Denali--a long post

Climbing Denali doesn't begin with landing on the glacier. Nor does it begin in Talkeetna, 55 miles from the summit as the crow flies, nor even in Anchorage, a two hour drive to Talkeetna. It begins well before arriving in Alaska, on the trail to Oyster Dome in Bellingham, in the washes of Red Rocks, and on the snow covered trails and roads of Jackson, WY. These are the training grounds that led me to Denali, a path stretching from blood soaked rocks at the base of Snow Creek Wall in Leavenworth to the slopes of the highest point in North America.

Trails and tribulations near Bellingham

50 lb pack, 10 lb ankle weights, 65 lb tree stump

My training had gone well, at least in the few weeks before departing for Alaska. I had returned to Bellingham in early May in order to spend some time climbing and training with Lewis, one of two partners for this trip. We got in some ice climbing, glacier travel, and skiing around Mt. Baker, as well as carrying heavy packs up the trails in the Chuckanuts. But as we left Bellingham, I couldn't help but think that my current level of fitness would have been nice to be at three or four months previously. In the past, I've been secure in the knowledge that I could keep climbing literally all day; Lewis and I have done a couple of climbs of 24+ non-stop hours. That type of fitness is an essential component of confidence in the mountains; the ability to simply keep moving in all types of conditions can get one out of a lot of problems! I wasn't so sure I had that in me at this point. I hadn't really tested myself since The Accident.

But leave Bellingham we did, on May 30. We planned on two full days in Anchorage in order to organize gear and shop for food. At Sea-Tac, our bags weighed in at 49 pounds each; four bags of gear between us, almost 200 pounds sans food and fuel. What the hell was in there? Cerebrally it all added up to match our gear lists—tents, sleeping bags, winter clothes, skiis, and climbing and camping gear for two routes—but certain parts of my mental faculties just couldn't handle that number—and it was only going to increase!

Perfectly packed bags

We spent our time, which stretched to three days, in Anchorage according to plan. Fortunately Lewis' friend loaned us the use of his house there while he was out of town. Our gear and food quickly spread throughout the kitchen and living room as we went through our lists. Another friend of Lewis initially helped us around town, giving us the local beta. I met Patti for the first time, and between the three of us we finally got everything packed and ready for the mountain. Patti didn't have a lot of climbing experience, but she is an exceptional long distance athlete. Every team going to Denali needs to have an official expedition name; considering the shape Patti was in, I figured that Lewis and I were just a couple of cupcakes compared to her, and thus our name was born: Team Patticupcakes.

Taking over the house in Anchorage

After one last long shower in Anchorage, we took the Purple Shuttle to Talkeetna on Tuesday, May 4th, and were able to fly out to the glacier the same day via Talkeetna Air Taxi (TAT). The weather that day was a good indication of the rest of the trip, clear and affording wonderful views of Denali as we approached, but slowly closing in as we landed on the glacier in another world at 7,200 feet. The weather dictates so much of the climb, from gear selection to simply being able to move or not move. We were expecting to get hit by at least one storm, one that would typically bring 50+ mph winds and temperatures of -25º (F) or less. I've had no experience climbing—or living—in these temperatures, and I blew through several months of a normal budget in purchasing some big ticket items for this trip.

First views of Denali on the flight in

Glacier landing at base camp, 7,200 feet

The first full day on the mountain we spent further organizing gear and Lewis rigged up our sleds with brakes and, well, rigging . Denali peaked through the clouds—it looked to be still quite a ways away! The next morning we awoke to snow and low clouds. We decided to follow the trail to the end of the wanded section, a few miles, and loaded up half our gear for a carry. This became standard operation over the next few days. We would carry half our gear to a cache area, bury it for protection against marauding ravens, and return to our tents for the evening. The next day we would pack up camp and and then carry the rest of the gear to the next stopping area. The day after that we would either rest or, if the previous cache was short of camp, we would go back and bring in our cached gear and food. This way we never carried our full load of 150 pounds. Even these half loads were heavy, and we divided the load between the packs on our back and the sleds at our heels.

Heading out to 7,800'

The glacier is at 7,200 feet; the first camp is at 7,800 feet, a small nominal elevation gain but one which goes first down a hill a few hundred feet, then climbs back up and follows a long glacier flow to finally end at the bottom of a steeper section at the 7,800 foot level. There are a few options for the second camp; we cached at 9,200 feet one day, then after a rest day and a weather day (couldn't move because of a weather system) we moved from 7,800 to 11,000 feet. The day after, we went back down and brought up our cache from 9,200 feet.

The weather during this period had, after a few nice days, turned cold, windy, and generally socked in. This weather wore on us all; it was depressing to not see the sun. On an off day, Patti and Lewis climbed Motorcycle Hill, a steep hill that comprised the next section after the 11k camp. As they arrived at the top to look over the ridge, they came upon a couple of French climbers who had also stopped to enjoy the view and take a break. One of the climber's sleds started to slide away from him, and he took a couple of quick steps to grab it before it went over the edge. He succeeded in catching the sled, but was now over a slab of hard blue ice. The momentum carried him across the ice and shot him between two large rocks that marked a point of no return over the edge, and he slid down a gully out of view. His partner, Lewis, and three other climbers in the area tried to make contact with the climber to no avail, and Lewis called in for help to the rangers stationed at 14,000 feet.

Lewis and Patti escorted the remaining French climber back to camp at 11k while a helicopter dropped a ranger as close as possible to the fallen climber. The climber had slid some 2,000 feet and didn't make it. How quickly things can go wrong in the mountains! Mountain climbing takes place in one of the most beautiful playing fields imaginable; the canvas on which we practice our sport is vast, inspiring, and terrifying all at once. In an average year, 2 to 4 climbers will perish. If climbing Denali were an organized sport, there would be calls to ban it. Imagine if in boxing or mixed martial arts, among the most brutal of sports, there were a death every 150 matches.

