Since turning 50, the Spaniard Carlos Soria has summitted nine 8,000 meter peaks. More impressively, he climbed five of them, including K2, after turning 65, and one of them (Gasherbrum I) at age 70. He plans to climb all fourteen 8,000 meter peaks by age 75. Soria worked as a carpenter until "retiring" at 65.
Part 1 and part 2 of the ExplorersWeb interviews
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Review of "Dark Summit"
In spring 1996, over ten climbers died in a storm while climbing Mt. Everest, including the accomplished leaders of two commercial expeditions, Rob Hall and Scott Fischer. The story of that terrible season was told, not without controversy, by Jon Krakauer in his best-selling book Into Thin Air. In spring 2006, over ten climbers again died climbing Mt. Everest, but this time in relatively fine weather. Nick Heil explains what went wrong in his book Dark Summit: The True Story of Mt. Everest's Most Controversial Season, published in 2008.
Though most of the action in 1996 took place on the south side of Mt. Everest, it was the north side that stole the show in 2006. There are two main reasons why climbing from the north side became more popular. First, the standard route on the south side passes through the extremely dangerous Khumbu Icefall, which is located immediately above base camp. In order to establish higher camps and acclimatize, climbers are required to play Russian roulette with the precariously balanced ice blocks in the aptly named Icefall many times over the course of an expedition. Dozens of climbers have died in the Icefall. However, there is nothing akin to the Khumbu Icefall on the north side. Second, the permit fees on the northern Chinese side are significantly lower than those on the southern Nepalese side.
After 1996, new commercial operators took root on the north side of Mt. Everest, most notably Himalayan Experience (a.k.a. Himex), run by Russell Brice. Dark Summit is in part a biography of this major player on the world's highest mountain. The achievement that catapulted Brice into the ranks of elite climbers was the first traverse, along with Harry Taylor, of the notorious pinnacles on the northeast ridge of Mt. Everest. Though they were unable to follow the relatively easy ground above the pinnacles all the way to the summit, they had negotiated terrain that killed two of the world's foremost alpinists, Peter Boardman and Joe Tasker. Now, almost two decades after his groundbreaking traverse of the pinnacles, Brice was making a living guiding clients up the easier section of the northeast ridge above the pinnacles.
The world was horrified to learn that on May 15, 2006, roughly forty climbers walked by David Sharp on their way to the summit as he lay dying in the snow. Hearing that Brice had told his guides and clients to let Sharp die, much of the world was outraged. But of course, the story is much more complicated than that, and it is a merit of Heil's book that he carefully and thoroughly describes that complexity. Once that complexity is understood, one gets the sense that fingers were pointed at Brice not because he was guilty, but because aside from Mt. Everest, he was simply the biggest thing around.
For anyone interested in Mt. Everest, especially the recent commercialization thereof, this is a must read. The descriptions and analyses of the various fatalities in 2006 are illuminating, and the biographical sketch of Brice is, for me, the most engaging part of the book. The book is well-written and the opining is kept at reasonable level. The author's professionalism is evident throughout the book, as is his passion for the topic.
Addendum: Interestingly, the following note now appears on the Himex website: "As we are unable to get guaranteed access to Tibet, Himalayan Experience is currently not operating expeditions to Everest North Side. Our alternative is Everest South Side."
Another outstanding book in this genre is High Crimes: The Fate of Everest in an Age of Greed, written by Michael Kodas and published in 2008. Though it has been a year since I read this book, what I remember most is the sustained and shocking harangue against George Dijmarescu (9-time Everest summitter) and the guiding company that his Sherpa wife nominally leads.
Though most of the action in 1996 took place on the south side of Mt. Everest, it was the north side that stole the show in 2006. There are two main reasons why climbing from the north side became more popular. First, the standard route on the south side passes through the extremely dangerous Khumbu Icefall, which is located immediately above base camp. In order to establish higher camps and acclimatize, climbers are required to play Russian roulette with the precariously balanced ice blocks in the aptly named Icefall many times over the course of an expedition. Dozens of climbers have died in the Icefall. However, there is nothing akin to the Khumbu Icefall on the north side. Second, the permit fees on the northern Chinese side are significantly lower than those on the southern Nepalese side.
