My new crampons got here last week, and they sure are pretty rad.

The rope goes on forever, and the party never ends.

Some of you may remember that I left a pair on the painful descent from the Sphinx at the beginning of the season.  All things considered, it wasn’t a huge loss; they were broken, anyway – functional yet frustrating – and I was forced from then on to climb in my mountaineering crampons which, in turn, forced me to focus more intently on my footwork.  Without a doubt, this has made me a better climber, and I’m grateful for the improvement.  Still, it was only a matter of time before my capacity to appreciate the extra challenge gave way to lust, and I made sure to point out the newest, shiniest, baddest vertical ice ‘pons on the market when Michelle inquired about potential Christmas gifts.  I think she was a little frightened when I hugged the spiky steel plates like a teddy bear upon receipt, but there [Read More]]]> Oh, joy of joys!  Oh, magical marvel of marvels!  What fortune has entered my life!  What life has replaced that which I thought to be life before…

My new crampons got here last week, and they sure are pretty rad.

The rope goes on forever, and the party never ends.

Some of you may remember that I left a pair on the painful descent from the Sphinx at the beginning of the season.  All things considered, it wasn’t a huge loss; they were broken, anyway – functional yet frustrating – and I was forced from then on to climb in my mountaineering crampons which, in turn, forced me to focus more intently on my footwork.  Without a doubt, this has made me a better climber, and I’m grateful for the improvement.  Still, it was only a matter of time before my capacity to appreciate the extra challenge gave way to lust, and I made sure to point out the newest, shiniest, baddest vertical ice ‘pons on the market when Michelle inquired about potential Christmas gifts.  I think she was a little frightened when I hugged the spiky steel plates like a teddy bear upon receipt, but there was no doubt about my excitement.

They're like sparkling unicorns: beautiful but deadly.

And, man, have they ever delivered…  The few pitches I’ve climbed in them so far have felt a half- to a full-grade easier than they did earlier in the season, and the drastic difference is due to more than just my gradual gains as a climber.  The simple fact is that I’ve traded equipment that’s marginally suited to an activity for equipment that’s built for it, and the difference has been immediate and substantial.  It’s like I’ve skied a full powder season on cross country skis and finally upgraded to the latest composite-core fatties: yeah, I was getting the job done before, but now I’m getting it done with style.

The new crampons make my climbing more efficient, and that’s really the highest compliment you can give a piece of gear.  Energy is precious in the mountains, and every decision I make regarding my gear is (hopefully) in effort to better conserve that commodity.  These new crampons are outfitted with a single vertical point in the front, and the efficiency gains from this monopoint (industry term) are several: the single point displaces less ice than the dual points on mountaineering crampons; the vertical point corresponds to the vertically-oriented ice formation, so the ice is less likely to shear out beneath me; and I can slot the single point into the placements I’ve already made with my ice tools instead of having to kick new steps each time.  Make no mistake, there are people who climb way harder than I do on dual horizontal points, so it’s not like these new crampons will instantly transform me into the climber I want to be.  What they do, though, is make every move on the ice a noticeable fraction more efficient, and that adds up over the course of a climb.

The ice is still abundant in Montana -- from right, "Mummy Cooler II" (WI 3+) and "The Scepter" (WI 5)

Gear’s fun.  It’s fun to buy, it’s fun to play with, it’s fun to master, and, eventually, it’s fun to replace.  I’ve got plenty of it, and, to the untrained eye, a lot of it probably looks redundant.  Why do I need three puffy jackets?  Why do I need three pairs of crampons?  Why do I need eight backpacks and four belay devices?  The obvious answer is that I don’t need all of that stuff.  It’s just that, over time, I begin to notice places were my gear options are compromising my efficiency potential, and I fill in the gaps.  When I started climbing longer routes that required several rappels, my standard single rope became a liability; I got a pair of double ropes to facilitate full-length raps.  When I started climbing a lot of ice and alpine routes that put my ultralight down puffy in regular danger of getting wet, I got a synthetic-fill jacket to guarantee warm belays.  Now, I can take into account variables like weather, route conditions, and overall objective and tailor my gear choices for optimal efficiency.

There are very few things in the mountains that we can truly control, but gear selection is one of them.  Take the time to do it right.  Style is serious business.

I was cross country skiing out of Crested Butte the other day when my 30-year-old 3-pin binding pulled out of my 30-year-old Nordic skis. As I fumbled with frozen hands to free my boot from the binding, a comforting thought occurred to me: It’s almost climbing season! And the joy of that helped as I post-hole glided home.

