I got the phone call that Garrett had died in an avalanche at 5am on March 27th. Only a few days prior, my good friend Mitch unexpectedly put a gun to his head and killed himself. The spring of 2011 hit an all time depressing low when my girlfriend, Jewell Lund, fell nearly a thousand feet down a narrow couloir on the northwest face of the Pfeifferhorn. She and a friend were trying to ski the extremely steep vein of snow when Jewell slipped on ice and rag-dolled over two cliff bands. Her helmet saved her life but a severe concussion and her broken radius-ulna inhibited her from joining me on our summer adventure of bike touring and climbing through Asia.

I even doubted the appropriateness of going on the multi-month adventure. Work at the coffee shop I co-own in Salt Lake City was at an all time high. I felt more comfortable paying bills, managing employees, fixing broken appliances, doing building remodels, and making mochas than I did climbing on stone and ice. Even hiking through the mountains felt unfamiliar. On days I was able to make it out into the Wasatch mountains I felt displaced, my mind often focusing on my business or the recent events of friends and loved ones. Life felt chaotic. While on a hike one spring day, I tripped over a small rock and fell to my knees. Nature feels so foreign to my soul. My life needs to slow down. I must go to Asia, I thought.

The plan, at least on paper, seemed simple. Assemble my bicycle and trailer at the Manas airport in Bishkek Kyrgyzstan. Spend the next six weeks, solo and self sufficient, riding around the country exploring and climbing mountains and rock faces that inspired me. Then, ride through western China crossing over the Khunjerab pass at 15,397ft, into Pakistan and meet up with Coloradans Kelly Cordes and Hayden Kennedy. And finally, spend another six weeks climbing on the Charakusa glacier attempting some of the mighty peaks of the Karakoram. My psych for the adventure was palpable, my fears and hesitations were hidden and piled under a heavy blanket of intense stress.

During the first 10 days of the journey I pedaled hard. I woke up early. I ate lunch with one hand and steered my bike with the other. Often times I rode well into the evening. Kyrgyzstan was flying past me; I was physically there but didn’t see it. I had places to go, people to see, or at least so I thought. Pedal harder. Charge! I parked and locked my bike at the end of the road in Ala-Archa national park. In a heavy rain I packed my backpack and hiked for two days to Ratsek refuge at the base of the steep and icy Peak Free Korea (15,551ft). I had goals, and one of them was to climb the 1976 Barber route. Then things went wrong, as they had so often this year, and I got sick. But sickness didn’t matter; I had to experience ALL of Kyrgyzstan. I repacked my trailer, loaded up my panniers, and took off on a 430kl ride to Karakol.

The most important lesson I learned those first couple weeks in Kyrgyzstan, and quite possibly the essential education from my summer, was how to slow down. I thank the bike for that. ‘Round and ‘round the pedals went. Clouds over lake Issuk-Kul hovered in the immense sky, drowning in a vibrant orange and red late in the day. Thoughts drifted through my mind but I didn’t focus on any of them. There was time to think on that ride to Karakol but I just observed. Time away from a chaotic life, alone and in nature, was slowing me down, curing me. I stopped more to chat with people, observed their lives, and took pictures of things that created wonder within. I felt deep breath returning to my soul.

After a shower and grocery resupply in Karakol, I began a long climb on the bike into the Tersky Alatau range. A peak there, Djigit (16,961ft), had sparked my interest when I found a photo of it on Google Earth some months before. When the road became impassible on bike I locked it to a tree and hiked two days to the base of Djigit. The mountain looked like a mini Swiss Eiger. Peak Djigit was amazing! From a pointy summit the mountain triangled downward and contained pockets of snow, steep quartzite outcroppings, and trickles of rotten looking ice. After my first day of rest in nearly three weeks, I went for it.

Continue to Page Two»

The Pirates of Rad are coming to Seattle! See their slideshow and hear tales of their climbing adventures in Alaska this past spring.

“In the winter of 2010, Mark Allen called me about a photo he had come across of a glacier in Alaska of which we had never heard. We determined that it was possibly accessible with skis from the epicenter of Kahiltna Basecamp and by all accounts unknown. With a bit of work, photos lined up to maps, together showing steep terrain and big relief, our excitement built. We planned for the Alaska range in the spring.”

