tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61796130642732045082024-03-17T23:10:36.249-07:00Always UpwardsJens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-88492774463103047272017-03-06T20:40:00.003-08:002017-03-07T07:13:25.149-08:00Jordan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After another sticky fall of grape smashing, I boarded a plane bound for Jordan. My good friend Jessica Campbell was already there. She had been invited to tour the country with a group from Climbing Magazine and had spent the previous ten days checking out Jordan's vertical scene. Jessica and I had loose plans to explore an area called Wadi Rum, an iconic, mars-like web of sandstone big walls and rusty washes. A sense of potential and mystery lulled me through a couple of long flights, before flinging me into the streets of Amman, Jordan's capitol city. A taxi ride later, I was high-fiving the homies at their surprisingly swanky digs. Everyone minus Jess was going home the next morning, so we enjoyed a nice meal together before capping the evening off with a couple of beers on the hotel roof top. <br />
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"You are going to LOVE Wadi Rum," Jess told me the next morning. Their crew had spent a few adventure filled days there before I arrived and she was eager to go back. Jess knows what makes me tick and as we drove south from Amman into the super desert of central Jordan she kept giving me that look that said, "Oh man, you just wait, this place, <em>you just wait</em>...". Jessica had already figured out a house for us to stay. Abdullah and Attalah, two kind brothers, had hosted the Climbing Magazine group while they were there. Now, we would be their guests for three weeks. Immediately upon meeting them, I sensed their fondness for Jessica. Because they thought so highly of her, I was accepted with open arms. Without a doubt, the highlight of our trip was spending time with this Bedouin family. The Bedouins are a nomadic herding culture and I was constantly amazed by their connection to the desert and their blatant toughness in a hostile environment. Most of all, I was inspired by their kind and genuine nature.<br />
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<em>Jordan</em></div>
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<em>Bedouin hosts and friends. From left to right, Mohammed, Atallah, and Abdullah. Awesome people!</em></div>
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Our first couple of days in Wadi Rum were spent recovering from travel and beating a bug that Jess had picked up. I didn't need to charge out of the gates. I enjoyed walking through the desert and gawking at the magenta big walls, lined up like soldiers along a never-ending highway of fine, red sand. The sunsets would bleed into the landscape, bolstering the shades of red, pink, and purple that surrounded us. Daily calls to prayer wafted through the canyons, bouncing between mountains before disappearing like stray balloons. At night, stars peppered the inky, black sky . Of course, the tea was as plentiful and sweet as the smiles around the fire. <br />
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<em>Wadi on fire</em></div>
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<em>Desert wanderings </em></div>
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After a couple of days health and energy returned. Our first route was Merlin's Wand, otherwise known as the "Super Crack" of Jordan. It was a good intro to Wadi Rum climbing. The rock was solid and featured, it's fragile outer coat worn down by all the climbers who had jammed up the wall. It reminded me of Red Rocks with plentiful jugs surrounding a slightly flaring, but easily protectable fissure. It was a unique route though. The rest of the climbing we did reminded me more of Zion. Or maybe I should say obscure routes in Zion. In other words, route finding, anchor building, and descents were engaging.<br />
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<em>Jamming and jugging on Merlin's Wand</em></div>
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A few days later we spent an afternoon climbing on Jihad, a mega classic "sport" route equipped by Arnaud Petit and team in 2001. The 400 meter hueco fest on Nissrani North featured spacey bolts and more jugs than I've ever seen on one wall. Still, there were a few spots where the buckets disappeared into mazes of crimps and pockets. Even though we didn't climb the whole route that afternoon, one of the trip highlights for me was onsighting the crux pitch via headlamp. It was near the start of our time in Wadi Rum and I wasn't in very good shape, so working through the dark pitch of 5.12 was thrilling. We rapped down after the crux pitch planning to return another day. Unfortunately, when we came back, Jessica turned her ankle hiking to the base. I can't wait to get back and finish up this super fun line. Nissrani North's east face is a rad piece of rock. <br />
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<em>Nissrani North's east face is an inspiring sheet of steep rock</em></div>
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Jebel Um Ishrin, one of the striking peaks above the village of Wadi Rum, is home to the 5.10 masterpiece, Beauty. Even though the route is moderate, it is a must hit for anyone climbing in Jordan. The magic begins on the approach, a twisting and turning scramble through Rakabat Canyon. Jessica and I visited this area more than once on our trip, each time pausing to soak in the ambiance of the corridors and hallways that twist through the heart of the massif. The climbing is pure fun, with just enough sandy runouts to keep the Wadi vibe strong. The icing on the cake is the unroped scramble to the summit. We quietly walked barefoot across plateaus and over rolling domes to gain one of the most beautiful views I've ever seen. Big walls dotted the lunar landscape until sandy air from Saudi Arabia swallowed the view, hiding the most remote mountains and igniting our imaginations. <br />
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<em>Beauty climbs the left side of the tower before rolling out of sight</em></div>
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<em>Beauty is a good old fashioned traditional climb with cracks of all sizes and great face climbing too</em></div>
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<em>Jess soaks in an unforgettable view atop Jebel Um Ishrin</em></div>
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For me, the climbing highlight of our trip came near the end of our three weeks. I had finally found some fitness and flow. Jessica of course, has these elements in spades. We noticed a route just outside of town called Glory. It climbed a burnished (less sandy) wall for five pitches and was entirely bolt protected. We had previously written it off, intimidated by its 5.13c rating. Too hard for us we thought! One day we decided to check it out anyway. We didn't climb to the top that day, but we did get the rope up the crux pitch. I got pushed around on the 30 meter sequence of bizarre slabaneering, but Jess managed to follow the pitch cleanly by headlamp. There's no doubt about it, the girl can dance. We rapped down realizing that the route might be possible for us to free climb. It was clear I would need to work on the moves more than Jess, so I went to the wall alone a few days later to do some mini-traxing. I was able to free climb all the pitches that day, including the crux rope length. With our trip coming to an end, we knew we had one shot to complete the route. A couple of days later we returned to the south facing wall. The conditions were not ideal, but this was our chance and we had to take it. A free ascent almost eluded us when I slipped off the last hard move of the crux pitch in the afternoon sun. The grips felt horrible and I lowered, realizing that I probably wasn't going to be able to overcome the slimy conditions. After resting for thirty minutes I left the belay with no expectations and managed to find that rare combo of balance and focus. I felt like I was floating and the difficult moves came easily. Jess followed cleanly, just as smooth as the first time. As the light waned I stood on my aching toes for one more low 5.12 pitch. It was in the bag, but the last 5.11 still hurt my wimpy feet. The summit sunset washed away the pain and we soaked in the moment. The beauty (and challenges!) of our three weeks in Wadi Rum flooded in. It was a great way to finish the climbing aspect of our trip. <em>Note: We didn't think this climb warranted a rating of 5.13c. 13a or Index 12c sounds right :)</em><br />
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<em>Jess on pitch one of Glory. </em></div>
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<em>Checking out the crux pitch for the first time</em></div>
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<em>Jess nearing the end of Glory's crux pitch</em></div>
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A day later, Jessica left for home. We were all sad to see her go. Even the tough dudes had teary eyes. I boarded a plane a few days later. Usually, I'm happy to head back to Leavenworth after a trip, but this time I didn't want to leave. It took many weeks at home before I wasn't constantly thinking about Wadi Rum. It had an impact on me and I miss it still. I'll definitely be going back. <br />
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<em>I can't say enough about Abdullah and Atallah. The brothers run an awesome trekking service in Wadi Rum and are worth getting a hold of if you are planning a trip to Wadi Rum. Check out their website: <a href="http://www.wadirumjordanguide.com/">www.wadirumjordanguide.com</a></em></div>
Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-72044956746096282872016-07-08T07:42:00.000-07:002016-07-08T07:43:06.367-07:00The Flash and The Sunrise<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>"FffroOOOoom!"</i> My snowshoe catches an alder bush and I stumble into the blinding white. Scared and confused, I catch my balance just as the flash recedes into the midnight wilderness. My headlamp beam bounces around the trail. Cole's light chases mine, also seeking the mystery spark. Louder than necessary, I blurt, "Dude, what was that?" "That was your mom man. She's watching out for us." Cole's shadowy figure leans on his trekking poles. He's serious. We hold our breath and fix our ears to the forest. Only the lazy swoosh of Mountaineers Creek and the hum of wind in Douglas Fir breaks the silence of winter.<br />
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Just a few hours ago we sat in a mexican joint in Leavenworth, ignoring the hustle and bustle of tourists. Instead, we focused on our strong beer and giant burritos. "Would you guys like another drink?", the pretty waitress asked. Instead of ordering another IPA, we requested the bill and stepped out into the misty streets. While an inversion shackled town in iron grey, we knew the weather was clear in the mountains. The promise of granite and ice above a sea of clouds fueled our motivation. Cole fired up the car and drove us to the trailhead.<br />
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At 2:30 AM we dug out a small rock cave, obscured by hollow snow. The warm murkiness of the restaurant had faded into sharp, penetrating cold. Moonlight illuminated the North Ridge of Mt. Stuart. We punched a door into our shelter and crawled in. It felt good to sit down after the ten mile approach. Our stove sizzled snow into water for the rest of the night. As I threw cubes of snice into the pot I couldn't help but wonder, what was that flash?<br />
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In 2007 I watched my mother lose her battle to ovarian cancer. I had never seen death. Instead of being distraught, a guilty numbness cut me. I sought the heights to escape the grief or perhaps, to bring it crashing in. During this period Cole and I climbed tirelessly, as we consistently had since meeting in a dusty climbing gym during the seventh grade. We read into each alpine experience with heady superstition. We had faith that everything in our lives was connected to the lines we chose, the peaks we climbed, and how each adventure played out.<br />
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At first light we started climbing the ridge. I was able to wear rock shoes on an awkward chimney and the crux, thin lieback a pitch higher. Every patch of white was solid neve and each swath of rock was bone dry. It was cold, but not too cold. The only clouds wedged themselves into Icicle Creek Canyon thousands of feet below. I knew how it felt to live in that gloom. Up here, above the inversion, it was heaven. I lead all day as Cole jumared with the stove, a half-bag, and a few energy bars. We operated like a machine, our systems churning without pause. As the short January day bled into night, we curled up on a ledge 1,500 feet up the route. A sunset, a smoke, dinner, and tea ushered us towards "sleep".<br />
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Vapor from my breath hung in the black air. "Cole". "Yo" he replied. "It's fucking cold man. I'm thinking we should just start climbing. The sun will be up in a couple of hours." We snapped on our spikes, stuffed the pack, and begin winding across the sharp ridge. Snow and ice smothered the granite, but it's concrete consistency made the climbing easy and aesthetic. Just as we reached a 200 foot gendarme, fiery, warm light washed over us. We stopped in awe and scanned the Cascades. Cocaine white, they rippled towards the sea. Like that flash, the dawn pushed us onward.<br />
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We monkeyed up the steep rock tower and then continued mixed climbing along the ridge. An hour later, I dropped 50 feet off the knife edge and caught an ice runnel tucked into a shady groove. I daggered up the gully and then mantled the summit blocks. Bracing myself in a nook between two fins of windblown snow, I pulled the rope in as Cole frontpointed the final stretch. The summit offered a swirling view of mountains to the west and desolate scablands to the east. To the south, Tahoma's glaciated mass dominated the open sky.<br />
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Three hours after leaving the summit we were back in the fog, digging for Cole's car keys in the wheel well of his Toyota. The last 40 hours seemed surreal. Surfing the icy backbone of Mt. Stuart, we sensed a cosmic energy. On the way home, between handfuls of greasy potato chips, I wondered about the flash and the sunrise. "You think that was my mom watching us?" I asked Cole. Ten and two, starting at the road ahead, he seemed so sure in his reply, "Oh yeah. What else could it have been?"</div>
Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-54810902947229453812016-05-21T10:11:00.001-07:002016-05-21T19:16:25.741-07:00Chinese Medicine <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Tears slide from beneath my sunglasses, hit my jacket, and freeze onto the puffy folds. Through the scummy window of our car, the Shuangqiao Valley rushes by. My life since Chad was killed reels through my head like a shaky homemade movie. I see my stabbing, lonely descent from Fitz Roy. Then, the undulating journey through my depression and self-loathing. A comforting image of standing on top of a route dedicated to Chad flashes and then is extinguished by a vision of myself crumpled over the toilet, puking my guts out after another night of drinking too much. My Argentine nightmare has led me to these mountains and hopefully to Chad's friends in Ringlong, a dusty village a few miles down the road.<br />
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"Chadderbox" told me endlessly about the people and mountains in central China. On approaches into the Torre Valley or the Cascades I would listen hard to these stories from the east. In the spring of 2007, Chad was on his second trip to the area. Backed by the McNeill-Nott grant, he, Jay Janousek, and Joe Puryear were attempting the mighty blade, Siguniang. In late april Mr. Ma, their expedition liaison and the friend we were seeking in Ringlong, delivered the agonizing news that Lara, Chad's wife, had been killed in the Alaska Range. Heartbreak, anger, sickness, and finally salvation through Buddhism led Chad back to Siguniang in the fall of 2008. That season, he and Dylan Johnson spread Lara's ashes atop the 9,000 foot ridge they completed.<br />
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I rock back and forth from one numb foot to the other. The cold is sharp in Ringlong so I join the locals on the warm side of the street. One of the men standing in the sun is Mr. Ma, but he doesn't understand why we've come looking for him. Steve Swenson, a mentor and one of my partners on the trip, phones Dalu, a Chinese friend who is showing us the ice climbs that are stamped onto the hillsides of the Shuangqiao Valley. "Dalu, do you mind coming by and translating for us? We've found Mr. Ma, but he doesn't understand why we're looking for him." Within minutes, Dalu arrives and explains who we are. He also informs Mr. Ma that Chad was killed two years ago and that I had been with him. Mr. Ma seems shocked for a moment and then takes the news in with somber grace. Without further delay, he ushers our team into his home.<br />
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I duck my head under the low eve of the Ma Family compound. A concrete hallway leads to a small, shadowed courtyard. I imagine Chad's laughter ricocheting off the gray walls before rising into the blue square of sky above. An older lady with kind creases in her weathered face places oranges, fried yak cheese, and small candies on the knee high table we're crouched around. A round of chang is poured and we find a buzz in the ruby red fruit wine. With a significant language barrier not much is said. Smiles replace words and gestures communicate basic concepts like, "chang is good!" We drain our shot glasses and give two thumbs up. The response is simple and the red jug of wine rotates around the room again.<br />
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Sitting back, I take in the scene. I make subtle connections between the Chad I knew and this small corner of China. It was here that Chad fell to pieces and here that he began to rebuild himself into a content and happy person. "Can I turn my life around? Can I heal and live fully again?" The questions drift through my consciousness like rustling leaves. There is a lightness to my self examination that I haven't felt before. Rather than crushing pain, I feel a peaceful hope. That I've found myself in China making sense of the tragedy in Argentina is a testament to the interconnectedness of our world.<br />
