The Mountaineering Review

Baldy Village Trail . . . finally

2012-01-16T21:36:00.000-08:00

Until last weekend, I had never hiked the Baldy Village (a.k.a. Bear Canyon, a.k.a. Bear Flat) Trail, even though I had climbed eight other routes to Baldy summit (Goode Canyon, South Ridge, Ski Hut Trail, Baldy Bowl, Register Ridge, Devil's Backbone, Northeast Face, and North Face). With fall conditions extending into January, it was time.

At 5:45AM on January 7, Ryan Bracci, Patrick Moran and I hit the trail in the pitch black. About one mile in, we were surprised to encounter a party (literally) of three people camped directly on the trail. They were sleeping on (not in) their tent, were provisioned with a case of beer, and had decorated the trail surrounding their camp with toilet paper, poop, and a condom wrapper. The scene served as a conversational stimulant for the rest of the day (and for some days to follow).

After briefly losing the trail in the vicinity of Bear Flat, we pounded uphill and didn't take our first break until gaining 3000 vertical feet. From there to the summit, it was a scenic grind. We topped out at 10:15 after gaining a total of 6000 vertical feet, and my legs definitely felt it. By 12:15 we were at Manker Flat preparing to drive to the other car at Baldy Village.

Ryan above Bear Flat.

Ryan at sunrise in the first conifer stand.

My first glimpse into the upper reaches of Cattle Canyon.

Patrick with Baldy summit directly overhead.

Ryan setting the pace across the scenic ridgeline.

Ryan (L) and Patrick (R) on top. A strangely snow-free summit in early January.

Sugarloaf Peak

2011-12-28T16:23:00.000-08:00

At 6:00AM this morning, Dave Gillanders, Patrick Moran and I began hiking by headlamp up the rutted San Juan Trail toward Sugarloaf Peak. By 8:30, we were trying to negotiate the summit boulders whilst talking each other out of attempting stupid things.

I was hoping that Sugarloaf Peak was the picturesque pyramidal peak I've been seeing from various vantage points in the Santa Anas. But alas, it wasn't. That pyramidal peak was a mile west and 100 feet higher.

The numbers: ~13 miles, ~2400 vertical feet, 4.5 hours.

Dave and Patrick a little after sunrise.

Sugaloaf Peak is on the right and the pyramidal peak I hoped we were climbing is on the left.

Patrick stemming between the summit boulders.

The pyramidal peak from Sugarloaf Peak.

Los Pinos Peak

2011-12-28T15:58:00.000-08:00

On Monday, Abby and I left the kiddos with their grandparents and disappeared for a few hours in the Santa Ana Mountains. After some confusion on Long Valley Canyon Road, we located the trailhead and began strolling up the gated Main Divide Road at the pace of a very curious botanist. Upon reaching a grove of Coulter Pines (and their somewhat worrying "widow-maker" pine cones), we left the dirt road and began hiking up the Los Pinos Trail. At the "summit" we realized that the true summit was a half mile further. So we plodded on, eventually reaching a proper rocky summit. There I took note of a somewhat picturesque pyramidal peak and resolved to climb it soon.

Looking up the Main Divide Road toward the Coulter Pine grove (and the junction with Los Pinos Trail).

Widow-makers! They are as big as pineapples.

Abby with the San Gorgonio massif in the background.

The view from the summit toward the ocean . . . and that pyramidal peak.

Santiago Peak.

Mt. Baldy and the San Gabriel range.

Annual WPSMB Baldy Climb

2011-12-28T15:20:00.000-08:00

That's right, Friday was the annual Whitney Portal Store Message Board (exhale, inhale) winter climb of Mt. Baldy. Although turnout was decidedly, um, meager, five of us had a great time battling the winds and chilly temperatures. And we could even see Mt. Whitney from the summit!

I'll leave it at that and show some pictures:

Patrick is bundled up, so it's cold!

San Gorgonio (L) and San Jacinto (R) from Baldy summit.

Clowns on top.

Jeff fighting the wind for the summit prize with Ontario Peak in the background.

A bare bowl kept us on the Ski Hut Trail. It also made for light packs.

Santiago Peak, Power Line Ridge

2011-12-19T22:34:00.000-08:00

While we were climbing Mt. Baldy a few weeks ago, Ryan Bracci mentioned a route up Santiago Peak that I had never heard of anyone doing. Of course, it had to be done. So on December 17, David Gillanders, Patrick Moran, Ty Sutherland and I did it. Ryan unfortunately couldn't join us.

Dave had rubbed his heels completely raw and bloody on a hike two days prior, so he kept saying that he would be turning around early. As expected, he not only completed the entire route, but set the pace all day, spending considerable time waiting for me to catch up.

Here is the route (roughly):

Our route follows a dirt road to the Santiago/Joplin Trail. It then parts ways with the Santiago Trail, drops 100 feet into a notch, and follows the power lines straight up the ridge. The power line stretch is unmaintained and rather brushy, to put it mildly. Eventually, after the worst of the brush, one emerges onto the Main Divide Truck Road and revels in the wide open space afforded by the road. Walking up the road toward Santiago Peak, one is keenly aware of not being dragged down by thorns, branches, and other whackables.

On top, we enjoyed two inches of snow underfoot, cold winds, and a snow squall. Since the power line ridge was "rather brushy", we opted to descend the surprisingly pleasant Joplin Trail. On the Joplin Trail, we realized one benefit of brush-choked routes: they deter bikers, which were in full force on the Joplin Trail.

The numbers: 4800+ vertical feet; ~14 miles; 8 hours car-to-car.

Power Line Ridge follows the sun/shade line just left of center.

Ty starting up the overgrown ridge.

Ty (orange) thrashing through the final section below the Main Divide Road. The winding Santiago Trail is visible below.

Dave just below the tippy top with Modjeska Peak in the background.

Rainbow over Modjeska Peak.

On the Joplin Trail.

On the Joplin Trail near Old Camp.

Old Camp.

Someone had a bad day on the road up to Santiago Trail.

Someone else had a bad day.

Folly Peak, NW Face (Gas Can Ridge)

2011-12-12T14:01:00.000-08:00

The NW face of Folly Peak from my spring 2010 recon.

After climbing the notorious Snow Creek route on the north face of San Jacinto Peak in 2010, I became intrigued with the equally impressive face around the corner – namely, the northwest face of Folly Peak. Though accounts of climbing the north face of San Jacinto are legion, I was only able to uncover one sketchy, second-hand reference to anyone climbing the NW face of Folly – and that party was alleged to have been several days overdue. This, of course, made it even more intriguing.

Climbing the NW face of Folly from bottom to top would involve 9000+ vertical feet of elevation gain up the east branch of the west fork of Snow Creek (the standard “Snow Creek” route up the north face of San Jacinto actually follows the *east* fork of Snow Creek). The lower section of the east branch of the west fork is trail-less and densely vegetated. After Patrick Moran, Zach Cyrus, and I made two unpromising attempts (one in 2010 and one earlier this month) to find a way up the lower section, we decided to approach from a completely different direction. Thus it was that in the wee hours of December 10, the three of us pulled up to a locked gate that a ranger had assured me was open.

With one eye on our maps and another on the full moon that was becoming increasingly eclipsed to the west, we reviewed our options for accessing the trailhead that was now several miles beyond the unexpectedly locked gate. This was an inauspicious start to what was already going to be a pre-dawn to dusk (hopefully) outing. After driving around on dirt roads for another half hour and encountering two more locked gates, we finally settled on a plan and parked. It was pitch black and cold when we finally set off at 6:00ish, following an unsuccessful search for a missing wallet (another inauspicious development).

Nearly 3000 vertical feet of walking on trail and off landed us on the sunny crest of Fuller Ridge. There we swapped trail shoes for mountaineering boots, replaced trekking poles with ice axes, and donned helmets. Then, at 10:00, we stepped into the cold shade and unconsolidated snow on the north side of Fuller Ridge and began our descent into the other Snow Creek.

Our first view of the route. We climbed the couloir to the visible bottleneck chockstone, then ascended the ridge on the left to the top.

Since daylight was in short supply and we were descending into terrain for which there was no known record of prior travel, we opted to enter the drainage at a relatively high point, which turned out to be roughly 7800 feet. The snow in the couloir was about three feet deep and mostly unconsolidated. Patrick led the way through the snow until we reached a chockstone at ~8300 feet that we deemed to be impassable. At that point, we scrambled up rocks on the left and aimed for the sunny ridge that would put us even further into the NW face.

Patrick and Zach accessing the couloir.

Our destination is the highpoint 2500 vertical feet above.

Patrick and the chockstone that blocked our way up the couloir.

While we were scrambling up the hillside toward the ridgeline, Patrick made a surprising discovery: two large, rusted gas cans. They were sitting right next to each other in the snow and were barely dented or scratched. A speculative discussion immediately ensued about how they got there.

Zach presenting the mysterious gas cans.

We gained the ridge at around 8800 feet and for the next two hours labored through unconsolidated snow, boulders, and branches – the kind of tiring terrain I’ve become well-acquainted with on Mt. San Jacinto. As expected from satellite imagery, the ridge steepened considerably at the final headwall, involving 100+ feet of strenuous third class scrambling over big boulders.

Looking up the ridge.

It's a loooooong way down.

Zach on the ridge.

Topping out at ~10,350 feet, we saw what we thought was the summit at roughly ~10,420 feet. Reaching that point after fifteen minutes of tedious boulder-hopping through loose snow, we saw the true summit of Folly Peak at 10,500+ feet a few hundred yards further. The time was 2:30 and we were very tired. Concerned that we only had 2.5 hours of daylight left, Patrick and I stopped there while Zach powered on to the tippy top. By the time Patrick and I finished eating and hydrating, Zach was back and ready to descend.

That's the tippy top over there.

Patrick on the subsidiary summit with the 5000 vertical foot NW face below.

It took a little over an hour to descend 1700 vertical feet down the trail-less and brush-covered Fuller Ridge to our gear cache. After a hasty break there to replace mountaineering boots with trail shoes, we moved as fast as possible downhill in the hope of finding the trail before dark. We never did find the trail, but eventually found ourselves on a road about one hour after sunset. Shortly thereafter, a brilliant full moon rose to light our way back to the car.

Racing down to the trail at sunset with our route in the background. I think Zach is finally tired.

The numbers: ~5500 vertical feet (including ~2500 on the NW face); 12+ hours round trip.

Photo by Norma Ryan.

Register Ridge . . . again

2011-12-03T12:53:00.000-08:00

Here is a quick, belated post about our jaunt up Mt. Baldy last Sunday. We started moving a little after 6:00 AM and summitted via Register Ridge at 9:00ish. There was virtually no wind, which was almost eerie. We didn't really encounter snow until intersecting the Devil's Backbone Trail. However, there was quite a lot of snow on the Ski Hut Trail from the summit down to the bottom of the bowl, which made mini-spikes useful. We were back to the parking lot (sans port-a-potty!) around noon.

Ryan and Patrick finding Register Ridge to be hilarious.

Tina showing off her fat lip.

The final push to the summit on the Devil's Backbone Trail (above Register Ridge).

Tina and Ryan doing something rare on Baldy summit: having a quiet conversation in unusual wind-less conditions.

Patrick tele-commuting on the summit with Mt. Baden Powell in the background. The snowy Sierras were also visible in the distance.

A Rick Graham sighting on the summit -- this is apparently a common occurrence.

Baldy Bowl. The Ski Hut Trail goes through the steepish snow on the left.

Modjeska Peak

2011-11-26T16:12:00.000-08:00

At 5496 feet, Modjeska Peak is the second highest peak in the Santa Ana Mountains of southern California. Unlike Santiago Peak (5687 feet), the summit of Modjeska is not covered with telecommunications infrastructure, which makes it a much more appealing destination.

By 5:45 on Thanksgiving morning, Zach Cyrus, Patrick Moran and I were walking up the unpaved Harding Truck Trail. Four hours and over eleven looooong miles later, we arrived at the summit with Miguel Forjan, who had biked up in under 2.5 hours. By 12:45 the last of us (namely, me) had returned to the parking lot at Tucker Wildlife Sanctuary.

The numbers: 20+ miles (including some short-cuts), 4000+ vertical feet, 7 hours round trip.

Sunrise

Cliffs and trail above Santiago Canyon.

Patrick and Zach heading up.

Mt. Baldy

A car that had seen better days.

Looking back down Harding Canyon. The Harding Truck Trail is visible on the upper left.

Zach wondering when this road would ever end. We missed a key short-cut, adding about 1.5 miles to an already very long walk.

Zach on the final stretch.

(L-R) Patrick, Miguel, and Zach on top of Modjeska Peak.

Black Star Canyon

2011-11-14T10:38:00.000-08:00

"That's where they do sacrifices" was the only thing I'd ever heard anyone say about Black Star Canyon in the Santa Ana Mountains. So when Patrick Moran suggested exploring it, I had my reservations. Regardless, at 6:15AM yesterday, Patrick, Ty Sutherland, me, and Patrick's two dogs set off in the brisk morning air toward Black Star Canyon. Perhaps more worrying than the prospect of ritualistic sacrifices was the fact that Jake and Elwood (the dogs) had both eaten leftover chili for breakfast.

After walking for about a mile, we came upon the first of several weird scenes: the Edwards Ranch. Whatever it is, it is surrounded by a new, electric, barbed-wire fence, with razor wire in key spots and occasional surveillance cameras. These people definitely do not want any trespassers. Past the Edwards compound, we observed a school bus overturned in the creek. And then came the habitations. On either side of the road were several shacks, dilapidated RVs, cars, and assorted junk. As we were all contemplating the movie Deliverance, we discussed whether anyone could be living there. Later internet research suggested that some of these dwellings are in fact inhabited by people who occasionally harass hikers and bikers, sometimes with rifles. Beyond the junkyard dwellings, at roughly two miles in, was something even more bizarre and unexpected: a mini-golf course.

The mini-golf course.

The bus.

Past the mini-golf course, things appeared normal again and we walked for several more miles up the dirt road. The terrain was surprisingly scenic, with lots of appealing sandstone crags (reminiscent of Red Rocks Nevada, but on a much smaller scale) and an idyllic valley called Hidden Ranch. About one half mile from the Main Divide Truck Road, we turned around, thus making for almost 14 miles round trip.

The view once the road climbs out of Black Star Canyon.

Has anyone climbed those crags?

Ty, Patrick, and the dogs.

The view back toward Hidden Ranch from our turnaround point.

Bedford Peak

2011-11-01T10:29:00.000-07:00

Bedford Peak (3800 feet) is a little mound on the Santa Ana crest, nearly 2000 feet below Santiago Peak. The hike from the gate on Silverado Canyon Road was easy and surprisingly enjoyable (6.6 miles, 2200 vertical feet). I'll let the pictures do the rest of the talking.

Looking north toward Sierra Peak with Mt. Baldy in the distance.

The San Gabriel Mountains. Mt. Baldy is the highest peak on the left.

Another view north to the San Gabriels.

Patrick Moran taking a break from digging holes on the summit.

Looking toward the ocean. Ok, maybe not "the" ocean, but "an" ocean at least.

Looking down at Silverado Canyon and the zigzagging trail. This view reminded me of the Himalayan foothills in Nepal.

Patrick realizing that there would be no bushwhacking on this outing either. Enjoy it while it lasts . . .

Sitton Peak

2011-10-24T08:42:00.000-07:00

After a four-month hiatus from the mountains, due primarily to a re-injured lower back, I hiked up Sitton Peak on Saturday. At 3273 feet, Sitton Peak is the highest point in the southern Santa Ana mountain range. It took Patrick Moran and I about 5 hours to complete the hike, which involved 10 miles and 2000+ feet of elevation gain. Aside from prematurely ascending a spur trail to a false summit, the hike was uneventful.

Hiking toward Sitton Peak, which I think is obscured by the ridge on the left.

Patrick happy to be on a hike with me that doesn't involve hours of off-trail bushwhacking.

Sitton Peak viewed from the peak that we thought was Sitton Peak.

Red Bull really does give you wings.

Looking west from Sitton Peak.

In case you can't see him, the arrow is pointing to Patrick.

Does anyone know anything about the spire of rock in the center of the picture? It is south of Sitton Peak.

Santiago Peak in the distance.

Ontario Peak, Falling Fir Ridge

2011-06-07T13:30:00.000-07:00

On June 4, Ty Sutherland, Lee Tintary, and I groveled up a trail-less ridge on Ontario Peak that I call Falling Fir Ridge. We left Icehouse Canyon parking lot before 6AM and plopped down on top of Peak 8688 at around 10:30AM. The route involves some loose class 2-3 at the bottom to gain the ridge and another spot of class 3 midway up. I was surprised by how little snow was left on this north-facing terrain.

For more on Falling Fir Ridge, see this.

Lee (L) and Ty (R) gaining the ridge after much loose groveling.

Lee waxing pensive.

The crux gully midway up. Lee and I scrambled up the class 3+ face on the left.

Another spot of scrambling above the optional class 3+ face.

Easier ground above the cliff band.

Peak 8688 with Baldy Bowl in the background.

Miller Peak, Northeast Face

2011-04-25T22:30:00.000-07:00

Patrick Moran on Leatherneck Ridge. Our route on the northeast face of Miller Peak is marked in red.

From the usual vantage points, Miller Peak (10,400 feet) is an unassuming shoulder of Mt. San Jacinto. I had overlooked it until February of this year, when I was afforded rare views of its northeastern aspect while climbing the obscure Leatherneck Ridge. The spectacle of Miller’s northeast face absolutely blew me away. I knew right away that climbing it would become a major priority.

Considering (1) the grandeur of Miller’s NE face and (2) its’ proximity to America’s second largest city, I wondered why I had never heard of anyone climbing it. In the weeks to come, I would find out.

Miller’s NE face bottoms out at around 6600 feet in Falls Creek – that’s 5400 vertical feet above the nearest road. Factoring in the ups and downs on that trail-less approach amounts to about 6000 vertical feet of travel, much of it through horrendously brushy terrain. In early March, Patrick Moran and I attempted that approach. In nine hours, we were only able to make it to 5500 vertical feet, still 2-3 hours shy of the base. Two weeks later we returned and made it to the base in ten hours. But at that point it was after 2:00PM and we were in no condition to ascend nearly 4000 vertical feet more to the summit.

For the next month, we bided our time and hoped the snow wouldn’t melt too much. Then, on Sunday, April 24, Patrick and I boarded a special 4:30AM tramcar scheduled to take worshippers to a sunrise Easter service at the 8516-foot Mountain Station. Instead of ascending 6000 vertical feet to the base of Miller’s NE face, we would climb a few hundred vertical feet to the crest and then descend 2000 vertical feet to it. It was an ingenious plan, if I can say so myself.

We left the tram station at around 5:00AM, filled out a wilderness permit, and then followed the trail by headlamp for about twenty minutes. Navigating from the trail to the crest in the dark was not easy. The terrain is convoluted and there is nothing obvious to aim for. Plus, we left the trail far too early. Nonetheless, by 6:00AM we were standing at the crest prepared to descend a couloir toward Falls Creek. We had to be careful about which couloir we descended, because we had previously seen a huge cliff in one of them.

After a few hundred feet of loose, dry ground, we found ourselves on hard, icy snow that dropped for over 1000 continuous vertical feet. For the next hour or so, we carefully made our way down the couloir, braced for a quick self-arrest if necessary.

Patrick descending toward Falls Creek.

No Falls Creek experience is complete without some strenuous bushwhacking, and this was not to be an exception. But after our previous two experiences, one hour of thrashing and stumbling through brush seemed a small price to pay to gain the Falls Creek snow tongue by 8:00AM.

Patrick crossing Falls Creek at the base of our route.

Looking down Falls Creek.

Looking up Falls Creek toward Cornell Peak.

To our slight disappointment, the bottom few hundred feet of our intended couloir had melted away, but that still left about 3500 vertical feet of snow climbing. The snow began in earnest at around 7000 feet. From there, we just followed the couloir straight up to the 9200-foot saddle between Miller Peak and Kristen Peak.

Heading up.

Since the NE face gets first light, the snow was slushy and somewhat uncooperative by 9:00AM. It got progressively worse as we got higher. Perhaps because I only managed one hour of sleep the night before, I was dragging.