After 1996, new commercial operators took root on the north side of Mt. Everest, most notably Himalayan Experience (a.k.a. Himex), run by Russell Brice. Dark Summit is in part a biography of this major player on the world's highest mountain. The achievement that catapulted Brice into the ranks of elite climbers was the first traverse, along with Harry Taylor, of the notorious pinnacles on the northeast ridge of Mt. Everest. Though they were unable to follow the relatively easy ground above the pinnacles all the way to the summit, they had negotiated terrain that killed two of the world's foremost alpinists, Peter Boardman and Joe Tasker. Now, almost two decades after his groundbreaking traverse of the pinnacles, Brice was making a living guiding clients up the easier section of the northeast ridge above the pinnacles.
The world was horrified to learn that on May 15, 2006, roughly forty climbers walked by David Sharp on their way to the summit as he lay dying in the snow. Hearing that Brice had told his guides and clients to let Sharp die, much of the world was outraged. But of course, the story is much more complicated than that, and it is a merit of Heil's book that he carefully and thoroughly describes that complexity. Once that complexity is understood, one gets the sense that fingers were pointed at Brice not because he was guilty, but because aside from Mt. Everest, he was simply the biggest thing around.
For anyone interested in Mt. Everest, especially the recent commercialization thereof, this is a must read. The descriptions and analyses of the various fatalities in 2006 are illuminating, and the biographical sketch of Brice is, for me, the most engaging part of the book. The book is well-written and the opining is kept at reasonable level. The author's professionalism is evident throughout the book, as is his passion for the topic.
Addendum: Interestingly, the following note now appears on the Himex website: "As we are unable to get guaranteed access to Tibet, Himalayan Experience is currently not operating expeditions to Everest North Side. Our alternative is Everest South Side."
Another outstanding book in this genre is High Crimes: The Fate of Everest in an Age of Greed, written by Michael Kodas and published in 2008. Though it has been a year since I read this book, what I remember most is the sustained and shocking harangue against George Dijmarescu (9-time Everest summitter) and the guiding company that his Sherpa wife nominally leads.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Review of "Three Cups of Tea"
In 1993, Greg Mortenson came close to reaching the highest point on K2, but opted instead to take the moral high ground, participating in a harrowing, life-threatening rescue of a fellow climber that dashed his own chances of summitting. Unbeknownst to Mortenson, this selfless event would serve as a microcosm for his future. Instead of continuing his promising career as a mountain climber, he would sacrifice his own self-interest by helping the less-fortunate.
Exhausted from K2, a weaker and much thinner Mortenson began what should have been a fairly routine, week-long walk back to civilization. But addled from the effects of weeks of exertion at high altitude, he twice wandered seriously off-route on the hike out. The second time, he stumbled off the map into the remote Pakistani village of Korphe. After convalescing there for a few weeks, Mortenson vowed to return the favor by one day building the impoverished village its first school.
Returning to California, Mortenson began fundraising for the school from scratch. Renting time at first on typewriters, and then on computers, he wrote and mailed 580 letters to celebrities and elected government officials in search of donations. If I recall correctly, Tom Brokaw provided the only response, enclosing a check for $100. But after writing a blurb in a medical newsletter months later, Mortenson caught the attention of a cranky philanthropist who sent him a check for $12,000 and a note scrawled on a scrap of paper that read, "Don't screw this up!" Mortenson promptly sold most of his possessions and departed for Pakistan to fulfill his promise to the people of Korphe. Though he planned to take only this one step before resuming a normal American life, the slope onto which he had stepped proved longer and more slippery than anything he had encountered on K2. Pleased that Mortenson did not "screw this up", his first benefactor then generously endowed the one-man institution that is Mortenson and christened it the Central Asia Institute.
Three Cups of Tea: One Man's Mission to Fight Terrorism and Build Nations . . . One School at a Time, by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin, tells the story of Mortenson's ten-year battle to build dozens of schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan. The story is absolutely amazing and nearly reduced this (super macho) reader to tears on several occasions. One gets the sense that many of Mortenson's accomplishments were the result of brawn rather than brain. In fact, it may be that he was successful in rural Pakistan and Afghanistan not in spite of his poor planning, but because of it. I had the distinct impression that anyone trying to stick to a carefully crafted plan in that part of the world could easily become paralyzed with frustration before doing anything. But Mortenson's passion, dedication, and sheer force of will were enough to move mountains.