Find more on their quest to trace new lines on the Lacuna here on VertiCulture. And come to their slideshow, Friday, October 7th at 7pm at the Outdoor Research Retail Store.

It's been a long night! Photo by Janet Bergman

July 20-21 On a snowy ledge at almost 19,000ft, Janet Bergman, Kirsten Kremer, and I curl together (Kirsten would say “snuggled up like hamsters”) to wait out a clear, cold night high above the Sakang Lungpa glacier in the Eastern Karakoram. We only half prepared for this forced bivy; we have a stove, a mini tarp, and Janet and Kirsten have insulated pants. I opted not to bring mine, hoping to save weight and bulk in my pack but now I shiver uncontrollably while waves of nausea intermixed with pangs of hunger wash over me. It took us more than twelve hours to get to this point but the altitude had exhausted me after only three pitches. I know we haven’t moved fast enough to summit in the morning…even if we had, we’re out of food. I try not to look at my watch; minutes feel like hours. I feel my feet freezing, losing dexterity, going completely numb. One toenail has barely grown back after being frostbitten last winter, I can’t let them get too bad. Eventually I put my mittens on my feet and my feet in my pack. It doesn’t help much, I need calories but can’t choke them down. At some point I must have actually fallen asleep for a minute or two. I dream that one of our Sherpas has climbed up to us with a huge pot of oatmeal. In the dream I ask, “How long did it take you to climb here and he replies, only one and a half hours…I found a shortcut!” This dream is fitting of the situation; our Sherpas are remarkably strong and capable…I’m pretty sure they probably could have climbed up to us with a pot of oatmeal in one hand! Finally I give in and look at my watch. It’s 3:30am, only one long hour ’til dawn. I’m pretty sure high-altitude climbing isn’t for me.

After our retreat from 6135 we walk three miles back to basecamp arriving just in time for afternoon tea. At 16,500ft and tucked into a pocket of grass and wildflowers complete with a babbling glacial stream, our basecamp is an anomaly in an otherwise high altitude desert. We spend the next three days here resting, eating, and playing round after round of Hearts to pass the time. We also strategize about our next attempt at climbing. Our first try, while mostly exploratory, followed the southeastern ridge of the peak and seemed to be increasingly loaded with loose rock rapidly melting out from under thin patches of snow and ice. Certainly not the clean alpine rock climbing we had hoped to find. It also seemed that from our previous highpoint we would have to continue through a section of complex terrain likely having to climb down, under, and around spires of discontinuous rock and other unstable features. We question the safety of this route, the value of going back at all, and whether we’re willing to accept a higher level of risk given the objective hazards. In the end, we decide to return.

July 25-27
The alarm goes off at 1:30am and we quickly brew coffee, force down a little food, and throw a few final items into our packs. We’ve decided to head back up on the southeastern ridge this time with enough gear for at least two nights and three days. We’re also prepared to climb more at night when colder temperatures might keep the snow firm and the rock glued together. Unfortunately, our packs are heavy and this will not contribute to faster paced climbing. But once outside the tent we notice that the sky is no longer filled with stars and a hazy cloud cover moves in rapidly from the south, land of the monsoon rains. Unsure of the next move and not wanting to climb up high only to be trapped in a storm, we go back to bed. Peeking outside the tent every hour or so we find no change in the weather, just thick clouds and light wind. By morning, the weather has neither improved nor deteriorated and we opt to explore another route, this time a long ridge in the center of the peak leading directly to the summit 3000ft away.

Leading in blocks, I take the first three pitches. What looks like an easy gully turns out to be a never-ending, difficult to protect, ribbon of rotten ice and rock. Somewhere on the second pitch I hear rockfall and something whizzes by overhead. I’m pretty sure it’s in the next couloir over but Janet tells me later that it missed her by five feet while she was trapped at a semi hanging belay. Now on the third pitch with the rock ridge in sight, I encounter a 100-pound, missile shaped piece of rock aimed directly down the tight gully we’ve just come up. It teeters on a narrow bed of ice and will launch down the gully if I touch it or when the sun slants toward us as it’s about to do. I’m forty feet above my last piece of gear and balanced awkwardly one foot on ice the other smeared on rock. With little other choice, I wrestle the rock off its platform and into a depression of snow, all while hoping not to be pushed off my stance and into a tumbling fall. Though effective, the maneuver is desperate and leaves me wondering how many more rocks and boulders target us as this one has.

