tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63310326873805064452024-03-18T22:05:23.845-06:00Raphael SlawinskiClimbing stories, images and perspectivesRaphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.comBlogger121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-25427902509297952442020-12-23T13:24:00.006-07:002020-12-23T19:32:43.646-07:00Give 'Im Enough Rope<p>January 2016. The Scottish International Winter Meet. Perhaps just to make the international visitors appreciate the fickle nature of Scottish winter climbing, the first few days of the gathering were either too warm, too rainy or both. Rather than take our gear for a walk in the wet, windy hills, we went drytooling in the guts of Newtyle Quarry and rock climbing on the shores of the North Sea. Then a morning dawned with clear skies and below-freezing temperatures. A thousand and one teams drove up the road to the Aviemore ski area and stomped across half-frozen bogs to to the Northern Corries. </p><p>A thick layer of hoar frost grew on the walls of Coire an Lochain. As I understood the quirky ethics of Scottish winter climbing, this was considered a good thing. Coming from the cold, dry Canadian Rockies, I was more used to waiting after a storm until wind and gravity had cleared the rock of snow, but hey, when in Rome, do as the locals do. My introduction to Scottish mixed climbing was The Vicar, a two-pitch VII, 8, Scottish winter grades being another enigma.</p><p><a href="https://www.instagram.com/davegarry76/?hl=en" target="_blank">Dave Garry</a>, my host for the first few days of the meet, led us up the first pitch, then it was my turn. With every surface covered in verglas, cams would've been useless and they stayed in the pack at the base. However, the wires I was fiddling instead into cracks rounded by eons of rain and snow didn't inspire confidence. I stalled below a mantle onto a foot ledge, imagining myself pitching off and ripping out every piece between me and the hopefully solid belay. Fuck it: I slotted a knifeblade into a perfect thin crack and started hammering.</p><p>Maybe it was just my imagination, but a sudden hush seemed to fall over the corrie. The only sound echoing around the walls of the amphitheatre was the rising ping, ping, ping of a solid piton going in. I realized I might've broken yet another dimly perceived taboo, but the shame of it wasn't enough to make me stop hammering. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought, and smashed in a couple more pins as I scratched my way up the pitch.</p><p>While Dave scrambled up a short exit pitch onto the summit plateau, another team was already coming up behind us. <a href="https://www.tomlivingstone.com/" target="_blank">Tom Livingstone</a> floated up the ropelength that had given me so much trouble. However, whatever he might've thought of my ethical transgression, he graciously clipped rather than skipped the pins I'd placed. After all, that's what we do when a friend makes a fool of himself: we cover up his embarrassment by pretending nothing untoward happened.</p><p>A few weeks ago Tom and I caught up for a Zoom conversation that ranged from Rockies' mixed climbing to the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics. He let me ramble on and I obliged. As the The Clash famously said, all you need to do is to <a href="https://youtu.be/X9kUhQ_8Hsg" target="_blank">give 'em enough rope</a>. If you're interested, here's the <a href="https://chalkbloc.com/climbing-interviews/raphael-slawinski-interview-world-class-choss-master" target="_blank">uncut, uncensored interview on ChalkBloc</a>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwocr5e8g6p_QYMFrWo5RpZbdCXHmBYMYENPBjdSkrKsx91E5bNKS3PkQUAUrnANaJwZywVohshoSsfoKJT8bogegPehYs9xSVj8XdxB9tpc1cEUgYfDIL-UJ0906Hu3_WIAiEvso5zU/s2048/IMG_6691.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1441" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwocr5e8g6p_QYMFrWo5RpZbdCXHmBYMYENPBjdSkrKsx91E5bNKS3PkQUAUrnANaJwZywVohshoSsfoKJT8bogegPehYs9xSVj8XdxB9tpc1cEUgYfDIL-UJ0906Hu3_WIAiEvso5zU/w450-h640/IMG_6691.JPG" width="450" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Tom Livingstone, fluorescent outfit and all, comes up the second pitch of The Vicar.</div>Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-89016424605779586392020-12-08T21:27:00.002-07:002020-12-08T21:55:27.186-07:00The Hand of God<p>1982. On April 2, Argentine forces invaded and occupied the Falkland Islands (aka Las Malvinas), and the next day South Georgia, British islands that Argentina considered its rightful territory. Just three days later, Britain dispatched an expeditionary force to take back what had been a British colony for over a century. In the end, British aircraft carriers and Harrier jets prevailed, and after nearly a thousand people died, the islands returned to British control. History doesn't record if the king penguins and elephant seals inhabiting South Georgia were consulted about which country they'd like to live in. Given how humans have treated other species from time immemorial, it seems unlikely.</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>1986. On June 22, Argentina and England were playing in the quarter-finals of the FIFA World Cup in Mexico City. The match was still goalless when, a few minutes into the second half, Diego Maradona leapt for the ball that had been cleared towards the English goalie. However, instead of heading it into the net, <a href="https://youtu.be/S5oqilbaXA4" target="_blank">he nudged it in with his fist instead</a>. The English furiously protested but none of the referees saw what had happened. Afterwards, Maradona quipped that he scored the goal "a little with his head, and a little with the hand of god". Argentina went on to win the match and the World Cup.</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p>The low December sun was starting to skim the shoulder of Epaulette Mountain across the valley. As I paid out the rope, I watched blue shadows creep upward from the depths. For now, though, I was still in sunshine, warm enough to belay bare handed. Less and less of the seventy-metre rope remained at my feet until, when there was only a metre or two left, I removed the belay screws and scrambled up behind the pillar. I was standing there, tools at the ready, when I finally heard a distant shout that might've been "secure".</p><p>Five days earlier Diego Maradona died of fast living. My climbing partner grew up in South America, where Maradona was god. As a kid, like most other boys his age, he had wanted to be a football star. On the long drive home, we talked about the infamous goal that some had seen as revenge for the Falklands. The route practically named itself - all the more so since one or two holds at the crux might have been improved a little with the pick of an ice tool, and a little with the hand of god.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZcAKqnAEiFdI7oHeOfnkVerKw5Y4wHQPctfr3L8YGyYfwpZgikXePy82QlzVDfWhqJgm2eRDKhaYprEcz2TJQjAO30WvBBY8zvSWjUdN_hv-ZGSnvWVQ5Xo_4Q3UTsiJYESAteoXJp0/s1693/IMG_1281.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1693" height="568" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZcAKqnAEiFdI7oHeOfnkVerKw5Y4wHQPctfr3L8YGyYfwpZgikXePy82QlzVDfWhqJgm2eRDKhaYprEcz2TJQjAO30WvBBY8zvSWjUdN_hv-ZGSnvWVQ5Xo_4Q3UTsiJYESAteoXJp0/w640-h568/IMG_1281.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Overhanging limestone to hanging ice, a classic Rockies combination.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiArXyXg-tcbnePfkmJLcxFSZf8NoNrZ0-qWOfN6XQTFmOcUhttxjL7dQA-nUkJpwvLZBpHRej3ca6BOvTtJwLeMU2R765gSuVOBYshXlhc9qUr3w5i9YOCbK-XqBnkQPYRpBzuGD5h8-o/s1611/IMG_1268.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1611" data-original-width="1500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiArXyXg-tcbnePfkmJLcxFSZf8NoNrZ0-qWOfN6XQTFmOcUhttxjL7dQA-nUkJpwvLZBpHRej3ca6BOvTtJwLeMU2R765gSuVOBYshXlhc9qUr3w5i9YOCbK-XqBnkQPYRpBzuGD5h8-o/w596-h640/IMG_1268.JPG" width="596" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Juan following the second pitch on our first attempt.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRmeYSjAXW8xgqjdjWF1HycVry-06G_ZPu7K2FmjIKv5ljbUOk8pVYdI9NjpSJtJZJGb5GOAL0N4LUqBZ_AOzEtL6hZbaCJPddjIYAEqiSeNatPiFHNUBPCZVAu5H8mJhHY-24eIq6JM/s1936/IMG_1259.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1936" data-original-width="1291" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRmeYSjAXW8xgqjdjWF1HycVry-06G_ZPu7K2FmjIKv5ljbUOk8pVYdI9NjpSJtJZJGb5GOAL0N4LUqBZ_AOzEtL6hZbaCJPddjIYAEqiSeNatPiFHNUBPCZVAu5H8mJhHY-24eIq6JM/w426-h640/IMG_1259.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It was a blustery day, and waves of spindrift washed over us repeatedly. We stuck in the bolts we needed so we wouldn't have to bring the drill again, and rapped and ran down to the warmth of the car.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg60VR8iJMCtIyOIQFA934uk6NIvoLrGREv638ETnVUgR_wswU6QPp3Co366lVxkPjQ649nMaT2UVcVEnvUzi-ruugH2owlZmK4l694nXtdLZPl_5RZ61TlwzqKmxCGdL9CuZL4pB_elNo/s2048/IMG_1284.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg60VR8iJMCtIyOIQFA934uk6NIvoLrGREv638ETnVUgR_wswU6QPp3Co366lVxkPjQ649nMaT2UVcVEnvUzi-ruugH2owlZmK4l694nXtdLZPl_5RZ61TlwzqKmxCGdL9CuZL4pB_elNo/w426-h640/IMG_1284.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We came back a week later on a clear but cold day. With Juan bundled up at the belay in puffy jacket and pants, I started up the second pitch wearing as many layers as I thought I could still reasonably climb in. Fortunately, while we were still struggling to stay warm in cold shade, the crux third pitch was already bathed in glorious sunshine. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHO8y0-3bW0rgYpxSADM8webP60G6e_Uin2ROudbZT3tWFCq6dij_lh7yX5kCmWXVjUQ8gabOZhspj7QCe8-1qIwiYrzcqqF_03FQakKGcC-scz7dRmvaHQk3S1v1KiSo5ZP-RIMLyHkA/s2048/IMG_1303.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1117" data-original-width="2048" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHO8y0-3bW0rgYpxSADM8webP60G6e_Uin2ROudbZT3tWFCq6dij_lh7yX5kCmWXVjUQ8gabOZhspj7QCe8-1qIwiYrzcqqF_03FQakKGcC-scz7dRmvaHQk3S1v1KiSo5ZP-RIMLyHkA/w640-h350/IMG_1303.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">From my belay behind a skinny pillar atop the third pitch, Juan stretched the rope to the top of the climb. The intense solar radiation made for comfortable belaying and soft ice, but also meant I pulled out some of Juan's screws by hand.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKyeKd2aJ6YcPMREqXkJvqRjWO6dkv5W9du-r_IcWi4YdgXMjeGSUvywxPDksOsM6VPa8Wo7b6Yx5BdoMzqpUkE6FElMAjUd3t-J7MIUmzOK6jn-4tqq-lKQyg0rx9auIDXgEu_AkAQE/s2048/IMG_1306.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKyeKd2aJ6YcPMREqXkJvqRjWO6dkv5W9du-r_IcWi4YdgXMjeGSUvywxPDksOsM6VPa8Wo7b6Yx5BdoMzqpUkE6FElMAjUd3t-J7MIUmzOK6jn-4tqq-lKQyg0rx9auIDXgEu_AkAQE/w640-h426/IMG_1306.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">In the Rockies, the December sun never rises high above the horizon, but it was noticeably sinking toward Epaulette Mountain across the Mistaya River valley by the time it was my turn to follow the pitch.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NfRtAuHMFr1m9e7qe0SUfaX77Bqa43gN7jLyLoZ1OgW-ALAkV2mU9BAqDVeZbc1BV4iXvpSpBgD7M5tY8prqhY6kUnw8N5b8mAyQXS6gYksjouXJsFBQmqjIpvITxkR6vzU3o1vYyQM/s2048/IMG_1309.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1295" data-original-width="2048" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NfRtAuHMFr1m9e7qe0SUfaX77Bqa43gN7jLyLoZ1OgW-ALAkV2mU9BAqDVeZbc1BV4iXvpSpBgD7M5tY8prqhY6kUnw8N5b8mAyQXS6gYksjouXJsFBQmqjIpvITxkR6vzU3o1vYyQM/w640-h404/IMG_1309.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Goooal!" Juan Henriquez celebrates at the top of the route in the rays of the setting sun.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><b>The Hand of God (135 m, M7 WI5)</b></p><p><i>FA: Juan Henriquez and Raphael Slawinski, December 1, 2020</i></p><p>This route climbs the obvious dagger a few hundred metres left of Cosmic Messenger. It’s been suggested that it might’ve been climbed in the nineties by Serge Angelucci, but we didn't find any evidence of previous traffic. If it were indeed climbed back then, it’d be an impressive and futuristic ascent, before M-climbing and power drills.</p><p><b>Approach</b> as for Cosmic Messenger. Once above the narrows in the drainage, angle left across snow, scree and small ice steps to the base. 1.5 hours.</p><p><b>Gear:</b> A dozen draws, a dozen screws, cams from #0.1 to #1 Camalots, 70 m ropes.</p><p>Pitch 1 (25 m): Scramble up an ice shield and some cracks above. Mantle awkwardly onto a ledge below a steep wall and traverse left to a bolt and gear belay.</p><p>Pitch 2 (25 m): Drytool the right-facing corner above the belay past a fixed pin. From where the corner peters out, trend right past bolts to a 2-bolt belay below the dagger.</p><p>Pitch 3 (15 m): Crank over the roof above the belay using some long reaches. Continue up the dagger to a small cave behind a free-standing pillar. This pitch is entirely bolt protected but the belay is from screws.</p><p>Pitch 4 (70 m): Swing up the vertical pillar to a lower-angled ice hose on sun-affected ice to the top of the cliff. Ice screw or slung block belay.</p><p>Descent: Make a long double-rope rappel from a v-thread back to the cave behind the pillar, then a shorter one to the ground.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32MXhvIgZWg8iOGbLU8Iq23r49BSrFxC27BmRBc6AjpXUpzpx5mkzEZMGkC8r30ky3uMwican7F6IsNQnMEanh3jR0ddi79bcXkTvLRcteGRe5FvE2YoJCaMczWSkriB1TnzoLwdQybE/s1604/Presentation1.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1477" data-original-width="1604" height="590" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32MXhvIgZWg8iOGbLU8Iq23r49BSrFxC27BmRBc6AjpXUpzpx5mkzEZMGkC8r30ky3uMwican7F6IsNQnMEanh3jR0ddi79bcXkTvLRcteGRe5FvE2YoJCaMczWSkriB1TnzoLwdQybE/w640-h590/Presentation1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The line of The Hand of God.</div>Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-43958747983994461562020-07-25T18:22:00.002-06:002020-08-06T13:14:18.303-06:00The Fame Monster"I don't want to write about climbing; I don't want talk about it; I don't want to photograph it; I don't want to think about it; all I want to do is do it." - <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chuck_Pratt" target="_blank">Chuck Pratt</a>.<div><br /></div><div>I can't remember when I first came across Pratt's quote but it's stuck ever since. Pratt, after penning his classic essay <a href="http://www.niallgrimes.com/jam-crack-climbing-podcast/jcpc-006-the-view-from-dead-horse-point" target="_blank">The View From Dead Horse Point</a>, never published another piece of climbing writing. Unlike Pratt, I continue to be guilty of occasionally spewing about climbing, from slideshows to this blog. Still, with each passing year and with the buzz around climbing growing ever louder, I find his sentiment more and more appealing. There was a time I used to record each climb I did: when I did it, with whom, how long it took and other like details. At some point I stopped this practice: once an experience was in the past, there seemed little point in recording it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yet climbing for the moment, letting go of climbs as soon as you've done them, can shade into selfishness. Just the other day I enjoyed a fantastic day in the mountains when Gery took me on a <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/B10NvDqDMSP/" target="_blank">route he put up last year</a>. Had he not recorded and shared that climb with others, I wouldn't have had that experience. The outing reminded me of a route another friend and I did last summer. Juan and I spent a couple of wonderfully solitary days in a remote corner of the North Ghost, dusting off and climbing a largely forgotten Chris Kalous project. After we'd rapped off for the last time and bounced back home over river cobbles and washboarded roads, I quickly forgot about it and moved on to other climbs and new experiences. However, now it occurs to me that with this summer's warmest days yet being forecast for next week, others might also have fun on this secluded, shady wall. And so, with that in mind, I'm writing about climbing.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHMT54MfpddgEQauM7T83GCg1UhKohOcypcEK6dooWbphFqPpDZhADUFDXvXUBl4Ma5CQi_dvNPwyS3q3cT1Z7Jo1iNN8d4Fvnr2QIt8NjOr_XCSuzDreXFd36_jBsgjJ0dc0sqcQoPxg/s1549/IMG_0230.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1549" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHMT54MfpddgEQauM7T83GCg1UhKohOcypcEK6dooWbphFqPpDZhADUFDXvXUBl4Ma5CQi_dvNPwyS3q3cT1Z7Jo1iNN8d4Fvnr2QIt8NjOr_XCSuzDreXFd36_jBsgjJ0dc0sqcQoPxg/s320/IMG_0230.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Yours truly walks up to the upper pitches of the Fame Monster. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2-OsUVyOEcWhGr8D6E7WqbBoUdmwkU1_Fb7bpOeElLYDDwpWU3z0ZPg9skpqSkLfeAhGCRARdL3EGqeccu88iJ7T423fx2ync-Emw9fi4Sug6uzgIxMjt7kK4uLowIf1iAPYrSEuqe_s/s2048/IMG_0240.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1421" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2-OsUVyOEcWhGr8D6E7WqbBoUdmwkU1_Fb7bpOeElLYDDwpWU3z0ZPg9skpqSkLfeAhGCRARdL3EGqeccu88iJ7T423fx2ync-Emw9fi4Sug6uzgIxMjt7kK4uLowIf1iAPYrSEuqe_s/s320/IMG_0240.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Juan starts up pitch 4, the first harder pitch, with the gravel flats of the Ghost River far below.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1444" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDzjJIUVTw7zpPGequP85uZXccUCg4LlH7W_ychI7rjeRD_PWQIOMZorgQzPn8vK8Ob-GMohHVe7oGXKJBKp2xt_mfb0ynYEk9jY08_gf5WCqreKUwi0hGWKuwJje9i73aVbzHBEI1NjQ/s320/IMG_0250.JPG" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Juan almost through the cruxy bits of pitch 4.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflyumSfRKsLY0kP1JFaUVGM_kXhdb95XvxQdMdfLlNk7NkQOU3HbpkyWMhAKVhPnzUWhZt2TCCtWQkLvJjszPtXz5DM2Y7xTfYRH49E8Izj3wYvtACqvatBN2bsZsHwpn6m3SJTRh4KE/s2048/IMG_0242.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflyumSfRKsLY0kP1JFaUVGM_kXhdb95XvxQdMdfLlNk7NkQOU3HbpkyWMhAKVhPnzUWhZt2TCCtWQkLvJjszPtXz5DM2Y7xTfYRH49E8Izj3wYvtACqvatBN2bsZsHwpn6m3SJTRh4KE/s320/IMG_0242.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Looking up the Ghost River toward Mt. Aylymer, with no sounds other than those of water below and wind above.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgdUylhlH2iGNL3Bh7zQzUKQUESIpHHHFgeCHDS0GDEjPSCY6YY17_DGSPHsO67CvhRi-2q89x_rvt0NV3GCYgFua-8kOqXUoAJ2KhPHazF51_JtZtFc6u6xzaDNnwEPS1RvPO5bnCMH4/s2140/IMG_0257.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1015" data-original-width="2140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgdUylhlH2iGNL3Bh7zQzUKQUESIpHHHFgeCHDS0GDEjPSCY6YY17_DGSPHsO67CvhRi-2q89x_rvt0NV3GCYgFua-8kOqXUoAJ2KhPHazF51_JtZtFc6u6xzaDNnwEPS1RvPO5bnCMH4/s320/IMG_0257.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Juan engages with the tricky and fingery climbing at the beginning of pitch 5.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv_0yL4Uuqi6MYNXxA1vdvgwRhiW3EWhJKWH2LtDqpAOMlyM4Ke1IwxuqmuQZ0748JKjDtzmI3W1lchPEs3Q7s5x5moGzmWb2IyidxvJkIx4Z7QrPAiu1p_I6nQkdtO2AreoF-0Beo5dM/s2048/IMG_2174.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1436" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv_0yL4Uuqi6MYNXxA1vdvgwRhiW3EWhJKWH2LtDqpAOMlyM4Ke1IwxuqmuQZ0748JKjDtzmI3W1lchPEs3Q7s5x5moGzmWb2IyidxvJkIx4Z7QrPAiu1p_I6nQkdtO2AreoF-0Beo5dM/s320/IMG_2174.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">With a full rack jangling from my harness, I start up pitch 6. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5lxLo3FR38OUcqQ7MRxAtzS3raLiPY_Kjj-oC0J1ixI49Huk1S8IjVVdmHZ8kaiuXPuXOIYmOOF6r1CXMCscUh0YfJySozUBjoYx6oa4PYP8aQraosmmWL_djm_IlLjZZKbGRWGf8M80/s320/line+1.jpg" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The line of pitches 2-6 from the valley bottom.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrL75DN2LeJ9FJ66DMuXYrYW5BszFfPf7Atc6lr30XkpkE5EUBJNgtwk9hsLZxkuqX6HcD1JWbXAPNiuehaj0rFMN_UBe0dML5G_HCZVIUfkKHoGw33Pbhv4ztQcV0u-pxeWoZYFabaQg/s1892/Fame+Monster.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1675" data-original-width="1892" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrL75DN2LeJ9FJ66DMuXYrYW5BszFfPf7Atc6lr30XkpkE5EUBJNgtwk9hsLZxkuqX6HcD1JWbXAPNiuehaj0rFMN_UBe0dML5G_HCZVIUfkKHoGw33Pbhv4ztQcV0u-pxeWoZYFabaQg/s320/Fame+Monster.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-32119395651153044682020-07-01T16:52:00.002-06:002020-07-01T16:54:04.929-06:00A slice of the unknown<div>I step from a luxurious belay ledge onto a steep, prickly slab. The slab is undercut just beneath my feet: a rock dropped from here might hit the distant orange spot of my pack at the base of the wall. I clip a bolt. Wait, what, a bolt?</div><div><br /></div><div>By this point Alik and I expected to be traveling across untouched rock. Five years earlier Alik, Ian and Nino climbed three pitches of the line we're attempting, but we've already passed their highpoint. It seemed unlikely that anyone else should've wandered up to this obscure face, overshadowed by the bigger, better known north faces of Ha Ling Peak to the north and Mount Lawrence Grassi to the south. And yet a bolted anchor four pitches up makes it clear we're not the first people up here. The slings on the anchor suggest the mystery climbers rappelled off, but then the bolt I've just clipped hints they might also have finished the route. We don't know.</div><div><br /></div><div>I shuffle further left, stuff a cam under an overlap, and turn my attention upward. The limestone is perfect, almost too perfect, with no nut or cam placements. I alternate hands on two small crimps as I try to start a knifeblade in a thin crack. I almost drop the pin as it bottoms out after a few hammer taps. I try another spot in the crack, and another, with the same results.</div><div><br /></div><div>We have a drill and I could just place a bolt to protect whatever lies ahead. I could but pride doesn't let me. What if the other climbers already climbed this pitch as is? Who were they, anyway? All the way up, as we kept running into their bolted belay (and rappel?) stations, we've wondered who else was drawn to this overlooked lump of rock. But all we know is that they were admirably restrained with the drill.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the end, a small Pecker tapped into the bottoming crack gives me the confidence to lock off on the crimps, smear my feet and reach for a gaston. The moves end up being easier than expected, and just above the seam opens up to accept a pin that rings with those beautiful, rising notes. I feel a little foolish to have spent all this time hanging around on sweaty edges and fiddling with shitty knifeblades, instead of just punching it. Clearly I need to venture beyond <a href="https://sendage.com/area/bellavista-echo-canyon-ab-canada" target="_blank">Bellavista</a> and the <a href="https://sendage.com/area/upper-amphitheatre-heart-creek-ab-canada" target="_blank">Heart Amphitheatre</a> more often.</div><div><br /></div><div>I traverse left across more perfect rock on sharp dimples sculpted by years of rain. A jug marks the end of the the difficulties and I scamper up an easy corner. The rope drag stops me on a loose ledge a few metres higher. There are no bolts to be seen. Maybe the others didn't climb this pitch after all. The rock all around is either too rank or too compact for gear, and I haul up the drill and place a couple of bolts for an anchor.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I bring Alik up, I steal glances at the yellow and grey wall above. It looks like it goes. He comes up, floating past the crux where I stalled, grabs the rest of the gear and heads up on what we guess will be the last pitch. With my partner out of sight around a corner I'm alone again, only the rope moving through my hands telling me he's still climbing. Finally, with only a couple of metres left around my feet, the rope stops. Soon afterwards I hear a distant yell of "You're on!". The rope comes tight, I shoulder the pack and start climbing.</div><div><br /></div><div>At this point in my short and uneventful story, the reader might wonder whether, to borrow an overused phrase, we did in fact <a href="https://youtu.be/FzF0_OyEszQ" target="_blank">"boldly go where no one has gone before"</a>. After some digging we learn that local climber Joey Wallick and his Euro partner didn't complete the route after all. Then again, does it matter? Would our experience have been different if they did? <a href="http://www.peakfinder.com/people/58" target="_blank">James Monroe Thorington</a>, an early Canadian Rockies climber and author of the first guidebook to the range, wrote: "We were not pioneers ourselves, but we journeyed over old trails that were new to us, and with hearts open. Who shall distinguish?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVoG1RiwR4YYQswlA8iGctiejkyukXnWXtO94u0zWqg314KyxZmytB_b1E8G3e2tzk6V_YP7e967pIHqgpXDHVmcB6kg_rZbB25wRwvAE-WDO1tDYlsbwK6oYGTL77N0D8grX0DfZfBVw/s2000/image2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1182" data-original-width="2000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVoG1RiwR4YYQswlA8iGctiejkyukXnWXtO94u0zWqg314KyxZmytB_b1E8G3e2tzk6V_YP7e967pIHqgpXDHVmcB6kg_rZbB25wRwvAE-WDO1tDYlsbwK6oYGTL77N0D8grX0DfZfBVw/s320/image2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The new and old come together on pitch 1: a bolt and pins, pins, pins. Photo: Alik Berg.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1TifsgnZB_ABCSUs3yzkVnaxmRFVagF2YqEXzUEBfigLur6Z1rArnvtBcHnP6dncOSm60Fzi3Z04BnVrakuSSADoj89gNZf58W3pVtoepMR1eF7WLLZLh18GURWHkQ5CQZySm7_ZkLk/s1881/IMG_0715.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1881" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1TifsgnZB_ABCSUs3yzkVnaxmRFVagF2YqEXzUEBfigLur6Z1rArnvtBcHnP6dncOSm60Fzi3Z04BnVrakuSSADoj89gNZf58W3pVtoepMR1eF7WLLZLh18GURWHkQ5CQZySm7_ZkLk/s320/IMG_0715.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Alik doing what he does best: eating and adventure climbing.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaFDGJR7-_vAcyq2hFud5x3vkgUmJ99CifDCRKA_onZ0Tftk7YV6i9JVzCR_e3Da6yiwc9VpwrXusCGseDXUktJ9QNfUg638r5WmJ3i41MjaE8u2JKThQc1BfGx353vtHQ0-oAcLV8Ewc/s2000/IMG_0720.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaFDGJR7-_vAcyq2hFud5x3vkgUmJ99CifDCRKA_onZ0Tftk7YV6i9JVzCR_e3Da6yiwc9VpwrXusCGseDXUktJ9QNfUg638r5WmJ3i41MjaE8u2JKThQc1BfGx353vtHQ0-oAcLV8Ewc/s320/IMG_0720.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Where to now? Looking up at pitch 4.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiayHgVPT6rBcKjuskgXpBRJJ7fQj1LIRma3v8qlvWrYL6sAs1dE0bDDJtcMxfb47mlxVPfhBSOlxj9TDozVLnNZdeYdYdFDK4P8QyeUUBuYzzVVCFNaVNXAbUh0Tdvz3co7e8dnvnEyhw/s1787/image0.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1787" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiayHgVPT6rBcKjuskgXpBRJJ7fQj1LIRma3v8qlvWrYL6sAs1dE0bDDJtcMxfb47mlxVPfhBSOlxj9TDozVLnNZdeYdYdFDK4P8QyeUUBuYzzVVCFNaVNXAbUh0Tdvz3co7e8dnvnEyhw/s320/image0.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">With no more bolts in sight, Raphael eyes the compact stone on pitch 5. Photo: Alik Berg.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiruLzplcONe046qn7WVNyHvu3sy903gDlyIq0cSqgxV3pUVvQmdvjs77NhqcxJkhfvLaYq7GBQAm1Dvpw4p2mgfIxi2elNnKjGHvCT9z1VVfTgWHC1-WlUevfrADe5-hNB7RxmwR6jl4s/s2000/61464720475__31A730DC-98B0-4EBA-8EE9-EF4AED9772EF.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiruLzplcONe046qn7WVNyHvu3sy903gDlyIq0cSqgxV3pUVvQmdvjs77NhqcxJkhfvLaYq7GBQAm1Dvpw4p2mgfIxi2elNnKjGHvCT9z1VVfTgWHC1-WlUevfrADe5-hNB7RxmwR6jl4s/s320/61464720475__31A730DC-98B0-4EBA-8EE9-EF4AED9772EF.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The north face of Mt. Lawrence Grassi, the scene of much recent winter activity, not looking that appealing in June.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>North-East Buttress of </b><b>Miner's Peak</b><b>, 240m, 5.10b</b><br /><br /><i>Alik Berg and Raphael Slawinski, June 2020<br />Left var. Alik Berg, Nino Guagliano and Ian Welsted, 2015<br />Right var. Joey Wallick and partner, 2019</i><br /><br />A worthwhile traditional climb with little loose rock, this is the first route completed on this <a href="https://trailpeak.com/trails/Miner-s-Peak-near-Kananaskis-AB-11515" target="_blank">overlooked formation</a>. Bring <b>gear</b> to 3" including a good selection of thin pitons and doubles of small to medium cams.<br /><br /><b>Approach</b> as for Ha Ling and continue east across the Rice Bowl, the scree/slab bowl between Ha Ling and Miner's Peak, on low-angled slabs, staying high and aiming for the point on the NE buttress of Miners Peak where the ridge steepens beyond scrambling. Continue 50m past the buttress crest to a smaller rib with a steep drop-off on the other side. A 2-bolt belay marks the start.<br /><br />Pitch 1, 40m, 5.9. Climb the rib directly above the belay passing a bolt to ledges and a 2-bolt belay. <br /><br />Pitch 2, 30m, 5.6. Climb the bulge above the belay and either move left into a right facing corner or climb better rock just to the right. Continue past a ledge to a higher stance and a 2-bolt belay.<br /><br />Pitch 3, 45m, 5.8. Start up the left-facing corner above the belay passing a bolt, then move into a groove on the left until the angle eases. Continue up and left on easier ground to a fixed nut-and-piton belay where the wall steepens.<br /><br /><font color="#9e9e9e">Pitch 3 left var., 5.9. From a lower belay on the large ledge on pitch 2 traverse left and slightly up for 15m to a short pillar. Climb the pillar and the finger crack above to a narrow ledge and belay. Climb over blocks on the left and onto easier ground to the belay at the end of pitch 3.</font><br /><br />Pitch 4, 45m, 5.8. Climb up and left to a bulge. Pull over it on good holds into a groove and climb this to a horizontal break. Move right and step up into a short corner with a handcrack (!). At its end move right again and continue up to sloping ledges. Continue up a short corner moving right around a roof to a ledge below an obvious headwall and a 2-bolt belay.<br /><br /><font color="#9e9e9e">Pitches 3-4 right var., 5.?. Continue up the left-facing corner on pitch 3 to a 2-bolt belay on a ledge on the right. Continue up the buttress to the pitch 4 belay.</font><br /><br />Pitch 5, 20m, 5.10b. Step left past a bolt onto a steep slab. Follow the obvious left-trending break, with tricky gear at the crux. Continue traversing left to a 2-bolt belay.<br /><br />Pitch 6, 60m, 5.8. Make a tricky step left from the belay to gain a compact left-facing corner. Continue up this moving left into the main corner. Below where the corner steepens move left across a water-runnelled slab into another corner and follow this to the top. Gear belay.<div><br /></div><div>If you haven't left stuff at the base, <b>descend</b> the massive Ha Ling trail. To return to the base, scramble easily down the Rice Bowl to rejoin the approach.<br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiItVDLBDOMfasZQd0Y7qkrpkVoiDvFfccD1b2r820wbMJIIxNhAviT3c5GSJ1R5v1MHLH0i8t3vfnnM-Xc32TQ38_seh0VA7eRIk2jB7sLv6iLD5-M8ykaID7Y7I9O2NXuAdce_yYenmE/s1869/miners+peak.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1869" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiItVDLBDOMfasZQd0Y7qkrpkVoiDvFfccD1b2r820wbMJIIxNhAviT3c5GSJ1R5v1MHLH0i8t3vfnnM-Xc32TQ38_seh0VA7eRIk2jB7sLv6iLD5-M8ykaID7Y7I9O2NXuAdce_yYenmE/s320/miners+peak.JPG" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The line of the North-East Buttress route on Miner's Peak, an obscure formation sandwiched between Miner's Couloir to the south and the Rice Bowl to the north. Photo: Chris Perry. Route line: Alik Berg.</div></div>Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-63034874754187658712020-04-03T20:48:00.000-06:002020-04-04T09:38:55.181-06:00Strange days<div style="text-align: center;">
