It’s been an interesting couple of weeks. I got on some RMNP ice, top-roped some mixed stuff near Hidden Falls, attempted to climb some snice route on the first Flatiron, got sick, got lazy, and now I’m resting at home while I should be out earning turns – (it dumped 30+ inches this past week in the Northern Mountains!)

The First Flatiron (right) and the obvious corner system that occasionally ices up after a good snow.

Oh well, that’s life, and it’s moving along at its usual clip. It turns grey, gets dark and snows. It turns blue, gets warm, and the snow melts in a flash. Jackets to t-shirts in the blink of an eye. At the same time life stands still with the monotony and boredom of routine. To combat the despair of such a synthetic academic existence I meditate often, attempting to shed illusion and to feel present… More often than not though I end up dwelling hopefully on future events that have yet to occur. I plan, I imagine, and I waste my time in the present. I imagine that ocean of colorful rock and that ski across the frozen lake during a blizzard. Like many, I long for an escape back to wilderness. A yurt with a little woodstove, a dog for companionship, a pair of skis for transport, a rifle to hunt with, a stockpile of tequila, limes, coffee, and a shelf full of good books. Simple enough.

Yeah! A few good sticks up thin snice/ice on the first pitch of Silk Road.

When I was a student in the ORL (Outdoor Recreation Leadership) Program at Colorado Mountain College’s Timberline Campus in Leadville (10,200 feet! Definitely the highest college campus in N. America – in more ways than one) the thing I excelled at academically was the “out courses”, which were backpacking trips that focused on the study of group dynamics, leadership, and experiential learning. I partook on several of these trips and they were always amazing experiences. Lately I’ve been thinking back on these trips, recalling lessons learned and realizing that some people, myself included, simply function better in that natural environment. It’s the only time I’m organized, directed, and feel a sense of purpose. It’s really the only time I feel self aware and natural.  I’m desperate to build a future where the mountains will be my office, my classroom, and my home. Until then these little backyard alpine missions are keeping me sane and focused.

Bailing after the ice dissapeared.

And no, I didn’t plan on taking this post here, and I don’t know where it’s headed… My buddies who are getting out are reporting stellar skiing, so get after it if you can!

Climbinglife RMNP Conditions

Powderbuzz – CP Conditions

Gimme gimmie gimmie, don’t ask what for.

- Black Flag

The past couple of weeks have been a whirlwind of activity: bouldering, sport climbing, trad climbing, ice climbing, and ski touring. Ah, the Front Range with its mild climate, sunny crags, Cabernet powder (?), and dripping ice… Oh yeah, sometimes it just all comes together for a brief fleeting momement of multi-sport bliss. But anyways, today it’s bitter cold (though sunny), and that Wyoming wind is rolling through town, rattling windows.  I’m hunkered down in a cozy coffee shop, sipping an Americano, savoring a blackberry muffin, and studying up for first quarter exams which are quickly approaching. My thoughts drift to wind, spindrift, and plastic ice. The Park is calling. I haven’t been climbing enough ice… The relatively warm sunny weather was a nice dream of the coming spring, but looking outside I realize it’s early February and that we’re still in the midst of winter.

Ryan Malarky scoping out the crux on the RMNP classic Jaws Falls. Unfortunately thin conditions, warm temps, and running ice had us back off this South-facing line.

This has been my first season climbing water-ice. I was introduced to alpine ice this past summer in the French Alps and was amazed by the dynamic nature of that terrain. My amazement was magnified this winter with water-ice. Ice in general is a very brittle medium that is constantly changing. Observing ice and climbing it, I’ve realized just how little I know, and how far I have yet to travel. It’s an incredible pursuit and I’m thouroughly hooked.

Daniel Yager powering through the opening moves on an amazing V7ish boulder problem at Iceland. This is frozen-river bouldering at it's finest in a spectacular setting and on beautiful river polished rock.

I usually don’t get too excited about bouldering and sport climbing, and that’s a bad thing. I’m going to destroy that “I’d rather climb a multi-pitch 5.4 gear route than clip bolts or go bouldering” mindset. It really is a defeatist attitude and one I’ve harbored for too long. If I want to step it up in the alpine I need to suck it up down here and start climbing harder, start pushing grades, start working problems… So much of climbing is mental and it’s easy to sell yourself short and limit your growth because you (I) lack the patience and discipline required to progress towards a goal.

Cameron Pass is... to quote one of my homeboys: "knee deep and blower, bra".

The ski-touring has gotten a lot better lately. I’m still saving my ski-stoke for the Spring though… something about facet wallowing on my skinny touring skis for months on end kind of burned me out. I think I’d be a lot more excited about skiing if I got to wear a harness with ice screws dangling from it, ski lots of straight forward vert, descend powder covered glaciers, wear tight stretchy rando clothing, and not have to worry that every 30+ degree slope is scheming to slide and kill me.