The next day, as if on cue, I got an invite to Red Rock, Nevada, land of sport cragging and 10-pitch moderates. “Rock climbing? March? Oh, yeah, Climbing sounds great,” I said loud, slow and obvious, hoping my Nordic skis – which were in timeout in the corner – would overhear. Now, after the initial jubilation has worn off, I’m bracing for a super sore reentry. The closest thing to training I’ve done this winter is pull ups on the rafters of the bus-stop awning to keep warm while waiting for the free town bus. Crested Butte doesn’t have a climbing gym, I’m not much of an ice climber, and my fattening tele thighs are going to be like kicking, wiggling anchors in the air.

But there’s hope: The Rock Warrior’s Way, a book I try to [Read More]]]>

Julia Morton, Warrior Princess. Indian Creek, UT

I was cross country skiing out of Crested Butte the other day when my 30-year-old 3-pin binding pulled out of my 30-year-old Nordic skis. As I fumbled with frozen hands to free my boot from the binding, a comforting thought occurred to me: It’s almost climbing season! And the joy of that helped as I post-hole glided home.

The next day, as if on cue, I got an invite to Red Rock, Nevada, land of sport cragging and 10-pitch moderates. “Rock climbing? March? Oh, yeah, Climbing sounds great,” I said loud, slow and obvious, hoping my Nordic skis – which were in timeout in the corner – would overhear. Now, after the initial jubilation has worn off, I’m bracing for a super sore reentry. The closest thing to training I’ve done this winter is pull ups on the rafters of the bus-stop awning to keep warm while waiting for the free town bus. Crested Butte doesn’t have a climbing gym, I’m not much of an ice climber, and my fattening tele thighs are going to be like kicking, wiggling anchors in the air.

But there’s hope: The Rock Warrior’s Way, a book I try to read annually at the beginning of every climbing season. While I can’t pump the forearms, I can still train the brain and keep my spirit ready for the sharp end by revisiting this metaphysical equivalent of a hangboard. In short, The Rock Warrior’s Way revolutionized not only how I climb, but also how climbing fits into my life. Even shorter, The Rock Warrior’s Way made me a happier, healthier human being.  I highly recommend it to climbers of any sort.

For millennia, nearly all cultures have trained and employed warriors: people who either kill or are killed; people who brush death every day at work; people for whom a split second delay is the end. “Essentially, a warrior is an impeccable hunter of personal power,” writes the book’s author, Arno Ilgner. “He gains power by taking forays into the unknown where he focuses his attention, grapples with chaos, and learns from the experience.” Turns out, the way warriors use their attention on even the simplest task can benefit anyone, not just those who get their fight on regularly. Thus, the idea of a Peaceful Warrior. The Rock Warrior’s Way integrates these multicultural philosophies, along with more contemporary Peaceful Warrior philosophy from the likes of Dan Millman (The Way of the Peaceful Warrior) and Carlos Castaneda (Journey to Ixtlan and many others). Ilgner then applies the ideas to the cliff face, where steep run-outs, difficult climbing, sustained exposure, dicey gear or any number of other factors can make us feel very much like we’re on a battle field, where life is amplified by the easy proximity of its counterpart.

The book focuses on identifying thoughts and action that drain our energy

Who said the Rock Warrior's Way is all serious? Matt Bynum, focusing his impeccable attention and feeling secure above a well-placed #6 Franzia box. But then again, how could you not send hard in a clown suit? Joshua Tree, CA

(like fear, wishful thinking, and destination attachment) and offers seven processes that, in contrast, help us become more powerful and capable. Those seven processes explore how we use our attention, how we breath, how we guide our internal dialogue, how we react to adverse and unexpected conditions, and more. They also cut to the very essence of why we climb: “Once in the chaos of risk, you focus on the journey not the destination,” Ilgner writes. “When you’re stressed you are tempted to rush through the stress. Yet, if you have prepared well, this stressful situation is exactly why you came here in the first place. It holds the rhyme and reason for your climbing.” Each process distills into a single action word: Observe, Center, Accept, Focus, Commit, Trust, and Attention.

I first read The Rock Warrior’s Way in the spring, about five years ago. At that point, my emotional state as a climber seemed to match my emotional state in general: I was beginning to lead trad, and was exhausted by fear after only a couple pitches. In non-climbing life I was experiencing the lowest emotional point yet (which I’d say is not all that low – I’m a pretty happy dude). I had just exited an ugly relationship that I had let sap all my energy. Fear, loneliness, doubt and depression had become regular companions. Ilgner pegged my love-hate relationship with climbing immediately: “If you’re using fear to motivate and energize you, you’re showing a symptom of a more significant problem which is probably affecting your entire ability to enjoy climbing and improve: being out of touch with your love of climbing.”