After finally catching up with Patrick, I resolved to break trail for a while. Within minutes, a boulder the size of a microwave oven crashed into the couloir about 200 feet above and began hurtling its away straight toward us. Yelling “run”, I quickly moved over to the rock wall that bounded the right side of the couloir, flattening myself against it. Seconds later, the boulder ripped through the very spot where I had been standing. Patrick was much more nonchalant about the whole affair, and simply watched the boulder bounce by him. Though climbs like this are sometimes better done at night, because the snow is firmer and there is consequently less rockfall, we might not have been able to dodge that boulder in the dark, because we wouldn’t have seen it.

I snapped this photo seconds before the rockfall. Note the orange water bottle in the rocks on the left. Evidence of a prior ascent? Or dropped from the ridge above?

In light of our close encounter with the projectile, I felt that we should move faster. Almost immediately, the snow became considerably softer and slushier, making quick progress impossible. The final several hundred feet to the saddle were brutal, with loads of exhausting postholing and sliding. The snow was solid enough to kick steps in, but once full weight was applied, it would often collapse, throwing us into awkward, off-balance positions that expended too much energy. After a solid hour of this, we finally hauled ourselves onto the saddle between Miller Peak and Kristen Peak, where we were immediately blasted by wind.

Slushy, 45 degree snow. Very tiring.

Dazed from exertion, I wandered around slowly and snapped photos from this rarely visited spot, while Patrick quickly mobilized and began making his way up the final 1200 vertical feet of Miller’s north ridge. The ridge was plastered in deep snow that alternated between rock hard and unconsolidated. I found the climbing to be completely exhausting. Every ten steps or so, I would crash through the surface or slide awkwardly. Leaning on my ice axe for a rest, it would suddenly sink all the way to hilt, leaving me bent completely over. To my frustration, it sometimes seemed that I could not find a stable place to stand.

Patrick on the Miller/Kristen saddle at the top of the couloir. Miller's north ridge looms above.

Looking north toward Kristen Peak.

The upper reaches of the East Fork of Snow Creek.

Another view of Miller's north ridge. It looks benign, but it wasn't.

After a painstaking hour of being slapped by cold wind while floundering around in unstable snow, I lost composure and screamed a slew of profanities. The outburst was effective, as it unleashed an untapped reserve that powered me upward with a force that surprised me. In a final intense push that involved extremely loud pressure breathing, I caught up with Patrick. Unfortunately, that final push had propelled me above the peak, so we actually had to descend to Miller’s craggy summit, which we reached before 1:30PM.

I'm a little fired up.

Patrick was so beat that he mentioned something about not climbing the final few feet to the summit, which amused me. But of course he did. Still buoyed from my profanity-inspired charge to the top – not to mention completing a route that had required 40+ hours of recon – I let it all hang out on the summit, woo-hooing with arms thrust victoriously in the air. Eventually I calmed down and let my hand come to rest in a bowl of sour cream (sorry, that’s a Woody Allen line I’ve always liked). At 4:00PM, eleven hours after setting out, we were calling our wives and ingesting Advil, caffeine, and pizza at the upper tram station.

The numbers: 4500+ vertical feet, 11 hours round trip.

Patrick's photos are here.

Another angle on our route, taken from Leatherneck Ridge.

ADDENDUM:

While we were two thirds of the way up the couloir, Ryan Bracci happened to be flying overhead. He snapped this photo:

Photo taken by Ryan Bracci while we were climbing the couloir. Our route is marked in red.

Mt. Baldy, North Face

2011-04-18T16:21:00.000-07:00

Our route up the north face of Mt. Baldy. We approached via Baldy/Dawson saddle on the far left skyline.

[Photo by Norma Ryan]

I had heard of people skiing part way down the north face of Mt. Baldy, but never of anyone climbing it from bottom to top. Emboldened by Ryan Dacey’s climb of the north face of West Baldy earlier in the year, Patrick Moran and I decided that conditions were conducive to an attempt on Baldy’s north face.

Because of concerns about rockfall and avalanches, I insisted on a party of no more than two. So a little before 4:00AM on April 15, Patrick and I started walking up the Ski Hut trail by headlamp. Shortly after sunrise, we arrived at the 9400-foot saddle between Baldy and Harwood. There we donned crampons, ice axes, and helmets in preparation for several hours on snow and ice.

Looking back toward Harwood/Baldy saddle during the traverse.

The icy traverse to the 8800-foot saddle between Baldy and Dawson was straightforward, though an unarrested slip anywhere on the traverse would have led to rapid slide of 1000 vertical feet into the South Fork of Lytle Creek. From the saddle, we descended into Fish Fork, arriving at the 7450-foot base of our intended route at around 8:30AM.

Our first glimpse of Fish Fork from the Dawson/Baldy saddle.

From my study of photos (thanks to Mike Ostby and Ryan Dacey) and GoogleEarth imagery, I assumed that the crux of the route would be a cliff band between 7900 and 8300 feet. Seeing this section from below, I was relieved to see a snow-filled couloir cutting through the middle of it, though my comment to Patrick was that it looked “gnarly”.

Our first view of the north face route, including the crux bottleneck couloir near the bottom.

The bottleneck couloir.

The snow conditions in the bottleneck couloir were the worst we would encounter all day. Though some of the snow was consolidated, a mix of deep fluff and hard ice made it thought provoking. The meat of the bottleneck was a 100-foot stretch of roughly 50 degree climbing that felt steeper than it looked from below (which, in my experience, is rarely the case with snow). There were a few steps of third-class rock scrambling and also some spots meriting hard swings of the ice axe. The final hurdle was an awkward chimney-style maneuver between a boulder and undermined powder snow. Then we were out of the bottleneck and into an ocean of perfectly consolidated snow.

Patrick climbing above the crux section of the bottleneck couloir.

The next 1800 vertical feet was on mostly icy-hard snow that increased from 30 to around 45 degrees. An unarrested slip anywhere on this slope would have led to a long, rapid slide into the rocky bottleneck couloir. On the few occasions that my crampons balled up in soft patches, I was extra cautious and quick to knock the snow off with my ice axe.

Patrick coming up for a rest a few hundred feet above the bottleneck couloir.

Looking up at our route, which was a race against the sun.

It was neat to see the singer and guitarist of the newly formed Sam Page Band on the route.

Watching Patrick come up as I take a quick break on some rocks.

At around 11:00AM, I climbed over the cornice that had been looming above for the past two hours and walked a few steps to the summit. Blasted by cold wind, I put on a few layers and then hurried back to the crest to photograph Patrick climbing below. But Patrick was already up. After a high-five and a quick snack, we made a rapid glissade and scree ski to the hut. By 1:30, we were ingesting Advil and caffeine at the car and talking about the Tetons.

Patrick topping out on the route he was been working toward for several years.

The numbers: 5800 vertical feet, 9.5 hours car-to-car.

Patrick's photos are here.

Baldy Bowl

2011-04-04T10:51:00.000-07:00

On Sunday (April 3), Augie Medina, Ty Sutherland, Patrick Moran, and I climbed Baldy Bowl. Though the bowl was melted out in places, the snow conditions were excellent in the mid-morning.

We left Manker Flat around 5:15, which was later than we had planned. The trail was mostly free of snow to the ski hut. After a long break at the hut -- during which time we were harassed by a hungry, determined dog -- we walked up a few hundred feet of scree to where the snow began in earnest. There we donned crampons and commenced crunching our way up very nicely consolidated snow.

Augie at the bottom of the bowl.

The western side of the bowl.

Midway up the bowl, it got hot and the snow started getting slushy. As usual, the final, steep stretch to the crest was exhilarating. At the crest, it was windy and cold. I was glad to have brought a down jacket.

It's all snow from here.

Augie in the foreground with Ty picking up the rear (literally!).

The north side of Ontario Peak.

Click to watch the video.

Since Patrick and Ty were going at their own paces, Augie and I walked to the summit together on very firm snow. After a few chilly, face-stinging moments on top, we descended to the lip of the east bowl, but not before Augie nearly lost his sunglasses and a glove to the wind.

Augie on the summit.

The glissading conditions were nearly perfect. According to Augie, the descent to the ski hut took 23 minutes. Whilst sliding down the snow, I did not envy the dozens of climbers starting up the slushy bowl in the baking SoCal sun.

Lots of climbers heading up.

The falls were gushing at the bottom.

Falls Creek on Mt. San Jacinto

2011-03-20T13:37:00.000-07:00

Our route up the Falls Creek headwall is marked in red.

Two weeks ago, Patrick Moran and I attempted a route up the obscure Falls Creek drainage on Mt. San Jacinto, making sure to skirt way around the Desert Water Agency’s one square mile of private property. Starting at the desert floor at 1200 feet, our plan was to gain the 8700-foot lowpoint on the crest by climbing a couloir that begins at 6000 feet. Defeated by a tremendous amount of dense brush, we bailed at around 5500 feet. A few days ago, we decided to give it another whack.

After acclimating for two days with the family in Palm Springs, I returned home for a day to revise my will (my wife insisted). Trying a tactic I’d seen other climbers use (though to what effect, I don’t know), I magnanimously announced to my wife that I would be dedicating the climb to her. She was completely unimpressed, if not slightly irritated. Nonetheless, after a terrible night’s sleep, I hopped in the car at 2:15AM to begin celebrating St. Patrick’s Day with (who else?) Patrick.

At 4:08AM, we set off by headlamp, taking a huge, painstaking detour around the DWA’s property. Ten hours later, after much thrashing and scrambling, we stepped onto the consolidated snow tongue at roughly 6200 feet. Were it not for our brutal, 16-hour reconnaissance two weeks ago, the approach would have taken much more than ten hours.

An ominous sign near where we first intersected the creek.

The aptly named Falls Creek.

A friendly section of the creek.

A fiendly section of the creek.

This is what the ten-hour approach did to my brand new leather work gloves.

Though our plan was to climb a couloir that leads directly to Shangri-La (the lowpoint on the crest), we inadvertently passed it and wound up at a point where several formidable couloirs converge. The couloir to our right snaked 3000 vertical feet to the saddle between Miller Peak and Kristen Peak, far from where we wanted to go. The wide couloir directly ahead inclined gradually to a desperately steep and narrow section where an acquaintance got into serious trouble once. The couloir to our left, which went in the right direction, was blocked by an unignorable cliff a few hundred feet up. So we sat down on some rocks for a while and distracted ourselves with unrelated issues, like: “Where did this Advil come from? Was it here when we got here or did it just fall from one of our packs?”

Patrick happy to be on snow finally.

Looking up the central couloir. We turned left a few hundred feet beyond the waterfall.

After nearly letting the map blow away, we took a long hard look at it, and decided to traverse up and left over ridges and couloirs in the direction of Shangri-La. And that’s what we did. It took four hours to ascend roughly 2500 vertical feet of progressively deeper and softer snow. At 7:30PM, we were riding the tram back down the mountain. By 11:15PM, 21 hours after leaving home, I was waking my wife up with a long, noisy shower.

Climbing a couloir toward Shangri-La.

Nearing the top of the final ridge. We parked on the desert floor in the upper left corner.

The numbers: 15+ hours from desert floor to upper tram station with 7600 feet of net elevation gain. All of the extra ups and downs involved in avoiding DWA property and negotiating the creek add up to well over 8000 vertical feet total.

I hereby dedicate this climb to my lovely wife.

Patrick's excellent photo set is here.

A Merry Little Bushwhack in Falls Creek

2011-03-09T10:29:00.000-08:00

Falls Creek is a major drainage on the north side of Mt. San Jacinto in southern California. It drops 9000 vertical feet from the summit of Miller Peak to the desert floor. The upper reaches of the drainage contain some of the most spectacular alpine terrain south of the Sierras. Admiring the terrain from Leatherneck Ridge recently, I wondered why I had only heard of one ascent of those upper reaches. On Sunday, March 6, I found out why.

Patrick on a previous ascent of Leatherneck Ridge with Falls Creek drainage in background.

The fact that the only ascent of the Falls Creek drainage that I was aware of had ended in a helicopter rescue was not discouraging. Noteworthy, but not discouraging. What was discouraging was all the fresh snow on the mountain and a forecast calling for very strong winds all day and an evening rain/snow storm. Nonetheless, at 4:30AM, Phil Incikaya, Steve Irvin, Patrick Moran, and I left our cars at 1200 feet on Snow Creek Road and began walking across the desert floor by headlamp.

The plan was to skirt far around the notorious DWA property and intersect Falls Creek at about 4400 feet. From there we would follow the creek until 6000 feet, at which point we would climb a couloir for 2600 vertical feet to “Shangri-La” (the bouldering area where Leatherneck Ridge intersects the crest). A short walk to the upper tram station would then conclude our glorious ascent.

View of Mt. San Jacinto from the "legal approach". Falls Creek on left, Snow Creek (East Fork) in center.

Steve had done the “legal approach” to Falls Creek several times, so he led the way, keeping us on very manageable terrain for four hours. In the midst of a traverse at around 4200 feet, I had a bright idea to traverse higher. Almost immediately, we were thrust into dense brush that persisted until we returned to that very spot nine hours later.

Falls Creek with Leatherneck Ridge in upper left corner.

Phil (L) and Steve (R).

At 9:30, after a solid hour of bushwhacking, we gained a rib that afforded arresting views up Falls Creek. Wisely, Steve and Phil opted to stop here and enjoy a leisurely jaunt down to the creek, while Patrick and I stubbornly plowed ahead under packs laden with heavy alpine gear, which included mountaineering boots, crampons, ice axes, and warm clothing. For the next three hours, Patrick and I thrashed and scrambled our way across the slopes above Falls Creek. Whilst Patrick responded to the unrelenting thrashing with stoicism, I cursed and whimpered openly.

Patrick emptying debris from his shoes in a relatively open patch.

In addition to awful bushwhacking, we encountered several stretches of rock scrambling. One stretch in particular stands out in my mind. It involved climbing a very exposed, albeit featured, slab while being buffeted by winds. Above that, there was a precipitous section bounded by dense brush. While I was failing to find a passage, I looked up in surprise to see Patrick crawling along a narrow ledge above me on all fours. He then turned a corner and disappeared from sight. I put on my helmet. Though there were plenty of holds, the climbing was awkward. It culminated with a really awkward move around the corner, followed by an all-out, violent thrust through dense brush.

At around 5500 vertical feet, we intersected a large gully. Filling up our water bottles, we contemplated our future. Within minutes we decided to bail. The decision was difficult because we had just endured four straight hours of miserable bushwhacking that would now have to be repeated. In addition, with all of the ups and downs, we had about 5000 vertical feet to descend. But the 50 mph gusts that were continuously knocking us off balance would only be worse on the open slopes and ridges above. Plus, we still had to gain over 3000 vertical feet, would likely encounter deep snow, and knew there was an evening storm in the forecast.

Looking down Falls Creek at the top of a cliff below our turnaround point.

In the hope of avoiding some bushwhacking, we opted to descend to Falls Creek and follow it back to the traverse. After getting cliffed out in the gully, we were forced back onto the brushy slopes until we finally reached the creek. What we found in Falls Creek was far worse than anything we had encountered all day. Though there were a few short stretches where we could walk normally, it was mostly a tangle of brush and deadfall that brought progress to a complete standstill on several occasions.

A brief respite from the brush in Falls Creek. [Photo by Patrick Moran]

Click to watch video.

Contemplating the fact that ribbonwoods are known to induce bowel movements and vomiting. [Photo by Patrick Moran]

After finally escaping the brush at around 5:00, we raced downhill for an hour until darkness overtook us. Taking refuge from the wind in a cave, we donned headlamps, snacked, and called loved ones. Little did we know, we were off route and had stopped at the edge of a precipice.

Shouldering our packs and starting downhill, I was unnerved at the increasingly steep, rocky terrain that my headlamp was illuminating below. After only a few minutes, I reached a vertical section that would have entailed a fifty-foot fall before the first bounce. I couldn’t see what was below that. Had we climbed up this in the morning? I took a few tentative steps down, but pulled my foot back each time. I thought about my kids and felt nauseous. There was absolutely no reason to take this risk. Without further hesitation, we climbed back up to the cave and found easier terrain nearby.

After an hour or so of relentless 40-degree grass, we finally hit flat ground and let out whoops of jubilation. But Falls Creek wasn’t done with us yet. Encountering the creek for the last time midway across the desert, and with no stepping stones in sight, we were reduced to simply walking through it, drenching our feet. At 8:30 PM, 16 hours after setting out, we sealed ourselves off from the wind in my car and began drinking copious quantities of caffeine. Moments later, it began to rain.

We had ourselves a merry little bushwhack.

Patrick's photos are here.

Our route of ascent: 1200 feet to ~5500 feet, 16 hours round trip.

More Fresh Snow in SoCal

2011-02-27T11:48:00.000-08:00

More snow fell on the mountains of southern California this weekend, which bodes well for spring snow climbing. I took a short walk in south Orange County this morning to assess the snowfall. Here is what I found:

Santiago Peak. The summit communication towers were plastered in rime ice.

Mt. Baldy

The San Gabriel Mountains with Mt. Baldy at far right.

Wild Cucumber growing on Laurel Sumac (according to wifey PhD). Mt. Baldy in background.

The parasitic "dotter" plant. I prefer some of the folk names, which include Witch's Hair, Devil's Hair, and (my favorite) Devil's Gut. As Eddie Vedder sang, "Don't call me dotter . . . ."

Fresh Snow in SoCal

2011-02-22T10:44:00.000-08:00

On Monday, after the big weekend storm, my wife and I went to Top of the World Park in Laguna Beach for some snowy mountain vistas. Actually, she went to geek out on plants and birds, but I was eager to see the fruits of the storm.

The San Gabriel Mountains. Mt. Baldy is right of center.

Rare snow on the Santa Ana Mountains. Modjeska Peak on left, Santiago Peak on right.

Prickly Pear Cactus

Leatherneck Ridge, Mt. San Jacinto

2011-02-15T23:23:00.000-08:00

While hiking the Skyline trail on Mt. San Jacinto recently, three companions (Fernando Lara, Steve Irvin, and Tina Fiori) pointed out a cross-country route they had done on the other side of Chino Canyon. Though they referred to it as the “north ridge” route, internet research suggests that it is commonly called Leatherneck Ridge (after marines who were rescued there).

Our Leatherneck Ridge short-cut.

The complete Leatherneck Ridge route apparently begins at an elevation of less than 1000 feet on highway 111 and tops out at ~8700 feet between Cornell Peak and the upper tram station. We, however, started just below the lower tram station at an elevation of ~2400 feet. With all of the ups and downs on the final north ridge stretch, the total elevation gain of our variation is approximately 7000 feet. Though there is no sustained rock scrambling, there is enough of it, including lots of awkward traversing, to merit a class 3 rating.

At 6:15AM on February 13, Patrick Moran, Dave Gillanders, and I walked across the parking lot and immediately encountered our first obstacle: a creek crossing. The east side of the creek is covered in a dense, bouncy carpet of grapevine that is riddled with trip-wires. After negotiating this unusual terrain, we were faced with an awkward crossing that resulted in one drenched shoe. Unfortunately, that shoe was on my foot.

Across the creek, we immediately began climbing steeply up the obvious ridge, with occasional bits of scrambling here and there. After 2700 vertical feet of climbing, we gained Leatherneck Ridge proper, which afforded a striking view of Mt. San Gorgonio. I found the terrain on this stretch to be really aesthetic, with varied vegetation, flat sandy patches, and interesting rock crags reminiscent of Joshua Tree.

Patrick and Dave low on the ridge, with the parking lot in the background.

Looking up toward Leatherneck Ridge.

The complex Chino Canyon drainage. The upper tram station sits atop the ridge left of the central notch.

Patrick and San Gorgonio.

Looking up Leatherneck Ridge toward the conifers.

Eventually the ridge became steeper and brushier, leading to a gorgeous stand of tall conifers. These conifers were followed to the point where all of the subsidiary ridges, including Leatherneck Ridge, converge into a single, north ridge. At this point, we were suddenly rewarded with a breathtaking vista of the Falls Creek drainage, including the spectacular northeast face of Miller Peak.

Patrick enjoying the shade of the conifers.