If you haven’t done so yet, check out the impressive (and free) Poudre Canyon Route Climbing Guide just released by the Northern Colorado Climbers Coalition.

Spring Break is rolling up though, so I’m tossing around various ideas: Fisher Towers? Black Canyon of Gunnison? Hmm… car camping, juniper fires, cold beer, BO, miles and miles of open road, not to mention I might actually end up climbing something!

Psyched on The Palace. I've been spending some long cold days up there clipping bolts and trying to get strong. Here my buddy Pat is warming up on the classic 10b Monstrosity.

The Cables Route: so called because the NPS once had steel cables threaded through huge eyebolts strung down the N. Face and the route was the standard ascent before the Keyhole Route was pioneered and the NPS painted all those little bulls’ eye markers to guide the way. The cables were removed back in ‘73 (because they were perfect lightning rods) and the route remains the second most visited on Longs Peak.

I woke up at 3:00 am to the usual doubts and heartache I face the morning before a planned outing… “I’m so sleepy, this bed is so warm, why not sleep in and then go out for breakfast? Maybe go gym climbing after that?” On Saturday morning I managed to overcome myself. I got out of bed and brewed up a fat cup of coffee. The adventure beckoned.

The dark, early morning hike up to the Boulder Field always induces a state of deep introspection and hypnosis: one step after the other. On this occasion I’m graced with a remarkably beautiful alpenglow illuminating the peaks while a near full moon sets in the west. OK, it’s already been worth the alpine start. The slog to Chasm View is another story, (snow covered talus sucks!), but kicking steps up towards the Cables Route was relatively painless on good styrofoam snow. I couldn’t ask for better weather. It’s cold, but clear and the wind isn’t too bad.

The route’s technical pitch (5.5, M2) is about 60 meters in length, followed by several hundred yards of class 4 and 3 scrambling to gain the large flat topped summit of Longs Peak. I usually feel pretty comfortable on this type of terrain – fourth and low fifth class rock in crampons – but right off the bat I began flailing on the powder-covered granite. The route had appeared to be relatively clear from below, but I found the right facing corner that the route follows to be drifted over with wind deposited snow. I attempted to clear holds with my gloved hands and tools, but thirty meters up the little pockets of wind-slab were consolidated and began cohesively sliding off the rock slab when I attempted to climb (swim) through them.

I threaded my 7.5 dynamic tagline through the second eyebolt  and began self-belaying (revolving loop belay) out on a clove-hitched biner. After wallowing through more steep, snow-covered slab I reached a large drift guarding the last couple feet of technical ground. I didn’t want to climb through it, fearing it would have enough power to take me off the rock if it slid. I looked for gear-placements but found the cracks to my left iced over. I could have climbed around it on the bare slab to my right, but with no gear (lack of courage) in between me and the eyebolt below, I decided to down climb to the bolt and then made two thirty meter rappels down to the base of the climb.

The slog out is always fun… But hey, I didn’t see another soul all day. How often does one have Longs Peak to themselves? I am feeling pretty self-conscious about being shut down by 5.5 groveling but shut down I was. I didn’t know what to do – climb with gloves, tools, or maybe I should have brought a snorkel and just scratched my way upwards through the drifts? – it was probably just the thought of more 3rd class scrambling up to the summit of Longs that turned me back… Yeah, that was it.

Things I learned this day:

Unconsolidated snow over rock is a whole new game to me. I suck at it, but I want to get better.

I’m not nearly as fit as I’d like to be and would benefit from more LSD hours, hiking and cycling.

The hike back to the Boulder Field feels like it’s getting longer and longer each time I do it.

The N. Face of Longs Peak can be an avalanche trap (the Diamond below) in winter conditions and even small pockets of wind-slab can take you off your feet and get you rolling. I had been studying the Longs Peak Webcam and noted fresh coverage on the N. Face following the storms last week, but I also knew the face was practically bare for a couple of weeks before that. I figured the fresh precip would be whipped away by wind by the time I got up there, and for the most part it was, though chimney systems and corners seem to hold onto the snow pretty well.

- Gaston Rebuffat

I aspire to be a well-rounded climber. What’s a well-rounded climber? Well I believe it’s someone who holds a sense of adventure and an appreciation for nature above all else. In the most recent issue of Alpinist Magazine, Jim Logan describes how he and Mugs Stump prepared for their successful first ascent of the Emperor Face on Mt. Robson: “We’d spend the whole summer doing whatever it took. We hiked in, set up camp and simply observed it [the Emperor Face] for a few days, learning.”

