The legend, photo: Christian Beckwith

Summer 1994. I leaned into my drink. I was twenty-five years old and belly up at the Stagecoach Bar on a Sunday evening. Again.

I had moved to Jackson Hole in April; in the intervening months, Sundays at the Coach had become my ritual. Not necessarily for the women, which inspired me many of the other evenings of the week: there weren’t many women under 40 at the Coach on Sundays, when the Stagecoach Band turned the bar into a crash course in two-stepping. Rather, I was inspired by the man who, just at this moment, had stepped up to the microphone.

I set my beer down to listen. The man began to strum his banjo, which emitted a metallic twang. I knew the song, and as he began to sing—his voice more notable for its passion than its mellifluous qualities—I began to sing along:

Two skis upon white powder snow-u-ow

The most beautiful thing that I know

Then Bill Briggs let out a yodel. I laughed deep and hard, and took another swallow of beer.

At that point in my Jackson Hole sojourn, I knew a few things about Bill. Like me, he was a Mainer, and he’d bailed on Dartmouth to climb in the Tetons. I knew he’d pioneered ski traverses throughout North America, and that his years as an Exum Guide had been punctuated by some rather colorful idiosyncracies that made up his character. For years, he had orchestrated musical bonfires under the bridge at Moose, serving Teton Tea, a fetid collection of whatever the local bar couldn’t sell, to whoever showed up. Those Teton Tea parties had evolved into the Hootenany, which in turn had evolved into Sunday nights at the Coach. In the years since the bonfires under the bridge, Bill had missed only a handful of Sundays at the Coach, and only when the day coincided with New Year’s Eve.

And of course, I knew that Bill had made history by becoming the first person to ski the Grand.

As Bill sang, the words tethered themselves to the alcohol in my system, transporting me to a place far from the crowded room. I’d been drawn to the Tetons by an article on alpine climbing that had captivated my imagination. This man, a climber, a musician, the first to ski the Grand, seemed removed from ordinary concerns. I wanted the same for myself.

Over the successive Sundays, as I’d listened to Bill yodel, a determination had hardened within me. I, too, would devote myself to the mountains, the way Bill had done, and make a life within them, however I could.

A few months later, I published Issue 1 of my first magazine. Inspired by Bill, I called the magazine The Mountain Yodel.

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Following footsteps, photo: Christian Beckwith

In the 17 years since those summer nights at the Coach, life had unfolded in unexpected and interesting ways. I was still in Jackson, and somewhat to my surprise I’d cobbled together a living around climbing. But the last few months had been tough. A gorgeous baby daughter and a new business had enriched my life beyond measure, but, combined with a fickle spring, they’d also conspired against adventures in the Tetons. Though the snowpack was the deepest in history, I hadn’t been able to get into the mountains in weeks. My frustration had become nearly physical.

Ten days earlier, my wife and daughter went to Italy. I stayed behind to work. I thought that I’d at least get a day or two in the mountains, but so far, I hadn’t had a single one.

On Monday, June 13, I got an email from my friend Dan Nordstrom. Dan should run for president. He’s brilliant, tall, cheerful and good-looking. The owner of Outdoor Research, he’s an avid alpinist, and he flies his own plane. The email announced his plans: fly from Seattle to Jackson the afternoon of the 14th, get a few hours’ sleep, then ski the Briggs Route on the fortieth anniversary of the first descent.

I quickly checked the weather: 28° in the valley Tuesday night, followed by 71° and sunny on Wednesday. Were the stars aligning?

“Who’s going?” I quickly wrote back. “And: mind if I come?”

“Martin’s coming,” Dan responded. Like Dan, Martin Volken is a tall, fit, handsome man, amiable and as serious as you’d imagine a Swiss-born mountain guide to be. The two of them together resemble a sort of successful experiment in genetic evolution. “But it’s a Hans production,” Dan continued. “Give him a call.”