Having taken the next block of leads, Janet has gotten us to the base of the ridge and it is here where we decide to bail. Not just bail to our advanced base camp on the glacier but retreat altogether. We deem this mountain too dangerous. It’s a hard decision to make knowing we haven’t accomplished our objective, but the overhanging, corniced ridge up high and the continuous rockfall are more risk than we’re willing to accept. Moments later as we set up the rappel, our decision is reinforced when huge rockfall tumbles off the summit and ricochets down our line of descent, missing us narrowly.

The next morning, with the help of our Sherpas, we pack up and head for basecamp. Mark, Steve, and Freddie are there, too, having returned from acclimatizing at their advanced camp near the base of Saser Kangri II. They report that the South Shukpa Glacier is the place to be: higher, colder, and endless unclimbed peaks in the shadow of Saser Kangri II all only a days ski away. Perhaps the adventure will continue after all…

Flemming’s book is about the exploration of the Amazonian interior in the 1920′s. It is a story about getting lost in the wilds of the world, exploring what was then a large blank spot on the map. I first read this quote when I was twenty years old, while pinned down on the weather stricken west coast of New Zealand. I took the word ‘specialist’ to refer to ‘climbers’, and took pride in being one of those who might be able to participate in adventure ‘in the grand old manner’. I was in the process of cutting my teeth amongst the steep ice and rock of the Southern Alps and chasing dreams that I hoped would one day lead me to the greater ranges. This exploration of the unknown was the drawcard. This was the reason for my dreams and for my planned progressions into the big mountains.

Five years later, a relativity short amount of time by many accounts, including graduation from University, seven expeditions, and seemingly countless months on the road, had put me in a different realm of thinking about the world and the mountains. I had found that many of the far away places were in fact well known, that the discovery of the new areas was an opportunity to be relished and sought but was not always easy to find. So I continued the progression on routes new and old, always with a keen ear to the ground for these lands unknown

In the winter of 2010 my good friend and climbing partner Mark Allen called me about a photo he had come across of a glacier in Alaska of which we had never heard. We determined that it was possibly accessible with skis from the epicenter of Kahiltna Basecamp and by all accounts unknown. With a bit of work, photos lined up to maps, together showing steep terrain and big relief, our excitement built. We planned for the Alaska range in the spring.

In the lower 48 Mark and I trained and watched as winter loosened its grip for the year and we prepared for another trip into the big mountains. Between us, we had taken more than a dozen expeditions into  the Alaskan Range and because of this the process of getting into the mountains felt routine. Before long we were on the glacier with our heavy rations of pork product, quesadillas, and whiskey

Our goal was to access the Northwest Fork of the Lacuna Glacier, a small area located between the Yetna and the massive bulk of Mt Foraker. We knew that some of the peaks had been climbed from the opposite (Yetna) side by our friends from New Hampshire during previous seasons, but we had found no evidence that anyone had climbed from the Lacuna (east) side. So we set our sights to cross under the South Face of Foraker and wander into the unknowns beyond.

It took us four days to reach the NW Fork on our first trip. Two areas on the map that looked to be low angle and no big deal turned out to be heavily crevassed icefalls surrounded by loaded slopes.  With patience and persistence we eventually reached our goal having traveled a total of 27 kilometers from Kahiltna. And while it might not have been remote compared with the old timers who walked into the range, we both felt as though we might as well have been on the moon.

Entering the NW Fork was magnificent as we were greeted by the massive Southern and Eastern features of unclimbed peak 12,213 with it’s series of aesthetic buttresses pouring down at steep angles towards us. To find an untouched zone, and within it such a peak, was a combination of intimidation and dream come true.

We immediately set up a camp at it’s base and the next evening started an attempt on one of the buttresses on the right side of it’s South Face. Excellent mixed climbing led to desperate and terrifying ridge climbing. Moving slower than expected we made it through the worst and reached the broader ridge above, where we spent a comfortable night on a well protected and almost big enough perch. The next day, on the ridge to the summit, what we had anticipated to be easy climbing was in fact deep, faceted, dangerous snow on steep aspects. With three weeks left in the range we bailed, with the intention of letting the mountain cure, in order to make the transition out of the dangerous winter snowpack into the safer and faster spring conditions we needed.