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When the chang is gone, we step out into the courtyard. This time, it is awash with sunlight. A warmth counters the sharp edge of cold air. Walking towards our car I look back over my shoulder. Mr. Ma leans into the doorway and watches the world go by. He seems so content. There's no doubt, his sense of peace rubbed off on Chad. Now, I'm the one affected.</div>
Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-18744820307904945812016-02-29T22:12:00.001-08:002016-02-29T22:15:01.089-08:00Real Winter, Real Fun!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After seven months of recovery, stationary bike sessions, and gym workouts, I'm finally starting to get after it again. I'm not 100% by any means, but I'm getting closer. Of course, not being able to climb and ski has reinforced a strong appreciation for the opportunity to dedicate my life to the mountains (<i>by this I mean the freedom of health and first-world privilege most of us enjoy</i>). That said, my lifestyle is not guaranteed. It didn't come with a warranty. Being rad means nothing. Being able means everything.<br />
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My recent time in the outdoors has been purposely undefinable. No grades. No plans. I'm trying to take an organic approach to every mission. Rather than forcing my way through the mountains, I'm following the paths gifted to me. A twisting, moonlit descent from high in the Entiat Mountains that leads to my front door. A skinny ice pillar that wasn't touching down a week ago, but finally formed enough to dance up its crystalline tube. Surfing Stuart Range velvet as my home peaks cut into the desolate winter sky. Chimneying up an ice groove more akin to a slot in Yosemite than a winter climb in Leavenworth. I never expected any of these moments, but they keep happening.<br />
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The past few months I've skinned at least a couple hundred miles. I've woken up well before dark three or four days a week. I've climbed incredible ice and slashed through more powder than I can even remember. It's all becoming a blur. I'm definitely drunk on the real winter we are having in the northwest. Below is a serious of photos I took from late December to early February. I've attached a few words to each picture. I hope you enjoy it!<br />
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<i>Above my backyard pear orchard lies the southern tip of the Entiat Mountains. In late December and early January I skinned A LOT of miles through the gentle, but lonely territory. The terrain was accepting of my healing body. There were many long days of powder that began and ended at my cabin.</i></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gjdALsaXpJc/VrDa7tqgAoI/AAAAAAAACjM/x-W5cOJYAew/s1600/predawn.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gjdALsaXpJc/VrDa7tqgAoI/AAAAAAAACjM/x-W5cOJYAew/s1600/predawn.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gjdALsaXpJc/VrDa7tqgAoI/AAAAAAAACjM/x-W5cOJYAew/s320/predawn.png" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>An acquaintance recently saw me at work and exclaimed, "I didn't know you had a job. I thought all you did was climb!" The reality is that Icicle Ridge Winery is a major part of my life! We all have bills to pay :) I'm not afraid to wake up before dawn day after day after day...I love coming into work with a good ski tour under my belt.</i></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zG7ZTRRYw40/VrDVvfc7X3I/AAAAAAAAChI/2Ecew39F3gE/s1600/entiatsunrise.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zG7ZTRRYw40/VrDVvfc7X3I/AAAAAAAAChI/2Ecew39F3gE/s320/entiatsunrise.png" width="239" /></a></div>
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<i>Rather than chasing goals and grades, I've been hunting sunrises and good snow. Feeling the warm rays smother the cold night is always an energizing moment.</i> <i>In this photo dawn is creeping up on a powder day in the Entiats. </i></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KSze_bs98g0/VrDV2r7vZgI/AAAAAAAACh8/2v9fYnK8VbM/s1600/lonleyentiattree.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KSze_bs98g0/VrDV2r7vZgI/AAAAAAAACh8/2v9fYnK8VbM/s1600/lonleyentiattree.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KSze_bs98g0/VrDV2r7vZgI/AAAAAAAACh8/2v9fYnK8VbM/s320/lonleyentiattree.png" width="239" /></a></div>
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<i>The Entiats are filled with ponderosa pines. There is something about those tiger orange trees that strike a chord in me. Skiing through their hallways is unique and inspiring.</i></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gn1Pfo_Xg2E/VrDV3j79L3I/AAAAAAAACiY/zbbARXs6PSw/s1600/stuartrangefromentiats.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gn1Pfo_Xg2E/VrDV3j79L3I/AAAAAAAACiY/zbbARXs6PSw/s320/stuartrangefromentiats.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>One last shot taken in the Entiats. I've had many awesome days out in the last couple months, but some of the best have been right out my backdoor. That my return to sport coincided with a unique window to ski low elevation tours was truly a gift. I cannot describe how much fun I had exploring my backyard terrain. </i></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pCE3coTGey0/VrDV33NScrI/AAAAAAAACic/ellVYSjNXi0/s1600/tronsonridge2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pCE3coTGey0/VrDV33NScrI/AAAAAAAACic/ellVYSjNXi0/s320/tronsonridge2.png" width="239" /></a></div>
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<i>I had several awesome days in the Blewett Pass environs. My first tour was sun soaked. Lounging on the solar rocks made me feel like I was on a beach in Hawaii. A few minutes later, I pointed my skis north. Within minutes I was shredding light, boot top powder in the gnarly arms of a burned forest. </i></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2EkQ7X70E6c/VrDkSQbB70I/AAAAAAAACjc/IfySF3G1SGs/s1600/ryan.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2EkQ7X70E6c/VrDkSQbB70I/AAAAAAAACjc/IfySF3G1SGs/s320/ryan.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>A few days later I was back on Tronson Ridge with one of my best friends, Ryan Paulsness. Out of the 20 or so days I've skied the past few months, this mission might have been the best. The snow was unreal. All day we hooped and hollered with joy. Too much fun!!</i></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j5iF1v-IOEc/VrDVk6WsrMI/AAAAAAAACg0/Q6HDRv2Y9wY/s1600/cashmereroad.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j5iF1v-IOEc/VrDVk6WsrMI/AAAAAAAACg0/Q6HDRv2Y9wY/s320/cashmereroad.png" width="239" /></a></div>
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<i>Cashmere Mountain is a bulky, prominent peak on the southern border of the Stuart Range. I've spent several days on it's flanks this winter and can't wait for more. It is a rad ski zone.</i></div>
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<i><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OBdu40FmGUA/VrDmE51t7JI/AAAAAAAACjw/8kdVQ-bBFvk/s1600/sr.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OBdu40FmGUA/VrDmE51t7JI/AAAAAAAACjw/8kdVQ-bBFvk/s320/sr.png" width="320" /></a></i></div>
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<i>One of the best parts of touring on the southern flanks of Cashmere are the views. The main, rugged core of the Stuart Range stands cold in the north facing shadowlands. </i></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-14yNr3W7meI/VrDl4s7omNI/AAAAAAAACjo/7YRRqAqA5rM/s1600/Lake%2BCaroline%2Bpow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-14yNr3W7meI/VrDl4s7omNI/AAAAAAAACjo/7YRRqAqA5rM/s320/Lake%2BCaroline%2Bpow.png" width="239" /></a></div>
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Off with their heads! The snow in the Stuart Range is remarkably light. In this photo I'm skiing a January storm. It was good. Very good.</div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HiGlhaf5YMw/VtUpJWdW6nI/AAAAAAAAClY/RIZF0EmzhdU/s1600/photo%2B1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HiGlhaf5YMw/VtUpJWdW6nI/AAAAAAAAClY/RIZF0EmzhdU/s320/photo%2B1.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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<i>To compliment the skiing, we stumbled on some quality ice up Mountaineers Creek. This was a relief as I was up against an ice climbing trip to China with a group of crushers from Canmore and Colorado. I hadn't done any climbing in nearly six months and didn't want to be a total joke. In this photo, Blake Herrington stems up the good 'ol classic, Mr. Seattle.</i></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AiC15DM2AiU/VrDV2aJ4JXI/AAAAAAAACh4/be7yYtp32S8/s1600/lastrites.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AiC15DM2AiU/VrDV2aJ4JXI/AAAAAAAACh4/be7yYtp32S8/s320/lastrites.png" width="239" /></a></div>
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<i>It was odd to have such quality ice to climb when the rest of Leavenworth had absolutely </i><i>no ice at all. Whatever was happening up Mountaineers Creek was working. We chalked it up to cold winds that rush out of the Stuart Range and settle in the valley bottom. This route is a nice 30 meter pillar called Last Rites, one of 6 routes we climbed at this crag alone. There were upwards of 25 routes in the general area. </i></div>
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<i><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gbyWqrMg-5o/VtUpLiyAo2I/AAAAAAAAClo/o89E-MEVBfQ/s1600/photo%2B2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gbyWqrMg-5o/VtUpLiyAo2I/AAAAAAAAClo/o89E-MEVBfQ/s320/photo%2B2.JPG" width="320" /></a></i></div>
<i> On my final day before China, I sunk a bolt and a pin into some really nice granite and accessed a hanging dagger. </i><br />
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<i><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Tf7OQPeOo9A/VtUpOEkTDPI/AAAAAAAAClo/MMWk8uwzrO8/s1600/photo%2B3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Tf7OQPeOo9A/VtUpOEkTDPI/AAAAAAAAClo/MMWk8uwzrO8/s320/photo%2B3.JPG" width="320" /></a></i></div>
<i>Another shot of the route shown above, which I called the Daggerba System. If you're a WA climber the name might mean something to you. Or maybe it won't :) I'm actually really excited to climb in this area next season. The king line is still waiting to be done! </i></div>
Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-53723435433907501562015-12-25T17:43:00.000-08:002015-12-26T14:55:25.675-08:00It's Not Over<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The night is moonless and black like coffee. I ponder how many times I've descended Aasgard Pass, but my knees plead with me to fantasize about something else. Blake drifts through the scree ten feet ahead. "I'm psyched for next week man." I can hear the excitement in his voice. I'm stoked to try our link up too, especially since today's rehearsal went without a hitch. "We're not even done with this mission and we're talking about the next!" I joke. But that's how it goes. This is our home turf. We've made this descent a thousand times.<br />
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Wise alpinists know that it's not over until it's over. Well now, it's over. An hour and half to the car, thirty minutes to Safeway, home eating pizza at eleven; it's not my first rodeo. To my left, a stream rushes through the talus. Blake and I follow it down and gain the main trail, one of the most popular in the Cascades. Then I hear a sound besides the crunch of our skidding approach shoes. It takes me a second to understand and then believe that a rock avalanche is 1,000 feet above our heads and bearing down fast.<br />
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"Run! Run! <i>Oh fuck</i>". The boulders gain on us. Dust clogs the air and the ground shakes harder. I glance to my right. Blake's doing the same thing I am. Recklessly gunning it down the slope is our only option. Just before being flattened, we instinctually throw ourselves under large, lucky blocks. A rock the size of a TV tomahawks through the beam of my headlamp. Basketball sized boulders chase it down the slope. My only thought underscores the nightmare. "I can't believe we are going to die like this."<br />
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The roar fades to a whisper. A millisecond later my headlight is whited out with debris. It's over. "Blake!" I yell. "I'm here, I'm ok!" I've never heard his voice shake. We stumble down to the car in utter disbelief. The hike, usually an afterthought, turns into an eerie stumble. Over and over, we mutter "I can't believe it" as shock flushes out our veins.<br />
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Back at Blake's Subaru, the rock slide feels like a bad dream. Next week we plan to push ourselves in these mountains again, tackling a goal as unattainable as anything we've ever tried. This past winter I lost a friend and a climbing partner. I also watched an avalanche narrowly miss a father of two daughters I adore. And now this?<br />
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If we can't understand the ways of the mountains, at least we can learn from them. The message is simple. We are not in control. Even in the most tame and travelled scenarios catastrophic accidents happen. We hop in the car and bump down the washboard road. Blake talks about next week's triple linkup. There are a myriad of logistics to nail down. Discussing the options is a coping mechanism. How do I feel? I just know I need a beer right now. I crack an IPA and take a pull off the bottle. The alcohol mixes with stale adrenaline. Can I continue this path I wonder? There's only one way to find out.<br />
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<i>This is a behind the scenes look at:</i><br />
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<i> http://www.alpinist.com/doc/web14x/wfeature-herrington-holsten-stuart-range-linkup</i><br />
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<i>Blake and I enchained Dragons of Eden and Der Sportsman a week before our triple link. The rockfall occurred on the lower flanks of Aasgard Pass. It was an insane event that the words above barely describe. It was so powerful that I wondered if we would be buried in rock. If you are familiar with the area, you know it's crazy to almost die a few hundred yards above Colchuck Lake in the middle of summer. Or is it? It might be a backyard run, but it's real in the mountains. Bottom line. This event definitely changed the nature of our coming goal. I was already struggling with Chad's death and then this. What were the mountains trying to tell me? Every time I pushed they pushed back. Even in the midst of a break from climbing I'm still straining my ear to the hills. I'm listening. </i></div>
Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-59237695294991446432015-12-19T11:30:00.000-08:002015-12-20T09:58:10.347-08:00Going Alone <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hot sun beats down on campsite 21. The monkeys are out sending. I'm alone except for a chubby squirrel that crawls through the coffee cups and dusty guidebooks littering the picnic table. Reaching towards my toes, I focus on my breath. The stretch pulls on my hamstrings and pushes on my desire. It's supposed to be a rest day, but screw regime. My heart says climb.<br />
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I trot through an expanse of Joshua Trees, my tattered Mythos patting against my hip. In the distance is Echo Cove, a monzonite maze of egg-shaped boulders and quirky domes. I use the hike to build focus. I have a mile to empty my thoughts into the expanse. One mile to find my rhythm.<br />
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Under a lonely, leaning wall I put my shoes on. Details, like the creak of my laces tightening, etch themselves into space. A minute later I'm there, twenty five feet above the sand. I stretch out to a scallop with my left foot. My right foot comes up and I pop to the hueco jug.<br />
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Now I just have to keep it together. At a rest I pause to think, but only of when I should start again. Halfway up a solo is no place to let my mind wander. Hero jugs are indented into the the shield of stone above me. I move dynamically between the incuts and then slow down on one last lock off.<br />
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On the way back I absorb the sunset and regather the pieces of myself I separated from an hour before. Subtly, they fit together in a fresh way. By the time I get back to campsite 21 I'm the new me. That 50 foot climb worked its way into my veins. It had an affect. Now, I look at my friends faces lit by campfire. I think about sharing the experience, but instead stow away those moments above Echo Cove. I take a rocky seat and stare into the dancing flames. The vibration of going alone pulses in my soul. <br />
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-71169676949846191132015-11-30T16:27:00.000-08:002015-11-30T16:27:18.329-08:00Dreams on a Yellow Bike<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>I've been on the move for 4 hours. My first summit, strapped in winter snow, falls further behind me. I step off the ridge into a west facing couloir. Boot skiing and heel plunging morphs into log jumping and running. A purring stream cuts the hard, dirty snow that fills the valley bottom. Time to hydrate. </i><i>Dipping my bottle in the flow burns my finger tips. Cold water in a dark forest. </i><br />
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Across the room, suspended in glass, a sweat soaked figure pumps his legs like pistons. My mind drifts away from the forest and focuses on finding alignment under my second toe. I search for rhythm as I push the pedals, supervising myself in a mirror across the empty room. At 5 months post op, I tell others that my ankle is "coming along". Devoid of triumph, my vague and standard slogan is at least truthful. The surgeon removed a dime-sized piece of bone out of my joint, before shaving off spurs and reattaching blown ligaments. More than once, he wondered out loud how it was possible that I climbed on such a sorry appendage.<br />