I believe respect and admiration for the rugged beauty and power of the mountains is paramount. If I can’t go climbing, I’ll go ski-touring, trail-running, cycling, whatever. Just being outside in a landscape I love is enough to refresh me mentally/emotionally. And when I do end up just skiing, running or hiking, it’s a great opportunity to get fit, get psyched, and stay sane. Not to mention all the routes I can scope out from a quick run or ski up Glacier Gorge, Loch Vale, or Notchtop area!

I’m currently taking an EMT Basic / Clinical course at Front Range Community College in hopes of upgrading to WEMT (Wilderness protocol) and broadening my employment options. I’m enjoying the course and spending most of my free-time studying, so I’m not getting outside as much as I should be. In the mean time I’ve been logging some miles on the road bike, gym climbing a lot, running after school laps on short/easy Big Thompson Ice, and going for trail-runs and power hikes up Poudre Canyon.

So when the time comes (AND IT WILL COME) I’ll be ready for it! Apparently the Cameron Pass snow situation is improving, and I’ll definitely head up there soon. I’m stoked and looking forward to a great spring! (More sunshine, steeper lines to be skied, alpine ice in the Park, more sunny cragging, alpine rock in the Park, longer days = longer ski tours, more sunshine, new seasonal beers from the breweries, more sunshine…).

– Goethe

Welcome to Alpine Ambition blog, my name is Kevin Landolt; I’m twenty-one years old and live in Fort Collins, CO. I’m an avid climber and backcountry skier pursuing a career in mountain-guiding and climbing/ski instruction. The purpose of this blog is to document that process as well as to share thoughts on training, climbing, skiing, and life in general. It is also a top priority of mine to share weekly conditions updates for Cameron Pass. I have been blogging since early last summer. Feel free to check out my old blog at alpineambitionblog.blogspot.com.

Skiing along the ridge towards Mt. Mahler

My lone tracks off the ridge E. of Seven Utes

The past couple of weeks have afforded me some incredible ski-tours in the Never Summers. I’ve been touring here since I was old enough to drive and I’m always psyched on the place. Lately I’ve gotten really excited about pushing longer trips into some of the more remote drainages along the Divide. While the usual Diamond Peaks, Montgomery Pass, Seven Utes, Lake Agnes area, etc… are all great destinations that offer good skiing, studying the RMNP border area on the map has me amped on longer, more committing tours. Snow-caves and heavy packs anyone?

Here in town I’ve been training pretty hard at the gym. You can expect from me a fair bit of splatter about “training”. I dig it. More in an armchair athlete sort of way, but I still try to remain disciplined and stay fit even when I can’t find a climbing partner (usually) and end up punting around on skis or going for a trail-run. I think reading and re-reading Kiss or Kill is what did it. Anyway, happy new year everyone. Talk to you soon.

Campusing with the tools

Such are the existential questions of the late fall in the Rockies.

Last winter near Crested Butte.

The question may seem like a wash: it’s all adventure recreation so it’s all good, right? Sure, I’d buy that. But, on the other hand, the two endeavors are diametrically opposed: North and South; Superman and Lex Luther; PBR and Martinis. When skis meet snow, friction is my private enemy number one. I spend the night before buffing out each scratch, filing burs from my edges, applying the perfect coats of wax. All day I strive for glide; I dream of flying over, under, through, into and out of powder, or along a well-packed track.

If I’m flying while I climb, well, something has gone wrong. I’m about to be dangling (hopefully uninjured) from the sharp end while my belayer smashes into the bottom of the cliff. Friction is my main addiction while I climb: jamming hands in cracks and cranking fingers into sharp pockets; smearing, edging and stemming the feet. It’s all about the grip.

That's me on Friday's Recess at the Nautilus in Vedauwoo.

But when it comes to ascending and descending, it’s all just sending isn’t it?

So the answer to our original oh-so-beautiful problem really comes down to a matter of spirit: shall I pull down or shred it up? Fight for my right or go with the flow? Slow and elegant pain, or adrenaline speed floating?

Last week I said both. On Sunday I hiked for beautiful powder turns on my first ski day of the season and then cragged in the sun on Tuesday.

Such are the answers of our time.

Mason Daly, getting jazzed for the year's first turns.

Sunday morning I picked up my friends Mason and Paul at the crack of 10. Mason and I soaked in the sun on one of the finest coffee-drinking porches west of the Mississippi before loading our skis, poles and other tools of the trade into my truck. We drove to the Washington Gulch trailhead, strapped in, and headed out into the blue-bird day. Snowmobilers whizzed past us to go ski the farther mountains with deeper snow. Cross-country skiers with dogs followed in the packed tracks. We headed off the trail, into the woods to fight our way to the top of the hill.