So we returned to Kahiltina; to the pork, the whiskey, and the people. To fill our time we climbed the West Ridge of Hunter, a classic in the true sense of the word. While not on route we caught up on podcasts, watched Lord Of The Rings, shot a thug life video, and waited.

Within a week the conditions had improved and it was time to return. This time the ski to the Lacuna took us two days and we felt much more comfortable with our setting. The longer steeper buttresses in the middle of the face seemed to offer more technical climbing with less scary ridges and we happily opted for this option.

Starting the next evening we embarked onto some of best mixed climbing I have experienced anywhere: wild exposure and aesthetic steep technical climbing with a few bits and pieces that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. The cornices and ridge climbing were also still very much present and accounted for, but we made it back to the summit ridge without too many dramas. Upon reaching the ridge we were forced to look out with disdain on the large black clouds close at hand. The remoteness and the high consequences of heavy snowfall on our descent had us turned around and back on the glacier a few hours later, watching the clouds swirl on the peak above.

The next morning we found ourselves near the end of our trip, two days from base camp, with dwindling food and clearing skies. As we lounged, awake in the sun-warmed tent, resting from the 26 hour push the day before, we independently considered the proposition of heading back up on the mountain. By the time we finally started the conversation it was already clear that we were going to stay in Lacuna a little longer.

Slowly we packed, ate our meager rations, and continued to rest. Essentially we were to use our food for getting back to Kahiltina for one last attempt on 12,213 and therefore would ski back without food. We both knew we could do it. We both also knew that it would hurt. But subtle glimpses of magic are always afoot and we found in the bottom of a bag two packets of instant coffee which to two fellas from Western Washington might as well have been gold. With bags packed and the face out of the heat of the day, we slugged down lukewarm strong coffee and felt the power surge back into our bodies.

Six hours later we were standing on top of 12,213, having climbed a direct coulior on the South Face, an easier but more threatened 4,500ft line that we were able to simul-climb in two super long pitches. The climbing consisted of brilliant steep neve with the odd moderate mixed move, and fantastic fast terrain. On top we were able to look down over the Yetna and into the wide open tundra beyond. The ski back was no longer a concern,  simply a matter of continuing the perseverance and good decision making a little while longer. We had achieved our goal of climbing a new mountain and had an adventure ‘in the grand old manner,’ just as I had dreamed of so many years before.

Graham and Mark coined peak 12,213 “Voyager Peak” after the Voyager Satellite that launched in 1977 that is still exploring deep space. You can read more from each of them on their respective blogs; Nomadic Wanderings of a GZ and Expeditions Northwest

They would like to offer huge thanks to those who helped make this trip happen: The New Zealand Alpine Club, The Mount Everest Foundation, and Outdoor Research, with additional support from Julbo USA, Cascade Designs, and Feathered Friends.

Then I spent the next six months being slightly to wildly stressed about what I had signed up for. I even stopped using the word “cold” in my vocabulary. It would come to me as I went skiing in the Cascades or biked around Seattle in freezing rain. But I tried never to say it. “Chilly” or “Que fresco!” were allowed. Friends who’d climbed Denali with the same Park Service patrol program said it was not so bad; that you wear really warm clothes all the time and you get plenty of time to acclimatize. The park service patrol has camp set up at 14,000’ and a bare-bones camp at 17,000’. Our mission is to manage the mountain, meaning maintaining cleanliness and being prepared for search and rescues.

The 2011 season on Denali, especially the middle part, was an uncharacteristically deadly one. There were already seven deaths in the Alaska Range by the time our patrol flew onto the Kahiltna Glacier on May 26th. Climbers had fallen off Denali Pass, off the summit block’s Pig Hill, and in a serac fall near Base Camp. There had been a tracheotomy procedure to save a life above 17,000’ and a man was flown off of 19,000’ after a leg-breaking slide forced him to spend a night alone at that elevation. He survived.

We spent a week at 14,000’ at Camp Four, aka 14. It’s the mountain’s liveliest of the camps since climbing parties spend the majority of their time at 14 in order to acclimatize. It’s also the launching point for a few routes – the most-commonly used being the West Butt, but also the upper West Rib route, the legendary Cassin Ridge, and the big-line ski couloirs of the Orient Express and The Messner.

