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Cleric Climbs

Jan 03
0

2011 Attempt on Denali With My Daughter Martha

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One of the ironies of brain injury is that while it can make some things impossible, other activities remain unaffected.  My 2002 auto accident made it so difficult for me to work that I eventually applied for and was granted a disability pension through the national church.  I had tried to continue in my role as priest for a full year, but eventually had to admit it was not good for the parish or me.  I chose to move to Tucson so that I could be outside year round, for it is in nature that I feel capable and at peace.

 

Each summer for the past five years or so my younger daughter Martha and I have travelled the western United States going to National Parks in order to hike and climb.  We do technical roots with ropes and gear, as well as casual hikes that require nothing more than a bottle of water.  Somehow or other we got the notion, while negotiating the bottom reaches of the Grand Teton in Wyoming, that alpine climbing, as opposed to rock climbing, would be more to Martha’s tastes.  So we decided to start at the top, and attempt Denali, aka Mt. McKinley, the highest mountain in North America.

 

Now I’ve got some alpine experience under my belt.  I climbed the Matterhorn at age 12, and Mt. Blanc, the highest mountain in western Europe at age 13.  At 16 I climbed Monte Rosa, the highest mountain in Switzerland.  These were snow trudges that compare to some extent with Denali, but are really small jaunts.  Martha and I amassed gear, and more importantly studied the problem this mountain represents to those who would climb it.

 

The first problem with Denali is that it’s very far north, somewhere around the 65th parallel.  Being a polar peak, by far the highest in the world at that latitude, it has way less atmospheric pressure than mountains even much higher nearer the equator.  The second problem is that it’s near the ocean, and thus has less predictable weather and much more moisture to cause trouble.  Finally, the approach to the summit, which is 15.5 miles long, is mostly along glaciers with deep, hidden crevasses waiting for the unwary.  Martha and I studied the literature, which is voluminous, made our reservations with the Park Service and a flying service, and drove to Alaska at the end of last May.

 

The idea was to climb Mt. Shasta and Mt. Rainier on the way up, to refresh our alpine skills, or build them from nothing, as the case may be.  We made it about 1/3 of the way up Shasta before we were stormed off the mountain, and didn’t even get to start on Rainier for the same reason.  It was a very wet, snowy winter, and both mountains were pretty much unclimbable that early in the season.  So off to Alaska we drove, arriving at the end of the first week in June.

 

Typical Denali expeditions take three weeks from glacier landing to takeoff, but good weather let us advance more quickly.  There are five camps on the way up, and they get more difficult to reach than the previous one.  Martha had an attack of altitude sickness at the second camp, that delayed us but didn’t stop us.  We reached Camp 4, Basin Camp, on day 8, which is quite quick by local standards.  On  the one hand this meant that we had plenty of supplies.  On the other, it meant that we weren’t as acclimated as we might be.  On day 9 I climbed alone to Camp 5 at 17,200 feet and set up a borrowed tent and left supplies.  I returned that day and after another night at Camp 4, climbed with Martha to High Camp where we spent two nights and parts of three days.  We were kept in the tent by snow and cold temperatures, and it wasn’t until day three that the weather was stable and good.  The only problems were that the new snow was unstable, and would require several days to become firm, and low temperatures and high winds were discouraging any summit attempts.  In view of this and our weakened state, we descended on day 12 to Basin Camp, and the next day to Base camp and our awaiting airplane.

 

In retrospect, we realize that Denali doesn’t succumb to quick attempts.  I made the mistake of bringing only dehydrated food, which lacked fat and therefore energy.  By the time we were at High Camp, we were too worn out for the final 3,100 foot push to the top.  Further, I left our warmest clothes at Basin Camp, thinking we had done just fine in our intermediate gear up to that point.  Granted, but the summit push is unlike any other on the mountain, and requires everything to be just right if it is to be completed.  There was a man dead in his tent at 17,200 feet while we were there, who had made the summit and returned in 19 hours, only to die from exhaustion.  Eight people died that season, I believe, making it one of the worst on the mountain.  Three people we met who had climbed Everest said that it was a good warm up for Denali.

 

So we made it back in one piece, and Martha has given it a second try with a different group of climbers, not her father.  Sad to say she didn’t make it this time either, as she just couldn’t stay warm above Basin Camp.  She got to 16,000 feet, and decided that she needed to turn around.  I’m happy to say she got higher with me.  If I weren’t so darned old, I’d go back again.  Her great quote, “The problem was there was nobody who loved me who would carry all my shit for me.”

Jan 03
0

Standard Route – Ship Rock – Personal Observations

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If you’re climbing Ship Rock in Navajoland, there are a number of accounts and route descriptions you can avail yourself to.  Problem is, it’s impossible to describe this mountain and the route in terms that are easy to understand, remember, and visualize; it’s just too big and different.  Probably the best is The Frito Banditos Climb Ship Rock.  The pictures in Desert Towers are indispensible.  Nevertheless, here are my recollections that stress those things that I was not prepared for, and which I wish I knew beforehand.

 

Access:  Lots of ink spilled about the 1970 ban on climbing this mountain.  The closure was due to an accident that seriously injured two climbers, not religious considerations.  It’s true the land belongs to the Navajos, and they are entitled to do what they please with it.  No doubt the pale face has given them the shittiest land they possibly could, never suspecting that climbers would want to go back and enjoy what was deeded away.  I’ve written what I think about acetic religions that proscribe enjoyment of creation elsewhere (see Devil’s Tower Closure Proposed by NPS for Religious Reasons) and I don’t need to kick that dead horse.  We were assured by two Navajo climbers who have themselves broken the prohibition that they would be thrilled to have us give it a try and clean up some of their detritus.  So I’m going to give Indians the right to take money from stupid pale faces in casinos, and I’m not going to rub their noses in my disregarding their ban on climbing Ship Rock.  I’m going to go about my business quietly and hope nobody notices.  I don’t want to see the place deluged with climbers, but those who do feel the call to climb it, I say proceed with due caution and be self-reliant.  Do not call for help, and have back up plans so you can self-rescue in the event of a rope incident or injury.  If you get caught, take your lumps and show respect.

 

Take Redrock Highway 13 west from Route 491 about 6 miles to the dike that runs north to the rock.  There is an open cattle guard just on the east side, and you drive through this on a dirt road that any passenger car can handle.  Stay on the east side until you approach the peak, and take the last opportunity to turn left or west to cross the ridge.  We camped just to the east of the ridge in a depression where we felt we could not be readily seen.  In the morning we drove north toward the mountain, crossed the ridge, and parked behind a berm about 100 feet from the actual end of the road.  The car was invisible except from directly west, and there are not too many people in that direction.  You then hike about 1/2 mile north, rising as you go, so that you are just past below the Crow, which is black basalt.

 

P1:  The start of the climb is found at the opening of the Black Bowl, which is on the NW corner of the peak.  The entrance is to the left of the Crow, and to the Right of Spinnaker Tower, and is identifiable as the confluence of two types of rock.  Spinnaker Tower is welded tufa, and the Crow is black basalt.  Climb up between the two, and when you can go no farther, look to your left and there is a recessed cave with cheater rocks piled up at the mouth.  Rope up, and if you are part French, have your partner put a knee on the rocks to give another couple feet of reach.  Using such a technique the pull onto the face is probably 5.8, and with no aid other than the rocks it’s more like 5.10.  You can get a couple of small cams in at your waist that might hold, and then move up and left to easy ground.  Another small headwall that accepts a cam is just below the belay anchors.  100 feet.

 

P2:  After you bring your partner up P1, you can scramble up the canyon about 50 yards to where you will see a plaque on the right for an early fatality; just what you need for confidence.  At this level, look to your left and go up the staircase of solid rock at perhaps 5.2.  The rock is compact and doesn’t present much in the way of protection, but the ease suggests that it’s not really needed.  Belay anchors are at the top on the right.  100 feet.

 

P3:  Coil your ropes and scramble up the bowl, keeping to the left against the wall.  You will curve up and end up going south to the base of the south wall with two parallel cracks ascending to the Sierra Col featuring lighter rock.  You can rope up at any time, but you’re just scrambling and dislodging stones to injure your follower.  Continue up a chossy ramp to the right, and set up a belay when the rock gets steep.  There’s an immediate corner you turn to start back left, or east, ascending toward the Sierra Col.   The crack accepts larger cams, but is of very poor quality.  The climbing is very easy, but there’s danger of pulling hand and foot holds.  At the top of the crack you will be confronted with a choice: belay here from a fixed pin and perhaps a girth hitch around the rock, or continue across the Colorado Col and up to the Sierra.  Because of communication and rope drag, we stopped and belayed just before the first Col.  75 feet.  This is the belay pictured in the photo above.

 

P4:  The scene here is one of the most appalling specters in climbing.  The Sierra Col is about the size of the back of a horse, with huge drop offs right and left.  On the far wall are two bolts.  The route goes across the Col, to the left, and up to the Colorado Col, about 50 feet distant.  When we were there, there was a descent line rigged from the upper Col to a belay stance just above and around the corner from the lower Col. The move from the two bolts left onto the ramp is very blank, and looks like 5.10 if not worse.  What we did was set up a belay at the fixed pin just before the crossing, have the leader cross, clip the two bolts on the far side with slings, and then use pockets to descend left (past an unused fixed pin) until he could stem and grab holds on the face to the left.  This involved going down about six feet, and the large holds on the far face then allowed an easy and confident way to get back up to the ramp to the upper Col.  Easy climbing with perhaps one piece of gear at the headwall and you’re at the Colorado Col and its belay/rappel anchors.  Perhaps 100 feet total.

 

Ascent Rap 1:  A short scoot down the ramp into the Rappel Gully deposits you at the most famous set of bolts in America.  At this holy spot the expansion bolt was first used to help climbers.  Now there are at least three 1/4 inch bolts mashed down and perhaps four larger diameter bolts with funky, dated hangers and attendant mank.  Put your ropes (two!) through the rings, and decide if you really want to finish the climb.  If you descend and pull this rope, you can’t get off the mountain without completing the climb.  Make sure you have time before darkness falls, and zip down the rope to the large chock stones in the gulley.

 

AR 2:  Work your way down the stones, and on the left wall you will find a single bolt rappel anchor, which will, with another two rope rappel, deposit you at another single bolt anchor.

 

P5:  Clip this anchor, and belay your partner across the face to skier’s right, climber’s left (south.)  There are bolts and pins here and there, and if you follow them, you will ascend to a crappy shelf with a scary reach around to a fixed pin, from which you must be lowered 20 feet to a large ledge where there is a belay anchor.  Rumor has it that by going low you can avoid the scary reach around, but at the expense of having less pro and the prospect of a real swing if you fall.  One account had the party going low, and having to climb a 5.9 crack to get to said ledge, but as we went high, we don’t know.  The traverse was nerve wracking, but no more than 5.8.  Taller climbers will bum out more at the reach around, as it’s a crouching move with a good, but not too solid, handhold.  The pin you lower off of is of dubious quality, but held 200 pounds and some bouncing from us.

 

P6:  Walk to the far end of the ledge, and as you go, look up and admire the famous Double Overhang the first ascensionists aided with ice screws in 1939.  There is a bizarre belay anchor in the cave at the far end, with one bolt in the tufa and one in a cobble stuck in the tufa.  Reach around the far corner to clip a bolt, and do a single 5.8 move to easier climbing, another bolt, and a belay anchor straight up below the small cliff.

