Of note, Kevin Mahoney returned with Freddy Wilkinson over a week later for the second ascent. He linked our first two pitches into one extraordinary lead, and the pair added a final pitch to the trees.

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»

Werner and frog, Photo: Majka Burhardt

DAY 1
MB: I say goodbye to Ethiopia (intentionally), and to my new ultralight Thermarest (unintentionally). My first-ever spotting of the Congo appears initially out of a plane window, and soon through a propped-open plane door during a re-supply. Malawi and Mozambique bound.

SG: It’s 5:30 a.m. at Boston’s Logan Airport. I have a bad reaction to my anti-malaria meds and vomit into a trashcan at the airline check-in desk. I can feel the stares of the hundred or so early morning passengers in line behind me. Please let this not be a sign for what’s to come.

DAY 4
MB: We hike the wide side of a long arcing bend in the trail to see Mt. Namuli on its other side. I requisition a flask of whiskey from an already drunk porter. Herpetologist Werner Conradie confirms the presence of crocodiles in the Malema River while we are hip deep, midstream.

SG: It’s dark. We’ve been hiking for 6 hours already and there’s nowhere to stop until we get to the Queen’s hut at the base of the mountain. Our guide Cotxane (pronounced co-chan-ee) says it’s only 30 more minutes, but I don’t believe him. We are a group of thirteen—climbers, scientists, guides, and porters—hiking single-file through the bush, illuminated by the narrow light of four headlamps. I can’t help but think about lions and spitting cobras, the former apparently hunted out from this area, the latter we’ve already seen, but with any luck not active at night?

Majka mid pitch 1, Photo: Sarah G

DAY 5
SG: My skin, thinned by the malarial meds (the bane of my existence), feels like fire under the equatorial sun. I hike behind a young woman named Katarine who we’ve hired, with a few other locals, to help carry our equipment from the Queen’s village up to a grassy plain near the base of the mountain’s southeast wall. She is slender and strong, balancing the 40-pound duffel seemingly without effort on her head as she hikes barefoot along the dusty red path.

DAY 7 (See Video Below)

MB: Today I finally meet Namuli’s granite face, face-to-face.  It turns out that a 50-degree granite slab is the threshold for reasonable “hiking.” 53-degrees means we start climbing. I watch Sarah levitate up vertical grass. We swing leads. The high point of my lead? Feeling like I was one with the vertical grass. Low point? Slinging clump of said grass for protection. Gave up any semblance of cleanliness under my fingernails.

Porters on the flanks of Mt Namuli, Photo: Majka

SG: Paul has dubbed this our “Chia Mountain” and it’s an apt description. Who knew grass could grow on vertical rock? But it’s surprisingly solid to climb. Meter by meter, move by move, I make my way up the first pitch. It feels good to open this face, despite the absurdity of the vegetated terrain. A difficult move around a non-solid bush gets me into a squeeze chimney. I realize the black coating on the rock is not dirt here, but soot, which instantly coats my face, my arms, everything. I keep going until I run low on gear, then build an anchor. The thought of wildfire reaching this high up Namuli’s rock face occupies the back of my mind.

DAY 8
MB: Watched from 100-feet up the face as Werner, Sarah, and Paul celebrate spotting a gecko running up the granite face. I convince Werner to trust a rope and let go. We eat dinner as a blood moon—dark orange from the smoke from dozens of burning fields—rises over Namuli’s eastern hills.

SG: I am so dirty. I’ve tried to wash the soot and dirt away down at the river in the rainforest, but I can’t seem to get clean. My fingernails are rimmed with black grime and I’ve seen Majka’s sidelong glances. How does she stay so clean? Will she ever want to travel with me again?

DAY 10
MB: I don my gaiters at dawn. Eight hours later I learn that one of the most deadly snakes in the world is as skinny as my thumb. Today we leave Namuli; memories full of what we need to know to come back in 2012.

Mt. Namuli Photo Renata Jagustovic

When non-climbers ask why I climb, I often give them what I think of as my Zen answer, essentially that climbing is way to experience perfect alignment of body, mind, and nature. It sounds totally flakey, I know. But it’s also true.