"Strange days have found us</div>
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Strange days have tracked us down</div>
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They're going to destroy</div>
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Our casual joys"</div>
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-The Doors, <a href="https://youtu.be/UyJInrbFkHE" target="_blank">"Strange Days"</a></div>
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It was the middle of March. I had a weekday free. After a long spell of touchy avalanche conditions, when the hazard had oscillated between Considerable and High, snow stability was finally improving. With the time having just switched to Daylight Saving and equinox almost upon us, it was staying light until eight. It was time to start going bigger.<br />
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The evening before, a friend and I exchanged the usual flurry of texts. Where should we go? Stanley? Storm? Some more obscure cliff? But then came second thoughts, and none related to climbing. Should we drive out separately and meet at the trailhead, to avoid sitting next to each another in the car? And even though avalanche hazard was low and going to Stanley or Storm isn't alpine climbing, were we absolutely certain nothing would happen that would have us pressing the SOS button on an inReach?<br />
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Like a discordant note, the coronavirus outbreak, which just days earlier had been declared a pandemic, intruded upon our enthusiastic plans. Suddenly going climbing no longer held the same appeal, no longer seemed that innocent. There's too much uncertainty just now, we decided in the end. We'd try again in a few days when things become clearer.<br />
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And clearer they did become. Only a couple of days later, the idea of going climbing, risking both spreading the virus and increasing the strain on the people dealing with it, had become downright indecent. Like many climbers, I'm selfish, but not that selfish.<br />
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Instead, I went scrambling. Slogging through crusted snow lacked the intensity of tiptoeing up thin ice, but emerging from the trees onto windswept scree, with the sun sinking towards a jagged cutout of familiar peaks, I felt some of the same release.<br />
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However, back down at the car, parked on a snowy shoulder next to several others, and one vehicle after another flying past, returning home after a not-so-solitary day in the hills, I wondered. I might've driven out on my own and risked no more than a twisted ankle. But weren't the hundreds of people out here, including me, missing the point? How was a crowded trailhead creating social distancing?<br />
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A few days later the national parks closed to visitors, and shortly afterwards the provincial ones too. I grumbled as I read the news but also knew silly my angst was. I couldn't go climbing where and when I wanted to, was that it? I was reminded of going to the Himalaya a few years ago, only to have my <a href="https://www.blackdiamondequipment.com/en_CA/experience-story?cid=everest-dispatch-2&cid=everest-dispatch-2" target="_blank">climbing ambitions thwarted when an earthquake struck</a>. Then too I had moped, until I realized how obscene it was to sulk over climbing plans gone awry when thousand of people were dead.<br />
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These days I'm staying home, talking with people by video link and hanging from a fingerboard in the basement. I hope that by doing so I'm helping to keep others and myself safe. I like to think, too, that by staying put and hardly venturing outside I'm helping to put these strange days behind us that little bit more quickly, so we can all go back to our casual joys.<br />
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PS: Staying home has also given me the time to cobble together some footage from <a href="https://raphaelslawinski.blogspot.com/2020/03/little-fluffy-clouds.html" target="_blank">earlier this winter</a>, when our biggest worries were if it was going to be too windy or too cold to go climbing.</div>
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Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-70838847761638001352020-03-14T11:27:00.000-06:002020-03-14T12:56:51.554-06:00Better lucky than good<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
It was the usual evening-before text exchange:</div>
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"What do you want to climb tomorrow?"</div>
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"I'm not sure... How about Route X?"</div>
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Both Mate Man and I had done the route in question before. In fact, over the years I'd climbed it when it was fat, skinny and downright mixed. However, just because you've visited a place already doesn't make it any less beautiful. I always liked the way the ice on Route X started out in a twisting canyon before rearing up to a vertical pillar, shining in the sun high above the valley floor.</div>
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As I threw some quickdraws, screws and, just in case, a few pins into the pack, the only thing that gave me pause was the forecast for high winds. Route X sits below a sizeable bowl, and as I drifted off to sleep, I thought of the fresh snow from the last few days blowing around and settling into a slab. Then again, we could just glass the mountain from road and decide in the morning...</div>
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***</div>
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From the parking lot, the bowl above the route didn't look particularly threatening. Mate Man and I passed the binoculars back and forth and engaged in some mutual conformation bias:</div>
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"The bowl looks pretty bony, don't ya think?"</div>
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"Yeah, I don't think there's all that much snow up there."</div>
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Up the familiar approach we went: along the wide riverside trail, on a faint track beside the cobbled streambed draining the mountain, up the frozen scree toward the start of the ice. Stashing the poles and strapping on crampons we continued, scrambling up short steps in a tight gully. Where the upper pitches reared up, we kicked out a ledge and pulled the ropes out of the packs. Mate Man won the game of paper-scissors-rock and started up the first pitch.</div>
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Now that we'd stopped, I finally had a good look around. The forecast had been right, the wind was howling up there. Spindrift poured from the lip of the canyon a hundred metres higher, where vertical ice backed off into snow. Most of it went straight back up, carried by gale-force updrafts, but enough sifted down that I had to dig out the pack from a small snowdrift when it was my turn to follow.</div>
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Hood up, I tapped up the detached shell over a smooth rock slab.</div>
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"Good job, man!", I shouted up, impressed.</div>
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By the time I rejoined Mate Man in the cave behind the pillar at the start of the second pitch, enough snow was swirling around us that we were both having second thoughts.</div>
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"Maybe I could just run up the pillar and lower back to the cave from where the ice backs off", I thought out loud. Judgment. Desire. A fork in the road. Alpinist and physicist <a href="https://enormocast.com/2020/02/episode-193-george-lowe-iii-a-fortunate-man/" target="_blank">George Lowe</a> offered some advice for such situations: "Try to separate your fears and hopes from a rational evaluation of what you should do."</div>
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"Nah, let's just head down. It'd probably be okay but it'd suck if anything happened."</div>
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We threaded the ropes through the anchor and rapped toward the relative calm of the canyon below. Not even stopping to coil the cords, we grabbed an end and started pulling while we plunge stepped down our already faint uphill tracks. Now that the possibility of avalanche had factored itself into the risk calculus, we didn't want to spend one unnecessary minute in this confined gully.</div>
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***</div>
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Back on the benign approach slopes the December sun still shone brightly. It was only early afternoon and it seemed a shame to go home just yet. We stopped below a sheltering buttress, where some short but steep pillars seeped from the rock. Soon, tapping up chandeliers and stemming between gravity-defying columns had us smiling again. Hundreds of metres higher, the wind shouted and raged.</div>
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I was climbing yet another variation on our afternoon curtains when what sounded like an especially loud gust of wind had both of us stop and look around. A second, two of silence, then a cloud of snow charged out of the canyon below Route X. Overloaded by the wind, the bowl above it had released.</div>
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We exchanged meaningful looks:</div>
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"Glad we got out of there when we did!"</div>
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"Yeah, but should we have been there in the first place?"</div>
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As alpine survivor <a href="https://soundcloud.com/afterglowmountainstorytelling/s2-e8-barry-blanchard" target="_blank">Barry Blanchard </a>said, sometimes it's better to be lucky than good.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvC6KPLBWi8jBduLe9QL8Lfp1FrNgBPel_l3_33T57rkDSWhjr9kS7HTe9YDMtWmvGVF0FsnbkbC21ih1-BVz_Lhyphenhyphen7zq11bg4_zs6XjMZyKa0gXsuCmqx0-2bG0yu1icbW_b3Ainy6U0/s1600/IMG_2011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1296" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvC6KPLBWi8jBduLe9QL8Lfp1FrNgBPel_l3_33T57rkDSWhjr9kS7HTe9YDMtWmvGVF0FsnbkbC21ih1-BVz_Lhyphenhyphen7zq11bg4_zs6XjMZyKa0gXsuCmqx0-2bG0yu1icbW_b3Ainy6U0/s640/IMG_2011.JPG" width="516" /></a></div>
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Better lucky than good?</div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-5291671562740256602020-03-08T10:28:00.002-06:002020-03-08T10:28:56.840-06:00Little Fluffy Clouds<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Take 1.</b></div>
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From a distance, the ice blobs looked inviting; the featureless rock between them, less so. I wonder if we're wasting our time, I thought, as Seth and I ploughed a ski track through facetted snow, the straps of packs loaded down with ropes, cams, pins – and drill – pulling at our shoulders. Given enough time and bolts you can get up anything, but we didn't want what Steve DeMaio called a science project. We wanted a line, something we could walk up to and (mostly) just climb. Unfortunately, the limestone, shining grey and yellow in the morning light, looked depressingly blank. But another one of Steve’s sayings was that you’ve just got to rub your nose in it. And sure enough, as we got closer, switchbacking up the slope below the cliff through patches of kinnikinnick and drifts of wind-crusted snow, as if by magic cracks and corners appeared.</div>
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Seth quickly dispatched the first pitch, a curtain of sun-baked ice, and I started up the second. A horizontal shuffle across a van-sized flake, another ice blob, and I started up steeper rock aiming for a big left-facing corner. After a few moves, with no gear between me and the ice ledge below, I looked around for a piton crack. That one’s just a blind seam, that one’s behind a loose flake, but this one looks promising. I slotted in a knifeblade and gingerly started hammering. Ping! Following a graceful parabolic arc, the pin disappeared from view. I vainly tried a few more cracks but, in the end, gave in and pulled up the drill. Several bolts and some pick torqueing in a corner crack later, I pulled over the overhanging lip of the next ice blob onto a comfortable ledge.</div>
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We climbed one more pitch to reach another ice blob before the drill battery and daylight started to fade. Happy that the day hadn’t turned out to be a waste of time after all, we headed down. First though, we sorted the gear, and left the ropes and rack hanging from an ice tool hooked over a rock edge. With light packs, we skied back to the car while the stars came out over the frozen bog, and Venus and the crescent moon set over Devil’s Head.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxg3SqWLlMC-9da7FEireGHeKOAgoB9f9RxbCqxTjXTmtx21sAy4oyWCOBRkyOPVbMb3NlnHMZYBWQ1UtEd9eySqwOqSqW6d59cIZqe0dvwqzun-iaP1TkNlI69t0oKsVIHMR9nGlRldo/s1600/IMG_0680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1288" data-original-width="1600" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxg3SqWLlMC-9da7FEireGHeKOAgoB9f9RxbCqxTjXTmtx21sAy4oyWCOBRkyOPVbMb3NlnHMZYBWQ1UtEd9eySqwOqSqW6d59cIZqe0dvwqzun-iaP1TkNlI69t0oKsVIHMR9nGlRldo/s400/IMG_0680.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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A line or a science project? Little Fluffy Clouds from the valley bottom.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeqMl6wA_LaZthsde-gKXF-mv_IE-r2X3gNdjrq6m_SSI6TyBq-ZkldiioXgygCDs3TWJSDFRB6n_Ddh7CXaAqXQxZDMKgkZJag770Aae09NjwLAMGT8Chs852jKugUK0L6KdTzptIpM/s1600/IMG_0697.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="1600" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeqMl6wA_LaZthsde-gKXF-mv_IE-r2X3gNdjrq6m_SSI6TyBq-ZkldiioXgygCDs3TWJSDFRB6n_Ddh7CXaAqXQxZDMKgkZJag770Aae09NjwLAMGT8Chs852jKugUK0L6KdTzptIpM/s400/IMG_0697.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Seth Keena nears the end of the first pitch, with ice clouds big and small floating overhead.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-AAXREq_H05a2Z0NZwrocSrOvacMF8ELWLYrzjkVisPw_9psVCulxvmDVIUUkpGDnPnVE-3KDcAl0ydr5u-BHvTcw-IKPm3Xc0rZ9WgXETrxulOFiMhjOboDugGbbSDxL875prpCaOso/s1600/IMG_0709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="756" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-AAXREq_H05a2Z0NZwrocSrOvacMF8ELWLYrzjkVisPw_9psVCulxvmDVIUUkpGDnPnVE-3KDcAl0ydr5u-BHvTcw-IKPm3Xc0rZ9WgXETrxulOFiMhjOboDugGbbSDxL875prpCaOso/s400/IMG_0709.JPG" width="188" /></a></div>
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Yours truly sorts out the left-facing corner on the second pitch. Photo: Seth Keena.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtqGPqBtvh31QBIbmuHDKhwFnpjlfV-rgrTCsdpO51uvI63mks8NKn6xlly7ke05SHWf0RHx3SusbszCRAWVtcFnd6LJyMLTWrn9ZV3Tg6uY9xc8x61Pxzs6IN0OfK2IzwzqFvT8-BzqY/s1600/IMG_0729.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="1600" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtqGPqBtvh31QBIbmuHDKhwFnpjlfV-rgrTCsdpO51uvI63mks8NKn6xlly7ke05SHWf0RHx3SusbszCRAWVtcFnd6LJyMLTWrn9ZV3Tg6uY9xc8x61Pxzs6IN0OfK2IzwzqFvT8-BzqY/s400/IMG_0729.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The backside of Blackrock Mountain, with the office towers of Calgary in the distance.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXfp2BOn9QyWnBFsrZzi8_zJ4f1hAiZQvHvCxCmEjLBbZ46XseFdJgXxtPeyvg7I0kwLEXnBdodTVAhvu2SuIjhbhsM-mYXyhfrqIw6ytek7F9EtoV1KfezSsW1RqzB3vaBJVAqlscC8/s1600/IMG_0732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="755" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXfp2BOn9QyWnBFsrZzi8_zJ4f1hAiZQvHvCxCmEjLBbZ46XseFdJgXxtPeyvg7I0kwLEXnBdodTVAhvu2SuIjhbhsM-mYXyhfrqIw6ytek7F9EtoV1KfezSsW1RqzB3vaBJVAqlscC8/s400/IMG_0732.JPG" width="188" /></a></div>
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As the sun swings around the corner, I squeeze one last pitch (the third) out of the day. Photo: Seth Keena.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM3wXwS30s_1VxOx211R9jnw5K4MSJyAkKlqTARJQug5pwjdaEyweJOoLWwAUGDXhW3JwDzxl3S86dUP5DGcizO28e-qMdBuwjh_dbM-qC_iDqygeRPrzTu5K8x3aBVXIrfW7tIzEYG4c/s1600/IMG_0738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1102" data-original-width="1600" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM3wXwS30s_1VxOx211R9jnw5K4MSJyAkKlqTARJQug5pwjdaEyweJOoLWwAUGDXhW3JwDzxl3S86dUP5DGcizO28e-qMdBuwjh_dbM-qC_iDqygeRPrzTu5K8x3aBVXIrfW7tIzEYG4c/s400/IMG_0738.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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A waxing crescent moon and Venus setting over Devil's Head.</div>
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<b>Take 2.</b></div>
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The packs were lighter when we came back a few days later. Following our old track along a cutline, through a short stretch of bush and onto an open streambed, we made good time and arrived at the base of the rock together with the sun. But our satisfaction was short lived. As we took down the stashed gear, we saw sharp tooth marks on the handles of my ice tools. Worse, our rope was chewed right through. A wave of disappointment washed over me: our climbing day was over before it’d begun. But wait! As we uncoiled the rope, we saw the rats had merely wanted to scare us, and had only bitten off a two-metre section. We could go climbing after all.</div>
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It didn’t take us long to reclimb the first three pitches, and we were still in the sun as I started up the fourth. Unfortunately, it looked to be the science project we’d been hoping to avoid. Wherever I dared, I tried to climb between bolt placements to avoid putting up an aid ladder, but didn’t manage to place even a token piece of gear. A couple of hours later, having touched the final ice curtain but still somewhat disheartened, I lowered back to the now shady belay. My spirits did rise a bit as I belayed Seth on the freshly bolted pitch, and saw that at least it appeared to be climbable. As <a href="https://youtu.be/Ef9QnZVpVd8" target="_blank">the song goes</a>,</div>
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You can't always get what you want</div>
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But if you try sometime you find</div>
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You get what you need.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga2p37gciKUoKNyQNH6NdD5r3NREWTByz4RBUgq3SMzHeDVbImo3fBt6Qvy0O7E4H4aBFcWZTfviMKqXKBVCsjhsf2Tfg7PY9mQjkMWDBIGlSzKF5PKNbo7UbWL_Xf4nvftyQlIh2Lafk/s1600/Photo+Jan+31%252C+9+44+23+AM.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1532" height="391" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga2p37gciKUoKNyQNH6NdD5r3NREWTByz4RBUgq3SMzHeDVbImo3fBt6Qvy0O7E4H4aBFcWZTfviMKqXKBVCsjhsf2Tfg7PY9mQjkMWDBIGlSzKF5PKNbo7UbWL_Xf4nvftyQlIh2Lafk/s400/Photo+Jan+31%252C+9+44+23+AM.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Nooo! Photo: Seth Keena.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39nzmcvF-tn7zktgfwhbFnsyhpp_TilgQnmBHYiMO6wXqn-vymeRMfM0DXT9LUvB9EEbfb9ITmMB5fgrnqpXnz9bWUXtR1AL__euNADQkkxbMvamNKjIvt8gsN3QEOCgamezEe72vjj0/s1600/Photo+Jan+31%252C+1+14+05+PM.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1532" data-original-width="1312" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39nzmcvF-tn7zktgfwhbFnsyhpp_TilgQnmBHYiMO6wXqn-vymeRMfM0DXT9LUvB9EEbfb9ITmMB5fgrnqpXnz9bWUXtR1AL__euNADQkkxbMvamNKjIvt8gsN3QEOCgamezEe72vjj0/s400/Photo+Jan+31%252C+1+14+05+PM.JPG" width="342" /></a></div>
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As we eye pitch four, it looks suspiciously like a science project. Photo: Seth Keena.</div>
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<b><b>Take 3.</b></b></div>
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Two days later we were back, with Maia rounding out the team. On our previous goes we’d enjoyed temperatures that were unseasonably warm for January, belaying barehanded and climbing in base layers. Now, however, February had arrived with cold, wind and snow. White devils danced across the gravel flats on the valley bottom, and a cold wind drove plumes of powder from surrounding ridges. At least the base of the cliff was somewhat sheltered from the gusts.</div>
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The sun-baked ice on pitch one, the now much less chossy corner on pitch two, and the groove connecting two ice blobs on pitch three. Pitch four was the big unknown. Just a few metres from the belay I was already struggling to keep my fingers warm, as I repeatedly locked off and searched for a good edge. It was tempting to commit to one of the bad ones and go for it, but I also knew this kind of scratching demanded patience. Maia and Seth, bundled up at the belay, were probably less impressed with my slow, methodical progress.</div>
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Then it was my turn to try to stay warm, as clouds of spindrift enveloped me while I brought my partners up. If one of them had said that conditions were too miserable to climb the last pitch, that we should just head down, I wouldn’t have argued. But they didn’t. A few more long reaches; balancing across a foot ledge with the blank wall above trying to push me off; and cold, brittle ice that cracked and groaned as I repeatedly swung into it. I tried to keep my eyelids from freezing shut while I drilled a v-thread where the ice backed off into snow-covered scree. Now just a few rappels remained before we could run down to our skis and get warm again.</div>
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Maia Schumacher skis along the frozen bog, with the Hydrophobia cirque straight ahead and the Johnson Creek drainage on the right.</div>
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The wind drives plumes of fresh powder from the clifftop.</div>
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Yours truly heads up the second pitch for the third time... Photo: Seth Keena.</div>
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... while Maia Schumacher enjoys it (?) for the first time. Photo: Seth Keena.</div>
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Seth Keena starts up the grove on pitch three...</div>
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... and yours truly tries to sort out the cryptic sequences on the fourth. Photo: Maia Schumacher.</div>
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Snagging the ice on the fifth and last pitch. Photo: Maia Schumacher.</div>
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<b><b><a href="https://youtu.be/8Ecdn5SGT1E" target="_blank">Little Fluffy Clouds</a>, 155 m, M7 WI4</b></b></div>
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<i><i>FA: Seth Keena, Maia Schumacher and Raphael Slawinski, January-February 2020</i></i></div>
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This spectacular route is found at the mouth of the Johnson Creek drainage, before Caroline and Marion Falls. If formed, the ice blobs and final curtain will be obvious on the sunny side of the valley.</div>
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<b>Approach:</b> Park as for all Waiparous routes, on the north side of Waiparous Creek. Approach as for Hydrophobia to the bog, then veer right onto a cutline. From where the cutline ends, 10 minutes of bushwhacking deposits you on the cobbles of Johnson Creek. Walk up the creek until below the route, then hike up through open forest and scree to the base. In heavy snow years skis may be useful. 1.5-2 hours.</div>
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<b>Route:</b></div>
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Pitch 1 (30 m, WI3+). Steepening ice leads to a ledge. Traverse right to a single-bolt belay that can be backed up with a #5 Camalot behind the flake on the right.</div>
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Pitch 2 (40 m, M5+). Traverse right across the flake to an ice blob. From the right edge of the ice blob, climb rock past 3 bolts to a left-facing corner. Climb the corner past another bolt to the left edge of a bigger ice blob and a 2-bolt belay on top of the blob. Small cams and nuts needed on this pitch but not higher, and this gear can be left at the belay. Long slings are helpful.</div>
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Pitch 3 (20 m, M4+). Move right from the belay and climb past 4 bolts to an easy wide crack that leads to a 2-bolt belay on top of a small ice blob. #3 and 4 Camalots are useful on this pitch.</div>
