I suffer from a fairly common vasospastic ailment called Raynaud’s disease and that quote from my neurologist is my life’s challenge.  This malady throws my body’s shell-core reactions into overdrive whenever I’m cold.  My capillaries spasm, cutting off blood supply to my fingers and toes.  This is both visually displeasing and functionally challenging, especially in my line of work.  I spend most of my days sweaty, stressed and cold.  If I am not holding ski poles, ice tools, or explosives, then I’m downing cups of coffee for 4:30am starts.  I work at or above 13,000 feet much of the year in wind, snow and damp cloud layers.  In a typical 12-hour day of winter work I might go inside for 10 minutes.  That number, 10, might also describe the day’s high temperature.  I’ve developed a few habits for keeping my hands and feet toasty even though the day’s elements and activities are conspiring to popsicklify me.  Here is a tip or two for happier ski touring (stay tuned for an ice climbing adjunct).

Warming her feet up in the bathtub before work

Stand In the Bathtub:  Ski boots are like thermoses; they keep warm things warm and cold things cold.  So cook up those feet before putting them in your boots and you’ll stand a better chance of having toasty toes. I stand ankle-deep in a hot bathtub before heading out on the really cold day to get the blood pumping to my tootsies. It makes a world of difference.

Keep Your Boots in the Cab:  Cold boots stay cold.  You gotta baby those things. No matter how scrunched the seating may be on the way to your tour, never never ever ever put your boots in the trunk or the truck bed.  Keep them in your lap or at your feet.  If space is truly at a premium and the drive to the trailhead is short, just put them on your feet and get in the car!  If this isn’t an option, stick a hot water bottle into each boot for the drive.

Stay Dry:  You have got to keep yourself dry to stay warm.  Avoid sweating by starting your tour cold (I never do this but everyone else seems to have success with it), or ditching layers the second that you feel your body starting to perspire.  You don’t even need to stop moving for temperature adjustments; 1) unzip your jacket -the gloves and hat now go in there against your chest, 2) your Buff becomes a sweatband, 3) unzip your thigh vents and your done!  You’ve changed your outfit without skipping a beat.

Go New School, Ditch Your Poles:  The lower your hands are, the warmer they stay.  In mellow touring terrain, shorten your poles and stick them cross-ways at the small of your back.  Then just keep your hands at your sides or hook your thumbs on your pack. You can do this mid-stride.  If you really need your poles to tour (while breaking trail or in steep terrain), shorten them as much as you possibly can so your hands are nice and low and can get lots of warm blood into them.

Chapstick, Water bottle, Sunscreen, Candy Bar and Go!  You’ve got to take short, calculated breaks on a chilly ski tour.  Have a plan of attack in mind before you even pull in for the breather.  Ditch your pack, put your puffy coat on, reach into the pocket for a snack, drink a cup of hot chai, use a facilitree, ditch your puffy and keep moving.  Breaks should last exactly as long as you stay warm from your exertion.  Once you start to cool down, it is time to hit the trail.

Bring a Giant Thermos: I have stopped bringing water on ski tours.  I never drink it and it just makes me cold.  Instead, I pack a giant thermos of sweetened chai tea or chicken broth.  A cup of that at at every break and I’m warm, hydrated and caloried up.  Bonus tip: buy a thermos with a screw top rather than pop top.  The pop tops freeze open.

Sweet turns of Glynna Kerr at Red Mountain Pass

Change Your Clothes: At the top of your tour, quickly strip down and change into a dry long underwear top and sports bra so that you get that sweaty cold fabric away from your skin. I can get cold even on a sunny 60 degree day if my next-to-skin layers are damp.

Windmill Your Arms:   It usually takes 30 rotations in one arm and voila, warm hands!  You will lose your gloves down the slope so tighten them up or spread your fingers wide so they don’t fly off. You can also scuff your legs back and forth to force blood into those feet.  If my feet are cold, I just pump up my Hotronics (more on that later).

Install Hotronics: Counter to what that yoga  teacher may have taught you, some problems really can be solved by money.  I’ve got a set of Hotronic boot warmers in my alpine skiing boots, my AT boots and my ice climbing boots.  The heating element that goes into the insole of the boot is cheep, 20 bucks to set up each boot.  Then one set of batteries (not cheap) to rotate to whichever activity’s boot you are wearing that day. This product was sent from heaven and you should have them in your boots.

