Category: Storytelling

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Mazama Climber Task Force Comes to Aid of Local Zoo

By Katie Mills

Way back in September, the Mazamas received a call from the Oregon Zoo with an absurdly awesome request: they wanted the walls of their new chimpanzee habitat tested for climbability!

“It’s one of our traditions before opening a new habitat,” said Tanya Paul, who oversees the zoo’s primate area. “It’s just for fun and not a real ‘safety test’ — the habitat is designed with the knowledge that chimps have incredible upper-body strength and are much better climbers than humans. Still, it’s good to know whether our new habitat passes muster with some of the area’s most expert rock climbers.”

Lynny Brown, the Advanced Rock Committee Volunteer Coordinator, quickly assembled a task force of elite Mazama climbers to bravely tackle this challenge.

On a beautiful, sunny Tuesday afternoon, Lynny, April Henderson, and I met up at the zoo with two bouldering pads, a rope, and all our climbing gear. We were given orange safety vests. A curious elephant wandered up as if to say hi when we passed his habitat, walking through behind-the-scenes areas of the zoo that none of us had seen before.

A safety supervisor introduced herself but did not say anything as we bouldered up the ramparts to install a top rope off of a seemingly hefty eye hook that I did not know the true purpose of.

The elite climber task force fruitlessly attacking the walls of the chimp habitat.
Photo: Zoo Team

I was chomping at the bit to unleash my might on this enclosure and geared up first, gleefully throwing myself at the unsuspecting walls…and…did not even get off the ground. After a few minutes of grunting and flailing I gave up. April, with her longer wingspan, fared better and managed to get a couple feet off of the ground, but still nowhere near the top. We screamed happy cries of encouragement before gravity sternly returned her to earth.

A small crowd of onlookers had gathered to supervise our attempts, among them the zoo’s construction manager. He was stern and serious at first, but his face softened into smiles, laughter, and even a bit of heckling as our attempts to scale the walls proved futile and fruitless.

Lynny attacked a wall that had a shallow dihedral reminiscent of Pure Palm (5.11a Lower Gorge, Smith Rock) to no avail, and even tried some dynamic movement to parkour up the corner above the fenced-in exit door.

April attempts a “pure palm” type climb while Lynny spots her. Photo: Kate Giraud

Exhausted, we reluctantly declared the enclosure “UNCLIMBABLE” and walked out with our tails between our legs. But, what was a stunning defeat for us was an incredible victory for the zoo, and I look forward to seeing all of the chimps living safely and harmoniously in their habitat in the near future!! We were promised a backstage tour of the new Primate Forest habitat in the near future for our efforts and happily went home, knowing the chimps will be well taken care of.

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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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One Sunday in May

Story and artwork by Marianna Kearney.

This story was originally published in the 1980 Mazama Annual along with Marianna’s original artwork and seven photographs of the eruption taken by Ty Kearney.

“This is just like climbing up over a football!” I thought as I worked my way up Mount St. Helens on my first climb of June 24, 1945. Led by Don Onthank, this Mazama ascent was my second major peak and exciting because we were doing a new route – the Northwest Face*. That night under the moonlight, we picked our way along the sandy lip overlooking the yawning chasm of the Toutle. Our figures cast picket fence shadows in the pumice and the mysterious night air began to lose its chill as dawn drew near. 

Thirty-five years later my husband, Ty Kearney and I, sat comfortably in our van observing the west slope of the mountain, and the Northwest Dome where I retraced our old climbing route. But now it was a different mountain; the dazzling whiteness had been replaced by a kind of lunar barrenness and the peak looked grim with its powdering of dirty pyroclastics. With purple grey ash spilling down the light grey pumice fields, the mountain’s image had a strange reversed effect like a photographic negative. At this stage the eleven glaciers were ash covered; six feet had crumbled from the summit into the new crater on the northwest side. High up on that side a bulge of rock and ice, growing at the rate of five feet a day, was causing alarm. No one dared climb the peak now, nor were they permitted to. 