As early spring warmed into the Front Range climbing season, I picked the book up at The Mountain Shop, and I started climbing more. As I matched a practice of climbing and reading, the act of moving up rock became an exercise in spiritual well being. I began to not only enjoy my vertical time more, I felt like I was taking something important home from the crag every day. The most important find was an ability to surrender to joy and beauty amidst the challenge, pain and uncertainty of never ending growth both on the rock and off.

While I’ll still have a sore body in Red Rocks in a couple weeks, I hope to at least have a smiling face, a clear head, and a strong heart as I rack up, tie in and leave the comfortable deck behind.

Have any of you had experiences with The Rock Warrior’s Way? Let’s hear about it!

Other related and recommended reading: Dan Millman’s The Peaceful Warrior. Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan series including The Teachings of Don Juan, The Teachings Continued, A Separate Reality, and Journey To Ixtlan.

Wise man say, "Rock Warrior is but shadow on wall of life."

In the comment section for my last post, Kevin called me out on my end-of-the-season lamentation.  He’s absolutely right, of course; I’m thrilled about the prospect of warm Red Rocks weather and sun-baked crag sessions.  This winter has been great – exactly what I was after – and I’m excited to maximize my ice time over the next several weeks; but I sure am looking forward to feeling real rock again and working on my tan.  As I’ve written before, there’s always another adventure on the horizon and always more being added to the queue.

You’ll hear people dismiss this desire for new places and new experiences.  “Well, the grass is always greener…” they’ll wryly offer, as if that somehow diminishes the possibility that the grass may very well be greener.  Of course, relative greenness is rarely the point, anyway.  There’s a vital distinction between the quest for something better and the quest for something different.  When I leave the stark, snowy beauty of the Bozeman winter, I won’t be in search of a place I prefer; rather, I’ll be in search of yet another example of the richness of [Read More]]]>

Joshua Tree sunset -- have to see it to believe it.

In the comment section for my last post, Kevin called me out on my end-of-the-season lamentation.  He’s absolutely right, of course; I’m thrilled about the prospect of warm Red Rocks weather and sun-baked crag sessions.  This winter has been great – exactly what I was after – and I’m excited to maximize my ice time over the next several weeks; but I sure am looking forward to feeling real rock again and working on my tan.  As I’ve written before, there’s always another adventure on the horizon and always more being added to the queue.

You’ll hear people dismiss this desire for new places and new experiences.  “Well, the grass is always greener…” they’ll wryly offer, as if that somehow diminishes the possibility that the grass may very well be greener.  Of course, relative greenness is rarely the point, anyway.  There’s a vital distinction between the quest for something better and the quest for something different.  When I leave the stark, snowy beauty of the Bozeman winter, I won’t be in search of a place I prefer; rather, I’ll be in search of yet another example of the richness of the natural world and, especially, the outdoor pursuits that are my passions.

From the high desert to the Rocky Mountain high -- Jurassic Park, CO

The seemingly endless “where to next?” possibility is one of my favorite things about climbing (and the outdoors, in general).  The skills I gain back home on Foster Falls face climbs are applicable enough to J-Tree cracks to allow me to scrape up some moderate classics, and a few weeks spent shredding my hands on the high desert monzonite gives me just enough crack climbing competence to scare myself on Indian Creek splitters.  All the while, I’m honing the protection placements, anchor building and rope work that will be indispensable when I’m eight pitches up a Valley big wall, and every moment spent on the sharp end will translate into added confidence when ice season rolls around again.  Just the specter of these places is enough to keep me climbing hard and often for the foreseeable future, and I’m not sure I could say that if I were limited to one of them.

The ability to find satisfaction in and among your surroundings is invaluable, and a restlessness of spirit that borders on the insatiable is not what I am advocating.  There are literally dozens of places in this country alone where you could spend a lifetime climbing, and, if you happen to find one that feels like home, by all means make it official.  Just remember: while home is where the heart is, it may not be where the weather is.  Will you be happier on the other side of the fence?  Maybe not, but there’s only one way to know for sure.

Still America -- Chugach National Forest, AK

…He’d ski Red Coon Glades after a long sunny stretch. Because, as wise ski bums say, “Anyone can be happy on a powder day…it takes a real skier to smile in the crud.” And I’ll tell you what; Red Coon after a long sunny stretch is the real crud.

