Category: Featured

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Statement in Support of our AAPI Community Members

Last June, we released a statement that led with,

Being and feeling safe is a right for all people.
This is not true for many within our community.

Today, we are reaffirming that statement and voicing our support for our Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) community members. The murderous rampage on March 17 in Atlanta by a racially-motivated gunman, led to the deaths of eight individuals, six of whom were Asian women. This alone is a horrific and tragic event. But it is not an isolated incident. The United States has a long history of anti-Asian violence and hate which has only intensified during the COVID-19 pandemic.

We are dedicated to actively listening to the Asian members of our community, to receiving feedback, and implementing change. We want you to know that we see you, we hear you, and we are working to become an organization where you feel fully supported and welcome.

Today, we are calling upon our Mazama community to show their support for our AAPI members and to aid in disrupting the cycle of violence and hate. We ask you to act to prevent gender-motivated harassment and violence in our communities, and to learn about the history of racism and violence against Asians in this country. And we ask you to question your everyday interpretations, judgements, and actions as you review the list of resources below.

A few action steps the Mazamas have taken in the last year to address the culture of systemic racism and gender-based violence within our community:

  • Launched an online Preventing Sexual Harassment & Sexual Assault training.
  • Published an Equity Statement that was crafted by our Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion team.
  • Supported a Mazama board member and committee member’s enrollment in the Intertwine Alliance Equity & Inclusion Cohort.
  • Supported two staff members attending The Outdoor CEO Diversity Pledge Fundamentals Training.
  • Implemented learnings from that training including updating language in our job postings and accessibility language on our website.
  • Worked with our partner outdoor organizations to schedule a Systemic and Structural Racism 2-day intensive training for our Executive Director and a board member. The learnings from this training will be shared with our membership. (scheduled for October 2021)
  • The Mazama Board voted to sign on to the Outdoor CEO Diversity Pledge.

Several other initiatives, including proposed amendments to our organization’s bylaws, are in progress. This is just the beginning of our work to make the Mazamas a truly welcoming and inclusive place.

What can you do to learn more and provide support to our AAPI community?

ACT
If you witness anti-Asian harassment or violence, you can use the 5 Ds of bystander intervention (from Hollaback! Learn more on their website).

  1. Distract: Find a way to pull attention away from the situation, or the person being attacked.
  2. Delegate: Evaluate the situation and organize others to respond.
  3. Document: Record the incident. Keep a safe distance when recording, and always ask the person targeted what they want you to do with the footage. Do not further victimize an individual by posting a video/audio without their knowledge.
  4. Delay: After the incident, check in with anyone who was affected to show them that their experience and well-being matters, and that you see and value them.
  5. Direct: Step forward in a situation directly and intervene, either physically or verbally.

You can sign up for a virtual Bystander Intervention training jointly organized by Asian Americans Advancing Justice and Hollaback! here.

The Mazamas does not tolerate violence or racism in our community. If you have witnessed or been subject to harassment while participating in our courses, activities, or events, we implore you to file an incident report. To the extent possible, confidentiality will be maintained except as necessary to conduct the investigation and take appropriate remedial action.

You can read the Mazama Harassment Policy and file a report here.

LEARN
Most of us have a lot to learn when it comes to racism, anti-racism, and allyship in the United States, particularly as it relates to the history and prevalence of anti-Asian rhetoric. There are hundreds of important resources available online, in the library, and through your headphones. Here are a few places and statements to get us started:

We also encourage you to learn more about Oregon State Bill 289, which would increase penalties for bias crimes perpetrated on Oregon public lands and provide means for restorative justice. Email your state senator to share your support and encourage them to vote for this bill.

The Mazama staff would like to thank the members of our Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion team who continue to hold us accountable and encourage us to use our platform to denounce hate. Their time, efforts, and support are critical to the Mazamas becoming a more inclusive and just organization.

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Safe Backcountry Recreation This Winter

Article and photographs by Ali Gray, from the December 2020 Mazama Bulletin
Good social distancing in the Mazama Backcountry Skiing course.

As I write this, the United States and the world are waiting in limbo for the results of the 2020 presidential election. What else am I and my fellow winter recreation enthusiasts waiting for? Snow! Each winter, people across the Pacific Northwest get out in greater and greater numbers to enjoy the wonders of winter backcountry recreation.

In fact, backcountry skiing and snowboarding is currently the fastestgrowing segment of the snow sports industry. At the same time, the numbers of people getting out in other ways—think snowmobiling and snowshoeing—are also increasing in leaps and bounds. This is a trend that has been happening for well over a decade.