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Ten years ago, during a Yosemite bouldering session, I hopped off a warm up. <i>Snap!</i> I remember laying in the pine needles trying to convince a friend that my season was over. At first, he laughed. How could a two foot fall break bones? I hopped to the car and drove to a hospital in Mammoth. Sure enough, my talus was fractured. A piece of the bone had broken off, floating in my ankle joint like a subtle blade, primed to slice at soft tissue and sabotage joint motion if it wasn't removed. With surgery a possibility, I decided to accept my long recovery and return home to Washington.<br />
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"Yeah, I see the bone fragment, but I think we can try conservative treatment." The orthopedist in Seattle squinted at the x-rays. I didn't even bother trying. All I cared about was that I didn't have to go under the knife. I knew that meant I'd be back to my vertical world sooner. I crutched out of the office intent on climbing as soon as I'd served my six weeks on the couch.<br />
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I still remember my first day back on the rock. I limped to the base of the Lower Town Wall, a mere five minutes from the parking lot. Ignoring the swelling and crunching, I twisted my ankle into cracks and grimaced as I took mandatory laps on the classics. After all, I had to get back into shape. The second day out, I blew a piece on a sketchy 5.12 and hit the ground. I laughed it off after I got my breath back. At least I hadn't landed on my ankle. A week later I climbed a hard route on the Town Walls. I felt pretty good for being out of shape due to injury. In my mind, I had made a full recovery.<br />
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As the years went by I demanded even more from my body. I often attacked two difficult mountains a week, with off days spent shoveling grapes at a winery and going cragging with my friends. My ankle was functional, but always swollen and edgy. Of course, it continued to get worse. I changed the way I hiked when I could no longer flex my foot up and down. "At least I can still front point," I thought. If I could achieve my climbing goals I didn't give a damn how my ankle felt.<br />
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This past spring I was out for a rest day run at Smith Rock. As I tried to punch it up the final hill to the parking lot I stopped. I was limping like an ultra marathoner on the final stretch of a 100 mile race. I felt pathetic. No matter what I did I couldn't get around my injury. It had me up against a wall. I had lost the ability to ski and to run. Even my climbing was suffering. I couldn't power up on footholds anymore. Standing poised on ripples ten feet runout, my ankle would wobble and crack. My confidence hit an all-time low.<br />
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Confronting my injury has been humbling. I did a lot of damage to my ankle in those years of ignorance. I have little cartilage left between my tibia and my talus, so those two bones crash into each other with impact. When they "kiss", a fiery twinge signals the intimacy. Since cartilage in a can hasn't been created yet, there is no cure for the damage. Despite the prognosis I'm committed to figuring out how to work around the pain and to find experimental treatments that work for me.<br />
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For now, I ride the old, yellow stationary bike at the local fitness club and meditate on future goals. In the intensity of my workout my mind separates from my body. I stare into the mirror across the room, my own eyes glazed over and unblinking in the reflection. Visualizing how it will feel to be in the midst of my dream climbs, a few specific visions keep occurring. I run through them until my stopwatch breaks the trance. A benefit of time away from climbing is the realization of what inspires me and will drive my heart in the future. It's been a while since I was able to differentiate between passion and duty. The hours on the yellow bike are helping define that line.<br />
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<i>Pouring out the last few swigs of water, I put my empty bottle back in my pack. Renewed, I charge towards another north face. The crunch my boots make on the snow pierces the silence beneath the mountain. Soon, I'm daggering up another web of ice runnels. </i><br />
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<i>"Chik, chik. Chik, chik". </i><br />
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<i>The mesmerizing rhythm of one swing sticks bounces through the halls of my empty mind. In an hour I break into the sun and onto the summit. Before me are the mountains I love. Staring off into the desert, blinking lights of the city beckon me home. </i></div>
Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-79146541370213193232015-09-09T16:53:00.000-07:002015-09-11T09:03:18.099-07:00Still Questing <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 19.2000007629395px; letter-spacing: -0.699999988079071px; line-height: 28.8000011444092px;">25 years ago I scraped my way up Orchard Rock, a flakey plug of sandstone only a few miles east from where I live now. Since then, I've climbed with maniacal devotion. All the lazar cut cracks, ice flows, and soaring faces flutter in the recesses of my mind. The mountains and walls have blended into a collage of rock and ice. Faces of partners, creased and weather worn, pulse through the memories. The experiences are like a quilt, each intricate stitch part of a greater whole. Part of who I am.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 19.2000007629395px; line-height: 28.8000011444092px;">The vertical world offers a perspective that is honest and bare boned. It will smother you with joy and crush you with pain. Between those places I search for contentment. Rather than the blatant psyche of my youth, my modern mood is more reserved. I'm learning to pick my battles. Still, the ember of inspiration glows electric. I'll give everything to a route that calls my name because the mountains affect me. They strip me to my most basic self and this nakedness in raw nature feels pure. Can I take that sense of being to my everyday life? Can I love, create, give, and achieve with that simple heart?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 19.2000007629395px; line-height: 28.8000011444092px;">Self knowledge, relationships, work, and other interests have always taken a backseat to climbing.</span><span style="font-size: 19.2000007629395px; line-height: 28.8000011444092px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 19.2000007629395px; line-height: 28.8000011444092px;">Right now I'm trying to find out who I am besides runouts and sleepless pushes. If climbing didn't exist who would I be and what would I do? If I was never strung out above a TCU or falling on the last move of a project, would I be happy? Something tells me I need the grittiness. That I won't be content with an easy life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 19.2000007629395px; line-height: 28.8000011444092px;">Over the last year I've had to ask myself if I want to continue climbing. It's a question that I couldn't face at first. It took me over a year to admit out loud to a best friend that it felt like my devotion was wavering. Since that confession I've allowed myself to contemplate a life without the mountains. Tucked beneath faded visions is the original joy I experienced so many years ago on Orchard Rock. That wide eyed challenge of finding the next hold, that moment when there is nowhere higher to climb. A summit perspective. I've retraced my steps back to the starting point and realized nothing has changed. Climbing still makes me feel alive. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 19.2000007629395px; line-height: 28.8000011444092px;">For now I am laying low. I had surgery on my right ankle 8 weeks ago. It was a long time coming and recovery is the key for me to continue my athletic endeavors. By the time I'm climbing again, winter will be settling into the Cascades. I might search for adventure in the frozen mountains or I might clip sunny bolts in a far away land. Maybe I'll just take a road trip. Whatever I choose to do will originate in that sense of awe I felt above the orchard so long ago. I can't wait to tie in again. </span></div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-7562521536976711192015-05-08T16:32:00.003-07:002015-05-08T16:35:18.302-07:00The Chad Kellogg Memorial Route<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Near the end of April, my good friend Vern Nelson Jr. and I were able to finish a mixed climbing project on Argonaut Peak, a relatively small, but interesting mountain in the Stuart Range. Alpinist.com ran a nice trip-report style story of our ascent. Check it out here:<br />
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<span style="color: #312e29; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"><a href="http://www.alpinist.com/doc/web15s/newswire-emotional-release-on-argonaut-peak">http://www.alpinist.com/doc/web15s/newswire-emotional-release-on-argonaut-peak</a></span></span><br />
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-31323899758837975142015-03-22T12:22:00.000-07:002015-03-22T16:59:53.937-07:00And The Wheels Fell Off<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Maybe climbing isn't my path." A burning sadness settled in with my words. Jessica listened and gently tried to help me see a brighter, broader picture. I had felt her eyes on me all week as I thrashed around with little success on Joshua Tree's endless monzonite domes. A few days earlier she held my rope as I sagged off at the first bolt of a route I wanted to do over and over again.<br />
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<i>Lower me. </i>Try again. Fall. <i>Lower me. </i>Try again. Fall. <i>Lower me. </i>Try again. Fall.</div>
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By the fifth or sixth time this happened, it was clear to both of us that I wasn't going to get up the rig that day, but Jess let me keep falling and lowering. I needed an outlet for my pain and wearing out my fingers on a sharp boulder problem I wasn't going to succeed on was my version of punching a wall. </div>
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I had come to Joshua Tree on the Eve of Chad's death. I was looking for something. I'm always looking for something these days. "The Monument" was a place that used to make me feel alive and inspired. In my early 20's I spent every winter there, climbing boldly with my best friends. On this trip, every route seemed scary and hard. I shook my way up routes I used to solo with grace and focus. Sure, the sunsets were beautiful and I laughed a lot around campfires with friends, but something was different. I felt tired and worn out. </div>
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The last night we were there, Jess firmly let me know that how I used to do things wasn't going to work anymore. I had to reform myself. I had to become a beginner again. If I wanted to keep climbing, I would have change my outlook. I needed to give myself space from what I had let define me. If I didn't want to keep climbing, well, that was just fine too. </div>
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Jessica headed to Arizona to visit family and I came back up to Washington to meet my friend Blake Herrington for a trip to climb ice in the Canadian Rockies. Needless to say, I wasn't feeling very inspired, but I had committed to the trip and wasn't going to back out. Plus, I was looking forward to spending time with our friend Steve Swenson, who would be our gracious host us for the week. </div>
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Although I have climbed a fair amount of frozen stuff over the years, I am a relative beginner when it comes to the cold side of climbing. I had never been to Canada to climb ice and was really interested to see the Rockies.<br />
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Blake and I had a great trip. The lack of avy danger allowed us to climb whatever we wanted and we knocked off a host of classics. In the past, a great climbing trip could make up for even a large amount of pain, but as I rolled back into Leavenworth I knew something was different. I was and honestly am, feeling so down, so broken, that it's been hard to see any light at the end of the tunnel. It hurts me to not be able to share passion driven tales on this blog anymore. But this is about sharing the climbing life, right? My climbing life at least.<br />
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For now, I've canceled an upcoming trip. I've watched my callouses fall off and felt my muscles getting weak. I stowed away my climbing gear so I wouldn't have to look at it anymore. I didn't capitalize on the best winter conditions I have ever seen in the Cascades. I spent too much money on a new refrigerator instead of funneling every penny into the next climbing mission. I'm not sure what's happening. Despite the darkness, I'm proud of myself in other ways. I'm sober. The grief support group I joined makes me feel like I have a chance at happiness again. I have so many wonderful friends and when the depression becomes overwhelming I always pounce out my door and go find them. They are always happy to see me.<br />
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One constant that brings me great hope is my attraction to the beauty of the alpine environment. The road that leads from my cabin to the grocery store has stunning views of the Stuart Range. Every time I make the drive I smile, turn up the music, and know that I have lot's of unfinished business in the world's mountains. I don't know when or how I'll be back at it, but it won't be too long I'm sure. Right now, the birds are chirping and spring is here. I'm going bouldering with my friends and I'm alive. There is much to be thankful for. </div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-33786877487132360722014-11-29T08:27:00.001-08:002014-11-29T08:27:31.624-08:00Fall Back: Quick Reflections on Spring and Summer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Since returning home from South America last February my focus has been on survival. The depression and anxiety that follow an event like Chad's death are more powerful than I could have ever imagined. The emotions and depth of sadness surprise me constantly, as do the blessings that trickle in at just the right rate to keep me sane and precariously balanced.<br />
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I've continued to climb at a fairly constant pace, but it is different now in some ways. The lens I view my life and climbing from is on a different setting. Rather than constantly making plans for big trips and lofty goals, I'm operating on a more day to day schedule. I wake up, look outside, ask myself what I want to climb that day and then go do it. I've spent time with friends old and new, each person finding (or maintaining) a definitive place in my life. <i>I used to think I only needed the mountains. </i>Now I know it's all about people, the love we can give one another, and as climbers, the experiences we share in high places.<br />
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In this post, I thought I would give a quick recap of the spring, summer, and fall. Then, I can get back on track and hopefully provide a more constant stream of material about the coming adventures of my favorite season: Winter!!<br />
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In May, I left my home in Leavenworth and traveled to Yosemite Valley. At the time, I was feeling desperate, unsure of what to do or where to go. I needed to get back to my roots. Even though I climbed for many years prior to visiting Yosemite in the early 2000's, every move I've made in my life since was connected to my time in the Big Ditch. I arrived to old friends, many of whom had lofty ambitions. As much as I tried, my first few days were depressing and I almost left. I felt paralyzed with fear. The big walls, as close to the road and as solid as they are, seemed too intense. I climbed poorly, always envisioning the worst scenarios. Fortunately, my friends were compassionate to my feelings and never made me feel bad about bailing off climbs that were no problem for them. It took a week to sort my heart out and the partnership of Quinn Brett and Josh Lavigne to help me feel strong enough emotionally to go after some cool objectives. We climbed some rad pitches, but our best day was on the classic South Face of Mt. Watkins. We managed to climb the route in eight hours which I thought was pretty good for three people who barely knew each other and who hadn't really climbed together. Quinn has a good recap of the ascent <a href="http://lookstandbreathe.blogspot.com/2014/08/clean-teeth-clean-climbing.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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<b>Josh, Quinn, and I after a fun day on Watkins</b></div>
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Later in the trip, I had the opportunity to try and lead all of the <a href="http://www.mountainproject.com/v/romulan-freebird-/108513618" target="_blank">Romulan Warbird </a>(Fifi Buttress), a really nice route pioneered by one of my favorite characters in the community, Dan McDevitt. Years later, with Dan's encouragement, Lucho Rivera freed the route, finding nine pitches of steep, super fun climbing. The Warbird features a crux 5.12c pitch sandwiched between two other 5.12b pitches and a stack of 5.11. Lucho has been a close friend for years and when he offered to belay and follow me on the route, I couldn't say no. I didn't send the 5.12c pitch that day, but I felt I had made some progress during my time in Yosemite. Usually, I would be frustrated with a failure, but merely trying to lead a hard, multi-pitch (for me) route was a step in the right direction. After almost giving up and heading home the first week, it felt good to make some progress in regaining my confidence.<br />
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After spending a few weeks back at home in Leavenworth, I decided to take Quinn up on her offer to show me the amazing climbing in and around Rocky Mountain National Park. This trip injected a full dose of psyche into my blood stream. RMNP is freaking awesome and climbing the Diamond for my first time was a dream come true. What a rad and unique piece of stone. We climbed <a href="http://www.mountainproject.com/v/ariana/105751150" target="_blank">Ariana</a> and enjoyed a perfect day in the park. Quinn put a nice piece of writing together about that day <a href="http://lookstandbreathe.blogspot.com/2014/08/clean-teeth-clean-climbing.html" target="_blank">here</a>. I climbed on a host of other fun routes around Estes Park and really enjoyed the running there too!<br />