A couple weeks ago Julia and I got a less than early start toward the south-facing Red Coon Glades on Mt. Emmons (aka The Red Lady), which was sub-optimal, seeing as how she had to work at noon and all. But, we figured the Red Lady would be our best bang for the buck: climb straight out of the parking lot, and ski right back, sans approach slog. Plus, I figured the skiing would be mighty fine: last time I was there the snow was so deep I was poling hard to make it down 27-degree slopes, so I hoped that the sunny spell after the storm would firm up the powder and give us some play. Plus, the glades, like the January sun, are so low angle, they [Read More]]]>

Julia, embodying post-fall joy. Note the trucker's hat and aviators. Just 'cause we're in the mountains doesn't mean we can't look good, right?

…He’d ski Red Coon Glades after a long sunny stretch. Because, as wise ski bums say, “Anyone can be happy on a powder day…it takes a real skier to smile in the crud.” And I’ll tell you what; Red Coon after a long sunny stretch is the real crud.

A couple weeks ago Julia and I got a less than early start toward the south-facing Red Coon Glades on Mt. Emmons (aka The Red Lady), which was sub-optimal, seeing as how she had to work at noon and all. But, we figured the Red Lady would be our best bang for the buck: climb straight out of the parking lot, and ski right back, sans approach slog. Plus, I figured the skiing would be mighty fine: last time I was there the snow was so deep I was poling hard to make it down 27-degree slopes, so I hoped that the sunny spell after the storm would firm up the powder and give us some play. Plus, the glades, like the January sun, are so low angle, they wouldn’t get so much sun that they’d crust over.

Wrong.

The powder firmed up, all right: firmed up into a 5 cm death crust with sugary swag snow below. As we broke trail, we let out our inner sailors: “What the [frisky kitten]!?, this is going to suck! Son of a [blow fish]! Here comes face plant city!” But, not only do sailors curse well, they also weather the storm and sail whichever way the wind blows, so we kept ‘er at full mast, and headed on up.

Eleven o’clock rolled around sooner that we expected, so about three-quarters of the way to our destination (Red Coon Glades) we grabbed a snack and stripped skins. Julia traded her cool-is-the-new-awesome trucker hat and aviators for a beanie and goggles, and then swapped back because, let’s face it, a trucker’s hat and aviators are the tool of choice when it comes to gettin’ ‘er done. We decided to stick to the trees to find the soft, shady pockets of snow. The philosophy was a sound one, as sound as Hayduke’s treatise on the relationship between beer cans and road ways, and similarly not without it’s flaws. The major flaw being: shady pow pockets, while rewarding, offer a false sense of security, a security that is quickly full-nelson body-slammed by the next crusty sun shot.

Skinny pants, wide skis. Living the dream. That's me, back seat crust cruising.

I headed down first, sitting heavy in the back seat, never daring to drop my knee, and feeling like a silly rookie for choosing a south face after such a sunny spell. I made some survival turns, and looked back to see Julia cart wheeling and caterwauling through the aspens. She tumbled to a stop a few meters above me, and lay still. I braced myself for cries of pain. Instead, she slowly rolled her smiling face my way, lay back in the snow, and laughed out loud. After that, our moods lightened and we took on every turn as a great cosmic joke – like somewhere Ra and Ullr are high-fiving and fist pumping like Saints fans at the Superbowl at our expense. May as well laugh with them, right?

So, if that intro paragraph sounded a little new-agey to you, I’ll come clean. I’m reading a self help book. As I mentioned last blog, the ol’ blood-pumper is a little bruised up (read: lady troubles), and my infinitely wise mother sent me If The Buddha Dated by Charlotte Kasl (along with some cookies and a sack of potatoes – now that’s unconditional love, right there. Thanks, Mom!). Long story short, if the Buddha dated, he’d not be attached to outcomes, he’d accept reality objectively and with love, and he’d make suffering his friend.

Now, if you hang in the adventure realm long enough, suffering becomes a well-known companion (soggy sleeping bags, red-hot blisters, screaming foot jams, etc.). Fight it, and we suffer more. Befriend it (you know, like on Facebook) and it makes us stronger. As Oriah Mountain Dreamer asks in “The Invitation:” “…I want to know / if you can sit with pain / mine or your own / without moving to hide it / or fade it / or fix it.” I wonder, can I? Skiing nasty sun crusts seems like a good place to start.

Julia, gettin' hers.

It’s a hard thing to reckon: Big time adventuring takes drive, goals, and struggle, so what place does a philosophy of surrender and acceptance have? Steph Davis, a very accomplished and driven climber, explored this theme in her book, High Infatuation: “I recognized the conflict between my spiritual philosophies [of go with the flow] and my personal ethic of hard work and determination,” she writes. In High Infatuation, Steph seems to surrender to the paradox – to climb for the love of climbing “simply and joyfully,” is enough; “my way to love this world,” she writes. I’ll take it another direction here, and say that I find that surrender and acceptance don’t presuppose passivity. We can accept our drive to summit a peak; we can surrender to our desire to be the first to ski a particular line. But we also have to yield to our limitations and the reality of the journey: sometimes we’re not fit enough, sometimes there’s just not enough hours in the day, sometimes the risk is too great, and sometimes the snow just plain sucks.

