Author: Mathew Brock

by Jules Williams

The incline was rapidly increasing below our crampons as the eight of us all looked up, oohing and aahing as the light emerged from behind Mt. Hood. Though we had talked about the climb for weeks, nothing could prepare me for this. I was unprepared for how breathtaking it would all be. How humbling. And how much I would love every minute. Everyone else had been up a mountain before, but this was my first time, ever.

After eight weeks of intensive mountaineering training with my Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP) team, now I understood: how difficult it was, what discipline it took, how much of a commitment it was, why it was such an accomplishment. Not just standing on the top, but every step to get there. And safely home, as my dad always repeated. 

When I was a little girl and our family friends came over for dinner, we often ended up in the basement watching slideshows of my parents’ peak-bagging heydays. In 1972, my parents transplanted from the east coast and immediately fell in love with the outdoors and joined the Mazamas. They eventually summited Mt. Hood 15 times—give or take a few attempts—along with the other 15 major peaks in the Pacific Northwest, before retiring after a third kid—yours truly—came along. All the slides of endless hiking and climbing up were a bit boring when I was five years old. I liked the pictures with the view from the top the best. 

While circumnavigating the Timberline Trail in 2017, I started dreaming about seeing the view from atop Mt. Hood myself. I had hiked and backpacked a ton, but could I climb mountains? I couldn’t know until I tried. 

Back when my parents taught BCEP in the 1970s there were only a couple thousand or so climbers in the entire U.S. In 2020, there were about 250 applicants to BCEP. I was elated to get accepted to a team, then bummed. The first and last class was on March 9, 2020. The world was officially in a global pandemic. 

My calendar was already reserved for weekly conditioning hikes in April and May, so I found as much elevation as I could while everything was closed that spring, then socially distant ways to adventure all summer, culminating in another Timberline Trail completion. Instead of taking the fall and winter off per usual, I kept hiking on trails with fewer people and more solitude. I was even more excited to get accepted in 2021 and finally be on a team. 

Our first conditioning hike was on a typical grey and breezy early spring morning in the Columbia River Gorge. I was nervous about my sore ankle and felt shy around so many strangers, so I lagged behind the rest of the ten-person BCEP team with one of the assistants. It didn’t take long for my body and heart to start warming up.  

Within five minutes, the assistant started answering my inquisitive questions with “real talk”—I liked her immediately. Divorce, losing parents, family dynamics, career changes, dating, having a family. We had covered all the big stuff in our past, present, and future by the time our team stopped for lunch on Cook Hill overlooking Mt. Hood. 

During the lunch break, we practiced rappelling down the hill from anchors attached to the trees. I easily replicated the completely-new-to-me sequence of steps with knots and gear because I could look and understand. But, the climbing commands repeated verbally just went in one ear and out the other. 

The next morning we had our first indoor rock climbing session at the Mazama Mountaineering Center to learn how to climb, belay, and rappel for real. After a week of online modules, textbook reading, breakout group meetings, working out, hiking, and then climbing, I was pretty pooped by the end of the session. 

“Jules. Hold up! Before I forget,” the assistant said as she walked over. She handed me flashcards that she generously made the evening after our hike so that I could practice the verbal commands on my own. 

Six weeks later at our final indoor practice session, I knew the knots and commands by heart. Now, I was ready to practice the harder stuff, like falling. And the hardest stuff, like trust and dependence. 

I had one more wall to try. Looking up, I saw the assistant nonchalantly leaning back into her harness and ropes on the one-inch thick and four-foot-long plywood ledge of the ice-climbing wall. Just like she was sitting in a hammock—made only of air.

Once I got up there, I immediately nudged my butt and back into the corner. We secured personal protection to the wall for me so I could set up my own rappel. Throughout the program, I specifically asked the instructors not to give me a hand unlocking a tricky carabiner or fixing the rope because I wanted to be capable of doing it all by myself. My mom used to joke that I tried to change my own diaper. 

“Wait, before I rappel, can you show me how to do that?” I asked.

“Do what?” she replied.

“Lean into nothing.”

Even though I had three points of safety, the tears dripped down my face as soon as I leaned back from the wall. Defying all logic, the attachment felt insecure. The assistant, a trauma nurse and a mom, gently reassured me over and over about how each anchor point, knot, and carabiner was attached until I breathed more steadily and sniffled “thank you!” through my face mask. We both giggled.