Hans Johnstone has more firsts to his credit than any other climber in town. He’s my hero, but not just because of his accomplishments. Hans simply has a better sense of what’s important in life than anyone I know. Plus, he laughs at my jokes. Not even my wife does that.

I speed-dialed Hans. “Who’s going?”

“Dan, Martin, Dan Corn and me,” he said.

My heart sank. Two people in the mountains is my ideal; three, maybe four, is my max. Six months earlier, I’d bailed on Hans and Dan for an outing on the Cathedral Traverse when the head count grew to five.

I wished Hans and company the best, and returned my focus to work.

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photo: Christian Beckwith

Tuesday, June 14. I’m in the yard on the phone with my wife when Hans walks in through the gate.

I cup the phone. “What’s up?” I mouth.

“Corn’s out,” he says. “Want to come?”

I quickly make an excuse to my wife and hang up. Hell, yes, I want to come.

Dan and Martin fly in on schedule. Four hours later, we gather with friends for dinner. By the time we finish eating it’s 8:30 p.m. An hour later I finish packing. Three hours after that I walk, coffee mug in hand, into the Alpine House. It’s 1 a.m.

Dan, Hans and Martin look the way I feel.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” says Dan. His blonde head is turned down, as if he’s studying the inside of his mug.

We pile skis, packs and boots into Han’s dilapidated Westfalia. Martin and I perch on the packs as we drive toward the park. I’ve talked to Martin a couple of times since we met in January, but this is the first time we’ve done anything together. He’s never been in the Tetons, but he was born in the shadow of Monte Rosa and has been guiding around the world ever since. It will be fun to show him our mountains.

In the Lupine Meadows parking lot we navigate by the beam of our headlamps, loading skis and boots onto packs as we ready for the hike. I inhale, and the smell of the wetlands fills my nostrils. The winter slog from the Bradley-Taggert parking lot is over, and although I’ve ascended the Garnet Canyon trail hundreds of times, tonight will be the first time this year. It feels like rendezvousing with an old friend.

We rise through the darkened forest. By the 1.8 mile marker, snow has started to appear in clumps. The clumps grow larger as we ascend, and they’re surprisingly solid underfoot given the warm night air.

“What do you think, Hans?” I’m thinking ski boots.

“Should burn off by the time we round the corner and get on south-facing, don’t you think?”

Hans may have just turned 50, but he’s got a point, and I’m quick to listen. He has been climbing in these hills far longer than I have, and at a far higher level.

We ascend through the forest, following the faint impression of a bootpack in the snow. Conversation yields to silence as we concentrate on our steps. When the tracks are defined, sneakers work well, but it’s easy to lose the impressions in the darkness—and as the angle of the slope increases, so do the consequences of a fall.

Half an hour later I’m lagging behind, muttering curses at Hans under my breath. Why aren’t we putting on boots? Hell, why aren’t we putting on crampons? Even when we’ve rounded the bend of the hill and hit the south-facing slopes, the snow continues, hard and steep. Below lies the bottom of Garnet, lost in darkness. I know how far I’ll go if I fall.

“I’m glad I have my whippet,” says Dan, just ahead of me.

I wish mine weren’t in my pack.

At last we traverse into the Platforms. Lights ahead of us have appeared like fairy lanterns during our approach, and as we enter the canyon they blink from a moat. Fifteen feet of snow have pulled back from the west side of a boulder, forming a pocket; a bunch of kids are tucked into it, talking. They greet us as we walk past.

“Where you headed?” Hans asks.

“The Middle!” a voice responds.

“Make sure you give ‘er up there, will you?” Hans calls out.

At the mouth of the Meadows we hang our sneakers from a stunted whitebark and change into ski boots. I wrestle with mine. I’m tired. I haven’t hiked, let alone skied, for weeks. The last time I skied the Grand I hit a patch of frozen snow at the bottom of the Ford Couloir that scared me. My tips skittered at the start of a turn, and for a millisecond I thought my tails would follow. I don’t want to feel that way again.

