Raphael Slawinski's blog

Nasty habits

2012-01-12T13:10:00.000-07:00

The expression could refer to any number of things. For example, it could refer to a fine if rather obscure route on the right side of the Upper Weeping Wall. I suppose it could also refer to the obvious culprits: cigarettes, drink, religion... Or, it could refer to some of the SNAFUs on the list below. It being the start of a new year I found myself thinking of things I could do better on ice. The accompanying stories and photos are all from the current ice climbing season. Two months down, four more to go!

Swinging away on Nasty Habits, Upper Weeping Wall. Photo: Steve Holeczi.

Dressing too lightly in November.

A warm chinook wind buffeted Jen, Richard and me as we rode our mountain bikes along the Banff golf course access road. It promised to be a warm day on T2, the mixed version of the classic Terminator. But when we emerged from the forest below the T-Wall, we were met by a howling gale that, in spite of the moderate temperatures, felt anything but warm. Only a few days earlier I had been rock climbing in the late October sunshine, and I thought a light softshell would do the trick. Sure, had it been March, this weather would have felt tropical. But unused to the cold as I was at the tail end of a beautiful indian summer, I froze my butt (but especially my hands!) all the way up the climb.

Approaching Cuckoo's Nest in Kicking Horse Canyon in unseasonably warm late-December conditions. No screaming barfies today! Photo: Gery Unterasinger.

Who said you could not use your knees while mixed climbing? Photo: Gery Unterasinger.

Gery drytooling his way out toward the final ice pillar.

It just does not feel right to climb ice in temperatures well above freezing, as the climbing medium reverts to its liquid state. Photo: Gery Unterasinger.

Getting up too late in December.

I like sleeping in. Maybe I am just getting old, but unless the objective for the day is something out of the ordinary, I have a hard time getting out of bed early. Thus, whenever my partners and I are trying to decide what time to start, I am usually the one voting for the later hour. And so when Gery suggested meeting in Canmore at seven to head up to Man Yoga, I did not argue. I did feel a twinge of guilt when we did not even need headlamps as we skied away from the car, but hey, how long could five pitches take? Well, it turned out that if they involved snowed-up drytooling, they could take quite long indeed. As a result it was with a sense of urgency that I started up the last pitch. At least it was all ice, and so it went faster in the fading light. Luckily in the end we were able to find the key rappel station at the lip of a giant overhanging arch, and we gratefully slid down free-hanging ropes into the night.

No need to get up early to go climbing in Opal Creek. Josh rappelling Whiteman Falls...

... and heading back up Red Man Soars.

Belaying in climbing gloves.

Steve took the first block up the Lower Weeping Wall, while I grabbed the second up the Upper. Climbing in blocks is great for staying warm, as you spend only half as long at belays. It did not seem that cold anyway, and I did not want to slow us down by changing into my belay gloves. And so it was that when I started up again, the sweat of the previous pitch had turned my climbing gloves into clammy compresses. Halfway up the mushroomed curtain I knew that there was no avoiding the screaming barfies. Ah, if only I had taken the time to slip my climbing gloves deep inside my clothes where they would have stayed warm, and put on proper belay gloves!

You would not think of belaying in your drytooling gloves, would you? With its familiar routes and fixed draws, the Haffner cave is not far from being an outdoor gym: the red route (a.k.a. Caveman)...

... and the purple one (a.k.a. Fire Roasted). Photos: Gery Unterasinger.

Starting climbing cold.

I dislike hanging belays: they are cold and uncomfortable. I certainly did not mean to stop at the one at the top of Postscriptum, but intended to continue across the traverse onto Sea of Vapours and another fifteen metres to a cave belay. But Postscriptum turned out to be rather more demanding than expected, and by the time I got to the top of the pillar I had used up all my quickdraws clipping all the shaky screws I placed. As a result I hung there, like a piece of tat whipping in the wind, while Steve seconded the pillar and led on through to the cave. I tried to escape the furious updrafts by making myself small and retreating inside the belay jacket but it was no good. I lacked the discipline to keep moving to stay warm. As a result, by the time I unclipped from the belay to follow Steve's lead, I was nearly hypothermic. I could barely hold on to the tools as I hooked my way across the traverse onto the thick but surprisingly crappy ice of the Vapours. At that particular moment, ice climbing seemed rather less than fun.

Climbing at the Stanley Headwall involves lots of wistful looking at sunlit slopes from the shady side of the valley.

Success! No screaming barfies at any point on the pitch. Photo: Jon Walsh.

Jon exploring tenuous new ground on THE Headwall (there is only one capital-H Headwall in the Rockies).

Using ropes shorter than 70 metres on long climbs.

The December sun had gone down behind the ridge across from the Weeping Wall by the time I started up the last pitch. It had a been a good day: we sneaked up Snivelling Gully, postholed to the base of the Upper Wall and climbed three fine new pitches, including a hard mixed crack and a cerebral thin smear. One more pitch and the route would be complete. I tiptoed up a short pillar and then took off running up moderate ice. I was topping out on the final bulge, I could already smell the dark forest at the top of the wall, when the ropes came tight. No amount of yarding could persuade my eminently reasonable partners to start simul-climbing as a threesome. There was nothing for it but to set up a hanging belay on literally the last couple of metres of vertical ice. No matter how much we have, we always want more - especially rope.

With a 70-metre rope, Virtual Reality (on the right) breaks up conveniently into just two pitches.

Good hooks, bad screws: steep fun on the crux of Virtual Reality. Photo: Juan Henriquez.

Not bringing stubbies on thin climbs.

For the umpteenth time my blunt picks bounced off the gray limestone under the windowpane of sublimated ice. I tried again and only succeeded in knocking off more ice. But I simply needed to get a solid stick, something I could lean out on and walk my feet up over the bulge. The string of 13-centimetre screws hanging out of the ice all the way down the pitch did not exactly inspire confidence. Mind you, I had only myself to blame. It was my fourth trip to the T-Wall this season, and I had ample opportunity to have a good look at Postscriptum and realize that a good supply of stubbies was in order. I suppose I had optimistically assumed the pitch was thicker and more plastic than it looked. But all that did not change where I was. In the end, running out of options, I committed to shallow hooks and, my heart in my throat, crawled over the bulge.

Descending into the cul-de-sac below the T-Wall, with the unformed La Goutte in the middle distance.

Arguably the greatest concentration of steep ice in the Rockies. From left to right: T2, Replicant, Troubled Dreams and Sea of Vapours. Bertrand Martenet climbing.

No need for stubbies on the Replicant. Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

Not bringing pitons on mixed climbs.

The short pitch to the base of the crux corner on Uniform Queen looked innocuous enough, and so I left the pins at the belay. Fifteen metres up the pitch I was regretting that decision. Thin ice for the picks, water-polished limestone for the monopoints, and the last cam five metres below: in other words, high potential for broken ankles. A Lost Arrow or even better, a Spectre, would have done the trick, but our wealth of iron was not doing me any good at the bottom of the second's pack. Risk is often an essential part of the complete climbing experience, but it seems silly to increase it through poor judgment. Yes, I know, poor judgment leads to experience and experience leads to good judgment, but just how much poor judgment does it take?

Juan Henriquez getting high on early winter in Kananaskis Country.

Unfortunately some Kananaskis rock is so crappy that not even pins do much good. In such situations treating the choss like ice and swinging and kicking into it seems to do the trick. Photo: Juan Henriquez.

Allowing familiarity to breed contempt.

"You can ski toward Nemesis and traverse along the top of the slope to the base of Suffer Machine." "French Reality, Acid Howl and all those climbs at the mouth of the valley only have avalanche hazard below, nothing but spindrift comes down from above." I have lost count of the number of times I have been up to the Stanley Headwall. Some seasons it felt almost like a second home. I know it can be a serious place, with plenty of avalanche slopes and sublimated ice. But I thought I had the place figured out. That particular illusion was severely shaken this season.

Daylight was fading and I had already donned my headlamp. I was inching my way toward the maw of overhanging icicles that capped the new line we were attempting, when my focus was shaken by what sounded like an approaching train. Peering over my shoulder, I watched wide eyed as an avalanche of nearly Himalayan proportions billowed up somewhere below Acid Howl. For a moment it seemed like it might have punched its way through mature timber and reached the summer trail, but in the end it was only a huge powder cloud that engulfed the valley. As Donald Rumsfeld infamously yet brilliantly said, "there are known knowns. There are also known unknowns. But there are also unknown unknowns."

A beautiful but serious place: the Suffer Machine complex on the left and Man Yoga on the right are threatened by avalanche slopes both below and above them.

One of the best mixed pitches in the Rockies: the crux pitch of Uniform Queen. Photo: Jon Walsh.

A waxing gibbous moon rises over the windswept slopes across from the Headwall.

Letting desire overrule better judgment.

Snowflakes carried by a warm wind swirled around Josh and me as we set off up the familiar trail. Spindrift poured off the Headwall, and a couple of times we heard more than we saw something more substantial rumble down. But we were seriously psyched, and it would take more than a few sloughs to turn us around. It was not like there was enough snow on the approach slopes to avalanche, and there is not that much terrain above Man Yoga, right?

We were gearing up below the route and I was just reaching for the banana bread when Josh shouted "watch out!" I looked up and saw him flatten himself against the wall; impelled by the urgency in his voice I did the same just as our world went dark. The avalanche pounded the ground less than a metre away from us. As the flow increased, I fought being sucked into it. But finally it stopped. Our gear littered the slow below. "Let's get the hell out of here!"

Josh approaching Man Yoga on that fateful day. At least we were marginally sheltered and not scrambling up the initial gully when the avalanche hit.

Another, altogether finer day: Gery torquing and stemming up the first pitch of Man Yoga, with the final ice pitch looming high above.

Gery scratching for holds under the snow on the second pitch...

...and racing impending darkness on the penultimate fourth one.

Pussycat

2011-12-17T12:24:00.001-07:00

One of the cool things about playing in one's home mountain range is going back to familiar places and seeing them in a new light. Like, say, tiptoeing up delicate mixed ground and thin ice right next to the massive Weeping Pillar. Contrived? You could say so. Fun? You bet!

2008. Eamonn Walsh and I took a few days off and went on a little road trip up the Parkway. Our friend Dana Ruddy was away, but that did not stop us from crashing in his basement in Jasper. From there on the first day we climbed "No Use In Crying", an unlikely four-pitch line well left of the Upper Weeping Wall. On the second we took care of some unfinished business on the left margin of Curtain Call, calling the result "Cyber Pasty Memorial" in honour of a perennially untanned friend who had recently given up ice climbing. On the third we headed back up to the Upper Weeping Wall to try a line to the right of Weeping Pillar we had spotted two days earlier. The first pitch went up an intimidating crack with the occasional ice smear: more Alaska than Rockies. I was in the moment, torquing and tapping away, when from the belay Eamonn drew my attention to the increasingly large chunks of snow and ice flying overhead from the sun baked walls above. We ran away and headed home just as the Parkway was being closed for avalanche control.

Always a good time: the classic Lower and Upper Weeping Wall. Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

Attempting the first pitch of Pussycat in 2008. Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

An avalanche thunders down the south face of Mt. Wilson.

2011. "I asked my landlady about her pussycat last night. Did I say something wrong?" the ever polite Swiss asked anxiously. "No, not really. But just be sure to keep the 'cat' in there." replied the adopted Canadian. And so it went as we sped north along the snow-covered Parkway. We did not feel like freezing in the shade, and so headed to the Upper Weeping Wall. Even in deep, dark December that fine wall basks in the sun. The objective? The crack to the right of Weeping Pillar, and then whatever looked good to the top of the wall.

Bring on the Swiss! Bertrand Martenet and Pierre Darbellay running up the Lower Weeping Wall.

Approaching the Upper Weeping Wall, with the line of Pussycat obvious (?) right of the Weeping Pillar.

The crack was just as good as I remembered, even though the ice was not very user friendly, and once or twice I found myself wishing I had brought some big cams. But I was glad to have a rock hammer as I rooted around for a solid belay in a maze of snow-covered rock. We exited the second pitch on a thin veneer and slogged up and right across the big snow ledge running across the Upper Wall.

Splitter. Just like the Creek, eh? Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

Interesting mixed climbing up a classy line. Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

There is something perverse about scratching up rock next to fat ice. Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

Enjoying the December sun on the Upper Weeping Wall, with the Icefields Parkway below in deep blue shade, and Athabasca and Andromeda in the distance. Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

The ice strip enticingly marked 'Unclimbed' in the guidebook (thought who knows for sure?) petered out a few metres above the snow. So much for just running the rest of the way to the top. But the Swiss put on a fine performance, bouldering the unprotected start above a crash pad of deep powder, then gently tapping away at the ominously booming sheet of detached ice, with screws that were more Christmas decoration than protection. Fittingly, we topped out just as the last bit of daylight faded in the west. It had been a good day.

The icicles hanging from the roof were not much help... Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

... but at least the deep snow at the base doubled as a bouldering crash pad. Pierre Darbellay starting up the finishing ice strip.

Pierre Darbellay gently taps his way up an ominously booming and vibrating sheet of desiccated ice.

A figure in a landscape: the right side of the Upper Weeping Wall, with Mt. Amery in the distance.

Pussycat, 180 m, M7 WI5R. FA: Pierre Darbellay, Bertrand Martenet and Raphael Slawinski, December 4, 2011. The route parallels Weeping Pillar on the right, with interesting mixed and thin ice climbing. Climb the obvious crack some 15 m right of the fat ice for two pitches, with a belay on a narrow snow ledge on the right (no fixed gear). Slog up and right across the snow ledge to the base of the upper ice strip. Climb the strip on improving ice for two pitches to a tree on the right. Gear: cams to #4 Camalot with doubles of #1 and 2, half a set of nuts, a few pins and screws (including stubbies).

Creeping old fartism?

2011-12-01T22:23:00.000-07:00

You know you are getting long in the tooth when you start reminiscing about days gone by. Steve Swenson refers to this unfortunate tendency and other signs of advancing age as "creeping old fartism." I try to guard against this dreaded syndrome, but still catch myself occasionally telling some bored youth about the time my partner and I made the first (or was it the umpteenth?) ascent of the north face of Mt. Forgettable... All the same, every December 1 I cannot help thinking back to that day in 1997, when by all rights I should have gotten the chop. I wrote the following story not long after the event.

***

"Rumour had it that Dave Thomson had put up an M8 on the Stanley Headwall: Teddy Bear’s Picnic, the direct start to the unformed pillar of Suffer Machine. I had no clue about M-grades, but an eight sounded exciting. I had to have a go at it. And so the morning of December 1 found Dave Campbell and me hiking up to the Headwall. There was little snow, but it was cold, at most –12 C. We geared up and scrambled a few metres up to the belay ledge, from where a friendly line of bolts lead up to the huge hanging dagger.

Suffer Machine on that fateful day in 1997. Photo: Dave Campbell.

Right from the start the drytooling was overhanging, but tool placements were bomber and I was clipping a bolt every second move. Below a small horizontal roof I paused to rest. A piece of tat hung from the last bolt, after which the route went onto the dagger. I clipped the tat, leaned out and felt over the roof. Nothing here, blank rock there, but here was a good edge. I released the lower tool and swung backhanded into the ice hanging in space behind my head.

Getting onto the hanging dagger. Photo: Dave Campbell.

The ice was lacy and aerated, and my frontpoints kept shearing through. Above where the dagger attached to the back wall, I placed a screw. A few metres higher I placed another one to protect the moves onto the front of the curtain. Once around to the front, I looked up to see smooth ice quickly easing in angle. I started placing my tools more forcefully. Then there was a dry crack and my stationary world blurred into free fall.

I fell for a long time, long enough for thought. There was sound and fury of ice breaking up around me, and then all was quiet. I was hanging at the end of the ropes, a few metres below the belay and a couple of metres above the ground. My crampons were dangling from my boots by their straps, one of my tools was some way downhill. The screws I had placed were hanging on the ropes in front of me, with the Screamers still intact. On both ropes the core was exposed twelve metres from the ends, where they had abraded against the edge of the rock roof. With rope stretch, I must have fallen more than twenty five metres. Looking up, I could see that the curtain had fractured across its entire width far above where it had appeared to attach to the rock.

By the time we pulled into Canmore, I was so stiff I could barely climb of out the car and hobble into the hospital. The immediate diagnosis was that nothing was broken. It later turned out that I had damaged nerves in my right arm. It was a few months before I regained sensation and full function. But I always knew I would climb again. Two weeks after the accident I scrambled up Mt. Rundle with my arm in a sling. Another two weeks went by and I tried leading Wicked Wanda. Having almost no control over my right arm made placements difficult, and I realized my mind would have to give my body time to catch up."

***

I like to think I have gotten smarter with age. It is probably even mostly true. Mostly - but not entirely. In fact, just the other week my partner and I found ourselves cowering under an overhang while... On second thought, not all stories need to be told.

Not all stories need to be told.

Just sport climbing

2011-10-28T22:42:00.002-06:00

A casual reader of this blog might get the impression that its author is an alpinist. Such an impression would be largely mistaken. Sure, I might scramble up the occasional peak, but if the amount of time spent doing something is any indicator, I am first and foremost a sport climber. In fact, since coming back from my last foray into the Bugs in mid-August, I have done nothing in my free time but clip bolts.

There is a kind of uncompromising honesty about sport climbing that sets it apart from other, more forgiving forms of climbing - such as alpinism. Take the Dogleg on the northeast face of Mt. Chephren, a route Pierre Darbellay and I climbed in late winter 2008. It stands out as one of the most intense experiences I have had in the mountains. On the first day we climbed high up a mostly easy couloir, bivied, then the next morning started up the vertical chimneys that top the line. As our second day on the face wore on, blue skies were replaced by driving snow. With nowhere to bivi and the gullies below us running with avalanches, we continued into the night. One pitch from the summit ridge we hit a dead end. The first exit we tried blanked out, while the second turned into an overhanging offwidth. Luckily the third and last option went, releasing us from the face, but not before the combination of storm, darkness and weakness had me dangling from knifeblades to get past an impending wall. Now as an alpine climb the Dogleg was a success: a big new route climbed in bad conditions. But had this been a sport climb, having to yard past the crux on quickdraws would have meant I was still a long way from a proper redpoint.