Tsogo heading to the Ghengis homeland

It is said that Genghis Khan was born grasping a blood clot in his fist.  In Mongolian lore, this is rumored to portend exceptional leadership potential.  Taking the cue, the great Khan ran with it, and founded the greatest empire the world has ever known, before or since.  According to ‘The Secret History of the Mongols’, Genghis died around 1227, though there are various accounts of exactly how that took place.  According to custom, in respect to his station in life, he was buried in a location likely near his birthplace.  It would have been in an unmarked tomb, replete with oodles of precious items and maybe even a sacrificial person or two to keep him company for the long term.  One of the world’s great unsolved mysteries is in fact exactly where he was laid to rest.  Not to be easily determined; partly because great efforts were made to cover the evidence.  It also didn’t hurt that most everyone associated with his final passage were said to have been promptly dispatched of to ensure their continued silence on the matter.

I pondered these and other thoughts as our party rode into the heart of the Khan Khentii Strictly Prohibited Area in Northern Mongolia.  We were headed for the remote upper reaches of the Yestii River, which coincidentally is one of several possible locations of the beginning and end of Genghis Kahn’s career.  I’ve always been a sucker for people who ‘get stuff done,’ but you really had to hand it to Genghis. ‘That must have taken a lot of energy,’ I thought.

Our own plans were a bit more modest.  Not having much time to plan my trip to Mongolia beyond ‘paddle something’, I had relied on Ernst von Waldenfels from Mongolia Canoeing to lay out some options.  When he suggested horse packing into an exploratory with a young Mongolian partner (who had no significant paddling experience), I bit like a pit bull.  The plan, as it evolved, was to pack into the Yestii with Banzragch and some horsemen, put together the folding canoe, then run the river to where it joined with the Chuluut River.  At that point, we would join up with Ernst and some of his Australian clients on their commercial trip, and we would continue on together into the Yeroo River and beyond.  Ernst’s friend Daka, from Happy Mongolia, would arrange for the horsemen.  At least one of them had been to the upper Yestii before, and they were all pretty pumped up to go there.  Banzragch was working on his English.  They said he could swim, which apparently is a rarity in these parts.  There was no way to ascertain the water levels ahead of time, but supposedly it had ‘been raining in June.’

‘This is going to be awesome,’ I thought.  ‘What could possibly go wrong?’  Well…

When I look back on it all, a compendium of events and emotions flash across my conscious.  This is how I remember my journeys; as a small subset of the total experience.  I’m not sure why that is – perhaps I just don’t have room for more.  In the long term, they become the essence of ‘the trip’, because that’s all that’s left in the end.  I would guess that anyone who ‘expeditions’ into the outdoors probably has similar recollections, in the same jumbled manner.  It becomes the essence of what they take from their experience, and forms the basis of whatever lessons they may have learned.  It becomes ‘their story.’

This is mine…

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• The more difficult it gets, the more Bata enjoys it.  Come to think of it, it almost seems like the horses felt the same way.  Stuck in mud up to their chests, loaded down with gear, they never gave up.  They just powered through it and stood there dripping, ready for more.  They, too, were ‘on an adventure.’

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There were times when I’m guessing Ernst was questioning the merit of leading trips into some of the more challenging locales of Mongolia; especially while repeatedly abusing his body as he led his troupe onwards.  He came to appreciate my stash of Ibuprofen.  Despite it all, I could sense in the end he craved the challenge.  He got it.  His final message to me:  ‘It was a fantastic journey.  And you are right; it is exactly the kind of journey that I love (although I might be getting a bit old.)  Would love to hear your stories again in the dripping rain.’

As for me, I spent quite a bit of time stumbling and bumbling down the river, dancing at the behest of the hornets, or impaling myself on yet another protruding stick.  The rain ran down my glasses once right at the top of a rapid, and I couldn’t see with them or without them as we dropped down into the fray.  That was nice.  Challenge is all relative, and I’ve learned it doesn’t take as much to ring the bells as I get older.  On more than one occasion, like the time I found myself doing the James Brown splits trying to keep control of the canoe and not get swept into the drink,  I thought to myself, ‘maybe next vacation I should do something a bit more laid back.’  In fact, it became a recurring theme.  This trip was taking a ‘lot of energy.’