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Pitch 4 (30 m, M7). Tricky drytooling leads to easier but more committing climbing. Another tricky section leads to a 2-bolt anchor on a small ledge. This pitch is all bolted but a #3 Camalot may be comforting.</div>
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Pitch 5 (35 m, M5 WI4). Some long reaches lead to the right end of a foot ledge. Shuffle left along the ledge to the hanging curtain. Snag the ice and climb it to where it backs off into snow. Belay from ice. This pitch is all bolted and only requires screws.</div>
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<b>Descent:</b> Rappel the route from the top of pitches 5, 4 and 2. Pitches 5, 4 and 3 can be rappelled with a single 70-m rope. Rappelling from the top of pitch 5 requires back clipping some of the bolts on the pitch. Rappelling straight down from the top of pitch 2 requires two 70-m ropes. With 60-m ropes, rappel to the top of pitch 1 and make another rappel from the single bolt there.</div>
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<b>Gear: </b>70-m ropes, doubles of Camalots from #0.2 to 0.4 (or a single set of cams and a few medium Stoppers), Camalots #3, 4 and 5 (optional), 8 quickdraws, 6 extendable draws, 5-6 screws.</div>
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<b>Note: </b>For convenience, rap stations are set up with quick links and biners instead of rap rings. Unless you really need to add to your collection of crappy old biners, please leave the biners in place.</div>
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Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-32074149212875786422019-12-25T15:58:00.001-07:002019-12-25T21:34:17.569-07:00Winter Dance<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't have a good feel for the Fahrenheit scale but I do know that negative temperatures are cold. Down in town, the car thermometer read around twenty degrees and the early morning air felt almost balmy on my face. However, as we drove up Hyalite Canyon, it started plummeting, finally bottoming out below zero. The inside of the car was cozy but I could imagine the almost liquid chill on the other side of the glass. I know, ice climbing is supposed to be cold. But I'm soft, and especially when there's mixed climbing involved, with the attendant pulling and locking off, I like more moderate temperatures. There was nothing for it though. Between clinics on the weekend and final exams at the university later in the week, I had just today to go climbing. Sometimes it's motivating to be on a schedule, as there's no coming back another day.</div>
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After twenty minutes' walking we located an old boot track heading steeply up to the left. After a few more minutes we even warmed up enough to strip down to base layers. "Maybe there's an inversion," Adam commented hopefully. However, we didn't think so an hour later, as we struggled to tighten boots and harnesses with bare fingers quickly growing numb. A stiff breeze whipped across the snowy crest of the rib, carrying away any warmth we might've generated on the approach.</div>
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"The thought of climbing hard right now isn't very appealing," I complained. "I guess we'll just have to climb easy then," Adam retorted.</div>
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Eventually, after many pauses to rewarm our hands, we were ready. Crampons and tools on, wearing a belay parka and insulated pants over all the other layers, I followed Adam awkwardly across the exposed traverse to the base of the route.</div>
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The legendary <a href="https://www.climbing.com/news/winter-dance-free-climbed/" target="_blank">Winter Dance</a>, an Alex Lowe masterpiece.</div>
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"Which pitches do you want?," Adam, ever the gracious host, asked. I had my answer ready. The bolt ladder on the second pitch is the technical crux of the route, while the third pitch was the question mark. A couple of people had already told me they didn't think there was enough ice on it to make it go, at least not without much loose and runout choss climbing. "You've done the route before. Do you mind if I take pitches two and three?," I replied.</div>
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Splattered with ice, the first pitch looked straightforward and Adam made quick work of it. As I followed though, I revised my opinion of it. After a cold night the ice, thinly spread over compact rock, was brittle and fragile. Teetering on shallow placements, thinking about the stubby screw I'd removed already a few metres down, I was glad of the rope overhead. At least we seemed to be somewhat sheltered from the wind, and I even warmed up enough to shed puffy jacket and pants.</div>
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/knofftales/" target="_blank">Adam Knoff</a> starts up the first pitch of Winter Dance, a deceptively tricky concoction of thin ice and loose rock.</div>
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I leaned back on the anchor and craned my neck. "What's the second pitch like? Is it onsightable?," I inquired. "It's pretty hard to read. I onsighted it though," Adam informed me. I had intended to try hard anyway but now it was fight or fly. Taking wasn't an option.</div>
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A few metres of dinner-plating ice let to a bulging roof. Clipping the first of the dozen or so bolts Alex Lowe had drilled more than twenty years earlier, I put any doubts about what kind of shape they might be in out of mind. Leaning out on a gloved lieback, I hooked a gritty edge and began the dance: lock off, probe with a tool until it settled on something positive, trust it, lock off, repeat. After what seemed like a long time, and probably felt even longer for Adam at a cold belay, I whooped as I hung back on the four or five bolts in suspect rock that made up the anchor.</div>
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Yours truly launches up pitch two of Winter Dance, originally an aid ladder, subsequently freed in a determined effort by <a href="https://youtu.be/3sEm_j5fqqw" target="_blank">Kris Erickson and Whit Magro</a>. Photo: Jean-Francois Girard.</div>
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Adam Knoff nears the hanging belay atop the second pitch.</div>
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A sea of cobbles and crazy mushrooms: the same scene from below. Photo: Jean-Francois Girard.</div>
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While I pulled in the rope as Adam quickly followed the pitch, I turned my attention to the next ropelength, the one I'd been told wasn't quite in. All in all it didn't look too badly, with giant mushrooms and hanging columns offering some options. The questionable bit was an ice blob just a few metres up. As <a href="https://gripped.com/profiles/five-big-unrepeated-rockies-aid-routes/" target="_blank">Steve</a> used to say, I'd just have to go rub my nose in it.</div>
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What with the belay being hanging and my rope management skills somewhat deficient, it took us a while to reorganize. Eventually though, with a full ice and rock rack dangling off of my harness, I set off again. A couple of fixed Spectres in decomposing rock below the blob would prevent a factor-two fall onto the belay but wouldn't keep my from hitting the mushroom below. "I guess I'll just have to climb like I mean it. Watch me!" But the sticks on top of the blob were good and soon I was sinking a solid screw into the next mushroom. The rest of the pitch unfolded more or less as expected, with much cleaning of massive daggers but secure thrutching between hopefully more solid columns. After the hanging belay, a comfortable belay cave was a welcome change.</div>
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Warmer but still not warm: yours truly at the second belay. Photo: Adam Knoff.</div>
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Established atop the crux blob at the start of the third pitch... Photo: Adam Knoff.</div>
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... and negotiating surreal ice formations higher up. Photo: Adam Knoff.</div>
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While Adam and I enjoy Winter Dance, a couple of friends tackle the neighbouring Nutcracker. <a href="https://www.instagram.com/jeffgherard/" target="_blank">Jean-Francois Girard</a> starts up the crux third pitch of that route. Photo: Adam Knoff.</div>
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After paralleling each other for three or four pitches, Winter Dance and The Nutcracker come together and share the last pitch. Last year, when <a href="https://www.instagram.com/jessroskelley/?hl=en" target="_blank">Jess Roskelley</a> and I climbed the latter route, the final ropelength began with a fragile pillar that had us questioning its reasonableness. Now though a massive if still translucent column led to the top. Grabbing the screws, Adam swung through. Soon he disappeared from view, and only the ice falling past the cave window and the rope snaking through my belay device told me of his progress. I was left to my thoughts of that stormy afternoon a year ago. Afterwards I saw Jess again at another climbing festival, we exchanged texts and phone calls, but <a href="https://raphaelslawinski.blogspot.com/2018/12/the-nutcracker.html" target="_blank">The Nutcracker</a> was the last time we climbed together. Climbing gives a lot but it also takes away so, so much.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgczVc30df854SWMFXnbQZT5yv7NoY5bE_98oUnJ5Ujs8KevHHXc5uqotAP-YwymygwT65a3x9lUKKhK9Od_nra5QBHiGndF1raHLqjd6HUHGtXiuWNbaDN3TOjEM95AWnG6KYIo-24k7E/s1600/IMG_0571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1316" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgczVc30df854SWMFXnbQZT5yv7NoY5bE_98oUnJ5Ujs8KevHHXc5uqotAP-YwymygwT65a3x9lUKKhK9Od_nra5QBHiGndF1raHLqjd6HUHGtXiuWNbaDN3TOjEM95AWnG6KYIo-24k7E/s320/IMG_0571.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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A relaxed Adam Knoff starts up the fourth pitch of Winter Dance.</div>
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Back at our packs and poles on the approach rib, we watch Jean-Francois Girard climb the last pitch, lit up briefly by the low December sun.</div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-78717812617907854762019-11-23T12:16:00.000-07:002019-11-23T12:16:26.867-07:00Banana Peel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Friday.</i> Squish, squish went the windshield wipers. The mountains played hide and seek behind soggy clouds as we drove west on the TransCanada through steady rain. Other that maybe in Scotland, rain and mixed climbing don't go together well. Still, "Storm Creek's a lot higher. This'll turn to snow by the time we get up there", I said confidently.</div>
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A couple of hours later we were gearing up at the base of the rock. The wall above us glistened black and wet. Even though we were now hundreds of metres above the highway, the rain continued to slash down.</div>
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"Hmm, do you think these conditions are actually dangerous?"</div>
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"Nah, the terrain above us is pretty steep. Not dangerous, just gross." And then the ultimate argument: "And we're already here..."</div>
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Fortunately the first couple of ropelengths didn't involve any ice, just snowed up, slippery rock. Halfway up the second pitch I took off my gloves to wring them out. Then I put them back on: it seemed pointless to change into a fresh pair, they'd be soaked within minutes.</div>
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We thought it best not to touch the thin ice on the third pitch. With water running behind it, it didn't look like it'd hold bodyweight - and we'd just destroy what little was left. In spite of the early hour, we threaded the ropes through the anchor and headed down toward a warm, dry car.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh102ABdxSvwTvKdFJVTuw5pyelIOGrlJ_VMJMx4E40ivuy3YzQyERwt2WaR1n1ybNZrpmuQLtP4O3NwNDgAltUchYHbQ75CWIVc0nPL88Wgl5nT4oLQ9pqZMiSkgmWM30D_EZXPdu6S5s/s1600/IMG_0422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1228" data-original-width="850" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh102ABdxSvwTvKdFJVTuw5pyelIOGrlJ_VMJMx4E40ivuy3YzQyERwt2WaR1n1ybNZrpmuQLtP4O3NwNDgAltUchYHbQ75CWIVc0nPL88Wgl5nT4oLQ9pqZMiSkgmWM30D_EZXPdu6S5s/s320/IMG_0422.JPG" width="221" /></a></div>
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Banana Peel is the middle of 3 discontinuous ice lines close together on the Storm Creek headwall.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA7qgE5LfyCAKYuWFliUFxIGVsbBKXknJRYrf43HnRAhEZOwUQjJBJSRD3PjJ6ZuCKY87dGDsuO38etpLXTk9-nfsWnq_whMRPi0goCJVPoWSsADrvbq2ip7T1x-MrvJwm8_S0fAFCBzM/s1600/IMG_2465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1228" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA7qgE5LfyCAKYuWFliUFxIGVsbBKXknJRYrf43HnRAhEZOwUQjJBJSRD3PjJ6ZuCKY87dGDsuO38etpLXTk9-nfsWnq_whMRPi0goCJVPoWSsADrvbq2ip7T1x-MrvJwm8_S0fAFCBzM/s320/IMG_2465.JPG" width="312" /></a></div>
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Yours truly starts up the first ropelength in steady rain. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div>
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Juan hopes his tool doesn't rip through sodden scree as he nears the second belay.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOz4emXKxjk-6dTN7VuyEOKAxBQfGFdL9KtmFXtwaFOkmjDyaq9GN4IY6FT1h0sTvf_K8ezO3NWHrrplnktaIjXXHfKkU3lAC4E7EUJjHiyMSbpDvI7EDNH9jxQjHPeLwCveeu2mh5-TY/s1600/IMG_0428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="1228" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOz4emXKxjk-6dTN7VuyEOKAxBQfGFdL9KtmFXtwaFOkmjDyaq9GN4IY6FT1h0sTvf_K8ezO3NWHrrplnktaIjXXHfKkU3lAC4E7EUJjHiyMSbpDvI7EDNH9jxQjHPeLwCveeu2mh5-TY/s320/IMG_0428.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Water streaming down the rock and percolating under the ice doesn't make for inspiring mixed climbing conditions.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBS2U40gO_UJuzXhc6dw81IzUggBOuHrzLYzKiow0JwcfvJ-cLCpXgBi57HA5S6FCcx4TzBjZUvKY_74B6gP7btqiKYpMpv7HJfHSCGe1tiBDF3J1LKlvoVRECZaUznA4WwfCwA16heWU/s1600/IMG_0439.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="1228" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBS2U40gO_UJuzXhc6dw81IzUggBOuHrzLYzKiow0JwcfvJ-cLCpXgBi57HA5S6FCcx4TzBjZUvKY_74B6gP7btqiKYpMpv7HJfHSCGe1tiBDF3J1LKlvoVRECZaUznA4WwfCwA16heWU/s320/IMG_0439.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The view down Storm Creek on a rotten November day.</div>
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<i>Monday.</i> At least the thermometer on the dashboard had recovered slightly from the low of -18 C it'd hit a few minutes earlier. By the time we hiked up the firebreak we'd even warmed up enough to shed a layer. Still, it took a while to gear up at the base, what with having to swing circulation back into our fingers in between putting on harnesses and tightening boots.</div>
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The first two ropelengths flew by quickly and we found ourselves again below the thin ice of the third. Actually the first ten metres was more compact rock than ice but a few bolts kept things reasonable. After some tenuous hooking it felt good to reach the strip of continuous ice above. Flat-footing on a sloping ledge, I tapped into the greyish sheet over my head. The ice made a hollow noise, splintered and vibrated. I pictured an entire section breaking off with me on it.</div>
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"I'm not sure about this", I yelled down.</div>
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"Up to you", Juan shouted back from the belay where he and Maia stood wrapped up in puffy jackets and pants.</div>
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I suppose I'm already here, I thought. I unclipped the power drill from my harness and sunk a bolt into the waterworn limestone beside the ice. Placing a bolt next to climbable ice seemed wrong, but at least it'd keep me attached to the cliff should the strip decide to peel away. However, the ice stayed put, and an hour later Juan was swinging his way up the brittle chandeliers of the last pitch. Given the character of the ice and my fondness for the fruit, <i>Banana Peel</i> seemed like an appropriate name.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPYvMyvzzzv1fzyyEau_fb5gq5fP52G3A9gIBb13Mkn2IgJKoxL4dqFKzBvihfGflUcnJlqs-70qpMTvfozVfIuxitLRMHoLB1D95SL9ydb4Uth0tQ9SrCU63hyDocywDHnRY7quijioA/s1600/FullSizeRender.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1228" data-original-width="1083" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPYvMyvzzzv1fzyyEau_fb5gq5fP52G3A9gIBb13Mkn2IgJKoxL4dqFKzBvihfGflUcnJlqs-70qpMTvfozVfIuxitLRMHoLB1D95SL9ydb4Uth0tQ9SrCU63hyDocywDHnRY7quijioA/s320/FullSizeRender.JPG" width="282" /></a></div>
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What a difference three days make. Juan and Raphael start up the slope below Buddha Nature on a cold and blue -15 C morning. Photo: Maia Schumacher.</div>
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Juan muckles over an awkward step at the start of the first pitch.</div>
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Raphael starts up the slabby second pitch. Not hard but somehow insecure enough not to be easy, either. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div>
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Thin ice on the third pitch... Photo: Maia Schumacher.</div>
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... and thick though brittle ice on the fourth.</div>
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The line of Banana Peel with the belays and rappels indicated.</div>
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<b>Banana Peel, 110 m, WI5 M6 </b><br />
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<i>FA: Juan Henriquez, Maia Schumacher, Raphael Slawinski, November 2019 </i><br />
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Left of the obvious flow of Buddha Nature on the Storm Creek headwall are three discontinuous ice lines. Banana Peel is the middle one. A couple of pitches of lower-angled mixed climbing lead to a flow of ice that starts out very thin and gradually thickens to something more reasonable. Some rock gear and ice screws are needed but there are also many bolts.<br />
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<b>Approach</b> as for Buddha Nature (usually a donkey trail) and traverse a hundred metres or so left along the base of the cliff. The overhead hazard isn’t too bad but the approach slope is steep enough to slide. 2 hours.<br />
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<b>Climb: </b><br />
Pitch 1 (30 m, M2): Scratch up to a short, awkward step. Muckle over it and slog up and right on a snow ramp. Rock gear belay.<br />
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Pitch 2 (30 m, M4): Climb up a few metres to the first of 3 bolts and a slabby left-trending ramp. From the left end of a snow ledge climb a low-angled groove to another ledge. Traverse left around an outside corner and climb a rock step past a bolt to a 2-bolt belay.</div>
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Pitch 3 (30 m, M6 WI5): Scramble left and up to the first bolt. A small cam can be used to protect the initial moves. Hook small edges and patches of thin ice past a few bolts to more continuous ice. A last couple of bolts protect the detached sheet of ice above. Continue on improving ice to a snow ledge and a 2-bolt belay on the right.<br />
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Pitch 4 (20 m, WI4). Good ice leads to the top. Belay from screws before the ice turns into snow. <br />
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<b>Descend</b> with 2 double-rope rappels from the 4th and 2nd belays.<br />
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<b>Gear:</b> Camalots to #3, maybe a few pins, screws including stubbies, 12 draws including some extendables and 60 m ropes.Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-74138615178163261162019-07-18T11:32:00.000-06:002019-07-18T11:32:27.623-06:00Attribution<div style="text-align: justify;">
Next month will be twenty-four years since I first climbed the north face of Athabasca. There are far bigger and harder ice faces in the Rockies, but that particular shield of snow and ice, capped by a layered cake of rotten limestone, has got to be the most classic. The glacier-draped north aspect of the peak adorns countless postcards, but the view of it driving south on the Parkway is no less sublime for that. </div>
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Erol Altay, with whom I took some of my first steps on vertical ice in the city-park like surroundings of Starved Rock two hours west of Chicago, had flown west for a couple of weeks. We kicked off his trip in rock shoes on Yamnuska, changed into crampons for the Ice Bulge on the north face of Fay, then headed up the Parkway intent on Athabasca. Back in 1995 Rockies’ ice faces were still a reasonable proposition in August, not the ugly, scarred things they tend to become by late summer these days. </div>
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Plastic boots and Footfangs on our feet, Pulsars in our hands, we kicked steps up the face. In those distant days mixed climbing hadn’t yet entered our vocabulary. Luckily, the choss band was breached by a ribbon of white ice. We swung and frontpointed up the nearly vertical step, and soon afterwards were balancing along the airy summit ridge. On the descent, in places we butt-slid down summer névé, giggling like kids. Now it all seems like another lifetime. And in a way it was: three years ago a broken hold on Assiniboine cut Erol’s short. Sometimes I still catch myself wondering what we’ll talk about next time we meet.<br />
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Erol walks up the glacier toward the north face...</div>
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... and kicks his way up towards the well-iced crux.</div>
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The Silvehorn seracs, more benign a quarter-century ago.</div>
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A psyched Erol dodges the crowds on the summit ridge.</div>
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Over the years since, I’ve climbed Athabasca’s north face many times: sometimes when bigger ambitions were thwarted, sometimes as a link in a longer chain, and sometimes just to spend time in the mountains with a friend. On the most recent occasion, Seth Keena and I drove up the Parkway with vague plans for a linkup. Later in the day the May sun would climb high in the sky and turn the snow to isothermal mush, but in the morning the crust still held strong, our boots barely denting the frozen surface. </div>
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The glacial cwm below the face was littered with ice blocks, disgorged from the creaky seracs a few hundred metres higher. Hmm, I didn’t remember the ice cliffs on the Silverhorn being that active… As fast as the now powdery snow would allow, we postholed through the danger zone. Crossing the bergschrund was an exercise in levitating over more unconsolidated snow, but soon we were wishing for snow as we crabbed up hard alpine ice. </div>
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Unroped, we picked separate lines up the lower face to avoid dropping missiles on one another. Where the glassy ice steepened as it squeezed between rock bulges, we roped up. As I climbed up and left, the ice sheet grew thinner and thinner until it petered out altogether. Slowly, I balanced up loose limestone steps welded together by frost. The belay was three so-so pins. Half of the next pitch was more of the same insecure scrambling, capped by a bodylength of near vertical drytooling. Was this where, nearly a quarter-century earlier, I’d twisted in screws and swung into thick ice? It must’ve been, but in the intervening years the route had changed almost beyond recognition. A symptom of global heating?</div>
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Seth walks up firm snow on the approach glacier...</div>
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... and crosses the cwm to the foot of the north face.</div>
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Once on the face, I try to flatfoot to keep the calves from screaming. Photo: Seth Keena.</div>
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Seth plugs away at the hard alpine ice.</div>
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The Silverhorn seracs, rather more broken up these days.</div>
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Where once there was ice over choss, now there's just choss. Photo: Seth Keena.</div>
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How can we tell if this retreating glacier or that temperature record is due to human-made climate change? The <a href="http://www.realclimate.org/index.php/archives/2010/05/on-attribution/" target="_blank">science of attribution</a> tries to answer such questions. Think of rolling a weighted die. Is rolling a 6 caused by the die being weighted? Not exactly; after all, we can roll a 6 with a fair die too. But the die being weighted makes it more likely that, on any given roll, it’ll come up 6. </div>
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If all we had was statistics, that might not be too convincing. But we have a lot more: particular causes have particular effects, fingerprints if you will. If global heating was due to the Sun brightening, we’d expect all of the atmosphere to warm. On the other hand, if it was caused by more greenhouse gases being spewed out, we’d expect the lower atmosphere to warm but the upper one to cool. Can you guess <a href="https://skepticalscience.com/human-fingerprint-in-global-warming.html" target="_blank">which it is</a>? </div>
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The first time I climbed the north face of Athabasca, atmospheric carbon dioxide levels were around 360 parts per million. During the most recent climb, <a href="https://scripps.ucsd.edu/programs/keelingcurve/" target="_blank">they stood at 415</a>. At the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Representative_Concentration_Pathway" target="_blank">rate we’re emitting</a> the stuff, in another quarter century they might reach 600. If I’m still around and climbing, I wonder what the north face will look like then.</div>
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When Seth joined me at a sunny stance in a small brèche, his right arm didn’t seem to be working too well. An errant stone had scored a direct hit as he belayed me up the loose rubble where once there was ice. As the main objective was to have fun, we nixed our plans for a linkup. We took in a summit panorama that included Bryce, Columbia and Alberta, Rockies’ giants you can’t see from any highway*. Then we hurried down, before the slopes below AA Col turned avalanche-prone in the heat. We stopped in the hanging valley beneath the northeast face of Andromeda to strip off layers, and eat and drink the rest of our food and water. Sitting on our packs, we took in the silence of a brilliant, windless afternoon. </div>
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An hour later, we walked down the dirt road beside the Athabasca Glacier as massive snowcoaches rumbled past, enveloping us in clouds of dust and diesel fumes. Maybe there was a moral in the juxtaposition of mountains and industry, but just then I was becoming painfully aware of hot spots on my feet, and it escaped me.</div>
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Seth climbs out of the shadowed depths of the face into May sunshine...</div>
