Video of the Month: Upper Dexter Icefall

View Steve Heikkila's video of his climb on Upper Dexter Icefall in Ouray, Colo. Get stoked to check out the Portland Alpine Fest's awesome clinic and athlete line-up from Nov. 4 - 8. Get the skills you need to take your own trip to Ouray!

Re-united: The power of the Mazamas and Facebook!

Amy Mendenhall reuinited
with her lost Garmin.

by Rico Micallef

The weekend of August 15, 2014 I attempted Mt. Jefferson with the Mazamas - climb #544.
Unfortunately we did not summit. When we arrived at the Red Saddle there was a group of three climbers ahead of us who were making their way across the upper snowfield. We could see the sun beginning to hit the top of the slope, and with a team of 11 climbers it would take too long, the pickets would have to be reset on the decent resulting in descending in the dark, consequently we called it and did not summit.

I was the assistant on the climb, so I proceeded to guide our group down the mountain. As I descended I came across what I originally thought was a camera in the scree. I picked it up, and saw that it was a GPS, so I threw it in my backpack, thinking "I doubt it works, but what the heck I’ll change the batteries when I get home and we will see if it works, worse case I took some garbage off the mountain." When we stopped for a break, I mentioned my find to the group, where the common response was, wow I doubt it works. So I took it out my pack and switched it on, much to my surprise it turned on! One of the team said it was probably a fellow Mazama that lost it. I figured I might as well post it on the ICS Facebook page and see if I can track down the owner. Below is a copy of my FB post and the corresponding traffic:

Rico Micallef
August 19
********** Found Garmin GPS **********
I found a Garmin GPS on Jeff.
Much to my surprise it still works, it had been sitting on Jeff for over a year!
Based on the track data it was lost in the 2013 climb season!
I'd like to get it back to its rightful owner.
Here is what I need:
What model #?
when did you lose it?
Name some of the saved tracks?
Sorry but as Ronald Reagan said Trust but Verify!
Please feel free repost this

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Larry Beck Hey Amy Brose Mendenhall, is this yours?
August 19 at 1:15pm • Like
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Michael Zasadzien Hey, you should post this on cascadeclimbers.com; I'm sure there's a ton of visibility through that forum!
August 19 at 1:16pm • Like
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Larry Beck Rico Micallef, Amy lost one last year in August on the south ridge above camp at Goat Rock.
August 19 at 1:16pm • Like
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Amy Brose Mendenhall That might be mine! I lost it last year on Jefferson on the way down. I have no idea what tracks could be in there...but it was a garmin etrex 30. black. with a little waterproof case around it...it probably had tracks from last year (glacier peak, etc). I posted it on cascade climbers last year and figured it was a lost cause....
August 19 at 1:17pm • Like
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Amy Brose Mendenhall actually, I think it may have NOT had a lanyard on it or a case, and that's exactly why my current one DOES...I was so pissed when I lost it, but weirdly, we found an active garmin etrex 30 lying in the trail on the PCT on the way down...didn't keep it, hung it at a trail crossing, but thought it was weird universal gps karma...
August 19 at 1:18pm • Like
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Amy Brose Mendenhall our jeff climb was 7/12 to 7/14 last year...glacier peak tracks from other people might have been on there, but I did it after Jefferson, so likely none from glacier. it could have had Shasta, hood and st.helens on there, as I did those before Jefferson.
August 19 at 1:21pm • Like
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Amy Brose Mendenhall or could have been yellow...pretty sure it was black: http://www.rei.com/product/825492/garmin-etrex-30-gps
Garmin eTrex 30 GPS 
www.rei.com
Free Shipping - With a 3-axis compass, full-color display and geocaching, the co... See More
August 19 at 1:21pm • Like
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Rico Micallef SOLD! That was fast, yes it has a case, and a lanyard, amazing I did not even have to CHANGE the batteries, turned on right away. I am in Inveremere, BC till Sunday, visiting family, I am almost 100% SURE your description matches the Garmin, I will verify it when I get back and get it to you.
August 19 at 1:23pm • Like • 1
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The author's sweet reward for his good deed.

Amy Brose Mendenhall Rico, that's awesome....no rush at all (as I not-so-happily-but-promptly went out and got a new one after I lost it last year). But would love to have it back eventually. Name your favorite beer and six pack is in your future..or whatever! let me know  I lost it in the scree area fairly low on the south ridge. It's unfathomable that someone randomly came across it and that it somehow still works. Go figure 
August 19 at 1:32pm • Like • 1
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Larry Beck Amy, what Rico will also want is to be on your next Jeff climb!
August 19 at 1:44pm • Unlike • 5
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Rico Micallef No worries, they are not cheap so I am glad to be able to get it back to its rightful owner. Reminds me of the old Timex commercials takes a licking on keeps on ticking! We will have to let Garmin know what a solid product they make.
August 19 at 1:44pm • Like • 1
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Elisabeth Kay Bowers wow! so cool! now when the glaciers melt out on rainier, we might find Chris Kruell's!
August 19 at 1:47pm • Like • 3
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Elisabeth Kay Bowers wonder if fb will exist then...
August 19 at 1:47pm • Like
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Justin Colquhoun Buhhahaha!! Well done Rico!!! I was only half serious when I suggested it might belong to a fellow Mazama. (note: others suggested this as well)(kudos again for finding it and its owner!)
August 19 at 5:57pm • Edited • Unlike • 3
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Rico Micallef That was a great call 
August 19 at 2:16pm • Like
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Regis Krug Now, can you find my tripod over on Park Butte north of Jefferson? Kill the friggin marmot that has it.
August 19 at 4:07pm • Unlike • 2
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Rico Micallef Amy Brose Mendenhall I am back in PDX, give a me shout and we can figure out where to meet to get the Garmin back to you.
August 25 at 1:15pm • Edited • Like
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Steve Heikkila This thread is amazing.
August 25 at 3:29pm • Like • 4
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Rico Micallef Re-united!
September 4 at 7:37pm • Like • 7
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Rico Micallef and my reward- not necessary but very much appreciated! Thanks Amy Brose Mendenhall
September 4 at 7:48pm • Edited • Like • 7

In addition I have been assured a place on Amy’s next Jefferson climb! Which of course is what I really wanted.

Jump Right!

I have always liked being in the mountains, but the thought of climbing a mountain never occurred to me until I met my husband Dan. He is a member of The Mazamas, a Portland climbing club. His spare room was full of all sorts of weird gear and he would spend his weekends climbing mountains in the dark.

When Dan was finishing his master’s degree in 1999, he knew he wouldn’t have much time for a girlfriend and he suggested that I take the Mazamas Basic Climbing Education Program. It’s a great class that consists of textbook readings, lectures and field sessions. I was fascinated by that textbook. I learned what all that weird gear was for and why you climb mountains in the middle of the night. And I learned nuggets of wisdom. Like, if you are roped to your climbing partner, and you are walking along a ridge, if your partner starts to fall down one side of the ridge, what you should do is jump off the other side of the ridge so the rope catches you and holds you both. --- Yeah, right! I finished the field sessions where I chased my more athletic classmates up steep hikes, and I learned to self arrest, where you jam your ice axe into the snow and thumbtack yourself to the mountain.