But then COVID-19 hit. Thrust into a worldwide pandemic in the middle of the prime spring season, ski resorts across the country shut down. With nowhere else to go, and with the prospect of everyday attractions such as concerts, bars and restaurants, museums, and other social gatherings canceled for the foreseeable future, people turned to nature. Trailheads overflowed with recreationists, and backcountry touring equipment sold in record numbers throughout March and April. This trend continued through the summer, with many areas across the Pacific Northwest and beyond seeing more people on our public lands on weekdays than are normally seen during peak weekends and holidays. Weekend warriors like myself started to seek out trails that are more remote and off the beaten path to avoid the crowds.

What does this mean for winter? Ski resorts have implemented plans to remain open during the pandemic, but the reality is that the number of people riding the lifts this winter will be greatly reduced. Winter hiking, snowshoeing, and snowmobiling will also likely be on the rise as those who took to the trails all summer and fall will want to continue the activity while urban activities remain limited. It’s pretty easy to see that backcountry recreation will see record numbers of people out on the slopes and trails this winter. Although I’m delighted more folks will be experiencing nature in the snow, I’m worried about the consequences of more people with less experience in volatile winter environments. So how can you stay safe?

COVID-19 PRECAUTIONS

First off, a no-brainer. Just because you’re outside doesn’t mean you’re safe from COVID. Social distancing and wearing a mask are still important. Remember that studies have shown that fleece neck gaiters and buffs are less effective than cotton face masks and surgical masks. Also remember, cotton is normally a big no-no in the winter because it’s cold when wet and dries slowly, so you may need to bring a handful of masks on your outing, especially if you’re going to be breathing heavily.

KEEPING YOUR DISTANCE (IT’S NOT JUST FOR COVID)

We’ve all heard about avalanches and the risks they pose. Sliding snow isn’t just dangerous for the person that triggers the avalanche—many slides travel much further down the slope than you’d think, and can easily trap people down below who weren’t involved in the initial triggering event. With more people on the slopes this winter, this will be especially important. Be aware of your surroundings and how busy your trail is, and avoid traveling at the bottom of large slopes or in gullies. If you cross a steep, snowy slope, go one at a time. This way, if an avalanche were to occur, only one person is caught instead of your entire group.

SPEAKING OF DISTANCE …

If you’re like me, you may be traveling to fartherout and more remote places this winter to avoid the crowds. Keep in mind that while the trail may not be a conga-line and there may still be fresh powder, you’re also farther away from help. Carrying an emergency beacon is a really good idea, and also, in addition to the 10 essentials, make sure to carry extra warm clothes, socks, gloves, and maybe even a camp stove and small bivy sack. Remember that even a small injury can become way more difficult to manage when it’s freezing and there is snow on the ground, and that it gets dark quickly and early this time of year.

Avalanche debris on the climbing route on Mt. Shasta, 2019.

SPEAKING OF AVALANCHES …

There are going to be more people out this winter, so it’s super important each one of us does what we can to keep each other safe. While many online resources are aimed at skiers and snowboarders, knowledge of avalanches is just as relevant and important for snowshoers, hikers, climbers, and motorized users.

If you haven’t already, attend an avalanche awareness class! These free events are put on by local businesses across the Portland metro area, with many also being offered online this year. Awareness classes last a few hours and will teach you about the types of avalanches, where they occur, and how you can best avoid them. Also, Know Before You Go (kbyg.org), avalanche.org, and Avalanche Canada (avalanche.ca/start-here) are great online resources for avalanche education. The Northwest Avalanche Center (nwac.us) and the Central Oregon Avalanche Center (coavalanche.org) are our go-to places for avalanche information and forecasts in the region.

Want to go further? Take an Avalanche 1, 2, or Rescue course! These indepth classes cover risk management, terrain selection, and rescue techniques, and are imperative for anyone who spends time in the mountains in winter. Classes are filling up faster than normal, so make sure to sign up soon on the AIARE website at avtraining.org.

LEARN MORE

There is so much more to learn about traveling in the backcountry in winter, which won’t all fit here. For more, check out my article covering avalanches, winter weather, and preparing for the unexpected on page 8 of the January 2020 Mazama Bulletin: tinyurl.com/MazJan2020

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Mountains and Martins

Article and photos by Tom Bode. From the December 2020 Mazama Bulletin

I lifted my pack from the car to my back: 41 pounds, with 21/2 liters of water. Ideally enough to keep me out of trouble for the next three days. Another backpack went up onto another pair of shoulders. Then, still shuddering from the weight, we started to hike at a trailhead closest to the car. Walking quickly on the gentle downhill slope, we were a mile in when we realized our mistake: it was the wrong trailhead and the wrong way—the correct path was hidden and uphill. No matter. Hiking is not about arriving anywhere quickly.