Oriah and Siddhartha would have made fine ski partners up there in Red Coon. But Julia and I did our best without them. As we surrendered to the reality of crud skiing, it freed us to laugh at our flailing selves, laugh at the infinite views of the West Elk mountains turned on by sunlight, laugh right back at Ullr and Ra.  Sure we didn’t make it all the way to Red Coon (a very short ski by Crested Butte standards); sure we didn’t get a single face shot (unless you count Julia’s face-plunge); sure that night over beers we’d have to listen to our friends say, “You skied where today?!” But hell, we did a fine bit of fun having.

What’s your Buddhist adventure?

Dedicated to Kellen and Jane. Rest in Peace, Kellen; live in peace, Jane.

“Out beyond ideas of right-doing and wrongdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. And when the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘eachother’ don’t make sense.”

-Rumi

Routes that are only in climbable condition in the early season are, by now, gone until November.  I’m looking forward to friends coming out here soon on their spring break weeks.  I’ve started researching Western rivers and potential rock climbing destinations.  Football is over, and pitchers and catchers report next week.  The ice climbing season is still going strong, but it doesn’t have the “endless summer” vibe about it that it had when I first got out here.  It’s time to pour a little gas on the fire, and there’s only one way to do that right: road trip.

These scenes never seem to get old. This is the green-tinged pitch that gives "Smooth Emerald Milkshake" its name -- Cody, WY

Jason and I left Bozeman on Monday afternoon.  Destination: Cody.  Objective: Smooth Emerald Milkshake and maybe a stopover in the Beartooths on the way home.  Jason had been eyeing the route for a few seasons, but its reputation as being hard to find and hard to reach had steered him toward other climbs in the area.  I assured him the approach was no big deal (remember: climbers don’t [Read More]]]> I’ve begun to feel the first desperate stabs of this winter’s mortality.

Routes that are only in climbable condition in the early season are, by now, gone until November.  I’m looking forward to friends coming out here soon on their spring break weeks.  I’ve started researching Western rivers and potential rock climbing destinations.  Football is over, and pitchers and catchers report next week.  The ice climbing season is still going strong, but it doesn’t have the “endless summer” vibe about it that it had when I first got out here.  It’s time to pour a little gas on the fire, and there’s only one way to do that right: road trip.

These scenes never seem to get old. This is the green-tinged pitch that gives "Smooth Emerald Milkshake" its name -- Cody, WY

Jason and I left Bozeman on Monday afternoon.  Destination: Cody.  Objective: Smooth Emerald Milkshake and maybe a stopover in the Beartooths on the way home.  Jason had been eyeing the route for a few seasons, but its reputation as being hard to find and hard to reach had steered him toward other climbs in the area.  I assured him the approach was no big deal (remember: climbers don’t lie, we “sandbag”) and that we could do most of it in the dark (which was actually true, as Jamie and I proved on our way back out last time).  We made it to Cody just after sundown and, after a quick stop at Wendy’s, cruised through town toward the South Fork canyon.

We got to the campground around 8:00pm and threw our sleeping bags and pads on a groundcloth right next to the truck.  The 4:30 alarm looked to afford a full night’s sleep, which would have come as a welcome diversion from the three hours I’d collected before my last Cody trip.  Didn’t happen, though.

I woke up for the first time at 11:30 and found my bag covered in a thin layer of frost.  I shivered my way back to sleep for another two hours before the freezing night woke me up again.  The next hour was a ridiculous recital of the classic uncomfortable sleeping bag dance: “it sure is cold here…maybe if I just go back to sleep…roll over…maybe the other side?…alright, eyes closed…wow, it’s cold…um, I guess I could go sleep in the truck…turn on the heat…yep, doin’ it…eh, I don’t want to waste the gas…suck it up, man; how do you expect to survive an unplanned bivy in the high mountains if you can’t handle one cold night at a campground?…still, no reason to be miserable tonight on the off-chance that I’ll have to sleep out somewhere even worse later…alright, eyes closed and back to sleep…roll over again…why didn’t I pull the trigger on those down booties last week?…no, don’t look at it…but it’ll be so much warmer in there…just close your eyes…”

Bluebird day in Cody. "Bitch's Brew" (WI 5) can be seen on the lower right.

I woke up one last time around 3:30 to turn down the heat in the truck.  Totally worth it.