It was not about the fear of falling. It was about trust. Depending on the anchors—set by others—and the personal protection—set by myself—for safety and support. Asking for and getting help. Being vulnerable to unknown weakness and strength. 

According to Victoria Erickson, “When you’re a mountain person you understand the brilliance and beauty of contradiction. The way land can be your greatest teacher. How something can be both grounding and elevating, intoxicating and soothing, wild yet serene, intensely primal yet patient, and cycling yet predictable within the shifts and rhythms. Mountains keep us on the edge yet wrap us in the sensation of safety all at once. I don’t know of anything sweeter, or more magic-inducing than that.”

Just so, teamwork keeps us on the edge yet wrapped in the sensation of safety all at once. 

Over the next seven weeks, we became a team: Catching mistakes as we safety checked each other’s gear, deciding not to complete a hike when folks didn’t feel well, navigating unclear trails, walking in each other’s snowy footsteps, and learning others’ fears and needs. 

We were in it together. We all applied and were accepted for a Mt. Hood climb, though an unpredictable weather front of high winds and low temperatures moved in on our climb date. We had to be patient. Keep training and preparing. We wouldn’t set foot on the mountain for another two weeks, but the climb had begun. 

The wait was well worth it. It was a perfectly clear night. The sweet, surprisingly warm breezes wafted by like someone just opened the oven door to check on some cookies. And carried the “silent but deadly” sour stink of rotten eggs rising from the dormant volcano’s sulfuric fumaroles.

Around 5:30 a.m. we stopped and watched in awe as the mountain’s shadow spread west across the forest below like a giant awakening, as magical as the crescent of blood orange moon that had risen from the darkness in the east. Or the Milky Way that arched up over us toward the south. Or the twinkling lights of Portland we’d seen toward the west. 

My dad said he always enjoyed the journey of a climb, whereas my mom was driven by the goal of getting to the top. I did both—savored the beauty and worried about the slow progress of our large group. More stops, cautious steps, mild altitude sickness, varying speed. I wondered: How were we going to summit in time?

By 7 a.m. we only had 1,000 more feet to climb—we had covered 80% of the ascent mileage, but still had 80% of the difficulty to go. It was getting riskier by the minute as the sun continued to rise.

We paused in the Devil’s Kitchen to assess. It was only early June and the creek below the snow was shockingly visible with only an ice bridge across the fumaroles. We consulted briefly with another seasoned mountaineer, a father leading his 15-year-old son’s first ascent as they roped up together as a precaution and then promptly set off. There wasn’t much time for deliberation—instead, we needed decisions. Do we keep trying or turn around?

After crossing the Hogsback, we paused at the top of Hot Rocks, looking down the scree field of exposed rock. This was the exact spot where a 64-year-old man died the previous weekend while descending. The circumstances of the 500-foot fall had not yet been publicly released when we climbed. Of the 15,000-20,000 who attempt to climb it, one or two people die on Mt. Hood each year, on average. This was the first death since 2018.  

This mixed extra fear into the excitement as we took the first steps up the crux of the Old Chute. We slowly progressed up the very steep incline following in others’ hardened bootsteps. Several small groups passed us and also returned from the summit to descend. Three skiers started descending above us and knocked small bits of snow debris down the face. We paused so we could communicate with them and assess safety. 

Looking up, I estimated 40 steps to the next traverse that led over the edge and toward the summit, just out of eyesight some 200 feet further up. I turned around and finally really looked down, surprised to see familiar-looking terrain, just like the double black diamond ski runs that scared me while alone, but which I willing followed my older siblings down when I was a kid. 

I heard one of the leaders make the call from below. We were turning around. The debris was the last straw. It was likely safe to proceed, but folks were done. I realized I could safely sit down, say a prayer of gratitude and take a few minutes to take it all in—not just the stunning blue sky view but everything that led up to that moment. Instead of disappointment, I felt fulfilled and capable. The dream came true. The goal was achieved. We gave it our all. So we weren’t at the tip-top, but we did climb a mountain together! 

Sitting around the Timberline Lodge parking lot afterward our team shared salty snacks while celebrating and debriefing. Not only the climb, but everything we’d learned together—that climb, in the program, and during the pandemic. Could we do it? Heck yeah. And we would. Another day. This was just the beginning.