The upper reaches of the Falls Creek drainage.

The final stretch along the north ridge involves several peaks and notches and lots of tedious side-hilling. The last half of it was plastered in snow that was either icy or unconsolidated, which slowed progress. Further slowing progress was a bout of stomach flu that hit Dave with a vengeance. Consequently, that final 1.5 mile stretch took over six hours.

Patrick astride the final north ridge.

Dave enduring one of many stretches of side-hilling.

Only a few more notches to go until Shangri-La.

By the time we reached the crest, it was dark. Although the half moon directly overhead provided just enough light to illuminate our way, we donned headlamps anyway. Not wanting to take any chances, I consulted map and compass and closely monitored our bearing until the light of the tram station came into view. We entered the upper tram station at 6:45PM, 12.5 hours after starting.

The northeast face of Miller Peak.

Dave's photos are here.

Review of "The Last Man on the Mountain"

2011-02-11T11:57:00.000-08:00

In 2002, Jennifer Jordan was wandering around near the base camp of K2 when she stumbled upon the remains of Dudley Wolfe. Wolfe, or what was left of him, had not been seen since 1939 when he was left for dead at nearly 25,000 feet on K2.

Nobody who survived the 1939 American K2 expedition saw Dudley Wolfe die. The three Sherpas who were positioned to rescue him never returned and subsequent attempts did not get close. The controversy surrounding Wolfe’s death persists to this day. Inspired by her discovery of Wolfe’s remains, Jordan published a book in 2010 about the controversy, entitled The Last Man on the Mountain: The Death of an American Adventurer on K2.

Dudley Wolfe was rich. His father had married into one of the wealthiest families in America. Perhaps that is why Wolfe was recruited by Fritz Wiessner, the expedition leader. Unfortunately, the team Wiessner managed to assemble was relatively inexperienced and unprepared for the undertaking.

Some Himalayan expeditions are utterly miserable from start to finish, and this was no exception. Before even setting foot on the mountain, one of the team members nearly died from illness in base camp. And the group dynamics were atrocious, with nearly everyone seemingly despising Wiessner.

Though lacking experience, Wolfe proved to be one of the strongest climbers. Only two other climbers got higher than him, and he probably spent more time than anyone high on the mountain. But this is presumably what did him in.

After Wiessner and Pasang Lama got tantalizingly close to the summit, they were forced to descend. Wiessner and Lama reunited with Wolfe at one of the higher camps, but for reasons that may never be known, left him at the 25,000 foot camp. As Wiessner and Lama descended to resupply at a lower camp, they were mortified to discover that all of the precious camps above base camp had been inexplicably emptied. They were thus forced to descend all the way to base camp. By this point, some of the team members had started home. But poor Dudley Wolfe was stuck at 25,000 feet. The attempt to rescue him resulted in the disappearance of three Sherpas. Wolfe was not seen again for 63 years.

Some books about major expeditions are exceptionally well-written and even funny. This one is neither. But the writing is clear and the research thorough, with the possible exception of one factual error. Contrary to Jordan, I thought that Wiessner first saw the Gunks not from the Shawangunk Mountains (the Gunks are in the Shawangunk Mountains), but from Breakneck Ridge in the Hudson Highlands. But that is an exceedingly minor point.

Breakneck Ridge. A fun scramble on the Hudson.

This book will lack appeal for those seeking a heroic, romanticized, and inspiring account of a Himalayan expedition. But for those with a deeper interest in the genre, Jordan’s book is an engaging and realistic analysis of a low point in American mountaineering.

My First Skyline

2011-02-07T23:09:00.000-08:00

Looking down at Skyline from the upper tram station. The trail follows the east ridge, which curls down to the right.

The Skyline (or Palms to Pines) Trail on Mt. San Jacinto is notorious. First, it gains about 8000 vertical feet in under ten miles. The trail starts at an elevation of 500 feet at the edge of Palm Springs and terminates at the upper tram station, which sits at roughly 8500 feet. Second, it is a frequent site of rescues and, unfortunately, fatalities. The accidents seem to be caused primarily by extreme seasonal heat down low and steep seasonal ice up high.

A few weeks ago, Tina Fiori, a local Skyline aficionado, had offered to take me up. Tina has done Skyline 100 times, including twice in one day (and she has done that twice). About a week ago, I called her bluff. But Tina was not bluffing. She jumped at the opportunity to introduce me to her favorite local hike. Thus it was that in the pre-dawn dark of February 6, I could be seen chugging fifty ounces of liquid and furtively watering the bushes in the art museum parking lot.

At 6:00AM, Tina, myself, and two other Skyline newbies (Mike Ostby and Phil Incikaya) were just about ready when the last of our group arrived. When I saw who it was, a little voice inside my head said, “Get in your car and drive home.” Between the two of them, Steve Irvin and Fernando Lara have done Skyline 350 times. Perhaps more impressively, they have each done it three times in one day – that’s 24,000 feet of elevation gain in one day.

I had gone “hiking” with Steve and Fernando once before and it was (1) by far the most elevation gain I have ever done in one day (10,000 vertical feet), and (2) possibly the most exhausted I have ever been. But there were two details that encouraged me. First, Steve and Fernando were looking ragged. Optimistically hoping that they were extremely hungover, I instead learned that they were recovering from a huge hike the day before, from which they returned well after dark. Second, they were accompanied by a delicate and unassuming lady named Patti Jones who looked to be another Skyline newbie. Surely she would be keeping Steve and Fernando to a civilized pace. But something in Patti’s appearance conflicted with my first impression. Her hair looked curiously windblown, as if she had been driving 90 mph in a car without a windshield. I would soon realize why.

We set foot on the trail at around 6:15AM. For the next minute or so, I watched Patti appear to get smaller and smaller until she disappeared over a hill high above. It was like watching a balloon rising into the heavens and then vanishing from sight. The next time I saw her, she was sitting patiently at a table in the upper tram station, still looking delicate and unassuming. She had been waiting there for nearly three hours and her hair looked even more windblown.

Mike down low.

Where's Tina?

I managed to keep up with Steve until about 6000 feet. My strategy was to slow him down with difficult questions that required him not just to think, but to stop and think. It worked. While Steve gave me a veritable guided tour of Skyline and the surrounding terrain, rich with fascinating stories and anecdotes, I conserved energy and mumbled “wow” or “really” as needed. One of his more interesting stories was about being helicoptered onto the ridge to install a few safety boxes for distressed hikers. Somewhere in the midst of that, Fernando (or something that looked like Fernando) suddenly flashed by, seemingly out of nowhere, and then disappeared around a bend as quickly as he had appeared. I didn’t see Fernando again until the upper tram station.

Steve in his element. And yes, we are going all the way to the highest ridge in the background.

Eventually, I had to stop for a rest and encouraged Steve to go ahead while I waited for Tina and Mike. Finally able to proceed at his own pace, Steve literally sprinted away. Like a changing of the guard, Tina promptly emerged from the dense chaparral and informed me that the pretty, wispy bushes surrounding us were called Ribbonwood. I’ve since learned that Ribbonwood, also called Redshank or Red Bush, can induce bowel movements and vomiting. That was one hazard I had not anticipated. After waiting a few minutes for Mike, Tina emitted an impressively loud yell that could have been heard for miles. To our amused surprise, Mike calmly replied “yes?” from about ten feet away.

Tina and Mike, with San Gorgonio in the background. No, we are not going that far.

Tina, Mike, and I continued on together for about twenty minutes, until we reached a place called flat rock. It was here that I again encountered Steve, who had found something that made him sit down – fresh baked cinnamon rolls. This obviously requires some explanation. Phil had never done Skyline, but he clearly wasn’t worried about it, because he carried a portable oven in his pack. By the time we caught up to Phil, five cinnamon rolls were baking in the oven. After smothering them with frosting, Phil distributed the cinnamon rolls to four people who had all, in a relatively short span of time, been reduced to staring wide-eyed at a small stove, around which they crouched, while licking their chops.

Phil and his cinnamon rolls. Steve appears to wonder why Phil hasn't served him one yet.

Above flat rock, we entered an expanse of thick Manzanita, through which the trail is carved. Beyond that, we finally entered the shade of conifers, and with that, snow and ice. Here, the trail makes a sharp right (northwest) turn and remains horizontal for roughly a third of a mile. This is the dreaded “traverse”. It is dreaded, because the traverse crosses at least one chute that can be treacherous for the poorly equipped when filled with ice or consolidated snow. An unarrested slip here could send one rocketing down the chute for several hundred vertical feet. However, this has been a light snow year, so the chute was only partially covered in snow. But there was enough snow and ice that some of us opted for friction underfoot. While Tina waited for me to adjust my Stabilicers, I encouraged her to go ahead. Her response was, “Nope, I’m waiting”. Considering all the people who have become lost, injured, rescued and worse in this section, I appreciated that.

Tina and me shortly before the traverse to Coffman's Crag, which is directly above us.

A view of San Gorgonio from the traverse.

After the traverse, which ends near Coffman’s Crag, we headed more or less straight uphill over consolidated snow for about 300 vertical feet. And then we were in the sun again. It took only a few more minutes of scrambling before we stepped over a fence and onto a deck at the upper tram station. It had taken Tina and her three newbies about seven hours to ascend 8000 vertical feet. Last weekend, she had done it two hours faster.

Mike on the home stretch after the traverse.

One of the great things about Skyline is that you don’t have to descend it – you can simply take the tram down. There are many amazing sights to behold on the ride down, but for me, the most amazing sight was Steve and Fernando standing still. Fernando compensated for his lack of action by talking a mile a minute. He spoke in hushed tones and whispers about secret routes up canyons and ridges, about hot springs and shortcuts, all the while pointing this way and that with a wild look in his eyes. It was as if he were revealing the location of buried treasure. In a way, he was.

Back at the parking lot, Mike and I joked about heading back up the trail for another Skyline. Steve and Fernando weren’t joking as they discussed their strategy for doing it four times in one day. At one point during the hike, Steve had stated earnestly that sometimes he feels like he could just keep doing it over and over and over again. I keep thinking about that.

By 4:15PM, Mt. San Jacinto was far behind me as I drove into Newport Beach. I felt very agitated. First, I had been suppressing the urge to pee and struggling to stay awake for thirty minutes. Second, I realized that I had overshot my exit by ten miles and needed to turn around. I don’t think I’m ready for a Skyline doubleheader just yet.

Our track, courtesy of Phil Incikaya. Skyline essentially follows the east ridge of Mt. San Jacinto from the desert floor to the upper tram station.

Goode Canyon, Mt. Baldy

2011-01-31T22:21:00.000-08:00

On January 30, we climbed the obscure Goode Canyon into a winter storm on Mt. Baldy. Although there were ten strong climbers in our group, only two managed to claw their way through the whipping winds and white-out conditions to the summit . . . and I was one of them! Actually, the other eight may have summited, but by the time I finally summited they were already descending, so I didn’t see them on top. Considering the poor visibility, any pictures they produce that purport to be taken on the summit should be suspect, because those pictures could have been taken much lower on the mountain (or on another mountain).

A controversial summit shot by Patrick Moran.

Joking aside, all ten of us summited and the weather was nasty. But first, I want to discuss an incident preceding the climb that will give me pause the next time I consider organizing a mountaineering trip on the internet.

A few weeks ago, a friend was fishing around to see if anyone was interested in a SoCal snow climb. Given that my last two snow climbs with him were memorable, I jumped at the chance. But I jumped a little too fast, because the next thing I knew, I had been reeled into organizing the outing.

My friend had good reason for delegating the organizational duties. Last year, he organized a private mountaineering excursion on an especially demanding route. Without his consent, one of the guests turned the outing into a public Meetup and invited who knows who many other people. It would be an understatement to say that the trip became a total fiasco.

Now fast forward to last week. Since most of my climbing friends are on Facebook, I decided to organize the trip with Facebook’s “event” feature. All went smoothly until about 48 hours before the outing, when people I didn’t know began RSVPing. I logged onto Facebook. To my surprise, about twenty strangers had suddenly and inexplicably appeared on the invite list. As I sat there trying to make sense of it, I thought: “Well, it could be worse – someone could have turned my trip into a public Meetup.” I chuckled at the ridiculous thought and felt a little better. I stopped chuckling shortly thereafter when I learned that someone I didn’t know had turned my trip into a public Meetup . . . .

After resolving the Facebook/Meetup debacle, I turned my attention to the weather forecast, which looked a little grim. However, as we gathered in the pre-dawn dark at Manker Flat, the twinkling stars seemed to bode well. At 6:15AM, Patrick, Dave, Matt, Brian, Phil, Tina, Miguel, Ryan, Norma, and I began marching toward Goode Canyon.

Goode Canyon, which starts at around 5500 feet on Mt. Baldy’s south side, could be described as the west fork of San Antonio Canyon (with the east fork leading up to Baldy Bowl). There is no trail in the canyon and it is apparently a popular destination for lost and missing climbers. Fortunately, two Goode Canyon veterans (Phil and Dave) were along, so I wasn’t worried about getting lost.

We accessed the bottom of Goode Canyon by descending a loose and rubbly wash for nearly 500 vertical feet. From the confluence, we scrambled up class 2 terrain for about 2000 vertical feet, at which point we encountered an important fork. Here we went right and negotiated about 700 vertical feet of loose, class 2-3 terrain.

Groveling.

The mist raced up the canyon in about two minutes, subsided for an hour, then covered us for good. The north side of Ontario Peak is in the background.

During the class 2-3 section, we were enveloped by a cold mist that had been pursuing us up the canyon. This section was made more engaging by the discovery of a ski boot. Miguel yanked the boot out from under a log, where it had been wedged firmly, while Matt inquired about its contents. The boot was the subject of much discussion and curiosity, and almost everyone took a photo of it. We all agreed that the last person to wear the boot had a very bad day.

Traversing.

At roughly 8200 feet, we landed on continuous, consolidated snow. Before beginning a long traverse of a 40 degree slope that was plastered with hard, slick snow, we strapped on crampons. At around 9000 feet, I encountered a major fork and waited for the others to come into sight behind me in the eerie yet somewhat exhilarating mist.

Norma and someone else approaching in the mist.

While waiting, I consulted the map and concluded that the right fork would take us to the saddle between West Baldy and Baldy, which is what we wanted. In hindsight, I was wrong. We went right, and after several hundred vertical feet of zigzagging up snow in low visibility, Ryan pointed out that we had intersected the Ski Hut Trail. The visibility was about 100 feet and nothing looked familiar, even though I have crossed that ground about ten times before.

The weather deteriorated as we plodded toward the summit. The wind became increasingly strong and at some point I realized it was snowing. After about ten minutes, enough things were bothering me that I had to stop. My glasses were completely fogged up, my head was cold, and I was hungry. Solving those problems made my hands very cold.

Nearing the summit, I heard what I assumed was my group over to the left, but looking in that direction exposed my face to sharp lashings by wind-whipped ice crystals. Plus, I could barely see them through the snow and mist. After a few minutes, Patrick staggered over and explained that they had already summited. Patrick offered to wait, but then decided to just climb back up to the summit with me. I appreciated that.

Stopping for a rest on the summit was out of the question. If the wind were any stronger, it would have been hard to remain upright. And the constant sting of snow and ice particles on exposed skin was painful. So after a perfunctory 360 degree turn on the summit, I headed down. The time was roughly 11:45.

A few steps below the summit, we met Cindy Abbott, who summited Mt. Everest last spring. She was accompanied by a few other Everest veterans, including Bill Burke, the oldest American to summit Mt. Everest. As we stood there chatting (er, yelling) amiably in a strong winter storm near the summit, it occurred to me that this is a fitting place to meet these people -- this is their natural habitat.

Norma Ryan (L) and Cindy Abbott (R) discuss alpine starts at the Ski Hut. "Always make sure your alarm is set to AM, not PM", advises Norma. [Photo courtesy of Norma Ryan]

The descent to the ski hut was rather miserable. I find descending hard snow in crampons to be tedious and eventually painful, and this was no exception. Although Phil was baking cinnamon rolls for everyone outside of the (locked) hut, I had to hurry. My mantra in the days leading up to the climb and throughout the climb was, “I have to be driving home by 1:30, so I may need to race ahead of everyone else.” Considering that, it is noteworthy that I summited last. That is a testament to the fitness of our group (or perhaps to my lack of fitness). Tina, for instance, had ascended 8000 vertical feet in under five hours the day before. Miguel had spent the previous day rock climbing and finished our climb by literally sprinting to the bottom with Matt. So much for these super fit, mountaineering nuts. Next time I’m inviting my out-of-shape music friends.

Norma and Brian descending the Ski Hut Trail. [Photo by Patrick Moran]

The numbers: ~4500 vertical feet, ~7.5 hours round trip.

Ontario Peak: Ollestad and Falling Rock Canyons

2011-01-23T20:36:00.000-08:00

On January 22, Patrick Moran and I climbed an obscure canyon on the northwest side of Ontario Peak to the summit. The unnamed canyon is between Cherry Canyon and Kerkhoff Canyon. I call it “Ollestad Canyon” to honor the sole survivor of a 1979 plane crash that occurred in its upper reaches.

At 5:15 AM, we left my car half a mile above Baldy Village and began negotiating the rather unpleasant, trail-less approach to the canyon by headlamp.

A memorable part of the approach.

Entering the canyon about two hours later, I was astonished to see how much less snow there was compared to last spring. Continuous snow coverage didn’t begin until the central rock buttress at around 6700 feet.

Mostly dry below the central buttress.

It begins . . .

At the bottom of an avalanche tongue (seen above) to the right of the central buttress, we donned helmets, crampons, and ice axes, and got quite chilly in the process. From there, we ascended roughly 2000 vertical feet of 35-45 degree consolidated snow, staying in the shade the whole time. We were constantly panning around for plane debris, but saw none.

In the thick of things.

At 11:00 AM, two tired climbers were relieved to set foot on the summit. We had ascended almost 4500 vertical feet (including ups and downs at the bottom) in under six hours.

Goode Canyon leading to West Baldy on the left. San Antonio Canyon leading to Baldy Bowl and Mt. Baldy on the right.

The South Couloir on Telegraph Peak.

In order to keep things exciting, we decided to descend a canyon neither of us had done in its entirety: Falling Rock Canyon. It took 3.5 hours to descend, with only two short breaks. The hard and icy snow in the canyon, which lasted until around 7000 feet, necessitated crampons. At around 6800 feet, we encountered an impressive waterfall that was skirted with some difficulty on the canyon’s west side. The ground on this detour was extremely loose, requiring one of us to wait while the other descended. At around 6300 feet, we encountered another waterfall that was easily circumvented on the west side. This waterfall is at the bottom of the scree slope that leads up to the Saddle between Sugarloaf Peak and Ontario Peak. The lower section of Falling Rock Canyon was completely snow-free and, as always, tedious. A third waterfall near the bottom of the canyon was skirted on the east side.

Patrick enthusiastic about (1) successfully circumventing the precipice, and (2) discovering this awesome waterfall (which is the upper waterfall).

The middle waterfall below Sugarloaf Saddle.

We saw nobody all day until we merged with the Icehouse Canyon Trail for the final half mile to Patrick’s car. Then we saw a lot of people. The usual battle to stay awake on the drive home was more gruesome than usual, because of doctor’s orders to avoid caffeine.

For my previous trip reports on Ollestad Canyon, see here and here.

First Snow Climb of the Season

2011-01-16T15:35:00.000-08:00

After sequestering myself for a few months to produce an album (yay!), I was eager to punch my ice axe and crampons into some southern California snow. What better place to kick off the snow climbing season than Baldy Bowl with a bunch of fun-loving friends?

(L-R) Ryan, Tina, and Patrick, with Baldy Bowl in the background.

At 5:45 AM on Saturday morning, six headlamps began a gradual ascent to the Ski Hut. Once there, headlamps and trekking poles were replaced with ice axes, crampons, and helmets. The helmets were especially important, as several golfball- and baseball-sized ice/rock projectiles whizzed by every minute in the bowl.

Patrick and Zach pretending to be ants.

Mike midway up the bowl.

The snow conditions in the bowl were about as good as they get -- mostly firm with a few soft patches here and there. Rime ice encrusted trees at the crest of the bowl added interest to the ascent. After plodding up the bowl for roughly one hour, three of us finished in an exhilaratingly wild and steep chute.