We made it to the base of the climb just before 9:00.  The rest of the morning darkness had been spent thawing out and protesting the frigid night, and dawn had come and gone before we hit the trail.  As is often the case, though, the hours of shivering depression were all but forgotten by the time we stacked the ropes under the initial ice curtain.  I turned one screw in the steep lower step, pulled the bulge, and, just like that, my universe had once again contracted to a twenty-foot-wide ice flow.

Jason tests the ice conditions. We bail shortly thereafter.

We didn’t make it all the way to the top this time.  Cold, dry weather had left the ice brittle and hard, and the upper crux pitches seemed too full of bad consequences to merit the climbing that would have been more work than fun anyway.  Still, four pitches of alpine ice is worth as many hours of trail-time any day, and we pulled into Bozeman later that night satisfied and psyched for more.

We’ll probably be back some time in the next few weeks.  Spring is looming, but there’s still plenty of ice to be climbed and, as we painfully realized, plenty of cold nights left to keep it around.

It’s mating season in the High Country: all around I see the blossoming of new, survive-the-cold-of-winter romances, as well as (in my case) the bidding adieu to love past and passed. The stakes are high and our hearts, like a sketchy Colorado snowpack, are a veritable battleground of subtle yet dynamic, and powerful yet mysterious energies.

Last week I went for a tour with my friend Monica, who was in town to take her Level I avalanche course. As usual, the chug-a-chug rhythm and aerobic endorphins of steep skinning induced a good, philosophical heart-to-heart chat: my recently lost relationship, her recently budding-but-complicated relationship, relationships past and what we learned, relationships yet to come and what we hope. We climbed fast and between rapid breaths we chopped out the big questions of our day: “Why…doesn’t…he…just…tell me…” and  “Maybe…she…needs…more…stability…” Over water and snacks, we had more continuous conversation: “I’m just not sure where this leaves me…” and “What are you looking for?”

What, indeed?

Second Bowl: The open face with the dispersed trees slid about 200 vertical feet below us as we stood on top.

As Monica and I topped out on Snodgrass Mountain, we decided to refocus [Read More]]]>

Monica, enjoying a beautiful, introspective tour.

It’s mating season in the High Country: all around I see the blossoming of new, survive-the-cold-of-winter romances, as well as (in my case) the bidding adieu to love past and passed. The stakes are high and our hearts, like a sketchy Colorado snowpack, are a veritable battleground of subtle yet dynamic, and powerful yet mysterious energies.

Last week I went for a tour with my friend Monica, who was in town to take her Level I avalanche course. As usual, the chug-a-chug rhythm and aerobic endorphins of steep skinning induced a good, philosophical heart-to-heart chat: my recently lost relationship, her recently budding-but-complicated relationship, relationships past and what we learned, relationships yet to come and what we hope. We climbed fast and between rapid breaths we chopped out the big questions of our day: “Why…doesn’t…he…just…tell me…” and  “Maybe…she…needs…more…stability…” Over water and snacks, we had more continuous conversation: “I’m just not sure where this leaves me…” and “What are you looking for?”

What, indeed?

Second Bowl: The open face with the dispersed trees slid about 200 vertical feet below us as we stood on top.

As Monica and I topped out on Snodgrass Mountain, we decided to refocus our energies and turn on our avalanche goggles. We headed for the east bowls which we anticipated would still be soft and have a few inches of fresh from the night before. We skied up to the top of the locally-dubbed Second Bowl (conveniently placed between First and Third bowls) and checked out the steep 38-40 degree entrance. We’d felt nothing but stable snow so far: fresh, soft powder on top of a firm midpack that was bonding well with January’s old snow. It would have been tempting to just jump right in, but the steepness of the pitch and the shrubby aspen trees poking out (good trigger points) raised my hackles a bit. We decided to dig a snow pit for assessment in a flat spot jammed tight between the roll over to the bowl’s headwall and the trees.

We looked at layers and performed some stability tests, and the snow seemed surprisingly stable. Pits can be notoriously misleading though, because of a concept called “spatial variability.” What a layman might translate to: “Dang snow ain’t the same ever-where.” Seems like a “duh!” right? Well, even a couple meters away snow and the stability of all its layers can be drastically different.

Unfortunately, the light crapped out on us just as the snow slid, so the details are hard to see. That's the 65 cm crown face in the center, and my tracks to the tree that triggered the slide.