Lewis and I made a cache at 13,000 feet on what proved to be one of our worst weather days on the mountain. The wind at Windy Corner was, appropriately enough, windy. Climbing Motorcycle Hill wasn't too bad, but Squirrel Point gave us our first taste of the wind which only increased from there. Forty miles an hour steady, with gusts of fifty or sixty was our estimate. I was literally blown off my feet a few times, and it was with great relief we dropped our loads and returned to the relative quiet of 11k camp. Climbing the last hill before Windy Corner also gave me my first indication that something was not quite right with me. Though that hill was less steep than Motorcycle Hill or even Squirrel Point, I simply could not find my rhythm. We had begun to catch some parties that had left camp before us until that slope almost brought me to a standstill. That particular angle was just hell on my ankle, and it felt like I was dragging a useless appendage along, a la Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects.

After several more days we finally established ourselves at 14,000 feet. This camp is located in a large bowl, at the base of a 2,000 foot “headwall” which contained the steepest climbing of the route. Even at this, the route is not that steep. The route we are doing, the West Buttress route, follows a line pioneered by Bradford Washburn in 1951 and has become the standard route on the mountain. Of the approximately 1,100 people who will attempt Denali this year, 80-90% of them will ascend via the West Buttress. It is a non-technical route; that is to say, a minimum of actual climbing skills are needed to ascend. Fitness, the ability to acclimatize, tenacity, and will are by far the more important prerequisites. That is not said to minimize the difficulty of the route; still only 50-60% of those who begin the route will stand on top of the mountain. Rather, the difficulties simply lie in areas other than the ability to swing an ice axe, set gear, or equalize an anchor.

Above, a snow bath at 14,000'

Below, drying gloves

We stay at 14,000 feet for a few days before going higher. It's a convenient place to be, somewhat sheltered, with the ranger's tents nearby, and is a chance to chat with new acquaintances and to find out who you know that they know, and most of all to simply rest and acclimatize. The rangers patrol the mountain for 30 days before being replaced by another group. The rangers who happen to be on the mountain at this time are all friends of Patti and Lewis from Yosemite. The climbing community is small, down to two degrees of separation. At 11k I had noticed an apprentice guide for one of the companies that looked familiar; I finally asked him if he had ever been to Bellingham. He replied that he had taken an AAI class there one time a few years ago, and I finished his sentence by saying, “and I was on that class with you!”. Yes, he was one of the participants on a twelve day rock and alpine class that introduced me to the joys of mountaineering some seven or eight years ago.

After caching at 16,000'

There are six guiding companies that are allowed to guide on Denali, and about 25% of climbers who attempt Denali will do so using one of these companies. While using such a guide service is somewhat expensive, those who do so stand a slightly higher chance of success than non-guided parties. The guides work long hard hours and the success rate is testament to the leadership of the guides, especially considering the wide variance of skill and conditioning levels of a typical party.

At the steepest part of the climb, the guiding companies have set up a series of fixed ropes to help safeguard—and aid—the route. As we ascend from 14k camp to make a cache at 16k, we clip into these ropes using an ascender, basically a handle with a one-way ratchet that we pull on to help pull ourselves up the rope. Although the slope is only 40-50% and I would normally just use an ice axe and no rope on such a section, I am only too happy to have the ropes at my disposal. We are climbing to 16,000 feet, the air is thin, and I am tired. I'll take any help I can get!

Above, ascending the fixed ropes at 16,000'

Below, coming up to 14,000'

After burying our cache, we descend back to camp to rest before the final two legs of the journey: a move to camp at 17,000 feet, and then the summit day. The weather has been consistently good during this period. I am amazed at how warm it really is; daytime temperatures at 14k are near 25º, and with the heat of the sun not only directly above but also reflecting from every angle off the snow, it is quite comfortable to stand around in a short sleeve T-shirt. Temperatures inside the tent can reach 90º or more. Until a cloud goes over the sun that is, and then it suddenly feels like the ambient temperature of 25º! Although it never becomes completely dark, once the sun falls behind the mountains (around 9:30 p.m at this particular camp), we quickly head to the comfort of the tent and our sleeping bags.

Doing what it takes to stay warm

On the day we plan to make our move to 17k, I wake up at 5:30 a.m. with one strikingly clear thought in my head: I am not going to make it. I have been ignoring the pain in my ankle, made considerably worse by the climb to 16k, but the recognition has suddenly come to the forefront of my conscious. I lie there alone thinking only of failure for a few hours till Lewis and Patti wake up, and tell them of my thoughts. As it turns out, Patti was on the edge of going or not going and now decides that she needs a bit more rest; she has started to have a bit of pain upon inhalation and wants to wait till that gets better before ascending further. So Lewis climbs up alone that day with the goal of moving some of the gear from 16k on up to the high camp at 17k.

We wait a few days for Patti's symptoms to disappear, to no avail. In talking with my friend Matt, we discover he had the same symptoms. His went away after four days, and we gain hope. He decided to go up, but the symptoms reappeared with a gain in altitude and upon hearing that, Patti makes the decision to go down. By this time however, I have displayed one of the traits of a successful alpinist—a short memory. I think that my ankle maybe wasn't that bad and I probably can make it up. I'm also a little concerned for Lewis—he could easily make the top from 14k by himself, but there is no way he can carry down all our cached gear. Two trips would be necessitated, and I can't burden Lewis with that responsibility. So after yet another day's rest, Lewis and I head up the fixed lines to 16k and then across a ridge to the 17k camp. The ridge is by far the most aesthetically pleasing part of the whole route, and I am glad to be able to make the traverse. It feels good to be shod with ice axe, crampons, and rope. The only thing that doesn't feel good is my ankle.