Thus, I became an mountaineer.

In 2003, we joined a Mazamas outing to the Swiss Alps. The Eiger, is the classic alpine peak, with a north face so steep that the snow doesn’t stick to it, and it looms darkly above the valley. Well, right next to the Eiger is the Mönch, and at 13,474 feet, it is 500 feet taller than the Eiger, and that’s the mountain we climbed. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the industrious Swiss built a tunnel through the Eiger so you can take a train up to 11,000 feet and start climbing from there. For this reason, the Mönch is actually one of the easiest of the classic Alpine peaks.

But, easy is a relative term, and it soon became apparent that I was the least experienced and the least fit of the eight of us on that climb. After they took everything out of my pack, and put it in theirs I was able to at least keep up with my rope team.

The Mönch consists of a series of boulder fields to climb interspersed with ice ridges. Picture a balance beam -- no, make it an ironing board; tip it up at an angle, raise it 1000 feet into the air and cover it with ice, and you get a picture of these ridges. So, I had a lot to think about on this climb. I had to keep the rope taut, not get cut with my crampons, and keep the ice ax in the proper hand, not to mention climb uphill at altitude. But during it all, I kept thinking about how this was the Alps and it was all going to be so worth it at the end.

Toward the top of the climb, I put my ice axe down in the snow next to me, and when I took it out there was a hole in the snow. Through that hole, I could see all the way down to Grindelwald, two miles below me. It occurred to me, that if I had put my foot there, it could have been me going all the way down to Grindelwald. But, I didn’t, and I made it safely to the top.

There were high fives all around and photos taken and I felt --- nothing!  Where was my climber’s high? Where was the exhilaration that made it all worth it? The view wasn’t even that good because of the cornice, and we were all crowded together at the top and you couldn’t spend any time up there because you still had to get down and you didn’t want to wait too long because the snow would get slushy and be unsafe. It slowly dawned on me that I wasn’t a mountaineer. I was never going to be one of those people who say, “because it is there.” As we started the descent I started composing my speech to Dan in my head, where I would say that I was glad to have had the experience once, but I didn’t see that I would be continuing to climb with him at this level.

It was early afternoon and we were worried about the sun melting the ice and making it too slushy for crampons to get a good hold. We had just put our crampons back on in preparation to cross an ice ridge. Monty, at the front of my rope had just stepped out on the ice and he turned back to me and said, “I was going to say that the ice feels pretty good, but they just fell.” and he pointed to the ridge ahead of us. About 100 yards away there was a group in front of us and one of them had fallen and was in the process of getting up. It didn’t look that bad at first, but she didn’t get up and she started to slide, and she pulled the next person on the rope with her, starting a chain reaction. As we watched in helpless horror, Sandy, standing next to me, said, “He needs to go right.” and it occurred to me that this was that absurd situation from my climbing textbook. We started to yell, “Jump right! Jump right!”

We didn’t know if they could hear us, but eventually the last man on their rope jumped off the right side of ridge. He jammed his ice axe into the snow and we watched as he fell -- up. He was being pulled up the ridge by the weight of the climbers on his rope down the other side. Finally, just before he reached the lip of the ridge, they came to a stop. There, hanging down the left side of the ridge, like beads on a string were four climbers and on the right side was one man holding them all with his ice axe jammed in the snow.

I knew I could be of no help, but both Monty and Dan had training in high angle rescue. I quickly unclipped from the rope and stayed behind while they made their way out on the ridge. As soon as they got close enough, Dan made an anchor with equipment he had with him and attached their rope to the mountain. Then Monty attached the ropes together so that now all of them were connected to the mountain by more than just the one ice axe, and they could begin the slow process of bringing the climbers back up to the top of the ridge, up that slope too steep to just walk up.

Another climbing group came along and helped the stricken climbers down the mountain leaving us to pull the anchor and make our own way down. It was late in the afternoon now, and the weather had changed. It was thundering and raining lightly and we had already heard one avalanche from the neighboring slopes. But, probably the worst time pressure was the fact that the last train down of the day was at 5 and Swiss trains don’t wait for anything. We had some intense climbing to get the rest of the way down and Dan and I were the last two people on that train, getting on just as it left the station.

We met up with the group we rescued in train station. They were a Czech family on their first climb, being led by a family friend. They didn’t speak much English and we communicated by hugs and tears and a Czech beer. Their leader spoke a little better English and he told us that he had heard someone yelling “Jump right” and that had been enough to trigger in his mind his mountaineering training so he knew what he had to do.

The Monch is the most technical mountain I have ever climbed, and it will remain so. I don’t think Dan believes me when I tell him that the rescue is not my reason for not wanting to climb at that level. But I did get a good story out of it. I’m able to say that I once ordered a complete stranger to jump off a cliff. And he did, and he thanked me for it.

The Mountain Climber’s Conundrum

by Richard Schuler

When I quit smoking I needed something to do with my hands, so I bought an iPhone. That’s how I started checking my Facebook status and email every half hour. I used to gauge my stress level by the number of cigs consumed in a day. They were my friends, each and every one of them. That’s right, I burned my friends. No wonder they left me. Now, I check in with my real friends, or at least their internet avatars. At 10:43 p.m. on a weekday night I lit up my Gmail account and found a message from Rayce, the leader of my mountain climbing team: The Climbers Against Humanity. Rayce offered a chance to climb a peak in central Washington called The Tooth, to the first person who responded. He said it was a four pitch, trad climb, with a scramble-y approach, a bit of moderately steep snow, followed by some spicy rappels. It was a 5.4 to 5.6 climb with lots of exposure on a 400 foot block. In other words, it was well beyond my ability. Still, what an honor it was to even be considered. I imagined myself on the summit; the sun shining down on my strong, capable face. If I didn’t take the slot someone else would. Seconds were ticking.  My heart raced a bit when I pressed the send button on the email. I’d said yes.

The purpose of this essay is for me to introduce to what I call the mountain climber’s conundrum, and how I solved it. At some point in their climbing career, every mountain climber will ask themselves the following question: why in God’s name am I doing this? Or perhaps the atheist version: what in the world made me think this was a good idea? Yet another version is the simple mantra: get me out of here. Now. In my case, the mountain climber’s conundrum is particularly challenging for two reasons. The first is that I am afraid of heights. I became acutely aware of this condition at the Shrine Circus of 1974. My family and I went to Busch Stadium in Saint Louis, and it all started well enough. Proud parents and children passed the ticket takers. The smell of popcorn and cotton candy perfumed the air. My mother guided us up a ramp that led to the loge seating. Only a few vertical bars separated us from the street, which got further away with every step. I made it to the top with only a sick feeling in my stomach, but when we ascended another ramp my heart started shaking in my chest. She pulled me by the hand. Up and up we went. When at last we made it to the staircase on the inner circle of the stadium, I looked up and thought, “There is no way in hell, lady. I’m not going up that thing.” But I did go up. The higher we went, the closer to the stairs I got. When we reached the top, I was literally crawling on my hands and knees, grasping at each seat I passed.