Three Cups of Tea is extremely engaging from start to finish. Even though Mortenson builds one school after another, every step of the way is so packed with incredible adventure, complexity and mishap, it seems as though he never does the same thing twice. The sequel, Stones into Schools: Promoting Peace with Books, Not Bombs, in Afghanistan and Pakistan, written by Greg Mortenson alone, was released yesterday (December 1).
Exhausted from K2, a weaker and much thinner Mortenson began what should have been a fairly routine, week-long walk back to civilization. But addled from the effects of weeks of exertion at high altitude, he twice wandered seriously off-route on the hike out. The second time, he stumbled off the map into the remote Pakistani village of Korphe. After convalescing there for a few weeks, Mortenson vowed to return the favor by one day building the impoverished village its first school.
Returning to California, Mortenson began fundraising for the school from scratch. Renting time at first on typewriters, and then on computers, he wrote and mailed 580 letters to celebrities and elected government officials in search of donations. If I recall correctly, Tom Brokaw provided the only response, enclosing a check for $100. But after writing a blurb in a medical newsletter months later, Mortenson caught the attention of a cranky philanthropist who sent him a check for $12,000 and a note scrawled on a scrap of paper that read, "Don't screw this up!" Mortenson promptly sold most of his possessions and departed for Pakistan to fulfill his promise to the people of Korphe. Though he planned to take only this one step before resuming a normal American life, the slope onto which he had stepped proved longer and more slippery than anything he had encountered on K2. Pleased that Mortenson did not "screw this up", his first benefactor then generously endowed the one-man institution that is Mortenson and christened it the Central Asia Institute.
Three Cups of Tea: One Man's Mission to Fight Terrorism and Build Nations . . . One School at a Time, by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin, tells the story of Mortenson's ten-year battle to build dozens of schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan. The story is absolutely amazing and nearly reduced this (super macho) reader to tears on several occasions. One gets the sense that many of Mortenson's accomplishments were the result of brawn rather than brain. In fact, it may be that he was successful in rural Pakistan and Afghanistan not in spite of his poor planning, but because of it. I had the distinct impression that anyone trying to stick to a carefully crafted plan in that part of the world could easily become paralyzed with frustration before doing anything. But Mortenson's passion, dedication, and sheer force of will were enough to move mountains.
Three Cups of Tea is extremely engaging from start to finish. Even though Mortenson builds one school after another, every step of the way is so packed with incredible adventure, complexity and mishap, it seems as though he never does the same thing twice. The sequel, Stones into Schools: Promoting Peace with Books, Not Bombs, in Afghanistan and Pakistan, written by Greg Mortenson alone, was released yesterday (December 1).
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Getting Schooled on University Peak
This past weekend (November 21-22), I climbed Independence Peak and University Peak in the California Sierras. The 300-mile drive into the mountains on Friday was exacerbated by two factors. First, escaping the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area took three hours because of heavy traffic. Second, the weather forecast was calling for a snow storm and high winds in the Sierras that night, which added a nagging uncertainty. After twice missing the poorly marked road to Onion Valley, I began the gradual ascent in search of a bivy spot. Not wanting to get stranded in fresh snow in the 9,200 foot Onion Valley parking lot, I parked roadside much further down and slept fitfully inside my car, which was buffetted by strong gusts all night.
Awaking at dawn on Saturday, I was glad to see that the forecasted snow storm had not materialized. So when I pulled into Onion Valley a little while later, I saw not fresh snow on the ground, but something much more worrying: a lone figure wandering around the parking lot with a rifle. Coming to a complete stop, I stared at the armed, camouflaged man for a full minute before concluding that he was simply a hunter -- a bear hunter, as it turned out. Trying not to think too much about the rifle-toting man with whom I was sharing the otherwise vacant parking lot in the middle of nowhere, I slowly packed for an ascent of the West Face of Independence Peak (11,744 feet).
I followed the trail for about one mile over occasional patches of hard, slick snow to the point where I thought the West Face route began. Departing from the trail, I ascended a scree slope for a few hundred vertical feet until it funnelled into the broad couloir that rises over 1,000 vertical feet to the summit ridge. The moderately angled couloir was plastered with a foot of snow that varied from hard and icy to soft and unconsolidated. Midway up the couloir, the sound of a gunshot reminded me, somewhat disconcertingly, of the only other person in the vicinity.