Ryan nearing the crest of the bowl.

The final slope leading to the summit was a fairyland of those aforementioned rime ice encrusted trees. On the summit, we gazed in the direction of Ryan's recent and spectacular route on the north face of West Baldy, pointed north to the snowy Sierras, and tried to stay vertical in the wind.

Tina on the final summit slope.

Ryan regaling Zach and Patrick with tales of his recent north face ascent.

The Sierras in the distance.

For those who enjoy glissading in perfect conditions, the descent to the hut took about fifteen minutes. There we snacked and watched a long line of climbers all ascending the same chute in the bowl.

The Wild Groove

2010-10-25T20:30:00.000-07:00

I've spent a lot of time over the past six months working on a pop rock song called The Wild Groove. The lyrics are inspired by my stint as a climbing bum in the California Sierras, but are written for a broader audience. Have a listen to The Wild Groove and let me know what you think!

Mt. Baldy, South Ridge

2010-10-25T10:38:00.000-07:00

The South Ridge of Mt. Baldy disappearing into mist in the frontal background.

The South Ridge of Mt. Baldy begins at the confluence of Goode Canyon and San Antonio Canyon, and rises 4,500 vertical feet to the summit of Mt. Baldy (10,064 feet). From 8,800 feet to the summit, the ridge is worn by the popular Ski Hut Trail. But below that point is 3,200 vertical feet of pristine ridgeline.

The ridge is rarely climbed in its entirety for good reason: (1) the descent into San Antonio Canyon is hazardous; (2) gaining the ridge requires a few hundred vertical feet of loose rock; and (3) the bottom of the ridge is covered in dense brush.

My first climb of the South Ridge last autumn did not start off well: while descending the steep slope into San Antonio Canyon, I took a fast and jarring 20-foot slide on hard dirt. Last week, when Patrick and I were descending into the canyon at dawn, he participated in a boulder avalanche that necessitated an immediate trip to the emergency room. This past Saturday, Dave and I escaped San Antonio Canyon without injury, though Dave did take a slip in the canyon which nearly resulted in the loss of his headlamp.

From the floor of San Antonio Canyon behind Snow Crest Lodge in Manker Flat, we scrambled up crumbly class 2-3 rock for a few hundred vertical feet to the ridge. After that, we engaged in a solid hour of the worst bushwhacking I have ever encountered in the San Gabriel Mountains, and I have done my fair share. [I thought it was my worst bushwhacking experience in California, until I remembered thrashing through head-high poison oak in the Box Springs range near Riverside.]

Dave in the thick of things near the bottom of the ridge.

Scuffed and drenched from our battle with the thick, wet brush, we were then treated to over 2,000 vertical feet of very pleasant, untrammeled, class 2 ridge climbing. At 8,800 feet, we intersected the Ski Hut Trail, which we followed to the top. We descended Register Ridge, which now has a well-worn herd path along most of its length. It took us five hours to ascend and two hours to descend.

A wet Dave happy to be above the brush.

Ontario Peak from the South Ridge of Mt. Baldy.

The snow-covered summit of San Gorgonio on the left and a partially eaten banana on the right.

Looking up at Register Ridge.

Dave's photos are here.

Ontario Peak, Falling Fir Ridge

2010-10-11T21:50:00.000-07:00

On October 9, I climbed my first mountain in over four months (thanks primarily to injuring my back and being distracted with music). It was great to get back to the Cucamonga Wilderness, especially with some early season snow on the ground.

Snow on the north side of Ontario Peak

Patrick Moran and I opted for an obscure ridge on Ontario Peak -- namely, Falling Fir Ridge (which I have written about here and here). The ridge rises over 3,000 vertical feet between Fir Draw and Falling Rock Canyon, and involves some loose class 3 scrambling. We hiked into the aptly named Icehouse Canyon at around 6:30 AM and were on the summit of Peak 8688 (a subsidiary peak of Ontario Peak) before 10:00. We then enjoyed a leisurely stroll down the trail.

Patrick on Falling Fir Ridge, with Sugarloaf Peak in the background. Note the shady character in the foreground.

Patrick on the summit of Peak 8688 with Baldy Bowl in the background. Patrick's fancy digital camera is somewhere near the bottom of the bowl.

Me on the summit of Peak 8688, with the true summit of Ontario Peak in the background. Patrick took this photo on my camera, because his camera is somewhere near the bottom of Baldy Bowl.

Patrick cooling off.

A trail-side attraction in Icehouse Canyon

4 months since last post . . .

2010-09-24T13:11:00.000-07:00

It's been four months since my last post. To my surprise, there have been 2,600 page views in that time. Anyway, I feel that my loyal readers (or reader) deserve an explanation. First, we moved in July on the cheap. Believe it or not, that wasted about one month. Second, at the end of the big moving day, I re-injured my lower back. I could barely walk for two days and hobbled around the house with trekking poles for another week. It took about two months for my lower back to heal (I hope it's back to normal now). So thanks to the move and the back injury, mountaineering was out of the question from about mid-June to mid-September. Third, I am pouring most of my energy now into songwriting, recording, and performing. My brand of rock music can be heard on SamPageMusic.com.

I'm looking forward to getting back to the SoCal mountains in the next few weeks.

Mt. Baldy, Northeast Face

2010-05-26T10:39:00.000-07:00

After setting out to climb the northeast face of Mt. Baldy (10,064 feet) last week, but inadvertently climbing the north face of Mt. Harwood instead, I was eager to settle unfinished business. So at 5:20 yesterday morning, Ryan Dacey and I starting hiking west up the drainage from Stockton Flats.

Though it is only two miles from Stockton Flats (~6,000 feet) to the base of Baldy's northeast face (~8,000 feet), it took us over three hours to cover that distance. The first mile is easy walking, but the second mile passes through a narrow canyon that is littered with avalanche debris and flanked by steep, loose slopes.

Ryan negotiating typical terrain in the upper half of the drainage.

Approaching Mt. Baldy's northeast face.

Our route up the northeast face followed a couloir system for roughly 2,000 vertical feet. The angle averaged about 35 degrees, with one section in the middle that approached 50 degrees. We were on consolidated snow the entire time.

Ryan near the summit.

At 11:00AM, we arrived on the summit. Moments later, several hikers appeared, and we were pleased to say that we had ascended the obscure northeast face. Two of the hikers said that a friend had attempted the northeast face last week with two guys. We were also pleased to say that those two guys were us.

Ty Sutherland, Greg Lucker, and Ryan Dacey (L-R) on top.

The Other Side of Mt. Baldy

2010-05-21T22:18:00.000-07:00

If you look closely, you can see our tracks.

Now that the south-facing Baldy Bowl had melted out, it was a good time to go in search of snow on the northeast face of Mt. Baldy. The fact that I could find no information about climbs there enhanced the appeal. Perhaps one explanation for the lack of information is the approach, which involves several miles of rough dirt road followed by two miles of groveling up a trailless drainage. Perhaps there are other explanations. Anyway, I wanted to find out, and so did Ryan Dacey and Patrick Moran.

A little before dawn on Thursday, a billowing cloud of dust formed behind an SUV that was barreling toward Stockton Flat (~6,000 feet). Inside the vehicle, two passengers bounced around helplessly while Patrick Moran attempted to break the sound barrier.

At around 5:15AM, the three of us started walking due west up the drainage toward the northeast face of Mt. Baldy. The first mile was relatively easy walking over rocks in and around the gradually narrowing streambed. Once the canyon narrowed, in places to the width of the briskly flowing creek, we were treated to half a mile of slow and tedious groveling. Through several stretches we were forced to scramble on steep dirt and loose rock above the creek. On one memorable occasion, I found myself on a steep, loose slope about 100 feet high. Moderately exposed third class scrambling led to a steep, dirty chute. From a relaxed position upstream, Ryan and Patrick enjoyed watching the substantial dust cloud generated from my barely controlled slide down the chute.

Me moments before creating a large dust cloud.
[Photo by Patrick Moran]

Roughly two hours after leaving the car, we arrived at what was unquestioningly the base of Baldy's northeast face. Stopping for a well-deserved rest on the snow tongue at ~7,250 feet, we donned crampons, ice axes, and helmets while scoping out the route above. Unbeknownst to us, we were below the easternmost couloir on Mt. Harwood's north face. The bottom of Baldy's northeast face was a half mile further upstream.

The first 800 vertical feet involved continuous snow climbing up to 45 degrees, including 200 vertical feet through a narrow, shady chute bounded by rock buttresses. At the top of the chute, the couloir was split by a short cliff. My intuition was to continue up snow on the left, but Ryan's was to cross a rib on the right and traverse over a hundred feet. Ryan was right. My way would have taken us onto the northeast ridge of Mt. Harwood. Traversing over the chute, I slipped on the slushy snow and quickly self-arrested with my ice axe. With the steep, shady, chute looming below, an unarrested fall there could have been bad.

Patrick in the first chute.

Ryan leading the way on the traverse.

Joining Ryan and Patrick in the couloir proper, we saw an uninterrupted expanse of snow extending 1500 vertical feet to the summit. By now, it was quite warm and the snow was slushy. For the next two hours, we labored up the slope, taking multiple breaks.

Finally, sometime after 10:00AM, I approached the headwall, where the angle steepened to around 60 degrees. As I made the final moves in thankfully consolidated snow, I eagerly anticipated surprising whoever was on the summit of Mt. Baldy. But to my disappointment, when I peered over the crest, nobody was there. And oddly, the lower West Baldy looked considerably higher. Suddenly, I realized that I was on the summit of Mt. Harwood (9,552 feet), not Mt. Baldy. Nonetheless, we had just completed a relatively remote 2,200+ foot snow climb in mid-May in southern California.

Patrick climbing the headwall.

Ryan climbing the headwall.

[Thanks to Sean Neilson and John Martines for image editing.]

At around 11:15AM, we began descending Mt. Harwood's northeast ridge, which Ryan had previously ascended. The ridge was a moderately unpleasant combination of soft snow and loose blocks. At around 8,000 feet, with rocks sprinkling down from above, I took two short, albeit fast and jarring, slides on the snow. Frustrated, I retrieved my ice axe and decided to glissade straight down to the creek, nearly 1,000 vertical feet below. Contrary to Ryan's repeated preference to stick together, I set off alone.

What is this? Moments after seeing it, I made a stupid decision to set off alone down an unknown gully.

After cruising down on perfect snow to within 100 vertical feet of the creek, the snow ended in a debris-choked gully. "No problem", I thought. "I'll just traverse around onto easier ground". Unbeknownst to me, I was traversing into what the map now reveals to be the most precipitous terrain in the entire drainage. In fact, it is the only section in the drainage where the contour lines are so close together that they form a solid band of color.

Gaining the ridge, I was alarmed to find steep and complex ground on the other side. Surveying the terrain, I saw what looked like a viable descending traverse. After about twenty feet of somewhat stressful third class scrambling on loose, dirty rock, I dropped onto a bench and peered down. To my dismay, I was on the edge of a cliff. Starting to feel nervous, I took a break and strapped on my helmet. Though it looked like a narrow ledge system might lead around the corner to a snowfield, the exposure was extreme. As much as I didn't want to reascend an indeterminate distance, it was the only safe option. So that's what I did.

After climbing about 100 vertical feet of loose third class rock and dirt, I gained the next ridge over. Descending into that gully, I was disappointed to discover that it funneled into a cliff. So I scrambled up to the next ridge only to repeat the exercise a few more times. Eventually, a steep, muddy gully provided access to the creek. After one last bit of serious groveling in the canyon, Ryan and Patrick came into view. An uneventful stroll on sore feet got us back to the car a little after 1:30PM.

The numbers: 3,500 feet of net elevation gain, including 2,200+ feet of continuous snow climbing in the couloir. ~5.5 hours up, ~2.5 hours down.

Our route of ascent is marked in red.

Jepson Peak, North Couloir

2010-05-17T22:56:00.000-07:00

At 11,205 feet, Jepson Peak is the second highest peak in southern California. It is higher than Mt. Baldy and Mt. San Jacinto, two of the big three regional monarchs. However, it is nearly 300 feet lower than neighboring Mt. San Gorgonio, so it sits in relative obscurity. That said, the bowls on the north side of Jepson Peak provide some of the most impressive alpine terrain south of the Sierras.

Jepson Peak and Jepson Bowl. The couloir I climbed is immediately right of the summit.

I hesitate to admit this, but I dread picking up permits from the Mill Creek Ranger Station alone in the pre-dawn dark. Isolated on the outskirts of Mentone, it seems like the kind of place where one could get ambushed. Nearing the station, I was mentally preparing for a dash to and from the permit kiosk, when I saw something that only heightened my sense of dread. Walking down the middle of the undivided road was a ghost. Actually, it was a person completely covered in a white sheet. Bewildered, but also concerned for the safety of the specter, I came to a stop in the road. The person, whose face was covered by the sheet, walked right past and continued along the median, disappearing in the darkness behind my car. I briefly considered asking if the person needed help, but thought that the person might be crazy, so I drove on. Moments later, I apprehensively pulled into the ranger station parking lot and parked as close as possible to the permit kiosk.

After retrieving my permit while watching out for a maniac in a ghost costume, I drove to the South Fork Trailhead parking lot (~6,800 feet), arriving at around 4:30 AM. There I participated in another exercise that I dread: making final preparations alone in the car in the pre-dawn dark with the interior light on. Under such circumstances, I can see nothing outside of the car, but anyone outside can see everything inside of the car. By 4:50 AM, I was hiking by headlamp up the South Fork Trail. Incidentally, hiking alone by headlamp is also something I take little pleasure in, but it was the only way I could climb Jepson Peak and be home in time for a 5:00 dinner date in San Clemente.

Avalanche debris above the South Fork Trail at ~7,800 feet. The San Gorgonio Wilderness Association Trail Crew cleared the trail by hand on May 8.

Sarcodes sanguinea

The trail was mostly covered in snow from about 8,000 feet. At the junction of the Dry Lake and Dollar Lake trails, I replaced my light hiking shoes with heavy mountaineering boots and cached the shoes in a tree well. Then, with compass in hand, I stepped off the trail and began heading south through South Fork Meadows, which is also evocatively called the Valley of the Thousand Springs. Over an hour later, somewhere around 9,500 feet, I was surprised to find a series of faded, orange, triangular trail markers on trees. They were spaced 50-100 feet apart and led into Jepson Bowl, which, until now, had been obscured from view.

The couloir I planned to climb extended all the way to the crest of Jepson Bowl, terminating just below the summit. Involving over 1000 vertical feet of 40+ degree snow, the couloir culminated in a steep headwall. Though the headwall was only about 45 degrees on the right, I went straight up, finishing on an exhilarating, but short, section of 60-70 degree snow.

Looking up the couloir

The top of the couloir

The snow in the couloir was in perfect condition. I was equipped with crampons, an ice axe, and a helmet, and was glad to have them. During my climb, several projectiles up to the size of a baseball whizzed past.

From the top of the couloir, I walked for about one minute to the summit. It was 9:40 AM. After lounging around for half an hour, I walked back down to the top of the couloir, this time without crampons. Sitting on the lip of the couloir, I gripped my ice axe firmly and braced for action. Then I pushed off. In five minutes, I glissaded what had taken an hour to ascend. The price of such convenience: several tears in my pants. From there, the descent was a combination of perfect snow and easy trail. At 12:30 PM, I was drinking warm water in the car and discovering that last week's spilled coffee had ruined one of my favorite CDs.

At the McDonald's in Mentone, I was strangely clumsy. Normally deft with plastic straws, I fumbled with the task, twice losing hold of the straw as it spun off to the side. Worse, on the way to retrieve my food, I collided spastically with a highchair to the uproarious amusement of some slackers slacking nearby. I was glad to leave. But there was one more humiliating consequence of my McDonald's meal about an hour later: a desperate pee on the side of the highway as scores of cars roared by.

Photo by Jeff Scofield

Baldy Bowl: One Last Time

2010-05-08T21:35:00.000-07:00

Moments after a sharp switchback overturned my coffee this morning, spilling the contents onto CDs, maps, batteries, and other stuff, I arrived at Manker Flat. It was 3:45AM. Shortly thereafter, a lone headlamp began illuminating the path to the ski hut.

As I was swapping light trail shoes for mountaineering boots at the ski hut, dawn revealed the bowl to be much drier than expected. But there was a single, nearly continuous finger of snow that extended to the crest. Was it the middle finger? I decided to find out.

With the exception of two short stretches of scree, I was able to follow consolidated snow all the way to the rim of the bowl, finishing in a 45+ degree chute. From there, hard snow led to the windy summit, which I reached at 7:30AM.

The final chute to the rim of the bowl.

The north side of Ontario Peak from Mt. Baldy summit.

I descended consolidated snow in the east bowl for about 1000 vertical feet, and then scree-skied the remaining distance to the hut. At 9:30AM, 5.5 hours after departing, I was wiping coffee from various things in my car and singing a ridiculous song that had been running through my head all morning.

Pigs at the Trough: A Retrospective on the Grand Teton Climbers' Ranch

2010-05-01T11:18:00.000-07:00

The Tetons. Photo by Sean Neilson.

As summer approaches, climbers with pending free time might consider volunteering for Work Week at the Grand Teton Climbers' Ranch from June 7-11. "Work week is an opportunity for volunteers to help prepare the Ranch for opening in exchange for free lodging during the month of June."

The Ranch, which is operated by the American Alpine Club, provides rustic accommodations at the base of the Tetons in Wyoming. The ranch consists of about a dozen communal cabins, an indoor library/lounge, and a large pavilion for cooking and socializing. The ranch is only open from early June to mid-September, and is inhabited mainly by mountaineers who stay for as little as one night or as long as three months. It is a great place to meet other climbers, swap information, and plan spine-tingling climbs.

Some years ago, I participated in Work Week and then base camped at the Ranch for the rest of the summer. Though I had a fantastic time mountaineering in the Tetons, those lofty spires and my adventures thereabouts are not the subject of this article. Rather, what I want to focus on are the jaw-dropping eating habits of climbers at the Ranch. To put it bluntly, they eat like pigs.

Allow me to begin the rogues gallery tour with a wildly disheveled, middle-aged mountain man I'll call "Compost Heap". Why I call him Compost Heap will become clear later. Let me first paint a vivid portrait of his appearance. I think this can best be accomplished by imagining one of those illustrations that charts the evolutionary progression of man from a crouched chimpanzee-like creature, through various stages (each less hairy and more erect than the last), to the clean-shaven office schlep of modernity. With that picture firmly in mind, direct your attention to the creatures in the middle of that progression. That is where you will find Compost Heap. Now that you know more or less what he looks like, I'll briefly describe his eating habits, which will make it clear why I call him Compost Heap. The reader will also find that his eating habits correspond to his place on the evolutionary scale. Getting to the point now, what made Compost Heap stand out was that he ate all of the vegetable parts that others threw away (or tried to throw away). He chomped on rejected broccoli and cauliflower stocks and munched the outermost leaves of lettuce and cabbage. He savored carrot and celery ends and chewed onion skins and potato peels with a flourish. And he ate them all raw, and sometimes right out of the garbage. To the incredulous stares of his unwitting patrons and other spectators, he claimed that the vegetable parts they profligately discarded contained the highest concentrations of nutrients, or some such nonsense.

Unlike Compost Heap, the climber I will call "The Poet" was more dignified. He was well-groomed and eloquent, even philosophical. However, he was unable to keep up appearances, and around meal time he regressed, like Compost Heap, into savagery. For instance, during casual breakfast conversation one fine morning, The Poet suddenly cried "wait!" as someone deposited a burnt pancake into the garbage. He lunged at the garbage can, plunged his hand through the small swivel door at the top, and began fishing around inside. After a few tense seconds of looking back and forth out into space at nothing in particular (as people do when they are searching with their hands for something they cannot see), he pulled out the pancake. Appearing more annoyed than triumphant, he mumbled something about it being "a perfectly good pancake". In fairness to The Poet, it was only black on one side. Then, after a final cursory inspection, he ate it. It had all happened too fast. The reader must understand that the garbage can was completely covered and the contents not visible, meaning that The Poet had little idea, beyond what he had felt with his groping hand, what the pancake had contacted inside. After this incident, I was not surprised to see The Poet eating meals of plain white rice directly out of plastic grocery bags.