When we finally got seated, I noticed men selling toys and souvenirs in the aisle. There must have been pendants, stuffed animals, hats and noise makers. I can’t remember any of it, because to me it was all hideous crap. The only thing of merit was a sword. Evidently, I begged effectively because I got it. The blade was a curved scimitar and the hilt had ruby on each side. When I held the thing in my tiny hands, I felt that life was a good thing because I’d arrived in a place where adults give swords to children. I have no memory of clowns, trapeze artists or animals, because when I pulled the blade from the scabbard, the whole world went black. I was intoxicated, like a teenager with a bottle of pure grain alcohol. How we got home, I have no idea. The next memory is that of my father holding the sword in our living room, breaking the blade over his knee, and shoving it in the trash. My heart died like broken kingdom. The sword was a fake, a toy made of plastic. Whatever it was, it was gone and I loved it.

The next day, and each day until my mother took the trash out, I went to the closet where we kept our can and visited my broken sword. The smell of sour milk, coffee grounds and cigarette butts insulted me. What a loss. I didn’t deserve this. My bottom lip began to stick out. This illustrates the second reason why the mountain climber’s conundrum is so challenging for me. Even though I’m an adult now, and I know how to hide it, the voice of a petulant child survives inside me. If Snow White and the Seven Dwarves were written for me, they would all be named: Sulky, Crabby, Peevish, Sullen, Moody, Huffy, Snappish and Touchy. But when I packed my bag and left for the Tooth, I didn’t hear a petulant voice, or any voice save that of confidence. When I put my foot on the trail I felt strong. It took hours to get to the upper cirque snowfield, but when we did I was ready for it. Strapping the crampons to my boots made me feel super-human. My helmet and the ice axe looked like Bronze Age weapons, like something from a Wagner opera, and the landscape was indeed an epic stage. Dark, Douglass firs pointed skyward, to jagged stone giants. Each one showed its middle finger to the six climbers posing for a picture in the snow. The pinnacle of The Tooth was somewhere behind all those fingers, patiently waiting, but I couldn’t see it. Up we went, over a sun cupped snowfield with red algae stains, and when we reached the edge, we found a big, scary moat. It was so large, the space between rock and snow could’ve sheltered a troop of refugees from a Burning Man festival, but it was empty. I released sigh when we slid down the other side and put a foot on Pineapple Pass. In no way did Pineapple Pass resemble a fruit from Hawaii. It was just a notch in a rock wall, across which lay a slide to certain death, but also a narrow path leading to pinnacle of The Tooth. Rayce called for a lunch break, so I opened my Empire Strikes Back lunch box and had a sandwich.

No seriously, I had an Empire Strikes Back lunch box. You can call Rayce and ask him. It gives me feeling of levity in an austere place such as a mountain range, and I like the picture of Luke, and Darth Vader flashing light sabers. It was a movie, and in a movie the hero knows the battle is worth fighting. Real life isn’t like that. In the world you and I share, there are just ordinary people who don’t always know what to do. After I closed the lunch box and pulled on my climbing harness, we moved as a team through Pineapple Pass to the pinnacle itself. It was at this point that I realized what a terrible mistake I’d made.

The Tooth was huge. One has to climb about 400 feet to reach the top, but this is only half the problem. It sits on top of a base that rises thousands of feet above the valley below, so the eyes tell the mind to panic, a task easily done. Of the three rope teams, Rayce and I went first. My bottom lip started to protrude. I pulled it in, but I knew there was no way I could go through with the climb. What a loss. I didn’t deserve this. Rayce gave me a walkie-talkie and a cleaning tool. He calmly tied off on the rope and went up the wall, plugging in various anchors as he went. For those of you who don’t climb, an anchor is a do-dad which holds a climbing rope to a rock face. The proper placement of these anchors is what the climber’s life literally depends on.  My job was to follow behind him and remove the anchors as I climbed. The yellow rope trailed behind him like a spider’s thread. For the first fifty feet it looked like some pretty tough going. Then he climbed over a precipice and was gone. In the absence of a visible reality, the human mind will create an imagined one, and that reality is usually the very worst kind. Where the rope went I knew that I too must go, wherever it led. Seven sulky, crabby, peevish, sullen, moody, huffy, snappish and touchy voices told me I could never do it. One voice came through the walkie-talkie, it was Rayce. “The belay is on. Hit it,” he said. To whom should I listen? Was the battle really worth fighting? At what point does discretion become the better part of valor? Even if I got to the top, was it worth the fear it would cost? I didn’t know. For some reason I put my hand on the rock and pulled.

My internal dialogue went something like this: Other people do things like this, but not me. I look like someone in a granola bar commercial and I am clearly not that person. My place is on a bar stool between Charles Bukowski and Dracula. My hobby should be dancing tango with beautiful women in stunning outfits, but instead, my whole body smells like a student’s armpit, and this helmet makes me look like an unemployed miner. For a hundred feet I thought this, until I found Rayce at the first belay station, smiling. My hands were shaking when I handed him the rock anchors. Then the process started again. He climbed up and disappeared. I looked down and saw a scene from a Coyote and Roadrunner cartoon, the one where the Wile E. Coyote drops off a cliff and he falls so far that when he finally hits, it only makes a tiny ‘piff’ noise and puff of dust.  The ledge I stood on wasn’t big enough for two large pizzas and an overweight tabby, but it was soon joined by three other people, who obviously had no problem boogieing up the cliff I just panicked on. When Rayce radioed that the belay was on, I was strangely ready to go higher.

There is a condition known as high altitude flatulence. When the southern end of me started complaining, I decided to let the northern end join voices. With each report I said, “Yeah. Uh-huh.” *@#%! “Tell me about it.”      @#%! “Oh, I know.” This is how I went up the mountain, grunting, sweating, poozing and kvetching, but I did make it to the top. There was Racye, shoes off, eating a bag of niblinz. He was the Frodo Baggins to my Samwise Gamgee, the Don Quixote to my Sancho Panza, and he said, “Welcome to the top.” I’ve often thought that a mountain range looks very much like the sea when you view it from the highest peak; all the ridges blend into one another, but these were not stone waves I was looking at. This was a concerto, a great staccato upheaval. In such a landscape only fantastic things took place. There were mastodons and Valkyries out there somewhere, I was sure of it. I sat next to Rayce and took off my own shoes. “Frickin’ perfect day,” he said. Climbers call days like the one we were sitting in a ‘blue bird day’ because the sky is so blue. “It’s a good day to be alive,” he said.

“It’s a good day to die,” I said.

His expression asked for an explanation, and so I told him about a Lakota woman I once met at a pow-wow who said the same thing. She explained that to Native Americans, a person wants to leave this world when they are at the absolute top of their form. They want to enter the next world when they have achieved their best in this world. To grab ahold of fear, pure unadulterated fear, when it feels like warm granite, and listen to the voices of doubt as you climb it to the top is only half the battle. When one can hear the voices of fear and doubt, which only say, “You can’t” and not respond with a defensive “Yes, I can,” but instead with the simple words I’m sorry- I’m sorry you’re hurting, that is a good day to die. This is how I solved the mountain climber’s conundrum for that particular mountain on that particular day. Why did I climb it? To pull the broken sword from the trash and carry it home. It was a good day to die.        