 

P7:  Some accounts say unrope and walk, but it was pretty steep going.  We climbed roped, but largely unprotected, up the drainage.  The route map in Desert Towers shows the route going to the right and around some features by the north wall, but we went up the fall line, probably to our peril.  The angle eases, and you can walk to the base of the fin separating the South and Main summits.

 

P8:  There’s a small gulley to your right ascending to the base of the Horn pitch.  You can rope up now, but the moves are easy and if you fall, you just get jammed in the crack.  At the top you set up a belay for the wildest part of the climb.  The route goes up the arête formed by the Ramp up which you’ve climbed and the west face which must descend over 1,000 feet at this point.  The route is marked by bolts and pins, and the moves are stout at the beginning.  All footholds have been knocked off, and so it’s pretty smooth until you can get a left hand over the block and the right in the crack where the protection is.  Move up to the bolt, and then right over very small holds, including two monodoigts!  Scary.  We linked this short pitch with the next, which starts 15 feet past the top of the horn up a ramp to the right.  The crack is marked by three fixed pins.  The moves are rated vintage 5.9, because there’s nothing for the feet and not much for the hands, except a seam between the pins.  It made my French side come out.  Even after you pull yourself up there’s not much to grab on the flat to relieve your suffering, but once the whale beaches, you’re home free.

 

P9:  A short trip up over easy ground to the right brings you to some large blocks, on top of which there’s a ledge going left.  Rope drag prevents linking this with the last pitch, even though it’s short and easy.

 

P10:  The final pitch starts at a belay anchor of ancient tat found looped between two rocks at the far south end of the ledge.  The leader proceeds across the sloping rocks and steps left into a crack leading up to the final scramble.  The rappel anchors can be seen through a gap in the blocks to your right as you go, and the sight of them brings both joy and anxiety.  There’s plenty of room just below the summit block.  The register is under a rock at the western extremis of the summit area, just north of the actual summit.  It was placed there in 1962 to replace the original, which had apparently seen its day.  We were party 501, having missed the 500th by four weeks.  I incorrectly noted it as Third Sunday of Easter season, when it was actually the fourth.  The 500th climb had been on Maundy Thursday.

 

Descent Rap 1:  All descent raps except number 7 are with two 60 meter ropes, minimum.  Look east, and just to the left of the way you came up is a cleft that lets you access the rappel anchors.  There are two bolts high on the east side of the cleft in which you are standing.  When you descend, make SURE you see the next set of anchors off to your right, skier’s left, west, where the sun’s setting etc., before you drop over the sharp roof directly below you which WILL saw your ropes in half if you have to pendulum right to get to the anchors.  One of the reasons we were invited by those Navajo climbers to climb the peak was to retrieve two grievously damaged ropes they had abandoned at this point doing just that.  How they got down I do not know.  When you see the prow below you, make sure you move right to land in the proper spot.

 

DR 2:  Drop straight down and land on a large, sloping ramp.  All these belays are hanging, and rock pours off the face at the slightest touch.  Partners will hate each other by the time they get down.

 

DR3:  Make sure your ropes track over the edge of the ramp to your right, not down through the crack separating the ramp from the face.

 

DR4:  One more hanging rappel stance and you’re on the “ground” at the top of Long’s Couloir.  Turn around and gape at the north side of the Sierra Col.

 

DR5:  Scramble down the hill until you come to steep ground.  At the left edge of the talus there is a rappel anchor on a block of rock facing north.

 

DR6:  Anchors on the right hand wall are all you can reach with a double rope rappel, but there’s a lot of resistance when you go to pull the ropes.  Another set of anchors beckons from about 50 away, and are probably accessible without protection, though we didn’t use them.

 

DR7:  As the canyon narrows, a double bolt anchor with a single sling is found on the north side of the slot.  This can probably be done with a single rope.

 

DR8:  The last rap is done from anchors hidden from view until you’re about to fall into the void.  A double rope anchor allows you to make it all the way to the precious flat earth at the base.  Your packs and comfortable shoes await you back to skier’s right, about 100 yards away.  Took us 5.5 hours up, including wasting 45 minutes trying the center of the bowl on P2, and 2 hours coming down.  No problems with gendarmes or restless natives.  Had a couple beers to prepare ourselves for the long drive home, and thanked the Lord who calmed the very cold, consistent wind we woke up to.  “What kind of man is this?  Even the winds and waves obey him!”  Matthew 8:27

 

Jan 03
0

Devil’s Tower Closure Proposed by NPS on Religious Grounds

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It’s commonly assumed that Christian culture and individual Christians do not have a theological or philosophical interest in the outdoors and mountains in particular. This couldn’t be farther from the truth. There is probably no other religion, for lack of a better term, that has such an appreciation for exploration and scaling heights. Let me explain.

Christianity, as described in the Old and New Testaments, is portrayed as a spiritual development that is closely linked to the created, natural order. In the beginning of creation, after each “day” or step, it is said that what has been created is “good.” Rather than fearing a natural world that is powerful and confusing, the Jew and then the Christian are encouraged that the whole cosmos has been created by a benevolent Creator who wants us to learn, explore, understand and master the world around us.  This has led to most of history’s developments in natural science, philosophy, medicine and political reform. We view ourselves as instruments of our God, who do His will in order to bring about greater order and beauty.  I’m reminded of a joke about a New England farmer.  He’s just worked very hard to clear a field of stones, when his parson comes by, and trying to be “spiritual,” says, “Nice field you and the Lord have.” To which the farmer replies, “Yeh, and you should have seen it when just the Lord had it!”

In keeping with this notion that we are to master and enjoy our surroundings, Christians have a long tradition of mountain climbing. Indeed, Francis Schaeffer points out that the first ascent of a mountain for the purpose of personal edification was undertaken by the writer Petrarch (1304-74). This man found in the ascent an enjoyment of nature as God made it good and proper. In short, it was a religious experience in that he was able to see beyond the creation to the Creator. An Anglican priest was in the party that first climbed the Matterhorn.  George Mallory, who may be the first man to ascend Mt. Everest, was the son of an Anglican clergyman.  Hudson Stuck, the first to climb Denali (Mt. McKinley) was an Episcopal priest and Archdeacon of the Yukon.  Writes Stuck, “Rather there was the feeling that a privileged communion with the high places of the earth had been granted; that not only had we been permitted to lift up our eager eyes to these summits, secret and solitary since the world began, but to enter boldly upon them, to take place, as it were, domestically in their hitherto sealed chambers, to inhabit them, and to cast our eyes down from them, seeing all things as they spread out from the windows of heaven itself.” Note well what these men share.  They all shared the idea that these places are sacred not because they are reserved for some or none, but because they are accessible to all who feel the call to experience them. It is not in their reservation that they are religious, but in their accessibility. In experiencing them, true potential is realized.  The words mount, mountain, mountains, mountainside, mountaintop and mountaintops are found 468 times in the Bible.

In contrast to this view, we have our ascetic religions: Buddhism, Hinduism, Mohammedism, and most animistic beliefs. Although Buddhism is technically not theistic, that is, doesn’t posit the existence of a god, these religions suggest that there are gods or a god who are not well-disposed toward the human experience, and who need to be mollified through self-denial and other ascetic observances. Buddhists in the area of Mt. Kailas practice immuration, where the devote allows himself to be walled into a cave with only a small passageway left into which food, and presumably from which human waste, can be passed. The younger the person who does this, the more positive karma is believed to be attained. Hindu women are expected to throw themselves on the pyre burning the bodies of their deceased husbands, and devotes are lauded when they throw themselves under the wheels of the juggernaut that crushes the life out of them. Mohammedans are told they must not drink alcohol, smoke tobacco, or eat pigs, as this is unclean, but classify women as dogs if they walk between a praying man and Mecca. Because of the lack of self control on the part of Mohammedan men, the women are forced to wear unsuitable and restrictive clothing and to undergo, in many cases, clitoral “circumcision” so as to not become wanton. The Sioux, aboriginal people originally from the Great Lakes region of the central United States who recently migrated to the Great Plains with the domestication of the horse, have a spiritual ritual in which a leader allows himself to be cut along the arms to inflict the most possible pain in order to receive prophetic knowledge.  What all these religions share is a dim view of god.  It has been said, “The Mohammedans have ninety-nine names for God, but among them all they have not ‘our Father.'” If god himself is opposed to our enjoyment of life, then how can we value creation? People who fly airplanes into buildings, or demand that people live in closed caves their whole lives, or crawl 55 miles on their knees, are merely transferring the disdain they feel from their deity to that which he has made. The Apostle Paul writes, “‘Do not handle! Do not taste! Do not touch!’ These are all destined to perish with use, because they are based on human commands and teachings. Such regulations indeed have an appearance of wisdom, with their self-imposed worship, their false humility and their harsh treatment of the body, but they lack any value in restraining sensual indulgence.”

It’s a dangerous thing these days, though common, to forget the profound differences in religious belief, and to allow minority groups to lay claim to places or practices in the name of religion. It seems as though one man’s religion trumps another man’s freedom, simply on the basis of the sincerity and fervency of the believer. In the past, there was not much interaction between peoples of differing religious views, so conflicts were not so prevalent. Today, with better travel and communication, these conflicts are becoming more common and in many ways more serious.  When Winston Churchill was returning to England after attending the Yalta conference during WWII, he invited Ibn Saud to lunch as he passed through Alexandria.  Winston writes, “A number of social problems arose. I had been told that neither smoking nor alcoholic beverages were allowed in the Royal Presence.  As I was the host at luncheon I raised the matter at once, and said to the interpreter that if it was the religion of His Majesty to deprive himself of smoking and alcohol I must point out that my rule of life prescribed as an absolutely sacred rite smoking cigars and also the drinking of alcohol before, after and if need be during all meals and the intervals between them. The King graciously accepted the position.” I tell this story to illustrate the fact that capricious or culturally-defined religious beliefs are potentially mutually exclusive and contradictory.

In view of this reality, it behooves us to see how this matter was handled by our founding fathers in terms of the Constitution. The First Amendment to the Constitution says two things about religious observance.  First of all, it says that the government cannot embark on the “establishment” of a religion. Secondly, it says that the government shall not interfere in the free observance of religion.  These things must be taken together in order to understand the intent of our Constitution. The first thing we should note is that the term “establishment” is not a general term, but a technical term, not used in today’s English. The Church of England was said to be the “established” church, in that it was formally sanctioned by and incorporated into the government of the land. This is the sense in which the word is used in the Constitution. The clause does not say that there is a “separation of Church and state,” as many erroneously believe, nor does it say that the U.S. Government can have nothing to do with religion. It simply means that unlike England, the U.S. will not have a church as part of the government. Secondly, the free exercise clause suggests that the government will indeed get involved in religious matters to the extent that religious observance of its citizens is being impaired.

Thus, the United States is a liberal, capitalist republic. It is liberal in that the government is limited to regulating behavior, not belief. As long as everybody in the U.S. was nominally Christian, this was easy to enforce. I’m sure it was the farthest thing from the founders’ minds that one day people would come to the country and claim that their religious law trumped U.S. Civil Code, yet this is now happening.  As the world becomes more secular in many ways, people are finding themselves at a loss to explain their significance and purpose for living. One of the more popular responses to this existential angst is to look to the past to find what makes us unique. This response is particularly popular in peoples and situations where the current prospects for peace and happiness are distant. What we have now, even in the U.S., is people laying claim to places and practices based on religious interpretations that are mutually exclusive. The dispute over the proper use of places “sacred” to, or of “cultural relevance” to aboriginal Americans is an excellent example of this kind of conflict.