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... and swings through to take us to the summit ridge.</div>
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Seth walks up the last few steps to the meringue-like summit.</div>
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On the skyline, from left to right: Columbia, King Edward, Snowdome, the Twins, Kitchener, Alberta, Woolley, Diadem.</div>
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* Actually, if you know the right spot, you can see the north face of Alberta from Jasper.</div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-72199630941859723702019-04-20T17:46:00.000-06:002019-04-20T18:17:34.102-06:00Control (aka Wilson Adventures IV: Living in Paradise)<div style="text-align: center;">
"And walked upon the edge of no escape,</div>
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And laughed <a href="https://youtu.be/QVc29bYIvCM" target="_blank">I've lost control</a>."</div>
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- Joy Division</div>
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The slender thread of Living in Paradise drapes down a series of overhanging limestone bands high on the south face of Mt. Wilson. Just getting to its base is an adventure, requiring either climbing a route through the lower cliffs, or making a long traverse across steep snow slopes above those cliffs. When <a href="http://raphaelslawinski.blogspot.com/2010/02/living-in-paradise-integrale.html" target="_blank">I climbed it almost ten years ago with Eamonn Walsh</a>, we opted for the traverse. Even though we had a memorable day, carrying on over the summit ridge and down Lady Wilson's Cleavage, the sideways start was a niggling imperfection. Ever since then I'd wanted to return and ascend the route more directly.<br />
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Then last year the Totem Pole, a rarely-formed ribbon of ice in a claustrophobic gash worn deep into the rock by running water, came in. Here was a chance to climb up Wilson's south face on nothing but pure water ice. I liked to think Guy Lacelle, with whom I'd attempted Living in Paradise before, would've appreciated the aesthetics of the line.</div>
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March had already come to the Rockies and every day the sun traveled higher in the sky. However, the forecast was for a cool and overcast day, perfect for venturing on a snow-laden south face. As grey morning light filtered through thick clouds, Juan and I walked up hard avalanche debris below the Totem Pole. The weather and conditions were exactly what we'd hoped they'd be: we were in control.</div>
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Snapping on crampons, we continued unroped up the initial ice steps. They weren't hard, but all of a sudden I was aware of the pack straps pulling at my shoulders and of the space opening up beneath my boots. Every tool and crampon placement needed to be precise. A hundred metres higher, the ice kicked back into avalanche-pounded snow, and the risk drained away with every upward step.</div>
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Once we tied in, the main pitches of the Totem Pole felt casual. It wasn't long after uncoiling the rope that were were coiling it again for the slog to the base of Living in Paradise. Following the track we'd punched in on a reconnaissance a week earlier, we hugged the base of the rock: avoiding the steep, unstable, facetted snow, remaining in control.</div>
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It was a relief to step back onto avalanche debris below Living in Paradise. The air at the base of the route crackled with cold. We didn't linger: some dried fruit, a sip of tea, and I shuffled right from the ledge we'd kicked into the snow slope onto vertical blue ice. Near the top of the pitch the column seemed to tip past vertical, the rope hanging free of the ice. I tried to make every swing count, to spent as little time as possible hanging from one tool while placing the other one. It felt exhilarating to be up here, a small moving speck on a vast silent mountainside, treading a fine line between control and chaos.</div>
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We swung pitches up the next few easier ropelengths. Focused as I was on the ice in front of my face, I didn't notice the clouds overhead giving way to a clear blue sky. It was while anchored to a small ice outcrop in a broad snow couloir, taking in the rope with Juan out of sight below, that I felt the sun's warmth on my back. I'd barely had time to think about the massive snow bowl lurking above the last pitch when a deep boom echoed from the walls of the gully.</div>
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My breath caught in my throat. I looked up, expecting to see a giant white wave shooting over the lip of the ice a hundred metres higher. For a panicked second, I wondered whether I could make myself small enough to hide beneath the rounded ice bulge in front of me. It was a ridiculous thought. From one moment to the next, we'd lost control.</div>
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A couple of minutes later, a wide-eyed Juan joined me at my exposed stance.</div>
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"What the fuck was that?"</div>
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"An avalanche, just not down our gully. Should we start rapping?"</div>
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"It'll be faster to run up to the base of the last pitch."</div>
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Hearts pounding, breathing hard, we kicked steps up to the shelter of the vertical ice and overhanging rock of the last tier. As the mountain continued to boom around us, we breathed a sigh of relief. We were back in control - barely.</div>
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Stripping off layers in the heat, we sat on our packs and waited for the sun to go down. After an hour of lounging, I grew bored and climbed the last pitch, figuring the steepness would protect me if anything came down. Then it was back to watching the sun as it slowly dipped towards the craggy shapes of Mts Erasmus and Amery on the other side of the Saskatchewan River. Eventually, after the chill of the late afternoon had silenced the mountain and forced us back into warm layers, we threaded the ropes through the first of many v-threads and slid down towards the shadowed blue depths.<br />
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It wasn't until we'd found ourselves among the darkened firs on the valley bottom that we relaxed. For a while up there we'd lost control. But a butterfly had flapped its wings and an avalanche swept down an empty gully instead of the one we were in. Others haven't been so lucky.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0QCZPEgbK_ZnOvhMtq3ouOgeHgs0PiBdKKgOmz9dDVqTQXt-BBD_nMWgAuqboxFnZHhipNH4VhXykkErzFqTGSmO0TiNcWeWoUWgxGlVVomPCi2Cg3hFrPZj4M36x8N14A0wvQLI0u88/s1600/IMG_0467.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1233" data-original-width="1600" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0QCZPEgbK_ZnOvhMtq3ouOgeHgs0PiBdKKgOmz9dDVqTQXt-BBD_nMWgAuqboxFnZHhipNH4VhXykkErzFqTGSmO0TiNcWeWoUWgxGlVVomPCi2Cg3hFrPZj4M36x8N14A0wvQLI0u88/s320/IMG_0467.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The south face of Mt. Wilson, with the line of Living in Paradise, and the massive snow bowl above it, clearly visible.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaDxthsNvBlxKZNxgS8kjkMYbBaCJ8jJBWAWs-dxCBmuSsZ_uyOpuU6sFrBaZY0GyjnQ9XBKJry-D9C1mOcuE6YnT9Phy9ORQcWgIWN5tpQkc2tmxKpLRLoIsZByA0b72tF7luhY6YhXg/s1600/IMG_0430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1106" data-original-width="1600" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaDxthsNvBlxKZNxgS8kjkMYbBaCJ8jJBWAWs-dxCBmuSsZ_uyOpuU6sFrBaZY0GyjnQ9XBKJry-D9C1mOcuE6YnT9Phy9ORQcWgIWN5tpQkc2tmxKpLRLoIsZByA0b72tF7luhY6YhXg/s320/IMG_0430.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We approached the upper tiers via the rarely formed Totem Pole.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjos-Dckmuqm-nUlA7aOxQaeBGFXi82UJJuMyX1VS3kt4ONQbusOyN5ynOrjnlLLXHbhB0YlmM4PhRs7-BKfpwwV0npHyvJd4NhFSVox7FZjZnOBngyeyW2fZqHi5QYcBuM0LAtYTCPM/s1600/IMG_0449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1506" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjos-Dckmuqm-nUlA7aOxQaeBGFXi82UJJuMyX1VS3kt4ONQbusOyN5ynOrjnlLLXHbhB0YlmM4PhRs7-BKfpwwV0npHyvJd4NhFSVox7FZjZnOBngyeyW2fZqHi5QYcBuM0LAtYTCPM/s320/IMG_0449.JPG" width="301" /></a></div>
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Above the Totem Pole, we followed our track through facetted snow from a reconnaissance a week earlier.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi66gVZtH0wQPHTomNE0VKNfKP89vpWRO0qBlSF1U9jrZiwvu29EIKa3q_ey4413ZKEaruLb17LnHBmW5f9ucb3cmsQkOWeummEIfUtSBLv6nndoIWfEukpecMzVNn4qiZ3u2SolWF9_7E/s1600/IMG_1261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="626" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi66gVZtH0wQPHTomNE0VKNfKP89vpWRO0qBlSF1U9jrZiwvu29EIKa3q_ey4413ZKEaruLb17LnHBmW5f9ucb3cmsQkOWeummEIfUtSBLv6nndoIWfEukpecMzVNn4qiZ3u2SolWF9_7E/s320/IMG_1261.JPG" width="125" /></a></div>
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The first and proudest pitch of Living in Paradise. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hwSqVaFVsmfgnEZ3kPeDM_w_tdCMnSLRPS7h3EYXvcDAHVFBjUkt3D_W_vvzoh8PwOxpDlGWuGGNwIVrVu_v3CBjPNTnZxbNobHDn4V5rvbhZ0sSSfhcVLl7rQACBa6iPj8wBoV7GrE/s1600/IMG_0509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1223" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hwSqVaFVsmfgnEZ3kPeDM_w_tdCMnSLRPS7h3EYXvcDAHVFBjUkt3D_W_vvzoh8PwOxpDlGWuGGNwIVrVu_v3CBjPNTnZxbNobHDn4V5rvbhZ0sSSfhcVLl7rQACBa6iPj8wBoV7GrE/s320/IMG_0509.JPG" width="244" /></a></div>
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A chilled but psyched Juan at the base of Living in Paradise.</div>
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The start of Living in Paradise. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div>
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The snow-laden upper reaches of the south face of Mt. Wilson.</div>
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The last but not least pitch of Living in Paradise. A welcome shelter from a mountain waking up in the afternoon heat, and something to do while waiting for the sun to go down. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizsTLYN-4ZMstQD0RvfYSFATwIt2R68M1weesgz_g4nMU4G4EkAOsM4LTvh8Z8759iUZv0fdwXt44NMWARCI0Aon6DEc9psPsFdgqO9FN4SpRiOMeVcHYywug-HkM4HZuw7EaK2enYnKY/s1600/IMG_1297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1272" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizsTLYN-4ZMstQD0RvfYSFATwIt2R68M1weesgz_g4nMU4G4EkAOsM4LTvh8Z8759iUZv0fdwXt44NMWARCI0Aon6DEc9psPsFdgqO9FN4SpRiOMeVcHYywug-HkM4HZuw7EaK2enYnKY/s320/IMG_1297.JPG" width="254" /></a></div>
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As sunlight faded and the temperature dropped, we threw down the ropes for the first of many rappels into the guts of the Living in Paradise gully. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div>
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<i>Summary: An ascent of the Totem Pole into Living in Paradise, March 2018.</i></div>
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Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-88885422939780890502019-02-21T21:00:00.001-07:002019-02-23T13:59:28.489-07:00UP ice<div style="text-align: justify;">
Michigan: it’s always an adventure, even if not always of the kind you expect. Then again, if it weren’t unexpected, would it be adventure? I dozed as the plane taxied to the end of the runway and made ready to take off. It’d been a short night: the day before, we climbed pillar after pillar along Superior's shore until the sun set, skiing back on the frozen lake by the light of the full moon. Once we’d eaten and checked into a motel near the Marquette airport, it was nearly midnight. A few hours’ sleep before <a href="https://youtu.be/WXv31OmnKqQ" target="_blank">Mein Herz Brennt</a> playing on the phone intruded on my dreams, telling me it was time to get up. </div>
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An announcement caused me to snap my lolling head upright: “This is your captain speaking. Currently MSP isn’t accepting any flights. We’re going back to the gate.” I peered through the porthole at the monochrome scene outside: snowy ground, black evergreens, a few flakes drifting down from a grey sky. But apparently the weather was less benign in Minneapolis, which was being hammered by its biggest winter storm yet. In the end, it took more than an extra twenty-four hours and driving to another airport before I managed to escape the UP. </div>
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Still, not all of my adventures at this year’s <a href="https://youtu.be/kuCnl1B4fWY" target="_blank">Michigan Ice Fest</a> involved planes and automobiles. There was climbing, too. There was the pillar <a href="https://www.instagram.com/climbs2high/?hl=en" target="_blank">Jon</a> and I chose to warm up on our first day after the fest. Like most of the climbs cascading from the soft, eroded sandstone cliffs of <a href="https://www.redbull.com/us-en/ice-climbing-lake-superior" target="_blank">Grand Island</a>, it stood free from the rock wall - but it was a fat, massive affair. Halfway up, Jon swung and the curtain groaned, cracked and settled. A car-sized dagger a few bodylengths to his left broke off and exploded on the snow-covered beach. A second’s silence; the curtain remained standing. “I’m downclimbing!” Jon shouted down. </div>
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Later in the afternoon, we stood beneath a slender column of yellow ice. From a chair-sized base, it fanned out as it rose to connect with an ice roof fifteen metres up. It was my lead. I walked around it, examined it for fractures, gave it a tentative whack. “I dunno, Jon, the ice seems to be under a lot of tension today.” Swallowing my pride, I suggested we climb around and throw down a toprope.</div>
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Daylight was fading by the time we rounded the southwest corner of the island and the lights of Munising came into view. After twenty kilometres of skiing, a few more of stumbling on foot over jumbled pack ice and a few pitches of ice, it was beginning to feel like a proper day of climbing. I still had some food left but didn’t feel like stopping and digging it out of the pack. Better to put the head down and push on to dinner. Then to bed, so we could do it all over tomorrow.<br />
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"And then the whole damn thing settled with me on it!" Jon relives the excitement of five minutes earlier.</div>
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The UP's version of the Weeping Wall on Grand Island's west coast. Photo: Jon Jugenheimer.</div>
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Waves from a storm a few days earlier cracked and pushed the pack ice around, creating an awkward jumble.</div>
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I'm not sure which looked more ominous: the skinny pillar or the stormy sky.</div>
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As the sun dips toward the horizon, we head back to mainland.</div>
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Another day, another pillar. Photo: Jon Jugenheimer.</div>
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<a href="https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/softly,_softly,_catchee_monkey" target="_blank">Softly, softly, catchee monkey!</a> Photo: Jon Jugenheimer.</div>
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As the sun sets on a rare flawless day on the lake, we ski along the shore to tick off one last climb.</div>
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<a href="https://www.mountainproject.com/route/105887033/dairyland" target="_blank">Dairyland</a>, the ultimate UP classic.</div>
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From the base of the climb, Lake Superior stretches to the horizon.</div>
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Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-76179531556974912582019-01-02T10:11:00.001-07:002019-01-02T10:19:00.702-07:00Vive la différence!<div style="text-align: justify;">
In March 2017, Ales Cesen and Luka Strazar of <a href="https://www.planetmountain.com/en/news/interviews/latok-1-the-ales-cesen-interview.html" target="_blank">Latok I fame</a> were visiting the Rockies from Slovenia. They came intent on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BRwoplAlmHd/" target="_blank">alpine climbing</a> but the rotten late-winter weather had other ideas. On a day that was too warm for ice but too miserable for rock, Ales, Luka, Jon Walsh and I went drytooling at El Dorado – not exactly a place you cross an ocean and a continent for. Still, better than not climbing at all. Ales was nursing an injured shoulder but Luka was keen for a workout. </div>
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He warmed up on an M6 and an M7, nothing especially hard but not that easy, either, if you don’t know where the next divot or edge is. Next he moved on to a long M8. The on-sight crux of the route comes near the top, where the pockets turn shallow and slippery. Luka fought a building pump as he repeatedly locked off and probed with a steel finger, searching for something positive enough to take a pick. I knew where the next hold was but kept my mouth shut. Not that he needed my help to clip the anchor. </div>
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Lastly Luka hopped on an M9. The route starts up a blank vertical wall, before pulling through a body-length roof. With just a few usable edges hiding in a sea of crumbling stone, I doubted he would get up even the vertical section without falling. But slowly, patiently he sorted out the sequences. Still, it’s one thing to search around for holds on a vertical wall, where you can take your time to do so. It’s quite another in a roof, locking off while struggling to keep your crampons pasted to the overhanging rock. Power-screaming, Luka fought through the roof and onto the headwall above. A few minutes later he was lowering off, having on-sighted every route he’d tried. </div>
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It was one of the most impressive displays of drytooling I’ve ever witnessed. The grades might’ve been lowly – no M-double-digit marathons of figure-fours and nines here – but the skill and tenacity required were arguably greater. Luka wanted no beta and I didn’t give him any. The routes themselves didn’t make things easy for him, with few scratches and certainly no tick marks to guide him. His sends were on-sights in the true sense of the word. </div>
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Drytooling has a long and somewhat chequered history in the Rockies. It all started in the mid 1990s, with ten-metre routes in places like Grotto Canyon and Haffner Creek, and multi-pitch lines like the Real Big Drip and Stairway to Heaven. To begin with, the pioneers bolted rock that had enough holds to make it climbable. As drytooling gained in popularity, popular crags began to resemble practice targets, with bullet holes worn into soft limestone by steel picks. From there, it was a short step to using a power drill to fabricate holds. While drilled pockets for rock climbing have gone the way of <a href="https://www.reddit.com/r/climbing/comments/6x6edj/25_years_since_wolfgang_g%C3%BCllich_passed_away/" target="_blank">eighties' lycra</a>, they have become an accepted part of drytooling. Nowadays, blending practices from rock climbing's past and present, most top-end drytooling <a href="https://www.planetmountain.com/en/news/alpinism/will-gadd-downloads-instagrade-at-the-temple-canada.html" target="_blank">crags</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BctOfXknCW9/" target="_blank">routes</a> in the Rockies are both heavily drilled and tick-marked with chalk.<br />
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Fast forward to the mid 2010s, when Juan Henriquez and I started developing El Dorado on Grotto Mountain. Tired of driving two hours to the Haffner cave or three to the Cineplex, I wanted a drytooling cliff closer to home. Having burned out on hard M-climbing after a few obsessive years, I didn’t especially care about extreme difficulty either. I just wanted a local crag where I could stay fit for adventuring on the Stanley Headwall and beyond. That meant preserving a certain alpine flavour. There’s an obvious irony in calling a sunny, bolted crag forty-five minutes from the car “alpine”. It’s just while while drilled, ticked routes might be a shortcut to high M-numbers, I find the skills developed on them don’t transfer readily to the “real” world of big mixed cliffs and mountain faces. </div>
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And so, for what it’s worth, Juan and I resolved to develop El Dorado without drilling and tick-marking holds. But wait, you say. Isn’t slamming the pick of an ice tool into a seam also chipping? Yes, it is. Still, even if things aren’t quite black and white, there can be differences between shades of grey. The Playground and El Dorado might share the same parking lot but have quite different flavours. </div>
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I’m not altogether against manufactured routes. In January 2016 I had a blast drytooling at the <a href="https://www.ukclimbing.com/logbook/crag.php?id=1566" target="_blank">Newtyle Quarry</a> in Scotland, where we managed to salvage a rainy day by clipping bolts and slotting picks into drilled pockets. Two days later I found myself scared, high on a rime-covered wall in the Cairngorms, without a bolt, drilled pocket or tick mark in sight. Somehow two drastically different styles manage to coexist in the same hills, with many climbers playing both games. Contrasts like these make life interesting. After all, you wouldn’t want every restaurant to be a McDonald’s, would you? </div>
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A few years ago <a href="http://www.scottishwinter.com/?p=6878" target="_blank">Greg Boswell</a>, one of the best mixed climbers in the world, visited El Dorado. In true British style he tried to on-sight every route he got on. On one of the M-double-digit extensions he fell when a tool, hooked blindly over the lip of a roof, popped. Had the route been drilled and ticked, he would likely have flashed it – he's plenty strong enough. But just going tic-tac-toe from hold to obvious hold would've been beside the point. Greg liked the challenge of a less manicured crag, blown on-sight and all.<br />
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I hope you check out El Dorado sometime and enjoy scratching your way up the chossy rock. If I happen to be there too, I’ll be happy to share beta – or not, if you’d rather have a Greg and Luka-like experience. But as contrived as the El Dorado rules of no drilling and no tick-marking holds might seem, at least a few people think they make the climbing there more interesting. Let's try to keep it that way.</div>
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Yours truly pulling on drilled pockets on <a href="https://www.ukclimbing.com/logbook/c.php?i=101197" target="_blank">Too Fast Too Furious</a> in Newtyle Quarry... Photo: Ian Parnell.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbreJdCWrnWB5aXvgcnZc_lAWJHe-8NZBEec5bcKMyNoETO8_X2_-zrc_vaFW5p2lH5uMIuSHbGWKWUbv-Bsiz0wcvwKYRbpFnyJpCAbT_ST3MwAXcYyNma2_0_ybO5XEhBtOztNT6D0/s1600/IMG_6670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="907" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbreJdCWrnWB5aXvgcnZc_lAWJHe-8NZBEec5bcKMyNoETO8_X2_-zrc_vaFW5p2lH5uMIuSHbGWKWUbv-Bsiz0wcvwKYRbpFnyJpCAbT_ST3MwAXcYyNma2_0_ybO5XEhBtOztNT6D0/s320/IMG_6670.JPG" width="181" /></a></div>
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... and playing a very different game on <a href="https://www.ukclimbing.com/logbook/c.php?i=144935" target="_blank">The Vicar</a> in Coire an Lochain in the Cairngorms. Photo: Dave Garry.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXG84zoMJ8QzU29zJ7oj02BZd_OHzEJ0jyF6bPkGxxI3ympeielN61HFSCvEzP3WzDUbmmRBNhcuwuZdSFMH8k_0B4XHir29X8q-qKkpE8MnlCHCzAsWSnkdFuGU9H3avXTtHEMvVVyCQ/s1600/El+Dorado.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXG84zoMJ8QzU29zJ7oj02BZd_OHzEJ0jyF6bPkGxxI3ympeielN61HFSCvEzP3WzDUbmmRBNhcuwuZdSFMH8k_0B4XHir29X8q-qKkpE8MnlCHCzAsWSnkdFuGU9H3avXTtHEMvVVyCQ/s320/El+Dorado.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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El Dorado, the fabled city of gold. Park as for the <a href="http://www.sportandmixedclimbing.com/mixed_areas/playground.htm" target="_blank">Playground</a> but continue straight up on a decent trail. After 40 minutes or so, contour down into the canyon on your right, with bits and pieces of fixed rope on a few exposed sections. Photo: Gery Unterasinger, topo: Raphael Slawinski.</div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-6017207417629531192018-12-14T21:26:00.000-07:002018-12-15T08:32:29.264-07:00The Nutcracker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
The <a href="https://bozemanicefest.com/our-story/" target="_blank">Bozeman ice fest</a> in early December has become a bit of a tradition for me. Drive down, see some old friends, teach a couple of clinics ("Kick like you poo, swing like you screw."), and get in a day or two of climbing in Hyalite Canyon. This valley just south of Bozeman holds an <a href="https://blog.theclymb.com/featured-stories/pioneering-ice/" target="_blank">outsized place in the history</a> of North American ice and mixed climbing. Pat Callis, Jack Tackle, Alex Lowe and many others have set new standards of skill and boldness on its icy - and notoriously loose - walls.</div>
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Last year I was joined by Juan Henriquez and we had an excellent day on the <a href="http://raphaelslawinski.blogspot.com/2017/12/a-hyalite-adventure.html" target="_blank">Big Sleep</a>, a classic Doug Chabot-Alex Lowe route. With Juan away in South America, I messaged <a href="https://www.instagram.com/jessroskelley/" target="_blank">Jess Roskelley</a> to see if he wanted to get out after the fest. He was keen. We'd met before and hung out in locales ranging from Chamonix to Islamabad, but we'd never climbed together. I'd first heard of Jess in connection with a <a href="http://www.alpinist.com/doc/web13w/newswire-the-winter-of-mixed-climbing-sans-bolts" target="_blank">bold first ascent in Washington</a>, a mess of chandeliers badly adhered to the rock. I though it was a futuristic ascent, with the future not an altogether nice place. I hoped we'd do something more mellow in Hyalite.</div>
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And we did have a mellow first day on a fat Matriarch and 21 Stitches: a casual start from town, a donkey trail to the base, sunshine and mild temps that had us climbing in base layers... Ice climbing can be comfortable - sometimes. However, the route I really wanted to check out was the Nutcracker.</div>
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When you drive up Hyalite Canyon, your eyes are drawn to a giant dagger high above the valley floor. It's the famous Winter Dance, a typically visionary and bold Alex Lowe creation. Unfortunately this year the ice didn't reach as low as it does in better seasons, and would have required even more boldness. Fortunately a few years ago Conrad Anker and Kris Erickson added a bolted line up to the hanging ice that is climbable most seasons: the <a href="https://youtu.be/xOm6Nktxof4" target="_blank">Nutcracker</a>.</div>
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The alarm went off earlier than it had for the past few days. We threw our packs in the back of the truck, grabbed espressos and greasy muffins at a coffee shop strangely full of insomniacs with their laptops, and headed up the canyon. It had snowed overnight and as we plowed up the untracked road, I was glad we were in Jess' truck instead of my ersatz sports car. The fresh snow also made it difficult to locate the spot where the team that had attempted the route a few days earlier had struck off uphill, but after a bit of back and forth we managed to locate their tracks. Up we trudged through steep pines, hoods up against the snow showering us from laden branches.</div>