Portraits

So 14 Camp had everyone from a novice mountaineer from Tennessee who’d joined a guided party via an online match, to Colin Haley and his partner Nils Nielsen as they acclimatized for their attempt at setting a speed record on the Cassin (they were denied by poor snow). Most people would stop by the Park Service tent for anything from a weather check to a request for more biodegradable poo bags to treatment for HAPE or frostbite.

Mountaineering is a weird sport that can be both thrilling and ridiculous. We spent twenty-five days walking and waiting to get to a summit that we stood on for three minutes. Then we walked back down. That sort of elected suffering incorporates many things: patience, determination, ego, grit, money, time, gear, self-reliance, self-absorption, and an anti-stir-crazy syrum (in our case, Hearts and Bananagrams).

So I tried to meet the people who do this sport. In our week at 14 Camp I made portraits of climbers I met. I asked them the standard interview I’ve been collecting for almost a decade. Meet some mountaineering people…

Continue to Neda’s Portrait»

“For me, the return home from a climbing expedition is a tumultuous time. You’re immediately faced with the smack of regular life: you’ve spent more money than you expected, you haven’t worked for weeks or months, and the little counter in your email inbox has reached triple or even quadruple digits. In this hectic aftermath, I’ve found that my experiences, which had been so strong and immediate, can easily fade away into the background of my life. But Greenland was different. It has been a year exactly since we returned and Greenland has stayed with me with a richness that has been hard to describe in words alone. To share the story of our experiences, I put together this video with imagery and sounds that everyone on the climbing team gathered during the trip. I’m indebted to my partners, Jim Surette, Dave Nettle, and Danika Gilbert, for their spirit, skill, and generosity, and to the Copp-Dash Inspire Award for making our journey and its story come to life.” —Sarah Garlick, Sept. 1, 2011

The promising radar image of a wet trip

When planning trips in advance, the weather can not be anticipated. As your trip gets closer every day, you probably find yourself doing what I do: looking at all the different websites for weather forecasts. No matter how many websites you look at, they all say something similar: 80% chance of rain for the next 3 days. Now what? So you refresh your browser and check out another weather website hoping a different forecast will miraculously show up with sunshine for the next 3 days. Sadly, that is not the case!

Many times plans change due to dismal weather forecasts and fears of nasty storms. Having grown up in Washington and having spent the last several years working as an IFMGA mountain guide in the Cascades, I’ve grown accustomed to dealing with wet weather. I have learned to thrive in the wetness and can not quite imagine a mountaineering trip without some mandatory wet weather days. After many failed attempts at trying to keep gear dry, I have finally created a system that works quite well. The following are some of the strategies I use to help stay dry during the wetness.

Using the garbage bag technique before a trip this spring

1. Use Garbage Bags

Garbage bags are a great way to keep things dry. I recommend 3 heavy duty trash compactor bags. First, I line the inside of my backpack with garbage bag #1, placing all items in that garbage bag that I’m not going to need until I get to camp. Second I take garbage bag #2 and use it in the top part of my pack, putting in clothing layers and other important items that I want to stay dry. Garbage bag #3 stays near the top of my pack. When I get to camp I put items in the garbage bag #3 as set up my tent. This system will help keep all of your clothes and important items dry.

2. Gloves and Quick Dry Clothes
Gloves with removable liners are a great way to keep your hands warm and dry. Being able to pull out the liner part of your gloves will allow them to dry much faster. Having clothes that dry quickly will also help set you up for success. I recommend wool tops and other synthetic blended materials that dry quickly. I bring several lighter weight layers which tend to dry out faster than “heavy thick” layers.

Placing my wet socks in between layers to dry them out

3. Your Personal Heater
Your body is your personal drying system. At night, I take my wet socks off and place them in between my clothing layers either up by shoulders or down at my thighs. The heat that your body produces helps dry out wet socks and gloves. Your sleeping bag turns into your personal night time heater. I will put all damp clothes that I want to dry out overnight in my sleeping bag. I even take the insoles out of my boots and liners (if using a double boot system) and place them in my sleeping bag. Clothes that are very wet like my Gore-tex shell and pants I place in between my two sleeping pads over night and the heat will slowly dry them.

4. Extra Socks
It’s always nice to have an extra pair for dry socks. On overnight trips for only a couple days, I bring two pairs of socks and use my “personal heater” to dry one pair out as I wear the other pair. If the trip is longer than 5 days, I recommend bringing three pairs of socks. Changing into a dry pair can help keep your feet happy and morale high!