Near the top, the couloir steepened into a narrow gully involving several sections of third class scrambling. Reaching the notch on the summit ridge, I deposited my ice axe, crampons, and trekking poles, and weaved my way up the serrated, sometimes exposed, crest to the summit. Downclimbing the third class rock in my big leather boots and descending 1,000 feet of alternatingly icy and unconsolidated snow was somewhat tedious. Returning to my car 7.5 hours after starting, I was surprised to see that the bear hunter's car was still the only other car in the parking lot on this glorious, sunny day.
More zigzagging up firm, moderately angled snow led to considerably steeper chutes that curved to the right of the summit. Trying unsuccessfully to avoid the steepening and somewhat less consolidated snow, I monkeyed around on rocks that were steeper than they looked before resigning myself to the snow. I dithered long enough to lose sight of James, who was climbing at a steady, confident pace. The final hundred feet of snow was steep (and exposed) enough that I had to face directly into the slope and felt compelled to plunge the shaft of my ice axe to the hilt when it was not stopped short by underlying rock with a reverberating bang. At this point, I was feeling very tired and had to rest after every few steps. I was quite relieved when the angle finally relented and I was able to walk onto a friendly saddle and sit down.
The wind that had been harrassing us most of the day was strong enough that I could not keep my balance on the summit. Battered by the wind on the small, airy summit, we left after signing in and snapping a few photos. It was around this time that I announced my intention not to descend our ascent route. That final stretch of snow in the North Couloir was just too steep and exposed for my tastes. Fortunately, I knew of an easier way down -- namely, the second class Southeast Ridge route. Having felt perfectly comfortable on our ascent route, James had reservations about descending an unknown route. But my description of the descent route put his mind at ease. However, there was one conspicuous omission from my description: I neglected to mention the boulder field which is usually described with adjectives like "tedious" and "interminable".
Awaking at dawn on Saturday, I was glad to see that the forecasted snow storm had not materialized. So when I pulled into Onion Valley a little while later, I saw not fresh snow on the ground, but something much more worrying: a lone figure wandering around the parking lot with a rifle. Coming to a complete stop, I stared at the armed, camouflaged man for a full minute before concluding that he was simply a hunter -- a bear hunter, as it turned out. Trying not to think too much about the rifle-toting man with whom I was sharing the otherwise vacant parking lot in the middle of nowhere, I slowly packed for an ascent of the West Face of Independence Peak (11,744 feet).
View of Nameless Pyramid on the trail to Robinson Lake.
I followed the trail for about one mile over occasional patches of hard, slick snow to the point where I thought the West Face route began. Departing from the trail, I ascended a scree slope for a few hundred vertical feet until it funnelled into the broad couloir that rises over 1,000 vertical feet to the summit ridge. The moderately angled couloir was plastered with a foot of snow that varied from hard and icy to soft and unconsolidated. Midway up the couloir, the sound of a gunshot reminded me, somewhat disconcertingly, of the only other person in the vicinity.
Looking down the lower half of the couloir.
Near the top, the couloir steepened into a narrow gully involving several sections of third class scrambling. Reaching the notch on the summit ridge, I deposited my ice axe, crampons, and trekking poles, and weaved my way up the serrated, sometimes exposed, crest to the summit. Downclimbing the third class rock in my big leather boots and descending 1,000 feet of alternatingly icy and unconsolidated snow was somewhat tedious. Returning to my car 7.5 hours after starting, I was surprised to see that the bear hunter's car was still the only other car in the parking lot on this glorious, sunny day.
Looking south from the summit of Independence Peak.
Having warmed up on Independence Peak, my plan for Sunday was to climb the North Face of University Peak (13,632 feet). Since the peak is named after the University of California-Berkeley, I thought it would make sense to climb the peak with someone affiliated with UC-Berkeley. After all, climbing the East Ridge of Mt. Russell with someone whose last name was Russell -- namely, James Russell -- had been a great success. Thus, I recruited a post-doc from UC-Berkeley to join me. Coincidentally, that post-doc was James Russell.
