Here’s a day-by-day synopsis of the past week:

Wednesday – By way of two morning trips to the airport, I said “fare thee well” to Michelle and “howdy” to Jamie Dial, my boss at Vanderbilt’s Outdoor Rec Program and my major climbing mentor.  Jamie is the type of climber whose stories often start with things like “the second time I soloed the Grand…” and “I’d probably been on El Cap for two days when…”  His climbing resume reads like a North American bucket list, and, lucky for me, his skills in the mountains are rivaled only by his ability to impart that knowledge and experience to others.  He was just a few days removed from a Vandy trip to J-Tree and Red Rocks when he hopped on a plane to Bozeman for a little ice climbing R&R.

Three hours after his plane touched down, we were racking up at the base of Mummy Cooler II (WI 3) in Hyalite.  I gladly accepted his offer for the first lead and soon found myself in a familiar situation – belaying Jamie up to [Read More]]]>

Jamie on top of the 5.7 first pitch. Don't let the picture fool you -- he copied my jacket/helmet combo.

Here’s a day-by-day synopsis of the past week:

Wednesday – By way of two morning trips to the airport, I said “fare thee well” to Michelle and “howdy” to Jamie Dial, my boss at Vanderbilt’s Outdoor Rec Program and my major climbing mentor.  Jamie is the type of climber whose stories often start with things like “the second time I soloed the Grand…” and “I’d probably been on El Cap for two days when…”  His climbing resume reads like a North American bucket list, and, lucky for me, his skills in the mountains are rivaled only by his ability to impart that knowledge and experience to others.  He was just a few days removed from a Vandy trip to J-Tree and Red Rocks when he hopped on a plane to Bozeman for a little ice climbing R&R.

Three hours after his plane touched down, we were racking up at the base of Mummy Cooler II (WI 3) in Hyalite.  I gladly accepted his offer for the first lead and soon found myself in a familiar situation – belaying Jamie up to the top of a pitch and hearing the always-enthusiastic “strong lead, brother!” as he clipped into the anchor.

We rapped off of Mummy II and walked just around the corner to the dripping ice of The Scepter (WI 5).  The thin chandeliers and mushroom-shaped stems looked, according to Jamie, “super cool,” and he tip-toed nimbly up the steep face on insecure hooks and dubious screws for his first ice lead in more than a year.

We got back to the ground just as the sun was setting on day one.

Topping out on the "Silken Slot" chockstone.

Thursday – Up early for a quick stop at the grocery store and then back into the Canyon.  In the mood for some longer routes, we braved the hour-and-a-half approach up toward The Dribbles (WI 4) where there are a few multi-pitch lines pretty close to one another.

We decided to link the two or three Dribbles pitches into one 70-meter simul-climbed rope-stretcher to save time.  Jamie led off from the bottom, and I started moving up as soon as the cord came taut – taking special care not to fall and pull both of us off the wall.  With only the one belay at the top, we knocked out the route in good time and good style and headed right across the cliff band toward the mixed Silken Slot (WI 3, 5.7).

Climbing up into the gully. Scenes like this one are why I climb.

Silken Slot boasts a very cool ice-choked gully that offers a remote alpine feel – rare in the usually wide-open Hyalite; the route doesn’t see a lot of action because the gully is guarded by a huge chockstone just a few feet off the deck.  Fortunately for us, pulling awkward, poorly protected rock moves in crampons is exactly what Jamie had in mind for the afternoon.  He scraped up the face of the chockstone, and I took off from there on plastic ice up into the steep-sided gully.

Two raps got us to the ground, and we hiked out in the dark for the second time in two days.

Friday – After the long approach the day before, we were in the mood for something a little closer to the car.  We used this day to tour some of Hyalite’s closer classics – Genesis I (WI 4) to Genesis II (WI 3+) and then over to The Hangover (WI 3).  We knocked out all of those pretty quickly, so we decided to add Upper Green Sleeves on the back end.  The book mentions a back way over there that you can access by climbing past the usual belay on Hangover.  Why not, right?

I stretched the rope around an exposed, snow-covered outcropping and steadied myself by sinking my tools into the moss hummocks that were stuck to the rock.  A nerve-racking traverse put me on a little saddle where I thought I could see the path to the other climb.  No such luck.  I spent the next half-hour wading through waist-deep sugar until I found a tree that looked sturdy enough to support a rappel back to Jamie and the anchor.  Win some, lose some.

We made it back to the car without headlamps.