My friend Kevin had joined me for a three-day trip to the high Cascades of Washington State, in a basin of lakes between Mt. Adams and Mount St. Helens. Kevin’s ultralight backpacking equipment showed that his employer compensates him well for his aptitude with spreadsheets, and that he spends his money wisely. A few years ago, he embraced a simpler way of living, giving up a sports car and a house in the suburbs for a late-90s Subaru and a studio carriage house heated by a leaky wood stove.

As we backtracked, we discussed our “false” start. It’s hard to know where a trail in the woods will lead and easy to head towards an unwanted destination. But turning around on a trail is easy, whereas Kevin’s decision to sell his car and his house was not. Maybe ideas of right and wrong, lost and found, belong more to a world of cars than trees. Maybe walking among trees means always looking for the right path. Anthropologists tell us that two hundred years ago, this land was enjoyed by people who spoke a language called Sahaptin, and before them by people almost entirely unknown to us, and so on, stretching back 10,000 years. I think people have been lost here the whole time. The current authorities give us GPS, maps, and signs in an attempt to keep us from straying, but that hadn’t stopped Kevin and me from finding welcome uncertainty. In these woods, taking the direct path is overrated and identifying the “right way” requires more philosophy than cartography.

“In fact, I recommend starting your hike with an unexpected detour. It allows time for clearing your mind, an essential first part of any trip into the wilderness.”

In fact, I recommend starting your hike with an unexpected detour. It allows time for clearing your mind, an essential first part of any trip into the wilderness. Matters such as that thing your boss said, whether the fridge can be fixed without calling a repair service, and bank account balances must be tossed out and left on the side of the trail. You can pick them up on your way out if you insist. Itineraries, speed, and timetables are also completely incompatible with your purpose and you must resist their development. If you find a time-based sense of urgency growing in your mind, throw a pinecone at it. The only senses of urgency you need relate to bodily inputs and outputs. Ditch the watch entirely and exist on human time for a few days. It’s the psychological equivalent of a juice cleanse.

At the first ridge we zagged up the switchbacks. I worked hard to keep up with Kevin, who had claimed half of the summer for running and hiking and had the long stride to prove it. My employer, like most, is jealous of absences of more than a day or two; many of us live in that grim empire. One wonders whether Kevin’s unsupervised spreadsheets even noticed that he was gone at all.

Martes caurina, image from Wikipedia

Perhaps it was his mental lightness from a summer spent out of doors that kept Kevin’s eyes up while I prattled away. He spotted it first: Martes caurina, the pacific marten, sitting in the fork of a short pine tree. About the size of a large city squirrel, with the triangular ears and pointed face of a fox, the marten is a predator that easily transforms mice into meals. This one had seen enough humans to be curious, and watched us with the sustained attention of a tiny killer. Another marten, a mate or a sibling, climbed into view, and they stared at us together. Unsure of how to respond, I took some blurry photos and we left.

Soon we descended the other side of the ridge and lakes appeared around us. Instinctually, we began the essential human ritual of selecting a place to sleep. Humans (and martens) exist in relation to their homes—either coming or going, building a new one or enjoying a familiar one. Nomadic people carry a home with them, whether a 39-foot RV or a collapsible yurt; at a minimum, the vagabond has his bindle. Today, a clearing in the huckleberry bushes would suit us.

Blue Lake is the largest and deepest lake in the basin and was our destination for the day. Hiking trails ran like rivulets towards its shore. But it was as secluded and peaceful as the state fair on Labor Day. Several horses fouled the shallows of the lake, attending to equine inputs and outputs; the humans seated on top of them cackled. Dogs barked at the horses. Other humans yelled at the dogs. All around, kids nowhere near the water swung sticks attached to strings attached to hooks—fishing, but for what? A scheme of “designated campsites” permitted tents only in certain places. They were all full, fortunately, so we moved on.