After picking up James in the town of Independence, we drove back up to Onion Valley. Confronted with an array of bear warnings, I assured James not to worry, because the only other person camping up there had a rifle and a permit to kill bears. Partially because of that, but also because of the regular wind blasts, I was glad to be the one sleeping in the van instead of a flimsy tent.
The day began, as many days in the mountains do, with a visit to a cold and dark pit toilet. At dawn we were hiking up the Kearsarge Pass trail and chatting amiably about a variety of light topics, including God, mountaineering deaths, and the collapse of civilization.
After two miles we turned left onto a side trail leading to Matlock Lake. At the lake, we left the trail and began working our way up snowy ledges toward the unnamed lake at 11,400 feet. The snow was hard and steep enough to justify strapping on crampons.
Every few steps, we would break through the crust and plunge annoyingly through a foot or two of soft powder covering leg-twisting rocks and branches. After about thirty minutes of this, we arrived at the barren, cold and very windy lake which marks the bottom of the North Face of University Peak.
A Mt. Everest-like snow plume blowing from the summit of University Peak.
After two miles we turned left onto a side trail leading to Matlock Lake. At the lake, we left the trail and began working our way up snowy ledges toward the unnamed lake at 11,400 feet. The snow was hard and steep enough to justify strapping on crampons.
Matlock Lake [Photo by James Russell]
Every few steps, we would break through the crust and plunge annoyingly through a foot or two of soft powder covering leg-twisting rocks and branches. After about thirty minutes of this, we arrived at the barren, cold and very windy lake which marks the bottom of the North Face of University Peak.
After another 15 minutes of crashing through unconsolidated snow, we began ascending a moderately angled couloir filled with thankfully firm snow.
We zigzagged our way up for perhaps 1,000 vertical feet, feeling the exposure grow with every step.
As the couloir petered out, we traversed a rib of talus on the right into a broader couloir that extended another 1,000 vertical feet to the summit ridge. It was at this traverse that we unwittingly deviated from the standard North Face route and into (what I now know to be) the North Couloir.
Looking down at the bottom of the first couloir. [Photo by James Russell]
We zigzagged our way up for perhaps 1,000 vertical feet, feeling the exposure grow with every step.
As the couloir petered out, we traversed a rib of talus on the right into a broader couloir that extended another 1,000 vertical feet to the summit ridge. It was at this traverse that we unwittingly deviated from the standard North Face route and into (what I now know to be) the North Couloir.
More zigzagging up firm, moderately angled snow led to considerably steeper chutes that curved to the right of the summit. Trying unsuccessfully to avoid the steepening and somewhat less consolidated snow, I monkeyed around on rocks that were steeper than they looked before resigning myself to the snow. I dithered long enough to lose sight of James, who was climbing at a steady, confident pace. The final hundred feet of snow was steep (and exposed) enough that I had to face directly into the slope and felt compelled to plunge the shaft of my ice axe to the hilt when it was not stopped short by underlying rock with a reverberating bang. At this point, I was feeling very tired and had to rest after every few steps. I was quite relieved when the angle finally relented and I was able to walk onto a friendly saddle and sit down.
View of Kearsarge Lakes from the North Couloir.
With James nowhere to be seen, I began slowly meandering up the steep, rocky ridge. Skirting the first pinnacle on the right, I spotted James at the notch between it and a second pinnacle. James indicated that he had been unable to surmount the first pinnacle and would have a look at the second one instead. Neither of us knew where the actual summit was. Moments later, James exclaimed that he was on the summit. Dropping my pack, I scrambled up to meet him. The summit register provided sufficient confirmation that we were on the tippy top.
James on the summit (from his camera).
The wind that had been harrassing us most of the day was strong enough that I could not keep my balance on the summit. Battered by the wind on the small, airy summit, we left after signing in and snapping a few photos. It was around this time that I announced my intention not to descend our ascent route. That final stretch of snow in the North Couloir was just too steep and exposed for my tastes. Fortunately, I knew of an easier way down -- namely, the second class Southeast Ridge route. Having felt perfectly comfortable on our ascent route, James had reservations about descending an unknown route. But my description of the descent route put his mind at ease. However, there was one conspicuous omission from my description: I neglected to mention the boulder field which is usually described with adjectives like "tedious" and "interminable".