Paige using the hot water bottle to stay dry and get warm

5. Warmth at Nighttime
Nothing helps keep you warm like a nice big meal in your stomach. Eating a big dinner will help you stay warm all night. As your body digests that large pasta and sausage meal you ate, it releases energy, helping to create more body heat. Another tip is to make a “hot water bottle.” Bring some water to a boil and put it in your water bottle then put that bottle in your sleeping bag or in between your layers.
And remember a cold body results in a cold sleeping bag. So before you hop into that bag for the night, move around and get warm. A warm body will heat up a cold sleeping bag quickly resulting in a better night sleep.

So get out there and experience the mountains. Even when they are wet, they are still beautiful! And sometimes the forecast is wrong!

Learn more about Jonathon and follow along with his guiding adventures on his website Snow, Rock, And Ice Adventures.

A guide and his 'sport'

Ha! This description of the 19th century Adirondack guide caught my eye one day while skimming through a book of Adirondack history. It got me thinking about how guiding has evolved since the 1800′s when tourism and recreation first boomed. Historically, the Adirondack Guide was revered for his ability to hunt, fish, trap, cook, navigate, build shelters and boats, and safely transport his “sports” (what modern guides now refer to as clients or guests). These fabled guides were considered a crucial link between visitors and the vast, remote wilderness of the Adirondack Park.

As a modern mountain guide based in the Adirondacks, I can attest to being a bridge between visitor and wilderness. But things are different now; mountain guiding is a highly specialized descendant of what guiding here once was. My work involves the technical aspects of rock and ice climbing, mountaineering, and backcountry skiing. Most trips last only a day or two, and my guests often arrive with a reasonably skilled background. In contrast, my shelter and boat building skills are primitive at best. Fish creep me out. I don’t know how to hunt or trap, and I’m definitely not going to wash my guests’ undergarments at the end of a long day! However, there are elements of 19th century guiding that factor into my work and life today. Here are a few that I found in Paul Schneider’s book, The Adirondacks: a History of America’s First Wilderness (1997).

A guide entertains with 'tall tales' around the campfire

“Be a shrewd judge of character.”
On my very first day working as a rock climbing guide, I made my guest cry. In my defense, she was an older woman climbing with her overly ambitious, college-aged son who couldn’t be bothered to attempt anything less than 5.8. Having no idea how to manage such a situation, I chose a route far exceeding her ability. I hauled her up a worthless corner with the only feature being a mud-choked crack. Upon topping out, with tears in her eyes, she silently removed her shoes and harness and demanded to go home. In the ten years since, I have learned to judge people and situations with far more shrewdness and sensitivity. I’ve learned that a good guide, whether 19th century or modern, has the innate ability to assess the drive, motivation, and desires of their guests.

“Bronzed and hardy, fearless of danger, and eager to please.”
While I do consider myself durable (Adirondack living will do that to you), I am probably the most danger-fearing guide out there. Nonetheless, a good guide will appear calm, cool, and collected in the face of uncertainty. It’s always a relief when your guest arrives next to you at the belay and comments on how easy you made it look (even if you were terrified). As for being eager to please, well, if this is an elusive quality for you, you probably won’t last long in the business. This is, after all, a customer service industry, and a guide must strive to provide an enjoyable and safe experience while subtly adapting to their guests’ hopes, expectations, and skills.

Summer climbing above Chapel Pond

“A good guide is woods-wise and independent.”
At 6.1 million acres the Adirondack Park is a densely forested landscape of mountains, lakes, and rivers. Guiding here requires an intuitive sense of direction and the ability to navigate a steep forest through drainages, herd paths, and Krumholtz – german for the sub-alpine ‘twisted wood’ that crowns the High Peaks. Additionally, guides must be self-reliant and responsible for their decisions and their outcome. In the 1800′s guides were essential, as trails to summits had yet to be cut and “sports” were completely dependent on the skill and experience of their leader. Having spent my share of time bushwacking through impenetrable spruce thicket in hopes of finding some mythical crag, I’ve learned that being woods-wise is indispensable for an Adirondack climbing guide.