Another lake, a few minutes away, became our home for the night. Though only a quarter-mile off the trail, the thick forest hid this lake and modern mapmakers had not named it. Earlier people, people without maps and for whom trails were a convenience, not a directive, undoubtedly knew this lake and called it something, but we did not know that name. Prior campers had built a fire ring and cleared a small area overlooking the lake. Late day sunshine kept away the chill. We tested the site with an aggressive mid-afternoon nap and found it perfect. That evening, we sat around the campfire, making toasts to life with drinks from small bottles. I slept by the fire under the stars. Although the night was warm, I kept my sleeping bag zipped up. Out here, the world was bigger and closer; I needed a boundary between it and my home, now shrunk to the inside of a mummy bag.

In what was perhaps an omen of an imminent injury, the next morning was unexpectedly warm. Hiking is always better the second day: Your pack is lighter, your feet are used to the abuse, your mind is clear. Not far down the trail, we met a forest ranger carrying a six-foot shovel. She spouted rules at us like she’d swallowed a brochure. She admonished us to be sure to bury our toilet paper so she didn’t have to—hence, the shovel. Old joke: Forest rangers love their job, but hate the (toilet) paperwork. She said there was an open campsite on the far shore of Lake Wood. Driven once again to find a place to stay, we beelined for it. Kevin spied another marten on the trail that stared at us briefly before running up the hill. No mustelid ranger appeared and told it to stay on the trail, but I assume even martens have their own rules to follow. The campsite at Wood Lake was excellent: the woodsy equivalent of a beachfront hotel room. Naps to celebrate.

Rested, we were drawn away from the lake and towards Sawtooth Mountain, one of the few high points interrupting the landscape of forest and lakes. As much as lakeside camps comfort campers at night, high peaks tempt them during the day. The official trail to Sawtooth Mountain stayed in the tree line, well below the shield volcano’s namesake spires. We instead took the rough climber’s trail through small trees to the base of the bare rock. There, the trail dissolved, and we each held our fate in our hands. I liked the look of a saddle to the right. Kevin called it too vertical and went left. I was nervous. Moment by moment, a climber tempts tragedy and tests his skill and luck against reality. On the one hand, I had not been to a climbing gym in close to a year and instead of a helmet, I wore a dirty trucker hat. On the other hand, the volcanic rock was rough and the route was easy. Don’t overthink it. I climbed the short wall to the saddle. Terrific views— terrifying exposure. My decisions now could rewrite the next 50 or 100 years for me and mine. Climb again. I made it to the spire. It wasn’t El Cap, but it didn’t matter. A bit of exposure and uncertainty and I felt the reality of my existence. Climbing let me play on fate’s knife edge.

Mountains clean people. For hundreds of years, scree slopes like those beneath Sawtooth Mountain were the sites of sacred rites for indigenous people including the Chinook, Salish, and Modoc. After years of preparation, young people departed the warmth of their homes for steep rocky hillsides where they constructed pits in the large loose rocks. Through fasting and physical exhaustion they sought something essential and immaterial. Perhaps unsheltered for days in rain and wind, some died. Rocky slopes from British Columbia to southern Oregon are dotted with these pits, an enduring testimony to a search for wisdom. Those pits remind me that across centuries, humans look for answers in the mountains. I cannot mimic rituals that I don’t understand, but I know that in this time, for me and many others, a mountain washes away the stink of a city and lets the important things shine brightly.

From the top of Sawtooth Mountain, I saw the patrons of the Pacific Northwest, Mt. Adams, Mount St. Helens, Mt. Hood, Mt. Rainier, et al., meeting in their regular forum, conversing through the millennia. This was 36 hours before the Labor Day windstorm that would start a conflagration in the Cascade foothills, bringing weeks of smoke and evacuations. For now, the air was clear and the future bright. What we couldn’t know didn’t bother us. We left Sawtooth Mountain and descended back to camp, spiritually changed.

Away from the apparent danger of the peaks, I was in good spirits on an unremarkable bit of trail. Suddenly I fell, my left arm catching a root and twisting behind my back, causing the head of my humerus to depart its longtime home in the socket of my shoulder and journey a few centimeters laterally. It didn’t go far, but the divorce was traumatic, the two bones having been happily joined for over 30 years. I lay on the ground, unable to breath at this new development. A few seconds later, the ball popped back into the socket. Time resumed; my shoulder was again united. I inhaled.

Later, a slim doctor with short gray hair would say that I fractured my humerus, predicting months of minor pain and weakness. But at Wood Lake, for a short while, I was still free among the trees. In the long afternoon shadows, we swam in the cool water, disturbing only dragonflies. I went to bed clean under a clear sky. With Advil.