Maybe I should bail, I think. I’m out of shape, Briggs’ route is completely exposed, you’re always soloing when you’re skiing—maybe I should just let these guys go on without me. I don’t want to hold them back.

You can always bail higher, comes another thought. Might as well get your nose into it, see how it feels.

I stand up when they stand up. All four of us start walking toward the Middle.

photo: Christian Beckwith

As we boot up the canyon I start to feel better. We change into crampons at the base of the headwall; the frozen surface is perfect for spikes, and as slope steepens, my breathing eases into a rhythm. The joy begins, that sensation of returning somewhere I’d not wanted to leave. Obligations fade. In their place, there’s alpenglow, hitting the east face of Cloudveil Dome and slowly spilling down the walls.

At the Jackson Hole Mountain Guides’ High Camp, we duck behind a rock to cache skins we haven’t used. Cairns dot the tops of flat boulders: one for Heather, one for Kathryn, one for Jim. The darker side of mountaineering.

The wind howls. I crouch in the lee of the boulder, fighting to retain warmth as I suck down water and a Gu.

“Let’s keep going, shall we?” Hans says.

We crampon onto the Teepe Glacier, out of shadow and into the day. A warmth suffuses me that has little to do with the sunshine and rising temperatures. Above lies the Otterbody, etched in ice, superb in its alpine architecture. Beside the Briggs Route, it’s the only line on the mountain Hans hasn’t skied.

At the Teepee Col we settle into our little worlds, hoods pulled up against the wind, the fatigue, the effort. We ditch the shovels, probes, extra bottles, extra food, then round the toe of the Underhill Ridge and peer up the Stettner.

“You ever climb this before?” I ask Hans.

“Once,” he says. “In winter. Before the chockstone fell out.”

The Grand has never been skied clean, and the Stettner is the great standing secret of the Tetons. A few years ago, the giant chockstone that guarded the top of the couloir from its connection to the slopes above exploded, a victim of global warming. Now, anytime you’re at a bar or a party and the conversation turns to skiing the Grand, the whispers start: Will it go?

Bill has gotten closest so far. In 1971, on metal-edged skis and fiberglass boots, he climbed the Stettner with Robbie Garrett, John Bolton and George Colon. Bill led all the pitches. He climbed the chockstone, then fixed a line that his partners could prussick, and that he could use on the descent.

His partners accompanied him to the diving board, a snow ridge that separates the Stettner from the east face. Bill continued solo to the summit, then clicked in and began his descent. He tip-and-tailed his way through a rockband at the base of the east face, gathered his partners, skied down to the rope, rapped the chockstone, then skied to the end of the Stettner. Nobody has ever done it cleaner.

Like every other Teton ski mountaineer, one of my cherished possessions is the poster of Bill’s tracks from ‘71. (Lou Dawson got his facts wrong: though Bill and his partners bivied on the Lower Saddle on June 15, Bill made his descent the next day.) It sits above my desk at work; I’m looking at it now as I type. I’ve studied those tracks of his for years.

I can also see the Grand from our home, and I’ve spent hours training my spotting scope on the east face.

That line: through the scope, it looks like the face necks down to a pinch in the rockband. To ski it, you’d have to thread those rocks and billy goat your way onto the diving board. To your right, the Stettner would plunge thousands of feet to the north fork of Garnet Canyon; to your left, 2,000 feet of air would separate you from the Teepe Glacier. The glacier is named for Theodor Teepe, the first person to die in the Tetons. If you blew a turn here, you’d add your name to the history books beside his.

The entry in the 1972 American Alpine Journal reads,

Grand Teton, First Ski Descent. William M. Briggs and Robbie Garrett ascended the Grand Teton on June 16 via the couloir between the Petzoldt and Underhill ridges, carrying skis. A single 100-foot rock pitch placed them on top of the Underhill ridge where unbroken snow slopes led to the summit. From the summit, the skis were then used to descend to the top of the Underhill ridge. A rappel over the cork [sic] pitch permitted an uninterrupted ski descent of the mountain, first down the couloir to the Black Dike, then over to the Teepe Snowfield and down to within 1000 feet of the valley floor where snow ended.