Then came the day when the rapids finally receded, and we had two glorious days floating through pristine landscapes; in Mongolia.  The sun came out, the birds sang, and every stroke was a joy.  You could feel the sense of pride welling up, of what we had done and experienced together as a team.

And it was at that moment, during that final passage, that I felt it once again; the ember of desire to explore – to see what is around the next bend, no matter the physical price to be paid to make it so.  Each in our own way, we have that; the burning fire to try something new; to test ourselves and our team.  Without it, our lives are less full and perhaps less rewarding.  This is my story, and your story, too.

I imagine that someday, maybe soon, we will no longer be able to force ourselves down a riverbed or over a hill, regardless of how many young, strong partners there are in tow.  We’ll no longer be able to make the key ferry, portage the giant pack across the swamp, or actually be more help than hindrance to our partners.  Never again will we have the feeling of drifting down the paradisiacal outflow at the end of yet another ill-advised run and attendant physical punishment that came with it.  In short, we’ll be all done, and our fire will have burned out.

Yes, there is no doubt that at some point that time will come…

Just not quite yet.

Day 1 of the PCT at the Mexico border

As I prepare to head out on my next adventure, a 3,100 mile trek down the Continental Divide, I can’t seem to stop myself from thinking, “what is it that drives me to court suffering on a daily basis?” Bradford Angier put it best when he wrote that in exchange for all of the luxuries and worldly conveniences we “undertake an existence in which there is considerable hard toil—work so admittedly long and exhausting that few men paid to labor would consider it for a second.”

The reasons for such melancholy thoughts trace back to the last four days I spent trekking the Pacific Crest Trail on the verge of hypothermia. It rained, sleeted, and snowed on and off for four days straight. Even doing my best to keep things dry, something I thought I was an expert at after 88 days of rain on my Appalachian Trail thru-hike, the air was so humid that eventually my down bag lost all of its loft. By day-four I was sleeping in a glorified plastic sheet.

I would hike anywhere from 12 to 14 hours a day stopping when the rain, sleet, or snow wasn’t absolutely horrible but never for very long because I had to keep my body temperature up. Occasionally a little sunlight would make its way through the maze of clouds but never for more than 15 minutes at a time. Just long enough to raise my spirits and get my hopes up that maybe, just maybe, I would be able to dry things out. No sooner would I start unpacking then back came the rain ruthlessly crushing my spirits time and time again. By day-two I stopped even trying to dry my gear out.

At the end of each day I would crawl into my wet sleeping bag and stomach as much peanut butter as I could. It wasn’t food at that point, just fuel. I had plenty of dinners to cook but no desire to make them. I was carrying a wood burning stove and the amount of effort to make a fire in such damp conditions was more than I was willing to put forth at the end of  such long days. I spent the nights with what little warmth I could get from my sleeping bag mostly awake and shivering, with occasional bouts of fitful sleep mixed in.

PCT Panorama

Never fear, the story ends well. I completed my 2,663 mile hike, hit the US/Canada border and turned around and walked 37 miles back out of the park. Within a day and half, I was dry, sitting by a fireplace, drinking a beer, and eating pizza. How I managed to get out of the deserted park was just sheer luck, or maybe fate, but that’s another story for another time.

So, what is it that makes me want to go back out there and spend another summer suffering? Is it the lure of the mountains or the call of the wild? A desire to see sights that few people dream of while sitting in their comfortable La-Z-Boy with a roof over their head and the heater on full blast? Is it a need to test myself, and if so, will I go the way of so many who continued to push the limits until they abruptly find themselves at or beyond them and sadly never make it home to tell their tales?

Oh, fog...

I honestly think that I would simply be bored otherwise. We are no longer tested by Mother Nature and seldom encounter hardship in our day to day lives, so instead I feel a need to test myself. A hard day at home is one in which traffic is worse than normal or a waiter screws up my order at lunch. What do we learn about ourselves from such trivial matters? I want to know who I am…what I’m made of, what drives me, what my fears are, where my limits lie, and what it takes for me to survive and even flourish. How much can I really take and still come back asking for more?