The next day was our last. A morning chill off the lake made the sun all the more welcome. We chose to hike out on an abandoned trail, through meadows glowing with late-summer color. In a few weeks, precipitation would turn the vegetation to mush, but now golden grass and red leaves waved in the breeze. Our pace slowed, we ate huckleberries, we watched little birds in short trees. The trail was faint and disappeared altogether in some places. We forced ourselves to stay the course, feeling that getting lost here could be the right thing to do. At the car, the trip ended. The timelessness was gone, a schedule snapped back into place, and the memories of trails, trees, and martens quickly dimmed, but it all seemed so nice that I tried to write it down.

Tom Bode lives in Milwaukie, Oregon. He has been a member of the Mazamas since 2016 when he took BCEP with Bruce Yatvin. The books of Brian Doyle and Edward Abbey inspired him to write this piece.

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PAFlete: Katie Mills—Inquisition of the Arrigetch

This article was originally printed in the 2016 Mazama Annual. Katie Mills, along with Rebecca Madore, will be presenting during the Portland Alpine Fest about their recent experience climbing the Moose’s Tooth in Alaska. Come out for Ham & Eggs on Tuesday, Nov. 14. Get tickets today!


by Katie Mills

Katie Mills, feeling right at home in
vertical terrain.

I thought I had picked an easy expedition. I laughed with glee at how easy it was going to be, feeling smug and smart at how clever I was, for we were going rock climbing. Alpine mixed/ice climbing is more a test of how tough you are, to endure the cold, to endure the exhaustion, to keep moving regardless because to stop is to die. Rock climbing? Well, you can’t do it if the temperature is too extreme, and you can’t carry all that much weight on your back, so you are guaranteed a mellower, pleasant time. The approach was a mere 12 miles or so, which, according to most American Alpine Journal (AAJ) reports, took parties a total of four days to do two carries of food and gear. Easy. We’ll suffer for four days, enjoy 16 days of Type I rock climbing glee, then suffer four more days of hiking out. I couldn’t believe how smart I was. I was soon to find out I was wrong.

The Executive Director of the Mazamas, Lee Davis, was the first person to tell me about the Arrigetch, because he had traveled there to backpack as a young man. I read AAJ reports and was astounded by the number of moderate 5.8 climbs, and a Google search revealed breathtakingly beautiful peaks. Why didn’t more people go here?! During the ascents of the 1960s and 1970s, climbers were allowed to airdrop their gear. When the area became a national park, airdrops were outlawed, making climbing there a much more back breaking task.

I also admit I picked a rock climbing expedition because rock is what my boyfriend Todd excels at. While happy to leave him to go climbing for a week at a time (since alpine wasn’t really his thing), three weeks seemed too long to be without his company. However, we had learned that when he and I climb together our motivation is less than when climbing with friends, so we would each need our own teammates. Together, but apart. The Alaska bush is an intimidating, remote, bear-filled place where one must be self-reliant, so a team of four seemed to be the safest way to manage it.
Nick Pappas walked into my office three years ago and said, “Hi. I’m Nick. I like your photos. I’m a climber too.” “That’s cool. You should come to my party,” I replied. And we have been friends ever since. It was a very fortuitous meeting, as both Todd and I fight over who gets to climb with Nick. I want him for my alpine multipitch adventures, whereas Nick is equally at home sport climbing, crack climbing, bouldering, or on big walls with Todd. Nick was, of course, a shoe-in for our trip and we decided he would choose a big wall objective with Todd.

On the Ham & Eggs route.

So who was I going to climb with?! None of my usual climbing partners wanted to blow all of their vacation on a random week Alaskan trip into the unknown, surely involving great suffering, so I sent out emails to a few climbers I hoped might be interested. None of them really wanted to blow all their vacation either, except one girl, who displayed just the excitement I knew was necessary to stay psyched for the expedition ahead. I had met Cigdem Milobinski four years earlier in an ‘alpine fitness class’ but we didn’t really talk much. Fast forward to present day and suddenly I noticed she had gone from a barely experienced rock climber to crushing hard routes at Trout Creek that I certainly didn’t have the guts to get on. I am really grateful Cigdem was interested in my trip, because we quickly became very good friends, and with her being so much better than me at cracks, I hustled up my game to improve at climbing because I did not want to be the weak link letting her down! I made a new dear friend and got better at climbing. With three hot-shot rock climbers and me, the lone alpinist I had finally formed my team and submitted my application for the Bob Wilson grant in July. Happily, we were notified in September that we had won the entire $10,000 grant!