The sun rises on the northeast face of Mt. Chephren. Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

Snow mushrooms and thin ice under clear skies on the first day. Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

More snow mushrooms but no ice and no blue skies on the second day.

As the second days draws to a close, Pierre Darbellay emerges from a maelstrom of swirling snowflakes.

Or take the southwest face of “Lunda Sar”, an obscure 6300-metre peak in the wilds of the Karakoram. Starting from a bivi below the face, Eamonn Walsh, Ian Welsted and I soloed serac-threatened ice slopes to the base of the business, a wall of ice-streaked granite. There, in the thin air, were climbed eight long pitches of some of the classiest mixed climbing any of us had ever done in the mountains: thin runnels interrupted by overlaps, with mostly good gear but also the occasional mind-focusing runout. Sometime in the early evening we hit the summit ridge, only a hundred metres below the virgin summit. But though the summit was close, it was not close enough. With a metre of unconsolidated snow overlying black ice on a corniced ridge, we ground to a halt after less than a ropelength of this nonsense. Though the lack of a summit was disappointing, we were psyched about the fantastic climbing, and simply relieved to be back at our bivi nearly twenty-four hours after leaving it. But again, had this been a sport climb, lowering from the last draw before the anchor, because after all "we had already done the crux," would have never done.

"Lunda Sar" ("Second-Hand Peak") glows in the evening sun. Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

A checkerboard of granite and ice. Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

Cracking the technical (but definitely not the redpoint) crux. Photo: Ian Welsted.

Ian Welsted follows a pitch high on the face. Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

And so it is that even as the days are getting shorter and colder, translucent grey ice is growing fatter and bluer in shady nooks, and high on the Divide winter snows have already come, I still find myself holding on to the sport-climbing season gone by: shivering by a cliff-side fire, stuffing shake-and-warms into a chalk bag, and punching for the chains. Hopefully the photos below, taken at what is arguably the best sport crag in the Rockies, show why one might be willing to go to such lengths just to rock climb for another couple of weeks.

Photo: Wiktor Skupinski.

Postcards from the Bugaboos

2011-08-27T16:01:00.004-06:00

As soon as I got back from Alaska I headed out on the rocks. Three weeks on a glacier does not do much for finger strength, and I wanted to be ready when summer hit. I need not have hurried. July was cold and wet, with a deep snowpack lingering up high. I suppose walking around in the rain and trying to keep my digits warm, be it in Echo Canyon or in the Bugaboos, made me appreciate real summer when it did finally arrive.

I was not always big on the Bugs. In the four or five hours it takes to drive from Calgary to the trailhead one passes so many fine objectives it is easy to get sidetracked. But as years passed and I ticked off routes on Yam, Windtower and Temple, I found myself increasingly looking for adventure among those granite spires. This summer alone I have already made the short but steep approach four times, and I might not be done yet. Two very different routes have been the highlights of my Bugs season thus far: one shorter but more technical, the other longer but, well, also not altogether casual.

The Power of Lard

When climbing in the Bugs I always used to go into alpine mode, picking routes I could simply walk up to and send without much ado. I reserved sieging routes, and the whole business of hangdogging and redpointing, for Acephale and the Lookout. But I realized that if I wanted to get better at the (for me) black art of crack climbing, I needed to get in over my head in the Bugs as well. I picked the Power of Lard on the east face of Snowpatch Spire as my granite university: long but not that long, and hard but not that hard. In the end weather and conditions turned it into more of a project than I had anticipated. On the first trip we did not get beyond the fourth-class scrambling at the base, as rain and snow enshrouded the spires. On the second trip the weather was better but the second pitch was desperately wet. Finally on the third trip I managed to put together the first six pitches for a baby version of the climb (the Power of Tofu?). I dogged my way up the crux seventh pitch, but a redpoint of that spectacular overhanging splitter will have to await better crack technique. Still, I had a blast playing on what must surely be one of the most aesthetic climbs in the Bugs.

Take 1

It rained a lot in July: good for flowers, not so good for climbing.

The Power of Lard is just one of many fine routes on the right side of the east face of Snowpatch Spire. You cannot really argue with steep rock, splitter cracks and a twenty-minute approach from Applebee. Things are even better if it is not raining and snowing.

"This weather sucks, let's stash the gear and go home." Photo: Jerome Yerly.

Take 2

"You expect me to climb in this weather?" Marcus Norman looks less than thrilled with intermittent flurries while gearing up for the first pitch. Photo: Wiktor Skupinski.

"Hmm, I'm not sure about hangdogging in the Bugs." Raphael Slawinski sorts our the second pitch while Marcus Norman looks on (disapprovingly?). My beta at the crux overlap? Throw a heelhook on the jug below the bolt and pull. Photo: Wiktor Skupinski.

Delicate stemming and palming on the fourth pitch... Photo: Wiktor Skupinski.

... and sustained jamming on the sixth. Photo: Wiktor Skupinski.

Good times but still no redpoint. Stashing the gear in anticipation of yet another kick at the can. Photo: Wiktor Skupinski.

Take 3

Juan Henriquez takes great care preparing his yerba mate on a gorgeous morning at Applebee.

Redpointing is ultimately the art of cheating and a bringing a route down to one's own level. Like hanging a long draw from the bolt at the crux on the second pitch, or avoiding the ledge-fall potential on the third by an end run on the left.

To lieback or to stem, that is the question on the fourth pitch.

The crux seventh pitch overhangs by a good five metres in thirty five, as evidenced by the free-hanging rope. It also marks the difference between the Power of Tofu and the Power of Lard.

All Along the Watchtower

A key (perhaps the key) ingredient of adventure is uncertainty: the uncertainty of attempting an on-sight at one's limit, of setting out on yet another redpoint burn on a month-old project, or of committing to a big alpine route. In each case the outcome is in doubt, and just to have a shot at success requires that one put forth one's best effort. But uncertainty, as is its wont, can spring from the most unlikely sources.

We were still ten kilometres from the trailhead when the tire blew. No problem, we had a spare. Our confidence evaporated when we saw that it was both tiny and nearly flat itself. Would the old Honda Civic, with its already low clearance, make it the rest of the way? Or would it suffer shipwreck on one of the many rocks on the rough dirt road?

Later that evening, with my bladder close to bursting, I extricated myself from our tent at Applebee. Half asleep, I stumbled across the starlit campground. The next thing I knew a boulder rolled underfoot and dropped me on jagged granite. I felt blood trickle down a skinned shin, and why did my knee hurt so much when I bent it? Would it be up to the long day ahead?

I was wide awake when the alarm went off at 2:30 am. A mug of black tea, a bagel spread thickly with Nutella, and we were off. I limped with every step on the trail leading down from Applebee, but luckily the knee felt fine on the uphill to the Snowpatch-Bugaboo col. Well, we were going climbing, and isn't climbing about going up? By the time we were scrambling across the spine below the Beckey-Chouinard it was light enough to see. A quick jaunt across the neve below the Central Howser, and we stood on the spur overlooking the glacier below the west face of the North Howser. We knew that once we rappelled into the basin below the face, the most pleasant way back to our sleeping bags was up and over the summit. Without hesitation, under a cloudless sky growing lighter by the minute, we threw the ropes down the first rappel and committed to the climb.

The Civic, before the flat, along the Bugs road. Snowpatch Spire is poking up above the intervening ridges.

Jerome Yerly crosses below Central Howser as the sky grows pink in the east...

... and traverses deep in the blue shade below the west face of the North Howser.

The lower half of the route is not especially difficult but has some tricky routefinding. After following a left-trending corner system for a couple of pitches, we moved right under a roof and up to the base of a long chimney/offwidth. Photo: Jerome Yerly.

Jerome and pack emerge from the said chimney/offwidth.

Another routefinding decision has to be made above the offwidth. Low-angled ledges tempt one to the left but lead nowhere. Instead, a hard step to the right gains a fun if somewhat vegetated left-facing corner crack.

From the ledges above, instead of trending left right away, we continued up Armageddon before climbing a steep ramp up and left. Photo: Jerome Yerly.

Jerome one pitch below the crux dihedral, in short sleeves in the early afternoon sun.

The point of the whole exercise: the crux corner. It looked short from below (at least to me), but it took us four pitches to get up to the overlap where the route jogs left. Photo: Jerome Yerly.

No single move in the corner was especially hard, but after making the same palming/stemming/liebacking manoeuvre a hundred times, it all started to add up. Photo: Jerome Yerly.

Breathtaking exposure down the corner. Photo: Jerome Yerly.

We had a bit of excitement at the crux traverse. I thought I would aid across it and check things out before trying to free it. Instead, just as I neared the end of the horizontal section, the TCU I was hanging from blew. Its siblings below the overlap also blew one by one, sending me for a nasty swing back into the corner. Ouch to say the least! After that, I am afraid I lacked the gumption to attempt the pitch free, and shamelessly yarded across it. Photo: Jerome Yerly.

It was dark by the time we topped out on the hard climbing. As such, there was no longer any rush, and we settled in on some ledges to eat and drink and layer up before moving on.

Climbing the summit ridge under a starry sky was a magical experience, with friendly granite under our gloved hands and huge drops on each side guessed at rather than seen. We tagged the summit around 2 am and promptly started rappelling the east face. We strolled back into Applebee as the sky grew light for the second time since we last slept, some twenty six hours after we set out.

PS: Last but not least, I would like to thank Ulysse Richard and his partner Eric, with whom we shared the route: for pointing us the right way, and for graciously letting us pass. I hope we did not hold you up too much!

Denali: Common Knowledge

2011-07-11T13:52:00.008-06:00

Common Knowledge?

More rest days followed. More bad weather, too, though not as bad as forecast. Had our trip ended right now, we would not have been unhappy. However, we would not have completely satisfied, either. The Cassin gave us a great day out on a beautiful big-mountain route, it pushed us physically as few ascents ever had, but it did not push us as climbers. Now I love days like the one on the Cassin, when I get to run up miles of easy ground. But once in a while I also need to get on routes where my reality is reduced to the circle of vertical ice and rock within reach of my tools and crampons, routes that keep me oscillating between desperation and elation, all within the span of a single move.

We thought about having a go at the Denali Diamond, which after all had been our original objective. The lower, technical part of the route looked great; however, slogging up the upper Cassin for a second time did not appeal. Between that and simply wanting to see another aspect of the mountain, our thoughts turned to the Washburn Face. What face, you say? The Washburn Face, or more precisely the northwest face of the west buttress, suffers the indignity of being walked past and generally ignored by more people than just about any comparable feature on Denali. Each day of high season tens of people drag their sleds up Motorcycle Hill yet spare hardly a glance for the imposing wall rising in front of them out of the depths of the Peters Glacier. But myself, being an aficionado of all things obscure, I looked at it every time I walked up to 14k. This year I had an especially hard time tearing my eyes away from it, as a narrow but continuous ribbon of ice cascaded down a steep rock buttress on the left side of the wall.

I knew exactly what this line was, too. Not a new route, unfortunately, but something almost as good: a rarely (if ever) repeated testpiece. Ben Gilmore, Kevin Mahoney and Bruce Miller established it a decade earlier and called it Common Knowledge, as other teams had also been vying for it. On the lower half of the route they reported climbing pitch after pitch of water ice, with a WI6 crux thrown in for good measure. A couple of things were certain: as an ice climber I found the line absolutely irresistible; and having climbed ice with Kevin, I knew to take his ratings seriously. We had found our objective.

Spot the line (the arrow should help)! The Washburn Face (in the shade) from Motorcycle Hill.

Morning terrors

Big alpine routes are funny. They are about overcoming imagined difficulties as much as real ones. I find I both desire and dread them. I rarely sleep well the night before doing one. My mind and heart race along, spurred on by excitement and fear. The night before Common Knowledge was no exception. Strangely, what concerned me the most was not the climb itself but the descent to its base. Somehow, we had to find our way down to the Peters Glacier, a vertical mile below our tent at 14k where I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag. Descriptions of the descent were annoyingly vague, though one did helpfully refer to a “slope [that] felt like imminent death […] above a line of gnarly seracs.” In spite of it all, eventually I managed to drift off to sleep.

The alarm went off at four in the morning. I tried to get dressed as much as possible inside the warm confines of the sleeping bag, but once I had my inner boots and big parka on, there was nothing for it but to venture outside. Just as when we had set out for the Cassin a few days earlier, it was a cold, cloudless morning. But unlike that day, which had been beautifully still, a stiff breeze blew through camp. The previous couple of days had been unusually blustery, with snow streamers blowing from the ridges. We hoped climbing lower on the mountain would shelter us from the worst of the wind. Shouldering light packs we headed down, around Windy Corner and down Squirrel Hill. At the top of Motorcycle Hill we left the beaten West Buttress trail and began cutting down fresh snow on the lee side.

“How’s that slope?” I pleaded, hoping to open the door to retreat.

Josh would have none of it. “A bit of a wind slab right here, but it gets better lower down.”

Early in my climbing career I read an interview with George Lowe, one of my climbing heroes. At the end of it he was asked if he had any words of advice for aspiring alpinists. His answer stayed with me: “Try to separate your fears and hopes from a rational evaluation of what you should do.” And so on this bright, cloudless morning I forced my butterflies down and continued descending: downclimbing below some seracs, rappelling over others, and finally reaching the Peters Glacier.

Wake up! Raphael downclimbs below some small but nasty seracs. Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

"I guess we're committed now." Josh makes the final rappel to the Peters Glacier.

Alpine fun

Once in the isolated basin of the Peters Glacier, the simplest way back to the comforts of our camp lay up the route. As soon as our bridges were burnt and we were committed, my butterflies flew off and I started having fun. The altimeter read well below 3000 metres. After a couple of weeks spent between 4000 and 6000 metres, the air felt rich and thick. It was like being back in the Rockies and we were able to push our pace to the base of the wall, as we threaded the needle between the runout of the giant serac spilling between the Washburn Face and the Fathers and Sons Wall on the left, and the debris of the serac bands below the crest of Motorcycle Hill on the right.

Josh threads the needle on the Peters Glacier to the base of the route.

We crossed an easy ‘schrund and headed up the couloir above. A ten-centimetre layer of hard snow covered black ice; in other words, perfect conditions. Between the good neve and the thick air, we fairly sprinted up the gully. We broke out the rope for a harder-than-it-looked step, where my feet sheared through the chandeliers as spindrift poured over my head, then put it away again and soloed on. We could now see the crux pitch, a beautiful column of water ice where the couloir reared up to vertical. A two-screw anchor, some food and drink, the rope, and then it was time to dance to a slower beat.

Josh enjoys good neve low on the route.

Spindrift pours over the first steep step.

Raphael approaches the crux pitch. Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

Ice climbing is a strange game. A friend of mine likes to poke fun at it, saying the moves even on a WI6 are trivial. And he is right: pulling up from one placement to another even on a “hard” ice pitch certainly is trivial. But ice does not come with pre-placed tools one can just grab and go. One of the hardest parts of hard, traditional ice climbing is getting good (or at least decent) tool placements – and protection. Once you have finally managed an OK stick in a mess of fragile chandeliers, and spent minutes fiddling a small wire behind a suspect flake off to the side because the ice is too aerated to take screws, pulling up is indeed easy.

The pitch had looked straightforward from below, but upon closer inspection it turned out to be anything but. I got in a couple of decent screws on the low-angled shield at the start, but higher up they twisted uselessly into air behind sun-baked chandeliers. For a while I could stem between the cascade and the rock beside it, thus avoiding putting my full weight on tools driven into snow and air-filled ice. But then the stems ran out, and I was forced to move around to the front of the pillar – and to fully load my tools. “I’m not sure I can climb this ” flashed through my mind, as my picks bounced uselessly off of the rock beneath a detached skin of ice. I forced the thought down and committed to the marginal placements. At long last a tool thunked into solid ice. I ran out the rest of the pitch on placements each one of which I could have belayed off of. Our seventy-metre rope came tight just as I reached lower-angled ice.

Raphael tries to avoid weighting the tools... Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

... and takes a breather on the crux pitch.

Covered in spindrift, Josh tops out on the crux pitch.

We continued on sixty-degree ice interrupted by vertical steps. By now the sun had swung around the mountain and beat down on us, and some rocks crashed down from sidewalls running with meltwater. Fortunately the mists that had been swirling around us condensed into clouds, and we found ourselves enveloped in a cool, grey murk. The couloir eventually ended on a snowy ridge. We waded up it and stopped at the first flattish spot. It was seven in the evening and we had been going for over twelve hours on under two litres each. It was time for a brew.

Fun in the sun (except for the flying rocks) in the upper couloir. Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

Josh guns for the top of the couloir.

Raphael takes the last few steps to the brew stop. Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

The slog

We were near the top of the cloud layer, and every once in a while we would be afforded a view of the Fathers and Sons Wall to the north, and of the lower-angled upper slopes of our own Washburn Face above. We took our time, making litre after litre of water, eating, and changing into dry socks. After more than an hour, reenergized, we left our small perch and headed up. A mixed band had us rope up one last time, and then we were on easy ground – and in deep snow. The southeast winds of the previous couple of days had scoured the mountain and loaded its northwest aspects, which was unfortunately where we happened to be. There was nothing for it but to resort to the tried-and-true Rockies wallowing technique: carve a trench with your knee, step up into it, repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

Josh pours another precious litre.

The top of the Fathers and Sons Wall emerges from the clouds.

"We should keep our distance here. That way if anything slides only one of us goes." Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

An icefield glowing in the rays of the midnight sun provided welcome relief from the soul-destroying trail breaking, but then it was back to snow. It felt spooky being in the middle of a lee-loaded snowfield suspended a vertical mile above the Peters Glacier, and we detoured onto some rocks. After altogether too many hours we reached the crest of the west buttress. A cold wind whipped across the ridge, threatening to freeze our very eyeballs. Slowly, exhaustedly, we traversed to the top of the fixed lines and stumbled down to 14k. We were now satisfied and could finally go home.

A midnight sunset from high on the Washburn Face.

As the sun dips toward the horizon, the temperature drops. Time to start wiggling those toes.

New picks after being dragged over two vertical kilometres of snow, ice - and granite.