There are those who march to the beat of a different drummer, but they don't last. Take "Can Man". Can Man did not eat out of the kind of can into which Compost Heap and The Poet intrepidly ventured. Quite simply, Can Man only ate food from factory-sealed cans. Thus, there would be no symbiotic relationship between Can Man and Compost Heap, and you can forget about grabbing a burger or pizza with him after a climb. In regard to climbing, his backpack must have weighed a ton, which is perhaps why he disappeared faster than you can say, "Star Kist and Campbell's and Chef Boyardee, the food never spoils was his repartee."

Eye-opening eating displays were not confined to the Ranch. Some of the worst displays occurred at the notorious Dornan's All-U-Can-Eat Barbecue in the nearby village of Moose. Dornan's served only a few items, each simmering away in enormous black cauldrons that were lined up on, yes, a trough. The customer ladled barbecued beef and beans onto his plate, and returned as many times as he liked (or dared). A group of us returned too many times one gorgeous evening and spent the next few hours back at the Ranch concentrating on one thing: keeping it all down. Good training for high-altitude climbing, perhaps. As we sat around groaning and trying not to laugh, Dean (I will use his name since he deserves some credit, as the reader will soon discover) suddenly looked as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from him. He had at that instant made a bold decision that, in fact, promised to do just that. Dean rose slowly with a solemn air of resignation. He walked deliberately, though not hurriedly, across the creaking floor boards of the cabin, out onto the porch, down the front steps, and into the brush behind the cabin. The sound of his footsteps grew faint.

As Dean gagged himself and threw up violently out back, making quite a lot of horrible noise in the process, I grimly contemplated an aphorism by John Stuart Mill to the effect that it is better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a pig satisfied. On that gluttonous night, we were not even pigs satisfied.

Sean Neilson (L) and Sam Page (R) on the summit of the Grand Teton in 1996.

Folly Peak: NW Face Reconnaissance

2010-04-26T00:05:00.000-07:00

The Snow Creek route on the north side of Mt. San Jacinto is well-known. It follows the East Fork of Snow Creek for nearly 10,000 vertical feet to the summit of San Jacinto Peak (10,804 feet). The climbing season for the route is mid-winter to mid-spring when the snow-filled couloirs provide over 5,000 vertical feet of continuous snow climbing. Although the normal route involves trespassing on Desert Water Agency property, there is no lack of information about the route on the internet. Given the popularity of the route, it is curious that there is, as far as I can tell, no information about climbing the equally impressive couloirs on the neighboring northwest side of Folly Peak (10,480 feet).

San Jacinto Peak and the East Fork of Snow Creek on the left. Folly Peak (NW side) and the West Fork of Snow Creek on the right. Photo by Norma Ryan.

The northwest side of Folly Peak drains into the East Branch of the West Fork of Snow Creek. It appears to me that straightforward snow climbing would begin at around 5,000 feet in season. But the approach looks tricky. The lower section of the West Fork crosses DWA property. However, the Pacific Crest Trail skirts around the property and reaches 3,600 feet before veering off in the wrong direction. From maps and satellite imagery, the terrain from 3,600 to 5,000 feet looks complex, brushy, and precipitous, which could explain why I haven't found a single recorded ascent of Folly's NW side. It was time to see for myself.

At 5:45AM on Saturday, I pulled into the PCT parking area near Snow Creek Village. Considering the DWA sting operation exactly two weeks prior, I was not surprised that my car was the only one there. Within a few minutes, a vehicle emerged from DWA property and made two passes. The driver, who shot me an expressionless glance, was wearing a green camouflage jacket, which was totally ineffective in his white truck.

In between chugs of water in the car, I made sure to pocket my precious wilderness permit. On Tuesday, I faxed a permit request, not entirely confident that I would get a response. To my astonishment, a wilderness permit arrived in the mail the next day.

The East Fork of Snow Creek leads up to San Jacinto Peak and the NE side of Folly Peak. The West Fork of Snow Creek goes off to the right.

The East Fork of Snow Creek is left of the boulder.

Mt. San Gorgonio from the PCT.

For a leisurely 3.5 hours, I followed the PCT from 1,200 feet to a hairpin turn at 3,600 feet. The trail was narrow and overgrown in places and seemed to go far out of the way. While I labored up the trail listening to the constant buzz of bees, I envisioned plopping down at the aforementioned hairpin turn for a relaxing rest. Upon reaching it, I was delighted to see a welcoming flat rock that offered a commanding view of the West Fork of Snow Creek. It was the perfect place to rest. But the instant I touched the rock, the bees attacked. After one stung my shoulder, I ran up the trail with others in hot pursuit. After about 100 feet, they lost interest and I stopped. There I concluded wrongly that since one bee had already stung me, it was safe to return. Once again, as soon as I touched the rock, a bee stung me, this time in the chest.

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

Fed up with the bees at the hairpin turn, I scrambled a short distance uphill in search of a better viewing spot. That was as far as I got. My initial plan was to climb to the top of the ridge (4,630 feet) that splits the West and East Branches of the West Fork of Snow Creek. From there, I hoped to scout out the rest of the approach. But I was out of time, and between me and Peak 4630 lay nearly one mile of trail-less, densely vegetated terrain.

The NW side of Folly Peak.

Back at Falls Creek Road, I enjoyed some refreshingly cold water at the DWA drinking fountain. Moments later, a security guard drove up and stopped. He looked like a bad guy in one of Clint Eastwood's western films. He chewed on an unidentifiable object and got right to the point: "You know you're not allowed on the property up there." After responding affirmatively, I told him about being attacked by bees on the PCT. Satisfied with another successful sting operation, he drove off.

Smokin' the Bowl

2010-04-18T11:22:00.000-07:00

The snow climbing in southern California has been fantastic this winter and spring. However, I was unable to get out last weekend and my only window of time this weekend was before 11:00AM on Saturday. Consequently, I awoke at 2:00AM on Saturday and was hiking toward Baldy Bowl at 4:00AM. Patrick Moran was the only one crazy enough to join me.

On our way up to the ski hut, we first lost the summer trail and then the winter trail. Pausing at one point to pan around in the dark with our headlamps, we were surprised to see the ski hut fifteen feet to our right. It was strange that we had almost passed the ski hut in the dark. It was 5:15AM.

After equipping ourselves with crampons and ice axes, we began crunching up the bowl on hard, icy snow that was perfect for cramponning. It was just light enough to climb without headlamps. Our route ascended the right side of the bowl and finished on an exhilarating 50+ degree pitch. While I was in the midst of the final section, I hollered down to Patrick to photograph me. As I was imagining myself in the photo frontpointing boldly toward the lip of the bowl at sunrise, Patrick was watching his digital camera slide rapidly down the bowl until it disappeared from sight. So you will just have to use your imagination too.

We went straight up to the rocks and veered left.

Note the recent rock slide to the left of Patrick.

Looking down at our route from the lip of the bowl.

Patrick nearing the top of the chute.

Snow lingering on northern aspects.

Patrick on the summit of Mt. Baldy pointing out our obscure route on Ontario Peak.

At 7:15AM, we stepped onto the summit and celebrated by swordfighting with our ice axes. We then fruitlessly scanned Iron Mountain and San Antonio Ridge for our friend Zach, who was soloing the dreaded and much-maligned ridge that entails 10,000 feet of elevation gain. After twenty minutes on top, we descended to the ski hut on snow that was too steep and icy for much glissading. One of my two glissades involved immediate and alarming acceleration followed by a prompt self-arrest.

Below the ski hut, we passed scores of hikers, including Jackalopes, who is a follower of this blog! Jackalopes was accompanied by Kurt Wedberg. During our trailside conversation, I learned that although Kurt has climbed Mt. Everest twice, he has never climbed Mt. San Gorgonio. Now, I have climbed Mt. San Gorgonio four times. Does that mean I have climbed Mt. Everest six times? I hope not, because my wife would kill me.

Continuing down the trail, we opted for the shortcut couloir which leads directly to San Antonio Falls. To my surprise, there was almost as much snow in the couloir as there was a month ago. With the exception of 100 feet of scrambling in the middle, we boot-skied all the way down. By 10:00AM, I was swallowing a Vivarin in the parking lot and inspecting blistered heels. Notwithstanding the several police cars that roared by on Mt. Baldy Road, the drive back to the OC was uneventful.

Mt. Shasta Fatality

2010-04-14T23:50:00.000-07:00

On March 28, a 26-year old climber, Tom Bennett, died after spending the night near the summit of Mt. Shasta (14,162 feet). The previous day, Tom and his climbing partner had reached the summit and dug a snow cave to escape strong winds. The following morning, Tom's eyesight and balance suddenly and rapidly deteriorated. After descending a short distance, Tom collapsed and was presumed dead. Tom's partner secured him in another snow cave and reached civilization two days later. The cause of death has yet to be determined. For more details, see The Sacramento Bee, The San Francisco Chronicle, or SummitPost.

On a personal note, my only experience on Mt. Shasta almost ended similarly. One of my climbing partners nearly had her head smashed by a basketball-sized rock that careened down from the summit. At the last instant, she whipped her head back and raised her hand. The rock broke her hand, resulting in a helicopter rescue.

Snow Creek: 10,000 Vertical Feet in a Day

2010-04-03T23:59:00.000-07:00

Snow Creek is a notorious mountaineering route on Mt. San Jacinto (10,804 feet) in southern California. It is notorious for a few reasons. First, it involves about 10,000 feet of elevation gain. Second, in big snow years, like this one, it provides around 6,000 vertical feet of continuous, moderately steep snow climbing. Third, the normal beginning to the route crosses land owned by the Desert Water Agency and can involve a show-stopping encounter with the vigilant DWA caretaker. There is, however, an alternate start that skirts around the one square mile (grid 33) owned by the DWA. A call to the DWA confirmed that (1) they would not grant passage through their sacred square, but (2) their property rights do not extend beyond it. Thus, by securing a San Jacinto Wilderness permit and avoiding the DWA property, one can ascend Snow Creek with a clean conscience.

My alarm sounded this morning at 1:30AM. By 2:00AM, I was driving toward Palm Springs, drinking strong coffee and listening to The Way of the World by Ron Suskind. Shortly after 4:00AM, seven of us were walking briskly toward Mt. San Jacinto under the light of the moon.

Accessing the snow tongue involved about 4,000 vertical feet of cross-country travel, which included boulder hopping, fording a creek in the dark, thrashing through thick brush, and ascending steep, loose dirt. Twice I fell flat on my back in the brush with my head angled downhill. And despite 10-year old boots, blisters formed under extra large band-aids on both heels. After a particularly nasty section – which combined thick brush, steep dirt, and loose rocks – we crested onto a ridge just above Snow Creek and beheld the snow tongue. It was roughly 9:00AM.

With water bottles full and crampons afoot, we began crunching up the snow at around 5,000 feet. The snow was hard and icy, as it would be for the duration of the ascent. After a few hundred vertical feet, we reached what is usually the crux of the route: the chockstone. In drier years, surmounting the massive boulder suspended between canyon walls requires a pitch of 5th class climbing or a circuitous 3rd-4th class traverse. But this time, the boulder was just a large lump under a thankfully thick blanket of snow.

The buried chockstone is just above the climbers.

Above the chockstone, the angle steepened to around 40 degrees and remained that way for 5,000+ vertical feet. For the next five hours, I zigzagged upward, trying to move efficiently and concentrate on breathing. Blistered heels required side-stepping the entire way. Lagging behind the others, I missed two of the three group rest stops in order to keep up.

Climbing into a cooling wind at around 8,300 feet.

I really faded in the final 1,000 vertical feet and had to pause for several seconds at the end of every zig and zag. The zigzags became shorter and shorter as the chute narrowed and steepened near the top. From my private hell in the midst of the final chute, I watched enviously as one after another of my companions topped out far above and turned to holler encouraging words and woops. Complicating matters for me was a cough that worsened as I ascended, reducing my voice to a croak.

Getting steeper at around 10,000 feet.

Eventually, I reached the rocky headwall at the top of the chute. There I paused to watch a companion scramble over intermittent rocks up and left of me. Another companion yelled down that I should try the steeper section to the right leading directly to the summit. Though exhausted, I followed his suggestion. Traversing a few feet to the right, I ascended 50+ degree snow for roughly 30 vertical feet to some steep rocks. Surmounting this final ten feet of third class rock in my crampons was the hardest climbing of the day. It seemed like a fitting end to a marathon climb. Amid clicking cameras and helpful suggestions about dry-tooling, I grunted, lunged memorably, hauled myself over, and walked the final few feet to the summit. The time was roughly 3:40. Thinking it was much later, I was pleasantly surprised. It took me 11.5 hours to ascend the 10,000 vertical feet.

That's me climbing the final steep pitch directly to the summit.

Settling down for a much-needed break to hydrate, eat, and take Ibuprofen, I was called urgently for a group summit shot. That's when I realized there would be no much-needed break, because some of the others had been waiting in the freezing wind for nearly an hour.

One great thing about Mt. San Jacinto is the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway that runs from the desert floor to 8,400 feet. Thanks to this, all we had to do was descend 2,400 feet over roughly three miles to the tram station. I was anticipating an easy, enjoyable descent, during which time we would reminisce about the climb and chat amiably. But this was not to be. My left big toe pulsed painfully with every step. In order to alleviate the pain, I decided to remove my crampons, which the others had done earlier. Due to a complicated strap system that was further complicated by frozen buckles, this took ten minutes. During this time, I fell far behind the others. Wandering alone for a while in a world of pain and exhaustion, I came upon one of my companions, who had run back to find me. It's a good thing he did, for although I had a map and compass and was following a boot path in the snow, I wasn't familiar with the route to the tram station. His pleasant banter also lifted my sagging morale.

2.5 miserable hours after leaving the summit, I arrived at the tram station. There I confronted the last obstacle: the paved, winding walkway that gradually ascends to the station. While people laughed and ran by in the spring of their youth, I inched upward with the slow, agonizing steps of a centenarian, pausing more than once to rest. That said, it is amazing what thirty minutes of sitting, 400 milligrams of Ibuprofen, a bottle of caffeinated soda, and a rapid, effortless descent of several thousand vertical feet can do to one's spirits.

After being entertained by upbeat flamenco music on the tram's airwaves while admiring massive canyon walls, we landed at the lower tram station, but not before being informed that the music we just heard was available for purchase at the gift shop. From the tram station, taxis took us back to our cars, where we bid farewell as night fell. At 10:00PM, 20 hours after leaving, I was home again.

Baldy Bowl

2010-03-25T17:08:00.000-07:00

I told my wife I could be back in the OC by around noon. Thus it was that my alarm sounded at 3:00 this morning. By 5:15 AM, I was walking toward the ski hut in pitch black, guided by my headlamp. Several other hikers started up a minute later, quickening my pace.

More than half of the way to the ski hut was on snow, which was hard and icy. Reaching the ski hut shortly after dawn, I put on my helmet, swapped trekking poles for an ice axe, and strapped on crampons. Anticipating hard, moderately steep snow, I brought my old steel crampons instead of my new, lighter aluminum crampons. Last week on Ontario Peak, the aluminum crampons performed poorly on icy, 40+ degree snow.

Looking up at my route.

Just as the sunlight was illuminating the crest of the bowl, I began crunching upward. It was immediately apparent how much more traction is provided by the steel crampons. My route zigzagged up to a chute terminating near the highpoint of the bowl. After a golfball-sized rock careened off my boot, I kept a wary eye on the cliffs above and forced a steady pace.

Looking down at the route behind my right shoulder.

Above the bowl, and especially on the summit, the wind was strong, relentless, and cold. Five minutes of stumbling around on the summit was followed by a hasty retreat to a warm patch of scree out of the wind. I checked the time: 8:55AM. There I unstrapped crampons and prepared for glissading.

Ontario Peak

The sun had yet to soften the snow, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I sat down and let myself slide. I glissaded for over 1000 vertical feet and learned a few things about glissading on 30-40 degree, hard, icy snow. First, it is strenuous. I had to dig the ice axe spike in forcefully to control the speed and had to flop over several times to self-arrest when the acceleration became worrying. Second, it decreases the lifespan of non-metallic equipment that is in constant contact with the snow. The bottoms of my technical wind/rain pants and backpack got severely scuffed. Third, it is painful. Impacting an immovable chunk of ice with ones butt or passing over a large, solid posthole at high speed hurts.

The descent from the ski hut was uneventful. In fact, it was so uneventful that I risked making it eventful. At around 7200 feet, I crossed a snow-filled couloir that dropped 800 vertical feet to the hairpin turn in the road. I could see the uppermost 300 feet of the couloir and the hairpin, but nothing in between. It could be a good shortcut. It could also funnel into a cliff or be filled with brush. I couldn't resist.

The shortcut couloir turned out to be a great decision. With the exception of 100 vertical feet of rock/scree/brush in the middle (including one spiky plant into which I threw my hand to catch a fall), the couloir was filled with delightfully consolidated snow and deposited me at the hairpin turn.

The shortcut couloir heading up to the right.

The numbers: ~4000 vertical feet, 5.5 hours round trip.

Ollestad Memorial Route on Ontario Peak

2010-03-19T01:10:00.000-07:00

After climbing the right branch of "Ollestad Canyon" on Ontario Peak last week, Norman Ollestad remarked that the plane crashed in the left branch. This revelation, coupled with fantastic local snow conditions, compelled three of us to head up again five days later.

The Ollestad Memorial Route on Ontario Peak. Photo by Miguel Forjan (March 5, 2010).

If the buckthorn that complicates access to Ollestad Canyon had eyes, it would have seen three headlamps approaching in the pre-dawn hours of Wednesday, March 17. Those headlamps were strapped snugly around the heads of Dave Gillanders, Norma Ryan, and Sam Page (that's me). Inside two of those heads swirled memories of battling the buckthorn five days prior, along with the secret knowledge, won by trial and error, of how to avoid most of it.

After about two hours on loose scree (which involved ascending, traversing, descending, and more ascending) and a manageable amount of thrashing through brush, we plopped down for a rest. At this point, roughly 5800 feet, the slick, hard snow was unavoidable, so donning crampons seemed sensible.

While Norma and I were fiddling with our crampons, Dave unexpectedly announced, "I'm bailing." Dave had injured his calf on our climb two weeks ago, strained it further on our climb last week, couldn't resist coming on this climb, and was consequently suffering. After a prolonged silence, during which time I quietly contemplated how this news would impact my immediate future, a discussion ensued about the logistics of Dave's solo descent. The main points of discussion were loose scree (especially the descending, traversing, ascending, and descending thereof), Dave's civilian shoes and clothing (which were in Norma's car a mile east of the trailhead), and Dave's car (which was parked miles west of the trailhead). I offered Dave the key to my car, which was parked at the trailhead (though it's not really a trailhead, because there is no trail). Dave paused for a few moments and looked pensive. Then he exclaimed, "Fu(;k it", and all was well with the world again.

Were it not for Dave screaming words that rhyme with "shuck" and "fit" every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day, I would have blithely forgotten about his calf injury. Even so, it was easy to forget about Dave's persistent agony, because immediately after each profanity-laced outburst, he apologized so profusely that it felt as if we, not him, were the ones suffering. But enough about Dave's young cow . . .

With crampons under foot, we climbed hard, icy, 30-40 degree snow for about 800 vertical feet to the base of the central buttress that divides the left and right branches of Ollestad Canyon. During this stretch, my left crampon repeatedly loosened, especially when it was on the downhill foot. I stopped three times to tighten and re-adjust the crampon to no avail and began worrying about how it would fare on the anticipated 50 degree terrain above.

From the central buttress, we ascended the wide couloir on the left for another 800 vertical feet of hard, icy, 40 degree snow.

During this stretch, my heart raced as I panned around for signs of the plane crash, thinking it was nearby. About halfway up, a rock outcropping on the right caught my eye. It seemed to resemble aerial footage I had seen of the crash site. In a fit of enthusiasm, I began literally running up the slope, until it occurred to me that such shenanigans could themselves produce an accident. Gazing at snowy crags and gnarled trees, I imagined the young, battered Norman Ollestad picking his way down this very slope, with the pilot and his father dead above, and Sandra somewhere below after she slipped and plummeted out of sight. But alas, I could see no signs of the plane crash, and the reality of the long, icy slope reasserted itself.