Over the winter I spent hours comparing photos to AAJ reports and found the unclimbed faces which I thought would make good climbs. I wanted to do day climbs with Cigdem, whereas Todd and Nick settled on a big wall. Nobody has ever hauled big wall gear into the Arrigetch. For good reason.
We went to work Friday, July 1 and then it was off to the airport that evening. The trip wasted no time in becoming surreal. During our first flight to Fairbanks we watched in awe as the evening got later but the sun grew brighter. Goodbye, darkness. Goodbye, night. We then took a small plane from Fairbanks to Bettles because there are no roads. The plane allowed 40 lbs. of luggage per person, with $1.80 for every extra pound. I almost passed out at the $560 overweight baggage fee. And we think we are carrying 470 lbs. on our backs?! Next time I will know to do a weight check of everyone’s gear before the trip.

Bettles isn’t much of a town. Just an airstrip with a handful of lodges and bush plane outfitters. I immediately tell Todd and Nick to start dumping gear due to the weight limit. Out go the extra pitons. Out go the bolts. Out goes the 10 lb. bag of extraneous trail mix.

Rebecca & Katie on Ham & Eggs.

We make our way to the ranger station for back country orientation. Really, they just want to tell you about the bears by alleviating your fears while preparing you for an attack. We each rent a can of bear spray. Nick and Cigdem have pistols. Then comes the part I had been dreading, when we have to fit all of our food for 24 days into bear canisters. The ranger gives us each one bear canister, sets us and our giant bags of food up at a picnic table and tells us to “see what happens.” “I need another one,“ I proclaim within 30 seconds. He begrudgingly produces a second canister. And then a third. And then a fourth. I see he is quite saddened that our team is hogging 16 of his bear canisters that are meant for all park visitors, but there is nothing we can do. The canisters are huge and guarantee two carries, since they are so bulky you can only fit two in your pack at a time.

We weigh all of our gear and our bodies. The weight limit for the bush plane is 1,100 lbs. and we are at 1,118 lbs. The pilot lets it slide. WHEW! Good thing I picked Cigdem for a partner instead of some large man. We pile into a plane that looks like it’s from the 1960s and held together with duct tape. I do not enjoy this plane ride. I am still getting over food poisoning from a couple days before and the plane dropping several feet at a time makes me motion sick. We fly over wide swaths of forest fires. We see the Arrigetch Peaks in the distance and it’s amazing. The pilot lands us in a scummy lake and bumps onto shore. The only sign of humans is a rusty old gas can which I assume they leave there on purpose so you know you are in the right spot for pickup.

Nick administering backcountry medicine
to Katie’s gaping leg wound.

The plane takes off and the mosquitoes and reality set in. It’s 5 p.m. But it doesn’t get dark. So let’s get moving! The internet said there were two ways to go: up and then down a ridge or up the river and up the creek. One webpage says up the ridge is the way to go so up we charge. It’s two miles to the top of the hill. I figure will get up there in two hours. An hour in we’ve barely made any headway.

The mountain Nick and Todd dubbed “The Shiv.”

The brush is thick, the packs are soul crushingly heavy, the ground is spongy, and we sink back half a step for every step we take. The bugs have descended. It’s hot. I feel sick. The motion sickness on top of the food poisoning is making me feel really ill. I’m out of water. I’m gonna die if I don’t get water. I look longingly back at the stagnant lake. Unfortunately, I can’t just drop my pack, get water and come back because I fear I will never find my pack again in this intense brush. This 90 lb. pack and I are together for life! Nick points out what looks like a drainage to us on the map, to the north. We traverse towards it for 45 minutes, desperately hoping, but not really expecting, to find water. A sludgy trickle of water appears and we rejoice and guzzle, never so happy to have found such an unappetizing, ugly stream! First adversity conquered!

We continue our struggle up the hill. Finally, we break out into a beautiful, open, flat area. We will camp here tonight. We’ll have to conserve water, but thank god we found flat. I look at my watch. 1 a.m.?! It took us seven hours to hike two miles. I have so underestimated this trip already. We happily take photos of our magnificent hilltop campsite, but they are obstructed by big ugly mosquitoes that look like birds due to their proximity to the lens.

The second day isn’t any easier. Although we are going downhill, the skies open and drench us, forcing us to slowly pick our way down a heavily-forested ridge with many dangerous drop-offs. It takes us six hours to hike two miles and we rejoice upon finding a trail at the bottom of the Arrigetch creek drainage. We set up camp.

Notes about route by Nick & Katie.