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<b>Quinn soaks in the beauty of Rocky Mountain National Park</b></div>
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I returned to Leavenworth in early July with intentions to focus on a link up of my three favorite rock routes in the Stuart Range: Let it Burn (Colchuck Balanced Rock), Drangons of Eden (Dragontail Peak), and Der Sportsman (Prusik Peak). Blake Herrington was the perfect partner for the job and on July 27th we spent 23 hours and 45 minutes tracing an aesthetic line through our backyard peaks. In preparation, we also made a free link up of Dragons of Eden and Der Sportsman the week prior to the triple dip. Check out this <a href="http://www.alpinist.com/doc/web14x/wfeature-herrington-holsten-stuart-range-linkup" target="_blank">article </a> on Alpinist.com for the full story.<br />
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<b>Blake leads pitch 3 on LIB a few hours into our link up</b></div>
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<i><b>Photo by Max Hasson</b></i><br />
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I also used my time at home to squeeze in as much climbing at Index as I could. The long days of summer mean I can work full time and squeeze in evening sessions on some of Washington's (the world's?) finest routes. I managed to climb some great pitches I'd never done before and really enjoyed sharing the stoke with my close friend Jessica Campbell. I've had a lot of fun watching her blossom into one of the best rock climbers I know. </div>
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<b>Stepping through on Bobcat Cringe, one of the finest thin cracks at Index </b><br />
<b><i>Photo by Blake Herrington</i></b></div>
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My final summer excursion was a mini-road trip with my good friend Mark Westman. We coaxed my beater Subaru through the heat and scored a wonderful week at Elephant's Perch in Idaho. The Perch is stunning and the climbing is brilliant. I don't know what I can say that hasn't already been said about this amazing venue. If you have not been, please, please go. It is rad. We climbed The Fine Line, Myopia, Astro-Elephant, and Sunrise Book. Each of these routes were phenomenal, but Myopia took the cake. It must be one of the finest alpine rock climbs in the States with brilliant stemming and thin crack climbing forever. Wow! When rain came to the Sawtooths, Mark and I pointed the Subi north and headed for Squamish. We had a great week there also, climbing the classics and soaking in the summer scene.<br />
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<b>Mark and I stoked atop The Perch! </b></div>
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<b><i>Photo by Mark Westman</i></b></div>
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So, there it is. A very abbreviated recap of the past few months. There are many, many climbs that I'm not mentioning or forgetting. I'm feeling very psyched for the winter ahead. Sharpen your tools and wax your skis. It's on! Oh yeah, but make sure to stay in good rock shape too. <b>Winter high pressure windows at Index are for sending!!</b><br />
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<b>Myself enjoying another Squamish classic, Sentry Box</b></div>
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<b><i>Photo by James Lucas</i></b></div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-60757743942279190352014-08-14T09:40:00.000-07:002014-08-14T09:40:54.319-07:00Chad and I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Even though we both grew up in Seattle, I finally met Chad Kellogg three years ago on the wind swept streets of El Chalten, Patagonia. A mediocre weather window had appeared and we were both partnerless. "Solid" was the word that came to mind after chatting with him a bit. He was fit, open-minded, motivated, and kind. There was no doubt in my mind about his ability or temperament. We didn't need a warm up to test our partnership and a day later we left town for a shot at Fitz Roy. "Chadderbox" replayed story after story from his varied, adventurous, challenging, and beautiful life. We discovered on the approach that we shared a similar vision for our climbing, lots of mutual friends, and even had the same birthday, although Chad was ten years older than I. We got pummeled by rain the next day and my ticket back home was up. Chad went on to climb Cerro Torre for his first time with Bjorn Eivind Artun on that trip and when he returned home, we made plans to climb in Patagonia the next season. <br />
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Our paths didn't cross again until the next year in South America. We were both so busy! Since I had last seen him, Chad had attempted the speed record on Everest, made a bold solo bid on Nepal's highest unclimbed peak, Lunag Ri, and made the second ascent (solo!) of Jobo Rinjang, another proud mountain in the same region. Chad's self portrait on top of Jobo says it all. One hand holds the camera, the other flashes the "hang loose" sign, his tremendous smile back lit by an infinite stretch of high, snowy peaks. <br />
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Our time in Patagonia that year was mostly filled with foul weather, but on the last week of my trip we made two attempts at the SE Ridge of Cerro Torre. Our second attempt ended near the final headwall as snow and ice crashed around us. Despite climbing at night, it was too warm on the Torres. We had an exciting descent and I left for home utterly trashed, but psyched on the experience we had shared on such a beautiful spire. A few days after I left, Chad and Colin Haley forged the third "fair means" ascent of Cerro Torre via "The Corkscrew", an unbelievable journey that begins on the SE Ridge before finishing on the classic West Face. To this day, I am so very happy that Chad and Colin had success on such an incredibly awesome route. <br />
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<strong>Chad and I kicking it at the Col de la Patienca</strong></div>
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Even while Chad and I climbed in South America, we talked feverishly about an objective back home. I had a strong desire to make a full traverse of the Southern and Northern Picket Ranges deep in the North Cascades. It turned out that Chad had attempted to traverse the southern portion with Dylan Johnson years earlier. When I asked him to join me that coming summer, he was all in. We spent seven days adrift on the ridge that July, fighting stormy weather, and doing our best to trace an elegant line through a maze of chossy peaks. Neither of us realized the impact this experience would make on us. As we stumbled out to our car Chad declared our Pickets enchainment one of the top five experiences of his climbing life. My mind quickly shuffled through all of his amazing accomplishments and I felt honored to have shared an adventure that found it's place among his finest. <br />
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<strong>Chad and I on top of Mt. Fury on day 4 of our Pickets mission</strong></div>
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Not only was our Pickets Traverse valuable as a climbing adventure, it also cemented our friendship and climbing partnership. As soon as we got home, Chad took up the pen and got right to work on a series of grants we hoped would help take us to Tibet in the fall of 2014. We heard that we had been awarded the Mugs Stump as well as several other grants when we were hanging out in, where else, Chalten this past season. Chad was ecstatic about the support, truly reminding me of a child's enthusiasm when they open their Christmas gift and see it is exactly what they asked for. Pure, soulful joy. The adventures were lining up just as we had envisioned and we could see the path ahead. <br />
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<strong>Chad and I having fun climbing crappy WA ice in the Entiat River Valley</strong></div>
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Last season in Patagonia was a fairly stormy one. Early in our trip, Chad and I made strong efforts on Cerro Stanhardt and Fitz Roy, but gusty (understatement) winds and snow turned us back each time. On Stanhardt we sat for 9 hours on a ledge while the storm raged. Of course, by the time we bailed and were back in our tent at Niponino, the sky was blue. As a result, we brought a bivy sack when we tried the Supercanaleta a week later. Our plan was not to get skunked again and we spent a whole night and morning three quarters up the route with a thin sheet of nylon over our heads waiting for the freight train like winds to abate. "It's gonna break, I know it." and "How's it looking now?" being common conversational pieces. <br />
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<strong>Chad nestles into another padless bivy among the rocks on night 6 in the Pickets. These scenarios were truly fun for Chad!</strong></div>
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We eventually bailed. On our descent, a Russian climber almost plummeted to his death when he threaded his rappel device incorrectly. He leaned back, fell and grabbed the ropes in front of him, narrowly avoiding a 2000 foot tomahawk down the mountain. "Super sketchy," Chad declared. <br />
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If summits are all that matter, Chad and I actually failed on almost all of our climbs. In fact, the only two summits we stood on together (besides the many we rambled over on the Pickets Traverse) were Dragontail in the Central Cascades and Fitz Roy. The main reason for this was that we always tried to pick the most unlikely or difficult route that we could. If we came up with an idea where success seemed likely, we shut it down and chose something a bit more absurd. In fact, The Affanasieff was the first route we chose together that was not at our limits. We had considered the conditions in the range and our lack of success that season, and decided we wanted to climb Fitz Roy, and that we would chose a route we knew we could do. Of course, we left the door of possibility cracked and chose to approach from the Torre Valley so that we could make use of any good weather remaining after climbing Fitz Roy to climb something in the Torres too. <br />
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Even though Chad didn't make it down from Fitz Roy, he did make it up. Our climb of the Afanasieff was more time consuming than we had imagined. We beat ice out of the cracks to make progress and moved carefully over loose terrain. Despite conditions not being perfect, we had a blast and Chad was obviously in his element. For him, alpine climbing was Type 1 fun. He enjoyed it so, so much. On top, at his request, I took extra photos of him flashing the hang loose sign with Cerro Torre poking at the sky just over his shoulder. <br />
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Since we were hoping to return to the Torre Valley after our climb, rather than Chalten, Chad and I chose to make our descent down the Supercanaleta. It was a warm day, so when we reached the start of the couloir and the rappels we sat on a ledge for a few hours and reveled in our position. We chatted and enjoyed each other's company. In retrospect, I am thankful we were able to spend such quality time together on such a rad perch. By this point, our friendship was easy and fluid. We talked about girls, climbing, and food (pretty simple minded dudes!). When the sun became less intense we began to rap. <br />
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I'm not going to go into the details of the accident. Needless to say, Chad was struck by a rock only a few rappels in and was killed instantly. Initially, I considered chucking myself off the mountain. The moment overwhelmed me beyond comprehension and dying too seemed like the only way to escape the nightmare. Quickly though, I recognized that I had to live. I had to return to Chad's friends and family to tell them what had happened. Rapping away from him was bar none, the most fucked up moment of my entire existence and I hope I never, ever feel such darkness again. My descent was long and trying. I became soaked by waterfalls and my ropes, always tangled, refused to slide down the couloir. Two times they became stuck above me and I was forced to climb up the couloir with my chincy axe and tennis shoes with strap on crampons to retrieve them. After finally passing the bergshrund, I sat in the snow and yelled into the night. The mountains stood fast in the full moon light and loneliness cut me like a wickedly sharp knife. "NOOOOOOO!!!" I screamed again and again. <br />
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The next morning, after having spent a few hours warding off the hypothermia that was taking over my body, I began stumbling towards Piedra del Fraile, often sinking to my knees in tears and utter disbelief. When I arrived there I ran into Henry, a Californian who had just climbed Guillomet. I told him what had happened and broke down. He sat silently next to me, his arm around my shoulder as I cried. After radioing the park service headquarters in Chalten, Henry and I hiked the last few miles to the road. <br />
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After only two days, I was on a flight home. Despite the physical difficulties of my descent, I realized I faced much greater emotional challenges ahead. As an alpinist, my body was trained to not sleep, to deal with pain, and to always keep going. But I had and have no idea or skills to overcome the sorrow that clenches my soul. Only through the love of the climbing community, my family, and my friends have I been able to catch glimpses of joy and a future beyond this traumatic event. I have continued to climb partly because I don't know what else to do and partly because despite Chad's death, I believe it to be a beautiful and worthy path to walk. I began the sport at seven years old. I'm now nearly 32. I don't know any other way but to return to the hills seeking answers. I'm not convinced this is best, but I'm trying as hard as I can to salvage my spirit with the means that I have.<br />
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Now, six months later, Chad is still at the forefront of my mind and heart. One minute I feel great happiness, the next finds me on my knees in tears. Some days I tie in and climb better than I ever have. Others find me quaking with fear and calling the day early. Some nights I drink too much and stare at my wall in stunned disbelief. Others, I spend running trails or scrambling favorite routes around my home, loving my life. It is a mixed bag and all I can do is take it day by day. <br />
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Chad Kellogg was without a doubt, one of the finest humans I've ever met. He was beyond inspiring, but also transparent about the struggles he had overcome and those he grappled with until the end. I found myself, through his friendship, becoming the person I knew I could be and wanted to be. I'm fighting to reestablish myself on that path of transformation, both to honor Chad and most importantly, out of love for myself. <br />
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<em>I wish this post was something more conclusive, but the reality is, I will never come full circle with this experience. It will never be ok and I'll feel it's gravity until my last days. Still, I promise to myself, Chad, and you, my precious friends, that I will make it through this, hopefully rendering a more loving, balanced, and passionate soul.</em><br />
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<strong>Chad steps onto the Challenger Glacier. Just as the dawn's first rays warmed us that cold, final morning on the Pickets Traverse, so has Chad's spirit permeated my being. I will forever feel that light in my life, hopefully passing bits of it on to others I make contact with. </strong></div>
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<strong><em>Thank you Chad</em></strong></div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-78982319839328707222013-12-31T07:59:00.002-08:002013-12-31T07:59:44.762-08:00Patagonia Tune Up: A First Winter Ascent of Argonaut Peak's NW Buttress<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In the eight years that I've lived in the Leavenworth area, the Stuart Range has been my training and molding ground. These jagged peaks picked up where the American West left off. After years of dirtbagging in places like Yosemite, J-Tree, and Indian Creek, I "settled down" in Leavenworth, Washington. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was about to become an alpine climber. </div>
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Year after year I return to the Stuart Range, seeking new challenges that inspire me. These days, I am most interested in climbing these peaks in winter. A route that would take me half a day in summer all of the sudden becomes a much more complicated affair. The road to the trailhead is closed, adding an extra four miles of hiking on the front and back end of a winter mission. You feel a remoteness that just can't be had in summer and there are so many more variables to consider. </div>
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The last few years I have accomplished some of my winter goals. The strong partners I climbed with eased my burden and I enjoyed the camaraderie of our experiences. This winter, I desired something new. I wanted to complete a first winter ascent of an aesthetic route by myself. </div>
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<strong>My first view of Argonaut Peak on 12/29/2013</strong></div>
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Knowing the conditions were fairly dry in the range, I thought a rock buttress would be a good choice. My first thought was Sherpa Peak's North Ridge (someone go get this thing!), an elegant and classic route on a seldom visited peak. Despite being included in Jim Nelson's Classic Climbs book, it had never seen a winter ascent. I considered this option, but also recognized that I would be in Argentina soon and needed to be ready and fresh for the big time. Sherpa was totally doable, but I only had one day to climb in the middle of a busy work week and decided the effort would tap me more than necessary. I finally settled on Argonaut Peak's NW Buttress. It was a shorter, easier route on a mountain I knew fairly well. Most importantly, I thought it was a nice looking line. </div>