On the ridge between 16 and 17,000'

On the ridge with 14k camp visible below

More on the ridge

We find a wall fairly well made for our small tent, and relatively quickly are set for the night. I say “relatively” because everything takes longer at altitude. At 17k there is only half the oxygen available as at sea level. We move a little slower for everything. Even at 14k I would find myself getting out of breath for no particular reason, even if just standing around. And although the boiling point of water is lower at elevation than at sea level, it still takes longer to get to that temperature. We spend a few hours everyday just making water from snow, a tedious but extremely necessary process. We've left our large tent at 14k for Patti, and have a smaller two person tent at 17k. But the tent is so small that only one of us can move around in it at once. To get ready for bed, one person waits outside till the other has themselves fully coccooned in his bag. Only then can the second person do the same!

We take one rest day at 17k, a chilly one at that. Sometime during the day I realize once again that I am not going to make the summit. And this time there will be no week of recovery possible as the air is so thin here that most people do not stay more than a few days; if the summit bid is not made quickly, it likely will not be made at all.

High Camp, 17,000'

Lewis awakes the next morning for his summit attempt. Though the sky is clear in the morning, by the time Lewis' preparations are complete, the clouds have thickened and there is snow and wind in the air. Lewis presses on anyway, and soon disappears into the clouds, crossing the Autobahn and turning the corner at Denali Pass. During the day all the guided parties and most others who started that morning have turned back, bamboozled by the wind at Denali Pass, leaving only Lewis and three other climbers on the mountain.

Many portions of the West Buttress route have their own appellations. Motorcycle Hill and Windy Point have been mentioned, for example. On the way from 17k to the summit, there are other sections that have names. The Orient Express is so named as the first several deaths on this section were from Japanese and Korean teams. The aforementioned Autobahn section was similarly named, as the first death was a German who slipped and quickly attained highway speeds of Teutonic proportions. The rangers have installed pickets (essentially long aluminum stakes driven into the snow) that climbers can clip their rope into to help safeguard their journey. On the previous day, the rangers at 17k had gone up and placed in a few more pickets on the Autobahn to help fill in some exposed sections.

As a particular team traversed the Autobahn this day, the front climber slipped and fell. Unable to self arrest (i.e., to stop his own slide by using his ice axe), the climber slid some 40 feet down the slope until the rope came taut—caught by the picket between himself and his partner. I don't know whether or not the second climber would have caught the fall without the help of the picket—I doubt it. That saving grace of a picket was one that had been placed by the rangers the previous day. Another thin line between a minor incident and tragedy!

After about ten hours on the mountain Lewis returned, having reached the summit in light winds after the buffeting of Denali Pass was overcome. He was less than excited; he would much rather have reached the summit in the company of myself and Patti than by himself. But I thought it was still a solid achievement, especially since it was out of reach of myself this trip.

The next day we packed up and returned to 14k. Patti had been able to find someone to rope up with and so had already gone down. By this time Lewis and I were both just done. I wanted nothing more than a shower and clean clothes, and to eat anything but dried fruit and instant oatmeal. We packed up the next morning in a cold wind. A sled full of our extra food was drug around camp and the contents were quickly disbursed among other hopeful climbers. We certainly didn't want to carry down anything we didn't have to!

The descent was made in blowing snow with visibility limited to just a few hundred yards. I couldn't make out the trail well enough to ski it, and so we ended up walking down. Though we never encountered any major storms on this trip, the mountain seemed loathe to let us go without some type of final assault. It took twice as long as we expected to get down to 7,800 feet, where we tiredly pitched our tent well after midnight for (hopefully) the last time.

Hiking out in a whiteout

The next—and final!—day broke clear and warm. The last several miles back to base camp at 7,200 feet were interminable. And what a difference in the trail a few weeks had made. What had once been a barely visible track through the snow was now a well-trodden packed out trail with numerous detours from the original route as numerous crevasses had opened up with the warming weather. Fortunately there were two planes just ready for take-off as we approached base camp, and we wasted no time in climbing aboard. And we were fortunate, as we were among the last out for the next several days as a storm system moved over the area. A few hours later, and we would have been stuck at base camp for another two or three days!

Instead, we were able to spend those next few days in Talkeetna. We saw, smelled, and ate green things, a treat to several senses. The sighting of a butterfly took my breath away. And the food, oh the food! I spent several hours a morning at breakfast which merged straight into lunch, and was separated by mere hours from dinner! I don't think I had lost much weight, but it still seemed like I had a lot of room for food!

I'll probably go back next year. I would like to stand on the summit, but more than that Denali is just such a wildly cool place! There are other more technical routes I'd like to attempt and besides, I learned so much on this trip it would be a shame to not make use of that knowledge. So, Denali, I'll see you next year!

Denali Dreaming

It is April 15th as I write this--over three months since my last post, but more importantly, only two weeks until I leave for Alaska to climb Mt. McKinley (Denali).

January and February were still months of recovery from injuries. My left ankle was (is!) the last bone to heal from my fall in October. Three steps forward and two steps back has been the routine. Weeks will go by with seemingly little progress, then a breakthrough day will make me giddy with happiness.

Above, the Tetons in winter

It must have been during one those giddy moments when my alpine climbing partner, Lewis, gave me a call from Bellingham in early February. Another friend of his had piqued his interest by talk of going to Alaska, only to change plans soon after. As Lewis told me this, I volunteered that I'd be interested in going. Lewis wanted to do two routes--the standard West Buttress route, used by about 85% of parties that try Denali, followed by the Cassin Ridge, which on an average year might see only a few successful attempts. It was big talk for a guy who had just gotten off crutches, but it was also an easy thing to say, sitting on the comfort of a warm couch.