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Standing on a rocky rib, squinting into the wind, we looked across at the route and at the exposed, snow-covered ledges leading to it. With crampons on and a tool in hand, we carefully scrambled across. At the base, as gusts of wind blew fresh snow into every gap in our clothes, we pulled on insulated pants. No climbing in base layers today.</div>
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Jess' hands froze repeatedly as he led the first pitch, a moderate but disconcertingly loose bit of climbing. At least the choss was bolted. I joined him at his windy stance and and looked up at the overhanging second pitch. The miserable weather made the prospect of drytooling gymnastics less than appealing but complaining wouldn't make it better. I pulled on thin gloves and started up. After a few moves of feeling stiff and awkward, I warmed up and started having fun. The holds were big and positive, and picks bit reassuringly into soft volcanic rock. Soon we were craning our necks at the roofs on the third pitch.</div>
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"Do you mind if I take this one too?", I asked Jess. He hesitated but a recent shoulder injury worked in my favour. "Sure, go ahead", he graciously acquiesced. With the onsight butterflies fluttering in my stomach, I stepped off the belay ledge. The rock on the third pitch was more solid, but that also made it harder to read. Halfway up the pitch I found myself scratching around, unable to find the next hold. Finally committing to a small edge, I moved up. The edge snapped and I slammed onto the lower tool. Oof, that was close! After that lesson I didn't use any hold that didn't take at least several teeth, and finished the pitch without further incident.</div>
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We dug the screws out of the pack for the fourth pitch. Jess made short work of the awkward mantle onto an ice umbrella, and swung his way up to a comfortable cave belay. A few days earlier a younger but perhaps wiser friend had declined the small freestanding pillar at the start of the last pitch. To convince myself it was reasonable, I gave it a couple of hard whacks. Jess winced. But, for what it was worth, the pillar remained standing. Still, I barely swung and didn't place any screws in it until I was safely above the fracture line. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean a pillar can't collapse on you.</div>
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At the top, I basked in that feeling you have when you might've gotten away with something. Once Jess joined me, we snapped a couple of summit selfies, coiled the ropes, and traversed toward the walkoff. It'd been a good day.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOfhpu6sxnovbC6FAcGEh4TDf4OOcoQQImwyDXyaEwwzhAzV8ge0HhlUuHm_WJRpXEf3RbiPbyP9tutn6mZZjTQ79mqNTYoZpMWa5y0FLz59oJ-tYDLZ1C8EmI8YEShcKBPBRWRL6pDLc/s1600/IMG_3996.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1357" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOfhpu6sxnovbC6FAcGEh4TDf4OOcoQQImwyDXyaEwwzhAzV8ge0HhlUuHm_WJRpXEf3RbiPbyP9tutn6mZZjTQ79mqNTYoZpMWa5y0FLz59oJ-tYDLZ1C8EmI8YEShcKBPBRWRL6pDLc/s320/IMG_3996.JPG" width="271" /></a></div>
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The Winter Dance area. The eponymous route climbs ice and choss directly to the final icicle, while the Nutcracker drytools choss further right. <a href="https://www.instagram.com/mtngangsta/?hl=en" target="_blank">Vitaliy M.</a> took this photo from the Unnamed Wall across the valley. Can you spot Jess (in red) and me (in red) on the third pitch?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5hAkzypcHbSa8q7otwheZTWToAdw-jcDXpWaxxCpLSSfcp1aEPuvlWmi5t-QP-hnDddwVhSQ9gPKj7YZk4TDJW6bSRpc9gj33eLE7MRxjd1nvMaq1FIbTQuAyT2SRXALOrIcEQB9KaE/s1600/IMG_2232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1321" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5hAkzypcHbSa8q7otwheZTWToAdw-jcDXpWaxxCpLSSfcp1aEPuvlWmi5t-QP-hnDddwVhSQ9gPKj7YZk4TDJW6bSRpc9gj33eLE7MRxjd1nvMaq1FIbTQuAyT2SRXALOrIcEQB9KaE/s320/IMG_2232.JPG" width="264" /></a></div>
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Jess slogs up to the Nutcracker through forest and depth hoar. Just like hiking up to the <a href="http://raphaelslawinski.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-exterminator.html" target="_blank">Trophy Wall</a>...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgizuGiHJ2jqQodALf3X5FLzw9-yxYpScQuQW0L6z5Dd-v9PwjBVIwZVPqVZQNuvrjtV96w64-JPKD9zN1OJzMJtEzcmhREYqwanCCmlbAUiANL1LtQFHtSFAzIukILVsImyH1w0cItPds/s1600/IMG_2237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="957" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgizuGiHJ2jqQodALf3X5FLzw9-yxYpScQuQW0L6z5Dd-v9PwjBVIwZVPqVZQNuvrjtV96w64-JPKD9zN1OJzMJtEzcmhREYqwanCCmlbAUiANL1LtQFHtSFAzIukILVsImyH1w0cItPds/s320/IMG_2237.JPG" width="191" /></a></div>
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The Winter Dance icicle from the approach.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLxugODExn51AQ2outdrgWQ4bR0KHvSaEe1-opD2mp9qyaM62vPbkz2hcVxpR7zAplhgTgxGSIPdDO7lGSiFU_7HMHs34RbtyFhCoTzRqoBEBjUkBIYik_jq-w2cQRDuOiC2-0xErGrE/s1600/IMG_2242.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLxugODExn51AQ2outdrgWQ4bR0KHvSaEe1-opD2mp9qyaM62vPbkz2hcVxpR7zAplhgTgxGSIPdDO7lGSiFU_7HMHs34RbtyFhCoTzRqoBEBjUkBIYik_jq-w2cQRDuOiC2-0xErGrE/s320/IMG_2242.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The final bit of the approach requires some exposed scrambling. The position high above the valley floor makes it feel very alpine, but can it be alpine if it's still below treeline?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMcV4dsyoOg2G9OtSOXHFPUgBiwsI47t471ot-c0oZlya7lty4FkR44_bGFeufaFSsszyH1IcFo0YBHcOhKIWvZ3mOuaihCk5Ov_6-EH1IXrPo-nXxoBO5amLSFmLo8AxqhhQ6D4_3lUQ/s1600/IMG_2246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1106" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMcV4dsyoOg2G9OtSOXHFPUgBiwsI47t471ot-c0oZlya7lty4FkR44_bGFeufaFSsszyH1IcFo0YBHcOhKIWvZ3mOuaihCk5Ov_6-EH1IXrPo-nXxoBO5amLSFmLo8AxqhhQ6D4_3lUQ/s320/IMG_2246.JPG" width="221" /></a></div>
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Jess starts up the first pitch, a good warmup to all the choss wrangling required to get up to the ice looming overhead.</div>
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Jess comes up the second pitch, a fun overhanging jug haul.</div>
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The rock improves somewhat on the third pitch, making for more solid holds but also more cryptic sequences. Photo: Jess Roskelley.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFmlsawnCvKCw3NuyWgxKfxglquA4NcYEKJWl2_psnvIMWtZgrbym6dDtcA5pXtlGcfr7iVQdThdbu98X7WdVdOpOiT9mYQ7PkXYwZA94W1akOIr4Pk8dctLm_G0cL8wgMckvHHQa6XJo/s1600/IMG_2274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1210" data-original-width="1600" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFmlsawnCvKCw3NuyWgxKfxglquA4NcYEKJWl2_psnvIMWtZgrbym6dDtcA5pXtlGcfr7iVQdThdbu98X7WdVdOpOiT9mYQ7PkXYwZA94W1akOIr4Pk8dctLm_G0cL8wgMckvHHQa6XJo/s320/IMG_2274.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Almost there! Jess nears the belay on the third pitch.</div>
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Jess leads up the last bit of choss before snagging the ice on the fourth pitch.</div>
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As it starts snowing again, I begin the fifth and last pitch. Photo: Jess Roskelley.</div>
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A couple of screws in some ice off to the side offer some protection for getting on the brittle freestanding pillar. Photo: Jess Roskelley.</div>
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Jess (in yellow) and me (in red) on the final pitch. Photo: Vitaliy M.</div>
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The obligatory goofy selfie on top: Jess (young) and me (not so young).</div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-8727256588330323382018-11-01T10:04:00.001-06:002018-11-01T20:56:25.987-06:00Wilson Adventures III: The Bride of Frankenstein<div style="text-align: justify;">
Winter seemed to come early to the Rockies this year. Late September and early October, instead of yellow aspen leaves and flawless blue skies, brought deep snow all the way down to the valley bottoms and the plains further east. After some grumbling over the premature ends of both the rock and alpine-climbing seasons, I reluctantly embraced the wet cold. I went drytooling long before I would normally consider it socially acceptable; I ventured up the guts of a chimney I wouldn't have given a second thought to in better weather; I even swung tools into <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/167338807@N06/albums/72157702461693114" target="_blank">freshly formed ice</a>, the earliest I'd done so in a quarter century of climbing ice in the Rockies.</div>
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I felt almost disappointed when warm sunshine returned, melting the snow and ice and drying the rock. While in cold, shady corners choss remained solidly frozen, it seemed perverse to make winter longer than it is already. Hanging up freshly sharpened and already dulled ice tools for at least another week or two, I hiked up to <a href="https://vertical-unlimited.smugmug.com/Rock-climbing/Bellavista/" target="_blank">Bellavista</a> to touch rock with bare hands again. But I expect it won't be long before winter comes back to the Rockies. While waiting for it to arrive here for good, here's the story of another Mt. Wilson adventure from last winter.</div>
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<i>January 2017</i>. I knew it was a bad sign when, stopping to pee along the side of the Icefields Parkway, I couldn't wait to get back inside the warm car. But after getting up at four and driving for three hours, not going climbing wasn't an option. Wearing nearly every layer we had, Juan and I started crunching up Lady Wilson's Cleavage.</div>
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Less than two hours later, we rounded the corner into the amphitheatre that held the line of our desire. An ancient fixed rope swung forlornly from below the broken dagger at the top of the cliff - likely a relic from <a href="http://www.whitespider.net/about_climbs.html" target="_blank">Kefira Allen and Dave Thompson</a>, early M-climbing pioneers. A more immediate concern, however, was the frigid blue shade that still pervaded the amphitheatre. Unable to wrap our minds around climbing overhanging rock and ice in arctic temperatures, we walked a hundred metres down the hill to sit in the sun and drink hot tea. Finally, sometime around noon, the sun swung around and lit up the base of the cliff, and we started climbing.</div>
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By late afternoon we managed to frig our way up two and a half pitches, where we connected with a line of bolts with that old fixed rope clove-hitched into. Cutting off the bleached cord, we headed down satisfied with with a good day's work.</div>
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<i>December 2017</i>. With the dots connected, we figured that all that was left was sending the route. And rather than hiking around the bottom cliff band as we'd done the first time, we thought we might as well add more climbing to the day and start up the the rarely-formed pillar of Skinny Puppy.</div>
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The pillar went well enough, even if it left Juan soaked to the skin as he hung on to place screws in the midst of a lively shower. At least the day was pleasantly mild. It was as we walked up the snow gully to the base of our project that I grew worried. Where before we skirted the hanging ice on the short first pitch via its right margin, now unsupported daggers and umbrellas overhung the climbing line. The few bolts on the pitch wouldn't do much good if the ice collapsed with the rope running under its lip. But the alternative was not climbing, and we'd gotten up so early and driven so far...</div>
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In the end we got up the hanging ice on the first pitch and the overhanging choss on the second, but the stacked roofs on the third spelt an end to the redpoint attempt. We'd have to return for a third visit to the still unnamed project.</div>
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The Bride of Frankenstein from the Icefields Parkway. The route starts up an out-of sight smear left of the obvious flow and climbs overhanging rock to the broken dagger.</div>
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Juan climbs a very wet Skinny Puppy. When formed, this short pillar makes for a direct start to the route.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqVqLkU51eOSO1o9UVYl3y-Gm8nKKTKj5pGU53g2tfwlBBBF6TZB4dO_Ou6f_Y2fdiQNc7ldmtsy0_m_yATAuXDR7ryxsgBwY4N6toDrX667o9VCjlX7NgHAYzB7k92ANnMqDIkzCaDVs/s1600/IMG_9239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1544" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqVqLkU51eOSO1o9UVYl3y-Gm8nKKTKj5pGU53g2tfwlBBBF6TZB4dO_Ou6f_Y2fdiQNc7ldmtsy0_m_yATAuXDR7ryxsgBwY4N6toDrX667o9VCjlX7NgHAYzB7k92ANnMqDIkzCaDVs/s320/IMG_9239.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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A frontal view of the Bride of Frankenstein from the gully below.</div>
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Yours truly starts up the second pitch, a chossy but fun piece of drytooling. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div>
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Juan mixes it up near the top of the second pitch.</div>
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<i>February 2018</i>. Juan had already made other plans, so I convinced <a href="https://www.instagram.com/landonthompson87/?hl=en" target="_blank">Landon</a> it'd be fun to wake up early and drive for hours to spend a day scratching up a few scruffy pitches. What I didn't count on was how much it had snowed since December. Halfway across the traverse from Lady Wilson's Cleavage, we found ourselves wading waist and sometimes chest-deep through unconsolidated facets. Wet, frustrated, pulling ourselves up by pine branches, more than once we nearly aborted what seemed increasingly like an exercise in futility. But eventually we managed to plough our way to the base of the rock band, where the snow didn't lie as deep.<br />
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On the plus side, the hanging ice on the first pitch that had so concerned me in December had collapsed, and no longer threatened to pull the unlucky climber off before crushing him. I did have to hangdog my way up the crux third pitch to remember the sequences, but after that it went down, helped by a power scream or two.<br />
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With the approach having taken longer than expected, by the time we both stood atop the third pitch the sun was getting low over the Divide peaks across the Icefields Parkway. Not wanting to selfishly force Landon to rappel in the dark, I suggested we head down. But he wouldn't have any of it: "You don't want to have to come back another time, do you?" And so I set off on the last pitch, clipping a couple of Dave's old bolts, twisting an upside-down screw into the underside of the broken dagger, and then running it out on smooth ice above.<br />
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As we walked down through a starlit winter's night, we tried to think of a good name for the route. In the end, with it being a mirror image of Mixed Monster across the Cleavage, The Bride of Frankenstein seemed appropriate.</div>
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Sporting my trademark alligator suit (at least a trademark for last winter), I enjoy some three-dimensional climbing on the first pitch...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSVJbDfxpuwct03-YnFDiYKcVTLwX4UbUkc3z4uindohNPYn72KiFb4OcP9S0hf3qfyY-oB4E6ZkJgrcH_K5rq_R6AJ-Vk268YhEQOkg0yunV6yJUnQi8rbIFQERtKJUhZHqGoTMkOnDo/s1600/Against+All+Gods_20180225_35.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="1437" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSVJbDfxpuwct03-YnFDiYKcVTLwX4UbUkc3z4uindohNPYn72KiFb4OcP9S0hf3qfyY-oB4E6ZkJgrcH_K5rq_R6AJ-Vk268YhEQOkg0yunV6yJUnQi8rbIFQERtKJUhZHqGoTMkOnDo/s320/Against+All+Gods_20180225_35.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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... and try not to break any edges on the second. Photos: Landon Thompson.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOoLyUliKKPm_uFgeU7l6Y4rTmiu2LoPwK-nICRfkAu2KUbZ9-BL631v7ML8SEEufFHFVOWtjE3QwavmCCrH1J7iVcZQgrpItYX70TcceC5N7143RLQsb2_yIHyCcpuJPZ-cWEH2M8FCA/s1600/Against+All+Gods_20180225_38.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1437" data-original-width="958" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOoLyUliKKPm_uFgeU7l6Y4rTmiu2LoPwK-nICRfkAu2KUbZ9-BL631v7ML8SEEufFHFVOWtjE3QwavmCCrH1J7iVcZQgrpItYX70TcceC5N7143RLQsb2_yIHyCcpuJPZ-cWEH2M8FCA/s320/Against+All+Gods_20180225_38.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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Landon Thompson in full sun on the second pitch...</div>
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... and yours truly on the crux third one. Photo: Landon Thompson.</div>
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As daylight fades, I snag the ice on the fourth and final pitch. Photo: Landon Thompson.</div>
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Back on the Icefields Parkway, as we pack up the car, a curious fox checks us out. Photo: Landon Thompson.</div>
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<b>The Bride of Frankenstein, 100 m, M8+</b></div>
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<i>FA: Juan Henriquez, Raphael Slawinski and Landon Thompson, winter 2018.</i></div>
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The route is found on Mt. Wilson on the same cliff band as Mixed Monster. Look right of Lady Wilson's Cleavage: The Bride of Frankenstein is the first obvious icicle (Stairway to Heaven being the next one). Approach up the Cleavage, then up a narrow avalanche chute to the base of the rock, which is contoured to the route. The approach takes around 2 hours, more or less depending on snow conditions.</div>
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Pitch 1 (20 m, M5). Clip a few bolts on the right side of the hanging ice. A 2-bolt belay is on the left side of the ice ledge above. Beware of collapsing daggers.</div>
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Pitch 2 (30 m, M7). Step right and up from the belay into a short left-facing corner. Above, trend up and right to a final hard pull getting onto a good ledge with a 2-bolt belay. A small rack of C4s from 0.3 to 2 is needed to supplement the bolts on this pitch.</div>
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Pitch 3 (20 m, M8+). Increasingly powerful pulls past a bunch of bolts lead to a 3-bolt belay below the final dagger.</div>
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Pitch 4 (30 m, M6+). Some drytooling past a couple of bolts (a 0.75 C4 might be useful at the start) gains the snapped-off dagger. Turn the ice roof on the left and climb it to the top. If the dagger hasn't broken yet, it might be possible to step onto ice straight from the belay.</div>
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To descend, rappel the fourth pitch back to the station below it. From this station (i.e. the station atop the third pitch) a double 70-m rappel (and maybe even a 60-m one) reaches the ground.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyOvA6xYgXAIGH5YjY5kbm8dow9hSB0ydQgNvkDOhtLgcsZRYfcIf5wP-NDO6CwBmntW5OmekuQJDjv5Q-TUEG2WCsfxJouCPXWathS4d3KK5eYzSR5i6hN8IWp_13wsU8AUSde6_Kng/s1600/bride-of-frankenstein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyOvA6xYgXAIGH5YjY5kbm8dow9hSB0ydQgNvkDOhtLgcsZRYfcIf5wP-NDO6CwBmntW5OmekuQJDjv5Q-TUEG2WCsfxJouCPXWathS4d3KK5eYzSR5i6hN8IWp_13wsU8AUSde6_Kng/s320/bride-of-frankenstein.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Happy Day of the Dead!</span></div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-34952644266236558532018-10-08T14:24:00.001-06:002018-10-09T15:48:14.943-06:00Adventures of the 2018 Canadian Pumari Chhish East Expedition<div>
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<i>This past summer, Alik Berg and I went to Pakistan to have a mountain adventure. Below is a brief report from our expedition. For a more impressionistic account, check out this <a href="https://blog.arcteryx.com/stories-from-the-karakoram/" target="_blank">Bird Blog</a>. For a photo essay, check out this <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/167338807@N06/sets/72157674249767678" target="_blank">Flickr album</a>.</i></div>
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In the summer of 2018 Alik Berg and I traveled to Pakistan to climb in the Karakoram. As often happens, neither the final team nor the final objective ended up being what they had been originally. To begin with, there were four of us intent on exploring the largely untouched peaks of the Kondus valley. Over the winter, however, Chris Brazeau and Ian Welsted pulled out. Then, just a couple of months before our departure, military authorities refused the permit application for our primary objective, the unclimbed K13 (6666 m). We scrambled to find another goal, and settled on the unclimbed Pumari Chhish East (ca. 6900 m). I was familiar with the peak, <a href="http://raphaelslawinski.blogspot.com/2009/12/adventures-of-2009-canadian-pumari.html" target="_blank">having attempted it unsuccessfully in 2009</a>, and knew to be a difficult and inspiring mountain. </div>
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We left Calgary on June 30 and, after many flights, jeep drives and three days of trekking with porters, arrived in the 4500-metre basecamp on July 14. We spent the ensuing three weeks systematically acclimatizing: starting with day trips and culminating with two nights spent on the summit of the 5980-metre Rasool Sar. We had hoped to complete our acclimatization in only two weeks, but a week-long spell of bad weather at the end of July kept us confined to basecamp. </div>
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With acclimatization out of the way, we turned our attention to the south wall of Pumari Chhish East. The shattered glacier below the face looked impassable, but we were able to find an alternate approach by climbing over a rock spur. From the crest of the spur we got our first close look at the face. The upper half still looked in good mixed-climbing shape; however, by what was now late summer, the snow and ice fields on the lower half had degenerated into wet rock slabs strafed by rockfall. It was difficult to let go of our ambitions, but in the end, we discounted the south face as too dangerous in current conditions. </div>
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Next, we examined the east aspect of Pumari Chhish East for an alternate route possibility, but found it guarded by batteries of seracs. With just over a week remaining in basecamp, we cast about for other options, and settled on an unclimbed peak across the glacier from basecamp. The first day we scrambled to a bivouac at 5700 metres on the south ridge of our objective. The next day we spent sixteen hours negotiating the complex ridge to and from the 5980-metre summit, arriving back at our bivouac well after midnight. We slept in the following morning, before descending into another valley and hiking around the mountain back to basecamp. </div>
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Two days later, in a cold rain, we left the meadow where we had spent half the summer. Pumari Chhish East remained unclimbed, but we still had a great adventure among great mountains and great people. </div>
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Last but not least, Alik and I would like to thank the <a href="http://www.johnlauchlanaward.com/" target="_blank">John Lauchlan Memorial Award</a> and the <a href="https://www.mec.ca/en/explore/expedition-support" target="_blank">MEC Expedition Support Grant</a> for backing our expedition. And personally, I would like to thank my sponsors: <a href="https://arcteryx.com/" target="_blank">Arc'teryx</a>, <a href="http://www.blackdiamondequipment.com/" target="_blank">Black Diamond</a>, <a href="https://bolderclimbing.com/" target="_blank">Bolder</a> and <a href="https://www.scarpa.com/" target="_blank">Scarpa North America</a> for their support. An expedition to the Karakoram is a major undertaking, and the trip would not have happened without their help. We did not come back successful, but we came back safe and we came back friends.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4my_8rgSLKp-zwaanxSIJ8e8zm2Fw-tvXOZtZRP8dQe1ofj11m7W4jz-7HQ2lmZNP95eXO7zjeW-OEV2lRV7RvTwghV1sBNWvB6_wQGj9iv55jf0F_PkQa7cgpKiIFwwhSCJPTjzeyo/s1600/IMG_1238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="1600" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4my_8rgSLKp-zwaanxSIJ8e8zm2Fw-tvXOZtZRP8dQe1ofj11m7W4jz-7HQ2lmZNP95eXO7zjeW-OEV2lRV7RvTwghV1sBNWvB6_wQGj9iv55jf0F_PkQa7cgpKiIFwwhSCJPTjzeyo/s320/IMG_1238.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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A storm clears from the<span style="text-align: justify;"> south faces of Pumari Chhish South (7350 m) and East (6900 m).</span></div>
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Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-74619633277799950862018-07-05T03:12:00.001-06:002018-10-06T20:26:05.332-06:00The Myth of Sisyphus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: justify;">Ducking my head, I stepped from the plane onto the jetway, and from the cool air inside the cabin into the oppressive heat of an Islamabad evening. After more than thirty hours of contorting ourselves into cramped airplane seats, and lounging at airports from Vancouver to Beijing, Alik and I had finally arrived in Pakistan. Down at the baggage carrousel, one big duffel appeared, then another and another... I held my breath as the conveyor belt grew empty with one of our bags still missing, but then a bulging blue duffel emerged. I exhaled in relief. </span></div>
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Outside, dazed from jetlag and sleep deprivation, we stood by as a cabbie secured a small mountain of expedition duffels to the roof rack of a Corolla. The thin string he used didn’t seem adequate for the purpose; I hoped gravity would help to keep the heavy bags in place. As we drove into the city, lightning flashed and sheets of rain came down, forcing commuters on their small motorbikes to seek shelter under overpasses. “Your bags are waterproof?”, asked Ali, our guide to the thickets of Pakistani bureaucracy. “Not so much”, I waggled my hand in reply. </div>
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After the sticky, humid heat of the tropical night, the airconditioned coolness of the guesthouse was a welcome relief. We lingered over egg-fried rice, struggling to keep our eyes open. Back in our room, having snatched only the occasional head-lolling, seated nap over the past two days, sleep came easily. </div>
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By midmorning the next day, having already breakfasted on chapatis, omelettes and potato curry, we were back at the airport. Initially the agent at the check-in counter balked at the number and weight of our duffels, but Ali managed to negotiate the excess baggage charges down to a reasonable sum. There was no lineup at security, and fifteen minutes after arriving at the New Islamabad Airport, we were sitting at the gate, boarding passes for the flight to Skardu in our pockets. </div>