Saturday – Snowy rest day.  We kicked it around the house until lunch time.  After a quick stop at the Pita Pit, we headed southeast to Chico, MT for a soak in the hot springs.  Back in Bozeman by 4:00pm and up to the ski hill in town to check out my landlord’s band.  For the nightcap, we found some alpine inspiration at the second night of the Banff Film Festival – if it’s coming to your town soon, it’ll definitely be worth the price of admission.

Sunday – We hiked into Hyalite’s East Fork to find Palisade Falls (WI 4), a waterfall that makes for a popular hike when it cascades in the warmer months.  The guidebook calls the hike to Palisade “the easiest approach in Hyalite.”

Three hours and two unsuccessful trails later, we were back in the Palisade Falls parking lot and running out of options.  We had already tried the ski tour trail in the back and the smaller trail behind the “trailhead” sign – seemed reasonable at the time – and were pretty much ready to bail.  We finally found the right path and were at the base of the climb within fifteen minutes.  The one pitch we climbed in the falling snow was mostly worth all the trouble.  I think.

Jamie cruising up the second step of "Genesis II."

It was decision-making time when we got back to town.  We were planning to head into the Beartooths the next day to get on an area classic called California Ice, but a foot-and-a-half of fresh powder had made conditions less than ideal.  The Hyalite climbs that we had been eyeing were subject to the same avy danger that took Cali Ice off the list, and we didn’t want to go back in there and climb the trade routes again.

With choices dwindling, we looked outside the box a little bit.  We considered driving down to Cody, WY for one of the long routes out there, but the four-hour drive wasn’t all that attractive.  We considered heading up to Bridger for some powder day turns, but, well, skiin’ ain’t climbin’.  At 11:00 that night, I drove to the airport to pick up Michelle, and Jamie said he’d figure it out while I was gone.  We were asleep by midnight with a plan in place.

Monday – At 3:30 the next morning, I was behind the wheel in a Red Bull-induced fever.  With luck, we’d be in Cody at 7:30 and hiking away from the car at 8:00.  Our objective was Smooth Emerald Milkshake (WI 4, IV), an all-day route with several miles of trail on either side.  We estimated twelve hours car-to-car.

We hit the trail at 8:40 – not exactly an alpine start, but not bad considering we began the day more than two hundred miles away.  With some route-finding issues, we reached the bottom of the first pitch in just under three hours.  Game time.

I belayed Jamie up the first WI 4 curtain and climbed past him at the top of the pitch.  For the next four hours, we soloed and simul-climbed the easy sections and built anchors to pitch out the harder parts.  The route was fantastic – long, challenging, and way out in the mountains; perfect end to a big week.

We reached the top of the drainage just before sundown and knocked out most of the six rappels by headlamp.  A short section of rope-assisted 5.4 got us back to the trail, and we were in the warm truck at 8:15 – that’s less than twelve hours, for the record.

The remaining Red Bulls didn’t do much to shake our exhaustion, so we opted to stay the night in Cody.  Long day.  Good day.

My sentiments exactly, amigo.

Tuesday – The hotel wake-up call came at 4:00am, and, just like that, we were back on the road.  We stopped for breakfast at the McDonald’s in Columbus, MT where we met an old cowboy who asked if we were brothers.  “Brothers of the rope!” Jamie told him, although the cowboy’s confused eyes belied the smile and nod we got in return.  If you’re a climber – or a skier, runner, paddler, cyclist, etc. – I’m guessing you’ll understand.

I got off of work at 3:00 p.m. on Tuesday and met Jason at Hyalite for some afternoon laps.  The sun sets between 4:30 and 5:00 these days, and we had just enough time to hike in and hang the rope before the headlamps came out.  We spent the next hour cruising up various lines of WI 3-3+ as a mostly-full moon painted an eerie glow on the mountains across the canyon.

It was completely dark by the time I put Jason on belay for his last turn.  I doused my headlamp and took solace in the company of the winter constellations until my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the moonlit night.

As Jason picked his way up the climb, I privately enjoyed one of those priceless liminal moments – suspensions in time when self-awareness is at its most complete.  With stars shining above me, the luminous moon hovering just above the canyon, and Jason’s headlamp turning the wall of crystallized water into a monochrome fireworks show, I gave profound and silent thanks for the perfection of the moment.  This is precisely the type of experience I was hoping to have when I came out [Read More]]]>

Hyalite Canyon from the "Unnamed Wall"

I got off of work at 3:00 p.m. on Tuesday and met Jason at Hyalite for some afternoon laps.  The sun sets between 4:30 and 5:00 these days, and we had just enough time to hike in and hang the rope before the headlamps came out.  We spent the next hour cruising up various lines of WI 3-3+ as a mostly-full moon painted an eerie glow on the mountains across the canyon.