Claims to sacred places are as numerous as the people who make them. In Arizona, we’re told that Baboquivari Peak is the navel of the universe, and is the focus for many creation myths for the local aboriginal peoples. The Peak lies on land owned by the Tohono O’odham people, and they are gracious in letting others hike and climb the peak. All they ask is that care be taken to preserve the environment, and that nothing be done to anger I’itoi. This is perfectly reasonable, and as a result, there are no access issues with the peak. This is remarkable in that aboriginal claims often state that access to sacred sites be limited to either true believers (the Black Box in Mecca, the LDS Temple in Salt Lake City) or nobody at all (Devil’s Tower.)  On the island of Hawaii some aboriginal peoples believe a beetle living on the high mountain tops is sacred, and thus telescopes and other scientific apparati are not welcome there. If I remember correctly, the claimants demand that certain precautions be taken by the University of Hawaii which maintains the site, thus requiring the use of public funds to support their particular religious belief.

So what are we to do when religious views conflict?  Is there some sense in which people are entitled to regulation by fiat, simply because “we were here first.”  What about the right of conquest by the sword, which states unambiguously, that “we were here last.” Is there ever going to be some objective criterion that allows us to evaluate religious claims on the basis of truth or validity, and not historical guilt? A good starting point in resolving the dilemma caused by competing religious views is to realize that just because something is religious, doesn’t mean it’s fair, or right or worthwhile.  There are many religions, and they agree on very little. So the fervency of belief, the appearance of religiosity, longevity and the denial of the flesh are not sufficient grounds for saying that a religion is valid. At some point those in authority are going to have to vet them and say, here is a religion that produces behavior that is consistent with our ideals of a liberal, democratic republic.  Beliefs are beyond our scope, but behavior is not. Does the recognition of these beliefs further social harmony and mutual accommodation, or does it lend itself to further compartmentalization, separation and alienation to the detriment of the larger body?

Although in our ignorance of the true content of world religions we want to give them equal weight, this cannot be done. At some point those in authority are going to have to decide that restrictive, acetic religions cannot enjoy the same civil rights as those that are more benevolent and inclusive. To grant a restrictive religion preference over one that is experiential is to go against both the establishment clause and the free exercise clause of the 1st Amendment, as it pits government power behind the peculiar restrictions of the one, at the expense of the free exercise rights of the other. It sets the Federal Government in the role of establishing a religion, for it uses its enforcement powers to impose religious observance upon all, including the unbelieving and unwilling. For example, to close the Devil’s Tower to rock climbing Christians like me is to deny me the ability to worship my Creator who made this wonderful phenomenon. By touching it, by climbing it, by being scared on it, I connect with the One who made it, gravity, and my own body in a way that cannot be duplicated by any other activity.  Now do I need to do that every day of the year? No. Closures for endangered animals species are allowable if they can be PROVEN to be necessary and effective. If a temporary closure for other groups who lay claim to a place helps them worship in their own way, then fine; we should wait our turn. But severe access limitations so that others can worship from afar is indefensible philosophically, theologically, and most importantly, legally.

I therefore submit these facts to you for your reflection, in full expectation that they will be incorporated in the Long Range Interpretive Plan for the Devil’s Tower. These are not opinions, these are not feelings, these are not religious tenets.  These are facts of history and logic that cannot be contravened without doing gross injustice to the rules of epistemology and common sense.  I look forward to an answer to my specific contributions, as well as news about further developments as you fulfill your responsibilities as a public servant in this great country of ours.  What makes this nation great is that first and foremost, we are a land of law.

Jan 03
0

Lacking Sponsorship, Bring a Priest – By Ed Warren

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My Denali Speed Ascent

This speed ascent was not a sponsored affair.  As a team of nine professional climbers skied past us with their prototype Dynafit skis, coordinated clothing, and team patches, that fact was made abundantly clear.  In contrast was Robert, my 58-year-old climbing partner and pit crew.  As he stood catching his breath on ‘Ski Hill’ at 9,000 feet on North America’s tallest mountain, he looked the part of circus clown more than badass mountaineer.  He had unzipped his Gore-Tex pants to cool off and they billowed in the slight breeze.  His floppy sunhat, yellow boots, white gloves, and goofy glacier goggles rounded out the endearing outfit.  Looking at him, I was skeptical we would make it to 11,000 feet that day, much less the summit.  

It was Day 2 on the mountain and we were schlepping ridiculously heavy sleds and packs up to ‘11 Camp’ on our first, acclimatization ascent of Denali.  We were on Denali so that I could attempt to break the ascent and round trip speed records, which were set by Chad Kellogg in 2003.  That year, he climbed from the airstrip to the summit in 14 hours and 22 minutes and completed the round-trip effort in 23 hours in 55 minutes.  But before I could challenge this record, our plan was to climb the mountain first – expedition style.  This would allow me to fully acclimatize, a process in which your red blood cells slowly take on more oxygen as the air gets thinner up high.  If I were to push directly from the airstrip at 7200ft to the summit at 20320ft without acclimatizing, I would risk altitude sickness and certainly would not be able move at a record-setting pace.  So there we were, hauling nearly a month’s worth of gear and food up Denali’s lower flanks to climb the mountain once together before I would attempt to do it all over again solo and for speed.  

I met Robert in 2011 in Talkeetna.  Actually, I met his lovely daughter, Martha, first.  I had just gotten off Denali, and after chatting her up, discovered she and her father were flying onto the mountain the next day to attempt an ascent.  Hours later the three of us were having Dinner at the Denali Brewing Company and midway into our first pitcher of Twister Creek IPA, I realized Robert was not a normal person.  He was a former Episcopal priest who had suffered traumatic brain injury in a car wreck that forced his retirement, and now he drank like a fish and swore like a sailor.  He also made clear his intentions to convert me to Christianity and have me marry his daughter.  He was a riot, so I ordered another pitcher of IPA.  

Although neither the theological conversion nor romance ever came to fruition, Robert and I became good friends over the next couple of years.  Because he and Martha did not make it to the summit in 2011, I thought he might be interested in joining me on this trip.  My proposal was that I would help him summit, if he would then help me with logistics for my speed ascent.  He accepted.

He quickly became excited about the record attempt and had more confidence in my ability to break it than I did.  Soon we were outlining our strategy.  I would use the latest equipment designed for the emerging sport of ski mountaineering racing or ‘SkiMo’.  Although well established in Europe, SkiMo is relatively new to the U.S. and, as far as I could tell, few people had tried to use this ultra lightweight gear to lower the speed record.  When Kellogg set the current record, he had only used skis on the lower glacier, and then switched to running shoes and crampons.  When Vern Tejas, who holds the speed record for summiting all the Seven Summits (134 days), attempted the Denali speed record in 2009, he used Nike javelin spikes and overboots.  In contrast, my plan was to stay in my ski gear the entire time.  I would ski up to 11,000 feet then put the skis on my back and crampons on my ski boots.  Modern Alpine Touring ski boots are lightweight and easier to walk in than older models, so I hoped they would not slow me down too much on the upper mountain.  Then, after summiting, I would put my skis back on and ski as much of the mountain as I could.  The hope was that skiing would dramatically cut down on my round-trip time.  

Lastly, I insisted on doing the climb unsupported.  Whereas Chad Kellogg had left caches of gear for himself along the route, I wanted to start and finish with all my gear on my back.  I also would not accept any food or drink from other climbers along the route.  As an alpine climber, maximum self-sufficiency is always the goal.  For safety reasons, however, Robert would accompany me, roped-up, on the lower glacier to mitigate the risk of crevasse fall.  He would then hang out at Camp 1 until I returned, at which point we would rope back up and ski out together to the airstrip.  He would not carry any of my personal gear or give me food or drink.

Before the speed ascent was even an option, however, we had to acclimatize by doing our expedition-style ascent.  So Robert and I, pulling our gravity-happy sleds, finally pulled into ‘11 Camp’ and set up for the night.  Having only been on the mountain two days, we were surprised by how good we were feeling and decided to make a carry to ’14 Camp’ at 14,200ft the next day.  Our quick pace continued and on Day 6 we found ourselves wedging ourselves into my little Nemo Tenshi tent at 17,200 feet, preparing for a summit push the next day.  According to the National Park Service it is most common for groups to take between 15 and 18 days to summit.  That was the timeline I was expecting for our first summit bid, but the weather had been so unusually sunny that we decided to keep pushing until our bodies told us otherwise, and so far they had not.  

On Tuesday, May 28th, Day 7, we left ’17 Camp’ and pushed to the summit in about five hours.  We were one of the fastest groups summiting that day despite our limited acclimatization, which was a real testament to Robert’s toughness and fitness.  Then, after Robert performed a communion on the summit, we decided to split up so I could investigate the ‘Orient Express’ couloir as a possible descent option for my speed climb.  Robert would descend back to ’17 Camp’ with a young Frenchman we had met, while I would head down the Orient.  

Having skied the West Buttress and Messner’s in 2011, I had a good feel for potential descent options, but was not confident in either because of the icy conditions and circuitous route-finding at the base of Messner’s.  Conditions on the mountain were unusually icy and with my super-light-but not-so-powerful Dynafit PDG skis, I was hoping to find the most moderate and straightforward descent.  So, after saying goodbye to Robert on the summit, I skied off the summit and along the narrow summit ridge.   I skied across the Football Field, a large plateau just below the summit, and over to the top of what I hoped was the Orient couloir.  After only a few turns down the upper couloir, I did not feel comfortable, especially with my heavy summit pack.  I transitioned to crampons and down-climbed nearly 3000 feet before putting my skis back on and skiing to ’14 Camp’.  The down-climbing really worked my legs, and when I woke up the next morning I was shocked by how sore I was, which ruled out the Orient as my descent route.  Robert descended from ‘17 Camp’ that day, Wednesday, meeting me at ’14 Camp’, and we decided to head all the way back to the airstrip that evening once the glacier started to cool off.

Descending from ’14 Camp’ back to the airstrip with heavy sleds, especially ones that still contain about 80lbs of food each, is not fun.  The sleds pull sideways on cross-slopes and zip ahead of you on steeps, trying to rip you off your feet.  Skiing while doing this shortens the duration of misery, but adds even more control issues.  The descent lived up to expectations, offering an added dose of unpleasantness when Robert discovered his decades of alpine skiing did not translate well to ski mountaineering in Koflach boots, especially when mounted on a pair of thrift shop skis.  Although he claims to be the champion of some French ski series in 1975, he could barely stay upright on his own, much less control a sled.  This meant I got the honor of holding back both sleds and Robert when he got out of control.  This effort strained my already weary legs and when we limped into basecamp at 3AM, I was convinced I would not be ready to attempt a speed ascent anytime soon.  

After only a couple of hours of sleep, interrupted by airplanes landing and people drunkenly cheering, I was ready to throw in the towel on the whole endeavor.  I had concerns about the safety of going back out on the lower glacier with Robert and his crappy equipment, my legs were sore to the touch, a low pressure weather front was moving in soon, and the prospect of beer and showers was overpowering.  As I lay in my sleeping bag massaging my tender thighs and listening to the roar of planes shuttling people back to society, I even started planning how I could tell the story of my aborted climb.  With all the factors against us, people would understand.  I could save face, right?  I was moments away from suggesting we fly back, when Robert spoke up.  He apologized for bringing shitty gear onto the mountain, but reminded me why we were here.  “Doing this speed ascent is going to mean a lot to you,” he said.  “This why we came here.  We need to give it a shot.”