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Gradually more people showed up. Locals in shalwar kameez, the women’s turquoise and purple, the men’s beige; other climbers in bright pants and logoed t-shirts. The pilots and flight attendants chatted among themselves as they waited for the plane to arrive at the gate. In a couple of hours, we’d be in Skardu, having spent but one night in Islamabad. But then the skies, clear until now, started clouding over – figuratively and literally. The scheduled boarding time came and went. A PIA official announced a fifteen-minute delay. Then came the dreaded words: “The weather in Skardu is bad, the flight is cancelled.” </div>
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Back at the guesthouse, we pulled our duffels from the trunk and off the cab’s roof, and schlepped them back to the room we’d vacated only a few hours earlier. “Lunch?”, Ali suggested. We walked up a broad, tree-lined avenue, past a succession of dental surgeons’ offices, to an Afghan restaurant. </div>
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No tickets were to be had for next day’s flight. With more rain and cloud forecast for Skardu, we consoled ourselves it probably wouldn’t go anyway. It did. As we settled in for the evening with books and podcasts, Ali messaged us there was a chance of tickets for an early flight the following morning. We zipped the duffels shut, set the alarm for just after six, and went to sleep full of hope. </div>
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In the morning, after grabbing some toast and black tea, we hauled the bags out in front of the guesthouse. The cab that’d take us to the airport was due to arrive at seven. But a quarter after the hour it hadn’t come yet; at half past it still wasn’t there. The desk clerk called me inside: “A call for you.” It was Ali: “No tickets this morning.” There was nothing for it but to drag the duffels back into the room. </div>
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For his sins (accounts vary as to what those were) the mythical Greek king Sisyphus was doomed by the gods to laboriously roll a boulder up a mountain, only to have it trundle back down as he almost reached the top – and to repeat his labours for all eternity. Most of us regard being condemned to repeat a futile task with horror. The gods certainly chuckled, thinking this a fitting punishment for a mortal who had offended them. But not everyone saw Sisyphus’ fate thus. In Le Mythe de Sisyphe, Camus disagreed. “The struggle itself toward the summits is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” </div>
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I expect tonight we’ll go to sleep full of hope, and tomorrow morning happily haul our duffels out again.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: justify;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIb1-ZJpkDR_vfyCExPBlWx9cvR3OWExJC3A2pmFwjSMg2jV_zuxDHuBKJTq0uJqaHtNzmnKVPAmfYKqyUsDZHtBwYxgGipb0FUhOJqqcy6Ows_2RXcuVbnEnsl6K_sva_aDXAEZgajwg/s1600/IMG_0649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIb1-ZJpkDR_vfyCExPBlWx9cvR3OWExJC3A2pmFwjSMg2jV_zuxDHuBKJTq0uJqaHtNzmnKVPAmfYKqyUsDZHtBwYxgGipb0FUhOJqqcy6Ows_2RXcuVbnEnsl6K_sva_aDXAEZgajwg/s320/IMG_0649.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A small mountain of expedition duffels.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk-Lbu3tGFqgd3K_fdDz_ei_d9AnMAllyUlIVf8qUJzUq_mePOHhyphenhyphenODrMPo3WCpDRKKsHy6LVbW_3kk-lxP_YMdSdtzJcKW266t1Kucbu5Q3YjUNYLeZ-JgvyeCZwLnsVDou6flgMJFZw/s1600/IMG_0652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1310" data-original-width="1001" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk-Lbu3tGFqgd3K_fdDz_ei_d9AnMAllyUlIVf8qUJzUq_mePOHhyphenhyphenODrMPo3WCpDRKKsHy6LVbW_3kk-lxP_YMdSdtzJcKW266t1Kucbu5Q3YjUNYLeZ-JgvyeCZwLnsVDou6flgMJFZw/s320/IMG_0652.JPG" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"One must imagine Sisyphus happy."</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtodikjdCQopCK42ZkxzTQtSmENC_GOHEGUtepsu_iw1vBL3JMEfHAbWe3qCiqF9ALL_y7Ll_q5rKLqonzxQ2W1-xjOoUxDlNb7QRxmpg7-w8XEQC0hCCmiR7sWmr8bf2bc3W-0i4_Tw0/s1600/IMG_0652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: black; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtodikjdCQopCK42ZkxzTQtSmENC_GOHEGUtepsu_iw1vBL3JMEfHAbWe3qCiqF9ALL_y7Ll_q5rKLqonzxQ2W1-xjOoUxDlNb7QRxmpg7-w8XEQC0hCCmiR7sWmr8bf2bc3W-0i4_Tw0/s1600/IMG_0652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-4803090826784152072018-07-02T11:33:00.002-06:002018-07-02T11:33:30.264-06:00There's more to climbing big mountains than climbing, or how to stay healthy on expeditions<div style="text-align: justify;">
The first time I tried a really big mountain was in 2006. In the summer of that year Ben Firth, Eamonn Walsh, Ian Welsted and I traveled to Pakistan to attempt the then-unclimbed Kunyang Chhish East (ca. 7400 m). We felt strong and fit. In the weeks before our departure I went on an alpine climbing binge on Mt. Andromeda. It culminated with the first ascent, together with Scott Semple, of DTCB, an unlikely line left of the Andromeda Strain. Onsighting virgin Rockies’ choss, I felt on top of my game. As we made our way to Kunyang by plane, jeep and foot, I was optimistic about our chances.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHTr_RqbcOIlqT5lPDVZwFmYNZUAI5pr71waN7trpZyCCyQZ3JpWsThGXvDPNTvthkGQu2qKhyphenhyphenWro5gHh9SqZY1_BPvrwwiFSbHvSnXbhQSXkh7XEJ0cb47DaZ1dmK1nGwPpE7W3jlV-0/s1600/P7070656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="1600" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHTr_RqbcOIlqT5lPDVZwFmYNZUAI5pr71waN7trpZyCCyQZ3JpWsThGXvDPNTvthkGQu2qKhyphenhyphenWro5gHh9SqZY1_BPvrwwiFSbHvSnXbhQSXkh7XEJ0cb47DaZ1dmK1nGwPpE7W3jlV-0/s320/P7070656.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The 2500-metre tall southwest face of Kunyanf Chhish East, Pakistan.</div>
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It was not to be: our highest attempt ground to a halt nearly a vertical kilometre below the virgin summit. It happens; after all, success on an expedition to Pakistan is never a given. But it wasn’t overhanging rock or thin ice that stopped us. In fact, our climbing skills were never put to a real test. No, what made us turn tail and start descending under cloudless skies were churning guts. They started churning in Islamabad the day after we arrived in Pakistan, and the churning never truly stopped. By the end of the trip, we’d lost count of the number of nights one or another of us had spent on all fours or squatted over a disgusting hole in the ground.</div>
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Sometime after returning home, I was talking with a friend, a seasoned Karakoram veteran. </div>
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“So many stars have to line up to get up something big in Pakistan”, I complained. </div>
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“You’ll figure it out”, he assured me. </div>
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A dozen years and several expeditions later, I like to think I know better what it takes to succeed in those mountains. Sure, skill and fitness matter; but you’re going nowhere fast if you don’t stay healthy and and don't acclimatize properly. High mountains halfway around the world are a great equalizer. Below are a few of the often-painful lessons I learned there: trying, failing, trying again, and sometimes succeeding. As the saying goes, good judgement comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgment.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQ1_0oIvJu6qs5Oo1oEn56DtggRTnfJNzLuLwBm5dthLuUGCkq8wlD4tGBssWKmEssrBBIy3YJWao6w58ofyqaTN1S4MZdb_ebyEsU9iR4kZKmTNHW7JixWaF71tNGSIM6OV0VcUqhTk/s1600/P8091469.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="981" data-original-width="1600" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQ1_0oIvJu6qs5Oo1oEn56DtggRTnfJNzLuLwBm5dthLuUGCkq8wlD4tGBssWKmEssrBBIy3YJWao6w58ofyqaTN1S4MZdb_ebyEsU9iR4kZKmTNHW7JixWaF71tNGSIM6OV0VcUqhTk/s320/P8091469.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Going nowhere fast.</div>
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<li><b>Water.</b> It sucks to generate heaps of plastic waste but I use only bottled water only while traveling through a third-world country – both for drinking and brushing my teeth. I make sure the seal on the bottle is intact, and that it wasn’t just filled up from the tap. I go as far as to avoid swallowing any water while taking a shower.</li>
<li><b>Fruits and veggies. </b>As tempting as fresh mangoes and tomatoes might be, I try to stay away, at least while travelling to the mountains. There’s just too much risk they were washed in tap water. In basecamp it’s a different story, provided you have a good supply of clean water (more on that below).</li>
<li><b>Food. </b>While traveling to the mountains I try to eat only cooked food from decent-looking kitchens. Having said that, I’ve been sick after eating at a good restaurant in Islamabad. This part is somewhat out of your hands but do your best to be careful and disciplined – avoid tasty-looking street food until you’re on the way out.</li>
<li><b>More on water. </b>On the trek in, filter and treat drinking water, as chances are you’ll be hiking through animal pastures. Once in basecamp, make sure your water comes out of a moraine or some other pristine source, and not from a stream that yaks drink from. Make sure your cook gets water from a clean source. too.</li>
<li><b>Cook.</b> In the Himalaya and Karakoram, it’s customary to hire a local cook (and often also an assistant cook) for basecamp. It sounds decadent, but you’re also giving someone a chance to earn a decent wage. Your cook can make or break the trip. He (it’s always a he) should have good hygiene. Ideally, it’s someone who’s been on other expeditions, and knows what the western gut needs to stay healthy.</li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEDiE_hf_b8KM0Ex2KCwejtCRYUQ23KnWiQCeoui5Ysag81l78AJsOFNcSUdkl-DY4wrAYOa2xskfMsi1GaTflBwx3iscED_rcnUZrFk_TvKGZo3fNucKFTkCtJqZChIHjJwlq9kYWVnw/s1600/P6180186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="1600" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEDiE_hf_b8KM0Ex2KCwejtCRYUQ23KnWiQCeoui5Ysag81l78AJsOFNcSUdkl-DY4wrAYOa2xskfMsi1GaTflBwx3iscED_rcnUZrFk_TvKGZo3fNucKFTkCtJqZChIHjJwlq9kYWVnw/s320/P6180186.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Temptation on the way in.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEu8g9Syn9HhUbanvjtq7R5JwGKzyfbW2pULAlv71sDMLSFu4gA7kPjayPWiC1tPi_dCMazpWkt6PDO3SZsAWQrx_q8knBUBtWQECC5kjqiZZIg1I8WqD8jTAtQmb1pz1DMfMomCHkDe0/s1600/P8071409.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1355" data-original-width="1600" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEu8g9Syn9HhUbanvjtq7R5JwGKzyfbW2pULAlv71sDMLSFu4gA7kPjayPWiC1tPi_dCMazpWkt6PDO3SZsAWQrx_q8knBUBtWQECC5kjqiZZIg1I8WqD8jTAtQmb1pz1DMfMomCHkDe0/s320/P8071409.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Partaking of fresh apricots on the way out.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgudZTmlfRdwwpvjgs6fY_IpwnvdViOxLVDdyDMINpoVkXzeDZioMEt8ck8zl4r7iG807MUlbMfVI29YHZszxJVkrx0vzkc-mH_22KjxePlglI679ixIk4eovca3wi5cgQ64-QDt-XVRw8/s1600/P6200297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1154" data-original-width="1600" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgudZTmlfRdwwpvjgs6fY_IpwnvdViOxLVDdyDMINpoVkXzeDZioMEt8ck8zl4r7iG807MUlbMfVI29YHZszxJVkrx0vzkc-mH_22KjxePlglI679ixIk4eovca3wi5cgQ64-QDt-XVRw8/s320/P6200297.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Don't get water where the yaks go!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHdKmhUjE_jwrIE8AS6PnQhFoAdVkQOjNScXrGIswbp1C7OnyNsI3kSn6c5ap6nxGDjcr9T_sRwIVpxmsARX3xtES3_uu2xivZsWOx_HAOrndbOwWWp2OS9toxPrEeDUQCLKS1ETEaJgY/s1600/P7070654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1401" data-original-width="1600" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHdKmhUjE_jwrIE8AS6PnQhFoAdVkQOjNScXrGIswbp1C7OnyNsI3kSn6c5ap6nxGDjcr9T_sRwIVpxmsARX3xtES3_uu2xivZsWOx_HAOrndbOwWWp2OS9toxPrEeDUQCLKS1ETEaJgY/s320/P7070654.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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A good cook can make or break your trip, says Ali.</div>
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In 2006, our last acclimatization outing before attempting Kunyang Chhish East was the deliciously-named Ice Cake (ca. 6400 m). Originally, we’d planned to spend a night camped on the summit, based on the rule of thumb that we should try to sleep at an altitude a thousand metres below the peak we hoped to climb. However, after only a few hours, splitting headaches droves us down. A mistake: the headaches were a good indication we still needed to acclimatize better. The process of acclimatization is boring and painful, but unless you’re a genetic phenomenon, there are no shortcuts. </div>
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<li><b>Take your time to acclimatize.</b> At least at the start, I like to day hike to an altitude before I sleep there. Few things are as unpleasant as trying to sleep at an altitude you’re not used to.</li>
<li><b>Don’t try to do interesting climbing while acclimatizing. </b>Your body has enough to deal with without throwing in hard climbing. Ideally, you'll be able to basically walk up really high.</li>
<li><b>Listen to your body.</b> Don’t push yourself if you’re not feeling well. On a few occasions I tried to push through a cold, kept going hard, and ended up with a sinus infection. Your body doesn’t heal as well in a 4000 or 5000-metre basecamp as it does at a lower altitude, so you’ve got to give it time to recover. In the end it delayed me more when I ended up having to take a course of antibiotics than if I’d rested for a couple of days.</li>
<li><b>Digestion. </b>Most people don’t digest well at altitude. I found out the hard way – we’re talking about spending half the night with my head out of the tent, throwing up dinner - that I can’t digest heavy foods above 5500 metres or so. I have since adjusted my diet accordingly, pretty much only eating carbs while venturing higher.</li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSEVnnMeRyfnOmjjlcwmLxUyo__LZ2QazMeSRJRmUnH18Ko8dqTecWBPOBwmkFr3wL5yclRlGnT4J3Qwpz2WwRHZ4uLeb3xRAJwLEJXPzDzgoq1kO07pGBC0uYv9RXBJ6ht-ehw_UrmI/s1600/P6250394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSEVnnMeRyfnOmjjlcwmLxUyo__LZ2QazMeSRJRmUnH18Ko8dqTecWBPOBwmkFr3wL5yclRlGnT4J3Qwpz2WwRHZ4uLeb3xRAJwLEJXPzDzgoq1kO07pGBC0uYv9RXBJ6ht-ehw_UrmI/s320/P6250394.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Acclimatizing is boring and painful, but there's no way around it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tlz7XvCNOnrzIjBlkCZjOzdDqIrBDML8YBY3kKeDuYGTZuX32JV1jTru_xMcNSuLleHruQEFAdlaMiEXaRpChDhL98NsHjz9IT5rOJtZgMwgAElHQaKaI1Kcxcj0i0Ii-4Tl-p9tZoA/s1600/P7100831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tlz7XvCNOnrzIjBlkCZjOzdDqIrBDML8YBY3kKeDuYGTZuX32JV1jTru_xMcNSuLleHruQEFAdlaMiEXaRpChDhL98NsHjz9IT5rOJtZgMwgAElHQaKaI1Kcxcj0i0Ii-4Tl-p9tZoA/s320/P7100831.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Headaches all around on the summit of Ice Cake.</div>
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So that's my hard-earned, if perhaps obvious wisdom: be paranoid about water and food hygiene while traveling, make sure you have a good setup in basecamp with your cook and water supply, and respect the altitude. And lastly, even if things aren't always going your way, remember that you're on holidays in an incredible place.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBOXkgChjpw_tpNVy-Fcqd8zga4TNzf8YaeQzzTs91499C9k4Axzhj0ST0tOqU5xLHOcf1GMhMR_NLq8pU8WoP6SRtvGWi1ze9xlbxWvfGOn80CDjChuq9q4op_Zs2Q7Msk06yqfynLQ/s1600/P8061352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="1600" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBOXkgChjpw_tpNVy-Fcqd8zga4TNzf8YaeQzzTs91499C9k4Axzhj0ST0tOqU5xLHOcf1GMhMR_NLq8pU8WoP6SRtvGWi1ze9xlbxWvfGOn80CDjChuq9q4op_Zs2Q7Msk06yqfynLQ/s320/P8061352.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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PS: I’m writing this post on a hot, muggy evening in Islamabad, starting yet another Karakoram expedition. We'll see if I can walk my own talk.</div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-14439541438896953932018-05-12T22:30:00.001-06:002018-05-14T09:32:27.750-06:00The Ephemeral<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Spring has come to the Rockies with a vengeance. Just now we're changing rock climbing plans for tomorrow and thinking of shady Acephale or Planet X, fearing the sunny Coliseum might be too hot. Yet not so long ago it seemed winter would never end, and we'd never trade ice tools for chalk bags.</div>
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I love the transitions between the seasons. They don't last very long: one day there's a white ribbon of ice snaking down a cliffside, the next afternoon there's nothing but a dark wet streak. Or, six months hence, that same wet streak can turn overnight into a dangerously enticing veneer. It's during those times of transition that some of the wildest, most unlikely ice lines can form. I have a list of them in my head and come October, I start eying certain cliffs, knowing that if I blink, I'll miss my chance. But there at least one of these ephemeral of lines you need to keep your eyes peeled for in April.</div>
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The East End of Rundle, affectionately known as EEOR, is one of the best big rock climbing crags in the Rockies. A sunny exposure, a short approach, routes a dozen pitches long, better than average limestone: what's not too like? The vertical rock ends in scree bowls, bowls that in the winter fill with snow blown over the summit ridge by the westerlies. On occasion these bowls release in <a href="https://youtu.be/ZyaakjzLOOI" target="_blank">s</a><a href="https://youtu.be/ZyaakjzLOOI" target="_blank">pectacular fashion</a>, sometimes with a nudge from the Kananaskis safety people, and avalanche debris cover the gravel road below. More rarely, the melting snow runs down corners and chimneys and freezes into narrow white lines hundreds of metres long.</div>
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Over the years I've experienced some memorable days ice climbing - yes, ice climbing - on EEOR: <a href="http://ianwelsted.blogspot.ca/2015/11/24-hours-of-balzout.html" target="_blank">Balzout</a>, The Great White Fright... But Dropout continued to elude me. It wasn't for lack of trying. The first time I attempted it, years and years ago, with Ben and Rob, the ice was all there, but our timing was off. A snowstorm the night before had covered anything less than vertical with a thick white coat. We took hours to climb a pitch and a half - and didn't even make it to the hard parts. We bailed.</div>
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The second time, a few years ago, Juan and I were also just a day too late. The cliff was clear of snow but the ice still looked good - at least until midmorning. As the day started warming, the ice literally melted before our eyes, while increasingly large chunks rained from above. We ran away.</div>
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This past April I came back for a third time, with Alik. It had been unseasonably cool all week, and the ice still looked to be - mostly - there. There was a snowfall warning in the forecast - if it's not one thing it's another - but it was supposed to stay clear until at least midday. It seemed worth trying. Besides, with iffy avalanche conditions on the Divide, there was nothing else we were excited about.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5lLrtJ-QhyphenhyphenXHM89qTC2OiZC3mI6Nfc9NCdQT-Oh_XaujazEkWbpxshsPGLk6hy3r3YOBcR7juVItcCaKyiZZXl6pBJdzk5OK5nr4lVrqQBGSTc5lRyafX2C_flc80-IRt0YQA9obGZR4/s1600/IMG_2620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1600" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5lLrtJ-QhyphenhyphenXHM89qTC2OiZC3mI6Nfc9NCdQT-Oh_XaujazEkWbpxshsPGLk6hy3r3YOBcR7juVItcCaKyiZZXl6pBJdzk5OK5nr4lVrqQBGSTc5lRyafX2C_flc80-IRt0YQA9obGZR4/s320/IMG_2620.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The East End of Rundle, with the line of Dropout in the centre as it looked on my second attempt. On that occasion we were in the right place, but at the wrong time.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-qP5cOHKCKi8lrmdiSWSPUCkrM9bH4mTwBF5gObckCNYDvUonQLU6zauGxd_TcPXNmxV5Qo7KE8SxfSGjpkDDpnAvbuhG621tDKKG3IuIa0hG-J7sXZUj1AhsAAo1B821kedQEPOZ87U/s1600/IMG_0540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1335" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-qP5cOHKCKi8lrmdiSWSPUCkrM9bH4mTwBF5gObckCNYDvUonQLU6zauGxd_TcPXNmxV5Qo7KE8SxfSGjpkDDpnAvbuhG621tDKKG3IuIa0hG-J7sXZUj1AhsAAo1B821kedQEPOZ87U/s320/IMG_0540.JPG" width="267" /></a></div>
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Third time lucky? Alik Berg nears the top of the second pitch. It's one of the cruxes of Dropout as a mixed climb, with tricky footwork on smooth, waterworn rock. Fortunately a corner crack offers perfect protection throughout.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPn5vPCh6kb7bwOt9wA40bw1FyNhCsA0DNoVoEWNEfP2rc7voL6Xy4mP07ofxCB4W3P9lOfwBBNyzMtUhMcpasOEJmiAFbieuy_X15kYPVZ2GpxTEfCuxxMUEjj68mvOPweiqaX500AAE/s1600/IMG_0542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPn5vPCh6kb7bwOt9wA40bw1FyNhCsA0DNoVoEWNEfP2rc7voL6Xy4mP07ofxCB4W3P9lOfwBBNyzMtUhMcpasOEJmiAFbieuy_X15kYPVZ2GpxTEfCuxxMUEjj68mvOPweiqaX500AAE/s320/IMG_0542.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The intermittent line of ice started just above, tempting us with direct access to the upper half of the route. Unfortunately the translucent veneer looked unprotectable at best, and unclimbable at worst. Casting wistful glances at the tantalizing smear, we deviated right for a couple of pitches onto the summer line.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicy52AMHQ4G_6mRZ0ik59cs7AqP6Xl_vR9dkCS5pvepXRQW2cLRNkB8DJCe4dvnEWIIeB66TdEcsJQzVCqR8mBcbfqJFYlrE1MAplmDSHcIzw-zJwRToIP0ZKupJFm6DdIer398bpe_7o/s1600/IMG_0546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicy52AMHQ4G_6mRZ0ik59cs7AqP6Xl_vR9dkCS5pvepXRQW2cLRNkB8DJCe4dvnEWIIeB66TdEcsJQzVCqR8mBcbfqJFYlrE1MAplmDSHcIzw-zJwRToIP0ZKupJFm6DdIer398bpe_7o/s320/IMG_0546.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Alik Berg comes up the third pitch, with the avalanche paths descending to the gravel road a reminder of the lee-loaded bowls at the top of the wall.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGigUIkDJRUfcE0WWGBL9N8f0Yl0OjBqr1TgWMj2iZT8wIbcBtcu6lVYia6WJW65zQGHPCJmhD9VeD9wCCrv8IE2abzcA7Sui8p-nWhrp9s2tKUYVlNnhuGYm3r_H4a89aJzDQTOpIRaA/s1600/IMG_0561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1201" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGigUIkDJRUfcE0WWGBL9N8f0Yl0OjBqr1TgWMj2iZT8wIbcBtcu6lVYia6WJW65zQGHPCJmhD9VeD9wCCrv8IE2abzcA7Sui8p-nWhrp9s2tKUYVlNnhuGYm3r_H4a89aJzDQTOpIRaA/s320/IMG_0561.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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The fourth pitch gave some excellent climbing, almost reminiscent of Alaska: solid rock, ice-filled seams and good cracks for protection. Of course it finished with marginally-protected, insecure scratching. After all, we were in the Rockies.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguEjk9FH3QFENz3Bq65OTyLu-cwSrF0gtVsoPpqPn1Q30DlZwuaR11CStrHX-3QiS6esWYJXNapOC3jAHKRfZJIYk0YykN4kd8K100myPwNItCJKIQn41HxPIL1z9-alg44GEdyOpa1QI/s1600/IMG_0578.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="880" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguEjk9FH3QFENz3Bq65OTyLu-cwSrF0gtVsoPpqPn1Q30DlZwuaR11CStrHX-3QiS6esWYJXNapOC3jAHKRfZJIYk0YykN4kd8K100myPwNItCJKIQn41HxPIL1z9-alg44GEdyOpa1QI/s320/IMG_0578.JPG" width="175" /></a></div>
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On the fifth pitch we finally traversed into the vein of ice, which by then had thickened enough to be climbable.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjajUEi7iXi95vqHLdRpr6Uc7ylqPytonYmVFpRP5T9593gfbA8o2aij8D1fn0G1rvrv_xdqDa_fcmRIB6WYbgrDeVLiFmbDZV_TubrxUSlsuK1QcrztVjHAGx72NnmuBomTD_Ubhp88/s1600/IMG_0572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjajUEi7iXi95vqHLdRpr6Uc7ylqPytonYmVFpRP5T9593gfbA8o2aij8D1fn0G1rvrv_xdqDa_fcmRIB6WYbgrDeVLiFmbDZV_TubrxUSlsuK1QcrztVjHAGx72NnmuBomTD_Ubhp88/s320/IMG_0572.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Following it, I was reminded of <a href="https://vimeo.com/22993356" target="_blank">Repentance on Cathedral Ledge</a>: one hand on a tool in thin ice, the other arm-barring across the squeeze chimney.</div>
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But no, we were in fact halfway up a much bigger cliff back home in the Rockies.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjer6Ie4WAHJZkCX10ai8Pw36LxubQH4Ft464IAvTRuCD6ub9K3_nBsJmEaSeBPjR3Ki7T80T2s3gQDVS6-jfw1ZV7Z3l5qaYEKwiqhKUv2D6-0xW9Dc_dJUHGrhaaDjeAxujHqdtYQ3KI/s1600/IMG_0591.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1498" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjer6Ie4WAHJZkCX10ai8Pw36LxubQH4Ft464IAvTRuCD6ub9K3_nBsJmEaSeBPjR3Ki7T80T2s3gQDVS6-jfw1ZV7Z3l5qaYEKwiqhKUv2D6-0xW9Dc_dJUHGrhaaDjeAxujHqdtYQ3KI/s320/IMG_0591.JPG" width="320" /></a>
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The sixth pitch, which took us to the base of the crux chimney, proved the key to the climb. Deviating from the corner climbed in summer, we ventured out on the slabs to the left, following the sometimes barely-there line of ice wherever it took us. A step of thin, detached ice had Alik questioning the reasonableness of what we were doing. Fortunately a wire placement appeared, tipping the scales for up instead of down.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8bP0LfrCSQMbi1GsAxfOrw8siZYzZ1LC8l9GFfxYsExvBV5cM0qzp5-N2ykCIRY6Eg307VzUANQlFqMU5ovkW4COyq1iYwjQCd4RQkymWBnKgWFzAUSb7x54p4GuzMAy7g6EaS6WkH64/s1600/IMG_0598.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8bP0LfrCSQMbi1GsAxfOrw8siZYzZ1LC8l9GFfxYsExvBV5cM0qzp5-N2ykCIRY6Eg307VzUANQlFqMU5ovkW4COyq1iYwjQCd4RQkymWBnKgWFzAUSb7x54p4GuzMAy7g6EaS6WkH64/s320/IMG_0598.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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There was a snowfall warning for the day, but luckily it wasn't until late in the afternoon that the first flakes started swirling around us. I was glad: mixed climbing is hard enough without a white shroud hiding every edge and crack. Unless you're in Scotland, that it. There, it's only when the cliff's coated in white stuff that it's in <a href="https://vimeo.com/95913471" target="_blank">"good nick"</a>.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64Ad-hFTpsypoN3rkdXJIri7yF-msJXlwy29l-gSYWKuajPS5sISSfCm7oRtOQKHo4d9yuBMh9DOVwRudsR_4W8DVymUBCYWwBDjncJNIA_4Sba1Fwnh1aVpKSFUOQ4keUnhtwyDRW_A/s1600/IMG_0607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1325" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64Ad-hFTpsypoN3rkdXJIri7yF-msJXlwy29l-gSYWKuajPS5sISSfCm7oRtOQKHo4d9yuBMh9DOVwRudsR_4W8DVymUBCYWwBDjncJNIA_4Sba1Fwnh1aVpKSFUOQ4keUnhtwyDRW_A/s320/IMG_0607.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was glad the weather held off long enough to let us enjoy the crux chimney without being deluged by spindrift, funnelling from the bowls and gullies above.</div>
