor, transfer the load, to assist, or to help set up the pulley system that would get our buddy out of the crack.

I rotated to the belay station, and then worked my way through every other position on that rope in the remanining time. Getting through every station has taken most of the day--and what an educational day it's been! WOW!

Now that I know it, I feel like I just now need a lot more practice with these techniques before I have them totally nailed and second nature, but the books I have at home are now suddenly FAR more useful to me, having now had hands-on instruction in 3-dimensions, and interactively. I read a lot in them before I got to AK, but the crevasse rescue portions only kinda made sense to me at the time. Now they REALLY do :-)

10:31pm

We finished up the crevasse rescue earlier in the day and headed back to camp, where Tyler busted out the BBQ grill once again(!)--bacon cheeseburgers and one other incredibly awesome surprise: adult beverages! They've apparently been saving it for the end of the trip. (As this is a Rainier Mountaineering, Inc. trip, what other brand could it be but Rainier haha)

After dinner, we did some avalanche beacon training in camp, which was kinda wacky. Jason was leading the discussion, but Tyler, who seemed to be in a rather stern mood tonight, would bust in with long, passionate additional commentary. He was most aggro about the way to get to a person in an avalanche, and pointed out that the beacon is not your primary search tool initially... your brain is. Jason and Tyler crack me up. They're such good friends, they're like an old married couple

Tyler's philosophy is pretty simple and straightforward: don't walk... SPRINT to where you last saw people go down and visually scan rapidly for lost items or exposed things still on (or off) the climbers. Follow the breadcumbs. Lost gloves, hands, arms poking out of the snow, can lead you right wehere you need to go... but do it FAST.  He went on to say that our shovels and probes are the most immediate things that can potentially save their lives, followed by beacons--and while the beacon is a great tool, the point of it is is not a slow methodical search, because if you spend all this time on getting it just right, people might be dying under the snow. His point was learn to us it, and to do it quickly.

I do agree with much of this... and one of the recurring topics of this seminar came out yet again loudly and clearly through this discussion: be smart, be efficient, and above all, use smarts and efficiency to be safe, and to help keep your friends safe, too--and then that stay way. Common sense and being smart and THINKING about what you're doing and why while you're in the mountains has been talked about and talked about, and it's something I definitely believe in.

I'd characterize myself as a conservative climber anwyay--much of my inspiration has come from pragmatic climbers like Ed Viesturs--and I came here to learn the art of listening to and following your instincts based on what the conditions tell you, even if it means disappointment, turning back or waiting out a long storm. I've learned a great deal about just how to execute on that in my own climbing from the training here in AK, too.

AAAANYway, after beacon training, many group photos of our last night on the glacier together as a team, lots of sunset pics, and general camp jokeyness, I took off my boots for the last time, and we all headed off to sleep for our last night in the breathtaking shadow of Mt Crosson, and Foraker's Sultana Ridge, deep in the Alaska Range... with perfect weather.

Fingers crossed once again that we get off the glacier tomorrow as planned. If we do, tomorrow night will be dinner with certificates, and a lot of partying at the Fairview Inn! Raddddd...

May 19, 2010, Mt Frances basin camp, Alaska Range, AK

Don't forget to click on pics for larger versions, and watch for links to video.

8:40 am
Camp is just stirring this bitterly cold morning. Just went outside the tent for a minute, and realized that we were still shaded by the mountains around us, and a light breeze is blowing. It's a deep, bitter, penetrating cold, probably something like 0 degrees out there.

I can hear the stoves running, and some voices in the posh house, so the guides are probably melting snow for water to be used in our morning ritual of hot drinks and tasty breakfast fixins... good deal, cuz I'm starrrving, and trying to warm up my hands and feet is altogether easier with a hot cider in hand. :-) The plan so far today is to break camp and move back down the glacier for what will probably be some ice climbing training or real-life crevasse rescue training. We'll see.

10:33 am
Just came back from breakfast in the posh house with everyone, and the decision is made: it's to be ice climbing and and fixed line trainings today... cool! I've gotta get a move on, as I'm a little behind on breaking my parts of camp for the move down the glacier.

5:50 pm - Kahiltna base camp

We packed up earlier and headed down the glacier as promised, but stopped about halfway down to Kahiltna base camp with sleds in tow. On break we were instructed to drop our packs, untether from sleds, and grab your crampons, ice axes, an extra layer and a snack or two with some water. Everything else got left there in the m iddle of the glacier, and we struck out from there back across the glacier, up and left toward some glaciated hills and made straight for a cluster of exposed vertical ice walls at the top of a steep slope.