From our viewpoint, the Toutle Canyon was a focal point; another eruption could trigger a mudflow which would cause flooding down the lower Toutle; we watched this area with special care as we check-looked the mountain. We had volunteered to “volcano watch” for the State Department of Emergency Services, for a one-week mission. A part of RACES network (Radio Amateur Civil Emergency Service), we had been assigned to observe the west side from a logged-over area two and one half miles northwest of Goat Mountain. Eight miles from the summit on Road 5700 at 4,240 feet, we were perched high enough for occasional sleet and snow. It was May 13th. Our Van was parked just outside the red zone with a fine view of the mountain.** 

With nearly zero visibility, the first few days brought only fleeting glimpses of the summit crowned in new snow. We walked the soggy, ash-dusted earth and logging slash, admiring the fragile avalanche lilies or looked down on a logging operation in a tributary of the South Fork of the Toutle. We copied daily seismic reports originating from the University of Washington, relayed to the net by a “ham” station in Seattle. (Of the thirty “events” daily, only from seven to ten of them were harmonic tremors of over 4.0 in intensity.) The mountain seemed quiet. However on two separate nights we drove down to Yale Park, not only to seek relief from the chilling winds, but also as an “escape route drill.” Too, we had felt uneasy camping at night with no view of the mountain. 

On Friday, May 16th, we watched large private helicopters ferrying equipment out of hazardous areas. By Saturday, the 17th, a glowing sunrise had burned away the last shreds of the fog curtain and ushered in perfect visibility. The seismic report came in late but seemed routine. By afternoon, a series of dust clouds combined into a bright fleecy cloud which cast a deep blue shadow on the upper southwest slopes; on the opposite side the bulge appeared to warp the upper northwest skyline. 

The gash of the Toutle Canyon showed pinkish-grey in the flat light and all was quiet and bright except for wisps of steam issuing from the two upper vents near The Boot. For awhile a helicopter carrying geologists perched on the crater rim itself. A “ham” in Olympia called asking about avalanches in the Toutle. By late afternoon a new volcano watcher, Gerry Martin, had driven his motorhome to a location near Coldwater Peak, seven miles north-northwest of the mountain and about ten and one-half miles northeast of us. Via “ham” radio, we began to get acquainted with him when our first visitors of the week arrived for dinner. This included a friend outside shoveling up ash covered snow to take home. Their visit climaxed a full day and after they left we watched the mountain looming in a star sprinkled sky, seemingly peaceful. Then I remembered a remark about Mount St. Helens I’d just heard over the radio: “A watched pot never boils,” and I felt a little uneasy. 

Sunday, May 18th, arrived in a blaze of scarlet but with a light overcast. Visibility remained good however with Mount Rainier showing pearly white. It was 47 degrees F., with no wind. Between seven and eight a.m., Gerry and Ty discussed two small steam vents up near The Boot (“North 2”), a rock formation below the crater rim, on the northwest side. I was sitting on a folding chair sketching when the tranquility of the morning was shattered by Ty’s shout over the mike: “We’re in an earthquake!” (The time was 8:32) Gerry confirmed that he’d felt it too. (Later reports set the quake at magnitude 5.0). Less than one minute later I looked up to see a black cloud silently boil up out of the summit. “What an interesting show!” I thought as I watched a second large cloud being laterally blown out of the north side. Scarcely had the thought surfaced when enormous black clouds ballooned out. One of them spewing out huge rocks and glacial ice. 

Stunned, I watched convolutions, coalesce into a monstrous pall that enveloped the entire summit in a ravenous mass. Etched in silver, the velvet-black billows growled like distant muffled thunder and expanded at an incredible rate. Ty meanwhile had witnessed the lower part of the Goat Rocks formation slide away. The two young men (Robert Rogers and Frank Valenzuela) who had camped nearby had just zoomed out in a cloud of dust.*** Ty wondered if he dared take any pictures and still beat the cloud. He made a snap decision and took seven, hand-held. Over the radio we could hear Gerry’s voice, coming from the Coldwater Peak area, now in the path of the holocaust: “I’ve got to try to back out of here!” By now the black cloud, complex and banded with steam, had cascaded out in a lateral blast of unbelievable proportions, hugging the earth and racing at a speed of some 350 miles per hour. It then fanned out, engulfing not only Gerry but photographer Reid Blackburn and geologist Dave Johnston, also working in the area.‡ Ty then noticed that an edge of the black cloud was descending into the South Fork of the Toutle Canyon, our last protection from the exposed ridges we were on. “LET’S GET OUT OF HERE!” he shouted. 