This article originally appeared in the January/February issue of the Mazama Bulletin. You can read other articles in that issue, and past issues, here.

Written by Kenneth Beebe in the 1926 Mazama Annual.

• 

Editors note: The following is an exact reproduction of Beebe’s article with the original wording and grammar intact. The images are drawn from his 1920s era outfitting catalog.

“A few suggestions regarding equipment gleaned from ‘cold,’ ‘hard’ and ‘wet’ ex­perience may be of interest to our mem­bers, particularly our· new ones. Merle Moore speaks the truth when he says, ‘Your pleasure will depend largely on your equipment,’ as you can easily spoil a won­derful trip by too much, too little, or not the right kind of an outfit. 

In outfitting for any kind of a trip out­doors one must keep the weight and bulk down to comfortable essentials consistent with the means of transportation. A sleep­ing bag that will keep you warm is essen­tial. A four-pound wool bat, covered with a wool-proof light sheeting, folded over and sewed across the foot and three-fourths up one side and inserted into a light outer bag, makes a very satisfactory bed. The four-pound bat is a much better weight for this climate than the three or three and a half pound. Such a bag should not weigh more than eight pounds complete. The eiderdown bag possesses more warmth for its weight than the wool bat with the ad­vantage, in addition, of its compressibility for packing, They are also a number of patented bags on the market combining real warmth with light weight. Do not have the outer bag waterproof (except possibly on the bottom) as the body mois­ture, which has to be eliminated from the covering of the sleeper before he can be warm, will condense on the inside of the cover, drawing the heat away from your body instead of retaining it. 

As a protection against rain at night, use either a light tent with waterproof ground cloth sewed in, weighing 3 1/2 to 4 pounds, or a waterproof silk fly about 9 ft. by 10 ft., which can be rigged up as an overhead tent only or, by putting one end on the ground with the sleeping bag on it and then bringing it up, around and over the hag, you can get the combination of tent and ground cloth. A light air mattress and pillow adds greatly to your sleeping comfort. 

Good footwear is all important in walk­ing over rocks and ice fields. Take one pair of stout, high topped boots, with low, broad heels, large enough to allow the wearing of two pairs of socks-one pair heavy wool and one light cotton or silk next to the skin, for this ensures comfort and prevents blisters. The souls should be heavy and nailed with cone-head Hun­garian hob nails. The boots must be well greased and broken in. On the ice and hard snow, either Crampons (ice creepers) or a number of No. 3 or 4 winged screw calks, screwed into the soles and heels, will prevent slipping. Include a light pair of shoes like high tennis shoes or ankle high moccasins for comfort about camp-­also sufficient additional hose according to the duration of the outing. A small quantity of one-inch zinc adhesive plaster is advisable for prevention against blisters. 

An outing suit, preferable of wool or forestry cloth, a mosquito head net and mosquito dope in a small can, soft hat, heavy woolen shirt and a light one for camp, coat sweater or mackinaw coat, a suit of light all wool underwear for moun­tain climbing and your regular underwear for tramping and camp, three bandana handkerchiefs, gloves or mittens (one pair leather and one pair heavy wool), extra shoe laces, tin cup and plate, knife, fork and spoon, canteen, shoe grease or oil, pack hoard or rucksack, toilet roll with towels, soap, cold cream in tube, grease paint and lip stick, all of smallest size and weight, make up the outfit. A rain cape is a needed addition and better than a rain coat as it completely covers your pack and you do not perspire under it. For protec­tion from the wind on the mountain top a windproof parka is a Godsend. 

Goggles or amber colored glasses should be worn on the snow fields to prevent snow blindness. An alpenstock is gener­ally used in this country in preference to an ice axe except by the experienced moun­taineer. For light at night the carbide, electric flashlight or folding candle lantern will give real satisfaction on the trail and in camp. If you take a flashlight, don’t forget to take along an extra battery and bulb. A two-pound axe in sheath is a handy camp tool and a note book, pencil, writing paper, stamped envelopes, water­proof match box (a screw top shaving soap can, lined with blotting paper, makes a good one), pocket compass, pocket knife, map, and a few extra rawhide thongs or strong string are useful accessories. Don’t forget your song books, camera and extra films. 