But now the chockstone is gone, and this is the biggest winter we’ve ever had. Whispers in bars, at parties, in the back of my mind: Will it go?

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photo: Christian Beckwith

Any of the warmth we generated on the Teepe quickly gets sucked out of our clothing in the shadowed couloir. The winter has filled it beyond any depths I’ve seen; where last year I frontpointed up ice runnels, now we climb quickly through snow. It’s a swathe, broad as a boulevard, and wide enough to ski; but it’s also locked in place by a frozen skein of ice, perhaps from the rain that came earlier in the week.

Heads down, helmets to crampons, we rise in unison. I glance to my left to check out the Chevy; to my surprise we’re already above it. Above us loom ice-grouted walls, mottled in tawny-colored rock and ribbons of gray. Wind funnels downward, blowing spindrift. We’re in the heart of the mountain.

A fifteen-foot ice bulge looks easy enough to solo. “I’ll have a look,” Hans says.

I can almost smell his excitement. As the angle kicks up, so do his endorphins. He bullies past me and into the bulge, the sheer delight of the climbing animating every swing of his tools.

Above the bulge the couloir continues, skiable, though narrow, and, needless to say, steep. A broken rockband rings the neck. Could you huck it? Perhaps—if you were twenty years younger than we are and this were at the Village and the landing weren’t a ten-foot-wide ice pinner with 1,000 feet of tight walls ending in a 1,500-foot cliff. Maybe the lads from the morning could do it, but we can’t.

One by one, we make our way over the rock bulge and continue toward the diving board. When we get to it, I poke my head over and look down the east face. The abyss is vast. I yank my head back, giddy with exhileration and vertigo. If you could bottle that emotion, you’d never have to work again.

I look toward the summit. The thin band of rocks that Bill tip-and-tailed through guards the entrance to the east-face snowfields.

“I’ll have a look,” says Hans. He’s moving before the words are out of his mouth.

From our airy perch, the exposure is awesome. Far below, the valley is budding in luminous green. I marvel at the view to the south: Buck, Nez Perce, Cloudveil, the South Teton, all plastered in snow. Ordinarily, the Glacier Route on the Middle is angled and wildly steep, its flutings directed by the underlying topography. Today, it’s all white. It looks as if someone has coated the route with foam from an enormous hose.

“What do you think, Martin?” I ask.

Martin doesn’t say anything. He’s gazing toward the Wind River Mountains to the east.

Hans is above, digging around in a thin clump of rocks for an anchor that we can use on the descent. We already know we’re going to need it. I try to visualize the poster above my desk, and the view of the route from my window at home. Did Bill ski through this section?

The east face rises above us like a tsunami of snow, frozen in time, about to break on our heads. High on the mountain, we’re right where we like it, cut off from everything in life that usually matters. Families, work, mortgages, phone bills—they’re as remote to us now as this face will be when I return to work tomorrow.

A gust of wind rattles my step. I’m forced to stop moving just to stay upright. The winds have been picking up all morning, and the forecast calls for them to increase throughout the day. I think of what Bill wrote: “Gusts of wind made balance uncertain….”

One step; rest; another step. Martin and I take turns breaking trail, and soon enough the top appears.

The summit is coated in meringue profusions of rime and snow. Everything’s white. Clouds gather and break. Martin and I click axes. A smile steals onto his face.

When Dan and Hans arrive, we eat, drink, layer. The first time I skied the Grand, the elation lasted for weeks. How long did it last for Bill? And what could he possibly have felt when he stood here, forty years ago, his partners awaiting him on the diving board far below?

“I’d planned very carefully,” Bill wrote of his descent, “but you can’t predict everything. I didn’t know just how steep that skiing would be—it was really steep—and I didn’t know how much the snow was going to sluff off when I traversed across.”