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<strong>NOAA called for sunny skies...should I bail?!</strong></div>
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I hiked in after work on Saturday and made camp at the junction where the Colchuck Lake trail branches off the Stuart Lake Trail. There wasn't much snow to that point, but the ice was insane. Every step was tedious and I fell many times. How I wished for more snow!!</div>
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After a good nights sleep I set off. The dawn brought a surprise for me. Instead of the sunny skies that were forecasted, the peaks were obscured in windy clouds and snow flurries. As I approached the mountain I could tell that despite dry conditions, the rock was covered in furry white stuff called rime. As wind and moisture raked the peaks, it become more prominent. On the pocket snow field below my route the wind actually pushed me around as I racked up. I wondered if I should bail as the weather was much worse than I imagined it would be. I finally decided I was ok for now and that I should keep going until I couldn't anymore. I climbed a 40 - 50 degree couloir for 400 feet to a notch at the base of the buttress. It was tiring work as the snow was not firm and was the culmination of a 13 mile approach with a heavy pack (you carry all the gear when you solo!). </div>
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<strong>It's hard to tell, but this step on the buttress involved face climbing verglased 5.6 for 80 meters. I choose to belay myself on this stretch due to the slippery rock. Higher, the rime became so prevalent that everything was covered in the furry white stuff.</strong></div>
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<strong>It was a cloudy day, but the views from the buttress were still beautiful</strong></div>
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Looking up at the route, it was clear I wouldn't be wearing the rock shoes I had brought. It was much to cold and the rime covering the rock would require crampons. I put one ice tool away and clipped the other to my side. I free soloed the first step, but when more difficult ground presented itself, I broke out my rope and belayed myself through the difficulties. The climbing was typical Stuart Range winter fare. Rime covered rock climbing with the occasional stretch of alpine ice and crucial moss sticks. </div>
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It was interesting to be in my own world up there. There were points where my eyes followed my rope down into the mist and I almost forgot that no one was down there. I was alone. The weather worsened as I got higher, but I barely noticed as I was so focused. My only hope was that the wind would not pick up more. I didn't have goggles and I knew how debilitating that could be in these conditions. How would I descend if I couldn't open my eyes to see! </div>
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<strong>On top, hoping that I could see well enough to descend efficiently</strong></div>
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After a nice mixed pitch with some actual sticks in ice, I finally hit the summit. I took a quick photo and started descending in high winds. Some down climbing and three rappels put me on the south side of the peak. With darkness only 20 minutes away, I chose not to return via the approach I had taken in the morning. While this approach (Mountaineer's Creek) is not too tricky, it does require off trail maneuvers and I knew in my tired state I would most likely get lost and walk in circles. Therefore, I began a soul sucking trek through shin deep snow around Colchuck Peak. Once I arrived at the col between Colchuck and Dragontail, all I needed to do was descend an easy glacier, after which I would pick up an actual trail that would lead me back to the junction where I had bivied the previous evening. </div>
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The rest of my descent was straight forward, but movement was constant. I finally returned to my car at 10:30 PM, seven hours after I left the summit. </div>
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Now, I'm drying my gear and packing my bags to head south. This was the last climb before my season in Patagonia begins. I'm ready and psyched.</div>
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<strong>*An account of the first winter ascent of the NW Buttress of Argonaut Peak</strong><br />
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<strong>*Summit was gained on December 29, 2013</strong></div>
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<strong>*Ascent was made by Jens Holsten</strong></div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-13191227319643194932013-12-18T09:07:00.004-08:002013-12-18T09:07:59.126-08:00Here Today, Gone Tomorrow. A Week of Washington Ice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I love climbing ice in Washington. When temperatures plummet, my mind relentlessly computes aspect, temperature, elevation, and snowpack into a vision of what might be in. Each day I drive the canyons of Leavenworth and watch the routes I'm interested in. They start as a sliver of ice amidst a crashing water fall or a veneer of snow stuck to a rock wall. Days later, with the right conditions, these routes develop into something climbable. It happens fast and you have to be ready when it all lines up. <br />
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This December's cold snap produced some great ice around the Northwest. More snow would have created the perfect scenario, but I wasn't complaining. With a bone dry fall behind us and very little snow on the ground, I shelved some mixed projects and focused on pure water ice climbs instead. Drury Falls, a beautiful formation just a few minutes away from my house started to come together. Each day I would stand on the highway and check it's progress. Soon the blotches of ice became more cohesive. It started to look climbable. Then, the temps fell another ten degrees and dense clouds obscured the sun for three straight days. It was go time. <br />
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I called Craig Pope and Vern Nelson Jr. These guys are my ice partners in crime. Long before others have even began thinking about ice, these guys are prowling the state, envisioning the future and dreaming of the day it all comes together. <br />
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The crux of climbing Drury Falls comes before the first pitch. One needs to cross the Tumwater River, a rumbling, powerful stretch of water, just to reach the climb. We found our place amongst those who have struggled with this crossing, nearly losing control of our boat on attempt number one. We rethought our strategy, headed down the road to a safer crossing, and finally made it across. After that it was all gravy.<br />
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<strong>Crossing the Tumwater in the right spot...this kind of boating I can handle!</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Craig Pope</em></strong></div>
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The approach to Drury is a terrain trap if I've ever seen one, but the low snowpack made it as safe as it could ever be. I relished being in such an awesome place at the right time. It's neat to find yourself in places that are usually off limits. After some precarious boulder hopping rambling ice forced us into our crampons and we hooped and hollered our way upwards. </div>
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<strong>Craig and I rambling</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Vern Nelson Jr.</em></strong></div>
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The ice got a bit steeper, but was still dead easy and we continued the super fun group solo. </div>
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<strong>Craig and I climbing</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by VNJ</em></strong></div>
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We came to the steepest portion of the climb and decided to rope up. Three fun pitches of featured ice brought us to the top of the falls, an amazing place that offered a perspective I had never had before. Thousands of feet below headlights snaked along the highway. I felt close to home, but far away at the same time.</div>
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<strong>Myself leading our first pitch of roped climbing</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by VNJ</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Vern leading our pitch two</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Craig Pope</em></strong></div>
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After Drury, I took a few days to work, but couldn't help but ramble around the Icicle each afternoon. Leavenworth ice is a lot like its rock. It's usually low angle and the lines, while in a beautiful setting, aren't necessarily mind blowing (there are exceptions). Still, they are fun and I look at it like going for a run. It's just nice to get out. </div>
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<strong>Out for an afternoon ramble in the Sword Gully. This gully is super fun with about 600 feet of stepped ice to WI3</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Max Hasson</em></strong></div>
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An afternoon or two later, Max Hasson and Jon Pobst joined me for a route that I had eyed for many years. Just right of the Warrior Wall, we connected often thin, but sometimes thick ice runnels for three 80 meter pitches of spicy fun. Our first mixed pitch was especially thin and bordered on the limit of what I was willing to risk on a Monday afternoon after work. When I drove by the next afternoon, our climb was nothing more than a wet slab. The definition of "here today, gone tomorrow". </div>
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<strong>Climbing in the Warrior Wall zone</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Max Hasson</em></strong></div>
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A few more days of work and rambling had me itching to get on something steeper. Last season, Kurt Hicks and I had visited the Entiat, a quiet canyon outside of Wenatchee that offers aesthetic climbs in a peaceful setting. We didn't climb as warm temperatures and unstable ice conditions signaled the end of our season. Despite not swinging the tools that day, my eye spotted the "fang like" pillar of <em>What Do Ardenvars Eat?</em> It was a line that inspired me with all the right ingredients: A beautiful position, an elegant form, and engaging climbing. Last weekend, Blake Herrington, Chad Kellogg, and I headed back to see if WDAE was hanging in there. It was (I think it's gone now...), and we had a great time climbing the steep, shimmering tube of ice. We soloed up a beautiful second pitch too. What a route!</div>
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<strong>Myself leading <em>What Do Ardenvars Eat?</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Blake Herrington</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Another perspective of <em>What Do Ardenvars Eat?</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Blake Herrington</em></strong></div>
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After rapping off of WDAE, we hopped over to Tyee Falls. It was the wettest ice climb any of us had ever done. For once, I was able to see through my blinders, telling Blake that "I guess I understood why some people don't like ice climbing." Soaking wet and shivering we rapped off and ran for the car. Temps were rising, the season was slipping...time to go to Patagonia!</div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-1267214203766860742013-11-21T08:15:00.000-08:002013-11-21T08:15:29.391-08:00Mainsail: A New Route in the Icicle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em><strong>If my writing seems like a bunch of senseless dribble, scroll down for a video link of</strong> <strong>Mainsail!!</strong></em><br />
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Fall in Leavenworth is a busy time of year. In my line of work, it's one long day after the next as we process tens of thousands of pounds of grapes each week and then nurture the young wines as they begin their life journey. Precious time not spent in the cellar ticks by in a frantic rush to get the ski kit together, plan the next winter in Chalten, and climb in the beautiful crisp weather that makes fall in central Washington so pleasant. <br />
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The past few years I have been struggling with my rock game. A weird mass of scar tissue in my right hand causes tightness and as a result, reoccurring finger injuries. Finally healthy enough to start progressing towards harder routes, I joined Blake Herrington at Trout Creek in late September. Blake is an absolute animal and I can barely keep up with him at the crag. He ran my out of shape ass ragged on that first weekend and with each pumping pitch and torqueing finger lock that we did, I felt the weakness leaving my body. At that point, inspired to the max, I chose to do whatever it took to regain some of my fitness and confidence on the stone. <br />
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Filling my free time with trips to Trout Creek, Smith Rocks, and Index instead of only mountain climbs (there were some of those too!), I felt some of my strength return. In the back of my mind, I decided to continue building my fitness with the goal of finishing an old project I had bolted down the Icicle. It was a beautiful arête with an amazing position, a cool series of movements, and an inspiring backdrop. I spent the month of October getting on the rock as much as possible knowing I would need the pre-winter conditions of November to tick the proj. <br />
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When the good conditions rolled around, Jessica Campbell gave me a top rope catch on the arête. I hadn't been on it for two years, but was quickly able to remember the movements, although I wasn't able to link many of the moves. A few more bouldering sessions and I returned. Temps were 10 degrees colder and I made my first lead attempt of the route, falling once and linking moves I hadn't been able to before. <br />
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At this point I stopped buying beer (well, as much beer), did a few more sit ups each night, climbed on some plastic for raw power, and returned with my longtime friend, Max Hasson, to try and capture the ascent on film. I was not at all nervous about climbing in front of the camera. What I was nervous about was the fact that soon deep snows would overtake the route and my life. At this point in the season it was hard not to only think about skiing!! <br />
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That day I was able to complete <em>Mainsail, </em>my given name to the route. As often occurs on a line you've put a lot of effort into, it suddenly felt quite easy, and I wondered why it took so much time and effort to get it done. All these years I thought it was 5.13 for sure, but I couldn't help but peg it at 5.12d that day. Big numbers are hard to come by on the cliffs of the Icicle. The routes are just too slabby and even insanely hard routes have sandbagged ratings(Never Never Crack, Gutbuster, Rainshadow, etc...). So to be safe, 5.12d it is. I would love to see some of the local folks give it a go and to give me an idea of it's difficulty. The resulting film shows every move of the sequence, so watch it twice and flash the hell out of it!<br />
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Check it: <a href="http://vimeo.com/79911055">http://vimeo.com/79911055</a><br />
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I want to thank Max Hasson for capturing the moment. Not only is a Max an incredible climber (5.12+ flashes, 5.13 redpoints, new routes from Alaska to Patagonia), he is an artist with a unique eye on the world of climbing. Check out <a href="http://maxhasson.com/">maxhasson.com</a> for more inspiring trip reports, videos, and photography.<br />
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Cheers!</div>
Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-2964855733622298912013-09-15T10:46:00.001-07:002013-09-15T10:54:12.740-07:00The Bugs!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<strong>The Bugs!!!!</strong></div>
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When Sol Wertkin suggested we fit a quick trip to the Bugaboos into our busy summer schedules, a full force "Yes!" was my answer. The Bugs are an incredible venue. Easily accessed by a few miles of steep trail (and mellow glacier travel if climbing on the Howser Towers), these iconic formations rocket into the British Columbian sky with steep and unrelenting force. For the alpine rock jock, they present a dream canvas of never ending splitters and laser cut corners. <br />
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Sol and I left Leavenworth around dinner time and drove a few hours to Metaline Falls, a relic of a mining town tucked up in Washington's quiet northeast corner. We awoke with the sun, eager to arrive at the trailhead as soon as we could. As we pulled up to the border, a sign came into view. They were closed until 8 AM! Figuring we should do something productive with our time, we began packing our bags in front of the gate. The puzzled look as the border guards arrived for their shift was priceless. <br />
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<strong>Sol putting kit together at the border crossing</strong></div>
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By mid afternoon we were humping our load towards Applebee, the main camping zone in the Bugaboos. After ten minutes of hiking, the dark clouds above unleashed their fury. We pushed on, through the stream that used to be the trail. Waterfalls appeared out of nowhere and the spires above lost themselves in a dense mist. </div>
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The next morning, we used a bit of sun to dry out our gear on the rock slabs around Applebee before heading for a route on Bugaboo Spire's east face called Divine Intervention. We climbed four pitches of incredible corners before rain sent us rapping. </div>
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<strong>Approaching Bugaboo Spire</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Sol Wertkin</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Sol follows pitch one</strong></div>