From the summit, we traversed and descended sand and boulders to what we thought was University Pass, but which was actually the top of the "shortcut variation". Here we re-donned our crampons while being blasted by wind and stepped into the 45-degree couloir that drops about 700 feet into the aforementioned boulder field. The snow was (thankfully) in perfect condition, making for a fast and easy descent (though I was ready to self-arrest with my ice axe in a heartbeat).
Our descent unfortunately slowed to a crawl in the boulder field. Weaving our way over and around boulders, we repeatedly plunged through the snow and crashed jarringly onto variously angled rocks. One such rock sliced right through James' gaiter and pant, leaving a gash in his leg. Though we desperately wanted to get through the boulder field by nightfall, we found ourselves stumbling around off-trail by headlamp for the next two hours. Well below Robinson Lake, we finally found the trail and followed it back to the car 13.5 hours after setting out.
University Peak on the right with the "shortcut variation" couloir in the upper middle of the picture. From the bottom of the couloir, our descent followed the drainage in the right half of the picture.
Turning the car key, the engine started and then promptly stopped. I said something like, "huh, this has never happened before". James shot me a worried glance. Fortunately, the car started on the next attempt, and we rode happily to Lone Pine, where I returned James to his girlfriend. At 12:30 AM, I made two wrong turns in a labyrinth of detours near Los Angeles, started feeling panicky in my sleep-deprived state, but got back on track. By 2:00 AM I had transformed my mini-van from bivy mode to kid-carrying mode and was poised and ready to get Esther to pre-school seven hours later.
The North Face of University Peak. We made our way into the long couloir below the summit (the North Couloir), followed it to the notch right of the summit, and scrambled to the top on the other side. [Photo by Craig Jackson]
Friday, November 20, 2009
Review of "K2: Life and Death on the World's Most Dangerous Mountain"
This book is the second collaborative work by Ed Viesturs and David Roberts. Viesturs was the first American to summit all fourteen 8,000 meter peaks (and he did them all without supplemental oxygen) and Roberts is a prolific author of mountaineering literature, in addition to being the author of several harrowing first ascents in Alaska. The book was prompted, or at least made more relevant, by the disaster high on K2 in 2008, in which eleven climbers were killed after the partial collapse of the notorious serac above the crux "bottleneck" section. The dangerous traverse below this serac is featured on the front cover of the book. When this incident was first reported, I remember thinking that someone would write a book about it. This is that book. Well, sort of.
K2 (the book) switches back and forth between first-hand account/analysis of climbing "the savage mountain" and scholarly history of the many disasters that have unfolded on its flanks in the last century. The rigorous historical narrative ends, seemingly prematurely, at 1986. Even though Viesturs is listed as the primary author (the book is by Ed Viesturs with David Roberts), it seems obvious which author wrote which section. Having read several of Roberts' books, I recognized his characteristic style throughout: lots of quotations (especially from personal journals), dense and careful prose, and the occasional sesquipedalian. Roberts' style is epitomized in his eye-opening, myth-busting True Summit: What Really Happened on the Legendary Ascent of Annapurna. Almost by default, I assumed that the sections in the book that were more casual and conversational were penned by Viesturs.
Given Roberts' strong presence in the book, I kept forgetting that Viesturs was the primary author. Thus, when the writing was in the first person, I imagined Roberts' doing the talking -- that is, until the person talking would mention climbing K2 or some other Himalayan peak, and then I would realize that Viesturs was the one talking. Another problem with the book is that I experienced deja vu several times, most notably in the chapters on the 1939 and 1954 expeditions. The writing about the respective American and Italian expeditions sounded too familiar. I couldn't help but think that I had read something very similar in one of Roberts' other books. He does seem to have a habit of repeating himself from one book to the next.
Despite the aforementioned problems, K2 is a captivating and enlightening read. Viestur's unparalleled analyis of the perils of high altitude climbing is educational. For instance, throughout the book Viestur's extols the virtues of "wanding" routes -- that is, placing lightweight, bamboo gardening wands at regular intervals through sections where routefinding could be difficult in a whiteout -- and provides several studies of cases in which climbers could probably have avoided fatalities had they bothered to wand the route. Having read this book, I will be much more inclined to visit a lawn & garden center before venturing onto a big, glaciated mountain.