We ski off the summit and down a hundred feet, tucking into an alcove that’s sheltered from the wind. Conversation is limited; we’ve all got our own thoughts for company as we ready for the descent.

I click into my bindings. As I lock the toe piece of my Dynafits… snap! A shard of brown plastic explodes from the binding and pops unceremoniously onto the snow.

Shit! My binding’s broken? Here? Now?

Martin calmly surveys my panic, then walks over to take a look. “You’re alright,” he reassures me. He snaps the binding forward again. “You’ve just overextended the toe piece.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. His eyes are hidden behind polarized glasses. I don’t know him well enough to read his features.

“Yes,” he says. There is no inflection in his voice. “No problem.”

I look down at my broken toe piece, then over to the east face. I hope he’s right.

Far off to the south we hear hooting. It’s the guys from the morning, on the summit of the Middle. Hans hoots back. I wonder if they can see us as well as we can see them.

Martin inches onto the face. Like Dan, he lives near sea level. Unlike Dan, he has logged 6,000-foot days all spring. The two of them skied Mont Blanc six weeks ago. That was the last time Dan got out.

Clouds blow in, enveloping us. When I last skied the mountain, the same thing happened: the clouds came in, and we remained in the alcove for two hours waiting for the snow to corn up. It never did, and in the bottom of the Ford my tips skittered. That’s the feeling I’m thinking of now.

Martin drops into the void. The clouds close around him. I look at Dan and Hans, both older than me, both still charging. Between the four of us, we’ve got nearly two centuries of living under our belts. I don’t know whether to be consoled by the thought, or appalled at how ridiculous it is that we’re up here at all.

photo: Christian Beckwith

When Bill began his turns from the summit, the temperatures had already risen well above freezing, turning the neve into wet, heavy corn. “The snow above Ford’s Couloir was good for a few turns,” he wrote. “Then I broke through, the skis sank about a foot into the snow unexpectedly, and caused my first fall. I fell downhill, quickly rolled over, and stood up on the skis again. From there on the snow was deep corn but quite skiable.”

One by one my partners disappear. My turn.

The upper part of the east face is not steep; only the knowledge of the consequences of your turns, should you blow one, remind you of its danger. Bill fell—twice—and recovered, but that doesn’t mean you should make a habit of it.

I ski out of the envelope. Hans and Martin are perched at the top of the Ford, chatting as if they were at a coffeeshop. Martin’s as comfortable here as if he’s been climbing in the Tetons his whole life.

I look at Hans: his craggy features are more deeply lined than they were 15 years ago when I first met him, but he still looks like he was hewn from granite. I can tell by the way he’s moving his hands that he’s alive with the position and the adventure. “It’s skiing on the moon,” he’d said to me, the first time I’d skied the Grand. We’re on the surface of it now.

I peek into the Ford. The walls of the couloir offer a kind of womb-like solace. I swivel my head toward our line. Only the mountains in the foreground break up the vertical mile between us and Jackon’s Hole far below. Though the result of a fall on the Briggs Route would be the same as they would be in the Ford, the exposure—and thus, the mind-trickery—is far greater here.

The exposure is what gets you. It scurries into your thoughts, weaving itself around your breathing as you ski. If you let it, it will wrap everything in a sticky web of doubt.

With a swallow, I turn my tips toward the green valley floor.

One by one we leapfrog and drop, making decisions wordlessly, in fluid expressions of movement and choice.

“Shortage of breath and strength forced me to make rather large turns down what can be called the upper Petzoldt Ridge,” wrote Bill. “This got a little narrow between the cornice of Ford’s Couloir and the rocks. I actually skied into the rock at the narrowest place.”

We ski toward Bill’s rocks. As we do, the angle steepens.

Martin is already at the anchor that Hans built on the way up, setting up the rappel, when I reach the others. They’re sidestepping toward the anchor. I visualize the poster above my desk.

Bill skied this?