But another truth about why I climb has less to do with actual climbing and more to do with adventure. For me, climbing is a tool—a mechanism—for exploring the wild corners of the planet. Last year it brought me to an unpronounceable island on the southern tip of Greenland. We only climbed four days in four weeks, but we still managed to establish a new free route on a beautiful wall. Now I’m heading out once again to Boston’s Logan Airport with a van full of enormous expedition duffels. Next stop: Mozambique.

My friend Majka Burhardt and I are setting out on a reconnaissance expedition to Mount Namuli, a 900-meter granite dome in the wildlands of northern Mozambique. Joining us is our friend Paul Yoo, a documentary filmmaker from Los Angeles, and Werner Conradie, a biologist from South Africa. Our mission is twofold: to scout the wall for climbing potential and to help scientists survey the cracks and recesses of Namuli’s massive granite face for new species of life.

The months of research and planning are over. Now it’s time to put the wheels in motion and see where this adventure leads. Will we find the new species of Forest Viper that is believed to be lurking in the rainforest along Namuli’s base? If we do, I sure hope it’s on Werner’s watch and not mine. Will we find a free-climbable route up the steep expanse of granite? Here’s hoping…

You can follow Sarah and Majka’s expedition here, on the Osprey blog and on their website, The Lost Mountain Film

Spring 2011 was busy as we wrapped up plastic pulling (world cup). Summer was filled with climbing around the Bow Valley and prepping for our road trip. With the arrival of the first snowfall we headed east stopping in Thunder Bay, Toronto, Lion’s Head, and Ottawa only to say good bye to Canada from there. We are at the mercy of the weather but we plan to see and climb in Rumney, the Red River Gorge, hit up a few bouldering spots in the southeast then Hueco for Christmas and New Years. From there we’ll chase the sun west to California. Fingers crossed, we’ll spend March in Spain.

This is definitely a trip of a lifetime for us, just chillin and making our way around N. America to climb and meet with friends. We’ll document some of the stops and events thanks to Outdoor Research. Check back here for more clips from the Van Life.

Blake was organizing a “Glacier Gorge Extravaganza” up to the heights of Rocky Mountain National Park. In short, a week of good friends eating good food, living under rocks surrounded by gorgeous granite. For the tribes of folks who chase the challenge of the wild mountains of the world, who put it all on the line for little in return, it is trips like these that give us the real rest that we need to keep psyched. We spend months scabbing by on scraps to keep the body fueled, searching through used books to keep our minds learning and pushing our bodies to discover new ground both physical and mental. But to head into friendly mountains with good friends to climb, is a true gift and offers a well earned rest.

The others came with similar stories, from huge Patagonian towers to months under heavy school and work loads. In each of our minds we hold an ideal, and with our hands we sculpt how we would like to achieve it, we train, we work, we suffer and sometimes, we send. Everyone’s grail was different as was their method for finding it. But a week away was a reminder as to why we work so hard. To better know ourselves, those around us and the terrain we hold so dear.

Refueled, we move back into the state of perpetual work and motion, as objects under newtons law we only slow when specific outside force is applied. But is weeks away like the GG Extravaganza supply such outside force and give us the breaks that we need to keep the dream alive.

Huge thanks to Blake and Allison Herrington and Scott Bennett for organizing the GGE. Also thank you to Forest Woodward and Garret Grove for their exceptional work with their cameras.

Cap Trinite on Bay Eternite in the Saguenay Fjord, Quebec

From our tent I heard two loud crashes of thunder and found myself trying to grab Anne’s hand as she scrambled out of the tent to get below the boulder. She tore away, her better instincts telling her the thunder I had heard was actually something – big – falling off the cliff. Once out of the tent, it was obvious we were really in some weather. The tropical storm that had been forming as we headed north almost a week before had apparently turned into something. The tarp was flying high like a single wing, then crashing down, rain was blowing everywhere and we soon discovered that the “thunder” I had heard had almost crushed three of my best friends.