Video of the left branch of "Ollestad Canyon".

At its top, the wide couloir narrowed into a finger of snow which extended 1000 vertical feet to lower-angled ground below the summit. The climbing in this long, final chute was the most exhilarating of the day. The chute became progressively narrower and icier, and eventually steepened to around 50 degrees. In the steepest, iciest section, I was no longer able to side-step and was forced to front-point. Here my aluminum crampons exhibited another disconcerting weakness: they tended to slide out from under me when I front-pointed. Norma had her own difficulties in this section, as she was unable to plunge the shaft of her ice axe through the ice for secure self-belays. An unarrested fall in this section could have led to a slide of over 2600 vertical feet.

Norma in the crux section.

Exiting from the shadows of the chute, we were struck by the hot rays of the sun, which made for a slow, sweaty plod to the summit.

After lounging around on top for close to an hour, during which time Norma had a rum and Coke (it was St. Patrick's Day after all), we began a series of glissades all the way down to Icehouse Canyon. I was pleased to descend the 500 vertical feet from Sugarloaf Saddle to Falling Rock Canyon in one continuous slide that took no more than 30 seconds. The bottom few hundred feet of Falling Rock Canyon had melted out considerably in the last five days, including several stretches of hazardous undermined snow.

All in all, we ascended about 4400 vertical feet, including 3000 vertical feet of continuous snow climbing. The ascent took 6 hours and the descent 2.5 hours. Now, compare all that with Baldy Bowl. Climbing Baldy Bowl entails under 4000 vertical feet of elevation gain, with only about 1800 vertical feet of continuous snow climbing from the ski hut. That said, whereas our route on Ontario Peak is bounded by trees, Baldy Bowl is mostly devoid of trees, which lends it more of an alpine, big mountain feel. And, of course, Baldy Bowl has something else going for it: a friendly road and trail leads from the parking lot to its base. But for those of us who prefer to get off the beaten path, opportunities still abound.

The Ollestad Memorial Route (yellow) shown on a GoogleEarth image.

Crazy for Ontario Peak (Ollestad Canyon)

2010-03-13T23:14:00.000-08:00

Since reading Crazy for the Storm this past fall, I have wanted to climb the drainage on Ontario Peak that I think was the site of the storied plane crash. After surviving the crash, Norman Ollestad was forced to make a harrowing descent of the steep, icy drainage down which the only other survivor plummeted 2000 feet to her death. A recent photo of the snow-filled drainage rekindled my enthusiasm for the climb.

Our route on Ontario Peak. Photo by Miguel Forjan (March 5, 2010).

Ontario Peak (8693 feet) is located in the San Gabriel Mountains of southern California, not far from the popular Mt. San Antonio (a.k.a. Mt. Baldy). The drainage I am talking about extends for over 3000 vertical feet on the northwest side of Ontario Peak between Cherry Canyon and Kerkhoff Canyon. I have never seen this drainage named on any map, so I'll tentatively call it Ollestad Canyon. To complicate matters further, a large rock buttress divides the canyon into two main branches that I will (again, tentatively) call the left and right branches of Ollestad Canyon.

The fact that I could find no information about climbing Ollestad Canyon made it more appealing. Another interesting fact is that access to the bottom of the canyon is blocked by private property and dense brush. I overcame the private property obstacle by asking for and receiving permission from the owners to cross their property. The owner's remarks about practically impenetrable buckthorn did not discourage me. I would just have to see that for myself. Patrick Moran was similarly intrigued, as was Dave Gillanders, who could not pass up the opportunity even though he was nursing an injury sustained on our last outing.

So it was that at 4:15AM this past Friday (March 12), I was driving toward the San Gabriel Mountains on roads I have come to know so well. After missing an exit and spending about ten minutes backtracking, I continued on my way asking introspective questions like, "Why am I such an idiot?"

At around 6:00AM, the three of us set off from a parking lot near Chapman Ranch. Within one minute we were in dense brush and retracing our steps. It was a small taste of what was to come. In order to preserve the pioneering spirit and adventurous froth of uncertainty involved in the approach to Ollestad Canyon, I will provide no specific details. But I will offer this photo of the approach, which should provide a vivid sense of what can be expected:

The approach to Ollestad Canyon.

After an approach of about two hours – an approach which entailed optimistically following game trails to dead-ends in thick brush, turning around, yelling "how is it over there?", scrambling up crumbly rock while thrashing through branches, cursing, turning around again, yelling "how does it look?", bloodletting in the buckthorn, slipping suddenly on slick roots and falling violently onto the same, cursing more loudly and creatively, yelling "hey, where are you guys?", flopping sideways on loose talus and sliding painfully downhill – we arrived at the bottom of Ollestad Canyon.

A jubilant Patrick after the worst of the bushwacking.

After a few hundred vertical feet of scree, we found ourselves on deep, consolidated snow. For the next 1200 vertical feet, we climbed 35-40 degree snow to the toe of the buttress dividing the left and right branches. Just below the rocks we swapped trekking poles for ice axes and strapped on crampons. A reminder to don helmets came in the form of a softball-sized rock that whizzed by Patrick at around 100 mph.

Looking up at the central buttress. We went right.

While Dave and Patrick started up the right branch, which had been polished to a glassy sheen by an avalanche, I struggled with an annoying problem. One of the fingers of insulation in my glove had become inside out. Consequently, I could not get my glove on. For ten increasingly irritating minutes, I tried to force the hidden finger of insulation back into position, but couldn't. Desperate, I pulled the entire insulation liner out to have a look. Quickly realizing that this wouldn't help, I began stuffing the mass back into the outer shell of the glove. Of course, now I couldn't get any of the fingers of insulation back into their respective slots. A brief but vigorous temper tantrum ensued in which gloves were hurled at the ground and curses were shouted. Recalling that I had packed extra gloves, I regained composure and began catching up to Dave and Patrick.

The avalanche path just right of the central buttress.

From the bottom of the buttress, we climbed unconsolidated, 40-45 degree snow for about 800 vertical feet until the right branch forked into two chutes.

While Patrick veered left, Dave and I climbed the narrow chute on the right which was bound intermittently by rock walls. We climbed that chute, which steepened to around 50 degrees, for about 1000 vertical feet to the ridge crest.

The beginning of the final chute.

Dave on the final chute.

Dave topping out on the final chute.

The ridge crest was then followed for nearly half a mile to the summit of Ontario Peak. It took us seven hours to reach the summit from the parking lot. Patrick, who had taken a more direct line, had been waiting on the summit for an hour.

Patrick on the summit.

From the summit we descended the Sugarloaf Ridge route, availing ourselves of the many glissading opportunities. The snow was in perfect condition all the way down to the bottom of Falling Rock Canyon. Our descent took two hours. With the exception of a desperate and humiliating pee in the parking lot of a random condominium complex off of route 5, my drive home was uneventful.

Ollestad Canyon must be one of the best snow climbs in the San Gabriel Mountains. The climb involves over 3000 vertical feet of continuous snow climbing at a steadily increasing angle from 35 to 50 degrees. After adding in the approach and ridge traverse, the total elevation gain from car to summit is about 4500 vertical feet. And though the approach to the canyon is relatively challenging, it has the merit of ensuring solitude.

Satellite image by Google.

Telegraph Peak, South Couloir

2010-03-05T15:21:00.000-08:00

Telegraph Peak (8985 feet) is a striking peak, especially when snow-covered, in the San Gabriel Mountains of southern California. Having never climbed it, I was inspired by a recent photo of a big couloir on its southern aspect.

The South Couloir is the big one in the photo's center. Telegraph Wash is on the right. [Photo by Patrick Moran]

Though the couloir has probably been climbed and/or skied, I could find no information about it. At around 7:00 AM yesterday (Thursday, March 4), Dave Gillanders, Patrick Moran, Norma Ryan, and I gazed up at it from Icehouse Canyon.

The South Couloir as seen from Icehouse Canyon.

Our first problem was finding the path of least resistance through the jungle of Manzanita and Buckthorn at the bottom of the couloir. After a small amount of thrashing (just enough to realize that this route would be awful in non-winter conditions), we followed a finger of snow on the right for a few hundred feet until it opened into the broad couloir. From there, the couloir reared up for over 2000 vertical feet at a 30 to perhaps 40 degree angle. Since the snow was hard and somewhat icy, we donned crampons, ice axes, and helmets early. Two additional reasons for helmets were the loose rocks far above and the constant stream of rime ice tinkling and careening down the slope.

Dave and Patrick near the bottom of the couloir.

The snow conditions were more or less perfect. After a long, continuous snow climb, we emerged happily (except for David, who tweaked his foot) onto the fairly narrow summit ridge.

Norma and Dave nearing the top of the couloir.

Norma on the summit ridge above the couloir. Mt. San Gorgonio is on the left and Mt. San Jacinto is on the right.

The video above was taken from the top of the couloir.

By 11:00 AM, we were being whipped by chilly winds on the summit of Telegraph Peak.

Patrick, Norma, and Dave on the summit.

View of Mt. Baldy.

In keeping with my preference for loops involving descents with a margin of uncertainty, we headed down to the corniced saddle below Thunder Mountain. From there, we descended Cedar Canyon on perfect, knee-nurturing snow for over one mile until the snow petered out revealing loose rock and unaccommodating brush. After some tipping and thrashing, we stumbled onto the Chapman Trail and zigzagged back to the parking lot.

The numbers: 4000 feet of elevation gain, 8 hours round trip.

The Galena Gauntlet

2010-02-17T17:29:00.000-08:00

The Galena Gauntlet is in red. Galena Peak is on the left.

On February 15, Miguel Forjan, Jeff Scofield, and I had an exhilarating outing in the San Bernardino Mountains. We climbed a couloir for nearly 2000 vertical feet on the north side of Yucaipa Ridge, and then traversed the south side to Galena Peak. We were on snow the entire day.

The idea to climb the route was hatched two weeks prior when, from the CPR route on Dobbs Peak, I spotted a continuous couloir snaking from Mill Creek Canyon to Yucaipa Ridge. Intrigued, I suggested to a few Facebook friends that we give it a shot.

At 5:45 AM on Monday, I picked up Miguel at a gas station in Riverside. Though I had never met Miguel in person, his impressive mountaineering reputation preceded him. Jeff, who I had climbed with once before, greeted us bare-chested at the wintry Vivian Creek parking lot at 6:30 AM. Somehow that seemed like an auspicious start. A little before 7:00 AM, we began crunching our way over consolidated snow up Mill Creek Canyon. Roughly two miles later, our intended couloir came into view. Much pointing, squinting, and nodding ensued.

The Galena Gauntlet as seen from Mill Creek Canyon.

As we approached the couloir, we lost sight of it in the woods and Miguel and I disagreed about which way to go. Having studied photos and satellite imagery, I insisted the couloir was to the right, bolstering my case with repeated mention of my research. Unimpressed with what he could not see – namely the photos and satellite imagery I had studied – Miguel insisted the couloir was to the left, pointing out various topographical features to bolster his case. As Miguel pointed to a lone tree atop the jumble of buttresses and ridges, it dawned on me that Miguel was correct. That tree, which sits atop the couloir, thereafter became known as "Forjan's Tree".

Miguel's routefinding judgment was confirmed a little while later when we rounded a corner and looked up at the most obvious feature of the couloir: a narrow constriction bounded by vertical rock walls. Miguel considerately offered to call it "Sam's Gate", but I think a more evocative name is "The Gauntlet". The American Heritage Dictionary has two definitions for "gauntlet" that seem appropriate. One definition is "a severe trial; ordeal". The second definition is "two lines of men facing each other and armed with sticks or other weapons with which they beat a person forced to run between them."

The Gauntlet

Climbing from the first on-route sighting of the gauntlet to the gauntlet itself involved several hundred vertical feet of 30-40 degree snow of varying consolidation. Standing just below the gauntlet was intimidating for three reasons. First, there was the sound and occasional sting of the ice crystals whizzing through it. Second, there was the vast cone of avalanche debris below it. Third, there was the realization that anything falling from above will pass through it. This seemed like a good place to don my helmet. Considering the steepening terrain above, it also seemed like a good place to swap trekking poles for an ice axe. Crampons, however, remained in the pack.

With helmeted head down and ice axe in hand, I began running the gauntlet. Just past the gauntlet, my progress was slowed by bare ice under several inches of unconsolidated snow. Without crampons, I was forced to laboriously sink the ice axe shaft to the hilt every few steps. On the few occasions that both feet skated out from under me, the solid self-belays prevented an unwelcome slide back through the gauntlet. After about 100 tiring feet of this, I finally emerged into consolidated snow and climbed a few hundred vertical feet to where Miguel and Jeff were waiting.

Miguel Forjan climbing toward his namesake tree atop the couloir.

Video from near the top of the couloir.

With only a few hundred more vertical feet to Forjan's Tree at the top of the couloir, we considered donning crampons, but decided not to because of the soft snow. That turned out to be a bad decision. Within about 50 vertical feet of the top, conditions again turned icy. While Miguel struggled with the ice in the final stretch, I opted to climb a steeper and longer chute on the left. Though the snow in that chute was consolidated and not icy, the chute involved the steepest climbing of the day – probably 50+ degrees – with serious exposure just off to the left. The final few feet of the chute steepened even more, causing a few pangs of fear which were suppressed by the knowledge that the snow was exceptionally firm. I was relieved to mantle onto the crest of the ridge and delighted to see that Miguel was nestled under his namesake tree. However, I didn't relax until Jeff, who had followed my steps, also heaved himself onto the ridge crest.

Jeff Scofield near the top of the final chute.

Our plan was to traverse the south side of Yucaipa Ridge to the summit of Galena Peak. Unfortunately, the ridge was steep and convoluted on the south side (and much more so on the north side). Noises were made about descending what we had just come up. I was not eager to do that. After a relaxing break, Miguel traversed the south side of the ridge for about 100 feet, thought better of it, and then began ascending the crest of the ridge toward a precipitous, rocky peak. While Miguel was scrambling up the ridge toward Peak 9164, I took a long look at the traverse on the south side and saw what looked like a potentially feasible route to a saddle below a vertical rock buttress. Beyond that, the terrain was not visible. As I was slowly picking my way across some moderately steep chutes, Jeff yelled something like, "Wow, Miguel's rock climbing. I'm not doing that!" Nervous about what I would see on the other side of the saddle, and now baking in the southern exposure, I crept along. The final 20 feet to the saddle were steep. Peering over the top, I was happy to see a forested hillside.

The precipitous northwest face of Galena Peak from just east of Peak 9164.

After traversing the hillside under the cliffs of Peak 9164 for about 200 feet, I climbed a snow slope for a few hundred vertical feet to the ridge crest. There I cautiously peered over the edge and saw steep snow and rock sweeping 2000 vertical feet down to Mill Creek Canyon. Ascending a few more feet to a subsidiary summit of Peak 9164, I was disappointed to see Galena Peak more than a quarter mile away, with a low saddle in between. I yelled the news down to Jeff and Miguel, who had wisely not followed me up to the ridge crest. While they traversed two hundred vertical feet below me, I began a descending traverse to the bottom of a large rock buttress below the aforementioned saddle. From there I labored up soft snow for about 20 minutes to the westernmost (and presumably highest) of Galena Peak's three summits (9324 feet). Before long, Miguel and Jeff appeared and we enjoyed the summit while remaining several feet from the edge of its precipitous northwest face.

Miguel on the summit ridge of Galena Peak.

Yucaipa Ridge as seen from Galena Peak. Peak 9164 sports the steep, snowy face in the center of the photo.

Video from the summit of Galena Peak.

The descent was uneventful. We followed the normal route to Mill Creek Jumpoff, glissaded, and walked back to the cars on mostly consolidated snow. Now for the numbers. It took us about 7 hours to get to the summit of Galena Peak and under 10 hours round trip. Though the elevation gain from the parking lot to Galena Peak is 3300 feet, with all of the ups and downs on the Yucaipa Ridge traverse, we probably gained close to 4000 feet. Finally, there is the issue of the route's name. Casual internet searching yielded no information about the couloir we climbed. Thus, I propose the following name: The Galena Gauntlet.

The image above was copied from Google Maps and edited.

Tech Update

2010-02-11T22:44:00.000-08:00

While the big three mountain ranges in southern California were blanketed under yet another foot of snow this week, I worked on improving my mountaineering-related cyber-skills. First, I finally figured out how to capture and edit a map image. Here is one such result:

Second, using the first skill, I created my first route page on SummitPost, for Falling Fir Ridge on Ontario Peak.

And third, I began the process of "claiming" (or registering) this blog on Technorati, a website that reports on the blogosphere, ranks blogs, etc. Technorati weeds out the technologically weak with a series of irritating hurdles. It took me eight (8) attempts to sign up. Most of the failures were the result of inadequate username proposals (though in most of those cases it was unclear what the problem was). Anxiety was added to this series of failures by my three-year old daughter, who was pacing around frenetically while repeatedly asking me to play and threatening to pee in her pants. After finally overcoming the sign-up hurdle, I was required to demonstrate proficiency with RSS and atom feeds, of which I had none. After some research, I bashed through that hurdle and arrived at yet another, which requires putting BCYQ45PKTV56 here. If you don't know what BCYQ45PKTV56 is, then you have no business being on the internet. Just kidding. But seriously, you really should look into BCYQ45PKTV56. If BCYQ45PKTV56 works out, then The Mountaineering Review will soon be on Technorati's radar screen.

Considering that it was not long ago that I learned, by trial and error, how to answer my cell phone, I am proud of my modest cyber-accomplishments. But this is child's play compared to what is happening at the Hiking Science Blog.

CPR on Dobbs Peak

2010-02-03T12:14:00.000-08:00

Several days after the mountains of southern California were blanketed under a few feet of snow, the Vivian Creek parking lot was finally plowed. Getting word of this, six of us decided to climb the West Ridge of Dobbs Peak.

Clouds enveloping the West Ridge of Dobbs Peak

At 10,459 feet, Dobbs Peak is overshadowed by its higher neighbors in the San Bernardino Mountains. It also has no maintained trail to its summit. But it does sport a long, well-defined, and easily accessible ridge on its western side. Having enjoyed the West Ridge when it was covered with consolidated spring snow, I thought it was worth trying in winter.

My alarm sounded at 3:00 AM on Sunday, January 31. Having been asleep for only four hours, I was disoriented and forgot why the alarm was ringing. Then I remembered. At 5:15 AM, I pulled into the Vivian Creek parking lot just as Bill Bryson was reading the last sentence of his engaging and hilarious audiobook In a Sunburned Country. The timing could not have been better. Things were looking up.

Galena Peak in the San Bernardino Mountains

After the five others arrived, two decisions were made. First, we would be taking the Vivian Creek Trail to the bottom of the West Ridge. There had been talk of climbing the steep slope due north of the parking lot, but in the dark it didn't look promising. I think that was a good decision. Second, we would be leaving the snowshoes behind, since the snow around the parking lot was frozen solid. That was a bad decision. Before starting up, I concluded my preparations as I normally do, with some quiet moments in the cold, dark outhouse. Centered and refreshed, I began plodding through the snow in pursuit of the others.

After crossing Mill Creek, we ascended uphill, lost the trail, and found ourselves climbing a steep gully. As rocks and other debris began rolling down, two members of our party decided to bail. That left four of us. While Norma, Patrick, and Zach continued up the loose gully, I veered right to avoid the rockfall. Before entering a steep, narrow couloir, I donned my helmet and swapped trekking poles for an ice axe. I then climbed about two hundred feet of solid, 45+ degree snow with a few sections of third class rock. Though I wished my crampons were on in the steep, hard snow, they would have seriously complicated the rock sections. I was relieved to reach the crest at the top of the couloir, but somewhat concerned to find a slope dropping steeply down on the other side. After traversing the slope for about two hundred feet, the angle lessened and I found myself in a flat drainage that I assumed was Vivian Creek. Within a few minutes, the three others popped over another crest and we were reunited.

