Alaska!

In my last post I highlighted a new route 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.

 

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!

 

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.

The monkeys raging on Francis

Pete Tapley photo

Pete and Clint take on a 5.7 rock step on the Southwest Ridge of Francis

Pete on Francis' Southwest Ridge

Taking a break with the North Buttress of Mt. Hunter behind me

Pete Tapley photo

Pete and Kyle out for a cruise on Francis

Clint and I closing in on Francis' summit

Pete Tapley photo

 

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.



 

 Jared sets out on the West Ridge of Peak 12,200

Schrund jumping on 12,200!

Photo by Jared Vilhauer

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.

Photo by Jared Vilhauer

 

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.

Jared skis up the East Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier

Retreating from the face we wanted to climb in the East Fork of the Kahiltna

Photo by Jared Vilhauer

 

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 main event!

Basecamp life

Photo by Jared Vilhauer

Pete Tapley about to drop into the local ski hill

Scoping, always scoping...

Photo by Jared Vilhauer

The Great One from basecamp

The Reality Face: A New Route in the Alaska Range

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.

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.

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.

Seth and Jared about to start the route

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.

Jared navigates the 'schrund

Seth climbs the initial couloir

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.  

Jared leading snicy slabs into the gut of the wall

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.

Seth heads towards the goods

Photo by Jared Vilhaur

"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.  

Myself leading a steep ice curtain on day one

Photo by Jared Vilhaur

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?".

Seth climbing past wild flutings to reach the summit ridge

Photo by Jared Vilhaur

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.

"Let's get that tent up."

"It's time to brew."

"You're fine now, but don't step over there. There's a crevasse to your left, a cornice on the right."

Weather's moving in.

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.

Our bivy as seen while descending from the summit

Photo by Jared Vilhaur

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.

Seth begins the journey to the top. Of course, it is not the highpoint in this photo!

Photo by Jared Vilhaur

"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.

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.

"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.

Halfway there.

Contemplating the descent ahead

Photo by Jared Vilhaur

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.

Cumbre!!

"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.

"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. 

"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.

No way we're gonna beat that sun.

Racing the sun on the descent

Photo by Jared Vilhaur

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. 

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.

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.

Never going to forget this one.

The Reality Face climbs the center of the wall in the right hand margin of the photo

Photo by Jared Vilhaur

 

An account of a first ascent on Reality Peak (13, 100 feet)

The Reality Face (5300 feet, AI5, exciting ridge climbing) was climbed by Jared Vilhaur, Seth Timpano, and Jens Holsten from 5/21-5/24/2013

Finally Got 'Er Done: The Story of the FWA of Colchuck Peak's NE Buttress

 Colchuck's NE Buttress climbs the ridge dropping from the left summit

 

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.

Shaun soaking up the sun on Colchuck Lake

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.

Breaking trail through deep snow

 

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.

Cresting the moraine in deep, unconsolidated snow

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.

Leading pitch two

 

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.

Shaun standing on night one's bivy platform

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.

 Leading across the snow ledges that define the middle of the route

 

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.  

 Climbing the key corner pitch that connects weaknesses on the ridge

 

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.

Leading out on the snow arete that defined the upper part of the route

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.

A look back at part of the snow arete

 

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.

 Our bivy near Colchuck's summit on the morning of day three

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!

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.

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.

Heading home, moving on

 

 

*An account of the first winter ascent of the NE Buttress of Colchuck Peak

*Summit was gained on March 9

*Ascent was made by Shaun Johnson and Jens Holsten

*M6 A1, 13 pitches

Familiar Faces and New Places

The last couple weeks have been a blur of fresh places and new faces. Familiar territory was navigated too. It was in "The Lab" that my last climbing binge began.

 

"The Lab" is the nick name I've coined for the Stuart Range. It is where I found my passion for alpine climbing and where I continue to work on my skills. Plus, a winter day in "The Lab" is always good for fitness. With a 20 mile round trip hike and 1500 foot faces laced with rock and ice routes, any day out in the range will make you sore.  

Psyched to have "The Lab" in my backyard. Word!

 

My most recent training mision took Chad Kellog and I up Dragontail's Gerber-Sink route, a direct and beautiful line. The past few winters the Gerber-Sink has been getting some attention and rightly so. It is a much better and more interesting climb than the mega-popular Triple Couliors.

Climbing an ice runnel halfway up the Gerber-Sink

 

Our summit marked my 17th time on top of D-tail. It's fun to realize how much this north face has molded me into the climber I am now. 

Always psyched for a cumbre!

 

As soon as I got off Dragontail, I hopped in Vern Nelson's rig and we headed east on I-90. Our ultimate destination was the Cody Ice Festival where we would be giving ice climbing clinics and I would be showing some slides from this year's Patagonia adventures. We made a quick stop in Hyalite Canyon on our way. We climbed the awesome classic, Cleopatras Needle (WI5, two pitches) and then kept the peddle to the metal, arriving in Wyoming late that evening.

Cody is a beautiful place with lots of amazing wildlife. In this shot I'm watching a big horn sheep herd cruise through the canyon.

 

We had one climbing day to ourselves before the weekend began and the Ice Fest would be in full swing. We chose to climb the amazing classic, Broken Hearts (WI6, 6 pitches). 

Soloing the fun lower pitches of Broken Hearts

 

We soloed the route except for the last two rope lengths which were steep, pumpy columns. The last two pitches of this route rarely form, so we felt lucky that the sixth pitch was standing and totally climbable (the 7th was not). The book suggests a WI6 rating for this stretch, but it felt like WI5+ to me (whatever that means!).

Vern on pitch 5 (WI5) of Broken Hearts 

Myself on the asthetic 6th pitch (WI5+) of Broken Hearts

Another cool shot of pitch 6

 

After our climb of Broken Hearts, the Cody Ice Festival began. It was a great weekend of meeting new friends and teaching clinics on awesome routes I'd never done.

Teaching a clinic on Chasing the Sun (WI4)

 

I had a really fantastic time climbing with my students. It was a breath of fresh air to connect with the community and to do so in such an awe inspiring environment. I expected Cody to be pretty, but the South Fork Canyon (where the ice is!) is an absolutely stunning collage of wind swept peaks and gnarly, twisting cayons. I can't wait to go back!! 

The South Fork Canyon as seen from Chasing the Sun