K2 (the book) switches back and forth between first-hand account/analysis of climbing "the savage mountain" and scholarly history of the many disasters that have unfolded on its flanks in the last century. The rigorous historical narrative ends, seemingly prematurely, at 1986. Even though Viesturs is listed as the primary author (the book is by Ed Viesturs with David Roberts), it seems obvious which author wrote which section. Having read several of Roberts' books, I recognized his characteristic style throughout: lots of quotations (especially from personal journals), dense and careful prose, and the occasional sesquipedalian. Roberts' style is epitomized in his eye-opening, myth-busting True Summit: What Really Happened on the Legendary Ascent of Annapurna. Almost by default, I assumed that the sections in the book that were more casual and conversational were penned by Viesturs.
Given Roberts' strong presence in the book, I kept forgetting that Viesturs was the primary author. Thus, when the writing was in the first person, I imagined Roberts' doing the talking -- that is, until the person talking would mention climbing K2 or some other Himalayan peak, and then I would realize that Viesturs was the one talking. Another problem with the book is that I experienced deja vu several times, most notably in the chapters on the 1939 and 1954 expeditions. The writing about the respective American and Italian expeditions sounded too familiar. I couldn't help but think that I had read something very similar in one of Roberts' other books. He does seem to have a habit of repeating himself from one book to the next.
Despite the aforementioned problems, K2 is a captivating and enlightening read. Viestur's unparalleled analyis of the perils of high altitude climbing is educational. For instance, throughout the book Viestur's extols the virtues of "wanding" routes -- that is, placing lightweight, bamboo gardening wands at regular intervals through sections where routefinding could be difficult in a whiteout -- and provides several studies of cases in which climbers could probably have avoided fatalities had they bothered to wand the route. Having read this book, I will be much more inclined to visit a lawn & garden center before venturing onto a big, glaciated mountain.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Crazy for "Crazy for the Storm"
Most people try mountaineering by choice, but others are forced into it by circumstance. Such was the case for Norman Ollestad. In February 1979, a small plane carrying the 11-year old boy crashed into Ontario Peak in the San Gabriel Mountains of southern California. The injured boy found himself perched precariously in a steep, icy chute in the upper reaches of a drainage just north/northwest of the summit. Reluctantly leaving his dead father and pilot behind, Norman and Sandra, his father's girlfriend, began a terrifying, inch-by-inch descent of the steep chute, roughly 3,000 feet above Chapman Ranch. Unfortunately, after descending just a few feet, Sandra slipped and plummeted about 2,000 feet to her death. What followed for the young Norman was a harrowing descent that called upon every piece of mountain wisdom imparted by his father over the years.
Crazy for the Storm, written by Norman Ollestad, is primarily a book about surviving a plane crash, but it is also about the complex relationship between a boy and his larger-than-life father. Norman's father was an extremely interesting and motivating figure. He once wrote a tell-all, insider's tale about Hoover's FBI and routinely coaxed Norman beyond his comfort level on surf and turf to find diamonds in the rough.
This book is riveting from start to finish. I was at the edge of my seat not only during the sections chronicling Norman's survival epic, but also during the sections about surviving a broken family. Some of the most suspenseful moments in the book occur when heated interactions involving his tempestuous stepfather rise to the combustion point.
Now I must make a confession. I didn't read this book. Yes, you read that right. Just to be clear, I'll say it again: I didn't read this book. Instead, I listened to the audiobook, which is read by Norman Ollestad himself. Norman's spoken reading is excellent. There are subtle changes in his tone throughout the book which greatly enhance the listening experience. For instance, when speaking as the young Norman, he assumes a slightly sullen and bratty tone. However, when talking about being a father himself, he sounds more like his indomitable father.
Norman returned to the remote (and elusive) crash site in 2006 and published his memoir thirty years after the crash. His amazing recollection of details indicates that he is still reeling from the impact.
Crazy for the Storm, written by Norman Ollestad, is primarily a book about surviving a plane crash, but it is also about the complex relationship between a boy and his larger-than-life father. Norman's father was an extremely interesting and motivating figure. He once wrote a tell-all, insider's tale about Hoover's FBI and routinely coaxed Norman beyond his comfort level on surf and turf to find diamonds in the rough.