He was right.  In the frustrations of the moment I had lost perspective.  And although I did not fully realize it at the time, setting the speed record would boost my confidence and help me move past my injuries.  18 months ago I had been ice climbing when I was hit by an avalanche in Wyoming.  I shattered my left ankle, sprained my right, and tore a big chunk out of my right quad.  My partner and I self-rescued, and I crawled most of the 2 miles back to the road.  Since then my recovery had been frustrating.  A second surgery and a chronically weak ankle joint kept me from my most ambitious alpine plans.  In fact, I had not planned on a Denali speed ascent at all – I had planned on some alpine rock and ice climbing on the Ruth Glacier.  But when my ankle had consistently failed to hold up on long ice and rock routes around Colorado the previous winter, I finally called off my Ruth plans.  Out of my limitations, I ultimately found my strengths.  I knew my ankle did pretty well in a ski boot and I also knew I was consistently strong at altitude, so I decided to use my summer off to go for a speed ascent of Denali.

These thoughts focused me and left me with a resolve to see my plans through.  I had been rationalizing my own failure and could see that clearly now.  But Robert’s wise comments and a positive outlook from the ranger on lower glacier conditions, gave me the push I needed to recommit.  I was not going to search for an ‘out’.  I was going to fully throw myself into this and let the results speak for themselves – success or failure.  

With my legs still aching, though, we decided to push back the speed ascent until Saturday morning to get an extra 24 hours of rest.  The weather forecast for Saturday was mixed as a low-pressure system was moving in, but we hoped that the good weather would last long enough for me to squeeze in my second ascent.  Robert spent all day Thursday melting snow for water and organizing gear as I lay prostrate on my sleeping bag, hydrating, eating, and hoping to recover as fast as possible for Saturday.  It killed me to skip a good weather day on Friday as was predicted but attempting to set a record with tired legs seemed pointless.

Robert fell asleep at 9PM and I lay in bed mulling over logistics and decisions that still needed to be made.  As I waited for sleep to come, a question came into my head and stuck there: Are my legs really so tired that I am willing to miss my ideal weather window for a less reliable one?  I knew the answer.  No.  I did not want the weather turning me back – not now that I had recommitted.  If I was going to do this, I wanted my legs or my lungs to hold me back – not the weather.  But should I wake up Robert and tell him that we needed to leave in 6 hours?  I had not even started packing my speed ascent pack.  We only got back to base camp 18 hours ago! The thought of getting ready and trying to squeeze in a few hours of sleep when I was already so tired was daunting, but having just recommitted to this climb, I knew now was not the time for half measures.  Robert stirred in his sleep.  “Robert,” I said, “I think we should go in the morning.”  He paused.  “Ok.  Wake me.”  And that was it.   This was happening. Now.

I got out of my sleeping bag and began sorting through my gear, packing, and making final adjustments.  I still had a lot to do since every ounce mattered for a 13,000 foot elevation gain.  By midnight, everything was ready and I finally crawled into my sleeping bag and, with the peace that comes with confidence in decisions made, fell asleep.

We woke up at 2:30AM.  Robert set about heating up water, while I arranged the last of my things.  The weather was good, my legs felt OK, and the summit, viewable from our tent, beckoned. All the logistics and complications had been cleared away and now it was just my legs, my lungs, and the mountain.  It felt right.

We were almost ready by 4:15AM.  We got a witness, Tyler Jones, a guide from another climbing party, to sign an impromptu affidavit confirming our start time: 4:30AM.   We roped up, put on our skis, and Robert counted down the seconds.  We set off.

Robert skied hard but because of the difference in our gear and experience with skinning, the pace was moderate for me.  It worked out perfectly, though, as it kept me from going out too fast and provided a nice warm up.  We took the most direct route to Camp 1, going through the main thrust of the glacier, which was more broken up with crevasses, but in the early hours felt solid underfoot.  

At 6:15AM we arrived at Camp 1.  This was where we would part ways.  Above Camp 1 there is still crevasse danger but it is much less than the lower glacier, which becomes a hot, soupy mess of sagging snow bridges due the lower elevations and higher temperatures.  We un-roped and said our goodbyes.  In case anything happened to me, I made sure Robert knew how happy I was to be doing exactly what I was at that moment.  He said he would be glad to officiate my funeral.

I chuckled and began skinning up Ski Hill, an undulating rise that does not quit for nearly 2000 vertical feet.  However, with my light skis, flexible boots, and slick skins, I made fast, steady progress and felt great.  With the lack of wind, cloudless predawn skies, and the bulk of Denali looming to the east, I was imbued with that rare sense of confidence that success is in reach.  It was a feeling of power and trust in my abilities.  I no longer felt like an illegitimate amateur, recklessly swinging for the fences.  I felt as though everything had been building to this moment and it was now finally mine for the taking.  I was going to take it.  

There were not many climbers on the route, but the few that I did pass looked at me quizzically.  A solo climber with a small pack, no sled, and a quick, determined pace is an odd sight on such a massive mountain, but no one asked what I was doing.  That was fine as I was focused and eager to make good time.  

By 8:30AM, and only four hours in, I arrived at ‘11 Camp’, having gained 4,000 vertical feet and covered nearly two thirds of the total mileage of the ascent.  I could feel the first signs of strain, but otherwise felt energized and optimistic.  At ‘11 Camp’, I saw the National Park Ranger, Dave, who had checked us in at the Ranger station in Talkeetna only 10 days ago.  We chatted for a bit and I explained what I was doing.  I had not told him about it when we checked in because of how uncertain I had been that I would even get around to the speed ascent.  It felt good to be there, under those circumstances, chatting with him, doing now what I did not have the gumption to even talk about before.  

I refueled with a Clif SHOT Gel and mini Snickers, then put my skis on my pack and aluminum crampons on my ski boots, said goodbye, and set off again.  I started passing more teams, as it was later in the day and more climbers were on the route.  I made good progress up Motorcycle and Squirrel Hill, and, at 9:29AM, was hit with sunlight for the first time as I neared Windy Corner.  Being out of the sun on the lower glacier had been a nice relief from the heat but the golden rays on my face were quite welcome.  At that point, the scale of what I was doing and the effort it was going to require began to truly set in.  I had just climbed 6,000 feet of elevation and had another 7,000 to go.  Surprisingly, my legs felt OK, but my energy was beginning to flag.  Could I really do this at record pace if I my body was already beginning to resist?  I had summited Denali from ‘14 Camp’ before and remembered that as a hard day out.  Could I do that on top of what I had already done plus the added descent?  I hoped so.

I radioed to Robert once fully around Windy Corner.  Each of us had a radio and although nearly 6000 feet above him, there was uninterrupted line-of-sight.  He answered immediately.  I told him my location and condition and said I would try to check in again when I could.  

I pushed on to ’14 Camp’ and strode in at 10:30AM.  I received a warm welcome and looks of surprise from some climbers we knew when they found out I had left the airstrip only 6 hours ago.  They offered me hot drinks and food, but I reluctantly declined in accordance with my plan to be unsupported.  I left my skins at there as I would not need them higher on the mountain and set off towards the fixed lines with shouts of encouragement as I left.

Since my plan was to be as unsupported as possible, I resolved not to use any of the ‘fixed lines’ or protection anywhere on the mountain.  Fixed lines are climbing ropes installed mostly by the National Park Service to aid climbers on the steeper and more dangerous sections of the West Buttress route.  By avoiding them, not only would I be more independent, but I could also quickly pass groups that might be moving slowly.  However, to do this safely, it meant I was bringing the added weight of an ice tool, my Petzl Aztarex.

The push from ’14 Camp’ to the top of the fixed lines was a mental low point.  You gain about 2,000 feet over a short distance of icy snow climbing.  On a normal day, it is relatively interesting snow climbing and a satisfying effort, but for me it was a steep slog that was still a long way from the summit.  And when I crested the ridge at over 16,000 feet, I had a disconcerting view to the north.  Broad clouds with dark underbellies appeared to be lumbering in my direction.  Was this tomorrow’s low-pressure system arriving early?  The weather was not overly menacing but was significant enough to attract the attention of a guy whose entire bivy gear was a kitchen garbage bag and a small pad.  However, the clouds were still a ways off, so I continued on, my pace reinvigorated by an external motivator.

The ridge from the top of the fixed lines to 17k Camp is relatively narrow and frequently crowded and it was no exception that day.  Passing on narrow ridges where other groups are roped-up can be controversial, as you do not want to become entangled in their ropes or cause additional complications.  But with my ice tool, I was mostly able to stay out of their way and when I did have to step by them, they were gracious to let me do so.

The ridge was mostly easy going compared to the steep fixed lines, but my focus had become preoccupied by the long arms of this weather that had moved noticeably closer.  With no one else to talk to, my mind began to play out the worst possible scenarios.  What if I was hit by whiteout high on the mountain? What should be my decision-making point for turning around?  Should I assume the weather is insignificant and press on no matter what?  Denali lore is replete with stories of climbers stranded high on the mountain in whiteouts, often on the featureless Football Field just below the summit.  It ultimately came down to only two options: go home or go faster.  There was no way I was going to throw in the towel with only the suspicious of bad weather, so I went faster.

When I crested the rise before ‘17 Camp’, I was moving well and jogged down the hill into camp at 1:20PM, less than 9 hours after leaving the airstrip.   As I walked among the tents, I saw my friends Steve and Zach who we had hung out with at ‘11 Camp’ on our first ascent.  Although I was tired and happy to rest with friends for a moment, I was optimistic about my strength level.  My previous concern about burning out was subsiding as I felt I now had enough in the tank to get to the top at record pace – but only if the weather could hold.  The clouds were broadening and forming a more formidable front to the north and, despite confidence in myself, fear was growing that this opportunity might vanish before I could seize it.  To make it, I was going to have to push far faster than record pace – I was going to have to beat the weather.

I said goodbye and set off towards the Autobahn at 1:40PM.  As I pushed upwards I could feel the effects of the altitude but kept pressing, feeling guilty about any pause or abatement in my pace.  I reached Denali pass quickly not having to pass any groups because all summit parties had departed long ago.  I sat down on the exposed rocks, wanting to eat and drink but not feeling like doing much of either – a side effect of the hard cardio output and the higher elevation.  It was now obvious that these clouds were eventually going to collide with the peak and although nervous, my resolve was only deepening to push ahead of them.

I turned the corner around Denali pass and was startled to see a group moving slowly upwards only a stone’s throw away.  How could I have caught a summit party already?  Having left the airstrip that morning and climbed 11,000 vertical feet I was not expecting to catch summit parties so soon.  There presence both encouraged and concerned me that others were going to be on the mountain so late in the day.

The fatigue had become all-encompassing but with the dread of whiteout egging me on, I ignored my heaving lungs and frenetically pumping heart and told my legs to keep moving.  Not to stop.

I crested the hill overlooking the Football Field and knew I was going to make it.  The clouds were now touching the mountain but seemed to have stalled, leaving me with beautiful summit conditions – if I could just get there.  