Suddenly, I’m uncomfortable. Burnt Wagon Gulch far below tugs at my focus. I fight the feeling that I shouldn’t be here. Thoughts of my daugher, rolling toward me in her Tot Rider on our cork kitchen floor, come to me now.

I begin to sidestep. I try to make each move as solid and precise as I can.

When I reach the anchor, Dan hands me his runner, and I clip into it, take my pack off and extricate the rope. Soon Martin’s rappelling toward the diving board, bypassing the tips-and-tails variant Bill used to reach his waiting partners.

At the top of the Stettner, the rain crust remains frozen, and the couloir below is locked in shadow. Bill skied this, too.

Rap, downclimb, rap, downclimb. Soon enough, we’re at the Teepe Col. As we collect our cache of gear, a levity begins to work itself into our laughter. It will last for days, maybe weeks. It’s why I’m addicted.

We regain our frozen skins at the JHMG camp, then link turns for thousands of feet through increasingly wet, heavy snow, down the headwall, through the Meadows, toward the Platforms. The lads are in their moat; they hoot as we ski past.

“Did you give ‘er?” shouts Hans.

“Hell yeah, we did?” one shouts back. “The Glacier Route!”

“Good on ya!” Hans calls over his shoulder. I laugh as I ski past.

We were young once too.

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photo: Christian Beckwith

An hour and a beer after returning to the parking lot, we’re at the airport, dropping Dan and Martin off at their plane.

I shade my eyes and look up at the Grand. A backdrop of clouds is gathering to the west. Tomorrow the mountains will be socked in again, the window closed on spring skiing once more.

I think of the poster. After his descent, Bill called Virginia Huidekooper, homesteader, pilot and the founder of the Jackson Hole News. Virginia rushed to the airport, jumped in her plane and flew past the Grand, snapping photos of Bill’s tracks as she went. The results have inspired us for years.

“You know, it would be pretty awesome if you flew by the face on the way out and took a photo of our line,” I suggest.
“Can’t,” says Dan.  “Regulations won’t allow it.”

It’s a shame. I would have loved to have seen a photo of our tracks; I would have loved to have framed it, and hung it on my wall next to Bill’s. But regulations won’t allow it, and besides: Bill’s tracks would make ours look like what they were.

We made some great turns up there on Bill’s route, and we had a fine adventure. I like to think that Martin’s first outing in the Tetons left an impression on him that will bring him back, and Dan added a classic tick to an already great alpine resume.

But in the end, each one of us knows the truth: we were just four old guys up there yesterday, out there for the fun of it, following in the tracks of a legend.

Re-posted with permission from Christian Beckwith, founding editor of  the Alpinist Magazine. See more photos and read more of his stories on OuterLocal.

Top of the World

It’s hard to think that my journey to the top of the world started on a train in Tokyo. I was fourteen and I knew I wanted to climb, but wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. The closest climbing gym was three hours away and every Sunday my friends and I would set out for it. It was an all-day event and we made sure our homework from the American School in Japan was done before leaving so that the adventure could run late. Not really knowing what we were doing we bouldered our brains out, too afraid to try roped climbing. Though only pulling on plastic every Sunday, the experience would evolve into a serious passion for big mountain climbing. And, like any good climb, by no means was it a straight line from those Sunday outings to Pump 2 in Tokyo to the summit of Mt. Everest.

The flag I’m holding up in this picture means so much to me. In the middle is the rising sun; Japan’s essence. I consider it a commitment to a new day, a commitment that anything is possible. The Kanji means number one. And though I am an American, my time in Japan helped to shape the man I am today.

OR has been with me from the start of my guiding career when I met Dan Nordstrom on the Emmons Glacier on Mt. Rainier. After summiting with Dan, I had the opportunity to spend the afternoon walking out with him. At the end of our time together he offered me the Gore-Tex he had worn on the climb. He told me to tell him what I thought of the stuff. Dan Nordstrom wanted to know what I thought? OK!