This book is riveting from start to finish. I was at the edge of my seat not only during the sections chronicling Norman's survival epic, but also during the sections about surviving a broken family. Some of the most suspenseful moments in the book occur when heated interactions involving his tempestuous stepfather rise to the combustion point.
Now I must make a confession. I didn't read this book. Yes, you read that right. Just to be clear, I'll say it again: I didn't read this book. Instead, I listened to the audiobook, which is read by Norman Ollestad himself. Norman's spoken reading is excellent. There are subtle changes in his tone throughout the book which greatly enhance the listening experience. For instance, when speaking as the young Norman, he assumes a slightly sullen and bratty tone. However, when talking about being a father himself, he sounds more like his indomitable father.
Norman returned to the remote (and elusive) crash site in 2006 and published his memoir thirty years after the crash. His amazing recollection of details indicates that he is still reeling from the impact.
Friday, November 13, 2009
First Snow of the Season in SoCal
Still reading Crazy for the Storm, primarily about a plane crash on Ontario Peak, I couldn't resist the urge to get back on that mountain for the second time in a week. But which route should I take? I wasn't about to go groveling in Falling Rock Canyon again, and the standard trail was not even worth considering. So I turned my head slightly to the left of Falling Rock Canyon and found an unnamed ridge for which no information was available on the internet. Satellite imagery indicated some precipitous sections that looked questionable. It was perfect.
Arriving at the Icehouse Canyon parking lot before dawn, I noticed that something didn't look right high up on Mt. Baldy. After a regrettable experience in the dark public restroom, I focused more closely on Mt. Baldy and came to the conclusion that the upper slopes were covered in the first snow of the season. Hmmm. Would Ontario Peak be covered in snow? I looked at my sneakers.
At about 6:00 AM, I started hiking up Icehouse Canyon. I turned right into Fir Draw, which I followed for only about 100 yards before turning right and ascending a scree slope to gain the steep, sharp ridgeline. I then followed the ridgeline straight up to Peak 8688, just east of the main summit of Ontario Peak. I summitted at 9:00 AM after roughly 3,700 feet of elevation gain. By 11:15 AM, I was comfortably seated in the public restroom back at the parking lot.
Arriving at the Icehouse Canyon parking lot before dawn, I noticed that something didn't look right high up on Mt. Baldy. After a regrettable experience in the dark public restroom, I focused more closely on Mt. Baldy and came to the conclusion that the upper slopes were covered in the first snow of the season. Hmmm. Would Ontario Peak be covered in snow? I looked at my sneakers.
At about 6:00 AM, I started hiking up Icehouse Canyon. I turned right into Fir Draw, which I followed for only about 100 yards before turning right and ascending a scree slope to gain the steep, sharp ridgeline. I then followed the ridgeline straight up to Peak 8688, just east of the main summit of Ontario Peak. I summitted at 9:00 AM after roughly 3,700 feet of elevation gain. By 11:15 AM, I was comfortably seated in the public restroom back at the parking lot.
Looking down at the lower third of the ridge.
Looking up at the middle third of the ridge.
Looking down at the crux of the ridge (about halfway up).
Mt. Baldy viewed from the upper section of the ridge.
Wasteland below the summit of Ontario Peak.
View from the summit of Peak 8688.
This ridge is excellent. I think it is better than Sugarloaf Ridge and possibly even Register Ridge. The crux of the route is the 3rd class, 20-foot, narrow gully pictured above, which is surmounted by repeated stemming on mostly secure rock. There is also some rock scrambling lower on the ridge which probably rises to 3rd class as well.
A ridge this good needs a name. Two names that immediately came to mind were "The Sam Page Victory Ridge" and the "Sam Page Conquered This Ridge". However, upon reflection, I came to the opinion that these names are rather imperialistic, and perhaps even a bit self-aggrandizing. You are of course entitled to your own opinion. Regardless, I have tentatively settled on the name of "Falling Fir Ridge" for the following reasons. First, the ridge is in between Falling Rock Canyon and Fir Draw. Second, as depicted in the image above, there are many fallen trees at the top of the ridge. The name would be perfect were the fallen trees fir trees, but Wifey PhD thinks that they are pine trees, which she insists are not fir trees. Well, as Steven Wright says: "You can't have everything. Where would you put it?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