Late November skin tracks are vicious. One second we were breaking trail through the week’s powder dump, and the next moment we’re sliding backwards on pine duff or edging into deadfall tree trunks. As Mason, Paul and I wound our way through the evergreens to the ridge of what locals call Coney’s, we often considered stepping out of the skis to boot pack up.

Two things crossed my mind frequently:

Anyone who follows this skin track is going to be like, ‘what the F were those guys thinking’?

And, Damn, I hope we find enough snow to not break our legs on the way down.

Touring towards powder. Slate River to the left (west), Washington Gulch to the right.

Eventually we gained the ridge above the trees and toured along wind crusts until we found a moderately-sloped open glade that would drop us back down into the valley. We stripped skins, ate a snack, layered up and then entered a gentleman’s debate about who should drop first. Paul had gotten his first turns the day before, I had skied the line plenty last season, so we decided Mason should have the honors. And honor it he did: a dozen unobstructed Champaigne turns.

I went next but should have gone last because I made two turns and immediately lawn-darted myself into the shallow snow pack. As I shook the snow off of myself and straightened out my goggles I knew I’d been too timid: I was afraid of picking up any speed because of the leg-break logs lurking beneath the surface. As I relaxed into the bouncy knee-drop rhythm that I hadn’t felt since April, I put the reluctance behind me. The snow was deep enough to play. Hooting and hollering the whole way, the three of us leap-frogged each other into the bottom of the valley. Pole taps, “Sick dude!”s, “Yeah buddy”s, skins on and we toured back to the car. First turns of the year!

Paul begins the ceremonial ripping of the skins at the top. No where to go but down, down, down.

The first day is all about getting the kinks out of the system: repairing blisters on the tour home.

Paul and Mason skating to the car on snowmobile tracks. Gothic Mountain looks on.

Monday. Work. Enough said.

Tuesday. Climbing. Not enough said.

Squeezer bugs? Check. Rock knockers? Check. Clipper-doos? Check. String? Check.

Paul and I headed down to Gunnison last Tuesday to climb at what I call Mini J-Tree, more popularly known as Hartman Rocks. Large-crystal granite domes and spires provide 360 degrees of climbing on balancy faces and skin munching cracks. Neither Paul nor I had climbed more than a handful of days since last fall, so we went to the Buddah’s Belly area to belly up to some short 5.8s. We endured the 30-second approach, dropped our gear, and marveled at all the solar warming happening on the south face of the rock feature. We’d left Crested Butte in single-digit temperatures that morning.

After deciphering the fuzzy guide book pictures, we stacked the rope, racked up and began scrambling up the sickness. All the pitches were around 70 feet with solid rock and a mix of face and crack climbing protected by both bolts and traditional gear. We swapped leads and got to know each other as climbers, this being our first day on a rope together and all.

The first real sass the rock threw at me came on an unnamed 5.8+ with sparse gear near the top. Three feet below my feet I had equalized two C3s (each with only two lobes engaged on dubious crystals) and a few feet above my head I had equalized one super dicey micro-nut with a somewhat less dicey micro-nut. Near my knees I had feebly tried to sling a chicken head, but without a hands free rest, getting a runner around the runner-length chicken head felt more like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic than actually protecting myself.

Paul cleaning the anchors on top of Buddah's Belly.

I shook out one hand, then the other more times than was really necessary or effective (same with reaching in to my chalk bag) then finally got up the peace and strength of mind to make the two tenuous moves up to a big jug. From that two-hands thank-god hold I hauled my shaking body whale-like onto the low angle top of the climb. I clipped the chains and Paul brought me home. The runner around the chicken head pretty much fell off as I lowered and I cleaned it on the way down to save myself the shame of seeing it sashay down the cliff, still clipped to the rope.

To finish the day off, we hopped on the crag’s namesake, Buddah’s Belly, a 5.9+/5.10- that navigates a short roof and a steep, juggy prow. As I looked at it from the ground, I became more and more confident I could climb it. I saw rests. I saw the bolt clips. I saw success. 15 minutes later I squealed “Take!” with a draw at my waist and began a series of climb-hang climb-hang, characteristic of any steep climb I hop on. I can technique my way through the balancy and even run-out climbs right off the couch, but the steep stuff never fails to punish me.

I finally bouldered my way from bolt to bolt, clipped the chains, and gave Paul a shot at it on top rope. On two of the moves his feet cut out completely and he admirably star-fished into the air with only one hand on the wall.  Sharma, meet Paul.

Paul, rapelling past the "jugs" that lead out of the roof on Buddah's Belly, 5.9+

After relaxing in the sun for a few minutes we retraced the epically-short approach to the car and drove to Gunnison for $1 fish tacos and a microbrew at the Gunnison Brewery. Then we drove back up valley to the land of snow and skiing.

Suuuuuuper hard approach.