So, over the next four years as OR grew, so did my career. The gear they provided me accompanied me all over the world. As I honed my skills as a mountain guide I watched OR grow into one of the most customer-oriented outdoor gear companies in the industry. I could see the parallels between OR’s infinite guarantee and IMG’s ( International Mountain Guides) pursuit to get it right. I’d say that ties right in with the idea of a rising sun. There is always a chance and a choice to make things a little bit better, which the Japanese would call Kaizen.

Eben says, " This photo is from when I was coming out from Plaza de Mulas. The Lateral duffel...I love that thing. Carry on, caching bag, truck duffel- its awesome and ultra durable..."

When I met and guided some representatives from OR’s Japanese distributor A and F, I had the opportunity to tie in my boyhood adventures -setting out on three hour train rides to feed my climbing needs- and my adult career of international guiding. Being able to work in the mountains with representatives of OR’s Japanese distributor, A and F, was a very special experience for me. When I thought of carrying a flag to the summit of Mt. Everest I thought it would be appropriate to recognize my Japanese roots while also emphasizing the support I have received from Outdoor Research. So, Thank you OR, and Arigatoo Nippon!

You can read updates from Eben’s trips guiding with IMG on their blog.

Our 1am wake up came far too soon. Soon we were ascending the talus and old moraine to the toe of the glacier in the dark. Still by headlamp we traversed the glacier where our two teams split to climb the North Face bypass and the Silverhorn on Athabasca. The main goal for Kir and me on these camps is to teach the participants the skills necessary to accomplish these peaks on their own, while still getting something done (in other words climb something instead of dry land training)! Sometimes we get slightly ambitious with this combination, but I think that is what keeps our participants coming back year after year. They love and embrace the challenge. I started to pitch out the Silverhorn with Claire, followed by Mary Ann and Deb as a rope team leading themselves. After about 9 full rope length pitches we reached the top of the Silverhorn to see 4 small figures along the skyline reaching Athabasca’s true summit via the North face Bypass. We continued up to them and shared high fives on a gorgeous blue bird cool day in July. Our team of 8 had summitted one of the Canadian Rockies classic 11’000ers.
We descended the standard AA col route and enjoyed some much deserved camp time with beers and good food. Sleep came easily that night!

The following day, people were pretty tired from the huge 13 hour push the day before. We opted to go cragging at a fabulous little secret quartzite crag and work on leading and multipitching rock skills. Everyone enjoyed the warm sun and rock, pushing themselves on lead, and learning more rope skills. A perfect “alpine rest day”!!

With two days left in the camp we wanted to try accomplishing another 11’000er, however there are not too many of these quiet monsters that are within a days reach. Despite a rather bleak forecast we decided to aim for Wooley and Diadem. We packed our bags and headed into the mountains to bivy at the base of these beautiful peaks and set ourselves up for an early start the following day. Part of this approach involved crossing the mighty Sunwapta river. Luckily it is quite braided in the area we crossed, but still presented a chilling experience! The rain didn’t get any spirits down however….must have been the awesome Helium Jackets and Radar Caps that OR gave us!

Despite a very wet evening, we ventured out of our tents at 3 am, and headed for Diadem. Luckily travel on Diadem was quite good and we found our way through the snow couloirs and rock steps and landed on the glacier just in time to get completely whited out. One step in front of the other slowly led us to the summit….which we really only recognized by not going up any more! On our way down though, we had a different story. The freezing cold temps of being in the clouds quickly turned into full on heat as we dropped. This descent offered us the most learning that any part of the trip could. A south facing route, 11am, clouds dissipating….things start to fall down and we could hear the evidence of that around us. After a vigilant and efficient descent we reflected back at some of the hazards that we encounter while alpine climbing and the educated decisions we make to minimize them. Judgment is a hard thing to learn from reading books. It can also be a dangerous thing to learn completely on your own. Experience in the element, in varying conditions, on varying terrain and then reflecting on it afterward is truly how judgment is built. This was a great judgment-building day!