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<strong>Following pitch four with a touch of sun before the rain</strong></div>
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<em><strong>Photo by Sol Wertkin</strong></em></div>
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Our second day also featured shifty weather, so we choose another moderate adventure close to camp. We settled on the Edwards-Nuefeld, a semi-obscure line of cracks up The Donkey Ears. The climbing, although not as high quality as other objectives in the area, was still wild enough to keep us excited. We hit the cumbre and scrambled back down to camp, where the newly posted weather forecast called for a few sunny days. It was time to get serious. </div>
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<strong>Sol cranks a nice 5.10 splitter on the Edwards-Nuefeld</strong></div>
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<strong>Sol follows more good 5.10 on the Edwards-Nuefeld</strong></div>
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<strong>Following high on the Ewards-Nuefeld in worsening weather</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Sol Wertkin</em></strong></div>
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The next morning we packed our kit and booted over the Bugaboo-Snowpatch col. Before long we were dropping into East Creek Basin, the jumping off point for routes on the west side of the Howser Towers. Tents dotted the camping area. My previous two trips to the basin felt remote and lonely. This time the place was packed with people. Fortunately, almost everyone there was a friend of ours!</div>
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<strong>Lots of tents in East Creek Basin = Lots of friends! Super fun times!</strong></div>
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Sol and I had thrown around a variety of main objectives for our short stint in the Bugs. We knew we wanted to climb the North Howser Tower's west face, but there were many great routes to choose from. I had climbed the most popular route on the face, All Along the Watchtower, with Max Hasson years ago, so I was keen for something new. The locals suggested that Spicy Red Beans and Rice was the line to do, but the absence of a mid-face snowpatch denied the possibility for water (unless we carried it, which sucks) on a route that would surely take us two days without jumars. By the end of the evening we had decided to tackle a link-up dubbed Under Fire. Under Fire journey's across and through several routes and goes free at mid-5.11. It sounded like a good objective for going light and getting to the summit in a reasonable day. I hadn't been doing much rock climbing either, so the moderate grade was appealing. </div>
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<strong>Scoping out the upper part of <em>Under Fire </em>(upper pitches seen on the far left)</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Sol Wertkin photo</em></strong></div>
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We left camp around 4 am and made the approach with some friends who were on they way to crush The Watchtower. Once at the base of the west face, we parted ways and got down to it.</div>
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<strong>Alpine start!</strong></div>
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Sol took the first block, climbing the giant corner system of the <em>Shooting Gallery </em>route. It was an incredible place to be, although it's named the <em>Shooting Gallery </em>for a reason. I tried to enjoy the views, but spent most of the time with my head down, tucked under whatever protection existed around the belays. Although fairly loose, the climbing in this section was spectacular, especially considering the setting. </div>
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<strong>Following cold granite low on <em>Under Fire</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Sol Wertkin</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Sol crushing away</strong></div>
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<strong>Good climbing, but a bit loose</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Sol Wertkin</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Sol cranks into the sun</strong></div>
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Soon, we were out of the <em>Shooting </em>Gallery and climbing a wild (and scary!!) flake system to join <em>The Seventh Rifle </em>for a few pitches. </div>
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<strong>A pitch of wild flakes leads into <em>The Seventh Rifle</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Sol Wertkin</em></strong></div>
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<strong>More action on the wild flakes</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Sol Wertkin</em></strong></div>
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Sol continued to crank away, finishing his long lead block around 2:00 PM. We had each planned to lead half the route. Now it was my turn to get the rope up. </div>
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<strong>Sol transitioning out of <em>The Seventh Rifle</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Sol on a low-angle, but fun wide crack about midway up <em>Under Fire</em></strong></div>
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I took the rack and gave Sol the pack. All of the sudden, our description of the route seemed difficult to follow. Giant gendarmes and gullies created complex terrain. I tried to follow the suggested path, but after a while just started climbing to the top via any way that looked doable. I lead a few nice pitches, the best one a nice crack in a corner ending with an exciting traverse to a belay in the Southwest Face gully. </div>
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<strong>Getting started on my lead block</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Sol Wertkin</em></strong></div>
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We continued up the gully on nice rock with good 5.9 climbing, but before long it fizzled into chossville. I cursed myself as we climbed the rubbly slot. Sol was a new dad and this was no terrain for a man in his shoes. Despite the ugly nature of this section, it deposited us right on the summit.</div>
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<strong>Good climbing in <em>The Southwest Face </em>gully</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Sol Wertkin</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Shitty climbing in <em>The Southwest Face </em>gully</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Sol Wertkin</em></strong></div>
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The top of the North Howser Tower is an incredible spot. The highpoint of the Bugaboo Spires, the 360 degree view cannot be beat. Mountains, almost all unknown to me, stretched into blue skies and the sun felt soft and warm. </div>
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<strong>Sol feeling the stoke after a one day free ascent of the West Face of the North Howser Tower</strong><br />
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We enjoyed the cumbre for a few minutes and then funked around trying to find the raps down the northeast side. I really need to start writing these details down as I had no clue where to go despite having done the descent before! </div>
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<strong>Cumbre!</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Sol Wertkin</em></strong></div>
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We were back in camp around 10:30 PM, making for a civilized day on a big face. The following morning we hit the trail back to our car and then made the long drive home. Our 4.5 days in the Bugs had been productive and fun. Furthermore, it was the first time Sol and I had climbed outside of the Cascades together. To stand on such an awesome summit with a such a great friend was the best part of the whole trip for me. </div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-78699024123891035462013-09-12T08:23:00.001-07:002013-09-12T08:23:16.909-07:00Pickets Slideshow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<strong>Hope to see you there!!</strong></div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-79646828755818572142013-09-12T08:21:00.001-07:002013-09-12T08:24:44.308-07:00Reality Face Video!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yo guys and gals!<br />
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Just wanted to share a link to a video that my good friend Max Hasson put together about the new route that Jared Vilhauer, Seth Timpano, and I established in Alaska this past May. Max took my shaky footage and created an inspiring little flick that really captures the feel of the climb. The artwork featured in the film was done by Jessica Campbell. Thanks so much Max and Jess for being great friends over the years and being passionate about climbing and sharing adventure with others!!<br />
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Check it: <a href="http://vimeo.com/74319724">http://vimeo.com/74319724</a></div>
Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-87016889738799140272013-08-24T11:06:00.000-07:002013-08-24T11:06:10.375-07:00The Torment-Forbidden Traverse: A Photo Essay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<strong><em>A few weeks ago, Jessica Campbell, Max Hasson, and I rambled over the Torment-Forbidden Traverse. We had an absolute blast, enjoying good friendship and climbing partnership forged over 10 years of living the climbing life together. This was a family outing. We found the traverse deserted as a stormy forecast kept the masses away. Luckily, the weather held, and created a wonderful opportunity to showcase the beauty of the North Cascades. Most of the pictures below are Max Hasson's and Jessica Campbell's, but a couple are mine too. Enjoy!</em></strong></div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-77120338847297488282013-08-24T10:22:00.002-07:002013-08-25T07:40:12.416-07:00Blue Collar Bash: An Ascent of Mt. Baring's North Face Route<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A faint morning sun penetrates the forest we hang from. Soloing through a vertical swath of brush and choss, Dan Hilden and I pull onto a 70 degree heather slope. Hard, dry hummocks under our boots might as well be polished smears and I claw at the greenery to make sure I don't huck off the hill and ping pong down the hideous 1000 foot gully below. It's comical really, this style of Cascade alpinism. I feel connected to a younger self on this ultimate tree climb, but my wiser mind recognizes the void below. </div>
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<strong>Dan contemplates the steep forest above</strong></div>
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Ahead, steeper planes of rock stack up in front of a crowning headwall. With the brush crux behind us, we slip into rock shoes and began climbing quality Rhino Stone up unlikely features. The black, hard rock feels familiar under my fingers. Exit 38 and Little Si, the crags outside of Seattle that I cut my teeth on, feature the same, edges, jugs, and slick feet. The only difference on Baring is there are no bolts, only pathetic pins about to fall out of the wall. <br />
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The climbing on the headwall, although a bit heady, is quite reasonable. The rock is good and there are some options for pro. I watch Dan follow the crux 5.10c pitch, his determined figure dancing towards the belay. Shades of green swirl 2,000 feet below our rock shoes. Old growth forest, blueberry bushes, and Barcley Lake form a tapestry of lushness. <br />
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<strong>Two shots of Dan on the crux 5.10 pitch </strong></div>
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Above the headwall, we find a magic ledge that whisks us out of our exposed position and deposits us onto Baring's southeast ridge. We un rope and hike up through misty talus, finding the summit only 200 feet above. I peak into the abyss and my stomach feels the gravitational pull of massive exposure. It's not a feeling I often find in Washington and I giddily stumble away from the edge. Mt. Baring is a big wall with blue collar style. There are no golden flakes and splitter cracks here. Dark as night rock falls into a deep tangle of Dough Fir, Slide Alder, and Devils Club. Dan and I have climbed from these depths and a brighter world has appeared, glimmering glaciers and snowfields from surrounding peaks poking through the mist. <br />
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<strong>The "magic" ledge that leads to the southeast ridge and shortly after, the summit</strong></div>
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We hang out on top for a while, the long day still young. After a while, we shoulder our packs and follow a fantastical path through trippy woods. Moss adorns smooth barked trees and straw colored light patterns the shadowed forest.<br />
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<strong>Dan The Man</strong></div>
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Down, down, down we go, towards the valley below. The trail is unbelievably steep but it gets the job done quick. Soon, we're cracking cold ones and giving our old beater cars a little oil. It's time to go home.<br />
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<em>The 1960 North Face Route on Mt. Baring has a fascinating and drawn out history. Stories of triumph and tragedy speak volumes about Ed Cooper, Don Gorden, Fred Beckey, and others who conquered this great wall with rudimentary gear and great courage. For more details see </em>Climbing and High Routes: Stevens Pass to Rainy Pass<em>, by Fred Beckey (the green book!). </em></div>
Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-85951055282014256312013-07-24T08:37:00.003-07:002013-07-24T08:59:42.355-07:00Desperate Country: Seven Days on the Fence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Warm air rushed through the windows as my beater Subaru huffed and puffed towards Newhalem. In the trunk was kit for the mission. The stereo pumped out slamming techno and I gorged on pastries from the Sultan Bakery. Psyche was high. The following day, with Chad Kellogg, the gun went off and our dash through the Pickets began.</div>
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<strong>Chad approaches the McMillan Spires on day one</strong></div>
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On July seventh at 3:30 AM we left the car with 35 pound packs stuffed with climbing gear, seven (to ten if you really pushed it!) days of food, a light jacket or two, sleeping bags, fuel, a stove, and a sill nylon tarp. We sweated buckets climbing out of Goodell Creek, but the way was clear and easy. Arriving in Terror Basin we re-hydrated and made good time on easy snow slopes to the base of the McMillan Spires. With knowledge from my 2011 Pickets enchainment and fresh bodies, we raced over all three summits and arrived at our bivy 12 hours after leaving the car. I felt really good about our day and enjoyed resting through the afternoon. </div>
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<strong>Chad navigates typically loose rock on West McMillan</strong></div>
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Day two started with a taxing traverse of some small towers in between our bivy and Inspiration Peak. In 2011, Sol had navigated this section with relative ease, but I still struggled to find the way. When I did find the path I idiotically chose to make a long simul-climbing traverse with all 80 meters of our rope out. A bunch of drag later and some sketchy 5.10 moves in my boots and I finally arrived at the base of Inspiration's East Ridge. With a clean hand crack ahead we soared up and over both summits, descended, shot up the fantastic East Face of Pyramid, and scrambled Deganhardt to end our day. Tom Sjolseth spotted us on the ridge from his bivy in the Crescent Creek Basin and ascended to our camp to chat and take pictures of the beautiful sunset. It was great to have this unexpected encounter with a friend in such a spectacular place. After Tom began his descent, Chad and I settled in for a brisk night. </div>
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<strong>Chad steps out on day 2</strong></div>
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<strong>Enjoying the best weather of the trip on day 2</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Chad nearing the summit of Inspiration on day 2</strong></div>
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<strong>Chad crosses a snow gully in between Inspiration and Deganhardt on day 2</strong></div>
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<strong>At our second bivy just under the summit block of Deganhardt</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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Since we had failed to stick our plan on day two (we had hoped to make the summit of the Rake), we began early on day three. To regain our pace, we put the hammer down and climbed the East Ridge of Terror, The Rake, wound through numerous smaller towers, cranked out the 5.10 on East Twin Needle, scrambled terrifying rock on West Twin Needle, and then completed the technical crux our journey, monkeying up the mighty blade that is the Himmelhorn. By the time we rapped into the Ottohorn-Himmelhorn Col we had been on the move for 17 hours. I was astounded at how long we took to complete this section even though we were climbing well and I had traveled the terrain before. It was 1:00 AM before we curled up in the dirt. Dehydration dried out my tongue and torqued on my muscles. We were afraid to burn excess amounts of fuel to rehydrate properly at the windy and exposed col. In hindsight, we did have enough fuel to rehydrate here and it was this crucial mistake that cost us the final two summits in the southern portion of our enchainment. A cold and windy dawn had us struggling to stay warm in the early hours of day four and with a primal focus on getting more water in our systems, we descended the Mustard Glacier via a snow couloir on the col's north side and arrived at Picket Pass where we sat by a tarn and drank to our heart's content. The past three days of leading had me a bit frazzled and fried. A few times I questioned my sanity. Was I really putting myself in this position again? Why yes, yes I was. </div>