Last year, I hiked 52 miles in a 30 hour time span because I had to make it to a post office on a Saturday between 10 and 11am to pick up my resupply box. If I hadn’t made it, I’d have been stranded in a tiny resort town for three days over Labor Day weekend with little to no food. If I’d have had to wait I would have ended up missing my flight home at the end of the week as well. I had little choice in the matter, so I did what I had to do. But had you told me that I could walk 52 miles in one continuous stretch a few years ago, I would have laughed in your face.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a glutton for punishment. It’s not something I seek but not something I go out of my way to avoid either. If I intended to avoid it, I never would have taken up ridiculously long distance hiking in the first place.

Mountain Pass in the Sierra's

When I talk of “suffering” I think of it as a long time friend. My constant companion on each of my adventures, I am never surprised to find that its with me every step of the way. Sometimes, dare I say, its welcome. There is nothing like a little humble toil to really make you appreciate every moment of every single day.

Even though I talk of “suffering” daily, I don’t let it overshadow the beauty that I experience. I see incredible sights and experience wondrous things made all that much more incredible by the effort I put into getting there.

This year’s trip, in all likelihood, will be more challenging than anything I have attempted yet. I’m hiking 3,100 miles from Canada to Mexico through Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico. Only about 200 people in the world have finished it in a season and only around 40 people attempt it each year.

This year is looking tougher than most. The conditions are so gnarly that people are bailing on their plans without ever even setting foot on the trail. The snow levels range from varying degrees of bad to worse. The average snow level is about 150 percent of the norm with extremes of anywhere from 200 to 400 percent. I’m not too worried about walking across the snow, but it’s the stream crossings that will be full of snowmelt that have me concerned.

Day 138, the Canda Border and the end of the PCT

A few weeks ago I read the line “I never doubted I could make it, I just wondered what would be required” and that will be the attitude I take into this hike. I’m far too stubborn not to make it, but I wonder what hardships await along the way.

No matter what is asked of me this year I have a feeling that Suffering and I have a long term relationship in the making, one that I don’t doubt will last the rest of my life. The call of the wild is too strong to resist and I’ll forsake the luxuries of home: a roof, a heater, running water, television, and the convenience of a grocery store again and again. I’ll gladly trade them out for my tent, sleeping bag, and my backpack and place myself at Mother Nature’s not-so-tender mercies. As John Muir said “The mountains are calling and I must go.”

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Late August, an update: Montana and Idaho

If I had to sum up in one word this first month and a half and 800 some miles, I think it would have to be  just “wow”.  A lot of the other words that fit are four letters long and not quite appropriate.

Glacier National Park was an experience that I won’t forget anytime soon and left me feeling happy to be alive.  Taking on the Highline Route in a huge snow year was unlike anything I’ve ever done before. Ryley and I were only two of the four through thru-hikers to do it this summer. A few others tried it but everyone else bailed.  At least once a day a slip in the wrong place meant a fall off a cliff or down a nice long icy chute with rocks waiting at the bottom. Even with the constant danger it was easily one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been in my life and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

From GNP we entered the Bob Marshall Wilderness Aka “the Bob” which we carried way too much food for courtesy of prior hikers dire warnings. We had an easy time of it, stream crossing and all, and made good time for the most part.  Of the 50 plus stream crossings we did, only two were sketchy.  I would say that during that week, my shoes and socks were wet at least 90% of the day, every day.

From there on it all starts to blend together. We’ve done two seven-day-long carries now which have left us pretty drained by the time we stumble into town.  That’s a long time with no town-food to recharge the batteries.  We also did a 15 day stretch just picking up resupply boxes at ranches and lodges with no town-food in the middle and that one took it out of us too. By day 22 I’d already lost 15 pounds.  I can’t imagine what I’m at by now.

We’ve managed to pull a few 30 mile days but they’ve left us exhausted by the end.  Lately, 25 miles has been the average and while we have to work for it, we don’t feel like death at the end of the day.  That is one thing I have to say about this trail; you really have to earn you miles. They don’t come easy.

My body has managed to hold up so far…knock on wood. I had some ankle and calf problems in the snow, then a minor knee injury from snowshoeing but they all left with the snow.  I’m feeling like I’m finally getting back in shape, seems like of took longer than usual this time, and it’s a great feeling.