I hustled across the wide plateau, deciding I would drop my summit pack and skis at the base of Pig Hill, the steep final push to the summit ridge.  I had wanted to ski directly off the top but wanted to move as fast as possible as there was no guarantee the clouds would stay at bay, and having no pack would be the fastest way to go.  There were also countless climbers slogging up the face and along the narrow summit ridge, which would make a delicate ski descent even more complicated.

I dropped my pack and pushed upwards.  I could tell I was going into oxygen debt, but was too bullheaded about my pace to heed the over-expenditure.  When I crested the summit ridge, I radioed Robert, “I’m on the summit ridge Robert!” He had been monitoring the radio closely and quickly replied, “Unbelievable! You are on time.  That is great.”  I told him about the cloud cover but that I should be OK then set off along the ridge, hustling past slow moving parties as unobtrusively as I could.  

At 4:59PM, 12 hours and 29 minutes after departing the airstrip, a reached the summit.  I was elated.  I could not believe I had done it.  The fulfillment of such a lofty goal was disorienting and overwhelming and I found myself chuckling and murmuring congratulations to myself.  After a brief rest and getting a witness to testify to my location and time on my helmet cam, I began the descent.

Having dropped my pack on the football field, I did not have my skis or warm clothing and the chill was starting to take effect as I was only wearing a wool shirt and 13 ounce shell jacket.  As my cardio output and rate of breathing unconsciously slowed, I found myself in desperate need of oxygen.  My balance was deteriorating, my vision was getting soft, I continued to get colder, and I felt like there was a crushing weight on my diaphragm.  I knew the only solution was to get to my skis as fast as possible and drop elevation – quickly.

I finally got back to my pack and hustled across the football field.  I bent down to step into my Dynafit bindings, but struggled against the hypoxia.  Finally they were on and I slid forward picking up speed instantly.  I knew I had to lose significant elevation to feel better, so I chattered along as fast as I could without losing control.  I reached Denali pass and looked down across the Autobahn to ’17 Camp’.  This was the last major decision to be made.  Should I down-climb this steep and notorious traverse rather than ski it?  It would probably be the safer option, but getting down quickly had become a top priority.  I decided to ski.  I pushed off and side-slipped the 1000 foot drop, too loopy to trust myself with many real turns, and, when the grade began to subside, I pointed my skis straight and zipped forward along the boot-packed trail moving too fast to do anything but stay upright and rode the breakneck momentum all the way back into 17k Camp.  Just shy of 6:30PM, I stumbled into camp and dropped down at the NPS ranger tent.

Realizing how wooly my head had been during the summit push, I decided to take an extended break and chatted with Rangers Glen, Jacob, and Ali for over 30 minutes.  Before I set off again, I wanted to make sure I rehydrated, ate, and got my wits about me.  As I finally got up to leave, Glen asked, “Uh…do you want to put on your crampons?”

“Oh, wow…” I said, realizing I was about to set off crampon-less.  After strapping my Black Diamond Neves back on, I finally headed out of camp and was pleasantly surprised by how well my legs responded.  They seemed to have missed the hypoxic memo, and as they churned reliably underneath me, the rest of my body seemed to perk up.

I jogged along the narrow ridgeline with my ice tool ready should I trip.  As I got lower on the ridge, I saw my friends from  ’14 Camp’ as they moved up to ’17 Camp’.  They congratulated me warmly, but encouraged me to keep moving quickly to set the round-trip record.  Their encouragement made me realize I had stopped pushing so aggressively– I was just cruising and having fun.  I had pushed so hard on the way up, I just wanted to relax now.  I kept moving, because I knew I was supposed to, but my obsession with pace had vanished entirely.  

I down-climbed around the fixed lines and into a whiteout.  Fortunately, there was no wind and only light snow.  At the base of the fixed lines, I put my skis back on my feet for the last time.  It was a wild feeling as I began looping turns together in the fresh snow and with my little pack. At ‘14 Camp’, I picked up my skins and set off again.  It was genuinely bizarre.  Denali is typified by climbers with massive backpacks and reluctant, ornery sleds.  It is slow, methodical work to make any progress up or down, but here I was, leaving camp only two minutes after arriving and zipping off as if I was out for a pleasant day of backcountry skiing at Cameron Pass, Colorado.

The whiteout conditions only added to the disorientation.  My brain seemed unable to comprehend what I had done and was still doing.  I felt as if I had forgotten something or was in the wrong place.  How could I have started at the airstrip, summited Denali, and now be skiing pleasantly around Windy Corner all in one day?  

The disorientation cleared with clouds.  As I skied down Squirrel Hill I left the whiteout behind and entered a golden vista of late evening rays lighting up the snowy peaks around the lower Kahiltna.  I did not bother to suppress a broad grin as I dropped down Motorcycle Hill, zipped by ’11 Camp’, and rounded the bend towards Ski Hill.  As I skied, I radioed Robert, telling him I was almost to Camp 1.  

My little skis struggled to cut decisively through the heavy wet snow and nerve pain in my feet made me stop frequently, but neither bothered me at this point.  Soon I was plummeting down Ski Hill and zipping across the flat section below.  Robert stood waiting with the rope pre-coiled and ready for me to clip into, but I had no desire to move off so quickly.  I wanted to chat and celebrate for a moment with my friend.  We hugged and he said, “Do you realize you are at 16 hours?”  I smiled and nodded.

Soon we were off and without a pack or sled Robert was able to ski much faster and surely.  We cruised along, maintaining speed on the slight downhill slope but on high alert for any hidden crevasse danger.  It was nearly 9PM and because I had moved much faster than expected, we found ourselves on the Kahiltna at nearly the worst time of day.  But shy of hanging out for a few hours to let the glacier cool down, there was nothing to do but ski fast and hope the sagging snow bridges held.

At one point we came along a particularly unstable-looking snow bridge that had stalled a foreign team.  After making sure they were all right and not seeing a way to end-run it, we tried to ski across it as fast as possible.  Robert went first and instantly sunk down two feet into the soft, sloppy snow.  I instantly put tension on the rope, thinking he was about to go in, but he managed to get out and across.  Then, moving in tandem with Robert, I gained as much speed as possible and managed to plow through and past the deteriorating snow bridge safely, breathing a sigh of relief as I did so.

From there, the glacier conditions improved and I knew we were going to make it back safely.  At the base of Heartbreak Hill and Robert insisted we un-rope so I could go by myself and make better time.  We did so, and moving steadily I climbed the last rise.

At 9:16PM, 16 hours and 46 minutes after leaving the same spot, I slid into basecamp.  

Joey, the NPS ranger manning basecamp, saw me come into camp and officially confirmed my finishing time.  

Soon Robert shuffled in, and as we sat on the edge of our tent platform reminiscing about the day, I said, “I just can’t believe it all worked out – the weather, the logistics, my legs, the gear. I don’t know how it came together so perfectly.”

With a twinkle in his eye, Robert replied, “I do.  I am a Priest, after all.”

 

Jan 03
0

My Two By Six Foot World

By | Cleric Climbs | No Comments

Actually, my world is a little smaller than that.  My Thermarest pad is 19 and a half inches by 70, and it’s the practical limits to my world for the indefinite future.  If I weren’t so tired, I’d be freaked out by my circumstances.  My possessions consist of the pad, my sleeping bag in which I’m shivering, a pair of the worst skis ever sold, a lightweight pack, one Summit House dinner, a Whisperlight stove and a Nalgene.  The skis were bought at a Sports Authority in Tucson, Arizona, for $19.95.  They had been shipped there by accident, and the management wanted to get them sold rather than shipped back.  The brand?  Enemy, made in China.  Logo has menacing skulls that are meant to add mojo, I guess.  173’s, they had been selected for this outing because they were wide, light, and cheap.  They were fine with skins going uphill, but turn downhill and go over walking speed and they became veritable roller skates.  Back to where I am.  I take one last look around before I burrow into the bag to get away from the wind and the incessant light of the Kahiltna Glacier.  I’ve pulled about 20 feet off the trail to Camp 1 on Denali’s West Buttress route in order to wait out my partner, who’s abandoned me.  For the time being.

 

Said partner is Edward Warren.  I first met him at the Roadhouse Inn in Talkeetna two years before.  He had just summited Denali and twice skied from the Football field back to Basin Camp at 14,200 feet.  The second time he got caught in a whiteout, and his spotters couldn’t give him radio instructions to avoid the crevasses that separate the Messner Couloir from camp.  He had missed a turn, descended too low, and found himself on steep ice, hard as boiler plate, just above a crevasse.  He had to gingerly remove his skis, transfer back to crampons, and climb a thousand feet before he could resume his descent.  I haven’t gotten the nerve to watch the video, but apparently he was saying goodbye to his parents who would be presented with the chip from his hero cam mounted on his helmet when his body was recovered from the bottom of the huge crack.  By the time I met him outside the laundromat at the Roadhouse, he had already met my daughter and introduced himself.  His adventures behind him, he was nursing some frostbite on his toes from his constrictive ski boots and was just enjoying being alive.  When I heard he had GPS coordinates for every camp and curve in the route, I invited him to dinner and beers.  The three of us had a wonderful time, even though I pointed out his dietary inconsistencies in that he ordered a veggie burger but also consumed a large quantity of French fries.  He even came to our motel room and helped us sort through our dehydrated food we had lugged up from the lower 48.  We drove from Arizona, partly for the thrill, but mostly to have a free schedule in terms of how long we stayed on the mountain.  It was my impression that many alpine accidents occur because people are in a rush to get somewhere when conditions are not conducive to travel.  Edward had time to blow before his return flight to Wyoming, so I loaned him my Isuzu Trooper to tour the state until he had to get on a plane.  Lord knows I wouldn’t need the car, and there seemed to be a real spark between this guy and my daughter.

 

Martha and I ended up spending parts of three days and two nights at High Camp, 17,200 feet, but decided to descend because of new snow and the fact that our food just wasn’t cutting it.  All dehydrated, it was light, but totally lacking in fats and lasting energy.  So rather than lose a pound a day, as we then were, and try to posthole in unstable snow with only Conrad Anker on the mountain ahead of us, we came down.  The next two years saw me become friends with Edward independently of his relationship with my daughter.  I travelled to his home in Wyoming twice to help restore a Land Cruiser FJ60 and to complete a remodeling of his house.  We did some technical climbing together at Vedavoo and Lumpy Ridge, where he proved that his injured ankle hurt on the approach more than in the actual climbing.  Edward is known to many as the creator of and star in the Youtube video, Mixed Climbing Accident (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ovr55k6evE), documenting his near death experience in the mountains of Wyoming.  I was honored that he called me right before going into surgery, but I couldn’t help but equate mixed climbing and its attendant objective hazards with consuming too much tequila and expecting to have no consequences.  My pastoral manner has sometimes been criticized.

 

Edward had big plans for his climbing career, and these had to be extensively modified because of his accident.  He had suffered some pretty good lacerations, but the real problem was that one ankle was completely broken up when his crampon caught on the ice as he fell under the weight of an avalanche dislodged by his partner.  The two were saved when a single BD nut held them both, despite the rope getting desheathed.  So last winter Edward was in a quandary.  He wanted to do something spectacular besides almost getting killed, that would draw attention to his website, Vertical Minded.  Grammatical inconsistencies aside, I understand it to be a cross between Facebook and Amazon, where climbers record their exploits, document equipment requirements, and others are offered a chance to buy said equipment at the best prices.  At one point he was going to climb and ski every mountain over a certain altitude between Alaska and South America, hence the Land Cruiser.  The accident brought an end to anything requiring lots of walking and even technical climbing over rock.  What he found was that the only thing he could really do was ski and hike in ski boots, where the plastic gave him the ankle support he needed to maintain proper alignment in his bones.  So despairing of something new to do to bring attention to his business, he decided to do something old, but faster than anybody else.