Over and out

After a day’s rest, when getting up to make a cup of tea required a major effort, we packed up our home for the past two weeks and headed down. Ever the optimist, I confidently predicted it would take us no more than three hours back to the airstrip; in the end it took us twice as long. The lower Kahiltna Glacier was a mess. Its surface had melted down to a three-year-old layer of volcanic ash, and as a result it was pitted with metre-deep suncups. After our sleds had overturned for the tenth time we even stopped swearing. Minefields of barely bridged crevasses had us guide the sleds on a short leash to avoid being pulled into a hole by them. At least the rain held off until we had reached the airstrip, but then the skies opened up and it poured. We spent the day sleeping, eating and hanging out with the rangers (many thanks for the hot chocolate!). Just when it looked like we would have to crawl back into our wet sleeping bags for another night on the glacier, a couple of TAT Otters swooped in under low-lying clouds. Carving deep tracks into the mushy landing strip, they roared with effort on takeoff. But take off they did, whisking us back to green grass and hot showers. The adventure was over.

High winds over the summit from the 14 camp.

Josh takes a break on the lower Kahiltna Glacier as Denali and the Kahiltna Peaks glow in the setting sun.

Basecamp leftovers.

A messed up Kahiltna Glacier. Time to get off this mountain!

Common Knowledge on the Washburn face from Joshua Lavigne on Vimeo.

Summary: The second (?) ascent of Common Knowledge by Joshua Lavigne and Raphael Slawinski, June 22, 2011. Round-trip from 14k: 25 hours.

Peters Glacier cutoff descent beta

We found it hard to find reliable information about how to get down to the Peters Glacier and the base of the Washburn Face. Hopefully the following description will encourage more people to enjoy the fantastic climbing to be had on it.

From the 14k camp, walk down Windy Corner and Squirrel Hill to where the trail from 11k comes up Motorcycle Hill. Contour onto low-angled snow slopes on the north side of the ridge, trending to skier’s left. Eventually easy progress is interrupted by snow-covered rock slabs. Contour back to skier’s right and downclimb a 45-degree ice gully under a small but threatening serac. Leave the gully as soon as possible and trend again to skier’s left down 45-degree icefields. Face-in downclimbing or a couple of rappels reach more low-angled snow slopes. These can be traversed to skier’s left all the way to where easy slopes lead down to the Peters Glacier. We got impatient and took a shortcut by making a rappel over a serac/bergschrund, which also got us down to easy slopes and the glacier. 3 hours from the 14k camp.

The approximate line of our descent to the Peters Glacier.

We would like to thank the Mountain Equipment Coop for its generous support of our trip. Both Josh and I are long-time MEC members, which made its backing all the more meaningful.

Denali: The Cassin

2011-07-05T15:57:00.008-06:00

Rest days

Our acclimatization complete, we hung out at 14k and rested. A snowstorm blew though, dropping enough snow to set off numerous sloughs out of steeper terrain, and to build up windslabs on lower-angled slopes. While we were not thrilled with that particular turn of events, the storm did provide a perfect excuse for guilt-free eating, reading and sleeping. When we could stand festering in camp no longer, we stepped into our skis and skinned up to the crest of the West Rib. It felt good to stretch our legs, plus we wanted to check out the West-Rib cutoff descent into the Northeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier, rather melodramatically dubbed the “Valley of Death.” We had originally planned to attempt the Denali Diamond on the southwest face, but between a forecast that could not quite commit to more than one clear day, and me having just started a course of antibiotics, we decided to do something easier instead. The ultra-classic Cassin Ridge it would be.

Denali seen from Talkeetna. The Cassin Ridge is the left-hand skyline.

The evolution of style

The first ascent of the Cassin Ridge was made in 1961 by an Italian team led by, predictably, Riccardo Cassin. While early ascents of the route were made in siege style, with fixed ropes, stocked camps and large teams, gradually alpine style became the norm (including on the first winter ascent of the route in 1982). The first hint at an even purer form of ascent came in 1976, when Charlie Porter soloed the route in a 36-hour push (from the top of the Japanese Couloir). But it was Mugs Stump in 1991 that truly blew away preconceptions about how one could go about climbing the Cassin (and ultimately just about any route in the Alaska Range). Starting from the 14k camp, he descended the lower West Rib into the Northeast Fork, blitzed the route in 15 hours, and returned to camp 27.5 hours after setting out. This was the style we would aspire to: treating the route as a day climb, carrying little more than the clothes on our backs, and keeping going until we were done.

It's mostly the puffy jacket and pants. Raphael carries a light pack on the Cassin. Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

The climb

We were up early, while Hunter and Foraker still lay silent and blue under a clear sky. It was cold, below -20 C, and we were glad to warm up with the 400-metre uphill to the crest of the West Rib. From there we descended the 1972 Ramp: hiking down snow, facing in on 45-degree glacier ice, front-pointing down over bergschrunds. We had brought an 8-mm rope and tied in for some crevassed stretches (and we were glad we did when Josh, who was out in front, stepped into a couple of slots). A quick jaunt below the seracs of the southwest face brought us to the base of the Japanese Couloir less than three hours after leaving camp.

The moon sets over Hunter as we leave 14k.

Josh descends the 1972 Ramp toward the base of the Cassin, with the Japanese Couloir, the Knife-Edge Ridge and the Hanging Glacier behind him.

Having run the gauntlet of the southwest-face seracs, Josh traverses to the base of the Japanese Couloir.

We downed some bars and gels, grabbed a swig from the water bottle, and crossed the ‘schrund below the couloir. Strangely enough today we were not alone in what is usually a lonely place. Taking advantage of the favourable forecast, two other teams had set out from 14k the evening before. One of these, Jasmin Fauteux and Paul Taylor, was in fact just finishing the couloir. In deference to the steady stream of small ice chunks rattling down the gully, we tied in and moved together with the occasional screw or cam between us. We said hello to our friends at Cassin Ledge and continued, past the rock crux and onto the Knife-Edge Ridge (knife-edged in name if less so in actual fact) leading to the Hanging Glacier.

Josh tops out on the Japanese Couloir.

Jasmin and Paul (from the left) enjoy the comforts of Cassin Ledge.

Josh hikes up the Knife-Edge Ridge, with the Kahiltna Peaks below him separating the East and Northeast Forks of the Kahiltna Glacier. A complete traverse linking the Kahiltna Peaks with the Cassin Ridge has been attempted but remains uncompleted.

A broad scoop at the base of the glacier made for an excellent food and drink stop. Then, unroping, we were off again. The slog up the glacier went quickly and soon we were scrambling through the First Rockband. Snow gullies, rock steps, ice chutes: at first it was all quite entertaining, but as the rockband went on, we grew impatient. The mists swirling around us had thickened into clouds, and we found ourselves climbing through a snowy murk. Eventually we exited the First Rockband and slogged up an ill-defined snow ridge toward the Second. Fortunately the Second Rockband did not drag on like the First, and before long we were emerging from the clouds at its top.

Raphael enjoys morning sunshine on the Hanging Glacier. Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

Josh nears the top of the bigger-than-it-looks First Rockband. As Barry Blanchard said, "if it wasn't for foreshortening, nobody would get up anything."

Josh emerges from the clouds at the top of the Second Rockband.

The top of the Second Rockband marked the end of the technical climbing (it never was terribly technical, but it did require one to use all four appendages). From here on we would be hiking. In preparation for the upcoming slog, and taking advantage of the mid-afternoon heat, we fired up the stove and made litre after litre of water. Eventually the wind kicked up, reminding us it was time to get moving again.

The brew stop at the top of the Second Rockband, with Foraker in the distance.

We traversed out onto the upper slopes of Big Bertha, the hanging glacier dominating the south face, to bypass the Third Rockband. When we returned to the ridge crest above it, we were in for an unpleasant surprise. Up to this point we had been following in the tracks of the other party on the Cassin this day. Unfortunately Colin Haley and Nils Nielsen, having broken trail all the way to above the Third Rockband, had finally had enough. With the summit still some thousand metres higher, they traversed off across the endless avalanche slopes of the southwest face all the way to the West Rib. We had gotten off easy thus far, but from here on we would have to work.

Josh traverses out onto the snow slopes of Big Bertha.

Back on the ridge above the Third Rockband, we are forced to break our own trail.

And get worked we did, as the sun swung lower in the sky before eventually disappearing behind the West Rib. It grew colder, while as we got higher the air thinned noticeably. Lower down we had been able to move at something resembling a pace we would keep back home in the Rockies, but now we slowed to the point we were taking one, and then two breaths per step. As a result, even wearing all our layers, the movement was barely enough to keep us warm. Stopping to rest was not an option. I evolved a system whereby I would take a step, take a breath while I wiggled my toes three times, take another step… Every time I tried to cheat my hurting body and rush a few steps, I would end up slumped over my ice tools, coughing my lungs out. The summit ridge was not far above now, but it seemed to take an eternity before we left the crappy snow of the final gully behind and reached firm neve.

Evening sun the on the upper ridge, with Foraker poking up out of the clouds.

The sun prepares to disappear behind the West Rib.

Josh enters the shade on the upper reaches of the Cassin.

We crested the ridge just where the normal route comes up from the other side. One moment we were on our own on the southwest face, the next we stood on a well-trodden trail with wands every few metres. The summit was a bit higher still, but I did not think I would find anything there I did not already find on the ridge. We plunge-stepped down Pig Hill, across the Football Field, up the cruel rise on its far side and down again. The last thousand metres to the ridge had taken their toll on us, and even walking downhill we had to stop and rest occasionally. For the second time since we had gotten up the sun painted the summit of Foraker red, as we headed down the ridge below 17k toward the top of the fixed lines. Reaching our tent at 14k, we dropped our packs, pulled off our boots and crawled into our sleeping bags. We did not emerge again until many hours later, long after the sun had turned the inside of the tent into a brightly lit sauna.

Sunset over the North Summit of Denali from the top of the Cassin.

Raphael and Josh (from the left) look somewhat less than exuberant at the top of the route. Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

Cassin in Under 24 hrs from Joshua Lavigne on Vimeo.

Summary: An ascent of the Cassin Ridge by Joshua Lavigne and Raphael Slawinski, June 18, 2011. 14k to base: 3 hours. Base to summit ridge: 16.5 hours. Summit ridge back to 14k: 4 hours. Round-trip from 14k: 23.5 hours.

Some thoughts on alpine speed records

One of the sure signs a climb is becoming a trade route is that people start keeping track of the times achieved on it. Just think of the Nose or the 1938 Route on the Eiger. But while chances are successive speed records on the Nose were set under similar conditions, sunny granite being what it is, things are not nearly as clear cut on the Eiger – or the Cassin.

On the Cassin we followed in Colin’s and Nils’ tracks to above the Third Rockband, saving time and energy. What if we could have stayed in their tracks all the way to the top, and as a result beaten the current record of 14:40 (‘schrund to summit ridge)? Would that have made us the strongest alpinists around? I hardly think so. So does establishing a valid speed record require that one break one’s own trail? And how much fresh snow should there be on the route to ensure “typical” conditions? Reproducible “laboratory” conditions are pretty hard to achieve in the alpine, and as a result alpine speed records should be taken with a grain of salt.

Do not get me wrong, I am not against reporting times on alpine routes. I find hearing about fast times inspiring (if also a bit discouraging at times). Putting in a respectable time on a big alpine route requires exceptional fitness, skill, and a willingness to stick one’s neck out just that little bit further (all that in addition to good conditions!). And knowing that, 20 years after Mugs Stump’s standard-setting ascent of the Cassin, today's alpinists have improved on his time by a mere 2 percent makes us realize just how far ahead of his time he was.

(to be continued)

We would like to thank the Mountain Equipment Coop for its generous support of our trip. Both Josh and I are long-time MEC members, which made its backing all the more meaningful.

Denali: On The Butt

2011-07-01T09:13:00.002-06:00

Alaska?

Every spring robins, ducks and geese, driven by an evolutionary imperative, fly north to mate, nest and breed. Alpinists might not be subject to the same reproductive urge. All the same, as days get longer and ice climbs in their home mountain ranges once again become waterfalls, they too feel the pull of the vast boreal tundra, and of the great white peaks rising above it. I seem to go up north every other year or so: I have made trips to the Alaska Range in 2005, 2007, 2010, and again this year. What is it about the place that keeps drawing me back? Is it the huge faces of perfect granite laced with ice, rising above immense glaciers? Is it the 24-hour daylight that throws off your internal clock and lets you – if you are masochistically inclined – to climb for as long as your body and mind will let you? Is it the thin, cold air high on Denali that forces you to tread a fine line, too cold to stop and rest, too exhausted to warm up through movement? I expect it is probably all of that, and something else besides I cannot quite put my finger on. But I intend to keep going back to try to find out.

The great white peaks of the north (Mts Saint Elias and Logan?) from the Vancouver-Anchorage flight.

Plans and strategies

Joshua Lavigne and I planned to spend most of June on Denali, taking advantage of the warmer temperatures that month brings to the upper reaches of the mountain – while also escaping the monsoon that usually deluges the Bow Valley at this time of the year. We had researched several different routes to give ourselves a choice of objectives to suit psych, weather and conditions. It is good to have specific goals in mind to keep one from wasting time and energy. But it is also important to be flexible and to allow the mountain, rather than plans made in one’s living room months beforehand, to determine what to climb. What we were clear on was the style in which we would climb. With its 24-hour daylight, the Alaska Range is uniquely suited to single-push climbing. Over the years people like Mugs Stump, Steve House, Marko Prezelj and many others have shown that any route in the range, no matter how big, can be done with a daypack, a stove, and a willingness to push one’s body and mind beyond preconceived limits.

A midnight sunset over Denali.

Acclimatizing

At 6194 m, Denali is small compared to, say, the mountains of the Karakoram, where 6000-metre peaks are a dime a dozen. But its location just south of the Arctic Circle, due to the flattening of the atmosphere at the poles, means that the air on its summit is quite a bit thinner than it would be at more moderate latitudes. How much thinner? A casual comparison of the air pressure in Alaska and Pakistan indicates that, owing to its northerly latitude, the summit of Denali feels up to 500 metres higher.

Now all of this is a roundabout way of saying that, before launching on single-push missions, one has to acclimatize. Fortunately the normal route on Denali, the popular West Buttress, is perfect for this purpose. Over a number of trips to Alaska and Pakistan (along the way nicely illustrating the saying that “good judgment comes from experience and experience comes from bad judgment”) I have developed some acclimatization strategies that work well. One strategy is to follow the well-known advice of going high but sleeping low. From painful experience, camping high while not acclimatized absolutely sucks. Another strategy is less obvious but just as important, and it is not to fuck around while acclimatizing. I remind myself that for the first bit of a trip, the aim is to acclimatize, not to climb anything interesting; that will come later. Interesting climbing is usually slow and tiring, and as such is not conducive to getting high as efficiently as possible. I wasted a lot of time on my trips to Pakistan trying to make acclimatization interesting before I learned this particular lesson. What all of this means on Denali is taking two or three days getting up to 14k on the West Buttress, setting up a comfortable camp, and then going on daytrips higher up, first to 17k and then to the summit. If all goes well, within a week or so of landing on the glacier one should be ready to “get off The Butt and go climbing,” as Scott Backes once memorably put it.

Josh, still not quite acclimatized, takes the last few steps to the summit of Denali. Mt. Foraker rises over his right shoulder.

Talkeetna

We left Calgary on the morning on June 4^th, and by late afternoon arrived in quaint Talkeetna, the jump-off point for most trips to the Alaska Range. This small Alaskan town has a lot of climbing tradition, from the historic Fairview Inn that saw the likes of Dougal Haston and Doug Scott pass through its doors, to the sobering sight of the climbers’ cemetery, with its grave markers made of rusted ice tools. That evening we caught up with some friends over what would be our last beers in a while. The following morning we received our Clean Mountain Can, that Denali climber’s essential (though seriously now, the rangers have done an amazing job of ensuring the mountain does stay clean). After waiting for a few hours for the weather to clear, we piled into one of TAT’s Beavers and headed for the hills.

Talkeetna spring.

A motley crew gathers at the West Rib pub. Photo: Eric Landmann.

A grave marker at the Talkeetna climbers' cemetery.

The TAT cat prowls the airstrip.

Under a ceiling of low cloud we followed the frozen river of the Kahiltna Glacier upstream. The giant bulk of Mt. Foraker loomed to our left, and then we were banking sharply right and coming in to land below the north face of Mt. Hunter, guessed at more than seen though the clouds. The usual choreographed pandemonium greeted us on the landing strip: the dazed new arrivals dragging their duffels up the hill, while others, eager to be off of the mountain, dragging theirs down.

The Susitna River near Talkeetna.

The terminus of the mighty Kahiltna Glacier.

Glacier textures.

The West Butt

The following morning we were away early to take advantage of the cold for easier travel. The skies had cleared overnight, and while we skied along in the blue shadows on the valley bottom, the summits glowed yellow in the morning sun. The sun did eventually catch us at the bottom of Ski Hill, where the West Buttress route, after a long stretch of almost horizontal glacier travel, begins its circuitous ascent. For some perverse reason we were determined to make it all the way to the 11k camp, so we sweated our way uphill, with our heavily loaded sleds as our ball and chain.

Josh, sled in tow, makes his way up Ski Hill, with the West Kahiltna Peak rising behind him.

Weird scenes inside a goldmine (or on a glacier, in this case), as a soloist protects himself creatively against a crevasse fall.

The Big One. The West Buttress follows the left skyline while the Cassin Ridge climbs the right. The West Rib is in the centre; note the serac avalanche in the cirque left of the West Rib.

We spent an unexpected two days at 11k, while I recovered from a nasty cold, before moving up to 14k. The 14k camp, situated in a sheltered basin nearly two vertical kilometers below the summit of Denali, would be our home for the next two weeks. We gratefully parked our sleds and set up camp, designer kitchen and all, knowing that from here on we would not have to carry anything bigger than daypacks.

The 14k camp is not threatened by serac fall. Really!

Josh whips up a high-altitude cappuccino.

The twin-summitted Mt. Hunter from the 14k camp.