Since we thought we were in the Vivian Creek drainage, we assumed the ridge to the west was the West Ridge of Dobbs Peak. But after postholing up to that ridge, we realized that Vivian Creek separated us from the West Ridge. Contemplating the terrain, and not wanting to lose too much elevation, we decided to make a descending traverse into Vivian Creek and then ascend a broad snow slope to the upper reaches of the West Ridge.

The CPR route on Dobbs Peak

After sinking to our knees all the way down to Vivian Creek, we were relieved to find a consolidated snowshoe track. While Norma, Zach, and I enjoyed the faster pace provided by the solid track, Patrick repeatedly plunged to his waist. We all agreed that Patrick was making a good decision when he decided to turn around. That left three of us.

At about 7,700 feet, we stood at the base of the broad drainage we had seen earlier. Here we left the trail and began plodding upward. The snow was in perfect condition. There was neither a breath of wind nor a cloud in the sky. It was almost too good to be true. Zach found a balloon and festively tied it to his pack. We were having fun.

Near the top of the CPR route

All good things come to an end. After a few hundred feet of elevation gain, it became very warm, the snow softened, and I began to wilt. Hours later, three bodies weary from sustained postholing flopped down at roughly 10,000 feet on the West Ridge. Though we were only about 500 vertical feet below the summit, the snow on the ridge was unconsolidated, which made for grueling progress. To make matters worse, the moist snow repeatedly caked all around my boots, making them very heavy.

Norma and Zach on the summit of Dobbs Peak

We finally arrived at the summit of Dobbs Peak at around 2:30, nearly nine hours after departing. We had ascended 4,500 vertical feet, much of it through unconsolidated snow. I was tired. Norma seemed rejuvenated. Zach had done more than his fair share of trail-breaking, but his balloon made him appear much more playful and energetic than he should have been.

Norma insisted that I take this picture of Zach, saying he looked cute.

Though we had hoped to continue to the summit of San Gorgonio, the late hour made that out of the question. So after having a snack which included peanut butter cups that Norma shared, we headed down.

Starting down the West Ridge of Dobbs Peak

Norma descending the West Ridge

It took 1.5 hours to descend 2,800 vertical feet to the trail, thanks to lots of glissading. During that time, we were enveloped in cool mist. From the trail, it took another 1.5 hours to reach the cars in the dark at 6:00 PM.

Hiking down the Vivian Creek Trail, I mentioned that I had never heard of anyone doing the route we had just done on Dobbs Peak. Though the West Ridge is a relatively popular route, our route ascended roughly 2,300 vertical feet between the Vivian Creek Trail and the West Ridge. To make a long story short, our route needed a name. Norma jokingly suggested the West Buttress, but I countered that associating our route with one on Denali would demean ours. Norma also jokingly suggested the Western Cwm, and though we all agreed that the word "cwm" has a lot going for it, we also realized that our route did not ascend a cwm. I facetiously suggested calling it the Cyrus-Page-Ryan route, which somehow sounded awfully presumptuous. But then, in a stroke of genius, Zach blurted out "CPR". And thus our route was named. CPR was fitting in several ways. The first way is obvious. Secondly, Norma and Zach both work in the medical field. Third, we were all close to needing CPR at various stages of our posthole marathon.

Jeff Scofield took this photo while we were climbing the CPR route on Dobbs Peak.

Review of "Annapurna South Face"

2010-01-29T22:47:00.000-08:00

Thirty-nine years after its publication, I finally got around to reading Annapurna South Face by Sir Chris Bonington. The book is an account of the expedition Bonington led on the South Face of Annapurna in 1970.

At 8091 meters, the summit of Annapurna is the tenth highest in the world. Though Annapurna was the first 8000-meter peak to be climbed (by a French expedition in 1950), it is often considered to be the hardest. According to various websites, Annapurna is the least frequently climbed 8000-meter peak, but has the highest fatality rate: for every two climbers who have summitted, roughly one has died trying. It was also the last of the fourteen 8000-meter peaks that Ed Viesturs climbed, and it took him three expeditions before he reached its top.

On May 27, 1970, two members of Bonington's expedition – namely, Dougal Haston and Don Whillans – made it to the summit after roughly two months of hiking and climbing. They missed getting the second ascent of Annapurna by a matter of days. Their achievement was supported by the incredibly hard labor and commitment of dozens of other climbers and Sherpas. One merit of Bonington's book is its emphasis on the tremendous sacrifices others made to position Haston and Whillans for their summit bid.

It seems to me that major mountaineering expeditions are like human pyramids, in that the person on top is not necessarily the hardest working or most competent member. In the case of a human pyramid, the person on top deserves no more credit than anyone else. But for some reason, in mountaineering expeditions the persons who summit tend to get more credit and reap more rewards than anyone else. Think of Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay. Few people could name any other members of their expedition. Off the top of my head, I can only think of one – the leader of the expedition. One could argue that on many major mountaineering expeditions the supporting climbers deserve most of the credit, because the climbers who summit are already rewarded by getting to stand on the summit.

In addition to giving credit where credit is due, Bonington provides an unmistakable sense of the difficulty and complexity of a major mountaineering expedition. The book is actually a bit tedious in this regard, but after 100 pages of details about ferrying loads between high camps, one is unlikely to forget that element. One surprising and disappointing feature of the book, especially in light of how much attention is given to load-ferrying, is how little is devoted to the successful summit day. Seemingly out of the blue, after almost three hundred pages, Bonington announces that Haston and Whillans reached the summit and then defers to Haston's hurried account of what transpired from May 17-27. Bonington then concludes with a few pages about the descent to base camp, which included the death of the accomplished climber Ian Clough in an avalanche. Though Bonington devotes an almost negligible amount of text to summit day, he certainly cannot be faulted for giving excessive credit to the climbers who managed to summit.

The South Face of Annapurna (photo by Wolfgang Beyer, Wikipedia)

Ian Clough's death on Annapurna was not the only fatality on one of Bonington's expeditions. From 1975-1982, four more of Bonington's British teammates died on Himalayan expeditions he led – namely, Mick Burke, Nick Estcourt, Peter Boardman, and Joe Tasker. Clint Willis does an excellent job of chronicling these expeditions and their consequences in The Boys of Everest: Chris Bonington and the Tragedy of Climbing's Greatest Generation (2007, 560 pages). Reading that book made me wonder about the propriety of leading expeditions that repeatedly kill people, but I've reached no conclusions.

Considering that Bonington was 35 years old when he led the Annapurna expedition in 1970, it is amazing how active he still is at 75. This past September he climbed Mont Blanc. This May he will be participating in a 22-day trek in the Annapurna region of Nepal. The trek will serve as a 50-year anniversary of his first ascent of Annapurna II (7937 meters) in 1960. Think about that. Bonington climbed a major peak in the Himalayas fifty years ago and will be trekking back to it this year. If you cannot keep up with Sir Chris Bonington in the mountains, you can at least keep up with his personal website or Berghaus blog.

Two New Routes on Tawoche (with Remarks on Fowler-Littlejohn)

2010-01-24T13:44:00.000-08:00

In the last two months, two new routes have been climbed on Tawoche (~6500m), a spectacular peak near Mt. Everest.

Tawoche on the left (photo by Uwe Gille, Wikipedia)

In late November, Fumitaka Ichimura and Genki Narumi climbed the Direct North Face, which involved 1500 meters of steep and dangerous ice/snow. The climb took four days round trip from a base camp at roughly 5000 meters. They spent two nights on the face sitting on ledges with no tent. For more details, see Alpinist and Climbing.

Just a few days ago, Renan Ozturk and Corey Richards climbed Tawoche's South Central Buttress. From a base camp at around 5000 meters, two days of rock climbing and a third day of ice climbing brought them to the summit. They then rappelled their route of ascent. Though they were able to set up a tent at their two camp sites on the wall, there was no water or snow at their first site, so they went 36 hours without water. Sophisticated video dispatches are posted on Ozturk's blog, which are well-worth watching.

Reading about these recent climbs reminded me of the first ascent of the Northeast Buttress on Tawoche by Mick Fowler and Pat Littlejohn in 1995. Though Fowler's American Alpine Journal article, entitled Tawoche: A Retrospectively Pleasurable Ascent, is well-written and even hilarious, it has one glaring omission: it neglects to mention the extremely minor contribution I made to the expedition.

For 45 days in the spring of 1995, I was trekking in the Khumbu Himal. Near the end of my trip, I was lounging around the Peace Zone tea shop in Pheriche when four British guys approached on the trail. They looked like novice trekkers who were out of their element. After they settled in at the tea shop, I inquired about their plans, assuming that what I had already done would be more impressive than what they were going to do. Mick Fowler, who was one of the novice trekkers, said, "Well, do you want to have a look?" That was the first indication that something was awry. From the path outside of the Peace Zone, I was astonished to watch as he pointed out a route up the jaw-dropping Northeast Buttress of Tawoche. Speechless, it was clear that I was the novice and they were the pros. As if to emphasize the point, Chris Watts handed me a picture of Tawoche torn from a magazine. Absentmindedly turning the page over, I was amazed to see a full-page advertisement featuring him rock climbing.

Having been put in my place, I hung around the Peace Zone for a few more days while Fowler, Watts, Pat Littlejohn, and Mike Morrison acclimated and waited for porters to arrive with gear. Eager to establish base camp below the buttress, they huddled to figure out how to deal with the lagging porters. Overhearing their discussion, I offered a solution which was promptly dismissed. A day or two later I asked how the logistical problem was solved and was surprised to hear that my solution had been adopted.

Mick Fowler was awarded the Piolet d'Or in 2003. He has also written two excellent books: Vertical Pleasure: The Secret Life of a Tax Man (1995) and On Thin Ice: Alpine Climbs in the Americas, Asia and the Himalaya (2005). Had I not met Fowler below Tawoche, I probably would not have read his books, which in my opinion are among the best in the mountaineering genre. For a sample of his writing, see the AAJ link above or Fowler's occasionally updated blog.

Santiago Peak

2010-01-18T17:26:00.000-08:00

Deb approaching the summit of Santiago Peak with the snowy Mt. Baldy behind

When the time since my last moderately strenuous mountain climb creeps beyond two weeks, I start getting restless. My last outing had been a hair-raising day on Mt. Baldy, but that was more than three weeks ago. I had planned a New Year's ascent of Mt. Washington in New Hampshire, but spent nearly two weeks cooped up at my in-laws' house with bronchitis instead. Needless to say, I was feeling antsy.

After negotiating with my wife, I managed to get a day away from the kids on Sunday, January 17. To my delight, SoCal Hikers and Peakbaggers had a climb of Santiago Peak scheduled for that day. After some dithering, I committed to the outing by RSVPing "yes".

"Can you be home by 4:00?", my wife asked. I smiled sheepishly. After failing on several occasions in recent months to return from hikes at the promised time, I opted to say nothing. I was not going to once again say, "I will probably be home by X but definitely no later than Y", only to arrive home hours after Y.

I had wanted to climb Santiago Peak since moving to Orange County, California in August. At 5,687 feet, Santiago Peak is the highest point in Orange County. The mountain dominates the surrounding terrain and bristles with telecommunication towers on its summit.

At 6:45 AM, eight of us met at Cook's Corner and then drove a few miles to the beginning of Trabuco Creek Road. At this point, those of us with low-clearance vehicles parked and hopped into high-clearance vehicles for the bumpy, five-mile ride to the trailhead. Kirk and Erin were gracious enough to give me a ride. Once we were all assembled at the trailhead, Gerry Frayer, the trip organizer, provided some details about the route. After being asked how long the hike would take, Gerry mentioned his fastest time before offering a longer estimate for our group. Upon hearing Gerry's fastest time, Tari, Tina, and Erin (another Erin) immediately blasted off. We didn't see them again until the summit.

Gerry Frayer in his element

The lower section of the Holy Jim Trail is well-maintained and remains at a consistently low angle for about five miles until it intersects the Main Divide Truck Road. At the road, we opted to continue climbing the upper section of the Holy Jim Trail, which is less maintained and steeper. After another mile or so, we again intersected the road and followed it for roughly two miles to the summit. Wandering around the roads and buildings on the summit cone, I eventually found the high point, which was confirmed as such by a National Geodetic Survey marker and summit log.

Sam, Deb, Gerry, Erin, and Kirk (L-R) on the summit

From the summit, one still has eight miles of descending to do. One also has to dodge the trucks and motorcycles on the road. At one point, I stood on the side of the road and watched about twenty motorcycles roar past. Next to mountain lions, the motorcycles have to be the second most worrisome hazard on this hike. Another slight concern on this particular hike were the clouds that had rolled in and enshrouded the summit -- a harbinger of the week-long storm that was forecasted to wallop California. But our timing could not have been better. It was not until we were bidding farewell at the bottom that the first drops of rain began falling.

Gerry, Deb, and Erin (L-R) on the road with Kirk and Mt. San Gorgonio behind

Hiking with a group of strangers, I worried that some stragglers would keep me from getting home by 4:00. I couldn't bear the thought of arriving home hours late after yet another underestimated hike to see my wife in a state of near-collapse after a day alone with our two small, insane children. But I needn't have worried. Every hiker in the group was fast (or at least as fast as me). In fact, Gerry is planning one of the most audacious day hikes I have ever heard of: 10,000 feet of elevation gain and 48 (forty eight) miles in the Grand Canyon . . . in one day. Though I enjoyed the hike Gerry led on Santiago Peak yesterday, I think I'll have to pass on his Grand Canyon hike.

And now, the numbers: 16 miles, 4000 vertical feet, 7 hours, 0 mountain lions (as far as we know).

Review of "Where Men Win Glory"

2010-01-14T23:29:00.000-08:00

Jon Krakauer's most recent book, published in 2009, is Where Men Win Glory: The Odyssey of Pat Tillman. Like Krakauer's other well-known books – namely, Into Thin Air, Into the Wild, and Under the Banner of Heaven – this book revolves around death. In 2004, Pat Tillman, a professional football player turned Army Ranger, was killed by friendly fire in Afghanistan. Over the course of 416 pages, Krakauer not only tells the story of Tillman's life and death, but also the broader geo-political forces that overwhelmed him.

Pat Tillman was an incredibly strong, philosophical, athletic, articulate, and disciplined person who quit professional football after the 2001 season to serve his country. Deciding that it was the right thing to do, Tillman enlisted in the Army, turning down millions of dollars in the process. Tillman also left behind his beloved wife, with whom he enjoyed a fairytale marriage.

By itself, Krakauer's biography of Tillman is fascinating. However, Krakauer's book covers much more ground than that. It provides a recent history of Afghanistan, a survey of events leading up to the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan, and an eye-opening exposé of the circumstances surrounding the rescue of Jessica Lynch. But most centrally and importantly, Krakauer's book reports how Tillman really died and the elaborate steps that were taken to cover it up. As is often the case, the cover-up became a disaster in its own right. "O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."

This book is riveting from start to finish, with the exception of the recent history of Afghanistan. However, had I not read so many books on Afghanistan in the last few years, I may not have found myself daydreaming during that section. Because Where Men Win Glory is both a gripping biography and a sweeping historical narrative, I suspect that it will be taken seriously for years to come.

Pat Tillman Foundation

Review of "Where the Mountain Casts Its Shadow"

2010-01-10T11:32:00.000-08:00

Most mountaineering books are written from the perspective of mountaineers. In Where the Mountain Casts its Shadow: The Dark Side of Extreme Adventure (2003), Maria Coffey writes about mountaineering – mostly high-altitude mountaineering – from the perspective of the family and friends of mountaineers. Coffey was in a relationship with Joe Tasker when, in 1982, he and Peter Boardman disappeared trying to make the first traverse of the pinnacles on the Northeast Ridge of Mt. Everest.

High-altitude mountaineering places tremendous stress on the family and friends of mountaineers. First, expeditions to the greater ranges routinely require three or more months, in addition to the time necessary for preparation and recuperation. During that time, the spouse is left to juggle childcare, work, and all other facets of home economics by his or her self. Second, and most obviously, extreme mountaineering is incredibly dangerous. One of the merits of Coffey's book is that it chronicles a staggering number of mountaineering injuries and fatalities, while emphasizing their effects on family and friends. It is remarkable, not to mention depressing, how many accomplished mountaineers have died mountaineering. He who lives by the ice axe dies by the ice axe.

Coffey interviewed scores of people for her book. Much of the book is comprised of quotations from those interviews. This is both a strength and weakness of her book. On the one hand, with all of the interview excerpts, it is sometimes hard to keep track of who is talking. On the other hand, the dizzying array of testimonials leaves the reader with a clear and undeniable sense of the negative impact of extreme mountaineering on family and friends – their uncomfortable shoes are put on the reader's feet and laced tightly for 229 pages.

The Dr. Frederick Albert Cook Award for Best Mountaineering Blog

2009-12-31T18:45:00.000-08:00

Today, on this last day of 2009, it is with great enthusiasm and reverence that The Mountaineering Review hereby inaugurates a momentous year-end award. The purpose of the award is to recognize the best mountaineering blog of the previous year. We at The Mountaineering Review felt it important to name the award after someone whose integrity and accomplishments exemplify the award's significance. Accordingly, we have chosen to name the award the Dr. Frederick Albert Cook Award for Best Mountaineering Blog.

Dr. Cook's infamous 1906 photo of Mt. McKinley's summit

Since The Mountaineering Review is itself a mountaineering blog, there has been some understandable concern regarding procedural impartiality. To address these concerns, we have decided to publish the multi-step process which was followed to pick this year's winner. The reader will notice that if these steps are followed, there is simply no room for subjective bias. Here are the steps:

(1) Recall to mind some mountaineering blogs.
(2) Discuss those mountaineering blogs.
(3) Give the award to The Mountaineering Review.

As you can see, if the three steps above are followed, there is no way that the arbitrary whims of judges can affect the outcome. It is a purely objective process of which Dr. Frederick Albert Cook would surely approve.

So, without further hesitation, it is a great privilege to announce this year's winner of the Dr. Frederick Albert Cook Award for Best Mountaineering Blog. The winner is . . . The Mountaineering Review!!!

A Hair-Raising Day on Mt. Baldy

2009-12-25T03:01:00.000-08:00

Wimping out low on Mt. Williamson on Sunday, December 20 left me with some unexpected free time. As a frequent (possibly obsessive) browser and sometime contributor to the Whitney Portal Store Message Board, I had been monitoring the growing enthusiasm surrounding a winter climb of Mt. Baldy being organized by MC Reinhardt. The outing was scheduled for Wednesday, December 23 and the weather forecast looked great. I posted some non-sense about The Mountaineering Review wanting me to cover the increasingly publicized climb, and MC said "come along". So I did.

I was looking forward to a relatively relaxed and sociable outing, though anything involving mountaineering boots, crampons, and an ice axe can only be so relaxed. At 3:30 AM my alarm sounded, and before too long I was motoring north toward the San Gabriel Mountains listening to Jon Krakauer's new book about Pat Tillman. At 5:30, I was the first to arrive at the blustery Manker Flat parking area. Shortly after 6:00, our scheduled start time, nine of us began plodding up the gated road toward the ski hut trail.

On the Ski Hut Trail

Chatting amiably with Shin, I suddenly had the feeling I was being ambushed by a bear. Turning around, I saw the tenth and final member of our party, Jeff Scofield, running up the trail in full winter attire. From that point, I pulled up the rear and met everyone at the ski hut. There we snacked and strapped on crampons, noted the windy and icy conditions in the bowl, and decided to follow the buried trail instead of climbing the bowl.

Traversing below the bowl

I was the first to set off across the bottom of the bowl and was promptly blasted in the face with spindrift. The snow on the steep forested slope rising from the bottom of the bowl to the south ridge was mostly consolidated, as it was on the rest of the route. Somewhere on that slope I crossed paths with Sara Berghoff, who, as it turns out, is a guide for Sierra Mountaineering International. Sara and I chatted for a while until strong winds on the upper stretch of the south ridge made walking, let alone talking, difficult. At that point on the ridge, everyone retreated to their own private worlds, cocooned inside balaclavas, hats, and hoods.

For the final few hundred yards, with the wind blowing at an estimated 30-40 mph, I followed a pattern. First, locate the next tree, which was not hard to do, because there was only ever one. Second, force my way to that tree through the wind trying to stay balanced. Third, take a few breaths at the tree and repeat.