A good emergency first aid kit consists of 1 roll 2″ gauze bandage, absorbent cot­ton cloth in waterproof containers), lister­ine, mercerex, Unguentine, iodine and resi­nol. Take just a Iittle of each using very small containers. 

Above all, be careful in getting together your outfit. Don’t buy anything until you need it and then buy only what you know you want. A good outfit, carefully se­lected, will give you constant satisfaction, while on the other hand you can sink a lot of money in stuff that is of no value to you nor anyone else. 

We are saddened to share the news that Long died on Tuesday, September 7. Long was a true treasure to the Mazama community. He made an impact on the lives of so many. From leading folks to their first summit, to tackling a more difficult climb, to teaching first aid, or just sharing a smile—he will be forever missed. Climb high, Long.

Yunlong Ong’s quest to outclimb cancer

by Ian McCluskey

On a sweltering July day, our climbing team returned to the trailhead after a successful summit of Mt. Jefferson. Packs laden with ropes, pickets, ice axes, second tools, tents, sleeping bags, stoves, leftover fuel, and ripe blue bags were dropped with a grunt. Leg muscles ached, heel blisters stung, and the grit of trail dust and forest fire ash stuck to sweaty skin. It was that moment when you want to peel off trail-grimy clothes and pour water all over your head, then look back at the now distant snow-capped peak and stupidly grin with a soul-deep sense of self-satisfaction. 

For our climb leader, Yunlong Ong, it was his first successful Jefferson summit, having tried once before. Even more meaningful, it was the very first climb that he led as an official Mazama climb leader. Yet achieving these two hard-earned life goals was not the most significant thing on our climb leader’s mind. 

I hobbled over to congratulate Yunlong—or “Long” as he’s known by friends and fellow Mazamas. As he peeled off his hiking shirt, I noticed the unnatural protrusion on his bare chest, just under his skin. Through this port had been pumped the potent chemicals to battle his gastric cancer. 

This was his first climb after intense rounds of chemotherapy and resection surgery. His salt-and-pepper hair had started to grow back, but just three weeks earlier he had suffered two severe episodes of gastrointestinal bleeding, requiring transfusions, and leaving him weakened. Most people wouldn’t have decided to embark on something as strenuous as climbing a mountain. 

But Long doesn’t believe in limitations. 

Starting with the mountain considered Oregon’s most technical peak, Long began a personal quest to outclimb his cancer. 

A Season of Blitz Climbs 

After his successful summit of Jefferson in the summer of 2019, Long set out on nothing short of a mountaineering blitz. He attempted seven more climbs, reaching six Cascade summits. A schedule shift turned Middle Sister into a burly car-to-car push. 

Just a few days later, I was with him as we zigged-zagged our way up the Emmons glacier on Mt. Rainier. 

It was now late season. The snow had gone through so many thaw-freeze cycles that crampons and ice axes left dings on the hard surface but made no purchase. These conditions, and a sleepless night of howling winds, made the choice to turn back obvious. It would be the first, and only, unsuccessful summit attempt in Long’s push before the end of the Cascade climb season of 2019. 

At the customary post-climb meal of burgers and milkshakes, he gave a little speech to the team. Then he got choked up. 

Most know Long for his big smile. “Hey buddy,” he’ll say as his standard greeting, and if he likes something, it’s “cool beans.” In small social groups that he considers “like-minded,” he reveals his unabashedly playful nature. With his close friends, his form of endearment is to tease them.

But other times, he is often quiet. On climbs, he has an intense focus, his face covered by helmet, sunglasses, and balaclava. He keeps emotions guarded, even bottled up. So when tears come out, it often takes people by surprise. Sometimes it even takes Long by surprise. 

“I’m sorry,” he said to the team after Rainier, though the team understood why we turned back. But it wasn’t the team that Long felt that he’d disappointed. 

He wiped his eyes and collected himself. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I was thinking of my dad.”

From the South China Sea

 Long was born in Brunei, a tiny nation on the island of Borneo looking out across the South China Sea. Islam is the dominant religion and Malay the common language. But Long’s parents were Chinese. At home, they spoke Mandarin and practiced Buddhism.

His dad worked as an air conditioning and refrigerator mechanic. But he had “foresight,” Long says. He enrolled Long in an English school, where Long learned to speak his third language.   

His dad was a man of few words. He worked hard to be a provider, and told his two sons that “education was the way.”