After a day’s rest we hiked up to the 17k camp to breathe some thin air. From 14k the normal route climbs a forty-degree headwall adorned with fat fixed ropes, before turning right and following the easy but spectacular crest of the West Buttress. During the daily rush the fixed ropes can be a surreal experience, with traffic jams and flaring tempers worthy of Calgary or Chicago. Just as on a divided freeway, here too there are designated up and down-lines. Most people climbing Denali box themselves into fixed ways of doing things: they carry huge loads, they cache them, they go back down and bring up more stuff, they jumar up what would be a black ski run back home. It does not occur to them to experience the joy of unencumbered movement for a change: to ditch the big back, to simply walk up beside the fixed lines, to bypass the entire circus. I hope they are having fun, though I am not sure how much fun walking crushed under a monstrous pack, all the while staring at the heels of the person in front of you, can be.

Josh carrying his skis up the headwall above the 14k camp. He skied down the icy Rescue Gully from the 17k camp in his soft climbing boots, a "terrifying descent."

The crest of the West Buttress at around 5000 m.

A busy day on the fixed ropes. Note the up-line on the right and the down-line on the left.

But the West Buttress experience is not all about grumpy peak baggers. One of the great joys of travelling Denali’s normal route is meeting wonderful people who make the whole thing about so much more than just climbing. And let us face it, on an expedition most of the time is spent not climbing but hanging out in camp. Martin Boiteau and Yan Mongrain from Montreal had a program similar to ours: acclimatize then climb. We spent many happy days at 14k, sitting around the (almost literal) kitchen table, drinking tea, eating pancakes and shooting the shit. Our trip was made better by their friendship.

A snowy day at 14k.

"More strawberry syrup on your pancake?"

From the left: Martin, Josh and Yann tackling the world's problems.

After another day’s rest we hiked up to the summit. My cold had turned into a sinus infection (many thanks to our 14k-camp neighbour and fellow Calgary alpinist, Dr. Jasmin Fauteux, for salvaging our trip with his antibiotics!), and for the first couple of hours out of camp I felt like shit. My heart was pounding, I was pouring sweat and I moved at half the pace I should have. But strangely, the higher we went the stronger I felt, and in the end I was able to push my burning lungs and aching legs up the final ridge to the top. A week and a day had passed since we landed on the glacier, and we could finally go climbing.

Josh on the Autobahn, the thirty-degree traverse to Denali Pass above the 17k camp.

A tiny figure emerges onto Denali's summit ridge.

The air pressure on the summit is well below half of that at sea level. And no, though it was relatively warm that evening, it was certainly not +22 C.

Breathless but happy on top.

(to be continued)

We would like to thank the Mountain Equipment Coop for its generous support of our trip. Both Josh and I are long-time MEC members, which made its backing all the more meaningful.

Spring?

2011-05-23T22:01:00.002-06:00

Spring in the Rockies is an interesting time. It can suck, as the monsoon descends and turns rock into a seeping mess and snow into desperate mush. But it can also be brilliant, with dry rock in the front ranges and crisp conditions in the alpine. Right now we seem to be entering the monsoon phase (though the Lookout was pretty good this weekend), but last week was a different matter.

***

Yamnuska

Going up on Yam for the first time in the season feels like coming home: the sorting of gear in the parking lot, the hike up the switchbacks below the face, the hours spent navigating the maze of grey and yellow rock, the quick run down the backside, and then one more route because it is spring and there is still lots of daylight left. There is a reassuring familiarity about the whole affair but also some anxiety, as befits a big limestone cliff. Last weekend Gery Unterasinger and I inaugurated the Yam season with two of my favourites: Yellow Edge, and Jimmy and the Cruisers. Some might dismiss Yellow Edge as a pile of (yes, yellow) choss festooned with aging gear, but to me that is where much of its appeal lies. Sure, the route might be a bit rough around the edges, with its loose blocks, rat shit and rivet ladders, but it is those things that make it a (Yam) classic. And it climbs really, really well, with committing liebacks, delicate faces and lots of air below. Jimmy is a somewhat different proposition, sporting some of the better grey rock around, but the traverse on the penultimate pitch, with its sparse bolts and big exposure, always gets my attention - especially if the clouds have moved in, the wind is howling, and my fingers are going numb. Yes, it felt good to be back on the old Yam pile.

Yam soaking up the morning sun.

Navigating the third pitch of Yellow Edge, which is more solid than it looks. Trust me! Photo: Gery Unterasinger.

Take it for granite? Maybe not, but the fourth pitch of Yellow Edge is one of the better crack pitches on Yam.

Looking down the devious fifth pitch of Yellow Edge...

... and up the same pitch. Photo: Gery Unterasinger.

Starting up Jimmy and The Cruisers...

... and sorting out the rope on the crux. Photo: Gery Unterasinger.

Yam: good for the soul but hard on the hands.

***

Joffre

My obsession with the mountains began in 1989, when my father and I climbed Mt. Joffre, a big glaciated hunchback of a mountain in the Kananaskis backcountry. The afternoon before we hiked to Aster Lake, camped, then got up before dawn and made our way up first moraines, then bare glacial ice, then summer neve to the highest point of K-Country. My life was never the same again. Last week, twenty two years later, I thought it would be fun to revisit old Joffre on skis. And so it was that a couple of days after basking in the sun on Yam, Steve Holeczi, Andrew Wexler and I met at a cruel hour of the morning and dodged wildlife on Highway 40 all the way down to the Kananaskis Lakes. A grey dawn broke as we skied around the thawing Upper Lake. We continued through steep trees above Hidden Lake, across the white expanse of Aster Lake, and around the corner onto the moraines of the Mangin Glacier. Low cloud hid the peaks while a keen wind whipped snow into our faces. Given the shitty weather I do not think any of us expected to actually get up what was after all a sizeable mountain, but we had nothing better to do and so continued into the whiteness. After a while the rockbands of the north face materialized out of the mist. We thought we could follow them up and right, and not get too lost. When the slope steepened we booted straight up to the summit ridge. Fear of cornices overhanging the west face had us looking for the rope none of us had brought. In the end, roping up with some cordelette gave us the courage to grope our way to the highest point. To make things even better - and much to our surprise - on the return trip the snow in the valley bottoms had not turned into isothermal mush. Funny how little it takes to make one happy sometimes.

Emerging from the trees above Hidden Lake...

...traversing to Aster Lake...

... and slogging up moraines below the Mangin Glacier.

"Are we done resting yet? I'm cold."

May in the Rockies can seem an awful lot like winter.

On the north face (slope? hillside?).

The view from the summit left something be desired, but the company was good.

Is this the skiing equivalent of drytooling?

Almost there. And not a minute too soon.

Rammstein and mixed climbing

2011-05-16T09:44:00.001-06:00

What does one have to do with the other? They are both about metal, stone and melodrama.

Raph Does Thriller Cave from Wiktor Skupinski on Vimeo.

March 2009 in the Thriller Cave.

Last Friday in Edmonton.

Tsunami!

2011-05-03T14:50:00.001-06:00

I pull over a bulge and come face to face with the serac capping the route. It is not really nasty as far as such things go, but still leans past vertical like a frozen breaking wave. Fortunately a stream of water ice pours out of a crack in the serac wall, and allows a merely vertical passage out of the shadowed world below into the sunshine playing on the windblown snow just above. I am glad I am spared carving placements out of the old, hard glacier ice; getting sticks in the cold water ice is hard enough. As the angle of the ice kicks back I pick up my pace, hooking cracks in the surface of the glacier, running for the top. The top? Actually the summit of the mountain is still hundreds of snow-choked metres above, but a flat glacial bench will do. From here, if we wanted to, we could go left and walk down a snow couloir, or go right and downclimb the glacier tongue. We do neither, as we drill the first abalakov and slide down the ropes, but it is the principle that matters. On the way down we battle stuck ropes as thick spindrift washes over us. May has come to the Rockies.

The ice over the Mistaya River is starting to break up, but we still manage to get across without getting our feet wet.

Spot the line! Tsunami climbs the obvious ice strip on the wall left of the Snowbird Glacier (and right of the unformed Riptide).

Josh heads up the approach couloir toward the start of the route.

Josh on one of the many traverses low on the route. After all, it is the Rockies: when in doubt, just look around the corner.

Thin ice or chossy rock? Let us go with the rock, at least there will be some gear. Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

Josh starts up the first of the ice pitches, with Rocket Man peeking over his shoulder.

As the day warms up, a massive slide thunders down the Rocket Man approach.

The final two pitches tower over the hapless professor's head. Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

The rope cutting into a snow mushroom offers a snowflake's eye view of Josh climbing up.

One pitch to go! The Icefields Parkway is visible far below. Photo: Joshua Lavigne.

Josh emerges from the crack in the serac feeding the route.

The glacier's layers were laid down by thousands of winters. It gives one something to think about as one's tools bounce off of the serac ice.

On the way down we are pounded by spindrift blowing off of the glacier above.

The sun sets on the summit of Mt. Patterson.

Summary: The first ascent of Tsunami (300 m, M5 WI5+), Mt. Patterson, by Joshua Lavigne and Raphael Slawinski, May 1, 2011. The route lies on the wall right of Riptide, and when formed is obvious. The first two pitches trend first right, then back left, on steep snow and low-angled rock, to a snowfield. On the first ascent the ice did not come all the way down to the snow, and was accessed by climbing a loose but well-protected crack system on the left. The final three pitches climb gradually thickening ice to - and through - the serac barrier. The serac capping the route appears to be benign, but one never knows with seracs.

Descent: Rappel the route from ice and rock anchors. The lower traverses are avoided by rappelling straight down a steep, rocky depression.

Gear: Half a set of nuts, a few pitons, cams to #2 Camalot, and ten or so screws of all lengths.

Playing pinball on the Spray Range traverse

2011-04-24T21:54:00.002-06:00

I like link ups. There is something very satisfying about doing multiple routes in a day, be it ice climbing or Yammering (or sometimes both). But link ups, let us face it, are also rather contrived. On Yam, say, you climb a route, you walk back down to your stuff, you move it to the base of another route, you climb it, you walk back down... For instance one June Jon Walsh and I did what we somewhat pretentiously referred to as an El Cap day: three routes adding up to over 900 m of climbing, each route featuring much 5.10 with 5.11 cruxes. I know, for a true El Cap day the cruxes should have been in the 5.13 range; I guess ours was was a poor man's El Cap. Still, I barely squeaked through the crux on the last route, and felt wasted the following day. It was a fun enchainment, but not a very natural one.

Not quite El Cap.

An enchainment becomes more compelling when each link in the chain naturally leads to the next one, like ice flowing over successive tiers on a mountainside. Guy Lacelle and I once tried to combine Midnight Rambler (an easy ice gully), Stairway to Heaven (a bolted mixed route) and Living in Paradise (a hard ice route), the three ascending the same drainage on the south face of Mt. Wilson. Given that it was December and days were on the short side, our odds were rather long. Still, we had to try. We walked up in the dark, scrambled up the first route, broke out the half rope we had brought to save weight for the second route, and finally started up the third one. The afternoon was getting on, but it was not lack of daylight that stopped us, but lack of ice. I still remember Living in Paradise on that day as one of the most engaging pieces of ice I have ever attempted. Faced with a shitty semi-hanging belay and harder climbing above, we pulled the plug.

Guy Lacelle on the first pitch of Stairway to Heaven attempting the enchainment.

A somewhat less obvious but - at least to me - very natural kind of link up is one where the descent from one route places you at the start of the next one. Borrowing a term from masters of the genre, the Giri Giri boys, I call this a pinball link up. Ski touring lends itself very well to the kind of flow that pin-balling from descent to ascent provides. The other day I got a taste of the possibilities of pin-balling as Gery Unterasinger and I traversed the Spray Range. Starting from the Burstall Pass parking lot we ascended a giant slide path on a bulletproof crust to the saddle between Commonwealth Peak and Piggy Plus. A fabulous descent down another slide path landed us in Commonwealth Creek. A second ascent up yet another slide path, by now softening up in the sun, took us to a shoulder of The Fist. From there, a disappointingly short run down the Tryst Lake chutes led to a third valley bottom, and a third climb.

Gery approaching the Commonwealth Peak-Piggy Plus col, with Mt. Sir Douglas in the distance.

Gery hucking the cornice and plunging down into Commonwealth Creek.

A sweaty ascent below The Fist.

How many different kinds of snow are there?

Each time we plunged below tree line, we shed layers in the sweaty heat. Each time we crested a ridge, we pulled them back on against a biting wind. Yet another powder descent took us below Tent Ridge. By now I was feeling all the ups and downs in my legs, and the fourth and last ascent was by far the hardest one. But the top did not disappoint, with views down to the Spray Lakes, up to Assiniboine, and across the ridges and valleys we had crossed. A last blast down on a mixed bag of powder and sastrugi, and we popped out on the road right where we had left the second car.

Ascending for the third time, with the Tryst Lake chutes behind. Photo: Gery Unterasinger.

The third descent. Photo: Gery Unterasinger.

Gery on Tent Ridge...

... and ripping it up on the way down.

Looking back across the traverse.

A ptarmigan clinging to winter near the top of Tent Ridge.

I am already thinking of other possibilities. Snow, ice, rock; seen from the right perspective, each medium offers vast opportunities for knocking about in the mountains. And of course beyond the relatively limited world of one-day pinball missions lies the vast universe of multi-day pin-balling. I cannot wait.

Twelve years later

2011-04-08T22:54:00.002-06:00

April 1999. My most exciting winter season yet was wrapping up. The X-Games, Ouray, early repeats of hard routes big and small: it felt like being caught up in a whirlwind of overhanging rock and ice. Toward the end of the season I got involved in the Rockies' biggest new-wave mixed project to date, the visionary Rocket Man on Mt. Patterson. The route was the brainchild of 'Everyday Dave' Thomson, but the scale of the project meant extra manpower was needed, which was where I came in. Kefira Allen and I spent a couple of days toiling on the wall, jumaring up lines strung over the lower pitches, bolting our way toward the final icicle, pushing the high point a little higher. Dave Thomson and Eric Dumerac were the first to top out on the route: after jugging to the top of the ropes, they finished up the last two pitches of ice. From below the ice had looked continuous and so the drill got left behind. But Rocket Man had an ace up his sleeve: the final ice did not quite connect with the snow ledge below, requiring a few metres of unprotected drytooling to start.

I am a peak bagger, and summits - even arbitrary ones, like the transition from steep ice to low-angled snow - matter to me. But I am also a sport climber, and climbing a route in a single go from bottom to top means just as much. Because, as GNA ads used to say, style matters. And so Kefira and I crossed the thawing Mistaya River and skied toward Rocket Man one more time. Her shoulder was wrecked and awaiting surgery, but she selflessly volunteered to jumar behind me to give me a chance at climbing the route. A stiff Gore-tex suit, leashes, straight shafts: quaint technology from another century. But mixed climbing was still mixed climbing, and the yellow limestone and blue ice were the same then as they are today. Dave skied up the moraines to watch our progress and take photos. I do not remember that much from that day; after all, it was twelve years ago, and Dave is not here anymore. I do remember dodging a falling cornice on the route, and breaking through the river ice on the ski back to the car.

The mighty Rocket Man. Raphael Slawinski (climbing) and Kefira Allen (belaying) on the fourth pitch. Photo: Dave Thomson.

Raphael Slawinski moving into the M7 crux on the third pitch. Photo: Kefira Allen.

Raphael Slawinski (climbing) and Kefira Allen (belaying) on the fourth pitch. Photo: Dave Thomson.

April 2011. It was another flawless early-spring day. Jon Walsh and I met in Lake Louise, fuelled up on cappuccino, and raced up the Parkway. The outside thermometer in Jon's car dipped to an unseasonal -18 C, but skiing toward the east face of Mt. Patterson had us shedding layers in no time. Two hours after leaving the car we were changing out of AT and into climbing boots at the base of Rocket Man. With a bit of simul-climbing Jon took us up the first two pitches. Our pace slowed dramatically as I started up the third: detached ice and loose rock had me holding my breath as I gingerly weighed creaky edges. Coming to a fork in the road ahead, with more insecure drytooling but bolts up left, and ice but no gear up right, I hesitated for a few moments before heading right. A lock-off on a flexing flake, a rushed swing into thin ice, then another, and I had my feet back under me.

Jon Walsh skiing toward the east face of Mt. Patterson, with Rocket Man on the sunny wall right of the Snowbird Glacier....

... and starting up in the mid-morning sun.

Raphael Slawinski committing to the ice on the third pitch. Photo: Jon Walsh.

Jon Walsh winding up for the camera on the third pitch.

The next two or three pitches went more easily and and let us recover from all the exertion. From a fat snow ledge one more pitch of rock remained. But why was the first bolt so high and where were all the holds? Who bolted this piece of choss and sandbagged it, anyway? Some climbing physicist, I am told. After exploring his options, Jon finally committed to the least bad of the holds and started climbing. A few moves later something gave way and he was off. But why was he not stopping, with a bolt at his waist? The mystery was solved when the bolt was found still attached to the quickdraw: the yellow limestone had exploded around the hole. Jon contemplated life for a few minutes and headed back up. After all the excitement, the ice pitches at the top were pure joy: steep but solid, with breathtaking exposure all the way down to our uptrack. And then we were standing in deep snow at the top of the ice, looking at the upper mountain festooned with monstrous mushrooms and cornices. We were grateful not to be venturing among them, but to be downward bound instead.

Why is ice climbing always more difficult than it looks? Jon Walsh starting up the fourth pitch...

... and searching for holds at the start of the seventh one.

Raphael Slawinski following bolt-protected ice on the seventh pitch (for the record, there was no ice here on the first ascent). Photo: Jon Walsh.

Jon Walsh stepping up on the final pillar.

Hanging glaciers in the mist.

Downward bound.

The Peach Redux

2011-03-31T15:23:00.002-06:00

Last Saturday, Wiktor, Jerome and I headed back up to The Peach. While Jerome and I had a blast reclimbing the route, Wiktor hung it out there, jugging up lines fixed to anchors consisting of equalized pins driven into decaying limestone. "Try not to weigh the rope," I advised him as he lowered out from a station to begin a free-hanging jumaring session. But not even the yawning void under his ass could make his hand tremble. After all, you would not want the footage marred by camera shake, would you? The result is a fine video of a fine route.

Wiktor hanging it out, camera, multiple lenses and monopod in tow. Photo: Jerome Yerly.

Second go at The Peach from Wiktor Skupinski on Vimeo.