Case in point: after refilling our pit, I post-holed about ten feet to our south to get a peek at the steep rollover of the bowl. I didn’t leave the flat top, but I still held onto a tree for security. I noticed that the snow suddenly changed. The top dozen centimeters were wet, and heavy – perfect for snowballs. I scooped some up, squeezed it, and threw it at the slope below – just a friendly “Take that, Mountain!” Then I got a bit stuck in my post hole, and asked Monica to come pull me up, which she did, and as we took a couple steps back towards our packs, we heard a soft humph…swooosh! The whole bowl, about 15 feet below us, was ripping out. We watched a huge powder cloud ride toward the valley and flow like a white river onto a flat, treed bench. That wet snow had gotten heavy enough through the day to slide on top of all the brushy willow trees which had weakened the snow pack below. Spatial variability.

Monica and I looked at each other wide-eyed and buzzed. “Can we just hug for a minute?” I asked her. “Yeah, let’s,” she said. We took a couple deep breaths, and then went and found some shadier, low-angle glades to ski on. The rest of the day we assessed why it wasn’t dumb luck that we hadn’t dropped in. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t, but it still shook us up that we had even considered skiing that bowl. Hell hath no furry like siding snow and broken hearts.

We Midcountry residents tend to be a nomadic bunch, not only in place, but also in spirit (and maybe the two things are not so different). So, in one place (either physical, emotional or both) we find a deep, meaningful solid love connection. And yet, a mile or a month later, we are wallowing the sugary tree wells of love, face planting through sun crusts, watching our entire mountain crumble with destruction, and we yearn for the next fresh pow stash.

Monica, enjoying the next fresh pow shot. We did end up getting some good, safe turns that day.

A few days after skiing with Monica, I was chatting with yet another Midcountry friend about relationships: mine, his, the usual. “I find that I’m easy to love in Yosemite and Indian Creek,” he was saying to me. “And then there’s everyday life with me, when I’m in an office and I’m not at my happiest, and I get frustrated easily with things like slow computers. And then my partner starts wondering, ‘who is this person?’” And I knew exactly what he meant: Spatial variability.

I recently parted ways with a loved one, and I can’t help but feel like my instabilities (like changing towns and mountain ranges every four months and going incommunicado in the backcountry for weeks at a time) contributed to some fear about and distrust of our future. I can’t be sure – I find emotional cause-and-effect as nebulous as avalanche forecasting – but I wonder.

To Monica and all you other Midcountry Bumpkins post-holing around in love, we gotta hang in there. Got a Midcountry love story to share? Comment away. And remember: Be careful, because in the continental High Country, no matter how good things look, there’s almost always a weak layer deep, deep down. Depth hoar. Sad but true.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Will, puttin' out the vibe in Hyalite.

I was relieved to find Will all smiles after our second climbing day.  This wasn’t his first ice climbing experience (that came on a trip we took to Mt. Baker with my dad and brother two summers ago), but it’s impossible to tell how accurately one will remember things like that.  Kelly Cordes, American Alpine Journal senior editor and general mountain badass, calls it Type II Fun: “fun only in retrospect, hateful while it’s happening. Things like working out ‘till you puke and usually ice and alpine climbing.”  In other words, ice climbing belongs in the same category as tequila shots and Brontë novels: you’re proud to say you did [Read More]]]> I had a few days off from work last weekend and my buddy, Will, drove in from the Bay Area to spend some time in Bozeman.  Will moved out west after law school and has enjoyed the Berkeley gym climbing scene, but a pending trip to Mt. Hood had him ready for some real action in the mountains.  We spent a couple of his days here climbing in Hyalite and a couple more hiking laps at the “M” for a pretty decent training shakedown.

Will, puttin' out the vibe in Hyalite.

I was relieved to find Will all smiles after our second climbing day.  This wasn’t his first ice climbing experience (that came on a trip we took to Mt. Baker with my dad and brother two summers ago), but it’s impossible to tell how accurately one will remember things like that.  Kelly Cordes, American Alpine Journal senior editor and general mountain badass, calls it Type II Fun: “fun only in retrospect, hateful while it’s happening. Things like working out ‘till you puke and usually ice and alpine climbing.”  In other words, ice climbing belongs in the same category as tequila shots and Brontë novels: you’re proud to say you did it, but you sure didn’t enjoy it while it was happening.

It seems, though, that Will did genuinely like climbing ice.  I certainly enjoy it in real-time, so that’s at least two people.  It got me wondering: what is it about ice climbing that makes it so attractive to me despite its pretty clear drawbacks?  I have to admit, I was a little disturbed by the answers I got; it appears that ice climbing satisfies mostly the dark side of my soul.  Here’s the list.  I hope we’re still friends when you’re done…

1. It has just the right amount of violence.

I never played football or hockey.  I don’t hunt.  I’ve never tried boxing or martial arts, and I’ve never really wanted to.  I probably would’ve enjoyed lacrosse, but it hadn’t made any inroads in the Georgia public school scene back in my day (besides, that was baseball season).  I’m generally a pretty laid back dude, and my choice of sports has reflected that.  Even still, everyone needs an aggression outlet; ice climbing is mine.