120, 100 and 50: Three Milestones for Mazamas

By Adam Baylor

With the climbing season well-underway, it’s easy to remain stoked about exploring the mountains and beyond.  But maybe you need a few more reasons to celebrate mountaineering in the Pacific Northwest!  Here are three unique milestones in our history that you’ll definitely want to commemorate:

First, we can look back 120 years to the summit of Mt. Hood where our mission was set in motion on July 19, 1894.  Multiple generations of mountaineers have bravely ventured into the nearby Cascades and beyond because of Mazama training, fellowship and a shared spirit of adventure.  As we reminisce on our early beginnings, we may ask what sort of challenges do we as modern mountaineers face today?  Certainly the summits of Hood, Rainer, North Sister and the like remain just as difficult but more than a century ago there were major concerns with the protection of our public lands.  Did you know that the Mazamas helped form Crater Lake National Park?  It was through the vision of our first president, William Gladstone Steel, and other Mazama members that grassroots support in Oregon rallied to preserve Crater Lake for future generations.  So what about today?  Is it safe to say that the founder’s vision for protection of public lands remains the same?  Or should we collectively look at yet another challenge that Mazamas can support such as expanding the Crater Lake Wilderness.

The second key milestone in 2014 for the Mazamas is a bit closer to home.  We celebrate the centennial official Mazama climb of Beacon Rock in the Columbia River Gorge which took place on October 11, 1914.  Published in the Mazama: A Record of Mountaineering in the Pacific Northwest (C.W. Howard, 1914, pg. 93-94) a party of 47 Mazamas reached the summit of the 858-foot andesite monolith.  Today, evidence of that historic ascent can be found in the form of iron spikes on Beacon’s Northwest Face.  Where else can modern climbers use 100-year old protection?  Truly, this was an important climb for the Mazamas and to commemorate this nationally significant climbing area we are producing a documentary film about Beacon Rock climbing.  Get inspired and become part of the project by donating to the Beacon Rock climbing legacy!  

Our third milestone in 2014 is the 50th anniversary of the Wilderness Act.  Yes, in 1964 Congress actually did something to protect our wild places!  So what does the future hold for our favorite places to play?  The answer to that question and many more can be found at an upcoming Wilderness Act 50th celebration event at the Mazama Mountaineering Center.  Our Conservation Committee is planning the celebration with a list of guest speakers that range from former Sierra Club director, Michael McCloskey, to Portland-based CRAG Law Center environmental experts.  Join us for the event on September 27 and become part of the inspiring new movement to protect the Pacific Northwest’s wilderness.

Islands

The author on the summit of Mt. Hood.

by Richard Schuler

                     

The telescope on the back porch of the Mazama Lodge points directly at the summit of Mount Hood. You can watch climbers pursuing the summit. They seem as tiny black dots with legs. Just dark figures moving imperceptibly slow on a triangle of snow. One morning in early June, I watched such a group for a few minutes, and then I stepped back to the lodge to refill my coffee cup, and talk with friends. After a few minutes, I went back to the telescope. My eyes took a second to find the proper distance from the lens, but then there it was: the white triangle of Mt. Hood with the bright blue sky behind it, and the black dots of climbers. If I strained, I could see their microscopic feet taking one step after another. Upward, they went. The mountain was so huge, how could they even imagine such a task?

The cook rang the iron triangle and people came running. That sound meant, hot eggs, sausage, pancakes and fruit, but in the back of my mind, I thought about that climbing team. They should have been approaching the Old Chute. How terrified I was, when I looked up that wall of ice for the first time. Inside my rented mountain boots, I was shaken. I looked for any toehold, no matter how small. I struck the ice axe hard, and I struck it harder. Up I went. Soon, there was nothing to cling to, and I held on with the fangs on the front of my crampons and wondered if I had fastened them right. How far could a person slide under those circumstances, I wondered, five hundred feet, a thousand feet? It was far enough to die, that’s for sure. Three people on a rope climbed below me. They looked up with hopeful eyes, as if to say: keep going, don’t let me down, while one person urged me on from above. When I came to the top, it was by sliding on my belly, not striding like a lord.

When my plate was empty I hurried back to the telescope and searched for the climbing team. The face of Mt. Hood was empty. I looked left, and then right, even panned the telescope a bit, but could not find them. As far down the mountain as the trees allowed, I searched. Nothing. A movement at the top drew my eye, and there they were. The little team made it. They stood in a row, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to hold hands. Was one of them waving? As ridiculous as it felt, I waved back. Their triumph was my triumph. In a way, we were connected.

A second ring of the triangle drew my attention away from the mountain. This time, it was to announce jobs for the day. Mine was to build a traffic island in the drive behind the lodge. The first thing we did was to dismantle a border.  The island had a row of stones perfectly aligned, forming a nearly perfect oval. It looked artificial because neatly defined border is the product of a human mind. Lines of contour on a topographic map, the boundaries of a national park, or a nation itself, are all imaginary. In nature, things blend into each other. Climb to the top of Mt. Hood and you will see it flow into Mt. Rainer, Mt. Jefferson and the Three Sisters. Climb as part of a team and you will feel your connection to others. This is why we do it. We climb, not just for that one moment on the summit, when the world slopes away in all directions, and the peaks all look like frozen waves, but to be a part of a team. It is as John Muir told us many years ago, “When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world.” I invite you to make this your mantra the next time you climb. It could be me on your belay rope, or I could be holding you. Are you ready? Climb on.   

Rainier Rematch

by Jon Skeen

Sustained 60 mph winds, unending clouds, and ultimately having to descend after a forced rest day left a bad taste in our mouths. We had been blown off the Kautz Glacier on Rainier and now we had unfinished business with the mountain. Clearing skies and calming winds taunted us as we neared the parking lot. The team was in good spirits and happy to settle for brunch as consolation, but already the need to go back was creeping into our thoughts.

The itch was not soothed by forecasts of blue skies and calm winds the following weekend. Fewer than 48 hours after being thoroughly shut down, we were planning a reattempt. Glenn Widener and his team pushed through the technical ice and winds the previous weekend, and provided helpful beta on the ice conditions, location of the infamous fixed line, and Camp Hazard platforms. John Godino also shared notes from an adjacent route, the Fuhrer Finger, which boasted of 25 pound packs and encouraged carrying up and over, down the Disappointment Cleaver. Armed with these reports plus our own first-hand knowledge, it was time to get the band back together. We had one roster substitution from the previous weekend, setting the team as Ally Imbody, Eric Kennedy, Nate Mullen, Hannah Seebach, Kevin Vandemore and me.

Jon Skeen and Eric Kennedy starting
up the 3rd pitch of ice on the Kautz
Glacier under a super moon

Spirits were high and pack weights were down, which was important; the pace had to be more aggressive this time, as we didn’t have a long weekend to work with. We aimed to make high camp around 11,000 feet Saturday, then head up the Kautz and down the DC Sunday. We got off to a great start, leaving the trail head at Paradise at exactly 5:05 am. It had been a hot week on the mountain and much of the snow that slowed our early progress the last time had melted out, making our descent from the trail onto the Nisqually Glacier more direct. Of course, the disappearing snow had opened new crevasses and exposed new seracs as well. Undeterred, we roped up and made our serpentine path towards the Wilson Glacier.