The Peach

2011-03-15T08:52:00.008-06:00

March 2008. In between overnight alpine outings, Pierre Darbellay and I took a break from big mountains and big packs to head up Storm Creek. We had already enjoyed a couple of good days up there, climbing some fantastic, weirdly-iced new ground. We wanted to see if there was any more hidden further up the valley. As we skied along, an imposing hanging dagger with an overhanging scoop of yellow rock came into view. We found our objective. In fact, we found more than we had bargained for, and we retreated from below a radically overhanging crack with our tails between our legs.

March 2011. After a three-year absence from Storm Creek ice, I head back there with Grant Meekins. With all the recent snow the track has disappeared, but the snowpack is supportive and we make good time up the valley. Two and a half hours after leaving the car we drop our packs at the mouth of a small rock cave and crane our heads back to gawk at the climb. Pretty but kind of short, says Grant. I remind him of Barry's dictum, that if it was not for foreshortening nobody would get up anything. We eat, drink, gear up, and swim up deep snow into the cleft holding the first pitch.

The Peach in its full glory from across the valley.

The ice pillar looks nice but straightforward enough. I whack in a tool and am rewarded with a cut on the bridge of my nose, as a large chunk explodes in my face. Unexpectedly I am actually having to think about where to put my tools and crampons, and place the occasional screw. Above the pillar I slog up a small snowfield and anchor to ice that has dripped from the broken dagger far above. I lean back and look at the bail sling I left three years ago, halfway up the overhanging crack. I am both dreading and looking forward to doing battle with it.

Funny how ice is always harder than it looks. Topping out on the first pitch. Photo: Grant Meekins.

Grant takes the second pitch up a less-than-vertical rock face. It looks like glorified scrambling, but having done it before I am not fooled. The angle might be kicked back, but as Grant works his way up, a steady stream of discarded hand-and footholds pits the snow below. As I follow it, cleaning the gear is easy enough, some of the pins simply coming out in my hand. The pitch is a nice example of why alpine climbing often seems hard in spite of often underwhelming grades. Sure, the climbing might be only 5.9 or M6 or whatever - provided everything one pulls on actually stays put.

Looks like piss but climbs like the real thing. I suppose it does not help that most of the holds are portable, and half of the pins can be cleaned by hand. Grant starting up the second pitch, with the third and fourth pitches, and the final dagger, looming above.

I tighten my boots, grab all the rock gear we brought but leave the screws behind, and step up to the crack. A good pin gives me the confidence to paste my cramponed feet on the polished rock and start climbing. A big reach to chockstone with an old sling around it, a big cam goes into gritty rock next to it just in case, and I punch it. Like liebacking a granite crack, continuous motion is the key here. An arm bar lets me get my breathing back under control. I fiddle in more gear, and stem for all I am worth to snag a loose ledge.

The next order of business is finding a decent anchor - a tall order in a world of shattered limestone. I feel the gentle but insistent pull of the bolt kit on the back of my harness. No, dammit! I am not going to profane this route by placing a bolt I do not absolutely need! I am glad I brought a proper rock hammer, as I blast through layers of choss to drive knifeblades into better rock underneath. I add a rock thread and at last I have something resembling a solid anchor. Yipee!

Doing battle with the crux third pitch: good gear, good tool placements, lousy feet. Photo: Grant Meekins.

Unfortunately the ice on the third pitch did not help with the climbing, being just out of reach, but it was good decoration. Photo: Grant Meekins.

Grant graciously lets me have the last pitch. It looks really cool, hard but not outrageously so. But with every move up the overhanging corner I am acutely aware of the painful smack into the ledge below I would incur if I should fall. I try to get into position to place a pin but to no avail. In the end I hang from a tool hooked in a patch of ice and whale in two good pins. Ever the sport climber, I step back down to a no-hands stance to ensure a legitimate redpoint. My focus drifts and the first attempt results in testing the pins with a short fall. They hold, and after lowering again to the ledge, I climb past them and gun for the ice. Swinging is awkward in the tight confines between rock and, ice, but in the end I manage a good stick. Relief! Still, the ice is anything but cruisy, and daylight is noticeably fading by the time I anchor to the last of the ice before it turns into a snow slope.

Getting down to business on the fourth pitch. You gotta love loose rock: so many cracks to choose from. Photo: Grant Meekins.

Breathing a sigh of relief upon getting established on the ice. Photo: Grant Meekins.

With the days being long and the route short, I did not think it necessary to bring a headlamp. Yet here I am at the top of the route, with darkness falling even more rapidly in the falling snow. Fortunately Grant makes quick work of the ice, and before long we are sliding down the ropes, past the lip of the broken dagger and over a spectacular overhang. The ropes pull easily, the knot is already down - and then they stop. No amount of yarding can undo whatever happened to the far end of rope. In the end there is nothing for it but to abandon one of our cords, and to make two more raps instead of one. But even a lost rope cannot wipe the grins from our faces. It has been a grand adventure.

All that is left is to ski out by headlamp with heavy packs and light boots. At least the snow is dreamy.

Summary: The first ascent of The Peach (110 m, WI5 M8), Storm Creek, by Grant Meekins and Raphael Slawinski, March 12, 2011. The climb is situated between Crash and Sinister Street. It cannot be seen until one is almost right across from it.

P1 (30 m, WI5): Climb an ice pillar in a deep cleft, and slog up snow to the base of a loose wall.

P2 (20 m, M4 or 6 or something) : Climb the wall to a loose cave (2-piton anchor up and left).

P3 (20 m, M8): Follow a wide overhanging crack up and right (3 fixed pitons) to another loose ledge (2-piton and thread anchor up and right).

P4: (40 m, WI5 M7): From the left end of the ledge climb an overhanging corner (fixed nut and 2 fixed pitons) to a broken dagger. Get on the dagger from the left and climb interesting ice to where it ends in a snow slope.

Descent: 2 60-m rappels from abalakovs.

Gear: screws, cams to #4 Camalot, and a few pitons and nuts.

Peak bagging

2011-02-28T14:48:00.004-07:00

Perhaps as a result of the current La Niña episode, it has been a cold and snowy winter in the Rockies. This, combined with generally lean ice conditions, had me looking for mountain adventures that would keep me warmer than hanging around at a belay for an hour. Ski mountaineering was the obvious choice. Below are some impressions and snapshots from a few recent outings.

Cathedral Mtn (3189 m)

A few minutes into the skiing I glance at the temperature display on a watch clipped to a pack strap. I do a double take at the -46 C reading. It takes me a few moments to realize that the watch is in difference mode, and is reading the temperature difference between the inside and outside of the car.

An unsupported snow slope gives us pause, visions of being carried over the cliffs below dancing in our heads. We bypass it by booting straight up to a level bench. However, on the way down we carve turns down the slope we avoided on the way up. What has changed in the meantime?

The sight of the summit not far above drives us on, lungs and legs burning. Imagine our disappointment when we pop out onto a plateau and see the true summit still quite distant at the far end of a graceful ridge. This feels like alpine climbing: wanting to be done, but more mountain still remaining. But the way down feels nothing like the usual slog down the backside; it is fast and fun.

Eamonn going into ski mountaineering mode: carrying the damn things!

It is not hard to find untracked snow in the Rockies.

The spectacular summit ridge. Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

Eamonn having trouble swallowing, with Mt. Stephen and the Great Wall of China behind.

Looking west toward the Goodsirs; and are those the Bugaboos in the distance?

Eamonn finding some excellent snow on the way down.

Storm Mtn (3161 m)

Over the years I have been up Storm Creek a bunch of times, sampling the fine ice and mixed climbing on a smaller but more remote version of the Stanley Headwall. I associate climbing up Storm Creek with being cold, as the ice smears lie on the shady side of a high valley. And so I catch myself being grateful that we are not about to stop and freeze, as we ski past the frozen waterfalls, intent on the summit of Storm Mtn.

My least favourite part of ski mountaineering: carrying the damn things! We totter up a long scree slope, skis wobbling on our packs and throwing us off balance, our big boots stiff and clumsy on the uneven ground. But higher up we are rewarded with being able to skin all the way to the summit cairn, and then with a fantastic run down that has us back at the car just over an hour from the top.

Eamonn emerging into the sunshine, with the ice climbs below deep in the shade.

Yep, we ski all the way to the summit cairn, but the bases of our skis do not thank us for it.

Looking west from the summit: the Goodsirs on the left, Mt. Temple on the right, and the Ten Peaks in between.

Looking east from the summit: Mt. Ball in the middle distance, and Mt. Assiniboine on the horizon.

Coming down from a mountain does not get much better than this.

Mt. Hector (3394 m)

An icy haze hangs in the air, and we hesitate to venture much above treeline. We picture featureless whiteness, to say nothing of the biting cold. But then a sucker hole of blue sky appears over Mt. Hector, and together with the yerba mate we have been sucking on through the drive, propels us up the Icefields Parkway, out of the warm car, and up Hector Creek.

Above the last stand of trees we are met by a vicious wind. Why does my lower lip feel numb? You cannot freeze your lips, can you? (Yes, you can.) We ski on, neither of us wanting to be the first one to suggest turning around. Fortunately once off of the moraines and onto the glacier the wind dies down, while a wan sun tries its best to make things more pleasant. Still, we do not feel like hanging around. A quick scramble to the top, then we strip off the skins, lock the heels, and point the boards down the hill. Three quarters of an hour later, back at the car, I unbuckle my boots and feel blood rushing back into my toes.

The wintry sun does not lend much warmth to the proceedings.

Juan contemplates the debris of a rather large slide left over from the last avalanche cycle.

Minus 25 and windy: "Quick, take the summit shot, then let's get the hell down from here." Photo: Juan Henriquez.

Classic Rockies skiing: some boilerplate, some breakable crust, even a bit of windslab thrown in for variety. Photo: Juan Henriquez.

Off the couch

2011-02-23T20:53:00.000-07:00

I find that these days my interest in drytooling waxes and wanes. What a contrast to the golden age of putting metal to stone! In the late 1990s and early 2000s, along with a crew of similarly dedicated friends, I spent my winters first figure-fouring and later heel-hooking across cave roofs, arguing about whether the latest test piece was M11 or only M10+, traveling to Colorado and Quebec to compete... It was a lot of fun but it could not last.

Drytooling as it was practiced back in the 1930s or so, before colour photography was invented. Learning to figure-four on Power to Burn, Waterfowl Gullies. Photo: Robert Rogoz.

For me, the fire went out on a late-winter day in 2003, ironically one of my best days of drytooling. I had been spending a lot of time at the Cineplex, unlearning the figure-fours that had been such a staple in the dark ages of leashes and big boots, and learning the fine art of hanging from heel spurs. On the day in question, having freshly redpointed Musashi, I turned my attention to the neighbouring Rocky Mountain Horror Picture Show. Expecting a multi-day battle working the route into submission, I surprised myself by beta-flashing it. Later that day, I re-redpointed Musashi, in spite of dropping a tool and having to haul it back up while hanging on in the middle of the big roof. But after the initial euphoria wore off, I realized that no club that would have me as member is worth belonging to. There was no way I was strong enough to be walking these routes like that. Rather, I had brought them down to my level, reduced them to a series of moderate boulder problems interspersed with perfect no-hands rests, hanging upside down from my heel spurs. With its reliance on equipment, drytooling had always walked a fine line between free and aid climbing, but with the new gear it had clearly moved into aid-climbing territory. I did not go drytooling again that season or the next one.

It's all aid anyhow, might as well get comfortable. Sticking the bolts into Malcontent, North Ribbon Creek. Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

Since that day, I seem to get psyched on the winter version of sport climbing once every two or three seasons (I am not talking about alpine mixed climbing here, which other than using some of the same equipment, such as a helmet, might as well be a different sport). After getting pumped on some routes I used to barely break a sweat on, my wounded pride had me heading back into the canyons. At the same time, bareback style brought climbing back into mixed climbing. The last time I was psyched on drytooling was in the winter of 2009, when I decided I would actually climb an M12 (Piltdown Man in the Haffner cave) as opposed to bat-hang my way up one. It turned out to be way harder, way more fun, and way more like rock climbing than I remembered. From the moment I left the ground the clock was ticking, and it took some serious screaming to propel me to the chains; in other words, just the way "hard" (a relative term) redpointing should be. Incidentally, the moment I sent my project I lost interest again and headed up into the alpine. As Liz Taylor once said, "It's not the having, it's the getting."

Once we got rid of heel spurs, it turned out we had to remember how to figure-four again, except this time actually holding on to the tools. Working Piltdown Man, Haffner cave. Photo: Wiktor Skupinski.

The other week I spent a fun afternoon in the Haffner cave, the first time in two years I had been back there. I had no intention of getting on the harder routes, which, coming off the couch as I was, would hurt my pride along with my shoulders and elbows. But I like to reacquaint myself with old friends in the M10 range once in a while: to remember what the whole drytooling thing is all about, and to make sure I do not suck too badly. It was gratifying to see I could still get up routes like Caveman - sans the original log - without dogging, and this made me remember a few things. First, that drytooling is actually kind of fun. Second, that it is not that hard - up to a point, anyway. And third, that there some tricks that make the whole thing a lot easier. I thought I would share a few of these.

The vast sweep of the Haffner cave. Photo: Juan Henriquez.

Relax on the tools. I am always surprised to find I can hang on to tools much longer than friends who can climb circles around me on rock (I mean the kind you use slippers and a chalkbag for). Since they are obviously far stronger than me, I can only conclude that I must be using my limited strength much more sparingly than they are. In particular, I almost never squeeze a tool handle. On the contrary, I try to maintain as light a grip as I can get away with, often opening up my hand - kind of like open-handing as opposed to crimping on a hold. As a result I get less pumped while climbing, and recover better while shaking out.
When climbing, move it. It is common to see people 'gerbiling' on mixed routes, their brains racing like a gerbil on its wheel, but not going anywhere. Eventually they pump out and fall off. As as soon as my pick hits a good hold, I relax on the tool and move on. Rather than looking for a placement for the other tool, I shoulder it and simply match on the tool that already is on a good placement. (Having said that, I match far less on traditional mixed routes, where committing to a single tool and having it pop could bruise more than one's ego.) On really steep routes, where I hang far below the tools, I often hook the upper grip of the placed tool with the pick of the other one, so I can use both arms to pull up to the next hold.
Use body tension. Unlike in rock climbing where one can feel oneself spooging off a hold, in drytooling there is often no warning before a tool skates off. An especially common scenario is to have the bottom tool pop off just as the top one hits a hold. The problem is lack of body tension. After falling off unexpectedly once or twice, I remember to keep the direction of pull the same as I move past a placement, and to involve the whole body in moving around a suspect placement to keep it still - kind of like locking off on a sloper.
Control swings. On big horizontal reaches, where an uncontrolled body swing often causes cause the tool to walk off the hold, I try to control the swing as much as possible by keeping a foot on. But, where a swing is unavoidable, I minimize it by lowering out into a cross-iron position before shrugging the trailing tool off.
Rock climb. Rock climbing fitness helps with drytooling fitness, but much less so the other way around. I find I can go from pulling on plastic to drytooling at a reasonable (?) standard, but if all I had been doing is hanging off tool handles, the first time out sport climbing is a humbling experience.

And there you have it, all you ever wanted to know about going straight from the couch to the mixed crag, and not embarrassing yourself. Oh yes, one last thing: stick to routes you have got wired. Familiarity is a great substitute for strength.

Who knew this was actually fun? Photo: Juan Henriquez.

Skiing? Really?

2011-02-08T22:09:00.001-07:00

I have always said self-righteously that I am saving skiing and aid climbing for when I am old and decrepit. I suppose I must be hitting that certain age, because recently I found myself skinning uphill with not much more than a thermos of hot drink in my pack, only to turn around at the top and ski back down. Even worse, I caught myself having fun. Who would have thought it would ever come to this? Hanging from gear and calling it climbing cannot be far behind.

Mt. Whymper along the Radium Highway. By the time eponymous Edward made its first ascent, he was far less fit and drank far more than when he made the first ascent of the Matterhorn that made him (in)famous.

Juan Henriquez putting his head down on the way up, with the delights of Haffner Creek far below.

I have heard it said that ski mountaineering begins when the skis come off. If so, then Eamonn Walsh is a ski mountaineer par excellence.

Scott Withers skinning across the sastrugi on the summit plateau.

Juan having a blast on the way down. Who says there is never good snow in the Rockies? I suppose though that "good" is a relative term.

Another time, another place. On a late-spring attempt on the Moonflower Buttress on Mt. Hunter in Alaska, at one point we ran out of ice and gumption and resorted to a tension traverse. Such tactics are best reserved for a ripe old age.

Winter, interrupted

2011-01-27T09:45:00.004-07:00

Otto von Bismarck, the founder of the German Empire, was fond of saying that "The less people know about how sausages and laws are made, the better they'll sleep at night." Had the iron chancellor been an ice climber, he might have added, "and the less they know what lies above the routes they climb."

It has been an interesting start to the new year. After a protracted cold spell (which, however, never saw temperatures dip below -30 C), warmer weather arrived together with long-overdue snow. The fresh snow overloaded a horrible, thin snowpack that seemed to consist mostly of depth hoar, and initiated the biggest avalanche cycle in decades. Two of the many, many slopes that went big were the ones above the Bourgeau ice climbs (the Right Hand with a bit of help from Banff Park safety specialists). I climbed these routes most recently last winter, when Katsutaka "Jumbo" Yokoyama and I had enjoyed a day of climbing up and down and up and down. Of course, it is all about being in the right place at the right time. On that particular day it was reasonable to head up on the Bourgeaus, with the temperatures cool and the avalanche hazard low. But I find it worthwhile to see the nightmare such places turn into on a bad day, lest familiarity breed contempt.

Our tastes in climbing snacks might have differed, but Jumbo and I shared a hunger for ice - the more, the better.

From the approach, Bourgeau Right Hand does not hint at what lies above.

Jumbo topping out on Bourgeau Left Hand.