Thrilled to have summitted and be safely back at camp we packed up our bags and made the journey back to the valley floor. Another successful camp was celebrated back in Lake Louise over dinner and beers! Looking around at the table of tired but smiling faces, I felt so lucky to once again be part of this group. Every year Kir and I run Women’s Alpine Camps for different ability levels and we are always so impressed with the level of energy, positivity and determination that fills the week. We recognize that spending a week pushing oneself physically and mentally in the mountains is not always high on one’s “vacation to-do list”! The reward however in terms of personal satisfaction, confidence building and friendship can not be matched by a week on the beach, and we thank Outdoor Research so much for recognizing that and encouraging these courses through incredible incentives!

Interested in one of Sarah’s programs? Find out more on her website and stay tuned for next summers alpine and rock camps in her newsletter.

The mayhem of the start; Photo courtesy of Osprey

“I am a backcountry skier.”  “I like to earn my turns.”  “I enjoy the uphill (almost) as much as the downhill.” These thoughts cycle through my head as I charge up hill with 121 other skiers. “I enjoy running my heart rate at 90% of max?!” This thought joins the cycle as I fall into line my tips inches from the tails in front of me, tips behind me tapping my tails, keeping me moving. I am competing in my first “Rondo Rally” and I will survive.

The guys and gals in speed suits and skis not much bigger than skate skis are long gone. I am caught in the middle of the fray, all of us groveling 2,400 vertical feet up Alpental ski area in Washington.  The thoughts in my head continue their cycle and I can’t help but ponder their inner meaning. “I am a backcountry skier.” That means that I like to spend time skinning uphill in the backcountry. “I enjoy the uphill (almost) as much as the downhill.” That means the pace is moderate, the heart rate far from maxed.  Views are taken in, frequent discussions occur with my companions. “I like to earn my turns.” What the hell am I doing earning my turns when there are two chairlifts in plain view this entire slog?!!!

Because, it’s fun. Damn fun! My first rando race at the 2011 Outdoor Research Vertfest was a hoot. Granted my heart nearly exploded and I could barely crank a turn on the steep downhill and my quads burned like the fire of a thousand hells, and due to my top transition delirium, I forgot to put down my heel lifters for the entire descent. Still, I had fun.

Osprey has sponsored Vertfest for a number of years, but due to Outdoor Research’s impressive expansion of the event, this is the first year that we pulled out the stops. Along with our bike marketing manager, Jeff Fox, I journeyed from Southwest Colorado to Seattle and on up I-90. With support from our local sales rep team, we set up our booth, demoed our Karve sidecountry packs*, met tons of great folks and enjoyed a brief immersion in what Outdoor Research calls “Verticulture”. This year’s Vertfest included Saturday clinics and demos, a Saturday evening backcountry film festival and on Sunday, the now iconic rando race.

Some noteble finishes: Osprey athletes Andy and Mike Traslin, placed first and second in the men’s race division. Fitz Cahall, author of the superb Dirtbag Diaries, aced the splitboard division. Of particular note was the energy and love exuded by the local community in memory of Monika Johnson. I was captivated by the slideshow images of all the places she visited – nearly every photo with skis on her feet. The women’s race division winner, Juya Ghanaie, recalled that when she decided to enter Vertfest, many told her she would do great – but inevitably finish in second place due to Monika’s dominance. She had met and skied with Monika only once, but respected her immensely. A bittersweet and tearful victory, indeed.

Participating in Vertfest was a bit of a homecoming for me. I spent a decade of my life cutting my skiing and climbing teeth in the Cascades. Many years have gone by and much has changed, but the feeling of being part of a family of adventurers has not. Here’s to 2011 and looking forward to 2012!

Did you race? Find your results  on the VertFest Facebook page. To see more of the fun from VertFest, check out event photos from Jason Hummel, professional photographer and VertFest clinic instructor posted to his page. We’d love to see more photos and hear your thoughts; post them to the VertFest Facebook page.

* Look for Osprey Karve Series sidecountry packs in Fall 2011.