USGS Photograph of May 18, 1980 eruption.

Slamming the van top down, we took off on the longest seven-mile ride of our lives. Though the car was under control we seemed to be flying at breakneck speeds over the rough forest roads. I knelt on the floor of the van, holding the radio on the tiny table, being showered by falling objects from a cupboard that had popped open over my head. Static screamed on the radio. Someone’s voice pierced the roar: “Which way are you going?” “South!” I answered, although for the first mile and one-half, our route had actually taken us eastward toward the volcano before it turned south.† For those terrifying moments we forgot communications as we faced the inferno of the exploding mountain.

Out of the van windows, death threatened us in the form of an ash cloud so immense it literally filled the sky. It was dirty-grey and suffocating with darker columns slowly rising to a billowing mushroom top. It was a monstrous mural rendered in pastels of swirling greys, deep, mysterious, and breathing terror everywhere. Swipes of lighter grey, some vertical, some horizontal, gave dimension to the hideous smoky chamber that now flashed with bolt lightning. It was almost beyond conception, an unimaginable evil, abstracting bizarre patterns of twisting smoke and hot gases ascending to the roof of Hell. In a race against time, our frail vehicle hurtled through a nightmare world dominated by the cloud that dwarfed everything by its sheer magnitude. The spindly alder trees near Fossil Creek swayed slightly before the churning greyness as we passed. Against the deep gloom, the pale sickening grey of the cauliflower column of the vertical eruption writhed upwards, carrying its load of ash and superheated gases. For a while, a blue car followed us, speeding down the road in its own private escape from a horror movie. Then it turned off, leaving us alone. The last thing I recall before we reached the relative safety of the Lake Merrill basin which lay below the exposed ridge, was a swelling dark grey billow, rimmed in sunlit silver and boldly edging the sky’s soft blueness. All was mercifully quiet – nearby a man on a motorbike had paused to take a picture from the bank.

Marianne’s hand drawn map of their escape route off Mount St. Helens.

We breathed silent prayers of thanks. The edge of the cloud appeared miraculously, steam whitened, rising gracefully like a fountain to a scalloped, saucer-shaped disc, softened by swirling effects and lens-like curves. The disc shape repeated itself in a lower cloud. At the junction of N818 with Highway 503, just west of Cougar and about twelve miles below our camp, we passed a roadblock, then bordered Yale Lake where people were driving toward the mountain to sightsee. Soon we were in green country again, climbing the rolling hills near Amboy on paved roads. Never had green and growing things looked so beautiful! Though church bells were ringing for Sunday School at Hazen Chapel near View, people remained outside watching the volcano in its biggest eruption in nearly 3,000 years, as it poured multiple pillars of ash and steam 66,000 feet into the hazy blue sky. We turned away from the black horror of a sunny day in May and drove home, experiencing a strong sense of unreality. We knew that people like ourselves had died in the terrible blast of our once serene Mount St. Helens. We had been allowed to live. We felt humble.

Author’s Notes:
*  See “Mazama,” Dec. 1945, pp. 72-73 and p. 91
**  Though I heard nothing except a low growl shortly after the first eruption, the initial “boom” was heard as far away as Penticton, B.C., 250 miles to the north. We also felt none of the tremors until the quake that set off the May 18th explosion. Perhaps it was the apparent silence of the giant explosion that contributed to its unreality.
***  The young men who preceded us out later reported that the area of our camp received only light ash but the gas cans we had abandoned in our hurry were very warm.
‡ Gerald (“Gerry”) Martin is still among the missing but presumed dead, since part of the ridge he was on was removed by the blast. Prior to his assignment in the Coldwater Peak area on May 17th, he had spent many hours of volcano watching in another location on the north side. Mazamas Bill and Jean Parker who also perished in the blast were located eleven and one-half miles northeast of our camp, and two and one-half miles northwest of Gerry. They were nine miles from the summit.
† We estimate that only about a half mile separated us from the blast cloud as we reached the point on the road where it turned from east to south. Though eight miles from the summit, our camp and the first leg of the journey out were about five and one half miles from the base of the mountain.