The third day is the worst. We set off back to our cache at Circle Lake around 1 p.m. We follow the trail this time, having sworn off the ridge as horrible. The trail is hardly a trail, being overgrown with plants and very faint, but it is better than nothing and we are excited to have it. We are in high spirits until we reach the main river valley and the skies open and pour mercilessly upon us. We learn that when it rains the mosquitoes swarm. We are trying to hike in bug nets, but the branches spray our faces with water so we can’t see, and the mosquitoes swarming around us make it even worse. I don’t know where the best place to hike is: down near the river where it is marshy or up higher on the ridge where it is brushier. They seem to equally suck. Many times we end up in a cursed tussock bog. Tussocks are plants that have grown on top of themselves so that they form a pedestal up to about 2 feet high, which doesn’t sound too bad, until you fall off into the space between two tussocks and break your ankle. For me, navigating through the bogs with my short legs and heavy packs is near impossible. At the cache the boys are still unable to carry everything and will require a third carry. It seems we choose an even worse way to return to camp, getting lost several times. We arrive back by 6 a.m., an exhausting 15 hours later.

Next is a rest day. We are too wrecked to do anything. It’s strange that all the reports claim it only takes four days to do two carries into base camp. What’s wrong with us?! The next day we carry our gear forward for a change of scenery, dumping it when we get too cold and miserable to continue on. That night at camp, Cigdem slips on a rock and twists her ankle. We wait a day to see what happens, but she chooses to hike out rather than risk further injury. She offers up all her food she has ferried in and we tear into it like hyenas. In hindsight, without her extra food we probably all would’ve starved.

Katie on route.

The boys have to do a third carry from the lake, so they hike Cigdem out at midnight where a bush plane will pick her up at 10 a.m. I opt not to go because I am little and not in as good shape as they are, and I need my rest. As they get ready to leave, everyone hugs me like we’re never going to see each other again. Everyone thinks I’m going to get eaten by a bear. They leave and I am alone. My only job is to stay alive. Funny how the simplest tasks are hard out here in the Alaskan bush.
We pack up camp and finally set up base camp in the Arrigetch Valley below the peak Caliban. Eight days! It was supposed to have taken us four! Now that I have lost my partner, I am resigned to fully supporting Nick and Todd’s big wall goals. Maybe someone will have time to peak bag with me.

A solo backpacker named Josh hikes into our valley. He is really happy to see us. He tells us his first night lost in the bush he was so scared he cried. We all understood where he was coming from. It is scary out here, walking everywhere with your bear spray in hand, yelling at the bears to leave you alone. It takes some time to get used to. I read him the beta I had for climbing Ariel (the nearby “walk up” peak) and told him we’d keep an eye out for him. We saw eight people during our 24 days out here. Josh, a party of three across a river we never talked to, and an adventurous family of four and their dog.

Todd and Nick finally get a look at their big wall objective and decide it is too big for the time we have and the short number of sunny days we have between rain storms. So, as a consolation prize, we are going to climb Albatross! We have spotted a king line: 400 feet of beautiful crack to a lower angle shoulder leading to the striking dihedral on the north buttress. We decide to climb in a group of two for speed, leaving someone in base camp for safety. Todd and I climb better with other people than with each other, and since I had been eyeballing the climb this whole time, Nick and I choose to give it a go.

Katie & Todd enjoying their rest day.

Finally, on day 11, it is CLIMB DAY! When we wake up this morning there is not a single cloud in the sky, the first time that has happened the entire trip. I take it as a good omen. The mountain seems so close but it still takes us two and a half hours to reach the base, and we begin climbing at about 1 p.m. Nick wants to bring a ton of water and we have many layers because we know it will get cold up there, so the packs are heavy.

And we’re off! I can’t believe the beautiful 400 foot crack above us is unclimbed and we’re not waiting for it behind four other parties, like in Yosemite. Nick stomps across the snow and changes into his rock shoes. He attacks the finger crack’s bouldery start mercilessly, utilizing some face holds. It widens to a nice hand crack for another rope length. Thankfully I had put in my crack homework the year before, else I wouldn’t have been able to follow it competently.

The crack widens into a scary off width a size larger than the biggest cam we have but Nick bravely pulls some gnarly unprotected butterfly jams to get through it. I’m stoked I don’t have to climb with a giant pack on, as off widths are not my forte. Finally, the angle eases and the climbing gets easier.