In 1983, the family moved to Singapore. It is smaller in land-size than Brunei, but with more than 5 million people it is one of the most densely populated countries in the world. For his father, the move was an increase in the cost of living to support the family, but it also offered his children a path forward in their education. Singapore has one of the highest youth literacy rates in the world.

In 1996, Long earned his bachelor’s degree from the University of Singapore—the first in the family to graduate college. 

He felt the culture of Singapore was rigid, demanding conformity. The cultural expectation was for him to marry and immediately start a family. Long worked in youth development programs that he describes as similar to Outward Bound. But he didn’t get along with some of his colleagues, he says, due to his “rebellious nature.” 

As Long traveled to various countries of Southeast Asia for his job, he saw life outside the relatively wealthy counties of Brunei and Singapore. The level of medical conditions made a big impression on him, and he felt he wanted to make life better for people. He realized that he could accomplish this through medicine. It was a life-changing epiphany. 

When Long told his father that he wanted to move to America to study medicine, his dad said simply, “Go do what makes you happy.”

Becoming a Nurse and a Mazama

Long moved first to Denver, Colorado to earn a Bachelor of Science in Nursing, then to Los Angeles, California where he entered UCLA for a master’s degree. 

In Los Angeles, Long met Bill, a location manager for Hollywood movies. Bill smiles as he recalls that first chance meeting in a gym, when he asked Long about the t-shirt he was wearing that said “Thailand.” Bill’s eyes get a little misty. “The best thing that ever happened to me,” he says. 

In 2010, Long had the opportunity to continue pursuing his path in medicine at OHSU. He and Bill moved to Portland. 

At OHSU, Long began his career as a Nurse Practitioner, eventually settling into the specialty Pain Management. 

While working on a cardiac ward, he met Mark Stave, a nurse, and, it turned out, a Mazama.

Long had first experienced climbing back in Asia. In Colorado, he hiked a few “14-ers.” But the Northwest’s Cascades offered what Long considered “real climbing”—long-distance approaches, setting up a base camp, and crossing glaciers ripped by crevasses. 

He took the Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP), and a couple years later the Intermediate Climbing School (ICS). Climbing with Mazamas gave Long a community of “like-minded” people who shared his passion for climbing and his love of nature. Having been focused intensely on his academic studies for years, Long could enjoy a new chapter of alpine adventure and camaraderie.

In 2016, he decided to take the final step and enter the Mazama Leadership Development program to become an official Mazama climb leader.

In August 2018, Long had reached his third provisional climb. Never settling for easy, he’d picked North Sister. I was fresh out of BCEP that spring and applied for his climb. Rather than reject me flat out, Long called other climb leaders for a reference. Running background checks like this would later become one of Long’s standard practices as a climb leader. 

On that climb, I got to witness his leadership style. “He tries to get everyone involved in the climb,” says Mark Stave. “I think that makes for a very strong team when everyone feels like they are not just along for the ride.” 

Long successfully completed this final provisional, completing the requirements to apply to become a Mazama climb leader. Barely a month later, Long stood on the summit of Africa’s fabled Kilimanjaro. That same day he learned that he had been approved as a climb leader. Long’s life had reached a true high point.

Before heading back to the U.S., he flew to Singapore to celebrate his dad’s 80th birthday. He had lots of success to report, yet he had one concern that he’d have to deal with when he got back home that he kept to himself. He didn’t want his dad to worry.

“Why is dad so thin?” he asked his mother. 

His mother hadn’t noticed. “When you see someone every single day, you don’t notice the gradual changes,” said Long. 

Before he left, Long said to his younger brother, “Look after dad.”

Critical Juncture

Before Long left for Africa, he had experienced gastrointestinal bleeding. His doctor had scheduled an endoscopy for after his return. 

The endoscopy revealed two ulcers. His doctor took a biopsy. When Long saw the image, with his medical training he could see that the cells did not look normal. 

Three days later, the test results confirmed what he’d feared.

“That’s when my world fell apart,” he said. 

He turned to his partner, Bill. “We had to decide what we would do at this critical juncture,” Long said. 

There was so much uncertainty ahead. “What was certain,” said Long, “We love each other. We want to spend this time together.”

A few days after Thanksgiving 2018, they gathered a small group of friends, some of Bill’s family, and a minister. They exchanged vows. They were declared “husband and husband.” 