It was completely dark by the time I put Jason on belay for his last turn.  I doused my headlamp and took solace in the company of the winter constellations until my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the moonlit night.

As Jason picked his way up the climb, I privately enjoyed one of those priceless liminal moments – suspensions in time when self-awareness is at its most complete.  With stars shining above me, the luminous moon hovering just above the canyon, and Jason’s headlamp turning the wall of crystallized water into a monochrome fireworks show, I gave profound and silent thanks for the perfection of the moment.  This is precisely the type of experience I was hoping to have when I came out here.

There was nothing exceptional, really, about the climbing that evening.  This was not an expedition that we had planned for months.  This was not a test-piece project that we had studied and practiced.  This was not a day-long, multi-pitch, 10,000 calorie, miles-to-go-before-I-sleep epic.  This was a pretty average after-work top-rope session – the kind you’ll have a hundred times in your climbing career — and it’s exactly what I wanted when I left Atlanta in October.

Jason pulls the crux bulge on a nameless, rarely-forming line

There are very few places in the world where I can work an eight-hour day and still have time to run laps on an ice climb before dinner.  The fact that this is probably the least exceptional climbing day I’ll have this week is amazing to me.  I am happy here.

It’s easy to praise the good fortune that has brought me to this place – to think how lucky I am that I can do these things that I love so much as often as I am able – and, absolutely, good fortune is an ingredient.  I’m fortunate that I was born in a country where I can leave my subtropical home and drive to a place where I can climb frozen waterfalls for six months without having to change so much as my phone number, and I’m fortunate that I have friends and family who will support me in this endeavor.  Still, good fortune can only account for so much.

Michelle's first day on ice

It’s not a matter of random chance that I landed here in Bozeman.  Indeed, I came here precisely because of the outdoor opportunities.  I wanted to live in a place where a three-hour break in my day and a little motivation meant that I could go ice climbing.  Tuesday night exists as the culmination of that goal, and, for that, it is truly exceptional.

Adventure and recreation are of high priority in my world, and they’re integral in my endless quest for personal balance.  If they’re priorities to you (and, if you’re reading this on The Mountain Shop website, chances are good that they are), I encourage you to find a place to be where they can be part of your everyday life.  If you love to ski, don’t let skiing become a vacation-only activity; move to Colorado or Idaho and ski 80 days a year.  If you love whitewater, go to Asheville or Chattanooga where you could try out a new local creek after every rainy day.  If you’re captivated by desert canyons, spend some time in Utah.  If you love climbing, your biggest problem will be deciding which world-class destination suits you the best.

A little crossover magic

Adventure is like a friendly little leprechaun: it knows exactly where to find good fortune, but it won’t come looking for you.  Go find it.

After a week or so of deliberation, we finally pulled the trigger on a trip back to the Sphinx.  Several intervening factors led to the decision: Jason wanted to lead the first pitch, I wanted to find my crampons, and we were able to talk Ryan, one of Jason’s old climbing buddies, into coming along to further split up the weight and trail-breaking duties.  Instead of sleeping in the parking lot and tagging the climb in one 17-hour push like last time, we decided to leave early on Monday afternoon and camp at the saddle; we’d succeed in shaving five miles off our climbing day, and we’d be able to sleep an extra three hours.

That’s what we like to call a “win-win situation.”

It didn’t make a difference in the end.

We hiked in by moonlight and set up shop in a protected grove just beneath the saddle.  A storm blew in during the night.  By the time we woke up, the snowfall was so heavy we couldn’t see [Read More]]]>

Justin enjoys moonlit walks in the mountains, margaritas on the rocks, and the occasional Peter Cetera love song. He wants you to know that he'll be the hero you're dreamin' of.

After a week or so of deliberation, we finally pulled the trigger on a trip back to the Sphinx.  Several intervening factors led to the decision: Jason wanted to lead the first pitch, I wanted to find my crampons, and we were able to talk Ryan, one of Jason’s old climbing buddies, into coming along to further split up the weight and trail-breaking duties.  Instead of sleeping in the parking lot and tagging the climb in one 17-hour push like last time, we decided to leave early on Monday afternoon and camp at the saddle; we’d succeed in shaving five miles off our climbing day, and we’d be able to sleep an extra three hours.

That’s what we like to call a “win-win situation.”

It didn’t make a difference in the end.