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From Polluted Air to Thin Air: Thorong La Pass Nepal

by Ananda Vardhana

Traveling from Portland, we landed at Tribhuvan International Airport in Kathmandu, Nepal on September 24, 2018. Ten of our group headed off to Annapurna Base Camp (ABC), but the remaining three of us had set our sights on Everest Base Camp (EBC) at 17,598 ft. Our team was comprised of Deepa, an ultra-marathon runner, Anil, an intermediate hiker, and me, Ananda, a 62-year old veteran hiker and Mazama member.

Stepping off the plane in Kathmandu, we were engulfed in the pollution, dust, and chaos of a typical Nepali traffic jam. Only the promise of thin, clean, Himalayan air kept our spirits high. When our flight out of Lukla was canceled due to bad weather, forcing us to abandon our goal of reaching Everest Base Camp, our consolation was to hike even higher than EBC over Thorong La Pass (17,769 ft. ) along the Annapurna Circuit.

Our guide, Mr. Khim Raj (KC), proposed a new trekking plan that started in the town of Besisahar at 2,493 ft. and slowly wound its way up to the pass. Starting at a lower elevation would allow us to acclimatize as we passed through other villages along the route, including Chame at 8,694 ft., and Manang at 11,545 ft. However, we were familiar with hiking at lower elevations in Oregon, and insisted on starting in Manang.

Once we’d determined our starting point, we took off on the 12-hour, 107-mile drive to Besisahar. Kathmandu is famous for its traffic jams, which dwarf those in LA, and these roads were bad! The following day, we had to take multiple 4-wheelers and drive another 12 hours between Besisahar and Manang along some of the world’s most dangerous highways. Due to frequent landslides, our two porters had to carry our luggage across the debris and hire another jeep on the far side before we could continue. I would not recommend going without a guide—they know these roads and allow for safe passage.

From what I saw, Nepal is very community-oriented. The people are friendly and help each other survive. Since the three of us know Hindi, we made good friends during our multiple jeep rides. The jokes, bantering, and singing inside the vehicle combined with the astounding views and narrow roads outside helped us forget the dust that enveloped us.

Thus, after multiple landslides we reached the thin and pristine air of Manang. This meant we’d essentially gone from Beaverton at 120 ft. to Manang at 11,500 ft. in one go. We’d been swallowing Diamox (altitude pills) since arriving in Nepal, 125mg twice a day. At Manang we could feel the effect of the thin air, but this was what we wanted. Just walking 10 steps let us know we were at high altitude. Our appetites shrunk greatly, but we nonetheless pushed ourselves to have a grand dinner followed by a fitful sleep.

A long time ago, when trekking was not a fad, people lived their lives in all parts of Nepal and the surrounding region. As trekking became popular, the local people realized the potential tourism could have and converted their homes to teahouses. Now villages, including Manang, have 2-3 star hotels with hot showers and comfortable beds. You order from a menu and can even get pizza at 16,000 feet! And Wi-Fi is available all over Nepal.

The next day, KC advised us to roam round Manang and get acclimatized. Manang valley is like a dreamland. In Nepal, many of the mountaintops have a Buddhist shrine. It is amazing what faith can do. People have built massive structures on the tops of mountains where every stone and beam had to be carried up manually or by horse. Our hotel in the valley looked up at the Annapurna Massif on one side followed by Gangapurna. In the distance towered Manaslu, Chandragiri, Dhaulgiri, and Chluha. We saw these titanic mountains for the next ten days; they astounded us with their unbelievable massiveness. In Oregon, looking down from Mt. Hood or Mt. Defiance, the rolling mountains fascinate us—so just imagine mountains twice the size of Mt. Hood! All of them over 20,000 feet, with live avalanches happening as you watch… such was the grand spellbound beauty that beheld us daily.