At the last tree, I found Shin and Bob Masucci laying prostrate after returning from what they said was a considerably windier summit. Deciding that it would be more enjoyable to go to the summit with somebody else, I waited for the next hiker who happened to be Sara. Sara and I pushed our way up the final one hundred feet and upon reaching the summit plateau were blasted by a steady wind in the 50-60 mph range (according to my crude estimate).

Sara on the summit

They must have felt like they were missing out on something, because before too long Shin and Bob were back! And this time they brought Norma Ryan, Tracie, Blake Miller, and Ron. We stayed up there for about fifteen minutes, doing everything in our power to just remain upright.

Me on the summit

Trying to emulate Maurice Herzog on the first ascent of Annapurna, Norma let her glove blow away. Blake (I think) and I gave chase. After a few misses, Blake expertly lanced the glove with his ski pole, falling flat on his side in the process. With Blake out of commission, I unskewered the glove and triumphantly returned it to Norma, taking full credit while Blake brushed himself off. Alas, it was time to go, and just when I thought everyone was starting down, I turned in astonishment to see Sara striking her signature summit pose during a brief lapse in the wind.

About 500 vertical feet below the summit, we encountered MC and Jeff, who had ascended a chute in the bowl. Somewhere around there, I also caught up with Bob. Our conversation quickly jumped from climbing, to Kilimanjaro, to Amsterdam, to me alluding to things I did in Amsterdam, to me quickly regretting those allusions when moments later I learned that Bob was a retired police officer. But as irony would have it, it was Bob who was being arrested seconds later – self-arrested, that is, with his ice axe after a sudden slip.

By the time I reached the bottom of the bowl, I was really looking forward to having a snack at the ski hut. Because of the high winds, we had kept putting off our food break. But the food break would have to wait even longer. A little earlier I had thought I heard some yelling, but chocked it up to the wind playing tricks on me. Crossing the bottom of the wind-blasted bowl, Sara and I saw three guys standing about fifty feet uphill. Yelling above the wind, one of the hikers asked a question which surprised me:

Hiker: "Do you have any seltzer?"

Me: ["Seltzer?! Why can't they just get water out of the stream?"] "What?"

Hiker: "Do you have any seltzer?"

Me: ["What the hell is wrong with these guys?"] "Seltzer?!"

Hiker: "Do you have a cell phone? A climber just tumbled all the way down the bowl and she is injured."

Me: ["Oh. He said 'cell phone', not 'seltzer'."]

It was about 1:30 PM. Sara immediately began ascending the slope. As I was dropping my pack, I noted that our fun day in the snow had now transitioned into something serious. Fishing out my cell phone, I made repeated attempts to call 911 without success. Leaving my pack on the ground, I too began heading up the slope. After a few steps, I saw Sara and a guy assisting a woman down the slope. They were moving very slowly. As I approached the woman, I saw that her face was covered with abrasions and the skin showing through her ripped clothing was all red. She seemed self-conscious about her exposed hips, so I averted my eyes. I later learned that she had tumbled like a rag doll down the entire face of Baldy bowl – roughly 1,000 vertical feet.

Baldy Bowl

The ski hut was only one hundred yards away, but it was locked. The injured woman, Natalie, was laid down in the doorway. Her friend Ian and a solo climber named Mike, who had descended the bowl to help, were making Natalie comfortable. Meanwhile, Sara began very sweetly, but deliberately and thoroughly, checking Natalie's condition. [You'll recall that Sara is a professional mountain guide.] Bob arrived a few minutes later and immediately began helping Sara perform first aid. Within a short time, Sara had emerged as Natalie's primary caregiver and confidant, while Bob had begun thinking about everything that needed to happen and initiating those things that were not already happening. [You'll recall that Bob is a retired police officer. I didn't mention that he worked in the homicide division for ten years.]

All told, there were probably twenty people in the vicinity of the ski hut. Since there was no cell phone reception at or near the ski hut, about six people headed down to get cell phone reception or initiate a rescue in some other way. In the meantime, Natalie had become very cold and was shivering uncontrollably. She also was unable to walk and looked quite scared. I offered her my down jacket and foot warmers. Other people contributed a variety of items. After Ian and Mike were unable to block a strong draft coming from below the doorway, Natalie was moved to the flat ground behind the ski hut. At that point, I handed over the emergency bivouac bag that I had carried with me on every hike for the past several years but never used.

After a dozen failed attempts to call 911, I blurted out that we should start blowing whistles. Sara immediately started blowing hers. As I worked my way through ten long whistles, I remembered the last time I had blown that whistle. It was ten years ago. My father had just taken a fatal fall on Long's Peak. Starting to choke up, I suppressed the distracting thought and focused on helping Natalie. Bob approached and looked me in the eye. Did he not like my whistling? Was it disturbing Natalie? Bob wasn't sure that the people descending the mountain would reach the search and rescue people in a timely manner. He explained that there needed to be absolute certainty that a rescue would be mounted. He asked me to run down the mountain, drive to the fire station in Baldy Village, and explain the situation to someone there. I was descending within one minute. The time was roughly 3:00 PM.

I ran as much and as fast as I could. My main motivating thought was, "I don't want Natalie to end up like my father". The one thing I could do at that point was to get down the mountain as fast as possible, so that is what I focused on doing. Once the snow and ice petered out, I took my crampons, jacket and hat off as fast as possible and kept running. When I got to the dirt road, I stuffed my glasses, which kept slipping down my nose, in a pocket and took off running even faster. Near the waterfall, I confronted three guys wearing large yellow jackets. They were either tourists in extremely unfashionable raingear or first responders. Thankfully, they were the latter. Someone had contacted 911. I relayed some info Bob had asked me to pass on, and they told me to convey it to the guys in the trucks near the waterfall. One piece of news that seemed to surprise some of the personnel was that the ski hut was locked. I volunteered to help, but they simply, and understandably, wanted the professionals to take over.

I lingered near the waterfall for about one hour, gazing up toward the ski hut wondering how things were going. During that time, a helicopter made several passes of the ski hut, but eventually flew off. As it turns out, Blake, Bob, Ian, Mike, and Sara constructed a makeshift litter and hauled Natalie part of the way down the trail. The search and rescue people arrived in small waves, and it was not until around 8:00 PM that Blake, Bob, and Sara were relieved of duty. At around 8:30 PM, Natalie was airlifted to a hospital.

Fortunately, this story has a happy ending: Natalie is scheduled to be released from the hospital on Friday, December 25. Merry Christmas.

Sara, Bob, and Blake: the three members of our group who stayed with Natalie until she was in safe hands

A Successful Winter Ascent of Mt. Williamson?

2009-12-22T19:21:00.000-08:00

Ed Viesturs is fond of saying that his biggest failure as a mountaineer was summitting K2. His instincts were telling him that conditions were too dangerous, but he continued climbing regardless. Though Viesturs failed on K2, by his logic we succeeded on Mt. Williamson by listening to our instincts and turning around far, far below the summit.

At 14,375 feet, Mt. Williamson is the second highest peak in California and the sixth highest peak in the 48 contiguous United States. Unlike the slightly higher Mt. Whitney, Mt. Williamson does not have a paved road ascending its lower flanks. Instead, climbers must make do with a dirt road that skirts the bottom of the mountain, roughly 8,500 feet below the summit. Complicating matters further, Mt. Williamson is "closed" for much of the year to protect its Bighorn Sheep population.

Mt. Williamson

Browsing around aimlessly for something to climb in late December, I was contacted by Ryan Griswold. Ryan had seen some of my posts on the Whitney Portal Store Message Board. Though he didn't show his hand immediately, Ryan, as it turns out, has a mild obsession with trying to climb Mt. Williamson in wintry conditions. He had already made three attempts (though he doesn't count one of them because it was so futile). Ryan was particularly keen on trying to climb the East Ridge, which splits the South and North Forks of Bairs Creek. That portion of the mountain is only "open" from December 15-January 1 and April 15-May 15.

Having never attempted Mt. Williamson, I busied myself with researching the eastern routes. I found descriptions and reports documenting the routes up the South and North Forks of Bairs Creek, including lots of complaining about the lower sections thereof, but nothing about the East Ridge. Having twice attempted the East Ridge, Ryan was optimistic about its feasibility. So I went back to studying photos and satellite images until I was sufficiently confident that we could traverse the ridge to a particular saddle and then cross into the cirque above the South Fork of Bairs Creek. Committing to the trip, we settled on an itinerary: camp at the trailhead on Saturday (December 19), ascend and traverse the East Ridge on Sunday, summit on Monday (the first day of winter), and return to the cars on Tuesday (or Monday if possible).

After driving my wife and kids to the Santa Ana airport on Wednesday, I began three full days of preparing for Mt. Williamson. The first order of business was to procure a pair of snowshoes. Having moved to Orange County from New York a few months ago, I didn't know where to start. After groping around on the internet for awhile, I landed at REI Santa Ana. Discouraged by the price of new snowshoes, I bought some other odds and ends instead, including some freeze-dried Mountain House meals.

Ryan was planning to eat his freeze-dried camp dinners right out of the bag, and I thought that sounded like a good idea. However, I had never done that before, so a test run was in order. But first, there was the matter of the stove, which had lain dormant in its stuff sack for far too long. Truth be told, the last time I went backpacking was 2002. After locating my MSR Whisperlite stove and fuel bottles, I discovered that it didn't work. Unfolding the manual, which was thoroughly smeared with black soot, I found the troubleshooting section and began disassembling the pump. One hour later, after cleaning the filthy pump, the stove roared to life and quickly boiled a pot of water. The Mountain House Mac'n'Cheese in a bag was a little crunchy, but not bad. At least I knew that my cooking system worked. The next two days of preparations are a blur, but the highlights were (1) renting MSR Denali snowshoes from REI and (2) spending hours preparing my three-season tent to be anchored securely to a barren, wind-blasted snowfield.

At 10:30 AM on Saturday, I began driving toward the Sierras while listening to The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (which, by the way, is an amazing book). In Adelanto, home of the dangerous Brown Pride Gang, I stopped at Carl's Jr. for a sandwich and fries. About an hour later, the Coke I had consumed wanted out, so I pulled off highway 395 in the middle of nowhere. Standing there contemplating the desolation, I was surprised by several dirt bikes that suddenly popped over a hill and came screaming toward me. I walked briskly to my car, locked the door, and peeled back onto the 395.

When I pulled into the parking lot of the evocatively named Eastern Sierra Interagency Visitor Center at 3:00 PM, Ryan was standing there waving at me. After a quick introduction, we both agreed there was no time to waste and promptly proceeded to the dirt road below Mt. Williamson. I parked my mini-van at the snowy Shepherd's Pass trailhead and loaded all of my stuff into Ryan's big-wheeled Land Rover. A few miles of bumpy, snow-covered road and one stream crossing put us on the south side of the North Fork of Bairs Creek. Before too long, it was dark, we were fed, alarms were set, and both headlamps were turned off in the tent.

At 4:15 AM on Sunday morning, I was awakened by Ryan's alarm. My alarm, set for 4:00 AM, had failed to go off. By 5:45 AM, we were shouldering heavy packs over consolidated snow in the pitch black, and I had taken a risk: my snowshoes remained in the car. I had several reasons for leaving my rented snowshoes behind. First, I probably wouldn't need snowshoes for much of the long East Ridge traverse. Second, my pack was too damn heavy for the task ahead with the snowshoes on it. Third, I had read a recent report that the snow on the western side of the Sierras was surprisingly consolidated. Fourth, the snow near the road was hard. After one hour of hiking, I realized that leaving the snowshoes behind was a bad decision.

Ryan Griswold in his element

It took us about five hours to gain 2,000 feet of elevation. Though we wasted about thirty minutes on a route-finding snafu, the main problem was the snow. With almost every step, I broke through the crust immediately after weighting my boot and plunged one or two feet into soft snow. On the steeper sections, I resorted to hunching over, laying my trekking poles horizontally on the snow, and using them as handrails. Progress was extremely slow and exhausting. Every ten steps I had to stop for ten breaths. Ryan certainly moved faster and less laboriously, but not too much faster. Over five hours, he probably spent thirty minutes waiting for me.

At the 8,000 foot level, we reached a difficult section that Ryan had negotiated once before in much drier conditions. We needed to make exposed moves onto a steep couloir, which then had to be ascended for a few hundred vertical feet to a notch. This was a good place for a break. It was also a good place to assess our prospects. We had gained about 2,000 vertical feet in five hours, and had to ascend about 2,500 more in the remaining six hours of daylight. However, much of the remaining elevation gain was going to occur on a complex ridge traverse, which would involve lots of ups and downs, thus adding to the elevation gain. We definitely wanted to avoid getting benighted on the ridge and doubted we could. The decision to turn around was easy, though demoralizing. It took one hour to descend ground that had taken five hours to ascend.

Me at our highpoint below the couloir

Throughout the day, we wondered how a party of nine was doing in the South Fork of Bairs Creek. They had started up the day before and were planning to summit today. The party included Rick Kent, who I have written about on this blog. This fall, Rick climbed Mt. Whitney twice in one day from Whitney Portal (12,000 feet of elevation gain and 12,000 feet of elevation loss) and the Cactus to Clouds trail on Mt. San Jacinto three times in one day (25,000 feet of elevation gain). Considering the nice weather, we assumed that Rick would make the summit. However, due to freezing cold and blasting spindrift, the party was forced to turn around at roughly 13,000 feet. Though I sincerely wish they could have made the summit after all that effort, I was somewhat relieved to hear that they didn't: it somehow made my stupid decision to leave the snowshoes in the car less significant.

Partially because of the climbing disaster on Mt. Hood last week, my wife was delighted to hear that my three-day expedition had ended after half a day. For the first time in a long time, she was genuinely enthused to hear all about my outing. I am sure Ed Viesturs will be similarly enthused.

What Really Happened to Mallory and Irvine

2009-12-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

Today is International Mountain Day. There could hardly be a better time to reflect on why you climb mountains. And when contemplating the question "Why do you climb?", you may find yourself distracted by the infamous answer attributed to George Mallory: "Because it is there."  But what exactly did Mallory mean by this cryptic quip? Theories about his meaning are as various as theories explaining his disappearance high on Mt. Everest in 1924.

The Wildest Dream, a movie scheduled for release in 2010, promises to shed light on the enduring conundrum of Mallory and Irvine's disappearance. However, given that the mountain featured prominently on the movie's website is not Mt. Everest, but a reversed image of Mont Blanc du Tacul in France, I wouldn't hold your breath.  In fact, you may want to take this opportunity to draw a few deep breaths, because there is a brand new theory that simultaneously deciphers Mallory's cryptic quip and explains his disappearance. And it is a theory that The Mountaineering Review is now proud to unveil on this International Mountain Day eighty five years after Mallory and Irvine vanished.

Solving complex problems often involves challenging assumptions that have been left unchallenged. Consider again Mallory's retort, "Because it is there".  For too long, scholars and laypersons alike have assumed that by "it" Mallory was referring to Mt. Everest. But on this day -- a day designated by the United Nations General Assembly as "an opportunity to create awareness about the importance of mountains to life" -- it is the distinct pleasure of The Mountaineering Review to lay bare what Mallory was referring to with the word "it". When Mallory said that he wanted to climb Mt. Everest because it is there, he did not mean that he wanted to climb Mt. Everest because Mt. Everest is there. Rather, George Herbert Leigh Mallory wanted to climb Mt. Everest because it is there. Yes, that's right. Call it what you like: Yeti, Abominable Snowman, or my personal favorite, Kangchenjunga Rachyyas.

To reiterate what has been suggested thus far, Mallory wanted to climb Mt. Everest because he believed (or knew?) the Yeti was there. But what light does that shed on his disappearance, you ask? Well, if you don't want to get snow blindness, you had better put on your mountaineering goggles. But first, a refresher on the nature and history of science is in order. Scientific theories endeavor to explain phenomena -- that is, they try to determine what causes what. Sometimes, when a scientist finally stumbles on the correct theory, its accuracy seems so obvious in retrospect as to render all rival theories laughably preposterous.  (Incidentally, I know all of this stuff about science because my daughter's brother's grandmother's husband's daughter is a scientist.)

With a clearer understanding of the nature and history of science, we are now positioned to account for the heretofore mysterious disappearance of Mallory and Irvine. As with many good scientific theories, as soon as you hear this one, it will seem so obviously correct that all other competing theories (such as the one that will no doubt be presented in The Wildest Dream) will seem, well, wild. Ok, here it is.  You may want to take a few deep breaths.  George Herbert Leigh Mallory (1886-1924) and Andrew "Sandy" Comyn Irvine (1902-1924) were killed high on the northeast ridge of Mt. Everest (also known as "Sagarmatha" by the Nepalese and "Chomolungma" by the Chinese) by something that I will discuss in a forthcoming blog entry. I actually lost track of time and ought to be getting ready for bed. Oh, what the hell, let's do this now: They were killed by a yeti! That's it, you read that right. Mallory and Irvine were killed by a yeti. Have a look at this picture.

Having clearly articulated this intoxicating new theory about what really happened to Mallory and Irvine, a sober evaluation is required. The history of science demonstrates that the best theories have sweeping explanatory efficacy -- that is, they not only explain the main thing you want to explain, but every other related significant detail as well. The Yeti theory can obviously explain how Mallory and Irvine died (a yeti killed them). But can it explain why Mallory's body was found, while Irvine's body was not found? Yes. The Yeti ate Irvine (because he was much younger than Mallory), but was too full to eat Mallory. And now for the explanatory hurdle -- that one little fact that the rival theories just cannot explain.  Why was Mallory's body found with all of his personal effects intact, with one glaring exception: the photograph of his wife that Mallory planned to leave on the summit?  Quite simply, the Yeti stole it.  That is what you call explanatory efficacy.

So, there you have it. Mallory wanted to climb Mt. Everest because it -- namely, the Yeti -- is there, and Mallory and Irvine were subsequently killed by that selfsame Yeti. It should go without saying that the timing of the publication of this Yeti "theory" (one is now tempted to say Yeti "fact") could not be any worse for the producers of The Wildest Dream. Although I'm sure the scenery will be pretty, in light of the Yeti theory, watching the movie will be like watching two teams who failed to make the playoffs in their final regular season game: ultimately, it just won't matter.

Curiously, though not surprisingly, representatives of The Wildest Dream could not be reached for comment.*

* I didn't try to reach them.

The Arbitrariness of Lists

2009-12-10T12:53:00.000-08:00

Many mountaineers are obsessed with completing lists -- for instance, summitting every peak above a certain elevation in a particular region. Peakbaggers aspire to climb all 12 peaks above 14,000 feet in California, all 53 peaks above 14,000 feet in Colorado, and many have died trying to summit all 14 peaks above 8,000 meters in the Himalayas. But to me, these lists are extremely arbitrary. What, for instance, is so important about 14,000 feet? Why not 13,900 feet? Or 14,100 feet? Being cleanly divisible by 1,000 does not seem especially significant.

The length of one foot is itself an arbitrary convention. For whatever reason, people agreed that one foot is 12 inches, but there would have been nothing unnatural with setting it at 13 inches. In which case, no peaks in California would reach 14,000 feet. To make matters worse, in order for a peak to "count" as a 14er, it has to rise a certain distance above the saddle connecting it to a higher 14er. In California, if this distance (the peak's prominence) is set at 200 feet, then Thunderbolt Peak "counts", but not if it is set at 300 feet.

Climbing a mountain, or a lot of mountains, can be valuable in its own right. For some reason having to do with human nature, climbing mountains that fulfill certain numerical thresholds seems to add a layer of value to the experience. Why that is the case is a topic for further reflection.

Carlos Soria is my new mountaineering role model

2009-12-08T11:29:00.000-08:00

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. But Soria is not just obsessed with peaks rising above the arbitrary 8,000 meter threshold. Earlier this year, he made the first ascent of Dome Kang (~7,200 meters) in the Kangchenjunga Massif. Soria worked as a carpenter until "retiring" at 65.

Part 1 and part 2 of the ExplorersWeb interviews

Review of "Dark Summit"

2009-12-03T23:47:00.000-08:00

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.

Review of "Three Cups of Tea"

2009-12-02T20:14:00.000-08:00

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).