 

After my experience on Denali two years ago, I resolved that if I went back, it would be as the least capable member of the team, and not the most.  Martha was fine on the mountain, but the combination of my responsibility for her and the sequilae of a traumatic brain injury I incurred in 2002 in a car crash made it emotionally impossible to deal with the anxiety a mountain like Denali imposes.  As a woman said whom we met during our climb and who bailed at 16,000 feet, “I can take the pressure of this mountain on any given day, but to feel it day after day was just too much.”  So some time in April, the phone rings, and it’s Edward.  He begins his inducement with the prospect of climbing the mountain in regular siege tactics, with the goal of getting my aged ass to the summit.  Then he drops the real purpose of the call, and that is to enlist me as dead weight on the other end of the rope to help him set a speed record for a round trip ascent.  Of course, I agreed immediately.  Here was a chance to climb with a real, live alpinist, and to perhaps make a little history in the process.  Edward had already done Acconcagua twice, once by the Polish route, and had gone from Basin Camp to the summit of Denali in one push, not once, but effectively twice.   Legs and lungs personified.  And not only would I do the climb, but I volunteered to drive from Arizona to Cheyenne, get his gear, drive to Anchorage, pick him up at the airport, and drive the two of us to Talkeetna.  We’d have a car in town, so we could take as long as was necessary on the bump.

 

Everything went as planned on the way up; no complaints.  I cast my vanity to the wind and went to the Fort Collins Walmart to buy food for the expedition at lower 48 rates.  I picked up his gear at a self storage facility, as Edward was leaving the Air Force, had sold his house, and was himself on the road visiting family and friends.  Sort of a bucket list in case things went awry on the mountain.  Edward knows me well, so there was a complete checklist of things to bring, all of which were in a neat, but large, pile.  By this time the 1988 Isuzu Trooper was getting full, and I needed to be able to sleep in the back each night.  I planned in an extra three days for the trip, in case I had to rebuild the car on the way up.  I had an extra cam belt, a half set of rocker arms and a full set of exhaust valves, which are the ones that bend when an Isuzu breaks the cam belt.  This I know by experience.  Being in scenic Anchorage early, I went to the local Episcopal church to ask about recognition for the FA with Hudson Stuck 100 years prior.  Hudson was the Archdeacon of the Yukon, and traveled extensively every year throughout Alaska’s interior by dog sled ministering to the various congregations that couldn’t be reached during the summer months.  His two books, 10,000 Miles on a Dog Sled and Ascent of Denali are classics of life in Alaska at the turn of the 20th century.  Hudson was an Episcopal priest, as am I, so I was naturally interested in any observations planned for the centennial of the first ascent.  The Rector of the church I visited was unaware of the momentous nature of the 2013 climbing season, but said that he had seen something on the subject in Diocesan announcements.  A quick perusal of the internet revealed that there was in fact a celebratory ascent planned, which included the Bishop of Alaska climbing the mountain and celebrating the Eucharist on the summit, using Hudson’s own communion kit!  The announcement went on to politicize the climb as a gesture to draw attention to abuses to native Alaskans past and present, saying that this was why Hudson climbed the mountain.  This galled me to some extent, because I had read Ascent of Denali twice, and didn’t recall that he had a political agenda when he made the climb.  I therefore requested the help of the parish to provide me with bread and wine to perform my own service on the summit, along with a 1928 Book of Common Prayer to give me a liturgy similar to the one Hudson would have been familiar with.

 

Edward arrived on schedule, and we celebrated by finding the best source of beer and pizza we could find.  Edward remarked that this trip to Talkeetna differed dramatically from his own two years prior because then he was trapped in an overloaded van with other large, smelly climbers, and was given only an hour at the local food store to buy all their provisions they would need on the mountain.  The van was seriously overloaded, and boasted purple shag carpet throughout.  Two days later we were on the glacier, ready to start up the hill the next morning.  We had no idea how long we were going to be on the mountain, so we overdid it on food.  We were 68 pounds over our 300 pound limit, but the pilot swore that if we paid the penalty, this would not jeopardize our takeoff or landing.  He was right, and the morning greeted us with perfect conditions.

 

For those who’ve been on the West Buttress route, there’s nothing particularly aesthetic about the “climbing.”  It’s essentially a long trudge with a heavy pack and sled with fine views and ubiquitous fall danger.  The second day we decided to do a full pull from Camp 1 to Camp 3, at 11,000 feet and at the base of the first steep section.  Edward was dismayed at the competition.  It turned out there were at least two other speed expeditions on the mountain at the time, one from Spain and one from Germany.  Particularly upsetting to him was the way a large entourage of professional guides in matching shells and ski gear blew by us.  Rope after rope of uber-fit guides with the latest in technology, they smiled contemptuously as they glided effortlessly by.  We later learned they were doing half pulls, but the image was seared into Edward’s mind as an indication of just how lame his partner, and hence his quest, was.  Here he was trying to do something faster than anybody else had managed, and his partner was a brain-damaged 58 year-old clergyman whose alpine exploits consisted of guided trips up the Matterhorn at 12 and Mont Blanc at 13.  An unguided trip up Monte Rosa at 16 did nothing to allay his doubts, nor subsequent trips up Shasta and Rainier.  His mood was gloomy as he brought up the rear of our cord.  Our progress was slow but steady, and on the seventh day of climbing we summited, having passed every party who had already set out from High Camp that morning.  Each day the weather report was a marvel: a prediction of continued high pressure for another three days.  The first three days morphed into eight, and I was able to stand on the summit in two layers of clothing, with the legs and sleeves pulled up to bring cooling air to my bare skin.  I conducted a communion service on the summit with Edward watching respectfully, but not participating.  He came from an evangelical Christian family, but had decided that this much-ballyhooed God they spoke of was really a chimera who refused to reveal himself in any meaningful way.  This was the source of the stand-off between Martha and him, that she wanted a Christian husband, and he was not about to make concessions that were anything but genuine.  Each was respectful of the other, and I can’t fault either for their intransigence.  The story goes that Mark Twain feigned Christian conversion to marry the girl of his dreams, and both ended up disillusioned and miserable.  Better to avoid problems beforehand than to solve them later.  So I concluded my service, and started my descent.  Edward was turned loose to ski down to the Football Field, and then try to find a way to descend to Basin Camp on skis.

 

The dilemma Denali presents to the skier is this.  Come early in the season, and the lower part of the mountain is fit for travel, but the upper reaches are icy.  Come later, and the upper part is softer, but the lower glacier is crisscrossed with crevasses and crumbling ice bridges that both slow and imperil travelers.  This zero-sum game was confirmed again this year when Edward tried to ski down the Orient Express.  Two years before he had almost died coming down Messner’s Couloir, and he hoped that the Express or perhaps the Rescue Gully from 17,000 feet would do the trick.  The rescue gully had proven too icy during a reconnaissance on our way up the peak, and now trying to ski the Orient, he had to take his skis off and proceed laboriously down with crampons and tools to the inevitable bergschrund separating the couloir from the camp.  He tried to roust our friend Andrew Yasso who was guiding for the American Alpine Institute and climbing on our schedule.  He could get nobody in the camp on the radio to tell him which direction to turn, so after much deliberation and crumbling crevasse edges he made it to camp alive.  The day before our summit I had made friends with some Chamonix Guides when I heard them speaking French.  I had lived in Switzerland and France for a year in each country, so I decided to use my French.  What I was really concerned about was the distance between the pickets on the Autobahn, to learn if our 30 meter rope was long enough to protect from picket to picket.  They had assured me that they were only about 20 or 25 meters apart, and weren’t really needed on the way up, just on the way down.  So with Edward gone, I met one of the guides at the base of the Summit Ridge, on his way up solo.  I proposed that we meet at the top of the Autobahn and rope up for the only really dangerous part of the climb.  He readily agreed, and told me he had taken some really good photos of Edward and me on the summit.

 

These photos that Helias took are the only ones I have of the summit, or indeed of the whole expedition.  We weren’t on the Autobahn for more than a 100 meters when I stopped to take my neck gaiter and wool hat off, out from under my helmet.  When I pulled them over my head, I also pulled off my camera strap, which then fell out from under my shell and bounded down the hill.  Shit.  Our rope was about half the length of the fall it took; it was out of sight over a bulge, and I had a schedule to keep to help Edward with his record attempt.  I soldiered on down to High Camp where I spent a frigid night in Edward’s dated and substandard sleeping bag, while he luxuriated 3,000 feet lower in my -40 degree cocoon from heaven.  The next morning I put the entire camp on my back, minus the emergency provisions Edward had schlepped to the top the day before, and soloed back to Basin Camp.  As I approached the numerous foot wide knife blades on the ridge I would stop to stabilize the shifting load, then scamper across to rocks and safety.  As I descended from the fixed lines above camp, I kept gazing below to see if Edward would have pity on my legs and come out to lighten the load.  No such luck.  He was recovering for the record, and greeted me with the news that I would have all afternoon to recover myself, before we would head back to Base Camp.

 

My skis, which we had left at 11,000 feet, were short and light, and went up hill just fine.  That evening I stepped into the bindings and tried a short turn.  Terrible.  I couldn’t decide if it was the skis themselves, or the Koflach climbing boots that were letting me down.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I had won a regional ski championship in France while attending the University of Grenoble, and ended up nationally ranked by the end of that year.  I was described by a friend who had been Billy Kidd’s teammate in school as the best non-professional skier he had ever seen.  So here I was at the head of the rope, unable to side slip, let alone turn.  All I could manage was a ghastly snow plow that required Edward to slow me down at the other end of the rope.  Further, when I would fall, which I normally never do, I would have to remove my pack to even stand up.  The final indignity was that my carbon ski pole, which had been broken when a douche bag ran into me at the Arizona Snow Bowl years prior, broke anew.  I had repaired it using only the most effective McGyver techniques, but the repeated falls were simply too much for even space age materials.  One time I went down on one of those dark, mottled snow patches indicating an incipient crevasse, and Edward almost sobbed, “We’re all going to die.”  We expected to be back at the bottom at midnight, instead it was a quarter to three.  In the morning I turned to Edward and said, “To the extent that I came here with shitty or unproven gear, I apologize.”  Said he, “I’m glad you said that.”

 

Now came the toughest part of the whole deal.  All day long planes were landing in perfect weather, dropping climbers off and leaving mostly empty.  When those of our own company went by, the temptation of beer and showers was almost too much to bear.  Edward actually offered to throw the towel in and say that between the physical abuse he had suffered slowing us down the whole way from 11,000 Camp and the forecast of deteriorating weather two days hence, he could not bring himself to risk life and limb in a vainglorious attempt at the record.  The record, to the extent we could get a handle on it, appeared to be held by Chad Kellogg, at 23 hours, 55 minutes.  There was some controversy surrounding the claim, but this appeared to be generated by one person who for some reason found fault with the documentation.  Edward had considered the problems inherent in documenting what was an informal endeavor, and had decided on the following protocols.  First of all, the climb would be totally unsupported by others.  He would not cache anything, and would use only food, clothing and fuel he would carry from the bottom.  Secondly, he would not accept material help in any way from others while climbing.  He would not touch fixed gear, or take so much as a swig of water from others on the climb.  Finally, he would carry a Hero cam on his helmet, and record name and contact information from a guide at the start of the climb, on the summit, and would check back in with camp managers at the bottom, should he return during business hours.  Further, he would carry a GPS programmed to emit a tracking signal every 15 minutes.