For him to marry a man was “beyond comprehension” in the culture Long had grown up in. “The opportunity to say that you love someone, of the same gender,” explained Long. “You can be who you are, not what you are.”

Setting His Sights High

At the beginning of 2019, Long started his first round of chemo. But soon after, he flew back to Singapore.

His Dad was having health problems. It started with pneumonia, but had worsened to a delirium where he didn’t know where he was and could not even recognize family members. But when Long went to visit him in the hospital, his dad recognized him and asked, “Why do you have no hair?” 

“Oh, it’s a new fashion,” said Long, not wanting to worry his father.

That spring, Long underwent his second round of chemo and resection surgery. Then he flew back to Singapore again, this time for his dad’s funeral. 

Long’s body was pummeled by more rounds of chemo. And when the last round was done, he turned his sights to mountains.

Starting with Jefferson, he charged six summits, apologizing to his team for being, “a little slower than usual.” 

“I’ve only seen him frustrated once,” says Daven Berg, climbing partner and friend. They were coming down North Sister. After some 13 hours since the alpine start, a day of setting lines and keeping a watchful eye on his team, Long was exhausted and beginning to fall behind. Daven was ahead with the others when he heard a noise come from Long. “It wasn’t a word, and it wasn’t aimed at anyone, but just like a yell up at the sky, just an expression of frustration out loud,” Daven explains. “It wasn’t a theatrical display to draw attention to himself, just a moment. A moment where I realized he was human.”

“Then, he was back to his jovial self.”

Long’s blitz climbs of 2019 might have seemed like a frantic dash to fill every weekend with a climb—going against the common sense to rest and recover after such an intensive medical ordeal and painful loss of his father—but Long had a plan with deeper purpose. 

He had to rebuild his body’s iron levels from the massive blood loss. He wasn’t just scrambling up the familiar Cascades for pure fun—every foot upward was training. 

He charged to the end of the climb season, then headed south to Mexico. He climbed two mountains, 17,343-foot Iztaccihuatl and 18,491-foot Pico De Orizaba. But even these peaks were training for his real goal of 2019. 

He had climbed Africa’s highest peak with his friend Sue, from Singapore. Now they’d set their sights on the highest peak in the Americas, Aconcagua. Rising 22,838 feet above sea level in the Andes of Argentina, it is the highest peak outside the Himalayas. To pick such a superlative summit was fitting for such a difficult year.  

South America had held a special place in Long’s imagination. “It had a mystique,” he said. “It felt exotic, like a true adventure.” 

After his string of summits, Long felt strong again. Ready.

Transcendent Loneliness 

Climbs always seem to start loud, and eventually get quiet. 

This is what Long seeks. “A pure communion between human and mountain, uninterrupted by other human beings,” he said. “I seek the pureness and the transcendent loneliness of the mountain, the mountain breeze that seems to blow away my worries and the pure elation of entering a relationship with the mountains.”

When Long goes on climbs, like our Jefferson climb, he slips away from the group for a moment. “I have some business to take care of,” he’ll say, making a joke about using a blue bag. Which is actually true. But under his potty humor, there’s his spiritual side. He’ll step away from the team to say some prayers in private.

Reaching the summit of Aconcagua was the highest he’d ever been on the planet. Being so high above the world of cities and roads and schools and hospitals, put him closer to a spiritual plane, “energy that we can’t fully understand,” he describes. 

When he is on a mountaintop, Long stops to think about his dad. He keeps a snapshot taken when his dad was a young man, proudly standing with a team on the talus peak of Mt. Kinabalu back in Borneo.

Long recalls the last time he saw his dad in the hospital in Singapore. “Before he died, I sensed he was proud of me,” says Long. 

He offers the wind a prayer. “Dad, wherever you are, I hope I am your pride and joy. I hope you are in a good space. Thank you for giving me this life to do this climb.” 

When Long first moved to America, his dad was worried about his son. “Does he have enough money, someone to take care of him?” 

When Long says his mountaintop prayers, he tells his dad, “Don’t worry about me.” 

More Peaks Than a Lifetime 

Long beat his cancer into remission, but it returned. He resumed the rounds of chemo. He got good news, then bad news, then good news, then more bad … as it too often goes with the cruelty of cancer.

But he doesn’t want to focus on the disease—rather, on resiliency. Thinking about the mountains he will climb gives him something to look forward to. “The life-motivating desire to scale every mountain I can possibly do so with my finite time in this mortal world!”