Early in the morning with high spirits, we took off from Manang. Our plan was to hike to Ice Lake at 15,256 ft. the first day, followed by a hike to Tilicho Lake at 16,138 ft. the second day, then continuing on to Thorong La Pass. The route to Ice Lake has no designated switchback trail, so we simply had to climb straight up a crumbling mountainside. Being the oldest, the altitude and strain from hiking hit me fast. Deepa and Anil encouraged me, slowing to my pace so we could crawl up together. Deepa and I were going steady, but Anil, who had a slight residual cough when we left Portland, began to slow down. Anil’s occasional cough became persistent and much stronger as his lungs tried to keep up in the thin, high altitude air. We were three-quarters of the way to the lake, at around 14,800 ft., when Anil started getting breathless and feeling slight lung pain. He decided not to push it any further, fearing AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) or worse, HAPE (High Altitude Pulmonary Edema). I decided to escort Anil back down to the hotel along with a porter. Deepa continued to Ice Lake with the guide, and joined us back in Manang a few hours later.

That night, Anil could not sleep well due to breathlessness and coughing. I intently kept an eye on him, hoping the night would be uneventful. We consulted a couple of doctors by phone, spent some time researching on the Internet, and finally decided that he needed to head back to lower altitudes. That broke our spirits—it was sad to see our partner off, but we would meet him at the end of the trip.
Deepa and I re-strategized, deciding to abandon our hike to Tilicho Lake and instead just do Thorong La Pass. The pass was three days away and should give us ample time to acclimatize. The next day, we trekked from Manang to the village of Thorong Phedi at 14,895 ft. No one measures the distance of a trek in Nepal. If you ask, they will look at you, then make a judgment and give you an estimate in hours. This trail was gradually uphill and took us 5-6 hours. It was quite busy with people from all parts of the world. Germans by large dominated, followed by Australia, China, New Zealand, and the UK. Much to our disappointment, we didn’t encounter a single hiker from the US, our adopted country, or from India, our country of origin.

Hundreds of yaks dotted the mountainsides. Nomad yak herders live at these great heights sleeping out in the open. They drink yak milk, eat yak meat, and warm themselves with coats made of yak hair. Right in the middle of the trail, we were surprised to see a roadside trinket trader. The old man claimed all his goods were authentic Tibetan. The yak herders, trinket traders, and brave people who tend the tea houses make it possible for us from the polluted air to survive up in the thin air.
By the time we reached Thorong Phedi, Deepa had lost her appetite, and we both had splitting headaches. However, we had increased our Diamox dosage to 250mg twice a day. We didn’t want to take any pain medication because our stomachs were empty, so we just applied a strong topical ointment called Tiger Balm onto our foreheads and bore the pain. I am a strong advocate for fewer pills and more will to fight altitude sickness.

The next day, we made the grueling climb from Thorong Phedi to Thorong High Camp at 16,010 ft. Deepa, who had little appetite, started to feel weak and nauseated. At Thorong High Camp, we realized the real scarcity of oxygen. We had hiked in India at 15-16,000 ft. without much trouble, because the forest abounds everywhere. Manang valley is totally arid, a dry high-altitude desert with no trees for generating oxygen.

The moment Deepa entered the dining hall she began to feel nauseated. Two hundred or so lungs and five open-flame kitchen stoves all competed for the oxygen. So our choice was to stay warm and suffocate, or go outside and freeze! Sitting here in Beaverton, these things cannot even be imagined. Our guide said we had three options; head back to the city, stay where we were at Thorong High Camp, or continue on but take a horse as insurance. We went for the third option without even considering the first two, and hired a horse for $150. At that point, we didn’t know who would need the horse—Deepa or me.

Since the winds pick up by noon and can practically pluck you off the mountain, we had to leave before 5am to cross Thorong La Pass by noon. Thorong High Camp has minimal accommodations—five common toilets for two hundred or more people. So, with splitting headaches and anxiety about using the toilets, we hardly slept, got up at 3am, and were ready by 4am. With the horse following dutifully behind, we put our heads down and started the final phase of our climb. Every 100 feet KC would ask “Deepa-ji, would you like to take the horse?” to which she would answer “no.” He was afraid she would fall off and increase his responsibility. At 60+, I go very slowly but steadily, and kept up a steady stream of encouraging accolades. Deepa’s only job was not to lose the sight of my heels.