We reached our previous camp at 9,200 ft. around 11 a.m, shaving about two hours off of our previous time. We took a break here to refill water bottles from the flowing glacier melt and marveled at how much familiar landmarks had changed in just six days. We could see a couple tents set up here, but it wasn’t until we were nearing the bottom of the Turtle Snowfield that we realized there were twelve tents set up. While that’s not uncommon for the Emmons Glacier or DC routes, it’s virtually unheard of for the Kautz. Twelve people is more typical of the population on this line. We were able to ascertain that the tents belonged to a large group from a climbing club in Utah, some experienced climbers, some very fresh who probably didn’t fully appreciate what they had gotten into. Our experiences with these guys could fill another write-up, but for now let’s let’s just say we really wanted to stay ahead of them.

Upward we marched, gaining a thousand feet on the Turtle before taking a quick break for food and water. We watched two climbers ascending in our boot tracks. As they neared, we saw what appeared to be a "No Jive Ass" sticker and realized there was a good chance we knew these dudes. Sure enough, there were two more Mazamas on the Kautz! Victor Galotti and Brian Wetzel had been camped out where the Nisqually and Wilson meet and had caught up to us, which I maintain was largely due to the quality of the steps we were kicking for everyone behind us. We decided to team up for the rest of the day and through the ice pitches in the morning.

Buoyed by this encounter, we pushed to the top the the Turtle and into Camp Hazard. We claimed a few platforms for our team and set off to find the fixed line and get our first real look at the ice. The route was dramatic: cracked ice hanging above and waiting below. As if issuing a warning or a challenge, a few large blocks of ice let lose and tumbled down into the gaping maws below. We returned to our platforms to work out the next day’s plan, eat, and get to sleep early. We chatted with a few other small parties and lamented the throng that would be pressing from below. With our hunger and planning satisfied, it was time to get as much sleep as possible before our midnight wake up time.

Mt. Rainier Summit team with Eric Kennedy,
Kevin Vandemore, Ally Imbody, Nate Mullen,
Hannah Seebach, and Jon Skeen.

The alarms rang, time to get moving. We made our way to the fixed line via headlamps and the super moon. Nate was first down. As he reached the bottom we heard a crack! and looked towards the ice fall to see block after block of ice tumbling across our traverse line. It’s one thing to know there is danger in the abstract; it’s another to watch it tumble where you’ll be walking in five minutes. With a renewed appreciation for the objective hazard, we roped up and shuffled across as quickly as possible. We made it to the base of the ice without incident and up went Nate, leading the first of several pitches.

One by one, we ascended fixed lines, moving in tandem with other teams all fighting to stay ahead of the giant group we knew was hot on our heels. We managed to stay out front for a few pitches, but the top came to a bottleneck and we were stuck while we waited for an opening to push through. Finally, Kevin had a chance to lead the final pitch and we fought our way out of the chute. I was impressed with our team’s ability to climb cleanly; altogether we knocked down maybe four pieces while the other teams around rained ice on everyone below.

Kevin Vandermore scouting the descent route on the DC.

After a quick break to exchange gear, Victor and Brian set off on their way and the original team regrouped for a bit before pushing up toward Point Success. We picked our way up the Kautz, surrounded by the Utah teams. This made the going very slow, but did allow us to conserve energy. Silver linings, right? After several steps plunging into air and a few “verbal scuffles” (as I’m choosing to call them) with the Utah teams, we were able to make our way off the glacier. The crater was in sight! Just in time too, as clouds were starting to move in. We worked our way up to the summit and snapped our victory photos. One more quick stop at the summit register and down into the crater to melt snow.

Once all the bottles were filled it was time to follow the wands down the DC. By this time the snow had turned into sugary mush and we were sliding around a little more than is comfortable on a crevasse riddled downhill trail. A pair of collapsing snow bridges (which I fear we may have finished off) added additional spice. Down and down we went, reaching the Cleaver and down climbing a bit of rock to avoid steep, slippery snow. We made it down the Cleaver, across the Ingraham (including a ladder over a crevasse), and over to Camp Muir. One last break before bombing the Muir Snowfield and returning to the parking lot.

While we high-fived and drank our mandatory Rainiers-on-Rainier, we watched headlamps flickering across the Kautz. The Utah club was still at it; one of the consequences of ignoring your turnaround time. We’ve since heard they made it down ok, but two days overdue. Yikes! Hearing that only makes me more appreciative of the awesome team we had on this incredible route. 

"What's In My Pack?" Contest - Mountain Hardwear

Does anybody ever win those contests? You know the ones you enter - raffles or sweepstakes - that you usually never hear back from?

Well, as Mazama staff member Kati Mayfield found out - occasionally you do win, and the prizes can be awesome!

In the June Bulletin we featured a deal from our partner, Mountain Hardwear. For the last weekend in June they offered great discounts to Mazama members. Kati headed down to the downtown PDX Mountain Hardwear shop to grab some gear, and was informed by the staff that they were holding a "What's In My Pack?" contest, where shoppers could guess what was packed into one of their Shaka backpacks; and, if they guessed correctly, win the contents.

Kati casually turned in her guesses, not expecting to hear anything back. But about a week later she had a message in her inbox (which she originally mistook for Spam), congratulating her for winning the contest. The prize? The Shaka 70 pack and all of its contents:

• Ratio 15 sleeping bag
• Epic Gloves
• Plasmic Pant
• Dome Perignon cap

It has been far too hot to utilize the gloves, the rain pants and the cap. But the sleeping bag and pack got a good workout on an overnight in the Mt. Hood National Forest and a hike to Ramona Falls this weekend.

Thanks Mountain Hardwear! And, the moral of the story: enter the contests, especially when the winnings are so sweet!

Video of the Month - Mt. Baker North Ridge

Is the North Ridge of Baker on your list? Check out this video to see some stunning imagery and to get a feel for the climb. Enjoy!

Do you have a video for our Video-of-the-Month feature? Send us the link! 

Tales From The Forbidden Peak

by Michael Zasadzien

Bushwacking fun.

A little under a year ago, I was on one of my first Mazama climb. One that I’ll never forget, simply because it introduced me to a whole new level of exposure. The back-of-the-neck-hair-raised-for-the-next-4-hours exposure. The kind that made you think seven times about the placement of each footstep, and whether you felt comfortable standing on that ridge with a 500 foot drop on one side, and a 1,000 foot drop on the other. This was Chiwawa Mountain, a fierce little guy that Bob Breivogel took us up, with a nice long ridge traverse. I remember coming home from that climb, shaken up a bit from adrenaline withdrawal, but definitely with a huge smile on my face. I remember Bob telling me that if I enjoyed that climb, that the next year I should aim my sights on Forbidden Peak. So I did.

First light.