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<strong>Chad climbing Terror's East Face, day 3</strong></div>
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<strong>Leading on the Rake, day 3</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Cranking out some 5.10 on East Twin Needle, day 3</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Climbing on one of my favorite routes in the Southern Pickets, Pyramid's East Face</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>The technical crux of our enchainment, The Himmelhorn's East Ridge</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Chad wakes from a cold bivy at the Ottohorn-Himmelhorn Col on day 4</strong></div>
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We left Picket Pass intend on using the latter half of day four to transition into the northern section of our journey. We hoped to climb Outrigger Peak, East Fury, and West Fury before lying down for the night. We ran into Tom and his partner Matt on top of Outrigger and enjoyed a social session on the summit. After a refreshing break, all four of us descended and then climbed to the summit of East Fury together in a thick fog that made navigation difficult. Never the less, we employed good beta from Tom and worked our way through worsening weather to a very cold and windy bivy below the summit of West Fury. The night passed somewhat excruciatingly as tough winds and moisture-laden clouds swept over the peak. The morning of day five brought some clearing, but rime ice lingered on the rock, as temps were slow to raise enough to melt the slippery nuisance. Finally, at 11 AM, we left the summit of West Fury and began moving down heads up terrain towards Swiss Peak. We both felt the loose down climbing and committing rappels in this section demanded much respect. The weather continued to be cold and unsettled. Chad had to encourage me through building doubt about our position. Our clothing was very minimal. If it started to rain or snow, hypothermia would come quickly on the exposed ridge. As on any grand adventure we were toeing the line of control.</div>
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<strong>Descending the Mustard Glacier toward Picket Pass on day 4</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Chad and I on the summit of East Fury, ready to set off for West Fury in worsening weather</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Tom Sjolseth </em></strong></div>
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<strong>Making it through a cold and stormy bivy on top of West Fury</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Rigging a rappel amongst rime covered rock on West Fury</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Chad heading towards Swiss after down climbing and rappelling off of West Fury, day 5</strong></div>
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The remainder of day five was spent climbing around many pointy spires, summiting Swiss Peak, and climbing up and over Spectre Peak. Again, like on West Fury, getting off of Spectre was a dangerous exercise in uber-choss down climbing. We also made one rappel in this section. This terrain, though technically easy, was the most serious I've ever encountered in the Cascades. In very cold, windy, and foggy weather we climbed up towards the summit of Phantom Peak until we hit our wall for the day. Our camp that night was an exposed perch overhanging Phantom's north face. It was hard to keep our minds off the weather, but we managed to make it through another cold and hungry bivy.</div>
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<strong>Our bivy perched on the North Face of Phantom Peak, day 5</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Chad brewing up at our bivy on Phantom</strong></div>
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The next morning (day 6), like robots, we stuffed our sleeping bags and got down to business. Some morning clearing showed the long ridge ahead. Unfortunately, we knew the improved weather wouldn't last for long as a hazy ring cradled the sun and wispy clouds floated in the west. Knowing we had between 12 and 24 hours before the weather tanked, we climbed out of our bivy with focused determination. By the time we had summited Phantom and connected the ridge-line to Ghost Peak, clouds were bearing down on us. We were so intent on getting off the ridge that we chose to not scramble 20 feet of third class to the summit of Ghost. We just kept moving towards salvation.</div>
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Finally, as I was leading the last two pitches to the summit of Challenger, snow flakes started to fall. In the 10 minutes it took us to high five on the summit, make a short rap and walk over to our glacier descent, the weather gave out. We tried to make our way down the Challenger Glacier but were unable to see anything. A gentle ski run with easily passable cracks in good weather, we only found ourselves strung out over giant schrunds in a blowing mist. Our thin jackets began to get wet. I could feel my survival instinct telling me to abandon our descent before we were hopelessly lost and climb back to the rocks near the summit. Sure enough, just under the top of Challenger, Chad found a cave. It was a damn uncomfortable spot, but it was a key find for us. We huddled sleeplessly though the night, staying warm by fighting off the snafflehound from hell. </div>
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<strong>Rappelling off of Phantom on day 6</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Scrambling towards Ghost Peak on day 6</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Chad in deteriorating weather on day 6</strong></div>
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<strong>Trying to get off the ridge, day 6</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Chad and I psyched but cold under the summit of Challenger, day 6</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Chad remaining positive through a cold night in a cave near the summit of Challenger</strong></div>
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Day seven dawned beautifully, the breaking storm amplifying the magnificence of the sunrise. We quickly left our cave and descended down the glacier and onto Wiley Ridge. It felt wonderful to sit in the heather and not be exposed to the weather and other dangers that had mad the previous days so intense. All that remained between us and a bag of potato chips was a long, long walk home.</div>
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We spent the rest of day seven slogging out to Ross Lake Boat Camp. Even though only seven flat miles remained to our car, we had to stop. We shivered in the 70 degree weather and my stomach was twisted in pain. It had all caught up with us. I felt like I had predicted I would at this point. Utterly worked. Mosquitoes pestered us through our night in the dirt, but we were too exhausted to care. On the morning of day eight, after a couple hours of hiking, we stepped onto Highway 20.</div>
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<strong>Chad steps onto the Challenger glacier as the storm breaks on the morning of day 7</strong></div>
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<strong>On Wiley Ridge, having escaped the Pickets</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Back at the cars already dreaming about future adventures</strong></div>
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<strong><em>photo by Chad Kellogg</em></strong></div>
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<em>Chad and I are absolutely stoked about or enchainment despite not summiting three of the peaks we had hoped to. We climbed nearly all day, every day, for seven days through demanding and serious terrain. We had minimal equipment, no cache, and no support. With the cold and unsettled weather in the latter half of the trip, it was a true challenge to keep the mind at bay (and get any sleep!). Looking back I see many mistakes and have learned many lessons that I hope to take with me to future objectives. As always, the path of growth continues. There is no crowning moment or pinnacle of achievement in this sport, but rather the continuing evolution of skills and consciousness.</em></div>
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<em>I am so grateful for Chad as a partner. Only interested in the most outlandish ideas, I appreciate that our drive is to focus on objectives where success seems improbable. We always hope to travel the hardest, least traveled road we are able to. </em></div>
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<em>I am also grateful to my incredible friends Sol Wertkin and Dan Hilden for our 2011 Pickets adventure. The beautiful moments from our enchainment have not been belittled in my mind. What a fantastic part of this journey! Dan's recent Alpinist article about our 2011 effort features more poignant thoughts about adventuring in the Pickets than I am able to come up with at the moment. It is a must read for sure!</em></div>
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<em>And of course, a huge thanks to Wayne Wallace for not only being ok with me taking over his obsession with this objective, but encouraging me along the way. Thx Wayne!!!</em></div>
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<em>Jens Holsten</em></div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-7665869563108977842013-07-18T06:41:00.000-07:002013-07-18T06:50:16.066-07:00Leavenworth Mountain Sports Shindig<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hey guys!<br />
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I'd be really stoked to see some familiar faces at Leavenworth Mountain Sports on the 26th of July. This is gonna be a good one (I hope!).<br />
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See ya there!<br />
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-59892646218450045522013-06-25T16:13:00.001-07:002013-06-25T16:13:49.933-07:00Alaska!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In my last post I highlighted a <a href="http://www.jensholsten.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-reality-face-new-route-in-alaska.html" target="_blank">new route</a> that Jared Vilhauer, Seth Timpano, and I established on Reality Peak. That route was accessed from the West Fork of the Ruth Glacier, but the majority of my two week trip was spent climbing and skiing around Kahiltna Basecamp. It was a blast hanging out and climbing with the like-minded folks there.</div>
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When I arrived on the glacier, my partner was already climbing, giving the Moonflower Buttress a strong go. Full of excitement, but partnerless, I rant into Clint Helander and found out he was looking for someone to climb with too. We were both in the mood for something mellow. Clint was still recovering from The Phantom Wall on Huntington and I was looking for a good warm up. It didn't take long to decide on Mt. Francis' Southwest Ridge. Close to camp and enticing to any climber's eye, the Southwest Ridge follows steep snow broken by fun mixed and rock steps. When we mentioned our intentions to friends Pete Tapley and Kyle Rott, they decided to join us. Party ascent!</div>
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The next day, at the crack of noon, the four of us started up the ridge in beautiful weather. The good conditions allowed us to simul solo and we had a blast romping up the ridge together. It reminded me of being in Joshua Tree, scrambling with my friends and enjoying the simplicity of unencumbered climbing. </div>
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<strong>The monkeys raging on Francis</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Pete Tapley photo</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Pete and Clint take on a 5.7 rock step on the Southwest Ridge of Francis</strong></div>
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<strong>Pete on Francis' Southwest Ridge</strong></div>
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<strong>Taking a break with the North Buttress of Mt. Hunter behind me</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Pete Tapley photo</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Pete and Kyle out for a cruise on Francis</strong></div>
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<strong>Clint and I closing in on Francis' summit </strong></div>
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<strong><em>Pete Tapley photo</em></strong></div>
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After Francis, Jared Vilhauer (who had been on the Moonflower) and I spent a day climbing nearly to the summit of Peak 12,200. Although we didn't quite make the top due to funky weather, moderately spicy cornice work and schrund jumping made for a classic day of Alaskan mountaineering.</div>
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<strong>Jared sets out on the West Ridge of Peak 12,200</strong></div>
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<strong>Schrund jumping on 12,200!</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhauer</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Descending 12,200. We used an ice traverse on the north side of the ridge to reverse the section we had overcome with a wild jump.</strong> </div>
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<em><strong>Photo by Jared Vilhauer</strong></em></div>
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<strong><em></em></strong> </div>
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A few days of skiing followed our climbing on Peak 12, 200. Then we headed up the East Fork of the Kahiltna to try a new route that Jared had seen while he was guiding in the area a few years back. We woke up after a very cold bivy, approached the route, and then bailed when the seracs we thought didn't threaten the route seemed to, well, threaten the route. We tried another line that day on East Kahiltna Peak, but bailed when a sluff pushed us around while soloing a couple thousand feet off the glacier. Feeling that it just wasn't our day, we rappelled and then skied back to basecamp, enjoying the nice cold snow and beautiful views.</div>
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<strong>Jared skis up the East Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier</strong></div>
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<strong>Retreating from the face we wanted to climb in the East Fork of the Kahiltna</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhauer</em></strong></div>
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<strong></strong> </div>
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Jared and I spent a few more days in basecamp weathering a snow storm and letting things settle out. It was great to hang with friends and ski a few laps in the fresh pow, but when the time felt right we called Talkeetna Air Taxi for our bump to the West Fork of the Ruth. It was time for the<a href="http://www.jensholsten.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-reality-face-new-route-in-alaska.html" target="_blank"> main event!</a></div>
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<strong>Basecamp life</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhauer</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Pete Tapley about to drop into the local ski hill</strong></div>
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<strong>Scoping, always scoping...</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhauer</em></strong></div>
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<strong>The Great One from basecamp</strong></div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-90201889479763173902013-06-09T19:19:00.003-07:002013-06-09T19:19:44.772-07:00The Reality Face: A New Route in the Alaska Range<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>I stand in awe. Axes plunged before me and a knee pressed into the slope, my eyes dart between Denali, Huntington, Hunter, Foraker, and my climbing partners. A sea of clouds cradles a sparse scene of blue sky, the highest peaks in the Alaska Range, and Seth watching Jared cut away part of Reality Ridge with our mini shovel. Descending the terrain ahead won't be easy, but I'm ready to take it step by step. The rope pulls at my waist as Jared climbs out of sight. Seth and I pick up our tools and follow him down.</em> <br />
<br />
Three days earlier, Jared and I had been ski touring around the West Fork of the Ruth Glacier scanning peaks for climbable lines and for Seth Timpano, our friend who was scheduled to fly in and join us that day. By evening we had found both. The sunset cast alpenglow on the Mega Mid as we took off our shades, looked each other in the eyes, and committed to leaving for our chosen route the following afternoon. High fives sealed the pact as icy air drove us to our tents, one last night in the big bags calling our names.<br />
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The sun beat down as we skied to the base of what we were calling Reality Peak. Finding the sweat line, I kept a deliberately slow and consistent skinning pace. Seracs crowned the tight cirque. I kept my head down. I knew they were up there. It wouldn't do any good to look at them anyway.<br />
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<strong>Seth and Jared about to start the route</strong></div>
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Leaving our skis and starting up the route felt like a refreshing drink of cool water. The sun had left the east facing aspect and the snow quickly refroze as we swiveled around and over the bergschrund. Jared punched a staircase up 2,000 feet of steep couloir and then brought us into the gut of the mountain via snicy slabs. We brewed up below a 1,500 foot rock wall infused with a sliver of silver ice, a windy path up an otherwise overhanging bastion of stone. A full moon, and then twilight swept over the Alaska Range.<br />
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<strong>Jared navigates the 'schrund</strong></div>
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<strong>Seth climbs the initial couloir</strong></div>
<em></em><br />
<em>Still night. A few lights flicker in the south to remind us of where we came from. Now, our reality is all encompassing. It looms above us, around us, and inside of us. Ice, snow, fluted ridges, a crashing serac in the otherwise silent evening; the landscape sets itself deep in my being. We have accepted this mission and our trajectory is set for up. Up towards the ice runnels, the snow mushrooms that crown the face, the corniced ridge, the summit, and even the stars. For now, there is no end in sight. </em><br />