These past months have been focused on that goal. I tried skiing a bit in Jackson, but had little success as my foot was still hurting. I headed back to Bellingham to drop off some things in storage, then went to Red Rocks in Vegas (again!) with the help of friend Susie's driving to spend some time soaking in the pleasures of the spring desert and of being with my friends Sam and Brie and Susie. I climbed a bit, hiked a bit, and spent evenings going over gear lists for the upcoming trip. Finally, at the beginning of April, I returned to Bellingham to spend some time training and climbing with Lewis and again, going over gear lists and reading what we could about our planned routes. Picture: Climbing in Red Rocks

Though the official name of the highest point in North America is Mt. McKinley, the native name is Denali; this is also the name of the surrounding park and many people refer to the 23,320 foot mountain by that name as well. I prefer Denali, but may occasionally also interchange names. But whether called Mt. McKinley or Denali, the mountain remains the same.

Statistics on Denali are easy to find. The lowest recorded temperature was -100º (F). Fortunately I won't be going in winter, but even in May -25º can be expected. In 2008, the latest year where stats are available 1,272 climbers attempted Denali; 59% were successful. There were four deaths. The average trip length was 17 days. We plan on anywhere from 25-40 days as our plans include summitting twice by two different routes. Denali sits on a plain at 2,000 feet, and rises 18,000 above the plain (though we'll be flying in to 7,000 feet). Everest sits on a plateau at 17,000 feet, and rises 12,000 feet above this. So Denali is actually a taller mountain than Everest (though of course not higher).

But statistics cannot ready one for the sheer bulk and beauty of Denali, according to my friends who have climbed there. I am prepared to be overwhelmed!

Training in Bellingham. The Nooksack Cirque

2009

This is not a Best 10 list. In fact, there are 21 pictures here. Nor is this even a Best Pictures list. Some of the pictures are out of focus, under- or over-exposed, or otherwise flawed. But these are the pictures that tell me the most about my 2009. As such, it is a personal list; the lessons learned are personal, the people had personal meaning to me (and unfortunately not everyone who meant something to me in 2009 is represented here), and the events were peculiar to a time and place that revolved around...me.

I write this as an aid to me, to remember the meaning of 2009. I don't really expect anyone else to follow these pics to the end, but of course you are welcome to do so. So here follows, in chronological order, my 2009 in pictures.

Taken on the side of Mt. Shuksan, the wind rolled down from the top blowing spindrift into our faces, with a temperature of about 15 degrees and falling with the sun. I took a long hard push at the front, postholing with every step. It was not exciting climbing, it was a put-your-head-down-and-slog kind of climbing. Looking up was disheartening, as the ridge never seemed to get closer. It was a time to live in the moment and enjoy the sheer physicality of the effort with no tangible reward (the ridge was as high as we got, with the final rock pyramid of Shuksan still above us). I and my partners Lewis and Stanislov were truly, in the words of Lionel Terray, Conquistadors of the Useless.

My older brother Jim flew the two of us in his club's Archer III from the suburbs of Arlington, VA to a small airport 60 miles south of Cincinnati. As my older brother, I had always looked up to him to be the competent one. It was comforting to see that it still held true, that my faith and trust in him all these years was deserved on many levels. I was reminded of the first time I saw my ex-wife at her work, and how competent and professional she was. She was good, and so was my brother Jim. Skill is the perfect application of knowledge and experience, and it's wonderful to see demonstrations of such by loved ones in situations great and small.

My Dad is on the left, his cousin Gene Meese is on the right. My Dad is, unlike me, interested in everything. Combining his interests of genealogy and World War II led him to uncover Gene's story. Gene's plane was shot down over occupied Europe in World War II. Safely parachuting towards the ground (several crew members did not survive the initial onslaught and subsequent breakup of the plane), he noticed numerous people running towards him. He did not know whether to expect friend or foe, and he certainly didn't guess the truth until almost down. All of the people running towards him were women; they wanted the silk in his parachute to make clothes! He made a run for a neutral country, but was caught by German soldiers and imprisoned in Stalag 17. He helped dig a tunnel that later hid several Russian soldiers slated for execution. Gene is a reminder of the depth of human spirit, and that we are all capable of great things.

Just eight years ago, Gene Meese received a letter from the mayor of the small town in Denmark in which he had landed. In it was an invitation to revisit the town, and a picture of a now 57 year old wedding gown. The gown had been sewn from Gene's parachute.

The siblings, all together at a stage production of Stalag 17 in Plainville, Ohio where Gene Meese was being honored. We've all led differing lives on various paths, but we've always been close despite the distances. I think we're all pretty proud of each other. The boys are all the same height; whenever a picture is taken of us, we all try and stand on our toes at the last second to look taller than the other. Kenny's timing was obviously off on this one!

My car, in front of Bellingham's old City Hall, on June 1st, as I left Bellingham. This is the beginning of a journey of unknown distances, destinations, and duration. Within the space of a few weeks, an idea that had been building for quite some time suddenly came to fruition.

Due to weather, I had only one day of climbing at my first stop, The Needles in California. But it was a spectacular day! Brie had led the hard pitches on glorious Sierra granite, and snapped this photo of me setting up the rappel. I take pleasure in being competent, at being skilled, and I am at last gaining a level of competence in climbing that adds tremendously to my enjoyment. I'm not worried about the past, because it is done. I'm not worried about the future, as I know I can handle it when I get there. I can just enjoy each moment as it arrives.

This picture compliments the one above. I am (again, finally) able to enjoy the physical movement of climbing. My feelings about climbing have included fearfulness, frustration, depression, antipathy, frustration, combativeness, diminishment, frustration, and apprehensiveness. I would also experience frustration. Climbing is the only sport I never took to naturally--I expect to be better than most at anything I try. I'd like to say that climbing made me a "better" person, but it didn't. It wasn't until I learned a few major lessons elsewhere in life and became a "better" person that in turn my attitude changed towards climbing.