Unlike most of the other southbound hikers we chose to take the Butte route instead of the Anaconda route and it’s not something I’d do again.  The trail was new and well made but there was nothing to see and we spent a lot of time road walking on gravel.  After 10 or 15 miles my body doesn’t like that very much.  The route we took was also about 60 miles longer than the other adding two extra days to our trip.

A couple days back we climbed up to Cottonwood Peak at 11,200 feet which was simply amazing and the highest we’ve been this trip.  The 360 degree view from the top, right along the Montana-Idaho border would have been enough to take my breath away if I’d had any left after the climb.  It’s one of the few alternate routes we’ve taken that has been longer and more elevation gain than the actual CDT route.

We’ve finally finished up with Montana after following the Divide right along the border and have two more days in Idaho before we head into Yellowstone.  I’m really looking forward to Wyoming and hiking in the Winds.  I’d never even heard of them before this trip but ask anyone around here and they all say the same thing, it’s one of the most beautiful places in the US.  I’ve got some pretty high expectations for the next few weeks and can’t wait to get there.

Chris “Chance” DiPolo is already 50 days into his trek along the CDT. Follow along his journey on his blog, Chance Walks A Lot. We’ll update you more here on VertiCulture as well, as the stories come in.

Tom, working the tele w/ a full pack. Photo by Jason

There are many reasons to venture out into the mountains; solitude and the clear mind that comes from being free of cell phones, computers, and scheduled commitments of any kind. Even eating takes on such planned simplicity that there is little decision making involved. In fact the only decisions that you must make as a ski mountaineer are those that will get you from point A to B safely and fulfilled. Our June traverse from Cascade Pass to Diablo had that simplicity: sleep, eat, ski, repeat.

Different things turn different people on about a traverse in the Cascades. For some it’s getting it done as quickly as possible, others are out there to stand on summits, for me it’s finding great snow on fun slopes whether off ridgelines, summits, or the couloirs along the route. On our Isolation Traverse we encountered everything from crust to corn and low angle glacier to steep salt and pepper.

For this crew, it’s the downhill that drives journeys into mountains. Adam Roberts, Jesse and Jason Hummel and I found everything from puckering jump turns to soul turns in corn on the glacier. It doesn’t have to be scary; turns are turns and the more the better.

Early on in the traverse we took a layover to explore the area around Eldorado. Moving across the Inspiration Glacier we came to where it met the McAllister. Looking across at Dorado Needle our eyes were drawn to a huge cornice hanging over a beautiful pitch. “Hey Adam, I’ll ro-sham-bo you for it…” but he was already on his way up the Inspiration. Beautiful turns were left on an aesthetic line as Adam ripped 7 perfect arcs down the slope. It was a line we would all ski again the next day as we continued on to Backbone Ridge.

The long gentle traverse under Backbone Ridge was the same mellow slope that the Skoogs had slowly climbed when they pioneered the route in the opposite direction so many years ago. That night, as we set up camp, the Cascades reminded us that we were in the Northwest as the clouds rolled in. Over the next few days we flew by wire using a handheld GPS past Wilcox Lakes and up and over Isolation Peak as we neared Snowfield Peak and the Neve Glacier.
On our fifth day we got to camp early and set up on the shoulder of Snowfield Peak. A blanket of low clouds left only the tallest peaks sticking out like islands. It was beautiful. We could see back over nearly our entire route from Eldorado to Dorado Needle to Backbone Ridge, Isolation Peak and the sloping snowfield that we climbed to camp. With so many hours of daylight remaining we headed up Snowfield Peak through sugary snow on scree. It was nice to gain the summit and the view it afforded us, reaching even further than our view from camp. The ski from the summit was rough with the last skiers having the hardest time picking their way between the rocks and trying to link what patches of sugar hadn’t sloughed off. We returned to camp, it was time for dinner – a simple task.

After dinner the sun was still well above the horizon. The late evening light on the slope we had climbed earlier in the day was too much to resist; corn snow on a perfect 30-degree pitch descending towards the clouds. Clouds were slowly rising and falling, pouring over the lower passes below camp giving the evening a moodiness that wasn’t quite angry, more mysterious than ominous.