This was supposed to be my big goal for the year, the climb that I was going to work up to. I’ve already read all about the “airy-step” on Summitpost. I’ve looked at tons of pictures of the route and committed those images to memory. I’ve been doing my research on the cruxy bits, thinking that one day I’ll work up the courage and strength to do it. I need to develop trad skills for placement, and get comfortable leading on gear. I need to mentally prepare for run-out on relatively easy terrain, but one that has large consequences with a single miss-step. Am I going to be ready this year? Am I going to be on target with my training schedule? 

Enjoying a bit of steep snow.

When Andrew Holman asked me if I was interested in tackling Forbidden Peak as one of his final climbs in the Pacific Northwest, I jumped on it like a fat kid on a candy bar. Honestly it was a lot sooner than I expected, but hey, take your opportunities when you can! Climbing with him previously has proven to be fun and rewarding, and even though we have exactly opposite personalities on the Myer’s Briggs, we get along well. I know he’s a strong alpinist, and that he’d be able to lead many of the pitches if I get freaked out. I have myself a solid partner.

For the climb, we plan to join up with Kai Waldron and Ingrid Nye. We debate camping out in the basin for a night, or knocking it out in a single push. We know it can be a pain to get permits and even though we were pretty sure they’d be available, we’ve been told that a single-push is totally doable and has been done before. The Mountaineer’s website gives me a breakdown of 3 hours to camp, 6–9 hours to the summit, and 8–10 to get back. By conservative estimates, if we leave at midnight we can be back at the car by 7–10 p.m.—a long day, but manageable.

Ingrid Nye on the approach.

We did a Portland-start with brunch at the Screendoor on Saturday morning before driving north. We set up camp for a few hours at the Cascade River Trailhead and enjoy awesome views of Johannesburg Mountain and Boston Basin. After a restful 3-ish hours of sleep to the sounds of coyotes nearby and large ice falls letting loose in the canyon around us we are on the move.

The hike up isn’t too noteworthy. The trail winds uphill steeply through the forest as it slowly gets more and more dense. We get off-trail, or maybe it simply turns into a bushwack at some point, and manage a couple of interesting creek crossings. We know we just have to go up and north, and so we do without much hassle. We made it to the basin in exactly 3 hours. Perfect timing. I also get to witness the biggest snow release I’ve ever seen on Johannesburg. I watched the ice flow from top to bottom, barreling its way loudly down the mountain in the pre-morning dawn. We stand there in awe and take in this amazing demonstration of nature’s power.

Andrew Holman on the west ridge.

We hike up to the higher basecamp to find only one tent set-up; where the residents were slowly waking up and getting ready. Seeing that they are really fresh from actually sleeping and that the snow is kind of soft, we take our time fitting our crampons, donning our helmets and harnesses, snacking, and taking care of any other housekeeping possible to let them stay ahead and kick steps for us. This was an excellent technique I’ve learned in the past, and it paid dividends. Thanks guys!

The couloir of snow is nice—steep and fun. We self-belay until we get to the rock where we set-up the rope. We know that there are numerous pitches ahead, and a lot of it is 4th/low 5th class. The most efficient accepted method is either free-climb or simul-climb as much as possible. This is precisely what we did. Having never used this technique before I was surprised how well it can flow if you get your timing right. You pick up on a lot of signals just based on how the rope is tugging or going slack without seeing your partner. I was really ecstatic that, as I reached the “airy step” I read all about, that the rope got tighter and tighter, and was literally pulling me into the void. Before I had a chance to really sit there and think about how I was going to get across, the rope told me that it was go-time and over I went. It was just as cool as I thought it was going to be, minus the forced timing ... What I didn’t know is that I would get the opportunity for significantly more and bigger airy steps all along the route.

The author on route.

We get into a great rhythm, climbing upwards and onwards. Running into a few areas of technical bits dangling off of the rock and happy to be on a rope. There are also secctions that you can just walk quickly over, skipping from rock to rock. Then there are sections where you sit-down and butt-belay your way over, or as the French eloquently call it: à cheval [mounting the horse]. When we got to the harder bits, we stop and do proper belaying. The pro is great, the supposed Beckey piton stuck in the rock is awesome to see, along with the cruxy moves around it, another piton looked like some screwball took tin-metal and banged into the mountain as a joke. The climbing is great, and we don’t want it to end. The weather however kept getting foggier and colder, and we begin to realize that this is taking quite a bit of time.

We hit the summit at 1:30 p.m. A little late, but close to tracking with our time estimates. Andrew and I high-five each other, waiting for the other two for a moment, and make our way back down. Unfortunately with the timing and the weather, Ingrid and Kai make the choice to turn around before summiting: so close, but a good call. Andrew is leading the whole way, which means that as a second responsible for cleaning, I am technically on the sharp end of the rope on the way down. Seeing it’s already been a bit of a day, I remind myself not to rush, take it easy, and enjoy the views. This really helps me mentally. We pull all the tricks in the book to be efficient, including quite a few simul-rappels (my first), and simul-downclimbs (another first), and make it back down to the basin without incident.

We make it back into the trees at dusk. It is around 9 p.m. and we are going to blow by the conservative estimate by just a bit. What we don’t know yet is by just how much.

Almost on the summit.

We can’t find the trail. At all. We have a map. We have GPS coordinates. We have a track. It all seems to be useless. We run into footprints from time to time, but it seems like within 20 feet they’re gone again. Instead of running in circles trying to find the “trail,” which we know is a bushwack anyway, we make the decision to aim in the right general direction, and hope to pick it up again. 

We come upon our first stream crossing, which isn’t too bad. It is difficult to judge the best place to cross when you only have the light of a headlamp. The shadows can mess with you, especially when you’re a bit tired. I do my best to keep stay composed and keep on going. We must eventually hit the trail and get back to the car. Right?

After the crossing, we find ourselves in an ultra-dense young juniper sapling forest where every step we take we end up being smacked in the face by a branch. I’m not sure if going forward is going to get any better and my headlamp is completely obscured by the last branch. Thwack after thwack after thwack, we finally make it to the second creek. Only this creek turns out to be a torrential river with no easy crossing in sight. We bushwhack up and down and up and down and up and down again looking for any possible way across. We’re tired. Dead tired. It’s now 1:30 a.m. Two of our members are sitting down and have fallen asleep in that position. We look at each other and make the hard call. 

Time to bivy. We can’t see, and we will resume once daylight comes back. The night is cold and we

View towards Mt. Torment.

are wet. In the middle of the night, members in the party randomly get up and turn on their headlamps and just stare into space. Someone gets up, move around for 5 minutes to get warm, and lays back down to try to sleep. Too cold to sleep, but too tired to not doze off for bits at a time; we are all in a very weird delusional zombie mode just waiting for dawn. It sucks.

When dawn comes, I couldn’t be happier. I have had no sleep and feel worse than before, but at least I can now see all the trees that were making my life hell. I can probably find better lines to ‘shwack through this forest, and we can probably find a way across this river. We are all shivering uncontrollably as we get up, but the second we begin bushwacking again, we get nice and toasty in seconds. I felt great again!

View of Johannesberg Mountain.