Sam and Brie have been the proverbial friends in need. When I needed them, they were there. I love seeing friends smile.

Along with her Mom, I helped Stephanie on this, her first rappel. I enjoy teaching--not to show off my knowledge, but I get such a kick out of seeing someone's eyes light up with understanding, and then in applying that knowledge in accomplishment. School teachers are able to provide half of that equation; unfortunately teachers are able to see all too infrequently knowledge gained in a classroom subsequently applied in a student's life. Knowledge is one of those precious resources in life that in giving away doesn't diminish or divide, but rather multiplies.

Tuolumne, in Yosemite National Park, is a climbing mecca. Unfortunately an injury had made enjoyment impossible for me--or at least enjoyment of climbing. But climbing, while a major goal on this trip, is not the only goal, and thus a glance at the sky gives as much enjoyment and admiration as a perfect rope-length splitter granite crack. Okay, maybe not that much, but you get the idea!

I just like this picture. I am a member of several tribes that wander the earth; one of those is the tribe of climbing creatures, an example of which is shown here.

The last protection is quite a ways below, but I am climbing with confidence and grace. I am on a path to become the climber I've longed to be. That doesn't mean that I'm getting stronger; I'm not a great climber and never will be. But though far from perfect as either climber or person, I am (occasionally) pleased, and that's all that matters.

In two days we had gone from strangers to trusting our lives to each other and having fun. Experiences--and people--like this are what I had hoped to encounter.

My first time up amidst the Tetons showed me the potential of climbing that existed in this area. My nights after this were filled with dreams of rock and ledges and ramps and ropes.

A dawn view of a small part of Jackson Hole reminds me that the world at my feet is as full of mystery and beauty as the world above.

The sun sets on our den-for-the-night before our ascent of the Grand Teton. On this trip, I have found comfort in the oddest, most unexpected places. There is beauty and richness in the most simple of surroundings.

"The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him, he's always doing both."--Zen Buddhism saying If someone looks at me, as I do Susan, and can't tell whether I am working or playing, then I am living a good life.

A dipper, the only aquatic songbird in North America, can be seen in the upper left. I had read about dippers in Teewinot: A Year In The Teton Range by Jack Turner, and had since been on the look out for a dipper in the wild. In his various books, Jack challenges our views on wilderness. Managed wilderness is not, as it turns out, wild at all. And when I re-read his works and better understand them, I might post a few more insights.

I play hard, but I am also very, very good at relaxing. My father can pick up any instrument and play. That talent has skipped me, though I love music and had long wanted to play something. In the beginning of May, when The Trip was but a dream, I decided it would be a good time to start learning, just in case the trip did come to pass. A guitar was an obvious choice, so I found a local teacher on Craigslist, bought a used guitar, and began lessons. A week after I began, the trip fell into place and I was shortly on the road. Six months of practice has been enough to re-confirm what I had already known: I lack the music gene. But I enjoy the tunes I can occasionally wring from my reluctant guitar. I sometimes house sit for a friend just outside of Jackson; the above picture is taken at her country cabin. My melodies may not be as sweet as the meadow's songbirds, but I do think they sound better than rutting moose.

Never taunt a goat. Never.

Battered and bruised. Sometimes the bruises come from unexpected sources, as in this case; but most of my scars are self-inflicted. When I got knocked down, I didn't know where or who I was. I am still finding out.

Accidental Aftermath: An Interlude

After being released from Washington Central Hospital, Susan and I drove to Bellingham to stay at Kari's house for ten days until a scheduled follow up appointment back in Wenatchee. Friends came to visit and talk, and it was great to see them all again. My speech was obviously slowed and some words seemed to be just out of grasp, but worse was not remembering details of the conversations a day later. The only thing that seemed to come easily was sleep—fourteen hours or more a day!

The drive from Wenatchee to Jackson was interminable, even with an overnight near Spokane; Susan did a great job of driving the distance. The next few weeks were a blur of sleep and...what? Not much else. As I wasn't moving much, I had almost no appetite. Even recovery was a passive activity. Motivation was severely lacking.

My head seemed to return to normal gradually over those weeks and months; the last effect I noticed was in trying to read aloud—I could read to myself at a normal pace, and I could speak at a normal rate, but there seemed to be some mechanism just not in synch while trying to read aloud. The words would just not form. Concentration spans gradually lengthened to where books again became enjoyable.

Physical effects gradually diminished as well. Being able to roll over or be on my side while sleeping brought major improvement in comfort. My broken ankle, although the slowest injury to heal, was always the least painful, even in the hours after the accident.

Climbing was my raison d'être and I had no Plan B; no work, no other hobbies, and a relationship gradually growing distant. But I was still among the fortunate ones; the accident could have easily been much worse, and I had maintained my own health insurance after leaving work. The bills for those few days in the hospital totaled over $22,000. No insurance and my trip would have been severely curtailed.

I wish I could say that the recovery phase has been good for me, and that I've learned value in slowing down and that I took the time to learn Spanish, or organize my photo albums, or done something. But I didn't learn any lessons, other than that recovery sucks, plain and simple. Even the blog has suffered; what might be a chance to further the craft of writing took a holiday. I view the blog as a way of keeping track of the various places I visit, the people I meet, and the events experienced; nothing worth writing about has occurred in the past few months.

The one exception to “nothing” was attending a Wilderness First Responder (WFR, pronounced Woofer) class from November 30^th until December 8^th in Jackson. With only one day off, the class was 8 hours a day of first aid techniques especially tailored to meet the needs of those who travel a bit off the beaten path. This is the type of training Susan utilized in the hours between my fall and the arrival of the E.R. doctor who was part of the evacuation team, and even until arrival at the ambulance and advanced medical equipment. The information in the class, the presenters, and my fellow students were all stimulating, and did wonders for me personally, in just getting me up and motivated to do something every day. The class gave me additional insight to the care I received from Susan in those first critical hours and the ability to in turn provide that same care to someone in a similar situation. The class also gave me renewed appreciation for the professional manner in which Susan acted. She was, in a word, awesome.