After Tyler and the guides set up the anchor/rope system and tested it, we started into  instruction in the proper use of ice screws as anchors, basic ice climbing techniques, wall scaling, rappelling, belaying, and much more. After that, it was fixed lines--the kind one might find on Denali in the distance, or on Everest--and how to travel safely on them. All super SUPER interesting stuff, and I learned a lot. Around 2pm or so, we headed back to the gear we abandoned ont he glacier earlier, hitched up the sleds, and cruised back down to our previous campsite overlooking the south fork of the Kahiltna... it remained unoccupied, so we dug in once again.

We set up camp, and once again, having had a long day in the sun, we were advised to hole up in our tents, hide out from the sun, eat and drink a LOT to rehydrate and recover, which I did with gusto. We didn't have that many opportunities today to eat or drink, and I felt a bit out of gas and dehydrated from the blistering UV exposure on the glacier with we rolled in and set up around 4:30. I sweated buckets today, so it's good to chill out for a while and see how quickly my energy comes back.

It's been a couple of hours now, and I've downed a lot of food and water. I can hear the XGK stoves from here, and if they're running again, it means the guides are melting snow... as always. It's a constant 4-5 hour ritual each day to keep everyone hydrated. Rumor has it that we're going to be treated to another BBQ night with cheeseburgers, and the staple condiment for practically everything we eat at any meal of the day: sriracha! The spicy hot Thai/Vietnamese chili sauce with the green squeezey lid thing. I don't think scrambled eggs with hash browns, bacon and cheddar in a tortilla are never going to be the same after this without it!

As I'm writing, Denis (shown in our tent here) mentioned it's been near 70 degrees out for the last while, but he and I quite literally fellt the temperatur plummet just now--within a span of just a few minutes as we come into a little shade. 10 minutes ago, we were boiling and sweating, but now I'm heading for my down gear... BRRR!! Like Tyler says: "Welcome to the Range... freeze or fry, baby."

I can hear Jason's music--today it's reggae--drifting lazily and almost inaudibly through camp as we all chill out... it's been quite a nice afternoon here.

10:42 pm
Having all had a huge meal--complete with an exotic (for glacier food) blueberry crumble made by Jason for dessert--we sat around in the posh house and talked into the evening. Well, Tyler, as usual, did most of the talking (haha) but over the course of this trip, the topic of friends the guides have lost to climbing came up frequently. It came up again tonight when Jason mentioned one of his friends who had died attempting to climb a mountain somewhere. I was really curious how these guys, who seem to have so many friends they've lost are able to deal with it, and how (if at all) it changes the way they climb.

We all had a long and interesting chat, and Tyler filled in a lot of gaps and told may other stories about other people. Seems odd for a 30 year old like Jason to have lost over 10 friends to a sport they're all passionate about. I tried to imagine myself at 30, counting up not just friends but ANYONE I knew that had died at when I was that age, and I could only come up with two or three, tops.

I think it's that way for most people--except elite climbers, I guess. But in the end, I do understand why they do what they do... just not sure what all of it means, really. First ascent of this peak, first winter ascent of that peak on a route of Alaska Grade VI, first descent of this, this, and that route... it all seems so mastubatory, somehow. I mean, who cares, really? If you're the person doing all those (admittedly amazing) things, and you're talking about all those successes, all it gives you is bragging rights with your climbing buddies over beers, because nobody outside the climbing community even knows what that means ("how was your hike?" is something I get a lot... ugh). Perilous business, this.

But on the other hand, if you're doing it for purely personal reasons, there would be no NEED to talk about it in the first place, thus making each climb a personal journey into oneself--and nobody would ever hear about it--right? So every time I think about this, it brings me back to "who cares, REALLY?"

Anyway, all that aside, Denis and I have been laughing our asses off all night long, joking around and such. We landscaped our new tent surroundings in the snow... a curb, moveable blocks in vestibule footwell to block spindrift, cut steps in the back hill, and even cut a roundabout pathway for others to skirt our tent more easily. Circular driveway? You bet! :-)

I love Denis... he's an awesome dude.

May 18, 2010, 6:11 pm - 10,451 Feet of Bliss: Mt Frances

Watch for links to video below, and click on pics for larger images.

I just returned from a mind-boggling and spectacular day of climbing. We summited 10,451-foot Mount Frances, and it was just… beyond description -- but I’ll try.

We saddled up at 7am with packs, ice axes, and crampons that we’d assembled last night, and we crunched our way out of camp.

Up we went, following the snowy trail that Mike and Jason had put in last night before dinner. (In fact, they’d both climbed the full height of the first long, steep rock and ice slope to the saddle that would ultimately take us to the summit so they could cut in big steps and lay a few anchors to freeze in overnight.)

Without that extra work, it might have taken us as long as 2 hours to get to that saddle and the ridgeline, but instead, we barreled up that super-steep face and found ourselves taking our first break in just under 50 minutes, clipping in and out of running belays set at each anchor point, which Tyler had educated us on last night. Denis and I were both on Jason’s rope team today, and we killed it, he said—that was a nice compliment.