And so, with the mountains avalanching left and right, and temperatures in the foothills rising above freezing, a break from ice climbing seemed in order. In fact, now that I think about it, my last three outings were for rock climbing. And I mean the real thing, with slippers and chalk, not that drytooling nonsense. Take yesterday, for example. Juan Henriquez and I biked on a snowy road into the chossy jungle gym known as the Dust Bowl. The crag lived up to its reputation as the chinook howled around us, but the wind was warm, and when the sun came out we even belayed without gloves (Really? In Alberta in January?). There is still a lot of winter ahead, and I am looking forward to whacking my way up a whole lot more ice before it melts, but secretly I am also counting the days until it is rock climbing season again.

The Dust Bowl: Not as bad as it looks. Really!

Juan psyched on the crag, choss and all. The ominous-looking figure in the background is not death contemplating its next move. Photo: Juan Henriquez.

Juan starting up The Ostrander, the classic (!?) of the crag.

Stemming in a sea of choss. Photo: Juan Henriquez.

Still, it could be a whole lot worse - we could be wallowing in snow across the valley.

There but for the grace of a great imaginary being go I.

2011-01-01T20:46:00.003-07:00

I like to believe I can be in control in the mountains; that if I make all the right decisions I will come through unscathed. Sure, at times I do take calculated risks. For example in 2006 three friends and I traveled to Pakistan to attempt the southwest face of unclimbed Kunyang Chhish East (ca. 7400 m). The face is both huge (it rises two and a half vertical kilometres from the glacier) and beautiful (a subjective assessment, but I for one find it intensely compelling). I might also add dangerous, as the lower part of the face is threatened by multiple serac bands. They do not calve very often, but when they do the resulting avalanches are truly apocalyptic.

A serac avalanche sweeps down the southwest face of Kunynag Chhish East.

We made two ultimately unsuccessful attempts, stopped by illness the first time and by excessive heat the second. Both times we left basecamp at midnight and scrambled over giant fields of avalanche debris in the dark. Both times we retreated in daylight and walked down through the no-man's land in broad daylight. On all four occasions we were playing Russian roulette, having judged from the relative infrequency with which the seracs went that most of the chambers were empty. But if something awful happened we would not have been too surprised.

Ian Welsted climbing up the barrel of a gun at the base of the face...

... and out of range of a few hours later.

As one of my alpine mentors once told me before I went to climb the serac-threatened Gimme Shelter, The worst of it is that if anything happens, people will say, What were they thinking?

What were they thinking?

Last Sunday a friend and I went to climb Les Miserables on Mt. Wilson. It is one of the routes in the spectacular bowl above Oh Le Tabernac. The bowl is a spooky place, with acres and acres of open, snowy terrain above. Near the bottom, just above Oh Le Tabernac, it necks down to a canyon maybe ten metres wide. As we hiked up, I commented about what it must be like inside it when the slopes above go big. But on that day we felt good about being where we were: the sky was overcast, the temperature cool, and there simply wasn't much snow around.

Starting up Oh Le Tabernac as dawn lights up the sky. The pyramidal mountain in the distance is Mt. Chephren.

From left to right: Maori Wedding (unformed), Meech Lake Memorial and N'Ice Baby (semi-formed), and Whoa Whoa Capitaine and Les Miserables.

The approach slopes on Sunday...

... and again on Tuesday. Photo: Grant Statham.

Two days later, encouraged by our report of excellent ice conditions, two friends headed up there. As they hiked up the creek below Oh Le Tabernac, they were surprised to see the debris of a massive avalanche. But they though it might be old, so they climbed Oh Le Tabernac, still intent on the upper climbs. In the end however, blowing snow and a nagging feeling of something not being right convinced them to retreat.

I heard their story later the same day, as I drove back from another climb. I thought about how two days earlier we walked up the bowl joking all the while; how we enjoyed lunch below Les Miserables; how at the top of Les Mis I climbed an extra ten metres to where the ice kicked back so I could get a better view. We knew we were venturing into a potentially dangerous place, but judged that under the prevailing conditions it was reasonable to do so. In the end we were simply lucky we did not wait an extra day. As a very experienced alpinist once wrote about climbing in the mountains: "There are too many variables. Too many things that could go wrong. The alpine architect I've aspired to be doesn't exist. You can't control it all, it's too big: it's the earth." (Mt. Fay, East Face; CAJ, 1988)

"... and keep your heels down!"

2010-12-27T13:57:00.000-07:00

A lot of factors contribute to competent ice climbing, such as technique, endurance and boldness. None of these comes easily, at least not to me. But something else that's key to efficient ice climbing is having one's systems dialed - and that's a bit easier to come by. Over the years I've developed my own set of habits that serve me well when venturing out into the cold. They are all rather self-evident, but maybe you will find one or two of them useful. In no particular order:

For a full ice-climbing day I typically bring three pairs of gloves: thin ones for approaching, a favourite pair for climbing, and thick ones for belaying. That makes for two pairs on the climb. I clip the belay gloves to the back of my harness while climbing and change into them at belays, while the climbing gloves go deep inside my clothes to stay warm for the next pitch.

Count on your approach gloves getting wet.

If the approach is over an hour or so, I bring a spare pair of socks to change into at the rope-up spot. Dry socks make a big difference to how warm my feet stay while climbing. To make a good thing even better, I pack the spare pair next to a bottle of hot drink; that way they're already preheated when I put them on. If I expect to really sweat on the approach, I bring a spare shirt, too.

Guy Lacelle smiling at the thought of a dry shirt.

I am very particular about having my boots laced up just right: tightly enough to eliminate any slop, but not so tightly as to cut off circulation. To that end I find it helps to lace up my boots while standing. That way my feet are bearing weight and are in the position they'll be in while climbing.

It doesn't matter how you lace your boots when you won't be using your feet much anyway, like in the Haffner Cave. Photo: Marcus Norman.

I try to dress so that when wearing all my layers, I get just a bit chilled standing around. That way I don't overheat while climbing. As soon as I get to a belay stance, I put on a parka that I carry in a stuff sack clipped to the back of my harness.

Eamonn Walsh happy as a clam in his belay coat on Rectal Squirrels, Storm Creek. Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

Climbing in the cold, dry Rockies, I am a big fan of softshell and hardly ever wear Goretex. I find softshell usually breathes better, moves better and looks better. But there are times, on climbs that are running with water or on warm, snowy days, when only Goretex would keep me from getting soaked to the skin (if I had worn it, that is).

Scott Semple wishing he'd worn shell pants on a very wet early-season Sacre Bleu.

Ice climbing obviously tends to be cold and uncomfortable. But few things come close to the nauseous agony of screaming barfies, as blood rushes back into frozen hands. While getting the barfies once in a while is probably unavoidable, with a bit of discipline they can usually be avoided. I find the key is to keep moving at the inevitable long belays, to prevent the onset of a deep chill. Even so, before I break down the anchor and start seconding the pitch, I spend a minute or two vigorously swinging my arms to rewarm them some more.

"Big Wall" Pete Takeda staying warm on a snowy day on the Trophy Wall.

Early on in my climbing career I made a concerted effort to learn to place screws with either hand (I'm strongly right handed). These days I rack as many screws on my left side as on my right. Being able to place screws equally well with both hands allows my to take advantage of the best ice, but most importantly it lets me shake out and/or rewarm whichever hand needs it the most.

Placing gear left handed on Sails for Seniors, Mt. Murchison. Photo: Ian Welsted.

Ice climbing is obviously gear intensive, and having your gear in good shape makes a big difference. I make sure my picks are sharp before each outing (I don't modify my picks other than maybe bevelling the bottom teeth a bit for easier removal). The same goes for crampons (mostly the front and secondary points), and of course screws (the side of a cutoff wheel on a Dremel tools works well for minor repairs). On a long route with much thin ice I carry a small file for minor pick and screw repairs.

Dulling all points on Dirty Love, Mt. Wilson. Photo: Jon Walsh.

In the last few years I've started climbing with two-handled leashless tools. These work well for steep ice and mixed, but can be awkward to use on low-angled ice, where the steeply drooped pick tends to strike the ice with the top rather than the point. I find swinging from the upper grip makes low-angled climbing more efficient.

Putting prototype Fusions to the test on Comfort Queen, Stanley Headwall. Photo: Ian Welsted.

Speaking of leashless tools, it's important not to overgrip while hanging from them. I will often open up my hand and stick out my thumb to ensure I am not using any more force than necessary (obviously a firmer grip is needed while swinging).

Shaking some blood back into the fingers on The Replicant, Mt. Rundle. Photo: Jen Olson.

I've learned to be patient with my tool placements. Sure, when seconding anything goes (such as tenuous hooking), especially if it gets me up the pitch quickly and with minimal effort. But when leading I try to make every placement solid, as if I were soloing. The problem with one bad placement is that it often leads to another bad one, because I am afraid to lean out on the original one. So I take my time and work with each tool placement until I am happy with it.

Obviously tool placements are only as solid as the ice they're in. Pierre Darbellay reaching better ice on the first ascent of Rectal Squirrels, Storm Creek.

For technique as well as for gear, I find that simpler is usually better. Sure, I might throw in the occasional knee drop, sometimes even without a camera nearby. But 96% of the time a simple sequence of swinging tools with my feet level and leapfrogging tool placements is the way to go.

Knee dropping for the camera on the GBU, North Ghost. Photo: Josh Lavigne.

There you have: take it for what it's worth (likely not much) and have fun on the ice!

Just ice climbing

2010-12-16T20:48:00.000-07:00

I must be easily amused. I have been ice climbing for nearly twenty years, racking up forty or fifty days in an average season. Yet somehow, I am still not bored of it. What is it about climbing ice that holds my interest? After all, it is cold, repetitive, and let's face it, mostly easy. Take yesterday, for example. We climbed the Replicant for what was my seventh time. We got up early. We drove, biked and hiked for several hours just to get to the base of the route. We got screaming barfies and ice-cream headaches. Then we retraced our steps to go home. Why go to all that trouble just to climb two pitches?

I suspect the day I require an answer to that question to get me out of bed at an uncivilized hour will be the day I stop ice climbing. But for now, I hope the photos below provide enough of an answer.

The Trophy Wall on Mt. Rundle. How much more compelling can climbing lines get?

Barry Blanchard and Steve Holeczi trying to avoid a windslab in the grey light of dawn, with the valley floor seven hundred vertical metres below.

Steve doing what he does best: eating and looking scary.

The belay at the base of the route was unfortunately the last non-hanging one. But as much as hanging belays suck, there is something magical about a house with a roof of icicles and no floor.

Steve tapping his way up ominously booming, detached ice on the first pitch.

How does one grade ice like that? Vertical but full of bomber hooks, so it feels like steep, juggy 5.6. On the other hand, on the entire pitch, maybe only a couple of screws in the hollow ice would hold more than bodyweight (especially Steve's weight). A strange game, this ice-climbing business.

On the second pitch, upward progress was assisted by much better ice and sandblasting updrafts. Photo: Barry Blanchard.

Barry nearing the top belay wearing every last layer he brought, including the belay jacket.

Ah, the joys of relieving yourself at a hanging stance: first you have to haul it out, then stuff it back again. All this with multiple layers of clothing, a harness, and a partner complaining that you are pissing on his boot.

By the time we had rappelled back down the wind picked up in earnest, bringing the first taste of the coming cold spell, and making us appreciate the shelter of the forest below all the more. As Beavis and Butt-head once famously said, you gotta have things that suck to have things that are cool. Perhaps that is the appeal of ice climbing.

A day on the Trophy Wall is kind of like a winter triathlon: climbing, slogging and biking through snow.

PS: For lack of anything better to do, this fall I have been revistiting some old favourites. Gery Unterasinger has posted some photos from Sacre Bleu while Josh Lavigne has put together a short video from Nemesis.

Nemesis from Joshua Lavigne on Vimeo.

Faux Alpinism

2010-12-09T18:52:00.006-07:00

What is alpine climbing, exactly? At what point is one no longer just rock or ice climbing, but alpine climbing? For me, it comes down to a number of things. Any one of them does not make an outing alpine; rather, a few combine to push one over the threshold and into the alpine. In no particular order, here are some things that help make alpinism what it is:

Slogging. Most alpine climbing, especially in the Rockies, requires some.

Slogging up the east face of Mt. Alberta in the winter of 2005. Photo: Scott Semple.

Heavy packs. Sure, sometimes you get away with a daypack, but most alpine-climbing packs make you wish you'd never picked them up.

Climbing with an overnight pack on the Dogleg Couloir on Mt. Chephren in the winter of 2008. Photo: Pierre Darbellay.

Summits. Not all alpine outings have to end on a summit, but they should at least pretend to try. This often involves slogging (see above) past the end of so-called difficulties.

"Past the difficulties" on the Drip at the Centre of the Universe on Mt. Birdwood in the winter of 2009... Photo: Jen Olson.

... and on the summit of said mountain.

Difficulty. Speaking of difficulty, you should have to bust a gut somewhere along the way, otherwise you're just peak bagging.

Moving into the crux of DTCB on Mt. Andromeda in the spring of 2006.

Being miserable. Let's face it, if at no point you didn't wish you were somewhere else, you were probably not alpine climbing.

Dreaming about being somewhere else on a single-push ascent of the Wild Thing on Mt. Chephren in the winter of 2009. Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

Getting up into some of the coolest places imaginable. This, to me, is the essence of alpine climbing: wild climbing in wild places.

High on the Greenwood-Locke on Mt. Temple in the winter of 2004.

Why am I going on about alpine climbing and raiding my photo collection for old images? First, I needed content for my blog. As such, empty drivel and gratuitous alpine imagery are not to be discounted. But what got me thinking about the subject in the first place was last Sunday's outing. With the northern hemisphere approaching winter solstice, days are too short to try to squeeze in a big outing without excessive headlamp use. To deal with this situation, Simon Parsons and I simply made up an alpine outing. It involved climbing Spray River Falls, then continuing up to the ridgeline and walking off along it. Contrived, you say? Ah, but how often does a simple ice-climbing day end with a free gondola ride down?

The sun rising over Mt. Rundle.

The ice was surprisingly cold and hard. OK, maybe it was not that surprising, given the -17 C overnight low.

When faced with depth hoar, no holds are barred.

Looking up the Bow Valley from Sulphur Mountain.

Now that's what I call civilized!

Cold

2010-11-21T12:17:00.001-07:00

My friend Ian Welsted has a rule of thumb about -15 C being the cutoff temperature for getting on interesting ice. It sounds arbitrary, but is actually amazingly spot on. Any colder than that and already fragile chandeliers turn into brittle crystal, smooth curtains into armour plate, and one's extremities into useless clubs. Of course like most rules, this one has exceptions to it. If the sun is shining, then even -30 C can feel downright reasonable. Just make sure to be down from the climb when it dips below the horizon.

Ian pushing the temperature envelope while looking for a new way onto the ephemeral ice of French Toast on the Stanley Headwall. By the time we had rappelled off, the forecast storm had moved in, bringing cold, wind, and snow, and turning the usually casual walk off into a bit of an epic.

That's more like it. Ian on a much more pleasant day, attempting a new route on the wall left of Polar Circus. We made the mistake of naming the unclimbed line Polish Sausage in advance, thereby ensuring failure.

It does not take bare hands to ensure screaming barfies if you break Ian's rule. Eamonn Walsh enjoying the feeling of blood rushing back into his digits on the first ascent of the Great White Fright on EEOR.

When it's cold, it's all about the sun. Guy Lacelle happy at -30 C on the Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

With Ian's rule in mind and daytime highs hovering around -20 C, ice climbing this weekend didn't appeal. However, it was a perfect opportunity to go hiking. Winter hiking has a few things going for it. It still gets one out of the house. It helps to keep off the winter fat. And it also prevents one from getting into an ice-climbing rut, whereby a day's outing amounts to a grand total of a pitch or three below treeline. Even if it's merely walking, I like to tag a summit every once in a while during the cold months. I find it helps to keep my head in the right place for when the stars line up to allow for a winter-alpine hit. But perhaps most important of all, getting up high when it's cold and snowy is simply good fun.

Above the clouds.

The Alaska Range? Nah, just K-Country.

Sunset from a windswept ridge.

Of wild wind, wild cats and wild men

2010-11-14T19:55:00.001-07:00

Over the years I have shared many fine adventures with my friend Eamonn. Lately a few common threads seem to run through these outings: virgin ice, early starts, long approaches, and sandblasting spindrift. Last Saturday was no exception.

Eamonn enjoying a brief windless interlude...

... that of course was too good to last.

A fine position on the edge of the range.

At times the wind was so strong (gusts of over 160 km/h were recorded on ridge tops), the spindrift did not even make it down.

On the approach we followed the tracks of a mountain lion.

A fondness for ice climbing and good looks seem to go together. Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

Mt. Cromwell

2010-10-23T11:36:00.001-06:00

Thanksgiving weekend had whetted my appetite for alpine climbing, so Josh Lavigne and I made plans to get out again the following weekend (can you tell I am a weekend warrior?). I tried to think of something I had not done before, but that was not so far from the road that it would not fit into a regular weekend. In the end we came up with the Elzinga-Miller route on the north face of Mt. Cromwell.

The north face of Cromwell from the Icefields Parkway.

This would be my second trip up the north face. Ten years ago Jim Sevigny, my alpine mentor, and I walked up Woolley Creek in early September to attempt the Robinson-Arbic. The weather was far from splitter: a light drizzle fell as we waded across the Sunwapta River and low-lying cloud hid the face, so that we had to sit on our packs and wait for a couple of hours before we could even see the start of the route. The face looked to be in great shape, with white streaks coming down all over the place, but upon closer inspection the white stuff turned out to be slush. No matter, we could still drytool around the non-existent ice, but it took time. Sunset found us chopping into an exposed snow rib and setting up our bivy tent (you see, we had a notion that between a late start and iffy conditions we might end up bivying). I slept well, in spite of Jim next to me shivering and rubbing warmth into his limbs all night. The following day we topped out around noon and got back to the car just as the skies opened up. As Choc Quinn once famously said, alpine climbing is all about timing and hormones.

Jim discovering the white stuff is not ice.

Wakey wakey, hands off snakey!

This time around we planned to send the face in a day car-to-car. It sounded like a reasonable enough plan, especially since it meant we would sleep in a warm van and carry light packs. Josh took the fast-and-light philosophy one step further by forgetting his helmet, but he figured that between his hard head and soft toque he would be all right. The early-morning cold in the glacial cirque below the north face chilled our bodies, more used to shirtless sport climbing at The Lookout than to early winter in the high country. The waves of spindrift pouring down the route did not make things any more pleasant, either, but we had come to alpine climb and some suffering was to be expected. In deference to the spindrift and snowy ice we pitched out the first few ropelengths, before switching into simul-climbing mode on the snowfields in the middle of the face.