As I write this, 2009 is drawing to a close. I am in South Florida visiting family for the holidays and will return to Jackson the first week of 2010. As soon as I return to Jackson, I'll leave again for warmer climes, this time to Vegas to see Sam and Brie until I need to return again to Jackson for a doctor's appointment on January 20^th. At that point, almost 3 ½ months after the accident, I should be able to begin walking without the hard boot. I have tried not to look ahead to that day...but it's getting close enough to let myself fantasize about long walks in the snow, some cross-country ski trips, and gradually increasing both the distances and slope angle till I'm back amidst the vertical world.

The Fall Trip Begins (and Ends!)

Returning to Jackson from Devil's Tower, Susan and I immediately repacked our bags for an extended trip south for the fall climbing season. There was a course that Susan wanted to observe coming up in Leavenworth, WA on the 9^th-11^th, so we decided to go there first and get in a few days climbing before her course began. Warm weather beckoned from the south, and driving through snowstorms out of Jackson we figured we were leaving at the perfect time!

Our first day of climbing was at Pearly Gates, an area of Leavenworth with a relatively high concentration of routes in one small outcrop of beautiful granite. I had previously been to this area and was only too glad to return as it is such aesthetic climbing. Unfortunately I had misjudged the sun, and the crag didn't receive any direct sunlight the whole day. We spent a few climbs looking longingly over the valley at some of the other crags basking in the warm sun. Even at that though, the weather wasn't cold enough to temper our enjoyment, and we were additionally kept company most of the day by a mother goat and two kids. Goats in this area, as other areas, are keenly interested in salt by any means, whether from chewing on sweat soaked backpack straps or clothing, or by licking the ground after a climber urinates. The first time I camped in The Enchantments, just beyond Leavenworth, I awoke in the morning for a casual pee, strolled a few steps from the tent, and undid my pants zipper. The sound of the zipper must have been like a trumpet horn, as immediately a half dozen goats came running towards me from all directions!

The goats hung about almost all day, most of the time near us but later in the afternoon they climbed the cliffs above us and occasionally knocked down small rocks in their forays above. We took turns leading routes, and with no other people at the crag got in a fair bit of climbing in a short while. I was happy as I was able to do some routes this time that I hadn't been able to do on my last visit.

We returned to the car to an unexpected phone message; Susan was told that the course she had planned to observe was cancelled. Looking at her calendar, she realized the next option was in Boulder, CO—in four days! She put in calls there to see if there was a spot open, but as it was already late in the day had no replies. We decided to head to Bellingham, just three hours away, to visit some of my friends and await a reply.

Arriving in Bellingham Susan found out that the Boulder class was also cancelled, but then almost immediately received a call from another employer with an offer to go to Antarctica for two months, beginning as soon as possible. She decided to take this offer, but that meant heading home to Jackson. As we had already made plans to meet some Bellingham friends back in Leavenworth for the weekend, we headed there Thursday in order to get in a long route on Friday before everyone else arrived.

Our objective for Friday—my birthday!—was Outer Space, a six pitch moderate climb up a spectacular 800 foot face, about an hour and a half hike in from the trailhead. I had done this climb 2 ½ times previously: once with Sam; half a time with Brie when she had a freak fall halfway up the climb necessitating a long self-rescue; and once more with Brie to finish what we had once started. Today was my birthday, and after leading the first two easy approach pitches, turned over the leading to Susan. I had already led all the pitches on my last climb there, and wanted her to have the full enjoyment (she loved it!) of getting to head up first on the upper pitches.

The sun never came out as the forecast had promised, and we were a bit cold here and there on the climb but nothing could detract much from the spectacular climbing. There was one other party of two climbers just below us, and I chatted to Brian and Eric at a couple of belays, just soaking in all the scenery and the overall perfectness of the pitches. Unfortunately I didn't have my camera and kept forgetting to take Susan's so I could get pictures of the climb. The last two pitches are two full lengths of a perfect handcrack surrounded on both sides by chickenheads, some large enough to be tied off. What this means, for those non-climbers reading this, is about as enjoyable climbing as can be imagined.

We arrived at the top of the climb and slowly gathered our gear for the descent—it was such an enjoyable climb we wanted it to last forever. The descent consisted of a walk off down a circuitous and steep trail down the south side of the mountain. We would not be roped together, but we would be careful. The trail meandered back and forth over some exposed areas, and we were glad to be nearing the end of the day. Once back at our packs which we had stashed at the bottom of the climb, we would be able to eat and drink a little before the downhill hike back to the car, which we expected to reach just at dusk.

Nearing the very last steep and exposed section of rock at about 5:20 p.m., I was 10 feet in front of Susan and a little above the other two climbers, who had reached the top of the climb behind us but had, in the intervening 30 minutes, meandered down the trail slightly in front of us. Movement suddenly caught Susan's eye, and she immediately yelled “ROCK!” as an object came hurtling from above. It was indeed a soccer ball sized rock, dislodged from a couple of goats above us. Her yell was too late for me, as I neither remember hearing her yell or being struck on the back by the rock. The impact knocked me completely off my feet, and I began sliding down a scree-covered slab section of about 10 feet. Her yells changed to “HELP HIM!” as I disappeared down the slab and over a 20-25' drop-off, and landed amongst the rocks below. According to Susan, I never cried out after being hit, and the look on my face as I hit the ground and began sliding was simply one of wonderment and incomprehension. Brian, the climber closest to me, actually saw the fall and reacted immediately as a newly trained EMT, rushing to my side and cradling my head in a spine-neutral manner.