We hiked in by moonlight and set up shop in a protected grove just beneath the saddle.  A storm blew in during the night.  By the time we woke up, the snowfall was so heavy we couldn’t see the peak from the tent.  If you’re up on a mountain when a storm comes in, you deal with it because, well, what else are you going to do?  But you never want to climb into a storm if you can avoid it – that’s day one stuff.  We slept until sunrise and laid around in the tent telling stories.  When the snow refused to lighten after another hour, we packed up and left.  We swung no tools, we hung no ropes, and we located no crampons.

Good morning, sunshine.

This is a scenario that plays itself out time and again in the mountains, and if your climbing interests extend past the gym, getting shut down is one of those things you’ll have to handle eventually.  The more you push yourself – in terms of location, altitude, and goal – the more subjective your definition of “success” becomes.

Was our recent trip to the Sphinx successful?  By the strictest of measures, no.  We didn’t finish the climb or find my crampons, so our two main objectives eluded us.  At the same time, we didn’t lose any crampons, and we made it back to the car better friends than we were when we left.  We’re also all psyched to go back and try it again, and that is a grand success in and of itself.

As with many things in life, it’s important to find a balance.  I love being outside, and I absolutely find a special and unique satisfaction in and among nature.  I recognize and appreciate the beauty of the mountains, the rivers, and the stars; they are my cathedrals.

Even still, it is not enough for me to remain a spectator in these settings.  I don’t run ultra-distance trail races because the final ten miles of the trail are significantly more profound than the first twenty; I run them because I couldn’t stand to challenge myself like that on some boring road.  The Grand Canyon is, for me, a spectacular abstract concept, and it will remain so right up until the time I’m able to see it from a boat on a three-week float trip.  I am eternally fascinated by the miraculous and intricate process that causes a waterfall to freeze into a solid flow of ice; it is, in fact, a perfect thing to ponder while anchored to that same waterfall by three ice screws and a length of 7mm cord.

Success.

I never want to reach a point in my climbing where a five-mile retreat through pristine falling snow becomes nothing but a five-mile retreat; I also never want to reach a point where that same five-mile retreat becomes a perfectly satisfying winter stroll.  I am driven by the climbing, and I am restored by nature.  As long as I remain both driven and restored, I remain successful no matter the outcome.

There’s been a lot of action in Montana this week.

Last time I checked in, I was about to embark on a three-day trip with Jason, a local climber who answered my online personal ad.  Jason has been climbing ice around the country for more than a decade and moved to Montana five years ago for the same reasons that I have come now.

On his suggestion, we loaded up my truck and drove three hours southeast to the Beartooths – a range Jason reveres as “very white, very tall, and very infinite.”  The range occupies the area just northeast of Yellowstone and, as part of the greater Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, boasts some 900,000 acres in northern Wyoming and southern Montana.

The plan was as follows: get up early on Monday morning and drive into the mountains; knock out one route that afternoon; drive to another part of the wilderness that night; catch a few hours of sleep in the truck; get up around 3:00 am on Tuesday for the 5-mile approach to that day’s route; finish the climb and get back to the car by nightfall; on Wednesday, assess [Read More]]]>

Took us twice the time we thought it would, but the view was nice...

There’s been a lot of action in Montana this week.

Last time I checked in, I was about to embark on a three-day trip with Jason, a local climber who answered my online personal ad.  Jason has been climbing ice around the country for more than a decade and moved to Montana five years ago for the same reasons that I have come now.

On his suggestion, we loaded up my truck and drove three hours southeast to the Beartooths – a range Jason reveres as “very white, very tall, and very infinite.”  The range occupies the area just northeast of Yellowstone and, as part of the greater Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, boasts some 900,000 acres in northern Wyoming and southern Montana.

The plan was as follows: get up early on Monday morning and drive into the mountains; knock out one route that afternoon; drive to another part of the wilderness that night; catch a few hours of sleep in the truck; get up around 3:00 am on Tuesday for the 5-mile approach to that day’s route; finish the climb and get back to the car by nightfall; on Wednesday, assess conditions of routes and climbers; climb if we feel like it, drive home if we don’t; either way, get back home by Wednesday night.

It sounded easy enough, and all was going as planned when we left the trailhead just after noon in the bright sun.

Our objective that afternoon was an ice-choked gully high in the mountains that overlooks a glacier-fed alpine lake.  The route, Funeral for a Friend (two pitches – WI 4-5, 5.7), is only available in the early part of the season before heavy snows bury it until the spring thaw.  The guidebook told us that the climb was twenty minutes south of the lake.  Jason had been as far as the lake and estimated an hour-and-a-half to its north shore.  We generously assessed an extra fifteen minutes to circumnavigate the water, putting us at the base of the climb in a little more than two hours.