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My wife Anne and I rolled north, across the border, with Sam Bendroth packed into the the back of my pick-up, freshly retrofitted with a cap that didn’t fit, a 2×4 canoe rack and re-riveted plex-iglas window.  Sarah Garlick and Jim Surette were a couple of days behind us, canoe lashed to the roof of their Matrix. The weather was beautiful. It was the end of my summer guiding season and Anne had taken a break from her busy schedule so we could celebrate out 1st anniversary together – just us, and three of our friends.

Jugging up to clean some chunder

After a relatively easy drive, a few minor language issues and a good sleep we got our first load in the canoe at the Bay Eterinite boat launch – about three hours north of Quebec city and in a peaceful bay carved into the mountains which line the Saguenay Fjord – around noon. We were rolling heavy, it was our anniversary after all, and after a couple of trips all the kit was in place at a our bivi site below the stunning 800′+ Grand Galets on Cap Trinite.

The first couple of days were slow. We had all been working a lot and this adventure was as much a vacation as climbing trip.

After a warm-up pitch that first afternoon, a rain day followed and Anne and I paddled back for more provisions; fresh ice, more beer, that kind of thing. The forecast was good for the next few days. As we paddled our laden canoe back to camp the approaching front pushed us backwards forcing us to shore. We watched, gear on high ground, as a wall of white caps moved in.

I scrambled down the little cliffs lining the coast in the rain, relishing the isolation, the grey water – and the taste of Molsen’s Export. After a 1/2 hour conditions mellowed, and we loaded back up and paddled back to camp, singing, in a soaking rain.

Sarah and Jim arrived in the sunny and breezy afternoon of our third day. Sam and I were in the shade enjoying the first lead of Maree Houte. This 100m section of overhanging rock comes right down to just above the water, where it meets a walkable ledge that is only partly submerged at the highest tides; the perfect place to dry out after a rain. Maree’s gorgeous 5.12a first pitch is variety pack of steep climbing on good rock with a hard, bolt protected crux, a great finger crack in a corner and a splitter off-width.

After a pitch the sheltered sections of granite became covered in a persistent flaky chunder. Luckily, Sam and I are no strangers to choss gardening after spending much of the past decade developing the forgotten notch of New Hampshire’s White Mountains, so while Sarah and Jim got to work on a long and dirty 5.11+ called La Vire du cure Dallaire, Sam laid into the second pitch of Maree, getting it done on a scary lead. We fixed a rope and retreated for a team briefing.

The gorgeous 2nd pitch of Maree Haute

After a morning spent cleaning the flakey rock we were finally ready to try a little free climbing. Sam headed up the 1st 12a pitch of Maree, crushing it. I followed and headed out on the second lead, quickly working up the less steep stemming and liebacking of its gently overhanging lower half. But, higher up it got harder and the rock got looser. My progress slowed while I figured out the difficult moves with small gear in the flaky cracks. The final jug haul up to the belay is a classic and exposed bit of glory climbing. The gear is hidden below the roof, the good holds are all on the same hollow sounding flake and you are right out over the high tide line. Sam arriving at the belay in full freak out mode after tearing through the crux, excitedly spurting between breaths about how hard it was. Funny, from the belay he made it seem easy.

He made his way up the next pitch, more chunder raining down on me, finger jamming, off-widthing and taking up the steep wet crack. A burly little roof move and we were up to our highpoint; a little hole half way up the route.  I kept telling Sam the rock would get better as we got higher – being more exposed to rain and weather – but after three pitches we still weren’t high enough. Above was an off-width lined with more of those loose flakes, but at least it was overhanging.

We headed down from there, after all it was the day before my anniversary and Anne is a lot more attractive than Sammy.

The 1st and 2nd pitches of The Beluga Belly

On our anniversary, Sarah, Jim and Sam started up the straight-out-of-the-water, 3 pitch and wide Beluga Belly (5.11+), at low tide, while Anne and I took a quiet rest day together. By the time they finished and rapped the route the access ledge was partially underwater giving Anne and I some more, high tide-enforced, quality time. While they sat marooned, the clouds that had been building all day finally started a steady rain and the increasing wind began to pick up white capped chop on the bay.