Brian recalled hearing the sound of breath being pushed from my body, and that it took about 15-20 seconds for that breath to re-enter. Susan rushed down as quickly as safely possible, and they took turns in monitoring my vital signs. As for me, I remember nothing about the fall but for two ephemeral thoughts: Quit pushing me; and Can I stop at this level? Those thoughts were nothing but two frames stolen from a movie, without any other context. The next 20 minutes were also a blur—I remember seeing the outline of the mountains, and thinking that I must be in Japan. I don't remember seeing Brian or Eric's face, but I remember seeing Susan's face and distinctly not knowing who she was. The word “Leavenworth” kept coming into my thoughts, but I couldn't relate it to anything. I did know my name, and knew that it was my birthday, but other than that I was coming up pretty empty on information. My face was simply one of concentration as I tried to comprehend my surroundings. I asked where I was and what had happened, and Susan explained very carefully the where and what. I gave this answer grave consideration, then promptly asked the same question again. And again.

Realizing that I needed to be moved to a location more suitable for safety and for monitoring and hypothermia and/or shock prevention, they located a flat spot just below and to the left of me and laid down some empty backpacks for insulation. Susan did a careful evaluation of my spine, and with my consent decided to move me to the more safe and

secure location. The pain in my ribs was almost unbearable, but Susan said that I either needed to move myself or they would do it for me, which she assured me would hurt worse. With their help, I was able to gradually get into a better position onto the bed of packs. The goats remained above us and for the next several hours (even until the rescuers eventually arrived) the occasional small rock whistled down into the bushes around us. This new position was underneath a slight overhang and protected us from any more stray debris from above.

Eric had called 911 within 10-15 minutes of the fall, and he now called once again for an update. He was informed that there was already a search under way for a missing climber and additionally a motorcyclist had been hit just near the trailhead parking lot and other personnel were helping with that accident. Resources were being stretched thin. A helicopter had been briefly considered, but with no good landing zone and with the cliff being too close for a helicopter to hover for a winch effort, combined with the coming nightfall, an evacuation by land was the only real option.

With this knowledge, Brian and Eric volunteered to hike down to our vehicles and bring back sleeping bags and jackets for our group. I was already covered with all spare articles of clothing that we had, as well as the climbing ropes, slings, shoes, and anything else that an inventory of our combined resources had uncovered. I had also peed in a bottle and kept it close against my chest for warmth. But with the potential for an all-night vigil, more insulation became critical. At about 7:30, after some discussion, it was agreed that the best use of resources would be for both Brian and Eric to descend to our cars, leaving Susan and myself together for the next few hours.

A number of years ago I had been in a motorcycle accident and badly damaged my ribs. Twice during that incident, I started breathing too quickly for my own good and panicked as I realized the rib pain would not allow me to breathe as much as I wanted. Fortunately an oxygen mask was available to help calm my breathing. Recalling that panicked feeling and knowing no help was available this time, during this whole episode I concentrated on keeping my breathing as calm and steady as possible. The next few hours alone with Susan were rather uncomfortable and I just tried to find a balance between “letting go” yet still staying in contact with what was happening with my body. To this end I refused any ibuprofen, rather wanting to know if the pain was worsening, or any new pains were developing.

Brian and Eric returned at about 9:45 with both sleeping bags and jackets, and the news that the rescue team was assembling in the parking lot and should be about an hour behind. The sleeping bags made a huge difference, as can be imagined! Though still not exactly comfortable, I was at last warm and took additional comfort in the knowledge that the evacuation would soon begin.

The rescue team arrived as expected around 10:40. Dr. Mark was the head medic, an ER doctor and climber himself. He gave me another exam and then, mercifully, a small dose of morphine and an accompanying anti-nausea drug. Several Chelan County sheriff department members and several Chelan Search and Rescue volunteers made up the rest of the

crew; Susan, Brian, and Eric were also integrated into the team. Brian and Eric rigged up the first set of anchors for lowering the litter, a process that would be repeated 5 or 6 times throughout the rest of the night. Susan was primarily responsible for manning and managing the rope itself.

We had to descend a steep slope to a creek and then back up a short distance to the main trail. The descent was overall not excessively steep, excepting one short exposed traverse. But the main obstacles were the numerous boulders and downed logs

littering either side of the small climber's trail. Handling the litter through all of this was a brutish job, and the team did an outstanding job of limiting the amount of jostling to the litter. I was just a passive part of the rescue at this point, and again I took the opportunity to distance myself as much as possible from the events.

Over and under trees... A rather beleaguered Steve

Hours passed, and eventually we arrived at the beginning of the hiker's trail. As Dr. Mark fixed me up with another pain shot, a wheel was attached to the litter and the ropes and gear were packed away. Everyone took turns handling the litter, which may have been even more cumbersome now. Two more hours passed, and at 6:30 a.m. with one last section of pure man-handling the litter up a steep stepped section, we arrived at the parking lot and awaiting ambulance. We said our good-byes and went our separate ways for the time-being; me on a 30 minute ride to the hospital in Wenatchee, Susan to the campsite to find our friends and pack up our gear, Brian and Eric back to their camp, and the rescue crew back to their lives and hopefully a well-deserved rest.

At the hospital I underwent a series of x-rays and c-scans to various body parts. The total damage was determined to be a broken ankle, fractured ribs, fractured jaw, broken molar, mild to moderate concussion, whiplash, and various cuts and bruises, including one just under the chin needing nine stitches. Later that day I underwent surgery to repair the ankle, and came out with some nice new hardware holding everything together. Other than the previously mentioned stitches, not much else could be done.