Once on the saddle ridge, we watched the sun rise over the summit behind our objective (see video link above, and pic at left), and then we cut leftward up the slope toward an impossibly, ridiculously steep ridgeline that looked, to my uneducated eyes, undoable -- with Jason breaking trail, me behind him, and Denis behind me. Much of today’s climb was beyond 45-degree slopes, some as high as 65 degrees: STEEP!

Side note: It’s so interesting how no slope seems to be too challenging or beyond safe ascent in mountaineering (and with these guys). Never in my wildest regular-hiking dreams would it have crossed my mind that any slope on any part of today’s climb was even remotely doable, but I’ve learned over the last few days that we can spot something, walk right up to it—whatever “it” might be—and get on up!

It comes first and foremost from having expert guides who know what to look for, but also from the extra safety that crampons, ice axes, rope, anchors, and carabiners and good training provide as compared to regular, unroped, non-technical hiking.

But then soooo many things about today just blew my mind. That we got up that first slope at all was just incredible to me, but the fact that we did it so fast was just surreal. Standing below it in the snow of the glacier floor beneath that imposing face, it had seemed “an act of purest optimism to oppose the question in the first place."

But up we went anyway. Not recklessly. In fact, quite methodically and confidently; especially with our guides’ assurance behind us earlier that the snow conditions were damn near perfect for it today. For some reason, I’m realizing, every slope seems doable in crampons. Spikes rule.

ANYway…

Periodically, Jason would say “stop,” and he’d probe for crevasses (which he seemed to find frequently). Again and again, he’d adjust the route--or we’d skirt the crevasse altogether, and we snaked our way upward. The entire ridge to the summit seemed heavily cracked and crevassed, which, to me, was a bit of a surprise, being this high on a peak… but then, I’ve never been on a peak like this before, so what do I know? Haha

While there’s always an air of seriousness about any climb here (as there should be, I suppose, given that lives and injuries literally hang in the balance), today’s mood occasionally verged on scary. Up the broad, punchy ice and snow slope we went, making for the only visible crest a thousand vertical feet or so above our heads.

The snow conditions were indeed generally quite confidence-inspiring (despite some significant post-hole patches here and there where we were breaking through the upper crust and sinking knee and thigh deep into softer snow), but just after we crested that rise and Jason had spent a fair amount of time crevasse-scouting, his trail—which we were asked to follow all day, literally placing our feet where his were—led across what seemed to me like a gaping hole down into deep dark cold blue ice walls.

For a guy like me who really appreciates knowing what to expect--or at least the rules--direction wasn’t always clear enough for me, but on this occasion, it seemed straightforward enough: “don’t worry about it” was the general instruction. “Step across, and put your feet right where mine were,” he called to me from up the slope. I looked down and across the small crevasse and immediately noticed that on both sides, the lip was close to solid ice, and his footprints weren’t even visible, so I took a second to look up the hill to see where they might have exited in softer snow and then traced them back to the lip again to see if I could figure it out… no luck. Hard snow on the other side.

Feeling my hesitation, and probably knowing full well that he’s got me on solid belay anyway, he seemed a little impatient. “Just step across!” But there was no additional information to let me know what he planned in case I needed help. Not knowing where to step exactly (but also not wanting to just go for it and risk doing it wrong, which might inadvertently cause a situation), I felt a little between a rock and a hard place. I did completely trust our guides, though, so gamely, I took my right foot and placed it on part of the snow bridge where my best guess told me his foot might have been.

But instead of staying on top of the crusty ice, or even post-holing through it into deep snow like we’d become accustomed to so far, my leg went straight through the snow and into… nothing. Air up to about my knee. Immediately, I felt the snow bridge sink around me, and I heard some clatter down into the hole below. I wasn’t panicked, but it did make me nervous, since this was completely outside any experience I’ve ever had, and had no idea what to expect, should it happen.

I’m not sure Jason knew all these little things were going on from his vantage point up the hill, and perhaps didn’t realize I’d broken partway through the bridge. All he saw was me do what looked like a post-hole into snow, and pause yet again. The downhill lip of the crevasse was pretty hard ice, and my left foot was still on it with precarious purchase, so that my full weight wasn’t on my right yet… so I backed up slowly, and stood there for a second, shaken a little bit by what had just happened. With conditions as perfect as they were and Jason’s expertise in situations like this, he probably found that frustrating.

“Step over! I’ve got you!” came the direction… and that was what I needed to know. I believed him, but I still didn’t know what was below me or how far to step, so I reverified visually where Jason wanted me to go, and then took a big step over. And as I did, he hauled on my rope, which lifted me up and over the gap without a problem.