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And the chimney, with its veneer of ice on the left wall, is the main reason for doing Dropout as a mixed climb. Still, the chimney wouldn't be the same if, looking down between your crampons, you weren't looking at hundreds of metres of cliff below you.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNx6H-keynAr7w5r4zOsQhSAL03GVeM6SWJ8MMfVVwQXtwMli90Xp7dfdYL7xAIlzUSHXW5lyBB8GknmS_RDm7rAcW1BXR0kPVS7X5eDWQU8UH9HZ0AofrvaTaiLiAQbU6FO5mS9sx5QU/s1600/IMG_0611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1034" data-original-width="1600" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNx6H-keynAr7w5r4zOsQhSAL03GVeM6SWJ8MMfVVwQXtwMli90Xp7dfdYL7xAIlzUSHXW5lyBB8GknmS_RDm7rAcW1BXR0kPVS7X5eDWQU8UH9HZ0AofrvaTaiLiAQbU6FO5mS9sx5QU/s320/IMG_0611.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The forecast snow finally arrived when we were climbing the easier pitches above. Easier but not easy, with a deep layer of snow on smooth limestone slabs.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5jQmtJflg8B9IqqZNIdfuyH29Dw_vyRyRVsmm56R_d40a9-w7nFt9j1070OKhkoobQRXqQWfFPTZT2hvRoB23CIrw3H3sA0EChDB2o5DUBzJahal-x5qIoSOmUGyge1bCRQLvmzNdg6g/s1600/IMG_0617.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1328" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5jQmtJflg8B9IqqZNIdfuyH29Dw_vyRyRVsmm56R_d40a9-w7nFt9j1070OKhkoobQRXqQWfFPTZT2hvRoB23CIrw3H3sA0EChDB2o5DUBzJahal-x5qIoSOmUGyge1bCRQLvmzNdg6g/s320/IMG_0617.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We topped out just as it was getting dark. We tiptoed up the thankfully stable bowl above the route, and plunged down the windblown screes on the backside. We were both pleased with the day: Alik with his first mixed route on EEOR, me with the conclusion of a long quest.</div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-89526487459797792552018-03-30T22:41:00.000-06:002018-04-02T22:57:17.864-06:00Wilson Adventures II: Suntori Sit Start<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The steep gully, hemmed in by walls of featureless limestone, opened up into a small snowfield, but higher up it necked down again. As the beam of my headlamp swept up the nearly vertical chimney, instead of the hoped-for snow bowl, it revealed nothing but blank, bulging rock walls. I'd led us into a dead end.</div>
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Traversing to a snow arete bordering the gully on the right, crampons scratching on rock under a thin covering of snow, I looked down into another couloir. It seemed more open than the one I'd been following. Maybe it was the right one? I traversed back into the dead-end gully and pounded in a knifeblade. Adding a stubby screw, I shouted down, "Secure!"</div>
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A few minutes later a headlamp appeared below, and soon thereafter Alik himself. After a brief discussion of our options, he tensioned over and down into the other gully. Removing the screw and leaving a 'biner on the piton, I followed, the jury-rigged toprope cutting into the faceted snow of the arete separating the gullies. After pulling the rope and retying in, I continued my lead block. Some hard snow, a step of thick ice, and a vast snow bowl opened above me, more guessed at than seen in the darkness.</div>
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Mt. Wilson is to Rockies ice climbing what Grotto Mtn is to its rock climbing. You can spend a whole winter season (or several) on its flanks, and still have more ice to dream of. One of the finest routes on the entire south face has to be Suntori: a pencil-straight line leading to the base of the white quartzite towers crowning the summit ridge. It was first climbed in a three-day effort by Cory Balano, Dave Edgar and Dave Marra. Treating it like an alpine route, they took it all the way to the summit ridge and descend the huge avalanche funnel of Lady Wilson's Cleavage back to the road.</div>
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The formidable team of Jay Mills and Eamonn Walsh made the <a href="http://cdnalpine.blogspot.ca/2010/01/suntori-vi-m7-wi6-1500m.html" target="_blank">second ascent</a>. Not only did they free the mixed crux, but after an early start from the road, they topped out with daylight to spare. I didn't think Alik and I could match their speed. However, I had another plan in mind.</div>
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A drop of water falling from one of the bone-white towers on the summit ridge would flow down the discontinuous ice of Suntori, here and there dropping through thin air to splatter on an ice pedestal. It would then percolate through the avalanche slope below the route, before dripping from the lip of the snapped-off dagger of Stairway to Heaven and free-falling for an entire ropelength. Tired now after all the excitement higher up, it would meander down the rolling ice of Midnight Rambler, before coming to rest among the trees broken by the huge avalanches that, once or twice in a winter, roar down the from nearly a vertical mile above.</div>
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I'd always thought retracing the drop's path in reverse would be the best way of climbing Suntori: scrambling up Midnight Rambler in the dark; arriving at the base of Stairway to Heaven at first light; above its overhangs, walking straight up to the start of Suntori; and finishing through the quartzite towers, likely once again in the dark. Planning an early start, Alik and I drove up the Icefields Parkway the night before. A warm wind whooshed through the evergreens on the valley bottom. It wasn't quite the high pressure we'd have liked, but conditions seemed good enough to try. Walking a hundred metres into the darkened forest, we spread out our mats and sleeping bags, and settled in for a few hours of restless sleep.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8M62VRWpo0iNRmvSCHpoymxg5KMezFAryxmB91nv5dKeQaRlAQ4iLlRkG6JpiQ52trpLPKzp-PKm6uAi_MZrCg_BuqMI25SQutfMquAGQ3e6htwdC6xeccZhLqUaRmKCVn9Nmxc8Mrk/s1600/20180105_091927_001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="840" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8M62VRWpo0iNRmvSCHpoymxg5KMezFAryxmB91nv5dKeQaRlAQ4iLlRkG6JpiQ52trpLPKzp-PKm6uAi_MZrCg_BuqMI25SQutfMquAGQ3e6htwdC6xeccZhLqUaRmKCVn9Nmxc8Mrk/s320/20180105_091927_001.JPG" width="167" /></a></div>
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The pencil-straight line of Suntori from the Icefields Parkway. Stairway to Heaven is behind the treetops.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBu_UA1RlZYjtXqTiuP9GySS4oz8UDAM7c7pEuOgyOf62o1f1NHt4JKyMiy6t5Xdxj7IBD14qG1d6dN9x5IQmvcNPgJYIti5PAkgM4tp6Y2sBOkIePp-vZEwU1N8kyEgvR_uFTQHO3PW0/s1600/IMG_0465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="862" data-original-width="1600" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBu_UA1RlZYjtXqTiuP9GySS4oz8UDAM7c7pEuOgyOf62o1f1NHt4JKyMiy6t5Xdxj7IBD14qG1d6dN9x5IQmvcNPgJYIti5PAkgM4tp6Y2sBOkIePp-vZEwU1N8kyEgvR_uFTQHO3PW0/s320/IMG_0465.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The south face of Mt. Wilson from a couple of kilometres up the road. Stairway to Heaven is the right-hand dagger (the left-hand one is another story, and hopefully the subject of Wilson Adventures III). The ice above Stairway to Heaven is Living in Paradise (and hopefully the subject of Wilson Adventures IV). Suntori is hidden in the gully to its left. Lady Wilson's is the funnel on the far left.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfCm7uw2Wx8KABhW9G6a6Tx1_dxE9cmKzF_oETmAT1DTc3lX-aw9SzSpfWSzaicA3ryeLiEx6bC_RVvDFXoUJy2N5QR6K7TBqYhrYmjVybhW0cB6B84RYWIyzRZvSRo4YcXqt8ols7js/s1600/IMG_0080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1439" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfCm7uw2Wx8KABhW9G6a6Tx1_dxE9cmKzF_oETmAT1DTc3lX-aw9SzSpfWSzaicA3ryeLiEx6bC_RVvDFXoUJy2N5QR6K7TBqYhrYmjVybhW0cB6B84RYWIyzRZvSRo4YcXqt8ols7js/s320/IMG_0080.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Alik Berg links the first two pitches of Stairway to Heaven. Anything to save time; the days are short in January.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4pqZqAVrYERJzdKn3CMeDl8_KtJEA3ddwjeofj88GsyOj4bz-hkP2FyeAfvXlR19hg64eXG2cZR2Db2AWHgUfTc4-33NpayTFIjO6tx0E-GDRhIybwVwD-vFcbTzor56jYRHfKLhC54Q/s1600/DSC00837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1095" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4pqZqAVrYERJzdKn3CMeDl8_KtJEA3ddwjeofj88GsyOj4bz-hkP2FyeAfvXlR19hg64eXG2cZR2Db2AWHgUfTc4-33NpayTFIjO6tx0E-GDRhIybwVwD-vFcbTzor56jYRHfKLhC54Q/s320/DSC00837.JPG" width="218" /></a></div>
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Sporting an outfit to match the azure ice behind, yours truly starts up the top pitch of Stairway to Heaven. Photo: Alik Berg.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzdEeiSrBpk4_YygsZT6uT45cFucbDnBD9kQhVc2ryY6WVjAhLipBD3f1AAo1vyy5hmXnOhxhNZnlezpkJTa8i6H1rkxifWUIWzXYCbcxyaKZ-z7gUTUUbOry17CpzMxG88DpQVd8vUnw/s1600/IMG_0089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzdEeiSrBpk4_YygsZT6uT45cFucbDnBD9kQhVc2ryY6WVjAhLipBD3f1AAo1vyy5hmXnOhxhNZnlezpkJTa8i6H1rkxifWUIWzXYCbcxyaKZ-z7gUTUUbOry17CpzMxG88DpQVd8vUnw/s320/IMG_0089.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Alik Berg walks up the slope above Stairway to Heaven, as flurries swirl in from the west. Nothing to worry about (or so we hope).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDy1rXPHYeTETP016Ge2174a4eUqAsWISUE-ThyphenhyphensArAPAFuNeBq9q5SERwwqJsyLl49FGh_JRwAO8CGxUHb01CL-Ro7YRGKpobrAk9UuvHYmvSEVgVwTyqr3Ql0UaMuP3y2LSHrhWX3E4/s1600/DSC00840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1377" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDy1rXPHYeTETP016Ge2174a4eUqAsWISUE-ThyphenhyphensArAPAFuNeBq9q5SERwwqJsyLl49FGh_JRwAO8CGxUHb01CL-Ro7YRGKpobrAk9UuvHYmvSEVgVwTyqr3Ql0UaMuP3y2LSHrhWX3E4/s320/DSC00840.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The upper south face of Mt. Wilson. Suntori is on the left, the daggers in the middle are unclimbed, and the crux first pitch of Living in Paradise is hidden behind the rock buttress on the right.</div>
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Murky weather on the slope between Stairway to Heaven and Suntori.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUTyA_z8sPcxEjQ-FC2geogeVNd0EIGMM_Pc6hgrTASpehqlpA0hphi5ddslghoVIqJUbW409_qGj6kxtu3a1K65UJXPPgaz0zMj2WVgTB8YUrkwrNHol1000kQ5OoLARsvjwtGdQfa_0/s1600/IMG_0096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUTyA_z8sPcxEjQ-FC2geogeVNd0EIGMM_Pc6hgrTASpehqlpA0hphi5ddslghoVIqJUbW409_qGj6kxtu3a1K65UJXPPgaz0zMj2WVgTB8YUrkwrNHol1000kQ5OoLARsvjwtGdQfa_0/s320/IMG_0096.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Anticipating a long haul, we stop at the base of Suntori to rehydrate.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tyuy0OQPPgmIWNkz0dfiR9fsElGRAlI3B9kPQCIsgYmX6xY9LXmU_zFyJlB3hXdoIUFOO6JtfSHDb-Z2Jy7f4II86MkBH4VHx5hyVcA8DgWiS-MV_N0lHVFaNcdLQIym1n2CeTistq4/s1600/DSC00844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tyuy0OQPPgmIWNkz0dfiR9fsElGRAlI3B9kPQCIsgYmX6xY9LXmU_zFyJlB3hXdoIUFOO6JtfSHDb-Z2Jy7f4II86MkBH4VHx5hyVcA8DgWiS-MV_N0lHVFaNcdLQIym1n2CeTistq4/s320/DSC00844.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The first pitch looks trivial, but the rotten, detached ice requires some non-trivial gymnastics. Photo: Alik Berg.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7dLw8E1BxyjBJD1lU0vcz9VnQ58pZIM7cFlUgn4nINyDnAirkKWNyVYlHjg3Rpyaj8FF3v4isChPZW0q7ST028y60VeqjkvkwcGgvelAgBFLZFFhCMV3mcTrsdNz1TIfuwqgGUEyzYo/s1600/DSC00848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="1600" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7dLw8E1BxyjBJD1lU0vcz9VnQ58pZIM7cFlUgn4nINyDnAirkKWNyVYlHjg3Rpyaj8FF3v4isChPZW0q7ST028y60VeqjkvkwcGgvelAgBFLZFFhCMV3mcTrsdNz1TIfuwqgGUEyzYo/s320/DSC00848.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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On the other hand, the second pitch proves surprisingly straightforward, with good gear and short cruxes. Even the sun puts in an appearance. Photo: Alik Berg.</div>
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A few ropelengths higher, Alik Berg starts up what is probably the best pitch of the route. A short icicle leads to a near-vertical ice hose, almost reminiscent of an Alaskan goulotte.</div>
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Alik Berg battles brittle ice at the start of the pitch.</div>
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A couple of ropelengths higher the headlamps come out. Fortunately it is the last "hard" pitch - unless, that is, you leave the main drainage and go questing up another gully to the left.</div>
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After slogging up the snow bowl below the quartzite towers, we pull into a sheltered cave at their base. Photo: Alik Berg.</div>
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At this point we've been going for fifteen hours or more. We stop to have some soup and regroup before facing the last few pitches through the towers and the descent. While waiting for the water to boil, Alik Berg amuses himself by levitating an ice tool.</div>
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After finishing the soup, we step out of the cave and into the steep gully above. Climbing between bone-white walls, pulling over chockstones, we're not sure if the gully isn't going to dead end in overhanging rock until we see it roll over into the gentle humpback of the summit ridge. Photo: Alik Berg.</div>
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We plunge down the other side: downclimbing steep snow around walls of glacial ice, and rappelling here and there when the ground below seems too steep to downclimb. Eventually we reach the low-angled trough of Lady Wilson's Cleavage. After changing batteries in our fading headlamps, we continue: walking, downclimbing, rappelling. Eventually we find ourselves walking in our crampons down the snow-covered Icefields Parkway, almost twenty-four hours after we left it.</div>
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<i>Summary: An ascent of the Midnight Rambler-Stairway to Heaven-Suntori linkup on the south face of Mt. Wilson by Alik Berg and Raphael Slawinski, January 7, 2018.</i></div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-49446311778906269762018-03-24T13:07:00.000-06:002018-03-26T19:32:45.403-06:00Wilson adventures I: Tupperware Tea Party<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm afraid I've let my blog slide. Not that it matters much, given how these days lengthy blog write-ups are out and insta-posts are in, but I can't help feeling a bit guilty. My excuse is that since I last wrote about Juan's and my misadventures in Hyalite, I traveled to 3 more ice climbing festivals, giving clinics and slideshows. In between these extended weekend trips, I tried to get out as much as possible back home in the Rockies. All the while, the elephant in the room was something called a full-time job. It didn't leave much time for blogging. A matter of priorities, I suppose.</div>
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To begin catching up, I thought I'd start by going back to last December, and the story of an abandoned mixed project. <a href="http://www.scarpa.net/en/tom-ballard.html" target="_blank">Tom Ballard</a> was in the Rockies for a few weeks, living up to his reputation as one of the strongest winter climbers around. After we made plans to go climbing, I tried to think of something that would keep young Tom amused. An unrepeated <a href="http://www.alpinist.com/doc/web07f/wfeature-canadian-rockies-ueli-steck/3" target="_blank">Simon Anthamatten-Ueli Steck route</a> seemed like a good choice, at least the night before. Unfortunately I got up uncharacteristically early, and dawn was still a ways off when we pulled off the Icefields Parkway opposite the route. I wasn't sure it was actually in, so between the prospect of festering in the car until it got light, and all the fresh snow blowing around, I suggested driving on toward Plan B instead.</div>
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Years ago (and we're talking about the past millennium here), <a href="http://www.whitespider.net/about_climbs.html" target="_blank">Kefira Allen</a>, one of the pioneers of multi-pitch M-climbing in the Rockies, invited me to check out hers and <a href="http://seanisaacblog.blogspot.ca/2009/08/dave-thomson-1955-2009.html" target="_blank">Dave Thomson</a>'s latest project. Nightcrawler, as they were calling it, connected two ice pillars by climbing out stacked rock roofs on a sunny cliff band on Mt. Wilson. Sporting leashes and 3-ply Goretex, somehow I managed to hold on and scratch my way up the crux pitch without falling. I lowered off and we headed down. I don't believe Kefira and Dave ever went back. Almost 20 years later, as Tom and I sat by the side of a snowy Icefields Parkway, I remembered the long-abandoned line.</div>
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I wasn't sure if Kefira and Dave ever finished bolting their project so just in case, in addition to ropes, screws and draws, we also dragged a full rock rack and a power drill up the rolling ice of Midnight Rambler. As it turned out, we'd be taking most of that technology for a walk.</div>
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"Mind if I try for the onsight on the first pitch?" Tom asked. Wishing to be a gracious host - and having done it before - I made ready to belay. A few minutes later Tom was alternating hands on a tool, feet pasted below a roof. He'd reach up to what seemed like a likely edge, then, disappointed, sink back down again. Eventually, with a grunt and a curse, he uttered the dreaded word: "Take!" Understandably, he wanted to lower off and try again, but having dragged the drill all this way, I insisted we continue and check out the second pitch. It was a pleasant surprise to find that, other than having to cut out strands of old rope stiff with age, dust and ultraviolet, the second pitch was all rigged and ready to go. After rapping off, we even each had time for another burn on the crux first pitch.</div>
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"What do you think, Tom, M8?"</div>
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"I never miss an onsight on an M8."</div>
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"OK, M8+, then."</div>
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Yours truly scrambles up Midnight Rambler, with the broken-off dagger of Stairway to Heaven looming above. Stairway to Heaven gains the ice from the left, Tupperware Tea Party from the right. Both routes start up a short pillar that can only be seen when you're almost standing at its foot. Photo: Tom Ballard.</div>
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Tom Ballard locks off to gain the initial ice, which never seems to quite touch down.</div>
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Both Stairway to Heaven and Tupperware Tea Party have optional belays just above the ice (on the left and right, respectively), but with a few long slings, both are easily skipped. And after all, who wants to climb 20-metre pitches when you can climb 40-metre ones?</div>
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While Stairway to Heaven skirts the roofs on the left, Tupperware Tea Party tackles them more or less directly. A mess of old fixed rope hangs above Tom's head, a reminder of the heady late 1990s, the early days of M-climbing in the Rockies.</div>
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The crux first pitch of Tupperware Tea Party (if you skip the optional belay, that is) isn't steep enough to be tempted by the dark arts of figure-4s and 9s, but steep enough that keeping your feet on takes some body tension.</div>
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The second pitch is much easier, but without it the route would be just a masturbatory exercise in drytooling. Instead, you get to swing over to a gravity-defying dagger. Photo: Tom Ballard.</div>
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From the top of the route you get a front-row view of the upper cliffs of Mt. Wilson, with the slender threads of Suntori (on the left) and Living in Paradise (on the right). But those are stories for another time (Wilson Adventures II and IV, if I get around to telling them).</div>
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The rappel from a v-thread just above where the hanging ice attaches to the rock is an exhilarating affair, especially as you swing in and out of the water streaming from the lip of the ice.</div>
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<b>Tupperware Tea Party, 90 m, M8+ WI5</b></div>
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<i>FFA: Tom Ballard and Raphael Slawinski, December 14, 2017</i></div>
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This is an old Kefira Allen and Dave Thomson project. It climbs the right side of the hanging ice on Stairway to Heaven. I believe Kefira and Dave were calling their project Nightcrawler, I hope they wouldn't mind Tom and me renaming it. Given Dave's and Tom's English origins, the tea-themed name seemed more appropriate.</div>
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Approach as for Stairway to Heaven by climbing Midnight Rambler (WI3). The only gear needed for <span style="text-align: center;">Tupperware Tea Party is a bunch of quickdraws (including some long slings) and a handful of screws, though some small-to medium cams (purple to red Calamot, say), can be useful to protect the transition to the ice on the second pitch.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Pitch 1: 40 m, M8+ WI4+: Climb a stubby pillar, which often doesn't quite reach the ground. From its top, trend right past an optional belay station to a series of stacked roofs. Lock off and reach through these to gain a good stance at a foot ledge. Judicious use of long slings keeps the rope drag </span><span style="text-align: center;">reasonable.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Pitch 2: 50 m, M5+, WI5: Step left from the belay and follow the line of bolts to where you can bust left toward the hanging ice. Climb vertical ice to where it kicks back to a mellow gully. Belay from ice screws, trees up and left, or bolts on a ledge on the right.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">To descend, make a short rappel to the lowest reasonable stance on the ice, then a long one (2 x 60 m) to the ground.</span></div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-23929341248547889812017-12-25T22:03:00.001-07:002017-12-26T11:45:50.171-07:00A Hyalite Adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
The plowed road ended in a large parking lot. The cleared expanse was more reminiscent of a suburban Walmart than of a backcountry trailhead. That was where we'd been told to park my low-suspension wannabe-sports-car and start hiking. But the road went on further: no longer plowed, but well traveled all the same. Tempted by the prospect of saving an hour's walk - each way - I drove on with barely a second thought.</div>
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And for the first couple hundred metres continuing seemed like a reasonable course of action. Other than the deep drifts just beside the tracks, the hard-packed snow beneath the tires didn't feel all that different from the plowed road we'd left behind. But then the ruts got deeper, and the undercarriage started dragging on the ridge between them. At first it was only an occasional touch, but soon we were scraping loudly along the bottom. Juan and I exchanged worried looks. We could well imagine how this adventure could end: in the car getting hopelessly stuck, and us spending the rest of the day trying to get it back to plowed pavement.</div>
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I coasted to a stop. There was nowhere to turn around, so I shifted into reverse and slowly started back down the tracks. A curve in the road, a steering wheel insufficiently turned, and two of the tires settled into the deep snow outside the ruts. Was this it, the foreseeable and inevitable outcome of a harebrained idea?</div>
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Our dumb luck held: a slight downhill and some aggressive back-and forth bouncing got the car back on the tracks. After that close call Juan walked backwards, his arms waving and directing me left or right as needed. All he needed was a reflective vest and those orange luminous wands, and he could've been guiding a 737 to its gate. A tense 10 minutes later we were back at the gloriously plowed parking lot. Walking an extra hour now struck us as a downright appealing prospect.</div>
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The night before I'd asked around for route suggestions. "A must-do, a classic." Winter Dance wasn't in, but the Big Sleep was. A Doug Chabot and Alex Lowe first ascent, it was supposed to have a bit of everything: just enough of an approach to give it a backcountry feel, some rotten cobbles to let you know you were in Hyalite, and a burly pillar for some good, clean fun. In keeping with the route's name, we went to sleep early and didn't set the alarm. After all the 4-am wake-ups in November to slog into <a href="http://nickbullock-climber.co.uk/2017/12/01/the-approach/" target="_blank">Protection Valley</a>, sleeping my fill before a day of climbing seemed downright decadent.</div>
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And we could've slept even longer, as an earlier-rising team was just finishing the crux pillar when we got to the base of the route. We took our time changing into dry shirts and socks, munching on bars and sipping hot tea. Eventually we judged we'd given the others enough of a head start. We racked up, tied in and began the familiar ice-climbing dance: swing, kick, kick, swing, kick, kick.</div>
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The swinging and kicking ended where the ice did. Some twenty metres of what looked like dried mud with river stones embedded in it separated us from the ledge where the ice resumed. A cam went in behind a loose block. There was nothing better to be had, so I put it out of mind. A pick scraped into a sandy hole, bare fingers wrapped around a cobble, crampons breaking footholds, I mantled onto a fridge-sized block. A wire went into a crack between two dusty rocks. If you can't have quality protection, you might as well have lots of it. Fortunately the rest of the traverse was a shuffle on big, if suspect holds, and soon I was anchoring to a solid tree.</div>
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Ice, even steep ice, almost always feels a lot more solid than mixed ground. It's especially true of mixed climbing on a badly-built stone wall, the cement between the stones dry and crumbling. We ran up the remaining two pitches of pillars and curtains to where the ice disappeared beneath faceted snow. Back down at our packs, we thought about checking out Narcolepsy, another Doug Chabot and Alex Lowe creation around the corner. In the end though, between our late start and other shenanigans, we decided to call it a day. On the way down, a pickup truck stopped and gave us a lift back to the parking lot. Sitting on our packs in the back of the truck, swaying as it bounced around corners, we inhaled clouds of weed smoke wafting from the cabin.</div>
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That evening, over chili and cornbread, I told Doug about our day: stuck car, cobbles, rednecks and all. "A classic Hyalite adventure", he summed it up.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqrVetqCM5Gt53aaQw1HdwsnMXhK063Z9QKdIrDyTITGfRPlTzIWkU1_FYnk6tRlKMB2G83CtumWcTcbl6tc2Q12G59zY1ngngfLX_LGM3GcQxX89z2MLKPrfsfkrr4vewFuBiBZMqMKg/s1600/IMG_9162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1154" data-original-width="1245" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqrVetqCM5Gt53aaQw1HdwsnMXhK063Z9QKdIrDyTITGfRPlTzIWkU1_FYnk6tRlKMB2G83CtumWcTcbl6tc2Q12G59zY1ngngfLX_LGM3GcQxX89z2MLKPrfsfkrr4vewFuBiBZMqMKg/s320/IMG_9162.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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A fatter-than-usual Big Sleep from the approach. Note the climbers on the crux pillar.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEq87_6VmnHMuw_ZJUTgYrr9JZWj6d4hiswQ64ZxmRkG3xM-nrLwxmjd93VldjWlIJzx0tae5wgNFSvSNNJINtOiKpIjqKYvKBjRgpmTYPzlVkR59Dj63A6SuE-IO5YIlK6MEVdEdqOEc/s1600/IMG_9164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1027" data-original-width="1245" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEq87_6VmnHMuw_ZJUTgYrr9JZWj6d4hiswQ64ZxmRkG3xM-nrLwxmjd93VldjWlIJzx0tae5wgNFSvSNNJINtOiKpIjqKYvKBjRgpmTYPzlVkR59Dj63A6SuE-IO5YIlK6MEVdEdqOEc/s320/IMG_9164.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Juan Henriquez starts up while another party climbs the crux pillar. Fortunately the two sections of the climb are offset by a rock traverse, and all the bombs land harmlessly 20 metres away.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGE-kEWDYc1fGhWhPUFtKa8Lkff_Feg9pttPM74qJvqoR8wSkZoJIWxMn4Hf0rW7ooJkFkqYXajqThzEtEeEHRwVupJi27h3GzrF8z4nTBk458U6k83iMzp5s6QRs-pmJ2f3YP8mzgss/s1600/IMG_9178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1155" data-original-width="1245" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGE-kEWDYc1fGhWhPUFtKa8Lkff_Feg9pttPM74qJvqoR8wSkZoJIWxMn4Hf0rW7ooJkFkqYXajqThzEtEeEHRwVupJi27h3GzrF8z4nTBk458U6k83iMzp5s6QRs-pmJ2f3YP8mzgss/s320/IMG_9178.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Juan Henriquez hopes that the boulder he's holding on to remains attached to the wall...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_FjoGEldZkUu3JrLhyphenhyphenjfyWe3puUFOBU2AVqJLu-BnT2ni1h6ADwFB9ivsNhXFusL07rBoFq8Q-SuNF8ZKLSU_mRs-w12LUqrbSiyf-bK_QNvhz5pOUefmhQOyPAi52lWUi3QJQDMAopQ/s1600/IMG_9185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1245" data-original-width="854" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_FjoGEldZkUu3JrLhyphenhyphenjfyWe3puUFOBU2AVqJLu-BnT2ni1h6ADwFB9ivsNhXFusL07rBoFq8Q-SuNF8ZKLSU_mRs-w12LUqrbSiyf-bK_QNvhz5pOUefmhQOyPAi52lWUi3QJQDMAopQ/s320/IMG_9185.JPG" width="219" /></a></div>