That night we all had dinner together sheltered below a camo tarp strung between our tent and a boulder. Sarah and Jim went to bed while Anne, Sam and I had another beer and played out a southern NH card game called 45′s. Now it was pouring. Sammy won and got up to walk back to his tent, the wind had just really started to blow. A few minutes later he was almost crushed by a tree ending it’s 850′ free fall just a few feet away. All we heard was two loud thundering crashes, and Anne was out the tent door to get shelter below the boulder.

I ran out in the dark, rain pounding, wind blowing and stumbled into a shaken Sarah. She yelled through the storm that the tree that almost took out Sam had hit their tent too She said everyone was OK, but they were headed over to bivy with us, their tent ruined. Jim was shortly behind her, cool and collected. I mushed my way through the mud and puddles to Sam’s bivy. He was already reading, and calmly asked me through the tent wall if I thought he was safe. I just reminded him of the obvious and mentioned we were all going to spend some time huddled below the boulder. He joined us shortly.

The storm continued the rest of the night as we huddled together. One of us had a soft cooler for a foam pad, another slept on a towel inside a trash bag, another wedged her hips between the dirt and the boulder and one just sandwiched herself patiently in the middle. Unsure of what to do next, I sat on the cooler and drank beer, trying to keep smiling and finally relaxing when we double checked the guidebook. It described a climber’s trail back the cars – only a two hour walk. With a plan for tomorrow hatched, all we had to do was wait – and not get hit by another tree.

The next morning Sam drew the short straw and jugged our fixed line in a waterfall to retrieve it. The rest of us packed up while Jim bundled our gear in a burly two tarp taco wrap. We started hiking in the rain, packs light with little bivy kits.

The Sarah-Anne Wrap Bivi. Sarah is in there somewhere

The hike out was memorable; we scoped an amazing amount of potential for steep crack climbing, and witnessed some incredible wind at the Notre-Dame du Saguenay statue at the tip of the cape. The storm had passed, but the wind here was still so strong I realized we had actually been sheltered from the full force of Irene by the steep granite of the Cap and our semi-subterranean bivy.

Arriving at a locked up and darkened visitor’s center, and a parking lot empty but for our two vehicles, was a surreal. We discussed the fact that they might have shut the park down due to the storm, but a persistent feeling of it-couldn’t-have-been-that-bad convinced me the competing theory of “zombie apocalypse” was more plausible. After a quiet hour drying out in the park we arrived at the park entrance, and the backside of a closed gate right next to the park headquarters A very busy English speaking park employee took the time to explain that the park was shut down and had been evacuated. She explained that the main road was washed out, and gave us advice on where to find inexpensive lodging for the night and told us to check in with her in the morning.

After a more traditional 1st anniversary dinner at a fine restaurant, and a good night’s sleep in a clean, modern hotel room in Chicoutimi, we headed back to the park the next day. We had since learned how bad the storm had been, seen Facebook photos from home of friends’ damaged houses – Sarah and Jim’s house was just inches above the high water line – and had plotted our route back to New Hampshire to avoid the many closed roads. We lined up a zodiac ride out to the Cap to clean out our kit, and Jonathan, our English speaker driver, gave us a high speed tour of the Saguenay and an up close look at some seals.

Sam Bendroth mid-breifiing

In the zodiac on our way back to the quay, on calm water, one of the towed canoes capsized and the three trash bags on board floated away. All was recovered with the exception of a shirt and some sunglasses, far less than many people lost to the hurricane. We were fortunate in many ways – I later saw the crushed metal water bottle that had been between Sarah and Jim’s heads when their tent was hit – all we really had to endure was the shell shock of a near miss and one uncomfortable night. Many people’s homes’ were severely damaged or lost entirely, including an entire community here in North Conway and many more in devastated parts of Vermont and New York.

Despite the tribulations and the flaky rock, I did love the place. The effect of the water, the paddle approach, the careful and crumbly gear placements, the steep compelling crack lines and the amazingly friendly locals all combine to make a long weekend here feel like a far flung, and far more expensive, expedition.

Cap Trinite got under my skin and I can’t wait to go back – and with any luck, actually climb something.

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.