Starting up the Elzinga-Miller.

Josh engulfed in spindrift on the third pitch...

... and smiling again in the middle of the face.

Winter is coming to the Columbia Icefields.

In the past the summit serac sported overhanging ice that had some people aiding off of screws, but thanks to glacial recession we were able to bypass it on moderately-angled ice. A few ropelengths of glacial ice, an easy cornice, and we broke onto the summit ridge. The cornice just below the summit was a little more substantial, but after carving a tunnel through the wave of snow we popped out into the sunshine on top. Beautiful, beautiful mountains stretched to the horizon in every direction: Mt. Alberta just across the valley, Mt. Clemenceau in the middle distance, and far to the north, Mt. Robson. It was only midafternoon, so in spite of a brisk wind we lingered and took it all in. After all, how often do you get to sit on an island in the sky, surrounded by the most impressive peaks in the Rockies, having just climbed a north-face route, knowing you have plenty of daylight to get down?

Josh approaching the serac near the top of the face...

... and chillin' on the summit.

The mighty Mt. Alberta.

Waxing gibbous moon rising.

Here is a short video from our outing, courtesy of Josh. Enjoy!

A Long Weekend, Part III: Monday

2010-10-18T21:05:00.002-06:00

The cool thing about the shoulder seasons of spring and fall in the Rockies is that, depending on mood and weather, one can pick and choose between sport climbing, alpine rock, ice (OK, maybe not just yet in early October) and alpine climbing proper. I felt like I had not been up into the snowy alpine for a while, probably because as a simple matter of fact I had not. The forecast was for a cool, clear day, and I felt the urge to experience it from the summit of a mountain.

The mountain wilderness south of Mt. Sir Douglas.

Mt. Sir Douglas is the second-highest peak in Kananaskis Country. Unlike a lot of Rockies' peaks it does not have a walk-up route. True, none of the routes on Sir Douglas are extreme, but they all require climbing. Along with the glaciated approaches and location out of sight of a paved highway, it all adds up to make it a "real" mountain.

Afternoon light on the north-west face of Sir Douglas.

Josh Lavigne had never climbed Sir Douglas, while I had already visited its summit four times, but we both thought it would make a fine fitness outing. And so it was that 7 a.m. found us biking up the initial stretch of old logging road toward Burstall Pass. Two hours later we were having a snack on South Burstall Pass, reluctantly contemplating the obligatory elevation loss into the Palliser River valley. But it had to be done, so down we went, through alpine meadows torn up by a hungry grizzly looking for tasty pikas.

Morning light on Mt. Birdwood from South Burstall Pass.

A narrow gully directly below the upper couloir gave us our first taste of tool swinging of the season. Once onto the face above we put the rope away and soloed up on perfect neve, a rare treat in the Rockies. However, the narrow, corniced summit ridge had me asking for the rope again. Standing on small, exposed ledges just below the summit, we enjoyed the sun on the south face while we ate lunch and tried to identify peaks as far away as the Purcells. And then it was back to the north side again, downclimbing the snow ramp of the original North-West Face route. Kick, kick, plant, plant: the same movements repeated hundreds of times. It would be easy to get bored and sloppy, were it not for the big drop below one's feet to encourage good form.

Looking down the initial gully, with Mt. Assiniboine in the distance.

The impressive east face of Assiniboine.

Josh in the upper couloir of the Direct North-West Face.

The summit ridge with the Royal Group behind.

Josh downclimbing the snow ramp of the North-West Face.

As we crested South Burstall Pass for the second time in the day, the late afternoon sun swung around to pick out the ribs on the face we had just climbed and descended. One last look at Mt. Assiniboine, poking up on the western horizon, and we plunged down into the shadowed valley, toward bikes and dinner. Alpine climbing: good fitness and good fun. Well, sometimes.

Below is a short video from our climb that Josh put together. Enjoy.

A Long Weekend, Part II: Saturday

2010-10-15T19:25:00.001-06:00

One of my favourite corners of the Rockies is Kananaskis Country. I love its dry conifers, wind-swept ridges, gray crags and, in the winter, ice dessicated by Chinooks. Eamonn Walsh shares my fondness for K-Country, and so it is often with Eamonn that I explore obscure front-range peaks and routes.

The Opal Range is a 40-km long spine of dramatic if somewhat crumbling peaks. Tectonic forces have stood originally horizontal strata of limestone on end. Erosion completed the job, leaving a chain of vertically-tilted bedding planes. The result is a range of peaks with narrow ridges running north-south, and steep faces falling to the east and west. The Opals naturally lend themselves to multi-peak traverses, with the number of peaks one takes in on any given outing limited mainly by one's tolerance for scrambling on chossy knife edges with big drops all around.

A fine position on the south ridge of The Blade, with the southern Opals behind.

Since returning from the Bugs in mid-August I have focused exclusively, not to say obsessively, on sport climbing. It was satisfying to feel myself getting stronger, walking up routes I used to struggle on. But I missed getting up into the alpine - that, plus my elbow tendinitis was starting to get out of control, demanding that I take a break from pulling down. And so Eamonn and I found ourselves parking at the King Creek lot just as the sun was rising. The objective for the day was clearly outlined by dawn breaking behind it: the well-known Mt. Blane, and its obscure but dramatic satellite, the Blade.

Mt. Blane on the left with The Blade on the right.

I had tried The Blade a few years earlier with Rich Akitt. It was fall, too late for rock climbing but too early for ice. We scrambled up scree ledges, sketched up verglas-covered rock, and busted hard-feeling 5.7 moves onto the final ridge leading to the summit, only to turn around when faced with slabby rock covered in fresh snow. This time the mountains looked much drier, but a keen wind ensured that it was not any warmer. Soon after gaining the ridge we donned the last of our layers, and kept them on for the rest of the traverse.

Chilly climbing on an earlier attempt on The Blade.

We started by following the old Pat Morrow-Chris Perry route up the south ridge of The Blade, retrieving the rappel anchors from my earlier attempt as we went. There was some scrambling and a pitch or two of roped climbing getting up to the col below the south ridge, but the ridge was definitely the main attraction. Once again I was reminded of how hard 5.7 can feel when your hands are freezing, you are wearing boots, and the protection is less than perfect. Fortunately on the last bit of ridge we climbed mainly on the lee side, and so were able to enjoy moving over good rock in a spectacular position.

A stairway to heaven on the last bit of the south ridge of The Blade.

From just below the summit we made two steep rappels down the north side of The Blade into the gap between it and Mt. Blane. We scampered easily up the south ridge of Blane and were rewarded with a sheletered lunch spot just below the summit. I fondly thought back to the last time I stood here, in the depths of winter. The descent down the standard North-West Ridge went quickly, with the wind blowing the rope into a graceful arc over the drop to the east. A last downclimb in a short chimney, and we hit the scree gullies leading down to the valley. It had been another good day in K-Country.

Windy downclimbing on Mt. Blane, with the northern Opals beyond.

A Long Weekend, Part I: Friday

2010-10-12T21:55:00.003-06:00

A fine morning finds us once again hiking up the familiar trail to The Lookout. Our packs are pleasantly light; the ropes are stashed at the crag, and our projects are already equipped with draws. It is shaping up to a beautiful day. Who knows, we might not even need a fire to stay warm today.

I go through my usual ritual: a long 5.11on big holds to limber up; a short bouldery 5.11 to warm up the fingers; and a 5.12a that I have wired to get into pulling-down mode. All too soon it is time to get down to work and start doing redpoint burns on my month-old project, Spicy Elephant Extension. The first section to the halfway anchor goes quickly. How many times have I climbed it by now? It must be at least fifteen, maybe twenty. Even though I am not really pumped, I stop at the no-hands rests; I will need the extra energy higher up.

The business begins a couple of bolts above the halfway anchor. I take my time at the stem rest, alternating hands and gripping positions until my breathing and heart rate slow down. A couple of deep breaths to get psyched, and I move into the crux sequence: gaston, crimp, crimp, undercling, a slap to a textured sloper, another undercling, a big sidepull, and then the clip. The clip feels desperate and I fight the temptation to grab the draw. But the rope clicks into the 'biner and I continue: a slap to a good sidepull, a lurch to a poor undercling, highstep left, try to highstep right... and I roar powerlessly in an iron-cross position before dropping into space. I get back on and climb through to the anchor, but as I lower off, the gap between a one-hang ascent and a redpoint looms bigger than ever.

I rest, eat, do belay duty, and try yet again. The crux moves feel much the same as before, but this time the clip seems downright easy. The left foot goes up, then surprisingly so does the right, and I am standing up into the big undercling. Shit! I might just send this thing! I take great care not to rush the remaining ten metres: focusing, breathing, using each foothold and each kneebar just so. And then I am clipping the anchor and lowering off, elated and yet strangely disappointed that the process is over. But of course it is not; Diamonds on the Inside just to the right beckons.

Places and actions have no intrinsic significance; they are only significant if we think they are. Kurt Albert's red dots have invested inert pieces of rock with a significance that has the power to make us scream in frustration and whoop in delight. It is rather funny when you stop to think about it, and yet why not?

Another time, another place, but just as much fun.

The Seasons, They Are A-Changin'

2010-09-19T13:31:00.001-06:00

Technically it is still summer but it sure does not feel like it. On a bike ride in the foothills last week, I found myself ducking under branches weighed down with fresh snow. Having struggled to stay warm while rock climbing the last couple of times out, I was reluctant to head back up to The Lookout on the strength of yesterday's forecast. That, plus with the crappy weather recently, Eamonn, J and I were keen to drive the Icefields Parkway to see if something interesting might not have frozen up. As it turned out, it is still a bit early to dust off the ice tools, but we did enjoy a fun scramble up Mt. Coleman. Blue skies, amazing views, and a good lungs-and-legs workout; I have had worse days out.

Mt. Amery (on the right) from the meadows of Sunset Pass.

Aurora on the north face of Mt. Amery looked nearly good to go.

Eamonn and J looking up the Alexandra River valley.

The summit ridge, over a vertical mile above the Parkway, did not feel very summer like.

J slogging toward the summit, with (from the left) Mts. Saskatchewan, Bryce, Kitchener, Stutfield, Alberta, Cromwell, Woolley and Diadem.

The Columbia Icefield framed between Mts. Columbia (on the left) and Andromeda.

The Amethyst Lake Rockwall traverse

2010-09-05T15:32:00.010-06:00

As I am writing this, cold rain is falling outside. It being September in Alberta, this means it is snowing in the hills. Summer is definitely over in the Rockies. Sure, there will still be sunny days at The Lookout and on Yam, maybe even some crisp indian summer in the alpine, but the warm afternoons and dry rock on the high peaks will have to wait until next year. And so I find myself thinking back to the season that has just ended, and the great adventures shared with good friends.

A month ago Dana Ruddy, Eamonn Walsh and I walked twenty kilometres into that magical place that is the Tonquin. Our goal was the traverse of the Amethyst Lake Rockwall, taking in the summits of Redoubt, Dungeon and Oubliette. We were up before dawn and hitting the trail by headlamp. The ten kilometres of hiking around the lake went by quickly, all the more so as I was half asleep through most of it. The sun rose into a sky hazy with smoke from forest fires burning in British Columbia as we tried to keep our feet dry and hopped across a marsh below Lookout Pass.

Scrambling up blocky quartzite to the pass set the tone for the rest of the day. In the end we only roped up for three pitches: one near the top of the North-West Ridge of Redoubt Peak, and a couple more getting up to north summit of Oubliette Mountain. This does not mean the day did not lack for excitement: scrambling unroped with a drop all the way down to the valley bottom below one's ass kept boredom at bay. Incidentally, there is no better way to improve one's skills in moving in that kind of terrain than to try to follow Eamonn for a day across narrow ledges, tightrope ridges and exposed walls. As it was, clad in soft, slick running shoes, he was having to wait up repeatedly.

As the day progressed, some worryingly dark thunderheads billowed up to the south, but fortunately in the end did not amount to much. Late afternoon saw us lounging on the final peak of the traverse, the main summit of Oubliette. With the sun blazing down and hardly a breath of wind, we stretched out on the warm quartzite, closed our eyes and pretended we were at the beach.

The descent had us paying attention again, as we faced in down a steep snow gully with an unforgiving runout over cliff bands far below. It was early evening by the time we were hiking across the marshy valley bottom. A magnificent caribou hardly paid us any attention as we squelched past, with the prospect of a freeze-dried dinner driving us on.

Summary: A traverse of the Amethyst Lake Rockwall (IV 5.6) by Dana Ruddy, Raphael Slawinski and Eamonn Walsh. 17 hours camp-to-camp.

The Amethyst Lake Rockwall. From right to left, the summits are: Redoubt Peak, Dungeon Peak and Oubliette Mountain. The descent gully runs down and left from Oubliette; a giant mosquito is sitting on the summit of Dungeon.

The sun rising into a hazy sky over Amethyst Lake.

A great boulder with an unfortunate landing below Lookout Pass.

The essence of summer in the Rockies: early-morning light on the northern Ramparts. From left to right: Mount Geikie, The Turret and Bastion Peak.

The same peaks later in the day, with Mount Robson visible in the distance.

Having fun yet? From left to right, Dana and Eamonn.

"I sure hope that block stays put!" Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

Dana just below the summit of Redoubt, with the ground far, far below.

"Far from the madding crowd..." The summit register on Redoubt Peak.

Dana coiling the rope after yet another rappel along the ridge.

Afternoon cloud buildup over the summit of Oubliette.

The sun setting over the Amethyst Lake Rockwall.

The wildlife is a big part of what makes the Tonquin such an unforgettable experience.

Seventh Rifle

2010-08-20T18:01:00.003-06:00

The alarm goes off at 3:30 a.m. I do not hear it, as I have my earplugs in against Jon's snoring, but he does. I stick my head out of the tent and look at the sky. Not a single cloud obscures the thousands of stars; there is no excuse to go back to sleep. Unfortunately by the time we choke down our instant oatmeal the stars have disappeared behind dark clouds. But with a full French press' worth of coffee in our veins there is no turning back, and we set off boulder hopping by headlamp across the moraines. The early morning light is just enough to see by when we crest the Bugaboo-Snowpatch col. What we see is not very inspiring: thick, low clouds are streaming from the north across the Howsers. The thought of rappelling into the west face in marginal weather does not appeal. We run back down to Applebee, where we crawl into our sleeping backs and do not reemerge until almost noon.

Wake up and smell the coffee!

The stormy Howsers from the Bugaboo-Snowpatch col.

The scene replays itself two days later, but this time the stars keep shining all through breakfast, and from the col the Howsers are black silhouettes against a perfectly clear sky. We cache all excess gear including crampons at the col, and with the double set of cams that just does not fit into our small daypacks clinking around our hips, continue across the Vowell Glacier. We walk through a small tent city in East Creek, but it is early and everyone is still asleep. Not long afterward we stand on the spur overlooking the glacier below the magnificent west face of the North Howser. The day's adventure is about to kick into high gear.

A pre-dawn stroll across the Vowell Glacier.

Four rappels deposit us on the glacier. As we descend, we dig the heels of our approach shoes into the steep, hard snow, mindful of the long runout to the talus below. With no ice gear, no bivi gear, a single rope and a rack, I feel the exhilarating lightness of our commitment. Likely the easiest, and certainly the most pleasant way back to the fleshpots of Applebee leads over the summit. We fill up on water where it trickles from the snow into the talus, and sketch back up more hard neve to the base of the rock, nut tools doing double duty as miniature ice axes. To escape the exposure down the slope we have just ascended, we crawl down into the moat and start the climb from its icy depths. The first pitch, with hard moves on wet, polished granite, is a rude awakening. Fortunately it deposits us in a low-angled gully, and simul-climbing quickly warms us up. We do stop to belay over a couple of desperately slimy chockstones, but soon we are moving again and emerging into the sun on the slabs below the imposing upper headwall.

Committing to the rappels to the base of the west face...

... and sketching up to the start of the route.

The first pitch. Photo: Jon Walsh.

Simul-climbing on the low-angled slaws halfway up the face.

We take advantage of a trickle to pound back a bunch of water and fill our bottles for the climbing ahead. A few more ropelengths of simul-climbing gets us to what looks to be the business: fun, steep climbing on good, rough granite. A couple of pitches in particular get our attention, with thin, balancy moves but luckily good gear. Eventually the summit ridge comes into view. So many times one grows tired of a climb before it is over, but here we do not have the time to wish for the steep stuff to end when we pull onto the nearly horizontal summit ridge. And what a ridge! The granite is warm in the early evening sun, huge walls drop off on both sides, and we are grinning from ear to ear as we gun for the summit of the Bugaboos. On top we celebrate with the firecrackers Jon brought along for the occasion, read through the entries in the summit log, and turn our attention to the descent. It goes more quickly than expected, and we don our headlamps only for the last rappel over the yawning 'schrund. We skip across the Vowell Glacier, down the bucket steps below the col, and arrive back at Applebee just after 11 p.m. Too much fun!

Filling up on water.

Quality climbing on the upper half of the face.

The last bit of the summit ridge.

The obligatory summit shot.

Evening sun on Bugaboo, Snowpatch and Pigeon Spires from the summit of North Howser.

Summary: A one-day free ascent of Seventh Rifle (VI 5.11-) on the west face of North Howser Tower by Jon Walsh and Raphael Slawinski. Applebee-base: 5 hours; base-summit: 11 hours; summit-Applebee: 3 hours.

The Bugs!

2010-08-07T12:59:00.000-06:00

Last month "Polish Bob" Rogoz and I spent some time in the Bugaboos . We enjoyed good granite, sunshine and storm; in other words, the classic Bugs experience.

Are there really porcupines up Bugaboo Creek, or is it all a myth?

The west face of Snowpatch Spire.

Yoga on the (south) summit of Snowpatch. Photo: Robert Rogoz.

Life and death on the glacier.

Sunrise on the Howser Towers.

A piece of gear should ideally serve more than one function. For instance, a sharpened stick works as an ice axe but also comes in handy for staking vampires.