 

That night I was semi-conscious at 10:30 pm when Edward asked if I was awake.  I replied I was, and he said, “In view of the bad forecast for Saturday, how about we leave in the morning?  We could get up at 3:00 and leave by 4:00.  What do you think?”  I’ve always  thought that if you have to suffer, might as well suffer sooner rather than later.  I was actually awakened by a guided group next to us at 2:30, so I set about melting snow and making my signature beverage for Edward of equal parts electrolytes and Tang.  Gas and the fire to light it.  We weren’t ready until 4:15, so a 4:30 departure was decreed.  Edward found a guide with another group who consented to serve as a credible witness to our departure.  I counted down the seconds on my watch, and with Swiss precision, started poling down the hill.  Edward soon dropped a water bottle which necessitated a stop which in turn led to a fall.  By him.  More breakneck snow plowing at the limits of what my equipment would allow got us to the turn at the start of the Kahiltna Glacier proper.  We stopped to put our skins on, then turned uphill.  The week before the track was pristine, with nary a crevasse visible.  There had been two paths, one more direct than the other, but also in danger of having more crevasses as time went on.  The ranger had counseled that we take the less direct but safer path, and indeed we had.  On the way down, however, we had missed the turn and come down the direct route which was now something of a mess.  Hence Edward’s comments about imminent death.  This time going back up it was early morning, and we judged that we could risk the more direct line in the interests of saving time as the snow bridges would be firm.  True to form, we made it, but took careful note of where the turnoff was, so that on the way down, we would take the safer detour.  After all, if Edward succeeded in breaking the record, we would be back at the same place at the absolute worst time of day for crevasses.

 

Up we went.  For over an hour I never stopped my cadence of left-right-left, going as fast as I could without burning out and having to stop.  When younger I had been the third fasted miler in San Diego, and at 54 had run a marathon in 3:48 without practice.  Still, the plaintive calls came from behind, “Robert, go faster.”  Without stopping I yelled back, “Consider this an opportunity to conserve energy you’ll need later.”  When we finally reached the flats at the base of Ski Hill where Camp 1 is usually pitched, it was only 6 in the morning.  I stopped short of camp, and motioned for Edward to come forward.  The soles of both feet were sopped and just about to burst into blisters from the sweat and constant motion in boots designed for walking.  I asked Edward to unclip.  He said something to the effect that if he died, I should tell people he was nevertheless happy.  I asked if I could say hopeful things about his spiritual state at the funeral.  He said yes, gave me a hug, and hustled off toward the base of the hill.  He hadn’t gone 50 meters before his stopped and had his own camera dilemma.  He couldn’t find the spare chip for his hero cam, and spent 11 minutes poking around and erasing the one he’d already shot before he found the one he wanted.  I turned around and descended to the point where the flat is giving way to a downward slope, so that I would be able to point my tips downhill and move without skins or skating.

 

Which leads me to the most surreal day I’ve ever had.  Edward’s gone, a mere speck moving up Ski Hill.  I’m in the sleeping bag, radio on and balanced on my chest, trying to get a grip on how I got here.  Happily, the pressure and exertion of the prior week came crashing down, and I was able to slip into a dreamless state of unconsciousness.  I would awake to poke my eyes out and consider the scene.  I was in the very middle of the glacier, right where it bends down and the crevasses start.  I don’t dare get up and move around, because I’m unroped and alone.  From time to time people pass by on the trail, not twenty feet away.  They say nothing, no doubt thinking that I’m dead or crazy, and not wanting to find out which.  Around noon a man approaches with tortillas and a block of cheese.  He’s camped 100 meters uphill in a green tent, and is coming to investigate the corpse.  It’s Helias!  “Robert, c’est toi!”  I marvel at his ubiquity, and am sad to learn that a short foray looking for my camera at the base of the Autobahn had turned up nothing.  It had apparently lodged part way down, or landed in a crevasse.  I had promised Helias and his partner a sumptuous dinner if they would look for it, whether or not they found it.  No such luck, and he again refused my offer of a reward.  I declined the food, as I didn’t have much of an appetite.  In my solitary reverie I had realized that if Edward didn’t come back, my own drama was just beginning.  And he might not.  The bulk of the crevasse danger was passed, but there were still four yawners he would have to cross alone.  Then there was the possibility of an unroped fall while climbing, and ditto while skiing.  A fall while on the Autobahn or on the slopes below 17,000 feet would be fatal.  His equipment was necessarily a compromise, as it was very, very light to allow portage while still delivering a minimum of performance.  By his own admission the time in the Rescue Gully on the way up had revealed his new kit to be insufficient on glare ice, and barely good enough for really steep snow.  Then there was the weather.  It was a Friday, the last day of guaranteed good weather we would have.  Yet summit day was a mixed bag.  From my perch on the glacier, I was enjoying sun and dropping winds.  The mountain, however, was obscured in a patchwork of clouds that had an ominous darkness to them.  Edward had forgotten his bivey sack, which was safely buried in our cache back at Base Camp.  Instead, he had decided to make do with a garbage bag.  His only gear in addition to his skis were a set of lightweight crampons, a stove, a little fuel, gel squirts, some Lara and other candy bars, and my Mountain Hardware down poofy.  If everything went well, I would hear updates on the radio.  If it didn’t, my own adventure would just be beginning.

 

First of all there would be parents to inform.  That kind of thing can ruin your whole day, and then there would be Martha.  Although she was maintaining a strategic distance from Edward because of their spiritual disagreements, she was nevertheless very fond of him.  I had told her well before our own trip two years earlier that the Lord had told me she would meet her husband on the mountain.  When we met Edward at the Roadhouse Inn, I said, “Martha, we’ve been here ten minutes, and we’ve already met your guy!”  Our time with him before our departure had only confirmed their mutual attraction and compatibility.  When I recovered my car after our climb, Edward had changed the oil and filled the cooler with beer.  Great son-in-law material, I thought.  No sooner had we returned to civilization than the phone rang and Edward extended an invitation to visit him in Cheyenne on our way back to Arizona.  Needless to say, Martha was conflicted.  On the one hand she was thrilled.  Edward was handsome, smart, adventurous, well-educated (Tufts) and had an actual job babysitting nuclear missiles for the Air Force.  On the other hand, the National Geographic she had brought for the trip had an article about involuntary brides in India who enter into arranged marriages at the caprice of their parents.  During the two years in between Denali trips, the prospects for lasting union came and went with the times.  Edward had always said that his spiritual beliefs were subject to review, and that if there were some revelation forthcoming I would be the first to know.  I used all my evangelical arguments and techniques on him, but found him a tough nut.  Not that I wanted to crack him, but I wanted him to have what Martha and I had, as a gift, not a requirement.  I had to admire his consistency and his principles, and neither of us would ever dream of asking him to sacrifice them.

 

So here I was with my unregenerate erstwhile son-in-law where he had no right to be considering the conditions and his equipment.  If he doesn’t come back, it will be George Mallory all over again, wondering how long you wait before you give in to the inevitable.  At least on this mountain there will be witnesses.  Or will there?  Will he try to ski the whole way and risk another crevasse encounter, or will he down climb and do the slow but safe thing?  I’m semi-comatose, and something like five hours have passed since I made camp.  The radio crackles to life, and I gather Edward’s at Windy Corner.  That means he’s at about 13,000 feet, and although the bulk of the lateral travel is behind him, the real climbing is just starting.  Encouraged that he’s crossed two big crevasses, I return to hibernation.  Just how will I get back down if he falls?  I’ll have to wait until I can’t wait any longer, then ask to join a party descending.  I have a rope, but nobody to attach it to.  I am surprised by a bird that has seen my bright red bag, concluded that it must be empty, as no human would lie in the middle of a glacier, and has landed on it.  I instinctively grab for him, and he makes his escape.  Every once in awhile I have to pee.  I get on my knees, pull the bag down, and whizz into the snow next to the pad.  I admire my handiwork.  Do I write things with my urine, or do I bore a hole to China in one dedicated tunnel, which might lead to a crevasse and cause a collapse?  I think I’m going crazy with the boredom, but there’s always the thrill of what Edward’s up to.  Again, sleep descends and I jolted awake by the radio.  Edward’s voice is clear as he announces he’s on the summit ridge!  Holy Cow.  It’s been only about 10 and a half hours since he left me, and he’s made it to the top.  Something about storm clouds, but it’s garbled.  I float like a leaf.  But now the danger’s really starting, as he’s going to get on his skis, and I’m sure he’s beaten to shit by the climb.

 

I decide to cook dinner.  Hmmm…..  Mountain House, Oriental something or other.  Suited to what Edward’s now doing, the Orient Express.  Or the Rescue Gully.  I pray he shows wisdom and tact when making the choice.  I’m careful to avoid the now abundant yellow snow when making dinner.  The noise of the stove is intrusive in my little world of numb whiteness.  I perch it on ski poles to keep it from melting into the snow.  Don’t want to spill it, because I’m going to need energy to move fast when and if Edward shows.  Dinner is surprisingly good.  Wish Martha and I had this stuff when we were climbing the mountain; we would have been in an entirely different mind set.  I clean up and become a mummy once again.  The radio disturbs my postprandial relaxation.  Edward’s still alive!  He must be past the tough stuff, and sure enough, he says he’s at the bottom of Motorcycle Hill.  No sooner do I break contact than I realize what this means.  He’s only about five miles and 3,000 feet above me.  On skis, he’s could be here in a matter of minutes.  I jump out of the bag, put my shell back on, and break camp.  This means I roll up my Thermarest.  The skis loom like an executioner’s gallows.  I ask for divine assistance in getting down the mountain.  Although I have a pack, it’s light, and I don’t have a sled.  Those damned gravity magnets allow you to climb Denali, but they strip away all joy in the process.  I put on my gear and shuffle over to the trail.  The rope gets carefully coiled so I can just hand Edward the knot in the end and off we go.  I ask the Lord to make it so that no matter what, I don’t slow Edward down.  I’m starting to get excited.  Edward will probably live.  The last crevasse he has to pass is at the top of Ski Hill, and he’ll be moving so fast he can probably make it across before the snow bridge gives way.  Two years before one of my friends, one of the Hillbillies as they called their expedition, had fallen into this same crack up to his arms.  But Edward is on skis, and would be flying.