“His clothes appeared to be put on him once and for all, like the bark of a tree.”
Actually, I try to avoid looking like my clothes have been put on for once and for all. And while there was a time when I thought myself pretty cool for wearing flip-flops and ratty t-shirts to work, this is no longer the image I have in mind when I think of a professional guide. Appearance is a recurring theme in the history of Adirondack guiding and the quote above describes the hygiene habits of legendary guide Orson ‘Old Mountain’ Phelps, who also held great disdain for soap. Today, a well-dressed appearance indicates professionalism, seriousness of purpose, and with any luck, some sense of fashion.

“The life of a guide…is a hard one, and there are few who would not abandon it to engage in a less arduous mode of earning a living…it makes them old before their time.” — Charles Lanman, circa 1850.
Guiding in the Adirondacks entails a great lifestyle but it’s definitely an arduous way to make a living. While I occasionally entertain thoughts of a secure, steady job with benefits like health insurance and inside work on bitter cold days, the rewards outweigh the downsides. And, I doubt that the fresh air, exercise, and dynamic nature of the job are making me old before my time!

You can find out more about Emilie including info on her upcoming trip to the Karakoram on her website; Cloudsplitter Guides. You cane learn more about the book she refers to by author Paul Scheider on Amazon.  Historic photos are courtesy of the Adirondack Museum at Blue Mountain Lake

The alpine realm is beyond anything enticing. People are drawn to mountains regardless of their intent with them; for some, it goes no further than taking a photograph. For myself I have always been drawn to them out of curiosity and exploration, both objectively and personally. A mountain presents an unknown that creatively gets puzzle-pieced together. Alpine climbing for me is a connection with simplicity. It allows me to shed away the distractions associated with being an adult, owning a business, and the monotonous grind of paying bills. A trip to the mountains is a return to the simplicity of childhood.

Think about it: children are able to find contentment with very simplistic surroundings. A cardboard box becomes a space station. A mud pit becomes a battleground for G.I. Joe and the villainous Decepticons.  A child’s approach to foreign things is often innocent and almost always they have a hidden intent to their pursuit. Not to cause harm or be harmed but merely to have fun. When engaged in activity they become entirely focused, completely present they are able to learn from their successes and their mistakes, and as individuals they are able to grow. I learned a lot from climbing Edgar.

It took eight days for Bruce and myself to ascend Edgar’s east face. Well before we arrived to China the mountain had already taken on an air of danger by killing two of America’s best alpinists and an accompanying cameraman. While I never knew the climbers, their demise greatly saddened me and in the back of my mind I wrote off the mountain as something I’d never attempt. A year and half later I was packing my bags for Sichuan. Intrigued by exploration of a new-to-me mountain range and numerous photos of unclimbed objectives, including Edgar, I was giddy with excitement and cautious of danger.

Route conditions were in great shape as we arrived to the Minya Konka range on the cusp of winter. High pressure and cold and windy weather blasted the range as Bruce and I spent the first two weeks acclimating and getting accustomed to the range. Our ascent of Grosvenor was the first time that either of us had approached a mountain of its size and climbed it in a single straight push from base camp. We were feeling good as we drove around the northern side of the range and descended to the eastern foothills. In the ancient small town of Moxi we met our liaison officer for Edgar and the very next morning began the approach.

EXCERPT FROM KYLE’S UPCOMING ARTICLE FOR ALPINIST:
In the early morning hour our headlamps turned the dense fog to white brightness, limiting our vision to three feet. When turned off we returned to the pre-dawn darkness.  Straining my pupils to the far reaches of my iris did nothing; still I could not see. 16,000 feet of mountain above me, I have six days of food, everything must count. Hours pass. Black fades to thick white and reveals a densely vegetated almost post-apocalyptic world. Abandoned buildings and tented camps with a few stirring construction workers line the shoulder of the demolished road. Some workers care less about our presence, others stop what they’re doing, their black eyes pierce through the fog into my own and we stare at each other with equal perplexity. Some make gestures and call out in Chinese, I respond with ni haio and they freeze in time, an expression of their respect and fear of what awaited Bruce and myself high above the thick fog.

The fog that Bruce and I encountered on both the approach and on the descent practically set the tone for the entire eight days. Edgar had an eerie feel and its objective hazards are so high that for the duration of the climb Bruce and I were beyond focused and extremely present, we had to be with looming death so near. On day three we ascended the long gully that provides direct access to the east face. It was identical and parallel to the gully that had killed Jonny and Micah and we witnessed its deadly power first hand. We watched huge avalanches completely flush through the narrow corridor both before and after we made our passage. It was simply a matter of timing and we had just been lucky.