Eventually we find a way across, and are rewarded for our success with more bushwacking on the other side. Good thing it is all prickly and thorny bushes, we wouldn’t want it to be too easy. We can’t find any trail, and we just keep trying for the path of least resistance, aiming for a landmark. We start seeing barrels and other signs of human life: remnants of the diamond mine that used to be in the area. We are close to on-track, and eventually we run into the trail! Our morale skyrockets as we run into rangers five minutes later. Apparently they are already out looking for us. They are excited to find us so soon, since apparently the parking lot is less than 100 feet away. That’s right, we fully bushwhacked that entire 3 mile section. What took 3 hours in one direction, took 8 plus 3 hours of “napping.” Twenty-two conservative hours turned out to be Thirty-three. Whoops.

If done again, I’d camp in Boston Basin, both on the way in and the way out. It would have been awesome to get rest and walk through that forest only during the day. Next time I would also bring multiple GPS tracks if possible, and record points on my way in to make the way out easier. But I was as ready as I ever was going to get for this climb, and it turned out to be even more of an adventure than I could imagine. I never thought I’d say this so soon after, but ... A+ great climb. I would definitely do it again!

Special Education Content: ICS 2014/2015

Learning the ropes.

by Dan Gerbus, ICS Coordinator

This year marks the fifth year I’ll be involved with running ICS, our Intermediate Climbing School, and now I take the helm. This path started innocently enough when I took the course in 2009-2010. I took the class, had ideas on how it could be improved, and noted them in the feedback form. A few weeks later Bob Murphy, 2010-2011 coordinator, asked me to be on his committee for the class. He and his assistant, Darrell Weston, implemented a lot of improvements to the course that year, and one problem courses like ICS run into is maintaining the changes in following years. Their plan to circumvent this issue involved building an infrastructure of future coordinators in the pipeline, and apparently I was part of this plan.

My background is in engineering and engineering education. While finishing my doctorate in mechanical engineering, I taught a course in Mechanics of Materials. It was in that course where I cut my teeth on teaching. Some years later I landed a job at Intel where I find myself essentially teaching

Snow practice.

again. This time it is deeply technical content taught to a worldwide audience, most of whom do not speak English as their primary language. Soon after that I find myself talking anchors with ICS students. Yes, of course with the engineers, but also with the non-engineers. I’m finding all my time spent teaching VP’s, marketing, and non-technical heads abroad about computer specs has helped me realize how to reach those non-engineers in ICS. Looking back it makes sense how I got to this position. Now I am grateful for this opportunity to lead ICS, and I am going to leverage my background to make ICS as robust as it can be.

Through these years in ICS I have seen 158 students graduate. In each class there are about 40 students, one to two tend to not be Mazamas members or haven’t taken BCEP, an average of 37% are women, and about 80 individual volunteer assistants help each year. I’ve conducted several surveys in the past year and am using that data to make incremental improvements to the class. We are going to have more opportunities for students to practice the skills. The cohesiveness between topics will improve with a strong objective for each skill. I am going to provide our volunteer assistants with more support and information as well.

The class will be challenging. We cover advanced belays and rappelling techniques,  movement on rock and Learn more about the class on our website.

Campfires & Potlucks.

snow, rock and snow anchors, crevasse rescue, leadership, avalanche awareness, snow camping, high angle snow,  navigation, and single and multipitch climbing. This merely highlights most of the topics covered.  If you want to know more about the class there will be a virtual information night on our FAQ page covering many of the questions ICS candidates have.

I pledge to provide a solid learning environment that accommodates students of different backgrounds, expertise’s, and experiences. It’s also going to be a blast. A common theme I see in all of my surveys involves the camaraderie students develop while in the class. They meet fellow climbers wanting to climb at similar levels. They find people that can safely push their climbing levels. Some overcome fears and nurture a new confidence in climbing. Others have found themselves yearning to lead and go into our Leadership Development program. If this class sounds like something fits you, go check out our webpage or email me: Mazamas.ics@gmail.com

Special Education Content: BCEP - The Instructor View

BCEP Notes From the Field: Team 12 

Leader:  Amy Mendenhall (co-leading with Lynne Pedersen)

(The July Mazama Bulletin was a special Education Issue. This blog is part of the extended Education content. Read the full Education Issue.)

Pre-BCEP (Basic Climbing Education Program) Team 12 Leaders & Assistants Meeting:  My living room is standing room only, overfilled with smiling people who want to help our team this year. It blows me away that every year we manage to find such wonderful volunteers to give up 6 weekends of their life to help BCEP students learn how to climb. Super grateful.

Photo: Alex Gauthier

First Night of Class:  Get to meet our students tonight and find out how we can help them reach their goals. This is where I’ve met a lot of my future climbing friends.  Most of my closest climbing buddies were students & assistants I met via BCEP classes over the years.  Tonight we start expanding that circle even wider.

First Hike:  We hiked Hamilton Mountain in the gorge. Weather was great.  I got to lead the super sneaky snack team, which left an hour before our students and the rest of our group. We surprised our students on the summit with a fabulous spread, table included, with breakfast treats, coffee, juice and more.  Super fun start to the conditioning hikes.

Photo: Alex Gauthier

Rock Session at the MMC:  My favorite, and most exhausting, night every year in BCEP.  We  take a group of people who still have the price tags hanging on their brand new harnesses and carabiners and webbing ... and turn them into climbers in one night. They transform from someone learning how to put on a harness to belayers, climbers and rappellers in only a few hours. There’s a bit of a swagger when they leave. It’s a life-changing moment for some of them, and they don’t even realize it yet.

Horsethief Butte outdoor rock session:  Everything clicked this weekend. All of our students tackled the routes without ever using the word "no."  When we’d ask, "Why don’t you try this rappel?," every answer was, "Ok."  I’m so proud.  They’re working through fear, really becoming skilled at climbing and their belay technique is solid. I had a moment alone with a few students, all of us staring at Mt. Hood, and they both said they "couldn’t believe they were doing this."  They never thought they’d be climbing on rock outside.  One of them said his new goal was to summit Hood. Now I’m excited about climbing all over again. 

Photo: Alex Gauthier

Snow Session:  Windy and cold start to the day, and zero complaining from our team. As the day progressed, our students learned to self arrest, they roped up and jumped fake crevasses and belayed each other up slopes. It’s a day of playing with sharp objects (ice axe, crampons), and everyone was super safe. Now they know how to climb rock and snow – can’t wait to lead them up some peaks this summer!

Post-BCEP:  Students on summits everywhere! Our students, so far, have made it up Unicorn Peak, Mt. Hood and Mount St. Helens (in dresses on Mother’s Day).  I personally got to lead two of our students to the top of Mt. Hood, which has to be one of the best experiences in climbing that I can have. So satisfying to help expand someone’s idea of what’s possible.

Special Education Content: BCEP - An Assistant's Perspective

Photos and Article by Alex Gauthier

(The July Mazama Bulletin was a special Education Issue. This blog is part of the extended Education content. Read the full Education Issue.)