The sun's first rays warming the top of the Beckey-Choiunard route on South Howser Tower.

The Great White Headwall on the Beckey-Choiunard. Photo: Robert Rogoz.

A disturbing scene on the summit of South Howser Tower.

A Rockies' rat does not like to venture out of sight of his favourite mountains: Bugaboo Spire with the Goodsir Towers in the background.

In the clouds on the summit ridge of Bugaboo Spire.

Bugaboo moonrise.

Huatulco bouldering

2010-08-02T18:00:00.003-06:00

Huatulco? What does a tropical beach paradise in southern Mexico have to offer to a climber beside cold margaritas? Well, first of all margaritas are nothing to sneeze at, especially when consumed to the accompaniment of vuvuzelas at the FIFA World Cup on the beachside-bar TV set. But wait: what is that iguana sitting on? Is that high-quality granite? While Huatulco is not likely to become known as a bouldering mecca anytime soon, there are enough stones strewn along the coast on which to to shred one's fingertips, before wrapping them around the aforesaid margarita glass. ¿Cuál es el resultado?

Huatulco stone.

An iguana topping out on a classic problem.

"The Egg of Huatulco" offered some great problems with a variety of landings.

The key beta: pull with the arms and push with the feet. Photo: Vera Slawinski.

Then again, some problems did not require much in the way of footwork. Photo: Vera Slawinski.

On any road trip it is hard not to get psyched out by locals running laps on problems they have ruthlessly wired.

Small is beautiful in Alaska

2010-06-15T20:39:00.008-06:00

The West Buttress, Denali's voie normale, is a gorgeous hike at altitude. Between dragging a sled to the 14k camp and jetting to the top from there, my lungs and legs got a good workout. But the climbing muscles, the arms and the head, were left wanting. As soon as we returned to Kahiltna basecamp, I started scoping around for a partner. It did not take long to find one. Joel Kauffman (http://joelandneilsclimbingblog.blogspot.com/) had bumped over to the Kahiltna from Little Switzerland a few days earlier, and was game for some steeper fun before flying out. We decided on Bacon and Eggs on the Mini-Mini-Moonflower, a route my friend Eamonn Walsh and Mark Westman put up a couple of years earlier.

A typical Kahiltna basecamp scene.

From the left: the Mini-Mini-Moonflower, the Mini-Moonflower, and the real thing.

Mini-Mini-Moonflower's ~~Bacon and Eggs~~ Vegetarian Couloir on the left, and Mini-Moonflower's North Couloir on the right.

It being already June, it got quite hot on the lower glaciers during the day. We waited for the evening freeze and left basecamp at eleven. Have you ever climbed through an Alaskan white night? It is an unforgettable experience. As the golden evening sunlight slowly left the summits, it was replaced by a cold blue glow. We stepped out of our skis and into our crampons around one in the morning, and headed up a grey ice slope. After a while the ice steepened, and we roped up and simul-climbed into the dusk. The continuous movement kept me from getting cold or sleepy. The technical crux was a rock step barring access to the upper couloir. Water ice plastered a right-facing gash and gave good steep climbing. A few more lower-angled pitches on occasionally thin ice got us to below the heavily corniced ridge. I had a half-hearted charge at the cornice directly above the couloir, but steep, unconsolidated snow forced me back to the belay.

Joel starting up ~~Bacon and Eggs~~ the Vegetarian Couloir.

Joel halfway up the couloir.

The sun coming up on Foraker.

It was tempting to declare the route finished, pull out the Abalakov hooker, and start rappelling. After all, we had made it to the end of the difficulties, no? Well, if we were truly at the end of the difficulties, why did we not just walk up to the top fifty metres higher? Of course, the truth was that real crux still awaited. The Mini-Mini-Moonflower might be an insignificant bump in a land of giants, but formalities have to be observed all the same. I started traversing up and left below the cornices, hoping that what I could not see would prove easier than what I could. Every once in a while I would stop and dig like a badger, trying to find some ice for protection. Eventually the rope ran out and I shouted down to Joel to start moving. Making for a gap where the cornice had fallen, I punched precarious steps to the top.

The end of the difficulties?

The Tokositna Glacier lay below us. The sun was already rising on the east face of Mt. Hunter, while down the glacier the west face of Mt. Huntington lay in deep shadow. We snapped a few photos, then carefully retraced our steps down the snow slope. It was a relief to reach solid ice, and to drill the first of eight or so v-threads. We skied into basecamp just in time for breakfast, and by the afternoon we were drinking stout on a patio in Talkeetna. I looked forward to going home and rock climbing in the sun, but at the same time I already missed the Alaska Range. I knew that I would be back.

Joel on top of the Mini-Mini-Moonflower, dwarfed by Hunter's north buttress.

Looking down the Tokositna Glacier toward Mt. Huntington.

Saying goodbye to the Alaska Range.

PS: I thought I knew where Bacon and Eggs went, but it turns out I did not. It appears that in our rush to trade skis for crampons, Joel and I started climbing one ice slope too soon. Not that it matters: we found good climbing on our line, and we topped out on the same bump in Hunter's east ridge as Eamonn and Mark did on their route. The only reason our line would not have been climbed before is that no one had bothered; but unless someone comes forward to claim it, I suggest the name Vegetarian Couloir for this fun if not terribly significant outing.

For the record, the established lines on the Mini-Mini-Moonflower are Bacon and Eggs on the left, and the Vegetarian Couloir on the right. Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

Denali: A walk in the sky

2010-06-15T19:57:00.001-06:00

It is almost nine and the sun is high in the sky by the time I finally extricate myself from my sleeping bag. I eat a leisurely breakfast and leave the 14k camp at ten thirty. Unlike in most mountain ranges, predawn starts are not needed in Alaska in June. Daylight is not a consideration, only temperature is. This can mean climbing at night low down to take advantage of the cold, and the other way around high up. My pack is pleasantly light: two litres of drink, some bars, a parka, a spare pair of gloves, and a camera. Sweat fogs up my sunglasses and drips from the tip of my nose as I push myself up a sunlit snow slope toward the Headwall. It is a relief to have to slow down on the forty-five-degree snow and ice, all the while scrupulously avoiding touching the fixed lines. As a sport climber I have a horror of pulling on gear. At the ridge I turn right and follow the crest to the 17k camp. I thoroughly enjoy this section of the route: travel is easy on the styrofoam snow, the angle is not so steep that I am pushing my anaerobic threshold, and the views in all directions are spectacular.

A lineup on the fixed lines with the 14k camp below.

Looking up the ridge toward the 17k camp.

17k: the halfway point. I sit down in the lee of a wall of snow blocks and rest for twenty minutes. I eat some energy bars, finish the first of my two litres, and put on more clothes for the windswept Autobahn. Actually it does not look too bad today. It was far more windy a few days ago on an acclimatization hike to Denali Pass, when swirling snow devils would try to throw me off balance. I am happy to see the acclimatization working its magic, with my altimeter watch telling me that my rate of ascent has not decreased with altitude. I pass a few roped parties, taking care to walk on the uphill side and not get flossed off the mountainside. At one point I hear a distant rumble and put it down to a collapsing serac. But after another, closer rumble I look around and notice a huge thundercloud building over the tundra to the north. At Denali Pass I sit down to watch it, and to make up my mind about whether to head up or down. In the end I decide that with the wind blowing from the east, the cumulonimbus is not coming my way, and I start hiking uphill again. I am breathing hard, enjoying the physical effort and rapid upward progress. I pass a couple of people on the Football Field. One of them especially looks to be hurting: he collapses over his trekking poles every few steps, while his companion patiently waits for him. I admire their toughness.

Looking up the Autobahn toward Denali Pass.

Denali Pass.

A nuclear explosion or merely a thunderstorm?

Two lonely figures emerge onto the Football Field.

Pig Hill goes by quickly, and I gain the final section of corniced ridge rising gently to the summit. It is not far now. And a good thing too, as there are some awfully gray clouds boiling up out of the valleys to the east. Few things scare me more than bad weather high in the mountains, and I have no desire to be on the featureless summit plateau if and when something nasty blows in. For all that, the last bit to the top is a joy: not difficult but spectacularly exposed, with the drop to the south especially exhilarating. I share the summit with Dane from Colorado, who like me preferred to hike up from 14k rather than to carry loads and camp uncomfortably at 17k. It is good to be up here on a warm afternoon, and not in the middle of a bitterly cold night like last time. I snap photos in all directions, narrate some video over my ragged breath, then turn around and head down. In the meantime an opaque veil of cloud has covered the sky, and while the weather is not truly bad, the flat light causes me to trip repeatedly. I slow down while descending the Autobahn, not wishing to have to test my rusty self-arrest skills. It is a relief to reach the ridge below 17k, where rock outcrops give some depth to the monochromatic landscape. I hand-over-hand down the fixed lines (my ethics do not quite stretch to eschewing them entirely) and plunge into dense fog. As if time mattered in the slightest, I nearly run down snow made heavy by the afternoon heat, and walk into camp less than eight hours after leaving it. For today it is enough. Tomorrow will be a different story.

The summit ridge.

Looking down the final stretch of ridge with Foraker in the distance.

Denali: Travels with Dad

2010-06-12T21:15:00.001-06:00

A few days ago I got back from the Alaska Range. My father Andre and I spent a couple of weeks on Denali, trying for a family ascent of the West Buttress. Andre, who is in his early seventies, has been climbing for over fifty years. Starting in the Polish Tatras, his mountain travels have taken him to Nepal, South America, and of course all over the Canadian Rockies. He started me on my climbing journey, and I felt fortunate to be able to go up north with him.

Andre on the West Buttress of Denali.

Glacier plane, clouds and Foraker.

We went through the usual ritual of a Denali trip: fly to Anchorage; realize that it does not get dark at that latitude in late May; go on a massive food shopping spree; drive to Talkeetna; get issued a Clean Mountain Can by the rangers; and finally fly to the southeast fork of the Kahiltna Glacier; all of this in less than forty eight hours. The weather was absolutely spectacular. This was my third trip to the Alaska Range, but only the first time I saw the mountains from Talkeetna. They looked very big, very white, and incredibly beautiful.

Denali seen from the shores of the Susitna River.

TAT, our ticket to the mountains.

The many colours of the tundra.

The east side of Denali from the flight in.

We took our time traveling on the lower glaciers, arriving at 11k (a.k.a. the eleven-thousand-foot camp) on the morning of our third day in the mountains. Both of us were new to hauling sleds, and while it was nice to drag rather than carry most of the weight, it still made for a bit of a slog. All I can say is that I was glad to have my iPod: Gordon Lightfoot and Rammstein went a long way toward easing the pain of skinning uphill with the kitchen sink following behind on a red plastic sled. In the spirit of the adage "climb high but sleep low", we spent a couple of nights at 11k with a day trip to 14k (a.k.a. the fourteen-thousand-foot camp) before moving up there for good.

Andre below 11k.

The train leaving the 11k station.

Andre returning to the 11k camp with the Peters Basin far below.

Rounding Windy Corner.

The sun about to set on the 14k camp.

Set at an altitude of 4300 m, the 14k camp gave us our first taste of thin air. When we first got there, even walking across camp up to the outhouse made us winded. But we gradually grew comfortable with only two-thirds of our usual oxygen supply. After a day's rest, we went on an acclimatization hike up the Headwall to the the crest of the West Buttress. The stretch of ridge between the top of the Headwall and 17k (a.k.a. the seventeen-thousand-foot camp) is without a doubt the most beautiful section of the West Buttress: not difficult but spectacularly exposed, a true sidewalk in the sky.

The ridge below 17k.

Andre on the fixed lines below the crest of the West Buttress.

Gaining the crest with Foraker in the distance.

Unfortunately, the top of the Headwall at 4900 m was the highest Andre was able to get. We tried three times but every time his body refused to go higher. It hurt me to see how hard he pushed himself, and how disappointed he was when we finally decided that it was not going to happen. He had just lived through a year of loss, and had trained relentlessly for the trip, averaging over two vertical kilometres a week for several months. He was fit, and by all the usual indicators, well acclimatized. However, he just could not push his body any higher. There was nothing for it but to head down. Yet summit or no summit, we lived through a great adventure together. I know he is not done with the mountains; in fact, he might not even be done with this particular mountain. And so it is not "goodbye", but merely "until next time".

Andre at 4900 m on the West Buttress of Denali.

Undertoe

2010-05-08T13:43:00.009-06:00

Yesterday Eamonn and I came back for the last route in our Tangle(d) trilogy. Undertow was the first route climbed on the wall, and is without a doubt one of the finest ice climbs in the Rockies. All but one or two pitches are moderate, but they go on and on, all the way to the summit. Below are some photos from our day.

Dawn over the Sunwapta valley.

It had been snowing off and on over the previous few days, and fresh snow blanketed the mountains.

Eamonn making the long traverse from the top of Shades of Beauty to the base of the routes. We traversed above treeline to avoid the post-holing in the trees.

This is what we drove three hours and walked four hours for. From the left: "Undertow", "Can't Touch This" and "Boobquake".

As the sun hit the wall, sloughs started coming down all over the place. Some were big enough to make us stop and think what we might be getting ourselves into. "Let's go, they're just sloughs. What's the worst that could happen?"

Eamonn low on the route.

The sun on the approach was strong (it being May, after all), but in the shade it was still winter.

Funny how ice always looks easier than it is. Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

Looking up at the last steep (and appropriately crux) pitch.

Eamonn swimming up the slope below the summit seracs.

Putting a slight twist on a quote from Alex Lowe, winter lingers long in the high country.

Tangle Ridge

2010-05-02T22:34:00.009-06:00

Given that I live on the doorstep on the Canadian Rockies, it’s probably just as well I’m not a devoted rock climber. Don’t get me wrong, I love rock climbing, and I've been going up to Yam and Bataan since the middle of March. But when the weather turns cold and snowy, I’m just as happy going ice climbing – especially when it’s ice like the stuff on the north side of Tangle Ridge. I’d heard rumours of big ice back there, but it wasn’t until I saw photos of the route “Undertow” that I realized just how cool it was.

The northeast face of Tangle Ridge. From the left, the routes are "Undertow", "Can't Touch This" and "Boobquake"

Last weekend Dana Ruddy, Eamonn Walsh, Ian Welsted and I got up early and hiked up Beauty Creek. The approach is long (almost four hours) but straightforward, and the tedium is nicely broken by having to climb “Shades of Beauty” an hour into it. We considered making a foursome on “Undertow” but thought this might involve too much standing around. In the end Dana and Ian teamed up for that route, while Eamonn and I decided to have a look at one of the lines on the right. The middle line looked juicy and enticing, but the hint of a hanging dagger halfway up made it an uncertain proposition. The rightmost line sported a lengthy mixed section, but it didn’t look too unlikely, and so we went for it. The result was “Boobquake” (ten ropelengths or so, WI4+ M5): a fun and consistent line up a big face. The climbing was never desperate but always entertaining, and the position on the hanging ramp on the sixth pitch was outstanding. We topped out into the late afternoon sunshine, and took our time on the summit identifying peaks near and far. The descent was the icing on an already great day: a quick run down the backside had us back at the highway in a little over an hour from the top. The name? It’s a reference to a witty response to a piece of self-righteous nonsense.

"Hmm, what to do?" From the left, Eamonn, Ian and Dana.

Eamonn on the second pitch of "Boobquake". "Can't Touch This" is on the left.

Starting up on the mixed section, pitch four or so. Photo: Eamonn Walsh.

Eamonn slogging up the summit snow slope.

The east faces of Mts. Alberta and Woolley from Tangle Ridge.

The place had us inspired, plus the weather this weekend didn’t look any more promising for rock climbing. And so yesterday morning Simon Parsons, Eamonn and I got up at two o’clock and yet again made the long drive up to the Icefields. This time the goal was the middle line, dagger and all. Failure was a distinct possibility, but I for one simply couldn't walk past a line like that without giving it a try. The bottom pitches went quickly and by early afternoon I was climbing a column of excellent ice into the cleft hiding the dagger. At first glance it looked climbable, but upon closer inspection turned out to be dangerously fragile. The solid ice above was almost – but not quite – close enough to touch. In the end an overhanging rock traverse from the left proved the key (in the spirit of full disclosure, we placed the protection pins on aid). While I was frigging around, the weather took a turn for the worse. Fed by a steady snowfall, the bowls above us started spitting avalanches at regular intervals. But though the sky went dark a few time while we were climbing the crux pitch, nothing too big came down. The dagger pitch may have been the technical crux, but the snow wallowing leading to the final pitch pouring from the summit ice cap was certainly the physical crux. Nothing builds character quite like digging a trench up bottomless snow. We topped out in a whiteout, glad we knew the way down. I guess May had come to the Rockies.

Eamonn starting up "Can't Touch This". "Boobquake" is on the right.

Simon low on the route.

Tagging the ice on the crux pitch. Photo: Raphael Slawinski collection.

Eamonn working on his character high on the route. Photo: Simon Parsons.

The obligatory summit photo.

Between “Undertow”, “Boobquake” and yesterday's “Can’t Touch This” (ten ropelengths or so, WI5+ M6), there are now three lines on the north side of Tangle Ridge. It's got to be one of the coolest places to climb ice in the Rockies, and before the season really ends I expect I will be back once more to tick the first route climbed in this exciting valley.

May ice! Photo: Simon Parsons.

Spring ice

2010-04-11T15:10:00.003-06:00

April: robins have returned from their wintering grounds, green shoots are appearing on trees, and rock climbing season is well under way. Or at least it would be, if temperatures were not hovering around freezing. Well then, why not go spring alpine climbing? That would indeed be a good idea if the avalanche reports did not the show the infamous "red brick" of high hazard. Fortunately the ice climbing season in the Rockies is a long one, and there is still plenty of ice about if one is so inclined.

Yesterday, taking advantage of a gorgeous clear day, Lyle Rotter and I enjoyed what is arguably the best ice adventure to be had in the Ghost: the Hydrophobia-Sorcerer link up. The morning was cold, the sun was strong, and the ice was blue. Walking along a high ridge between the routes was a bit like being in the wintry alpine. But the echoing staccato of a woodpecker as we touched down at the base of the Sorcerer for the second time was life waking up in the valleys.