So with nearly empty packs we hiked up above camp, out on to the snowfield, cheering each other on as, one at a time, we laid down turns in the late evening sun. There was nothing difficult about the skiing that evening. The snow was soft and shallow with a surfy quality that held the edge of our skis with softness you’d expect more from water in its liquid form than its crystal form. These were the quintessential soul turns that are the reason we strap boards to our feet in the first place. Even after a long day of travel it was the light that finally ended our little feel-good session. After each of us had taken 4 or 5 laps, the sun dipped below the horizon and we were left in the twilight to climb into our bags for a good night sleep before our return to civilization.

Our return to said civilization was swift. The glacier gave way to glades and ravines on the shoulder of Pyramid Peak and the snow slowly dissolved into the warmth of old cedar trees and then the trail to the road where we traded our boots, Gore-Tex, and water bottles for flip-flops, t-shirts, and IPA…Classic.

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After a winter spent nursing a nagging shoulder injury, watching my partners get strong and send projects, I half jokingly asked a good friend if he was interested in doing some alpine climbing in Canada in May. Now, May is not known for being the primo month for the big routes; flipping through the seminal tome “Selected Alpine Routes in the Canadian Rockies,” March and September stand out as the most reliable times to send. Add to that a biblical winter and a spring snow cycle that wouldn’t quit, and things were looking precarious at best!

I’m not much of a snow climber and all the routes we were psyched on looked like gothic churches in France. Not being known for our high IQ’s, we made a decision, packed our bags, and went to sleep with a plan to get up early and head up on Andromeda Strain, a route etched in the minds of all aspiring alpine climbers due to it’s intriguing cover photo on the book mentioned above.

Upon waking, Josh had a new plan! With a decent forecast, he thought we’d better go for the real prize and head into North Twin. As you will see in the following video, that didn’t work out so great. We spent all day post-holing on skis up and over Wooley Shoulder (1,500m up and then down), then spent the rest of the day and the whole next day watching snow fall. As I mentioned earlier, 2011 was a wild spring – the snow would not stop. And so the Twin disappeared in the clouds and the rumble of avalanche filled the air. With our main objective shrouded in snow, we packed up and reversed our epic approach, this time in only 6 hours.

After an evening refueling in Jasper, we dried our gear and repacked for the Andromeda Strain – a healthy little climb on the side of the Icefields Parkway. The following morning found us tiptoeing around and over snow mushrooms, scratching up some of the worst rock I’d ever seen, and then digging through the summit cornice. We had splitter weather for the A Strain, but that was the last of it. The next few days were basically spent looking for free wi-fi.

Before we knew it we were back in Colorado and since we only got up one route in while in Canada we decided to head up and see what Hallets Peak and the Diamond could dish up… lots more snow and plenty of fun. You can look back on any climbing trip and wish you got better weather and more sends, but in the world we live in today I feel lucky to have spent the time with a great friend exploring some crazy terrain. And I’m going back, but this time I’ll remember to check the first ascent dates!

Gordon on Air Mail

Picking one classic rock route that had an impact on me is like trying to single out my favorite beer–near impossible as there’s just too many.  However, if someone held me at gunpoint, forcing me to choose only one…or die, I would quickly resort back to a route that nearly brought me to my knees.

Most days and nights are spent at my local crag, Lakit Lake.  It’s a striking band of Quartzite located just outside of Cranbrook, BC–almost somewhat of an anomaly as there isn’t any other rock like it as far as the eye can see.  Amongst the 60-odd routes there, one in particular–Air Mail – a 12d that has a cruxy, big, sideways dyno right in the middle of the line, pushed me, mentally, harder than most.

Air Mail has a beautiful overhanging prow with powerful movement from start to finish.  Like a bug being drawn to the “light”, so too are your eyes with Air Mail the moment you arrive at the crag.  Slopers, crimps, pockets, jugs, tiny feet, no feet; every sequence forces perfection through a series of commanding moves.

For some reason, after many attempts, the dyno on Air Mail kept shutting me down.  It was driving me insane…even causing sleepless nights.  Fall after fall after fall.  Having climbed harder routes I was confused.  What the heck was going on?