In 2013 I made a decision to do what I could to commit myself more fully to spending time in the mountains Basic Climbing Education Program was not entered into lightly. It wasn’t the money so much. BCEP’s sticker price is far below that of what a guide or most alpine schools would charge for so much information and training. No, it was definitely the time involved. BCEP has a demanding schedule which for many is enough reason to turn aside. Meeting at least two days a week for two months to get all the education in can be tough. These few excerpts are just a small taste of what the experience is like. Not everyone continues as a student of mountaineering and BCEP isn’t a proving ground so much as a tasting ground. Here’s a little taste from a BCEP volunteer’s perspective. 

Opening Night

The auditorium was nearly full as I hastened in, barely making it by 7 p.m., just like I did every single lecture night when I myself was a BCEP student. Everyone sat in teams and ours was at the front but none of them knew me, and I certainly didn’t know them.

In our breakout session, we all introduced ourselves briefly before getting started with the material. We were to go over climb preparedness. The team leaders, Richard Caldwell and Dick Bronder talked about having your gear ready, being on time, knowing the weather conditions and the million other little things that go into making a successful climb. The students listened dutifully, asking few questions. Everyone seemed a little withdrawn and awkward. We didn’t know one another yet. Time for some ice-breaking, I supposed as Dick motioned me up with my climbing pack. At his request, I had assembled about a 40lb pack. Had I ever carried a 40lb pack on a climb? I suppose I must have. I normally have camera stuff  which is heavy. Add in rope, climbing gear, clothing and the rest and I guess I carried close to 40lbs most of the time, though I never weigh my pack normally.

Dick explained that we like students to increase the weight in their pack during BCEP with each conditioning hike. I chuckled inwardly at how balky some students from my own class the year before had been at that suggestion. Before displaying the items in my pack, I offered to let each student shoulder the pack to get a feel for the weight. It definitely seemed like none had carried a heavy pack before, based on the reactions exhibited in that room.

A yard sale then ensued where I pulled out stuff and explained it’s usage and the reasoning behind it’s presence. I think it’s pretty much a given that when you start showing gear, lots of questions will come out. People obsess over gear, and why not? It’s expensive, cool, and something we each agonize over before putting it in the bag. We dashed through the remaining material for the night with the instructors hopefully leaving our students with a sense of how preparedness not only spares your team inconvenience but hopefully makes us all safer as well.

Dog

I hauled myself upright in the back of my darkened Subaru. Switching my headlamp on, I swept it’s beam over the jumble of gear jammed in around my sleeping bag. Time to get up if I wanted hot coffee. Peering through the fogged windows, I could make out Ron, one of our BCEP students starting to stir at the other end of the parking lot. Only the two of us decided to sleep at the Dog Mountain trailhead for an alpine start. Obviously, an alpine start isn’t necessary for Dog but I had been charged with leading this hike and introducing the students to the misery of alpine starts by team leader, Dick Bronder. I couldn’t wait to see how popular this would make me with the new recruits.

I strolled up to the assembled group sipping at the remainder of my java. They stood in a circle, headlamps blazing in the cool wet morning air. The mood felt decidedly sober. I cracked a joke about how much fun alpine starts are. I think possibly there might have been a courtesy chuckle from one person. Maybe. I realized getting stuck with the alpine start assignment was possibly a way for the team leaders to maintain popularity and shove us assistants squarely in the path of miserable angry students. After a few reflective moments, we shouldered packs and began to move through the damp and dark.

Horse Thief

Brigitte gritted her teeth in concentration. Her eyes filled with equal parts determination and fear. This was one of her first ever rock climbs and it wasn’t that wimpy for a newbie, in hiking boots. I judged it a modest 5.6 at most. To Brigitte that probably mattered little. I listened to a cheer squad of students and instructors on the ground spraying beta at her. I remained mostly silent. She seemed like the sort that would appreciate encouragement but little beta.

Her feet found tenuous purchase as her fat toed
hikers slipped out of cracks and refused to smear even the grippiest rock. She gained a ledge below the crux and looked with dismay before stubbornly attacking it. It wasn’t easy. She seemed a bit gripped. Over failure or falling, I was unsure. Probably both. I indicated moves that seemed reasonable and she did her best to try my tips out. As she complained of tired arms and legs, I felt her pain but realized that I’m really no stronger of a climber than the first day I tried it out. Just a better climber, than I was. Though I knew she was tired, I was also careful to point out that her fatigue was a symptom of her inexperience NOT her physical capacity.

Then she was at the anchor. I exhaled as she slapped her palms onto the ledge and clipped in safe and sound. Had I been holding my breath?  Yes.

Snow Weekend

We all mobbed the parking lot at Timberline. The day was off to a pretty stunning beginning. Low clouds hung over the valley but sun washed hopefully over the snow around us. We assistants hurriedly put on our gear, grabbed avalanche probes, shovels and bailed out of the parking lot and into the snow as the students began to mill about behind us. Hurriedly we dug a series of pits to demonstrate snow layers and teach them about avalanche conditions. Just as we finished and the students arrived with Richard and Dick, we took off again, down the gully and up the other side. We hastily began to build up some glissade paths for them to try out later on. Then we set set up some snow anchors. By afternoon, I was appreciating the instructors from the year before when I myself was a student, that much more. Lot’s of work, snow day is! We all had a good laugh testing out various “glissade diaper” designs and got some good pictures of our students learning to self-arrest. As the day wore on, the clouds rose up ominously from the valley and had enveloped the mountain as we tossed our gear back in cars. When we pointed ourselves downhill towards the Mazama Lodge, the first fat flakes of an epic snow storm began to drift down around us.

Morning greeted us with at least 16 inches of fresh and more still coming. The grey sky coughed up inch after inch of snow as we decided what to do. We had planned a trip on crampons up to Palmer but with this snow and 20mph winds, we figured it was asking a bit too much of our new students. Instead, we opted to rope up and do all our remaining skill demonstrations on the low angle terrain of Summit Ski area which had closed for the season. We were spared the wind but by the end of a several hours with feet immersed in deep snow and a lot of moving slowly and standing in one place, I wondered if I wouldn’t have preferred the cardio of the hike instead!

Graduation Day

I remembered well my own final day of BCEP. Commuting each lecture night from Sandy all the way to Jackson Middle School, I was invariably there just in time for things to kick off and on test night, I was late. Nothing is worse than be under scrutiny when you’re rushed and scattered. I had heard that nobody ever failed the BCEP exam but that didn’t ease the stress. BECP testing, I learned this time around is fairly forgiving because of the way it’s put together. I compare it to the military system of go and no-go scoring with people getting a second chance to complete a task after first botching it. The entire night, I only gave one person a second time go and at first I felt bad doing so but then I remembered a lesson I learned long ago which is that often failure is the best of teachers. The knowledge granted by failure sticks much better than knowledge granted by success. As I watched that student trundle off to her next testing station, I suddenly felt good about making her repeat the task. She owned that knowledge and she would not forget.

We packed up the rope and made our way off to our agreed upon location for our celebratory dinner and anxiously awaited our own students. As they filed in, with smiles and a new found ease about them, I felt proud of them. We’d helped make climbers out of these people. We gave them the skills they needed to launch their own climbing careers but better than that, we gave them a thirst for mountains and the confidence to drink deeply from that well.