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... and hooks up the crux pillar.</div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-91932179678955191162017-11-23T11:26:00.001-07:002017-11-23T21:37:48.539-07:00Falling into Winter<div style="text-align: justify;">
Elbows resting on the car roof, I eyed the distant smear through binoculars. “I hate to say it, but I don’t think it’s worth the hike,” I sighed, passing them to Steven. After glassing the melting ice, he wasn’t chomping at the bit either. We drove down the gravelly road for another twenty minutes, looking for a consolation prize, but nothing really caught our eye. It's also possible that after a couple of hours of driving and the disappointment of finding Plan A out of condition, car lassitude had set it, keeping our asses firmly rooted to the seats. Pulling a U-turn, we headed back to town for espressos. Once re-caffeinated, we briefly considered going rock climbing - it was certainly warm enough - but with the cold season approaching, decided on drytooling instead.</div>
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Yet it was only two days earlier that a friend had emailed me: “I took a photo this morning that you may be interested in. Is there an established ice/mixed route on [Peak X]? Scott”. In the attached photo, a line of ice dripped tantalizingly down a steep rock wall and petered out over a roof. But that was on Friday. On Saturday, a chinook howled over the mountains, while in the city people walked around in t-shirts. As Choc says, climbing’s all about timing and hormones. And on this particular Sunday morning, our timing sucked.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_Tv7TxTzW10NoqggxRifxUWrZEFJFRYN-p6cg1aWX935hyphenhyphenicxUAQBAnyyBPIdrxcYFUuMMftEeYhY8APeaDdzRUX-1msuVcxErmzDfIRipy6SwJf0hThsHyQGYfITxWhCuwOgLNUXsw/s1600/IMG_6879.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1215" data-original-width="942" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_Tv7TxTzW10NoqggxRifxUWrZEFJFRYN-p6cg1aWX935hyphenhyphenicxUAQBAnyyBPIdrxcYFUuMMftEeYhY8APeaDdzRUX-1msuVcxErmzDfIRipy6SwJf0hThsHyQGYfITxWhCuwOgLNUXsw/s320/IMG_6879.JPG" width="248" /></a></div>
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A distant smear, melting away in the November heat.</div>
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A week later, five of us stood beneath a black-and-gold, ice-streaked cliff. We’d left the road before dawn, trudging uphill through trackless forest, trying to glimpse the bulk of Castle Mountain between the trees to make sure we weren’t hiking in circles. We weren’t, and three hours later we were kicking steps up frozen dirt and snow-covered scree to the base of the wall. But now that we were here, no one seemed in a hurry to climb. To our bodies still more used to summer, the first touch of winter cold felt arctic. Instead, we retreated inside belay parkas, trying to wrap our minds around the idea of climbing in below –20 C temperatures in what was, after all, only early November.</div>
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Eventually Dave stirred from our collective lethargy. “The sun’s coming round”, he piped up optimistically. As a matter of fact, the distant sun-shadow line wouldn’t reach us for at least another hour, but it was all the encouragement we needed. Putting on harnesses and snapping on crampons, slowly we made ready to climb.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkB9mGDzao7Nm564tks9MFe1uDkiBQF9EoUA9UC_tMYj21YoaJguJAaxgJLqhElo27nJBKHou9tlrXk7wJACebe3Xu_o5a94CdzLp01kC_2mvlG_fmMpBRINegKBl435BPlDREIqGH14/s1600/IMG_8815.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkB9mGDzao7Nm564tks9MFe1uDkiBQF9EoUA9UC_tMYj21YoaJguJAaxgJLqhElo27nJBKHou9tlrXk7wJACebe3Xu_o5a94CdzLp01kC_2mvlG_fmMpBRINegKBl435BPlDREIqGH14/s320/IMG_8815.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The right fork of the hanging valley between Protection and Castle Mtns. From left to right, the formed routes on the south face of Stuart Knob are Mon Ami, Arian P'tit Grimlin and Dirtbag Dreams.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5PyyaQrUAJX1mUw5ojGwZlrP06ZJjlsqPRFmlB9Q1uTmXy8WKQbT2kqXSBHzlr1hGx0eNf4aHs00xBtWJzVTU52uTpYxy5LGD0OacT8GXtxo1plpqb6aEjqlkNdifoaar5lw-GOvFBw/s1600/IMG_8818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="977" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5PyyaQrUAJX1mUw5ojGwZlrP06ZJjlsqPRFmlB9Q1uTmXy8WKQbT2kqXSBHzlr1hGx0eNf4aHs00xBtWJzVTU52uTpYxy5LGD0OacT8GXtxo1plpqb6aEjqlkNdifoaar5lw-GOvFBw/s320/IMG_8818.JPG" width="250" /></a></div>
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Dave and Steven went for the Dirtbag Dreams on the right, while Maia, Landon and I set our sights on Arian P'tit Grimlin on the left, a twenty-year-old Guy Lacelle and Godefroy Perroux route. Tragically, both Guy and Godefroy have since died while ice climbing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizr2RmA56WBcdEb77_REqe7IxzPrka3RwZg-wKx2WJhxlvhN88j4Sh-2bwVJECm9Hxu6H30RzNfwrvc-H1he2tT-3kCYQBWYy8Ma4a93I0b8rSzg8om9fHzrQJeuZk2RcIK3fwTGToAtk/s1600/Protection+Valley+-+APG_20171105_21.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1473" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizr2RmA56WBcdEb77_REqe7IxzPrka3RwZg-wKx2WJhxlvhN88j4Sh-2bwVJECm9Hxu6H30RzNfwrvc-H1he2tT-3kCYQBWYy8Ma4a93I0b8rSzg8om9fHzrQJeuZk2RcIK3fwTGToAtk/s320/Protection+Valley+-+APG_20171105_21.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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A rock roof topped with dagger gave direct access to the route, which was originally climbed by traversing in from Mon Ami. However, overhanging gymnastics on a <span style="text-align: justify;">–20 C morning didn't hold great appeal. Instead, we chose a more reasonable dangler further right. Photo: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/landonthompson87/" target="_blank">Landon Thompson</a>.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje9aNqH_yG58CjX9A1ojs5iQt7JEr0pFy6LnZ4B_yAEEIHTQ676ZRnx0HVQwA8Dxz0p-lDjJSsYjm4rrFD50rfvIho2EQUZoGX8GjXm5Bv9UQ6lRa4uJ9LCGO9o-b8FvrncXueGo289O4/s1600/IMG_8829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="938" data-original-width="1250" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje9aNqH_yG58CjX9A1ojs5iQt7JEr0pFy6LnZ4B_yAEEIHTQ676ZRnx0HVQwA8Dxz0p-lDjJSsYjm4rrFD50rfvIho2EQUZoGX8GjXm5Bv9UQ6lRa4uJ9LCGO9o-b8FvrncXueGo289O4/s320/IMG_8829.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Movement kept us warm... </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lyN3ZJ1EtNu6WTev1Ruz93AmiQJyyKPyTx4V7O0iX92NG9Ag9rmLFrVQGzby3Xsu1uJhGvV_SD_4qTmyMMooVK2NB0-uobhSEmRXjLKpifm-ID_QULPmBbr7wInPgbKaQ3Nc6BNaI0g/s1600/Protection+Valley+-+APG_20171105_55.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lyN3ZJ1EtNu6WTev1Ruz93AmiQJyyKPyTx4V7O0iX92NG9Ag9rmLFrVQGzby3Xsu1uJhGvV_SD_4qTmyMMooVK2NB0-uobhSEmRXjLKpifm-ID_QULPmBbr7wInPgbKaQ3Nc6BNaI0g/s320/Protection+Valley+-+APG_20171105_55.JPG" width="313" /></a></div>
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... though belays could get a bit chilly. <span style="text-align: justify;">Photo: Landon Thompson.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpcKS0bYwJmx2BKlA_2N81_UbOrTLc39C2fiQwhiQkRWo2rXPSGukRWKgGP7P3bISvwOoAWerTLjbqEgYbSHELVJRZA6WwTLVJWAiIxUU8vO_qaf8CT5rmIt2bGz_Aceqs8h0WG7EIfI/s1600/Protection+Valley+-+APG_20171105_49.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1323" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpcKS0bYwJmx2BKlA_2N81_UbOrTLc39C2fiQwhiQkRWo2rXPSGukRWKgGP7P3bISvwOoAWerTLjbqEgYbSHELVJRZA6WwTLVJWAiIxUU8vO_qaf8CT5rmIt2bGz_Aceqs8h0WG7EIfI/s320/Protection+Valley+-+APG_20171105_49.JPG" width="290" /></a></div>
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Occasional flashes of sunshine helped too. Unfortunately, by the time we started up the final pillar, the sun had dipped below Castle Mountain across the valley. Suddenly the air had a renewed bite to it. It was time to climb and then get the hell down! <span style="text-align: justify;">Photo: Landon Thompson.</span></div>
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By the time we'd rappelled off and packed up, daylight had all but faded away. Chilled, wearing all our layers, we started down, the beams of our headlamps picking out the house-sized boulders littering the floor of the hanging valley. After all the standing around at belay and rappel stances, it felt good to move. We'd warm up soon.</div>
Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-16336000330770818052017-11-21T10:48:00.001-07:002018-03-30T15:10:25.615-06:00Extreme CampingThis past spring <a href="https://www.bouldermountaininstitute.com/" target="_blank">Rob Smith</a> and I spent five weeks in the Alaska Range. We arrived in Talkeetna with ambitious plans: in a perfect world, we'd warm up on the <a href="http://www.juhoknuuttila.com/alaska-2017-mt-hunter-grison-tedeschi-and-denali/" target="_blank">French Route</a> on the north buttress of Mt. Hunter before moving on to the <a href="https://vimeo.com/50702182" target="_blank">Slovak Route</a> on the south face of Denali. I knew the world isn't perfect though, and would have been ecstatic had we gotten up just one of these. In retrospect, even that seemingly realistic outlook now appears wildly optimistic, as we didn't manage so much as to stand at the base of either wall.<br />
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Still, it'd be wrong to say that the trip had been a waste of time. At the risk of rationalizing failure, it'd be sad if my sole measure of success in climbing was whether I'd sent this or that "hard" route. During the five weeks I spent in the land of eternal daylight (as is Alaska in late May and June), I had some fantastic experiences. I got to know Rob, with whom I'd only spent a few days ice climbing before. We lived through some of the worst weather I'd ever experienced at the 14k camp on Denali. We shared that camp with <a href="https://www.tomlivingstone.com/" target="_blank">Tom</a> and <a href="https://www.uisdeanhawthorn.com/" target="_blank">Uisdean</a>, two irreverent Brits. When the storm cleared, Tom and I did yoga in the middle of camp. On a sunny day, all four of us hiked up the West Buttress to Denali's summit. We had fun, we came back safe, we came back better friends. What's so bad about that?<br />
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A few weeks ago I made a rough video of my Alaskan experience for the annual Cognac and Cheese party that some friends have put on for well over a decade now to celebrate the end of the long days of summer. If you want to see what a camping trip to Denali's like, click on.<br />
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Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331032687380506445.post-63705279711244789652017-10-31T21:20:00.000-06:002017-11-02T11:07:30.885-06:00Before The Snow Flies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
The crunch of shoes on frozen mud in the morning; yellow aspen leaves fluttering to the ground; and warm afternoon sunshine on rough limestone. But also: north faces dusted with fresh snow; dripping water stilled into icicles by nights growing longer and colder; and bright larches on the valley floor far below.</div>
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October in the Rockies presents altogether too many choices. For years, I used to spend it chasing one last summery adventure on sunny summits, or the first wintry one in shaded couloirs. But more recently, a growing obsession with rock gymnastics saw me spending my Octobers chasing this or that elusive redpoint, until the days grew just too short, too grey and too miserable to contemplate bare-handed crimping. When I'd finally trade sticky rubber for crampons, I'd realize it was November, and that deep snow and winter cold had already come to the high country. And so I'd tell myself that, the following year, I wouldn't miss that bittersweet interlude between summer and winter in mountains. But then another October would roll around, and there'd still be unfinished business at The Coliseum... So this October, even though the weather for much of the month was mild and sunny - perfect rock climbing weather - on a few occasions I did pack my ice tools instead of rock shoes, and set the alarm for four in the morning.</div>
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<b>Mt. Fay</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitt0J8TEqXmjXrubFLv0OMBrPRVpbOSvVvlxcMEnhkLmFEdHRFeVXFHv9vgGEPtvQFxUjd_-DqMBsjufi3dbflU6SKZDKYIRVw34acQykIYHLEiBLvLZ6WiJzqlSOgv7zXWWRg0faAE-Y/s1600/IMG_8611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1205" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitt0J8TEqXmjXrubFLv0OMBrPRVpbOSvVvlxcMEnhkLmFEdHRFeVXFHv9vgGEPtvQFxUjd_-DqMBsjufi3dbflU6SKZDKYIRVw34acQykIYHLEiBLvLZ6WiJzqlSOgv7zXWWRg0faAE-Y/s320/IMG_8611.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The road to Moraine Lake was closing in few days. With that looming deadline, and the threat of snow in the forecast, Juan and I made plans to run up the north face of Mt. Fay. Well, to say "run" might be an exaggeration - after a summer spent rock climbing, neither one of us would be mistaken for Killian Jornet.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYhrfnz-hlPC7SC-wWOT_9Trg7ahb6bMT-5Kfe9wTLlilIXC5FbWmRKQCJ2Mlu4Wv1yeRCkmgK1oepOHoPv-HZTB95PcbMZ-7kHxux6C8iRhH5HwUcjf_kopR8q7t0BhfiBFA6rHsRoY/s1600/IMG_8614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="1205" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYhrfnz-hlPC7SC-wWOT_9Trg7ahb6bMT-5Kfe9wTLlilIXC5FbWmRKQCJ2Mlu4Wv1yeRCkmgK1oepOHoPv-HZTB95PcbMZ-7kHxux6C8iRhH5HwUcjf_kopR8q7t0BhfiBFA6rHsRoY/s320/IMG_8614.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Our timing with the season was impeccable, as the trail and the rock on the Perren approach were both dry. It wasn't until we hit the glacier below the face that we were faced with anything resembling trail breaking.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBOE8_pCDXr-kHBv9UqqlBZ1FOiy3W6xkRqwIgntuDSRBRNwdjIRzy5uzKG-YaGW8M97ynlHupsJYra87HeyQgEjvyiohqgJlSQrCR-7j8YZbeScIMwv9oeSgKkR5pzkcyatYEvHEXrI/s1600/IMG_8618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="1205" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBOE8_pCDXr-kHBv9UqqlBZ1FOiy3W6xkRqwIgntuDSRBRNwdjIRzy5uzKG-YaGW8M97ynlHupsJYra87HeyQgEjvyiohqgJlSQrCR-7j8YZbeScIMwv9oeSgKkR5pzkcyatYEvHEXrI/s320/IMG_8618.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We opted for the seracs of the Chouinard route on the left side of the face. The wave of glacial ice halfway up the route had been made famous by photos in Jeff Lowe's <a href="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTxbMCvL-oq32zkm1u4SYkRsi6Tk1DdcwW0N_eBOiCByaobg4TY" target="_blank">Ice World</a>, and it seemed like an apt place to swing tools for the first time of the season.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9s_213RmF_Ixg06aCSMM83ZDVz-7F3qBRqohFrW3HgpNv2vkko8jnBW25cDv881vZLr3B8qc3LwKP_QfJoJpduJ5BmT6e7SH11ElwSHQvf_DwmRctiIW7tEJABXFekywMQJq7S3WtaWs/s1600/IMG_1192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1205" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9s_213RmF_Ixg06aCSMM83ZDVz-7F3qBRqohFrW3HgpNv2vkko8jnBW25cDv881vZLr3B8qc3LwKP_QfJoJpduJ5BmT6e7SH11ElwSHQvf_DwmRctiIW7tEJABXFekywMQJq7S3WtaWs/s320/IMG_1192.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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From the cold, blue shade of the face, we looked out at sun-drenched screes and forests, still bare of snow for another few days. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTN2OrKDxlTFiLjYGJNOIXIT-dlTOEIJMvFI5jU1mloukKSgKNE64FRwflwE9AMyGrfdDo6IwoezCTx4tBrqeKZM_P0-pBur8AASInqf3AonqciMcaNce7og9raRovkEz3Y5cpGM9Y0ns/s1600/IMG_1197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="932" data-original-width="1205" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTN2OrKDxlTFiLjYGJNOIXIT-dlTOEIJMvFI5jU1mloukKSgKNE64FRwflwE9AMyGrfdDo6IwoezCTx4tBrqeKZM_P0-pBur8AASInqf3AonqciMcaNce7og9raRovkEz3Y5cpGM9Y0ns/s320/IMG_1197.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We avoided the overhanging ice in the centre and opted for the merely vertical terrain on the right. Even so, it wasn't hero ice, this serac stuff, with dinner plates exploding from every tool placement. Photo: Juan Henriquez.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0EMl0Q5itFmFNG_AGa6MfoRideKmdlwuPyILMI9u0tXD6TuEZpsoA30pwo0QJO3OGm5peSbEy1oJuuI2LSU2R96C3PdhTg3jkTpCDF5DnZEK2GjJ-NEDCOyUc7VwkoJPTlHwrS7Ws7PI/s1600/IMG_8657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1171" data-original-width="1205" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0EMl0Q5itFmFNG_AGa6MfoRideKmdlwuPyILMI9u0tXD6TuEZpsoA30pwo0QJO3OGm5peSbEy1oJuuI2LSU2R96C3PdhTg3jkTpCDF5DnZEK2GjJ-NEDCOyUc7VwkoJPTlHwrS7Ws7PI/s320/IMG_8657.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Higher up, the ice did change consistency to something resembling meringue - not so good for protection, but great for climbing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhszXx9oR82-DPR63-m3kqHAutI27MJJiFPkbVeXjcz1WA4C8cDtJrO32xtD16Z8cYpeG6VFztXy54TlUyoz0NR-72aq7N3CZBNzy-9apFAwWquGz8ds8DWmIBHc0CseM44bCoPAKOA-g/s1600/IMG_8661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="1205" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhszXx9oR82-DPR63-m3kqHAutI27MJJiFPkbVeXjcz1WA4C8cDtJrO32xtD16Z8cYpeG6VFztXy54TlUyoz0NR-72aq7N3CZBNzy-9apFAwWquGz8ds8DWmIBHc0CseM44bCoPAKOA-g/s320/IMG_8661.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Within the space of a bodylength, we emerged from the cold shade of the face into the warmth of a windless afternoon. Without a cloud in the sky and with the forest fires extinguished by autumn rains, we could see all the way from the front ranges in the east to the Bugaboos in the west.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6rgmYSN07TnP8YiVij2CskOLzi-J7GZym6fK0XeWWrMmDsbkGe7_7dgCEM1Gln1RmSfDgaKL_4QHZDuJSJtEc6CukQxIfDlQ3NXJvnXcDsc6O-VBi6zM62BPh6zT5aZqhDfVACvw4-A/s1600/IMG_8688.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="902" data-original-width="1205" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6rgmYSN07TnP8YiVij2CskOLzi-J7GZym6fK0XeWWrMmDsbkGe7_7dgCEM1Gln1RmSfDgaKL_4QHZDuJSJtEc6CukQxIfDlQ3NXJvnXcDsc6O-VBi6zM62BPh6zT5aZqhDfVACvw4-A/s320/IMG_8688.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Tired but satisfied, we plunged back down to the valley. To our surprise, it appeared we'd actually make it home for dinner.</div>
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<b>The Fist</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrECX9oWZHqDdF-L-Sn0XNosnaXLyrTPkyrkCtJ_pfAYSEdSeXBS_h7ich1LGFTJltlaOI1NOu62LhEY7cr4lwvdmn5Ihj8p61m0rhxglo6h_ZPJO603kXeISXdAt8j__POlZHH-Dg4jc/s1600/IMG_8689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1423" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrECX9oWZHqDdF-L-Sn0XNosnaXLyrTPkyrkCtJ_pfAYSEdSeXBS_h7ich1LGFTJltlaOI1NOu62LhEY7cr4lwvdmn5Ihj8p61m0rhxglo6h_ZPJO603kXeISXdAt8j__POlZHH-Dg4jc/s320/IMG_8689.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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For years, every time I drove down the Smith-Dorrien Trail in the fall, my eyes would be drawn to the squat shape of the <a href="http://www.explor8ion.com/vern/scrambles/fist/fist.html" target="_blank">The Fist</a>. My imagination filled the dark gash in its northeast face with ice, but reality, as seen through binoculars, appeared to be the usual Rockies fare of loose snow over dry rock.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk2R2nFZZd6uazirjnGYHTunSzuBwMcv5C_9zLybWby1cWMwWmZPZHmCcxB19K_jLg9JuSt8Yhbw4aRFLzPOZssQ6U6J5PGz4ZYQPBd7k7CjNSHA8YkSlL7TmNe-tuGmXqdAFnvCgKYBA/s1600/IMG_8710.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1325" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk2R2nFZZd6uazirjnGYHTunSzuBwMcv5C_9zLybWby1cWMwWmZPZHmCcxB19K_jLg9JuSt8Yhbw4aRFLzPOZssQ6U6J5PGz4ZYQPBd7k7CjNSHA8YkSlL7TmNe-tuGmXqdAFnvCgKYBA/s320/IMG_8710.JPG" width="289" /></a></div>
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It didn't help that those who ventured for a closer look came back with tales of unprotectable, compact rock. Tellingly, none of them returned for another go. But in the middle of the month, with the weather too crappy for rock but still too warm for ice, Alik and I decided to finally make up our own minds about the infamous - if obscure - gash.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4tY6fmc8s04Jqim8rCJTZ56YQZTEMHTfbvCd-adzl1VCkFMg2R49R6Cdw3lTnjdk6WncGbThTzeR-RTYftYXLM-gIEOXoTZnhNjXfSvTPP75lcLfrbQdrzJcVcI0C7rT9IJFZ-jHdp5A/s1600/IMG_8716.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1345" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4tY6fmc8s04Jqim8rCJTZ56YQZTEMHTfbvCd-adzl1VCkFMg2R49R6Cdw3lTnjdk6WncGbThTzeR-RTYftYXLM-gIEOXoTZnhNjXfSvTPP75lcLfrbQdrzJcVcI0C7rT9IJFZ-jHdp5A/s320/IMG_8716.JPG" width="285" /></a></div>
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With the aforementioned compact rock in mind, we came armed with technology to tame excessive runouts. Imagine our shame when we topped out on the first pitch only to find an old gear anchor. We consoled ourselves with the thought that, whoever had left it, probably enjoyed at least a smattering of ice where we scratched up rock and moss. That, or they had bigger cojones.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjVdN66QLfG6B3pJ7sF3ZaRlhUqLau2QaXl-Ayhkc_hd70NwMb6kkaBiOFAXiyjf0elZtmFaRxLBwWONZ7xtV2IRjdl0fTnFKDCdg5GfUxj6NpNEY0UJ4dTyyBp-Z4bAxmI-D_3iyOCsY/s1600/IMG_8723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1246" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjVdN66QLfG6B3pJ7sF3ZaRlhUqLau2QaXl-Ayhkc_hd70NwMb6kkaBiOFAXiyjf0elZtmFaRxLBwWONZ7xtV2IRjdl0fTnFKDCdg5GfUxj6NpNEY0UJ4dTyyBp-Z4bAxmI-D_3iyOCsY/s320/IMG_8723.JPG" width="308" /></a></div>
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On our first attempt we were joined by Nik Mirhashemi from <a href="https://www.facebook.com/alpinementors/" target="_blank">Alpine Mentors</a>. Strangely, he declined to join us on the next go, preferring to drive down to Indian Creek instead. There's no accounting for taste.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0UXRdt0e7wnmeOoWE8hjBMXsAiXp8wN2-thEk-HWb2Y5ApOfA5nn7M1AvBbYdU9na1dmUxpbOL4ipbmA9__kj5QtDlzPuYZOvtBLNxSPxCjPKtOlk39LPj-aoJv2uQkbMdoJgXkp9-Q/s1600/IMG_8728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1353" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0UXRdt0e7wnmeOoWE8hjBMXsAiXp8wN2-thEk-HWb2Y5ApOfA5nn7M1AvBbYdU9na1dmUxpbOL4ipbmA9__kj5QtDlzPuYZOvtBLNxSPxCjPKtOlk39LPj-aoJv2uQkbMdoJgXkp9-Q/s320/IMG_8728.JPG" width="283" /></a></div>
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The second pitch started out overhanging, but bomber hooks and gear made for moderate climbing. After a few bodylengths, the rock petered out into a fat snow ledge below the upper chimney. Photo: Nik Mirhashemi.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidYZLdx3Lp4PoQJBlcumNEDxS_rr6D5HGKHHbXb_YLQiUkdDnUt2HwRMqdJxnkbxChJoKxK0LdmwqrslLmwb4tBtyVlWye-RU85si9o7THe95dXHrLpzAssUm_29MNkdnC_SxzjDTF4Ic/s1600/IMG_8746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidYZLdx3Lp4PoQJBlcumNEDxS_rr6D5HGKHHbXb_YLQiUkdDnUt2HwRMqdJxnkbxChJoKxK0LdmwqrslLmwb4tBtyVlWye-RU85si9o7THe95dXHrLpzAssUm_29MNkdnC_SxzjDTF4Ic/s320/IMG_8746.JPG" width="317" /></a></div>
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And the chimney looked far better than expected - which perhaps said more about our low expectations than the quality of said chimney.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxZXouWZhpZ170EVpOFRPWF1EKgbYCb8ZYNvqMUzhsSJJsDiUk7ezw4pdz2xuoiJJjfxD8wBNYVMzx-hLMdCIZI4ZItQKDVb_Wlob1XvAWE1niaKeZLkIGJP-vrUOJ9IkfUAQuZu18Ls/s1600/IMG_8750.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="1539" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxZXouWZhpZ170EVpOFRPWF1EKgbYCb8ZYNvqMUzhsSJJsDiUk7ezw4pdz2xuoiJJjfxD8wBNYVMzx-hLMdCIZI4ZItQKDVb_Wlob1XvAWE1niaKeZLkIGJP-vrUOJ9IkfUAQuZu18Ls/s320/IMG_8750.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Be that as it may, it gave excellent climbing on blocky but not loose rock. Granted, there wasn't a lick of ice anywhere, but the snowed up rock with the occasional bit of turf had a downright Scottish flavour. Well, maybe except for the bolts.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdm1LpE1RmoKt2BWhMzNQzCP61QQuque7cGrKouWqy-lKfEIf7XbRJtlllbOKQSSwy-Q-7OO3jBe7DpkJ28e6_Z0SsbbnKNRj_lw7eudct_aITZNf5QInNamQJothm1hfImQ_HJroWNKs/s1600/DSC00719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1539" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdm1LpE1RmoKt2BWhMzNQzCP61QQuque7cGrKouWqy-lKfEIf7XbRJtlllbOKQSSwy-Q-7OO3jBe7DpkJ28e6_Z0SsbbnKNRj_lw7eudct_aITZNf5QInNamQJothm1hfImQ_HJroWNKs/s320/DSC00719.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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For once, pitches that had looked desperate from below proved easier than expected on closer acquaintance. And how often does that happen? Photo: Alik Berg.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisREUEOXm7IAQ8VIVTLsdCJzQpipCKNxt4ZoHE-UDyzawjklZJvyVoS5g8kF1xgcWOB-VzE9p58-EWu1bKq2G3vMmhgtO0VuqL1-lZgUDmHv_R-JJcRCFS3VSD_lWoPhCjNtkmt7XE2dY/s1600/IMG_8762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="828" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisREUEOXm7IAQ8VIVTLsdCJzQpipCKNxt4ZoHE-UDyzawjklZJvyVoS5g8kF1xgcWOB-VzE9p58-EWu1bKq2G3vMmhgtO0VuqL1-lZgUDmHv_R-JJcRCFS3VSD_lWoPhCjNtkmt7XE2dY/s320/IMG_8762.JPG" width="172" /></a></div>
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Higher up, we entered the guts of the gash, in places climbing in the twilight under giant chockstones.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHPzPs1CG39_EgQsUPvcn-y26TWsDQ_RUos8I5L7MR_kg8vdSwfcypCmJpmtvTrJV2GEwYdkSmkzCHMNy_-Yb__8EWmwfV4X25YULs2DN09EbVY9I9PpaybNw-HCAkuXyazU-O-6F-DYw/s1600/IMG_8772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1510" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHPzPs1CG39_EgQsUPvcn-y26TWsDQ_RUos8I5L7MR_kg8vdSwfcypCmJpmtvTrJV2GEwYdkSmkzCHMNy_-Yb__8EWmwfV4X25YULs2DN09EbVY9I9PpaybNw-HCAkuXyazU-O-6F-DYw/s320/IMG_8772.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The only thing that detracted somewhat from the enjoyment was the haulbag full of hardware we'd brought expecting a epic struggle, but never used.</div>
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The westerlies howled overhead, occasionally sending clouds of spindrift down the gash. In its depths, though, we stayed reasonably sheltered. And at least we didn't have a loaded snow slope overhead.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ46PRhdkjJbV7Dk2q1KsfVgMmd17v4Z5MdtpN6Am80vnWQaQWpMpCWSj1sQyXd3SW8r_GcinrZcOVDDMZgCq9faHLhjQNE2yEFst7Zgd_c3GNtKyHgV-2ZWRo2zcWSTwOttJ6lsJf3Uc/s1600/IMG_8805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1529" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ46PRhdkjJbV7Dk2q1KsfVgMmd17v4Z5MdtpN6Am80vnWQaQWpMpCWSj1sQyXd3SW8r_GcinrZcOVDDMZgCq9faHLhjQNE2yEFst7Zgd_c3GNtKyHgV-2ZWRo2zcWSTwOttJ6lsJf3Uc/s320/IMG_8805.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We topped out from the gully just in time to enjoy the last rays of the sun, setting over the early-winter Rockies. Like alpinists of old, we didn't immediately start down the other side, but scrambled up to the summit proper. It helped that it was only five minutes away. The headlamps didn't come out until we'd returned to our packs at the base.</div>
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Raphael Slawinskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16200502342143502080noreply@blogger.com0