Air Mail had revealed my weaknesses, a humbling experience, facing me with a choice: try harder, or don’t.  So, without much hesitation I went back to the drawing board, re-worked the game plan, and returned with full commitment.  I was able to stare back at “defeat” and smile with a new confidence.   This/my classic of Lakit had become somewhat of a stepping-stone…the beginning if you will, forcing me to realize that if I wanted to climb harder, I had to “truly” commit to trying harder.

Sending Air Mail was monumental for me, maybe not because of the picturesque line itself, but because of what it taught me: The willingness to look in the mirror and not shy away, but to accept my weaknesses and fight back.

Between the rising tide and the falling rain

My heart thumps. It really shouldn’t beat so hard, but I am enamored with the same feelings I get when hanging off a peak in the North Cascade Mountains of my home state, Washington. But there is one stark difference – where I am now, there isn’t a mountain in sight. Instead, to the west, I see endless skies layered on top of never-ending ocean and to the east, green folds of forest roll away into fog and out of sight. Like two indomitable forces, this is where sea meets land, where black, murky depths toss great emerald-colored waves, where life is in the process of being eternally absorbed and exposed and where you can smell the reek of death and perfume of life. With the beach, you can fall in love with the raw, jagged edges of our planet and that, to me, injects fear into veins and boils blood.

Situated along the northwestern-most border of the United States, you’ll notice Olympic National Park.

First set aside as Mount Olympus National Monument in 1909, it has since gained many distinctions for its diverse wildlife, varied forests, snowbound peaks and untamed coastlines. In 1938 it became a national park and in 1988 ninety-five percent of it was set aside as wilderness, further protecting this incredible park’s million acres from human encroachment.

Back on the coast, my heart beats normally once more as I walk onto sand. This was the first day of a planned eight. Trailing me are my youngest brother (12 years old), my younger and much older brother along with his wife and two kids (ages 8 and 12) and my mom. Ahead are 35 miles of untamed coastlines. Already the kids leap ahead of me. They begin uncovering the first slime-encrusted rocks and waterlogged shells, ever in search of treasures or the ‘biggest crab’.

We plan one night at the Chilean Memorial and two at the Norwegian Memorial. These are reminders of where Sailors and their stalwart ships ran aground. All that remains now are these two stone markers. The sea gives and the sea takes.

Hiking beyond "Hole in the Wall"

On the first night, I stare out onto waters blushed in reds. At which point, the ocean begins snaking into my mind, infatuating my already entangled feelings with expressions of beauty I can’t possibly ignore. They are infectious. Encircling a warm fire beneath a bright moon, everyone gazes beyond waves crashing, toward thin clouds and bountiful stars.

Back at camp, alder and maple trees frame stars and a rising moon. Leaving my tent door open, I decide to take a night photograph. With everything set up and ready to go, I realize I need a filter. Back in my tent I sit down to search for the correct one. When, from the corner of my eye, I see a black animal with a white stripe down its back. Not outside, but in my tent! There is only one animal I can think of that has that particular pattern, a skunk. Leaping to my feet, all I can think of is spray filling my tent and covering me. Horrified, I sniff the air as he vanishes into the undergrowth. Even though I swear I smell something, there was nothing.

In the morning birds are sounding their calls as well as the kids. Earlier it was raining hard, but it has since stopped. Enough so that ribbons of blue hang over water. Pretty soon gear is in packs and we are chasing low tides around headlands.

Six miles along the coast we arrive at Norwegian Memorial and Kayostia Beach. Two nights here will be wonderful! Relaxing under a shade tree sitting on driftwood, munching chocolate, sipping lemonade and caressed by a cool breeze, ‘wonderful’ perfectly describes my situation.

As night rolls in, I head out to the surf for photographs. The darker it becomes, the more intent I am on the images I’m taking. Don’t shake the camera, watch the big waves threatening to splash my equipment, and get that shot – it’s amazing! All along a stinging has been migrating up my feet, bearable so I forget it. Another photo – damn this water is cold. And one more before I notice my feet are not just stinging, they are on fire! I literally ran out of the ocean and in the dark, down on my feet a black mass squirms over skin. The pain is amplified by fear. I brush them off, still unsure what they were, all about the size of a lady bug. Back at camp streams of blood were rolling down my feet. I am horrified.