What do I have in common with the ice at my feet? We both exude detached cool...

At its most basic level, ice climbing is an exercise in swinging and kicking spikes into a big block of ice; it’s a pretty raw concept (after all, Sharon Stone didn’t grab an ice pick by accident).  Add to that the fact that the ice is shattering, fracturing, and falling all around you, and it’s no wonder ice climbers gear up like modern-day centurions before leaving the deck.

More than once this winter, I’ve been kissed by exploding ice that has left me bruised and bloody.  It sounds miserable, even hateful like Kelly said.  Imagine it: you’re fifteen feet above your last screw; you’re cold, wet, and scared, but the anchors are right above you; alright, homestretch; you swing a heavy tool into the last bulge, and POW; the ice shatters and a dinner-plate crashes into your face; you grip hard on your one solid tool and steel your feet because you know that in a split second the ice will be falling fast onto your boots trying to unseat your crampons from their already tenuous placements; a wave of pure relief washes over as you remain on the wall, and you listen as the shards careen down to the bottom; “ICE!” you yell, hoping your belayer gets the message; then you taste the blood – warm, metallic, unmistakable; every racing heartbeat throbs in your lip; you steady yourself and turn in a screw; you clip the rope and swallow just enough blood to allow you to yell down to your belayer to lower you off; but you don’t; instead you smile; “Really, Ice?  That’s how it’s gonna be?” you ask; you swing your tool back into the blast zone and it sinks soundly; your blood no longer tastes like fear and pain.

Man, I love that shit.

2. There’s something to be said for good, old fashioned masochism.

If you’re not willing to suffer at least a little, you’ll probably never climb ice.  If you can’t find some perverse enjoyment in that suffering, you’ll probably never climb ice again.

All-too-common scene in the mountains... Will ducks under a boulder to free the stuck rappel ropes.

Rock climbing is an altogether different story.  The basic motions are intuitive, the settings are often comfortable, and the gear is generally blunt.  Sure, there are dirtbag trad climbers who keep it pretty real, and there’s not much out there that can touch A5 in terms of fear factor; but, more often than not, climbers are hanging out in the gym or in the sun at the sport crag.

I get it.  Really, what’s not to like?  It’s pure sex appeal.  You’ve got a whole population of toned and tanned bodies wearing next to nothing, and they’re moving with skill and grace up a stark, sunlit wall; it’s hard to frame a model more aesthetically than that.  Rock climbing is relatively safe, it’s accessible, the weather’s great, and, on the off-chance that you don’t enjoy it, you can just walk over to the hammock that you inevitably set up earlier in the day and work on your base.  Everybody wins.

Ice climbing, though?  There’s nothing sexy about that.  You’re covered head-to-toe in Gore-Tex and polypro.  Your windburned and bloody face exists as the sole piece of exposed skin.  The rare and fleeting moments of true comfort simply serve to remind you that you’re wearing too many layers.  Your primary equipment list consists of several razor-sharp points and high-top boots.  Frankly, if you do become involved with someone who finds that scene appealing, I suggest you give grave consideration to what else your little Pandora may be into and whether or not that’s a box you really want to open.

The payoff for all of this cold, wet, puncture-prone misery is in the reconstruction.  Every time you go into the mountains to suffer, you come back stronger, more resolved, and more acutely conscious of how much you can take.  Self-awareness and sunshine rarely coincide.

3. I feel like I’m getting away with something.

This one’s not hard to explain.  Ice is practically frictionless.  Ice is ephemeral.  Ice is cold and wet.  I should not be able to climb it.

Even if we take for granted the fact that humans have devised tools for all sorts of hard-to-imagine activities, we still have to account for all of the links in the ice climbing chain.  When I’m on an ice pitch, I’m trying to hold on to my tools…which are trying to hold on to the ice…which is trying to hold on to the other ice…which is trying to hold on to the rock.  At any given moment, each one of these links could be the weak one, and, during the course of long climb, each one is.  Just thinking about it is enough to send me running for the rock gym – at least until tomorrow.

Will finds a rhythm on "Mummy Cooler I" -- Hyalite Canyon

So, there you have it, friends(?) – three of the reasons I enjoy ice climbing so much: violence, pain, and disregarded consequences.  It’s healthy to talk about these things, right?  If you think so, feel free to leave your own questionable motives in the comment box.  After all, misery loves company.