Difficult lessons that children learn through exploring sometimes have dramatic outcomes; usually in the form of screaming, crying, and/or tantrums. Again a similarity with alpine climbing, come to think of it I’ve done all those things in the mountains. The Edgar climb stung me pretty hard and while I did manage to refrain from crying and throwing a tantrum while on route, when we finished I had fairly loud internal dialog screaming at me how dangerous the climb had been. The nice thing about childhood is that you have your parents looking out for your safety; mom or dad are able to draw the line of what is unacceptably too risky. For an adult climbing a mountain responsibility is all one’s own. You can spend a lifetime educating yourself about the dangers encountered in the mountains but in the end the line never ceases.

Edgar showed to me first hand that a mountain’s beauty and mysticism can captivate an individual to such an extent that the focus required practically makes them blind to the risk. I learned to be more respectful of outlying dangers on future climbs and that I never again want to come so close to that line. I will still pursue alpine climbing and will do so with the same curious and explorative pursuit but much like how a child learns from getting burned, that space station flies off a curb and crashes into the ground or GI Joe gets a little too aggressive and rips the arm off of the Deception ,  I too have learned my lesson on the east face of Edgar.

Look for Kyle’s full article to be published in the Alpinist’s upcoming issue #34, on newstands soon.

I have spent two months in the mountains of the Khumbu sub-range of the Himalaya, attempting to climb some of the most beautiful peaks upon which I have ever laid my eyes. I began the trip riding a string of successful climbs and expeditions, my ego was strong, and failure felt remote. However, despite looking at mountain faces which I felt myself and my teammates capable of climbing,they successfully eluded us.

When designing an expedition into the big mountains, I make all sorts of contingency plans; med kits, antibiotics, whiskey, and ipods cover potential eventualities. But when the planning is done for the day, while sitting back thinking about the expedition at hand, I visualize climbing high on beautiful technical terrain, of pushing through fear and exhaustion, and of SENDING.

Nevertheless, sickness, heavy snowfall, high winds, and melting ice conspired to break down our psyches and keep us off the flanks of the mountains.  Despite changes in objective, group psyche meetings, runs of antibiotics, and finally a day of drinking whiskey and smoking cheap Nepali cigarettes, we found ourselves defeated in a realm that we felt ourselves savvy.

Now alone, my partners having left a couple of days ago for the hills, crags, and loved ones of home, I hang in Kathmandu waiting for an Indian visa to be approved.  My days and evenings are spent walking the streets plugged into my headphones and sitting in restaurants writing.  Heavy beats, loud guitars, and poignant lyrics carry me around the cars and motorcycles weaving down the narrow streets and past peddlers selling fake antiques, illicit substances, and tiger balm. With nothing to do, I am left to wander and digest the experiences of the past months.

Why do I live a migrant, intentional, and extremely frugal lifestyle in order to pursue steep unknown terrain in wild places?

The answer is simple, I climb and attempt new routes on demanding terrain to taste what is not easily attained, to step close to the edge and come back to share. Along with pushing personal limits comes the discovery of personal boundaries; the edge of the envelope.

I love to push my limits and I love to climb. In the Khumbu we made decisions that kept us mentally healthy, alive, and ready to push again another day as stronger more humble and confident alpinists.

In the evening, the streets of Kathmandu, lit by bare light bulbs in open-air shops, have taken on a more ominous quality, and I walk back to my guesthouse. I have just finalized plans to return to the greater ranges in the spring, this time to Alaska. I consider with a humble attitude, the recognition that failure on the mountain is a real possibility, with real learning opportunities. I rejoice in being drawn to the flanks of these mountains that I find so beautiful. With excitement and anticipation, I think of climbing high on beautiful technical terrain, of pushing through fear and exhaustion and of SENDING.

Mark Allen, Graham’s climbing partner, share’s his experience on his tandem Khumbu trip to Ama Dablam here on VertiCulture. Check back for more from these two this spring when they takes on new climbing objectives in Alaska. In the meantime, for more on Graham’s adventures take a read of his blog and additional VertiCulture posts.