Crossing the Ozette River

Another day and night pass and my story of flesh-eating bugs become myth and legend to the kids who search them out to exact revenge. I stay out of the water altogether. Instead I help the others set-up kites; a strong breeze sends them high into the air. My toes squish into the sand as I pull back on taut strings. Knuckles white, I daydream. Like the kite, I urgently hold them to the Earth.

Day four is gorgeous! On our way to South Sand Point, we stop at Yellow Banks to wait out the tide and cool off. Before long, we are in the fifty degree Pacific being pounded by waves. Set after set roll over us until we are so cold, even sun-soaked sand isn’t enough to warm us. It is only after drying and changing clothes that we stop shivering, even then, the short hike through a natural tunnel to camp helps. The loss of afternoon sun is still missed, but not for long. As dusk rotates into night, stars shake from the heavens and all that’s on our minds is the moment.

Since it is a short way to Cape Alava, 3.7 miles, my older brother and I surprise the kids. Near Lake Ozette a tiny store supplies a nearby campground. Once the day’s progression up the beach is behind, tents are pitched, we tell the kids we are going on a ‘hike’. Their tired faces brighten up like the previous night’s moon when they see a sign that reads, “Ice cream,” and I watch seven miles of effort melt away. They go to sleep with full stomachs to the sound of Steller sea lions bellowing and firewood crackling.

Going to Ozette River requires a low tide. Shaking the tents, everyone awakes and we head off at first light. Blue skies overhead are in stark contrast to previous the morning’s fog and clouds. Oystercatchers gather on the shore, strikingly pretty with their red bills. Sea anemones, sea stars, crabs, and hundreds of gulls abound. My eyes never tire of the view. Shadows curve and reddish light polishes everything in sight.

The day before my mom had slipped in a particularly nasty boulder field and cracked open her head. Today her face and eyes are swollen black and blue. It is a sight! Everyone has fallen more than once on the gooey seaweed that plasters many rocks. The best you can do is put your chin down and push ahead. That is why views of pristine, boulder-free beaches beyond Ozette River’s mouth, are so tantalizing.

Since arriving before noon, we spend what feels like an entire day relaxing and playing. The kids discover a beach full of so many shells that it becomes “Shell Beach.”

Near sunset my eyes paint colors where I expect them to be in mere moments. Like a movie, I watch nature’s sky-wide screen dance with pictures. Water ruffles from Ozette River into the pounding surf, where gulls gather their wings and fly all at once, before returning to the beach. This dance appears to be for no reason at all, other than to rise up and stretch their wings. As light and color melt over land and ocean, it shoots between the clouds. I can’t resist the urge to capture these sights with my camera. Somewhat like a note in a bottle tossed to sea in some faraway place tells a story to another who’s never been to that land – of love, death, and dreams yet unfulfilled. A picture can do that as well.

What a picture can also do is embody a moment in two-dimensional forms. It can be a reminder of your life, not someone else’s. As day seven begins, we rush over and around headlands to the most prominent of all that we’d visit, Point of Arches. Waist deep in water, a rising tide beats cliff walls as we rush kids around the headland. Once completely by, sights of Shi Shi Beach are thanked for even as our wet boots squeak on top of sun-crusted sands. That can’t diminish our happiness; beaches stretch on for miles.

As afternoon stretches into dusk, sunrays knife through ocean-worn keyholes in the rock, before night fully encompasses us. The sound of waves rolling up the beach lulls everyone to sleep. It is easy to forget this is our last night.

On the last morning, looking southward, I see the past eight days being compressed into my face like air in an accordion. Looking northward, the end is mere miles away, only a few hours now, but I cling to the past. Gazing at the kids faces, they appear oblivious of endings. To them the beach goes on forever. I smile when I realize there’s a lesson in that – out here – crashing waves, swirling pools of white foam, rattling rocks, croaking birds and peach-colored sand go on and on. Even as my heart melts over memories recalled, sea air fills my lungs and never-ending views disappear from sight, I don’t realize the truth that’s within reach. It is only as I turn away from the wide open beach and hike up the narrow forest path that realization comes.

Jason is a local Pacific Northwesterner known for taking on epic ski ascents in the Northwest and documenting them with some of the most incredible photography. Read more tales from his amazing adventures on Cascade Crusades and ooh and aahh over is incredible photography on Alpine State of Mind. Reposted with permission from Jason.