 

Visions of pitchers are dancing in my head as the radio blurts out, “Where the hell are you?”  I’ve moved down the slope a quarter mile from where we parted, and Edward’s pissed.  I give him a general explanation, and it’s not two minutes before he heaves into view, moving with a freshness and power I would never have expected.  Nor do I expect the wry smile that greets me when he pulls up to take the rope.  “Do you realize you’re at sixteen hours?” I ask.  He replies in the affirmative, and off I go, in the lead as the guinea pig of snow bridges.  With the lighter load and the prospect of alcohol, I move like the wind.  No need to make any efforts at braking, the slope is gentle enough that the only problem is keeping our distance constant.  Edward yells something and I feel the rope go tight.  A staggering parallel stop and I hear Edward castigating me about looking out for the turn off to safer terrain.  Of course I’m looking, as my ass is on the line, too.  We take off and there it is, a quarter of a mile away.  We take the turn and face less of a slope and unfortunately, less speed.  I glide where I can and skate where I must.  I use my best downhill racing techniques to keep my bases flat and edges inert.  After what seems like ages we come to a flat section where two Russians are floundering in the snow with a partially submerged sled.  They’re on their way up, and the look of disgust on their faces makes me happy we came earlier in the season.  They motion for us to pass them, but they’re in the middle of the trail, and all around them is the dark slop of snow melting above a crevasse.  Edward’s shouting some nonsense about helping them, but they look okay to me, and I’m thinking about Edward’s record.  Young people today are so damned sensitive, they don’t know that sometimes it’s okay to be selfish.  So off I go into the slop around them, skirting the biggest turd I’ve ever seen in the snow.  Impressive as it is, it is hard to avoid as my skis slide back and forth in the crenellated muck.  I try to think light thoughts as I spastically lurch across the gap.  Edward keeps a tight line to my rear until I reach the other side.  It’s only about 40 feet, but it seems like an eternity.  Finally I’m across, and straining to move away from the danger while offering a belay for my partner.  He’s shouting to move, and without skins, I’m a snowbound Sisyphus.  Finally, he’s across too and we recommence our maniacal skating to the bottom of heartbreak hill.  At its base we reskin and start up the hill.  I’m shouting to Edward to pass me, but he says there’s still crevasse danger, and that I in turn am the one who should hurry up.  When we’re well onto the slope, Edward relents and passes me.  When he gets to the end of the rope, he unclips and takes off on his own.  I take the opportunity to radio the Base Camp manager and warn them that Edward’s coming into camp in the near future.  Edward had made friends with the camp staff and had sheepishly admitted to his ambitions before the attempt.  As it was still working hours, they could serve as witnesses to his time of return.  I then put in a selfish pitch to have them call our plane and see if we could get off the mountain tonight.  Not possible, said she, as the Talkeetna airport closes at 10 pm.  One more night of winter camping, but at least we would be able to revel in lives risked and redeemed, and records broken.  I pushed as hard as I could into camp, to find I was only about 10 minutes slower than the cyborg.  He was relaxing, clearly amused at my physical discomfort.  Warm congratulations, and I break out the Glenfarclas 18 year old scotch I had brought for just this occasion.  His time was 12:29 going up, and 16:46 round trip.

 

Morning brought great weather, and the chilling news that Talkeetna was socked in, and that Edward had us flying with the only carrier who wasn’t instrument rated.  Fervent prayers carried the day, however, and our plane was the fourth one onto the snow.  Nothing can compare with the sensation that courses through one’s weary bones when the skis on the plane touch the snow for the last time.  The ride back was the usual revelation of the color green seen as if for the first time, and the skill of the pilot as he tuned the fuel mixture and trim of the Beaver.  Back in the hotel, Edward passed out for unexplained reasons, and I went hunting for a gift to commemorate his accomplishment.  I found it in a kitsch shop when the proprietress brought out a 50th Anniversary poster commemorating the FA of the West Buttress route.  These posters sell for $20 at the Ranger station, but this one was special.  It was signed by Bradford Washburn and his wife.  The $200 price was trivial, and I got it for The Man.

 

Turns out the Bishop of Alaska was more discreet than valiant, and decided to forego the ascent.  Several Episcopal descendants of the first ascent party nevertheless made the climb by the original route, and summited about a month later.  The other speed attempts failed, one by virtue of congestion on the fixed lines, which they intended to use.  As this record was being set, Chad Kellogg was on Everest, attempting to set a new record on that mountain.  Word is that he was stymied by weather.  Chad was killed by rock fall in 2014 while climbing Fitz Roy in Patagonia.  Soon thereafter Edward’s record was “broken” by Kilian Jornet, a professional mountain runner and climber, who was accompanied by three other climbers.  He reported in an American Alpine club publication in 2015 that he left base camp with a liter of water, but that he would “refill” his water bottle at 14,200 feet, though his list of pack items did not include a stove or fuel.  His web site says that he does his climbs completely unaided.  I emailed him to ask him about this apparent inconsistency, but received no answer.

Edward’s teaser on the speed ascent: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuHWUttL3Pc

Edward’s descent in 2011:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPDDUEJBVwQ

Dec 31
0

“Do You Clip Pink?”

By | Cleric Climbs | No Comments

One of the great ironies I experience in climbing is hearing the word “ethics” fall from the lips of other climbers. Taken as a whole, there seems to be an inverse relationship between how well someone climbs rock and their knowledge of genuine ethics. Ethics as a discipline has to do with behavior, and more specifically how our behavior is to be understood in the light of moral theology. After all, if there’s no such thing as a standard of absolute right, there can be no such thing as absolute wrong. By any rational measure, ethics should begin with off-the-rock behavior, and only when those seminal issues have been dealt with should we talk about how we climb. But I digress. This magazine’s about climbing and not about campground behavior, thankfully, so I’ll limit my remarks to the “ethics” of the vertical world.

Before I talk about what ethics is, I need to point out what it is not. The iconic Yvon Chouinard once made an important distinction that we would do well to heed today. He pointed out that there are really two issues raised by climbing: one is indeed ethical, and the other merely stylistic. Ethics, to Chouinard, have to do with the impact we have on the rock medium itself: Do we leave the rock the way we found it? Is our climb destroying the rock or altering it in such as way as to deprive future generations of the experience we ourselves are having? The advent of nuts, cams and other forms of clean protection and aid has largely removed ethics as a problem in climbing, at least in terms of the rock itself. Ditto the poop tube. To those who would chip or glue I have one bit of advice: get better or go to an easier route. Or should I say that in French? At any rate, if you don’t wreck the rock and you leave your music, your drugs and your dumbass dogs at home, you’re pretty close to being an ethical climber.

Now Yvon wasn’t done there. He identified another issue evoked by our climbing, and that is the issue of style. When most climbers get pissed off and start bolting or chopping bolts, they’re really not concerned with ethics at all, but with style. Here’s the argument: The first ascensionist, who’s probably without a life, puts up a route. He does it without knowing what he’s going to find, and he probably puts in theminimum protection and anchors because he’s pretty good and no doubt in a hurry. To suggest he underbolts because he’s broke would be unkind and often untrue. When he’s done, he’s accomplished something that’s unique in alpinism; he’s gone somewhere nobody else has been before, and lived to tell the tale, at least to MountainProject.com. No matter how easy the route, there are special skills involved in the FA that will never beasked of any other. If he does it all with natural gear, great; there’s no problem. But if natural features are lacking, then he must decide, “How and where do I bolt?” The horror stories we’ve all heard about bolting on lead by hand, hanging from a skyhook on a crystal, etc. are enough to make us change our collective diapers. Such is the lot, but also the glory, of the first ascensionist.

If things stayed that way, all to the good. But sometimes these new routes are actually attractive and worth climbing, and that’s when the trouble starts. Another climber who might have a life reads about the route on the internet and decides to give it a try. Up he goes, cursing the whole time about the shitty beta offered by the FA’er. Many a route setter seems to take a perverse delight in offering minimal, if not downright misleading, instructions to “enrich” the climbing experience (epic potential) of those who follow. A good case in point is a climb here in Arizona at the Western Stronghold. The directions for the second pitch say you should go up and left “and belay when you get tired of the rope drag.” The correct spot was about 50 feet out. I, being expert at minimizing rope drag, went 120 feet out. Okay. The perils of this, shall we say, Spartan aesthetic are not limited to the realm of route-finding. Our second ascensionist goes up and finds that he’s not as confident as numero uno. He’d like a little help when the runout exceeds his sphincter factor, and he wants the belay and rappel anchors to be solid. If you’re not from Looking Glass Mountain, NC, you might want to attach to something besides some manky pine stub. So what happens? Out comes the bolt gun, and the route gets “fixed.” The FA’er may or may not be consulted, but it doesn’t really matter. The upgrades are made in the name of safety, and who can argue with that?

Well, most FA’ers will in fact argue. They perceive that the stud factor for the climb has just dropped like a 250 pound climber with an 8-year-old belayer, and with it, their personal machismo. They’re livid. This is their mark in the world. Instead of spraying bushes like a tiger or clawing trees like a grizzly, they leave their scent on the rock in terms of tough, run out, unsafe routes. The hypothalamus tells them there’s direct correlation between the length of their runouts and that of their sex organs, and they don’t want to lose street cred. The results of all this sandbox nonsense, of course, are the bolting wars we’ve had in Boulder and other spots where short approaches and an overactive outdoor recreation ethic allow good and not-so-good climbers to mingle. So far, there has not been a solution to this dilemma. Guys get into fist fights at Red Rocks, they have peace powwows in Boulder, and things may get calmed down, but the bitterness of competing interests remains. What’s to be done? I, for one, have an answer that should keep everybody happy. Here’s how it works.

First of all, the onus in not on the first ascensionist. The route author gets to make the climb as hairball as he wants. He can take tumbles from 30 feet out, rasp his skin to the bone, pull rap anchors, whatever his black heart desires. Free solo the damn thing for all we care: you’re not really contributing much to general social or economic welfare; you’re just having fun and calling it cosmic or meaningful. But just as the Indian learned that he didn’t own the great plains, you don’t own the rock either. Eventually, assuming your route isn’t a total choss pile five miles from the nearest road, somebody else is going to climb it. Now here’s the good part. The second ascensionist can only retrobolt if he promises to use bolts with pink hangers. Don’t worry about them being visible; I climb past bolts all the time and fail to see them even when they’re shiny and right next to me. Screw the BLM and the aesthetes; we’re talking about bringing peace to the pitches! Use bolts with pink hangers, and then the next guy coming along has a choice. Does he chicken out and clip pink, or does he go bold and savor the experience the first ascensionist had? The same goes for belay stances and rappel anchors. Don’t trust that twig that sways under your weight? Drill, but hang pink.

Think of the advance this represents! I’m one of those guys who never met a bolt he didn’t like. Well, almost. There’s a bolt just before the scary traverse on pitch three of Selaginella in the Valley that, if you clip it, will produce so much rope drag Hercules would start to whimper. But really, I’d rather climb, forget the drama, and simply enjoy the scenery. I know how long my member is, and it doesn’t shrink when I clip, even if it’s a retrobolt. The FA’er, who thinks he’s hung like Saddam, will have the privilege of asking, in a condescending tone of those who follow, “Well, (ahem) I know you did the route, but did you clip pink?”

So drop the ethics talk; you really don’t know what you’re talking about. Your concern is style, and this is one solution that keeps everybody happy. Abandon the notion that “one size fits all,” and realize we do the same thing for very different reasons. Some of us poor suckers actually have jobs, families and responsibilities that cannot absorb a broken ankle/leg/back/neck and keep on grooving. Some of us are okay climbers who are good enough to have fun, but who, compared to the luminaries of the sport, really suck now and always will. The secret to garnering our respect is not to make things so hard we can’t do them, but to allow us to do them on our terms, so we can then marvel at the conditions you did them under. My wife tell me style always involves color, and for many of us, that color is going to have to be pink.

This article is not blatantly sexist. It does not imply that all first ascensionists are male. It does, however, imply that all first ascensionists who whine about retrobolting are often male.