The third pitch is a giant jumble of blocks we have to climb through. The fun subsides and terror sets in. Doing a FA means no one has ever been there and you don’t know what’s loose and what isn’t! I belay Nick with horrible dread in the pit of my stomach, waiting for one of the giant, car-sized blocks to crush me. We shouldn’t be here. Who was I to think I could pull off a first ascent. This was a bad idea. But we survive without incident, and come to a ledge I think of as a “nest” on the shoulder of the buttress where we can rest and feel safe for a bit. The next pitch looks chill so I get to lead! It gets hard again so Nick is back on the sharp end. He reaches the base of the dihedral and we are perplexed. The bottom of the dihedral is completely blank with no crack, and we don’t know how to get into it. Nick climbs up a nearby crack that peters out, bails, tries to the right and gives up, then walks all the way around the corner to the left to no avail. Our attempt at a first ascent may fail here. Todd texts me with the Gotenna, a device that allows us to text each other on our cellphones without signal, as if they are walkie talkies. He is worried we haven’t moved in so long. I assure him we are trying our hardest to unlock a secret passageway.

Nick then pulls off the most amazing climbing I have ever seen. He bravely climbs the face to the right of the dihedral on unpredictable tiny crimps that just keep appearing wherever he needs them until he reaches an S-shaped crack that also requires pumpy technical moves, but at least takes pro, then pulls onto the ledge. We are dihedral! If it were on the ground it would be a 4-star 5.10c at Smith. It goes! I text Todd of our movement and let him know that Nick is an American Hero.

The great dihedral never sees sunlight. It is wet, full of flora and fauna, and crumbly. The undulating cracks appear and disappear and make the climbing still quite difficult. I see a black inchworm with a blue diamond on its back and I wonder if I should take a photo, for perhaps it is a rare species only found in this dihedral. We pop out of the dihedral and rejoice! We did it! We have summited the unclimbed north buttress of The Albatross. There is also another safe nest to rest in. It’s probably 3 a.m. so we decide to curl up and take a nap. The mosquitoes are still merciless, even up here, but at least we are protected from the wind. We are low on food, so I start rationing. Only one bite of granola bar and a peanut every hour!

We run the gnarly summit ridge to a low point and then begin to rappel. “How do we do this, Ms. Experienced Alpinist?” Nick asks me. “I’ve never done this part before!” I cry. No, I have never made my own 1,200 foot rappel route into the unknown abyss. After our first rappel we pull the rope and a big rock comes with it, heading straight for us. Nick shelters me with his body (yes I noticed this … what a saint he is) but the rock ricochets and misses us at the last second. I assume we are going to die on the rappel and spend the entire time shivering with terror. Nick doesn’t mind leading all the rappels and I demand to leave behind two point anchors even if they’re both cams. “I’M RICH!” I proclaim, then start naming off the dumb stuff I have bought that cost more than this rappel route will. After what seems like an eternity, and 5 lost cams later, we hit the glacier and celebrate with my last two bites of sausage. We’re ALIVE! We saunter through the boulder field feeling surprisingly good and Todd meets us halfway up the last hill with a very welcome trekking pole for each of us. We get to camp and our minds and bodies give in to exhaustion. Thirty hours tent to tent. The next day is spent lounging in the shade of boulders reading and wading in the river. It feels so wonderful.

We then move base camp to the beautiful Aquarius Valley. On July 18, Nick and Todd climb the northwest ridge of an unnamed peak attempted in 2002. Classic 5.6–5.8 on the first few pitches leads them to a knife-edge sidewalk and a wild face, devoid of crack systems. It is clear that the 2002 attempt had ended here—Todd uses the previous party’s bail nut as part of the belay. Nick manages to free the next pitch on sight, calling it the culmination of 10 years of climbing and the best pitch of his life. Tricky ridge climbing takes them to the summit, from which they continue down the ridgeline to a notch, and then rappel the west side of the peak. Since it is our last day to climb before hiking out, they name the route Go Big or Go Home (5.10d R, ca 800 ft. vertical but considerably longer climbing distance) and dub the formerly unclimbed mountain The Shiv.

The Arrigetch Peaks may not have the best quality of rock and may be incredibly inaccessible, but I will say they are the most awe-inspiring mountains I have encountered. Never before have I seen a range with such incredible mystical spires and magnificent overhanging gendarmes soaring like the wings of some giant gargoyle. The peaks don’t look like mountains, but instead sculptures designed by an almighty Gothic architect. I feel incredibly fortunate to have been given the opportunity to spend time amongst these spectacular Alaskan behemoths of peaks.