I found out later it was just a little crevasse, but having never had that kind of experience before or even being near a crevasse (much less hundreds of them) I think I was just feeling like I needed more coaching than I got. Nevertheless, I appreciated his professionalism, and that event alone was a major learning experience, made all the more valuable because it was a “puckery” one for me, as they say.

Upward we went, making straight for a huge wall of overhung blue ice clinging to the mountainside (for scale, note how tiny our path snaking up the mountainside toward it is. The only way around was to the left, toward a thousand-foot drop over ice, snow, and rock to the glacier below. Jason methodically cut a platform for us just below the wall as Tyler skirted around the cliff and upward to set a belay for the remaining climbers. The approach to the left required an inward-facing shuffle-step, with the climbers using their ice axe in self-belay, heading straight up and to the left on a 65-degree slope of rotten ice and snow.

Tyler expertly disappeared around that corner, and a few minutes later, Jason’s radio crackled to life: the belay was set. Jason’s rope team (me and my buddy Denis) waited on the platform below the ice face as the guides sent the others up, and finally, my turn came.

It was steep—very steep—but still seemed well within my comfort zone, but it nevertheless required focuse. I edged out off the platform and began the climb up, and as I approached the top of the cliff, Tyler said “Crawl on your hands and knees through that next section there.” Weird… until I realized “that next section” was a sketchy snow bridge over another crevasse, and prudence required that each of us distribute our weight over a larger surface area so it would hold as we crossed. Luckily, it did.

The only remaining obstacles (besides more crevasses) between us and the summit were a few steep snow fields, which we crested without incident. We hit the 10,451-foot summit of Mt. Frances at around 12:30pm, and a spectacular vista lay before us. Mt. Frances is situated in a very central spot, with incredible unobstructed views of all the major peaks in the area, including the West Buttress route and summit of Denali, the imposing south ridge. Tyler pointed out spots on that mountain I know about from reading: Windy Corner, 14,000 camp, 17,000 camp, and others.

In every direction were spectacular vistas:The Kahiltna Queen looked glorious; down the glacier from her, the full weight and power of Mt. Hunter’s electrifying, terrifying west ridge glared at us, now in full view (photo taken from a plane); likewise, the ~12,000-foot Kahiltna Dome in Denali's direction; across the valley, Mt. Crosson stands like an ancient pyramid, while her neighbor, 17,400-foot Mt. Foraker looms large, filling our entire field of vision. I find myself mesmerized by this mountain… and it was then that I resolved to climb it in May of next year.

So here we stand, in 0-degree windchill with smiles on our frozen faces, a full vertical half mile higher than the Radio Control Tower summit we crested a few days ago, happily munching whatever we had.

We shot lots of photos--we even got one of Denis and I with Denali's 20,000+ summit looming in the distance. After many more, and just as many laughs, it was too cold to stand around any longer. The other concern was that the snow conditions below us were starting to change with all the sun of the day on it. Time to go.

I roped up on the summit, prepared to head out, got hung up in the rope, and fell down before starting out. And although stumbling on the rope is serious business, I wasn’t in any danger, but I think it nevertheless took Tyler by surprise. “That’s the FIRST and LAST time you ever do that, all right? That’s not something to take lightly.” And he’s right.

On the way up, at every steep section , I was thinking “Yeah, sure we can probably get up this without too much trouble, but how the hell are we gonna get down?” I soon found out.

All day while climbing, the sun had been heating up the hard snow, and we used that to our advantage to heel-plunge our way down even the steepest pitches in complete confidence. The snow conditions were softening, but still excellent.

Coming back to the ice cliff, we faced inward again and downclimbed with axes in low dagger and continued, but it wasn’t until I was back in camp with everyone that I heard Paul on the way down had actually fallen all the way into a crevasse up to his waist, legs dangling, help in place at the lip by the width of his backpack!

Tyler and Jerry hauled him out, and then later, Ben stuck a leg into yet another one up to his thigh. Even Tyler on the descent in a now-blistering furnace of direct and reflected sunlight stuck his boot into a tiny one and took a roll in the snow, so I feel like I got off pretty easily.

Once out of all that, we reached the top of the saddle we’d first ascended this morning, and with both rock and ice to deal with, the guides laid plans for getting down. They decided the best way would be a long and exciting rappel from the steep, rocky slope’s midway point back to the glacier floor. From there, we followed this morning’s trail back into camp, where Jeff (who didn’t go) and Mike (who stayed back with him) had been waiting for us since we left.

We’ve all been relaxing for the remainder of the day, sucking down water to replenish the huge quantities we lost in sweat on the way down—and eating. 8 hours, 50 minutes round trip climbing… not bad! :-)

Later, I looked back up at what we'd just done and realized I could see what I think is the ice cliff we went around and up, high on the mountain. You can see what kind of exposure there is there... crazy and incredible. What a day. Just… what a day.