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<strong>Jared leading snicy slabs into the gut of the wall</strong></div>
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Gear passed hands as the stove purred. I took a pull off my Nalgene and put Seth on belay. Ahead, steep ice broke through dense, Sierra like granite. We hooped and hollered through four pitches of the best climbing an alpinist could hope for. Sticky ice made for one swing placements. When the way looked tricky, a perfect path would present itself. As each rope length revealed itself, our excitement grew. The ice burrowed through tight runnels and then opened a bit as it cascaded over steeper ground. I grabbed the rack and started kicking and swinging up a series of curtains. A moderate pitch put me below a snicier, steeper section. With my first swing came my first cramp. How could I be cramping? Did I not eat enough? Did I not drink enough? It didn't matter. Fighting the pump, I overcame the steepness and fired in a belay. <br />
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<strong>Seth heads towards the goods</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhaur</em></strong></div>
<em></em><br />
<em>"Have another pitch in you?". Jared blows out an ice screw as soon as the question passes his lips. "I think so," I reply. Doubt dances through my words, shaking my voice as it taunts my confidence. I reach for a GU in my back pocket. My arm cramps. Oh shit. </em><br />
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<strong>Myself leading a steep ice curtain on day one</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhaur</em></strong></div>
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The next pitch tested my arms again. I had to rest on my tools. It frustrated me, but I was cramping and couldn't afford to smash my ankles on the ledge looming just under my junky snice screws. Pulling onto easier terrain I ran the rope out and spent too much time trying to find a belay. Finally, a funky cam, a mushy ice screw, a tiny nut, and a pin came together to offer a safe anchor. I leaned my head against the wall and pulled the rope up as Jared and Seth climbed below. A new day was rising and sunlight crept down the mountain before washing over us. We stripped layers, had a sip of water, and started a beeline through steep snow and ice chutes. We hoped the ridge had a place to set up our First Light as brew-thirty had passed long ago. We daggered up the slope and wondered, "will it ever end?". <br />
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<strong>Seth climbing past wild flutings to reach the summit ridge</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhaur</em></strong></div>
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<em>I'm knackered. How long have we been on the go? Jared checks his watch and waves his arms to ward off the cold. "17 hours". I should have ate and drank more. How many times do I have to learn this lesson? I stumble into the saddle atop the 4,000 foot face we have just climbed. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Let's get that tent up." </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"It's time to brew." </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"You're fine now, but don't step over there. There's a crevasse to your left, a cornice on the right." </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Weather's moving in.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Arriving at the ridge we find a pleasant surprise. A roomy col offered an un roped bivy. We set the First Light up and crawled in, away from the cold wind that had joined us for the ridge climbing to the summit. Misty clouds swallowed the surrounding peaks and by the time we were in the tent, the white room was in full effect. 24 hours passed in a haze of cramped sleeping, careful snow melting, and trippy dreams. Like the old childhood game, "Red Light, Green Light", we awaited our signal to move. <br />
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<strong>Our bivy as seen while descending from the summit</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhaur</em></strong></div>
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Finally, out of the mist, the final 1,100 feet of Reality Ridge snaked before us. We quickly left the tent and packed each bag with a puffy jacket, a liter of water, and a few bars. A partial set of screws and some slings completed our arsenal. We snapped the rock gear together, threw it into the tent, and zipped the door shut. Immediately, the old Alaska adage rang true that everything is more difficult than it looks and takes longer than it seems it should. Before Seth had even stretched the rope out Jared and I were walking backwards helping him out of a crevasse. We bobbed and weaved through sugar snow, ice ribs, flutings, and a lonely rock or two. The exposure, although camouflaged with misty clouds, felt like a monster swimming just below the soles of our boots. <br />
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<strong>Seth begins the journey to the top. Of course, it is not the highpoint in this photo!</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhaur</em></strong></div>
<em></em><br />
<em>"We're deep now," I think. My eyes trace our line of steps on the ridge. I know we will have to reverse every insecure step we're taking. This realization relaxes me and I smile. There is nothing left to do, but to do what needs to be done. This is what we live for. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Eventually the sharp ridge softened and a cracked dome was our last barrier. I lurched through breakable crust and finally pulled the ropes in, stacking them at my feet, as Jared and Seth stepped onto the summit. <br />
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<em>"How many days are we into this now, three?" Jared snaps photos 10 yards away. "Something like that," Seth says, squinting through tired eyes. I draw a deep breath as I try to take as much from this place as I can. It's energy is powerful and fleeting.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Halfway there.</em><br />
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<strong>Contemplating the descent ahead</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhaur</em></strong></div>
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Before leaving the summit we confirmed with one another that we would have to down climb the ridge. Our team trust was absolute and despite feeling a certain terror, we descended with confidence. Night overtook us as we waved our arms, down climbed, and then repeated the cycle again and again. The air was bone chilling. Our gloves froze and our calves ached. We became especially good at reversing insecure snow mantels. After three or four hours we finally piled back in the First Light thirsty and tired. <br />
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<strong>Cumbre!!</strong></div>
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"It's 12:30 PM right now. Let's refuel so we can leave by 2:00," Jared said. We all wanted to rap the face below us at night. We didn't discuss that we might lose the race with the sun. It wasn't worth it. We had to get off the mountain. <br />
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<em>"This is mind blowing". I state the obvious to Seth as dawn creeps on an edge of sky. 200 feet below, at the end of the ropes, Jared digs to find ice. I still cannot believe the position we're in. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Off! Thank you! Look good man? I do. See you on the flipside." Seth raps away from me. I turn my eyes to the wall above. </em><br />
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<em>No way we're gonna beat that sun. </em><br />
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<strong>Racing the sun on the descent</strong></div>
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<strong><em>Photo by Jared Vilhaur</em></strong></div>
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We did not win our race with daybreak and early morning found us trying to ignore the nearly 4,000 feet of sunlit terrain above our heads. Pieces of ice tinkled down the couloir. Despite oppressive heat, no one took a moment to delayer. We just kept going through the motions and playing our roles with focused determination. Adrenaline was starting to well up in me. Go, go, go! Just then, three raps from safety, a Talkeetna Air Taxi plane sailed by us. Someone was worried. Finally, I hucked the schcrund and ran with all my might from the wall that had held us hostage all night. Jared and Seth were a few hundred yards in front of me. I had to deal with the ropes. When I saw them make it to the rock buttress were we had cached our skis I felt relief knowing they were safe. And then I kept on running. <br />
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<em>My edge bites the snow and I turn. Jared surfs on his splitboard and Seth points his skis in a straight, fast line . The Reality Face falls further behind us. Back at camp, we dig up the beers and open a sacred bag of kettle chips. A few sips and stumbles ensue. Alcohol grabs a depleted body extra hard. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>A plane swings into the West Fork. We load the bags as another passenger asks us what we've done. "Uh, a face back there. You can't really see it." The passenger looks us up and down and then gazes out beyond our pointed fingers. One last deep breath to take all I can from this place and I climb into the Beaver. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Never going to forget this one. </em><br />
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<strong><em>The Reality Face </em>climbs the center of the wall in the right hand margin of the photo</strong></div>
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Photo by Jared Vilhaur</div>
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<strong>An account of a first ascent on Reality Peak (13, 100 feet)</strong></div>
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<strong>The Reality Face (</strong><strong>5300 feet, AI5, exciting ridge climbing) </strong><strong>was climbed by Jared Vilhaur, Seth Timpano, and Jens Holsten from 5/21-5/24/2013</strong></div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6179613064273204508.post-23191974493692143002013-03-16T09:42:00.000-07:002013-03-16T09:42:04.575-07:00Finally Got 'Er Done: The Story of the FWA of Colchuck Peak's NE Buttress<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<strong>Colchuck's NE Buttress climbs the ridge dropping from the left summit</strong></div>
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<em>A calm, dark wind blows through the starry sky. From our vantage point Argonaut Peak, Sherpa Peak, and Mt. Stuart stand still and silent in the shadows of winter night. I let my mind relax and I absorb the view that I've seen a hundred times before. I'm not just looking at my surroundings, but rather feeling them to my very bones. My journey to this summit is a culmination of all the adventures I've had on the moutains that surround us. The stories, epics, and triumphs replay in my mind. I feel a peace. I feel at home.</em> </div>
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<strong>Shaun soaking up the sun on Colchuck Lake</strong></div>
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A day earlier, Shaun Johnson and I had left the floor of the Icicle Canyon and climbed upwards as pine forest gave way to thick fir glades. Bright sun lit our path and we sucked up the solar power. After a few hours we broke out onto Colchuck Lake, a frozen expanse cradled by 8,000 foot summits, sweeping moraines, and long, steady slopes. <br />
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<strong>Breaking trail through deep snow</strong></div>
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I closed my eyes and let the sun dig in to me as we ate lunch on the lake. With many cold, hard moments ahead, I relaxed and simply enjoyed being alive. </div>
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<strong>Cresting the moraine in deep, unconsolidated snow</strong></div>
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After redistributing the gear, we headed up towards the NE Buttress of Colchuck Peak, a route I had tried four other times to climb in winter. Above the lake, the deep unconsolidated snow slowed our progress. I knew the conditions on the climb would not be good. I thought about my other failures and decided Shaun and I needed to work with what we were given. The route was not in good nick, but the weather was beautiful and I was determined to keep moving upwards no matter what. With three days of food and bivy gear in the pack, we were equipped to see this mission through to the end. <br />
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<strong>Leading pitch two</strong></div>
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Working with what we were given meant breaking trail through waist deep snow to the first technical pitch. Wading through the powder could have injected doubt into my veins, but I just kept my head down and tried to levitate up the loaded coulior to the base of the route. Our goal for day one was to make it to a bivy perch on top of pitch two. Putting this initial stretch of climbing behind us was crucial. These pitches are some of the most difficult on the route. A filter for what's to come, the snow covered black granite reveals whether you are up to the task or not. </div>
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<strong>Shaun standing on night one's bivy platform</strong></div>
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Even though conditions were poor, I managed to climb the first two pitches with relative ease. Previous experiance helped here. The climbing was insecure and difficult, but I knew what to expect and where I might get some gear. We stomped out a skinny ledge for the tent as fading light cast a pink glow across the sea of peaks that filled the horizon. With the door shut, one could amost forget the 400 foot drop pulling at the edges of the First Light. <br />
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<strong>Leading across the snow ledges that define the middle of the route</strong></div>
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The next morning I found myself leading across the snow ramps that define the middle of the NE Buttress. Although they looked casual, the thin coating of snow was mostly unconsolidated and it took me a few hours to connect climbable terrain across the ramps. </div>
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<strong>Climbing the key corner pitch that connects weaknesses on the ridge</strong></div>
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By mid afternoon, I was under the pitches I had wondered about for so many years. All my previous attempts had ended short of the key passage that snaked above me. The first question mark was a 5.7 slab. Easy in summer, but thin and run out in winter, this stretch put me on the tip of my mono point as I connected small patches of moss and snow. Finding a belay proved challenging, but I finally managed to secure myself under the summer crux, a 5.8 corner with a varied crack sunk in the back. Torques, moss sticks, and an aid move or two pushed me through the corner and on to the upper ridge. A happy feeling surfaced in my being. "We are going to send!", I thought. The sentiment was quickly squelched by my realistic side. We were still 400 feet below the summit in the dead of winter. A narrow focus returned to my mind. It's not over until it's over. </div>
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<strong>Leading out on the snow arete that defined the upper part of the route </strong></div>
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I charged into the sunset, leading a long simul pitch through a sharp snow arete and into a gully of neve. Finally, some sticks and easy climbing! I daggered up the gash towards a belay. <br />
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<strong>A look back at part of the snow arete</strong></div>
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Two more M5 pitches kept me in the moment. Darkness had overtaken us and my world was reduced to the orb of light that radiated from my headlamp. Sparks lit the air when my crampon points scratched the belly of granite we were stuck to. I grunted and tackled each bulge with aggression. I could feel the top in the blackness above. </div>
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<strong> Our</strong> <strong>bivy near Colchuck's summit on the morning of day three </strong></div>
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Finally, I was released to the summit slopes. With no where higher to go I sat in the snow and belayed Shaun as he worked his way to the top. I soaked up the scene around me as I pulled the rope upwards. Soon, Shaun's headlamp bobbed and weaved over the summit too. We had made it!<br />
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We took in the scene for many wordless minutes. I let myself enjoy the feeling of success that overwhelmed us. I recognized the hard work and progression that it took to get here. I thought over the day and the key moments that stood out. I gave thanks to the friends that shared parts of the journey with me. <br />
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And then I moved on. The multi year project to make the first winter ascent of the NE Buttress was over. Setting up the tent on the summit plateau, a content tiredness flooded through me. It was time to take this experiance and apply the lessons to another challenge. <br />
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<strong>Heading home, moving on</strong></div>
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<strong>*An account of the first winter ascent of the NE Buttress of Colchuck Peak</strong></div>
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<strong>*Summit was gained on March 9</strong></div>
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<strong>*Ascent was made by Shaun Johnson and Jens Holsten</strong></div>
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<strong>*M6 A1, 13 pitches</strong></div>
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Jens Holstenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14480853035515103969noreply@blogger.com1