“As a health-care provider, he’s aware of his prognosis,” says Mark Stave. “I think he’s realistic, but he doesn’t let the diagnosis of cancer hold him back. These are goals he had pre-cancer, and he’s not going to let cancer take those dreams away from him.”

By the end of 2020, Long had set his sights on returning to South America to attempt three large peaks in Ecuador—Cayambe, Cotopaxi, Chimbarazo. He invited Mark and Daven to join.

Long feels drawn back to the Andes. “There are more peaks than we’ve heard of there, the expanse of the unknown,” he says. “Standing on a summit, you can see more peaks than anyone can climb in a lifetime.” 

But that won’t stop Long from trying.

The Value of Community Science Snow Observations

Article by David Hill, from the December 2020 Mazama

You don’t need to be a backcountry skier/rider or an alpinist to benefit from reliable information on the snowpack. Now, you probably are if you are reading this, so think about it for a minute…what do you typically want to know and where and when do you want to know it? You might be looking for an avalanche forecast right NOW, which requires site-specific information on the vertical structure and stability of the snowpack. You might be looking for less-detailed information on coverage in the near future– how long of a hike will you have from trailhead to snowline next weekend? Will the bergschrund at the base of the couloir you want to ski still be filled in two weeks from now? Will I have to wax for water again? And, could someone please tell me if the Pearly Gates will be in shape next month?

Well, even if the front country is more your style or (gasp!) you don’t even ski/ride/climb, you still benefit from information about the snow. Snowpack plays a huge role in regional water resources in the Pacific Northwest. Oregon and Washington each receive about 150 cubic kilometers of precipitation each year. In beer units, that’s 300 trillion pints of hoppy IPA, and a fair bit of that falls as snow. Water planners need regional-scale information on snow depth, density, and distribution in order to make accurate estimates of seasonal water yields months out into the future.

Meeting the information needs of these different user groups is a challenge because of these different spatial and temporal requirements. Fortunately, there are a lot of sources of snow data that can help, although they vary in terms of accuracy, coverage, and resolution. In-situ, or on the ground measurements have historically been the most common. These measurements include those made by personnel on the move in the field and also those at fixed, automated stations. An example of the former could be an avalanche forecaster, heli-ski guide, or ski patroller who records a measurement (pit profile, snow depth, snow density, etc.) in a database such as SnowPilot.

Fixed, automated snow telemetry (or SNOTEL) stations measure snow depth with an ultrasonic sensor and snow-water-equivalent (SWE) with a snow pillow, which is a fluid-filled bladder that measures pressure and therefore the weight of the overlying snowpack. In the western United States, we benefit from an incredible network of these stations, operated by the Natural Resources Conservation Service (NRCS). We have over 800 of these sites that are currently active, and many have periods of record of over 40 years. This is a gold mine of snow data that allows us to understand the current state of the snowpack and also how it has changed over the past several decades.

As if that was not good enough news, there are numerous remote sensing assets that are available to us. NASA has several missions that use airborne Light Detection and Ranging (LIDAR) to map snow depths in exquisite detail. At higher elevations still, there are many satellite missions (NASA, European Space Agency, etc.) that provide precise, high resolution images of snow cover and other snow-related information. The spatial coverage and the frequency of measurement vary among the different missions, and the measurements can be complicated by cloud cover and other environmental conditions.

Since no measurement campaign can measure everywhere, every time, computer modeling can be used to provide estimates on snowpack conditions at other places and times. At the national level, the National Operational Hydrologic Remote Sensing Center produces the Snow Data Assimilation System (SNODAS) data product, which has a 1 km spatial scale and a daily time step. SNODAS grids from 2003 up to today (it is an operational model) can be viewed at a number of websites including www.climateengine.org. The 1 km scale of SNODAS is fine for many applications such as water planning, but is too coarse to resolve local snow redistribution properties such as drifting and avalanching.

All of the data sources and modeling programs described above help snow scientists, snow safety professionals, and recreationists better understand the current state of the snowpack and also long-term (decadal scale) trends in snowpack characteristics. Opportunity still knocks, however. High-elevation regions of complex terrain are where most of the snow is found. However, that is not where the SNOTEL stations are. Due to the need for vehicular access for installation and maintenance, most SNOTEL sites are in areas of moderate elevation and gentle terrain.