Knowing that we had been camping, a cot was brought in to my room for Susan to stay on; one of the rescue team members had also offered her a place to stay just a few minutes from the hospital, an extremely generous offer. I spent the next few days in the hospital either sleeping, just waking up, or just getting ready to sleep. It was about 24 hours until the

whiplash receded and I could hold my head up by myself. The ribs caused the most problems—I could not really move around much by myself. The nurses and assistants at the hospital, and of course Susan, did everything they could to help, and I was actually pretty comfortable most of the time. Eating remained a problem, as the jaw fracture prevented me from either opening my mouth very wide or from chewing. But at least I didn't need a straw for everything!

I was in amazingly capable hands from the time of the fall. I cannot fully express my gratitude to everyone along the way—Brian and Eric, Dr. Mark, the rescue team, the ambulance medics, the examining doctor at the hospital, Dr. Vejvoda who operated on my ankle, the nurses and assistants at the hospital, and of course Susan.

Susan and I have spent hours going over the details of the incident. Although we knew there were goats in the vicinity and of their tendency to knock down scree, there was no warning of goats above us either from sighting them or from rockfall previous to the one rock that hit me. Being hit by a goat trundled rock is an objective danger, but should not be viewed as a freak accident or one-time occurrence. There are too many goats and too many climbers sharing these areas for a similar incident not to have previously happened, or to not again occur. The only freak thing about this particular accident was the size of the rock.

There were two main lessons we, as climbers, took away from this accident. The first lesson is to wear a helmet whenever near the crags in this area where goats can be expected, generally anywhere on the east side of Icicle Creek. I was still wearing my helmet at the time of the accident; no helmet, and the outcome would have been catastrophic. Unlike goats in many other areas, the goats in this area are attracted to human activity. At Snow Creek Wall, this means donning a helmet as soon as the crag is approached. At Pearly Gates, this means also not taking helmets off while waiting around at the bottom of the crags, unless a sufficient overhang is present. In one of my previous visits to Pearly Gates, a rock whooshed by my partner and I on the second pitch of a climb, and landed in the midst of some climbers lunching below. They looked at us, and we pointed upwards to the offending goat. Most of them had taken their helmets off while resting.

The second lesson is the importance of first aid training. Susan's Wilderness First Responder (WFR) training was at least as important as more advanced EMT training, which by nature assumes that the EMT practitioner has advanced medical support tools at his or her disposal. WFR training assumes that little or no advanced tools are available, and focuses on assessment, stabilization, and treatment in a remote setting. A remote setting is, by definition, two hours away from advanced medical support. But it doesn't take much to exceed two hours. We were only an hour and a half walk in from the parking lot, but ended up 13 hours from the ambulance.

I don't really have an ending for this post. The accident continues to define my life on a day to day, minute by minute basis. It will be some time before I am back climbing, or even walking normally. My running career is likely over. My love for the mountains has not diminished, but my desire to be more prepared has increased. Even before leaving for the autumn portion of this trip, I had signed up for a WFR class at the end of November. I urge all my climbing friends reading this to at least sign up for a Wilderness First Aid class. Do this for yourself and do it for your partner. You never know when those skills may be called upon.

Stop 9, Devils Tower, WY

Six pitches in six days. Not much of a climbing trip, but the lack of climbing was offset by the sheer beauty of the improbable geological oddity known as Devils Tower. There is no mistaking Devils Tower for any other feature on earth and it has become a Wyoming icon, its silhouette gracing every state license plate. Devils Tower also plays a prominent role in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, obsessing Richard Dreyfuss' character to the point where he makes a mashed potato sculpture of the tower at dinner. It (the Tower, not mashed potatoes) has that kind of power on people.

Long before a meeting place for aliens however, Devils Tower had become a meeting place and geological landmark for generations of area Indian tribes. Known by various names, usually a variant on Bear's Tower, the current name was the result first of a misunderstanding between natives and an interpreter, and then the apostrophe was dropped in the 1906 official proclamation that recognized Devil(')s Tower as the nation's first National Monument.

The Tower had been first climbed even before becoming a National Monument. In 1894 a couple of local ranchers erected a ladder up one side, summitting on July 4^th. Remnants of this ladder still exist, and remind us that older generations were simply a hardier breed of people.

Approaches to the beginning of the climbs are mercifully short, but even twenty minutes was proving a challenge for me. Six weeks in the Tetons had taken a toll on my feet—I'm not really sure why, as I've done a lot more in the past with a lot fewer consequences. But whatever the reason, simple walking was sometimes uncomfortable and climbing was almost unthinkable. While running cross-country in college, I experienced debilitating foot pain and went to a podiatrist. He told me that I had the feet

of a fifty year old man, and I should never run again. (He was also wise enough to know hislimitations, as he referred me to another podiatrist, himself a marathoner, who outfitted me with orthotics and I have continued to run ever since.) That was in 1984 when I was 21 years old, meaning that my feet had aged 2.38 years for every normal year. At 45 years of age now, my feet are 107 years old. It's no wonder I have such problems with my feet in general, and in finding decent fitting climbing shoes in particular.

Above, looking down one of the flutes

Susan's summit pose

This was the perfect time of year to climb—ideal weather, neither too hot nor too cold, and very few other climbers. The day Susan (my climbing partner) and I stood atop the Tower, we shared the small plateau with only the sun and the breeze. The top gently slopes up one side and down the other, with the high point being about 1/3 of the way from the north end. There is a summit register on top consisting of a yellow pad of lined paper in a leather cover, and we dutifully wrote our names in one of the blank pages. Unfortunately, the pad is replaced every few months and famous names—including, surprise surprise, Fred Beckey—are found mostly only in the record of the guidebook.

Prairie Dogs bid us farewell

We drove back to Jackson, once again admiring the vast scenery of Wyoming and reading from the Roadside Guide to Geology to help interpret the landscape. A large fire in Yellowstone had closed the main road, forcing a long detour over the mountains. Pelted first by rain, then by snow, we arrived back in Jackson with the Tetons cloaked in white. Somehow we had left in summer and returned a week later to the first dustings of winter.