Four hours later, at just over 10,000 feet, we breathlessly waded through the final hundred yards of knee-deep, hillside snowpack guarding the gully.  As the sun was setting on our day and, potentially, our plans, we assessed our situation:

It’s 4:30 – maybe one hour until dark, but certainly not two;

We’re five miles and four hours into one of the most difficult approaches either of us can remember;

At least three hours back to the car – even at this point, most of that will be in the dark;

The route would be a challenge for either of us to lead in ideal conditions – with route not fully formed and climbers exhausted, conditions are not ideal;

On the other hand, we trudged all this way for a reason, and what’s four hours in the dark when you’re already guaranteed three?

"Funeral for a Friend." Not today.

In the end, cooler heads (and colder fingers) prevailed.  We decided the consequences of an accident were too severe and bailed on the route – always a hard decision to make, but sometimes you have to do it.  The stars were out by the time we reached the lake.

My headlamp died soon thereafter (an unforgivable rookie mistake), so my descent turned into a moonlight stroll that was interrupted every few steps by a surprise waist-deep plunge.  We got back to the truck around 8:30 and made a quick and unanimous decision to charge hard for warm beds at home.

We took a rest day on Tuesday and got back at it on Wednesday.  Jason wanted a crack at Bobo Like (WI 5), a route on one of the high ridges that he had followed during a cold snap a week prior.  This early in the season, it’s rare to find a route at low altitude that’s solid enough to climb (much less protect), so getting a chance to climb some ice invariably means suffering through a long, arduous approach to high, shady drainages.

This time, at least, the payoff was a little better.  While the freestanding pillar that was Jason’s real goal remained too thin for comfort, the lower-angle ice ramp that forms the bottom of the route was good to go.  We turned some screws, sank our tools, and ran a few cruiser laps up to the bottom of the pillar on a fifty degree afternoon – not exactly the recipe for a desperate alpine test piece, but a perfect way to get back into the groove.

The author pulling the ice-to-snow transition

Thursday brought more pleasant weather to Bozeman, and it was in the sixties by lunch time.  While that’s not what you want to see when you’re waiting for dripping ice climbs to fill in, it makes for a perfect afternoon of late-season rock climbing.  Michelle and I had planned for a session on the rocks when we first got to town, but a powder day kept us grounded.  With that in mind, we made the most of the gift of warm sun.  We spent Thursday afternoon at Practice Rock, a roadside crag just inside Hyalite’s gate.

Michelle lowered me off a 5.6 crack right about the time Jason and his wife, Nicole, showed up, and the four of us spent the afternoon top-roping the climbs on either side of the anchors.  On Saturday, Michelle and I drove just outside of town to the Bozeman Pass to clip some bolts.  We found a sunny wall, and scraped up sharp rock for a few hours.

Michelle hung the draws on the 5.7 Enema of the State for her first lead – a memorable event for any climber and especially so when the route has such a sexy name (I remain ashamed that my first trad lead was a Joshua Tree climb called Frosty Cone – my friends and I spent the whole afternoon christening it with cooler titles, none of which are fit to print here).

I short-roped her on this clip...

After a lazy Sunday, Jason and I went back into Hyalite for another try with the tools.  We drove into the main fork and hiked past the low-altitude classics that will see most of our mid-season efforts.

Unfortunately, our destination was at the top of the canyon, and the thinning snow made for another brutal and treacherous hike.  Ice boots are great for kicking up frozen waterfalls but are not well-suited for backpacking up drifted hillsides and across icy cliff bands.  A tree branch saved Jason from a frigid dip in a stream, and I tip-toed a hundred yards out of the way to avoid a ten-foot section of exposed 5.3.  All in a day’s work, I guess.

Jason searching in vain for good ice

Two hours of that ridiculousness put us at the bottom of Upper Green Sleeves (WI 3), a series of gullies that, in mid-season, will form into full 70-meter rope stretchers.  We were able to climb roughly half of that on wet, slushy ice.  Jason sank three uncertain screws on his way up and tied off on a tree before he got to the unprotectable final flow.  I met him at the belay, and we rappelled as far down the gully as our wet double ropes would allow.  A tricky descent got us back to the truck and the sunshine and lunch.  I’m not sure the one slushy pitch was worth all of the trouble on either side, but we had earned some karma credit when we ditched in the Beartooths.

All in all, a solid week.  Stay tuned for more.  Winter’s just heating up.