The Community Snow Observations (CSO; communitysnowobs.org;
@communitysnowobs) project began in 2017 to test the idea that backcountry users could help to fill the data gaps that exist in high-elevation mountain areas. In concept, it’s a perfect match. Backcountry skiers, riders, and climbers cover long distances, thrive in high elevations and in complex terrain, and go far away from roads! The CSO vision was that data crowd-sourced by the backcountry community would then be assimilated into high-resolution snowpack models, and these model products could be returned to the public to be obsessed over while planning shenanigans for the coming weekend. In addition, the data would be used in collaborations with other NASA programs that focus on snow processes. So, if you’ve ever dreamed of being a rocket scientist and working with NASA, here’s your chance!

The idea of creating a large network of community scientists is not a new one. In the context of weather and snow observations, the Community Collaborative Rain, Hail and Snow Network (CoCoRaHS) has observers distributed throughout the United States who measure rainfall, snowfall, and hail. However, the CoCoRaHS project is largely a ‘backyard observer’ type program and does not sample high alpine environments. And, community science does have some challenges. The measurements are opportunistic and depend upon decisions made by the participants themselves. CSO can offer some suggestions and guidance, but ultimately must rely on the decisions made by its participants about where and when data come from. Another challenge has to do with data quality control. Tutorials are provided but, in the end, CSO recognizes that measurements are coming from a diverse body of contributors with differing levels of experience with data collection.

Participating in CSO is quick and easy. Depth measurements are made with an avalanche probe or other measuring device. Protocols on making measurements and selecting representative sites are provided on the CSO website. Your smartphone is the second piece of gear you need. Even if you’re out of cell range, the GPS on your phone knows where you are and what time it is, critical pieces of information for the project. Third, you need to have the Mountain Hub app on your phone. Mountain Hub was founded in 2015 with a vision of a crowd-sourced information network for the outdoors. Mountain Hub was acquired by Mammut in 2017 and then just this summer, the CSO project acquired it. Easy-to-follow tutorials on using the app are also found at our website. With just a bit of practice, you can stop, assemble your probe, log a measurement and be on your way in a few minutes. So, stopping to shed a layer? Pull out your probe and send in the data. Ripping skins at the start of a descent? The snow needs a few more minutes to corn up…pull out your probe, check the depth, and tell us all about it. Cooling your heels waiting for your out-of-shape partner to catch up? Might as well do some snow science while you wait…and wait.

Participation in CSO has grown steadily since the project started. We have had about 15,000 submissions from about 3000 unique users around the globe. Measurements to date have been dominated by North America, but we are starting to make inroads in other areas around the globe.

So, what’s in it for us? Well, CSO gets unique, high-elevation data that we get to study and share with NASA, and, as noted above, NASA gets to use these data points to validate many of their other snow measurements. But, community science should not be a one-way street. Successful community science projects are collaborative exchanges and CSO is invested in listening to our participants about ways to improve our project and also in delivering to our participants useful, timely information about snow in their region. The CSO project started up in Alaska and our model simulations there have demonstrated that data contributions from community scientists dramatically reduce errors in our snowpack models. Since then, as our project has grown, we have rolled out modeling efforts in many other areas in the western United States. The goal we are working toward is real-time, high-resolution snowpack information in all high elevation areas.

We named the project Community Snow Observations for a reason…community. Backcountry users who see the value in community science and who see the value in trading a bit of their time for the best available information on snow and water resources are the true core of CSO. There is no crowd-sourcing without the crowd and we sincerely hope you will participate this winter. Be sure to visit communitysnowobs.org, sign up for our email list, and follow us at @communitysnowobs on Twitter and Instagram for the latest project results and information. Have a great and safe season.

David Hill is a professor at Oregon State University and a National Geographic Explorer. For over 25 years, he has studied how water behaves from snowy mountain headwaters to coastal environments. He collaborates with other scientists interested in water’s response to climate drivers and works with stakeholders to provide information on water resources. He currently co-leads the Community Snow Observations project, a citizen science project funded by NASA to improve our understanding of our physical environment. Hill has also recently been an Erskine Fellow at the University of Canterbury, New Zealand. No matter the hemisphere, if it is springtime, you’ll find him out on skis sampling the snow between mountain summit and trailhead.