Neither the words I’m writing nor the camera on my phone can capture the dry beauty that surrounded us. The trail disappearing into thin air was what we had hoped to conquer. On any hike, there are always people well ahead of you and others far below. The people ahead represent the goal yet to be achieved, and those below are the challenges conquered. In the end, it all depends on the mind to push the mechanical devices we call legs to move one step up at a time, up and up.
Finally, in the distance, we could see the colorful streamers that decorate the pass. With a fresh surge of energy and enthusiasm, we chugged on. Deepa, the ultra-marathon runner, crossed the finish line at a full sprint, as I slowly crawled up to the top of the pass. From there, it was a rollover hike, down and more down, to Muktinath Temple at 12,171 ft.

We stayed in Muktinath that night, and drove the next day to TatoPani (6,010 ft.), which is famous for its hot springs. After an overnight at TatoPani and a refreshing bath in the hot springs, we trekked up to the village of Chitre at 6,988 ft., were we stayed one night before making it up to the village of Ghorepani at 9,429 ft. the next day. The Ghorepani Poon Hill overlook is a famous scenic spot, and is flooded with trekkers. Since we’d been immersed in Annapurna I, II, III, Dhaulgiri, and many other mountains, we skipped Poon Hill. The final day, we trekked to Naipaul, where the ten Annapurna Base Camp folks joined us. We all drove back to Pokhara, met up with Anil, and flew back to Kathmandu—back into the polluted air! We ended our trip by flying back to Portland on October 8.

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Daring to Be Lydia

by Lisa Kostova

Photo: Lydia navigating in a white-out on the Tasman Glacier

Thirty years ago this October, something extraordinary happened. A lone 27-year-old girl set off in the middle of the night from Camp 4 to climb the world’s highest peak. It was dark and she had never been there before. Unlike today, there were no fixed ropes to guide the way and since she was climbing without oxygen, the only other party that set off at the same time as her, a group of Catalan climbers, quickly surged ahead, leaving her alone with the darkness and her thoughts.

As she describes in her book Going up is Easy, Lydia Bradey got to the South Summit and had to make a life-and-death decision. She knew she had enough energy to make it back down to camp. She also knew she had enough energy to reach the summit. But what she didn’t know is if she had enough energy to do both. At that moment, she recalls flipping her thinking from “If I climb Everest, I can survive” to “If I survive, I can climb Everest.” She told me that she was in effect reasoning with herself, convincing herself that she was capable of climbing her mountain. Less than 24 hours later, Lydia became the first woman to climb Everest without oxygen. This would be the first of five Everest ascents so far and according to Lydia, she’s still got at least one more Everest in her.
As I quickly came to find out, most of the world and certainly New Zealand knows Lydia as much for the controversy that surrounded her first Everest ascent as for the achievement that was a major landmark for women and mountaineering. Which I find incredibly frustrating. Long story short, the two male Kiwi mountaineers that Lydia was climbing with at the time, Rob Hall (portrayed by Jason Clarke in the movie “Everest”) and Gary Ball accused Lydia of lying about making it to the top. According to them, she hallucinated the whole thing. In short she was “confused.” But more on that later.

The She’s On Ski’s group in the helicopter (author is on the left).
Photo by Lydia Bradey.

I’ve come to New Zealand for the winter with my partner Brent and his daughter Inez. Brent somehow learned that Lydia is leading a women-only ski touring group in the glaciers of the Southern Alps with Elke Braun-Elwert, the talented guide who taught us mountaineering. The trip is aptly named “She’s on Skis”. In typical fashion, Brent becomes my biggest cheerleader, “You HAVE to do this!” he says emphatically in the spring as me make our way to Alaska to climb Mt Fairweather. “We have to come back to New Zealand and spend the (Southern Hemisphere) winter climbing and ski touring. And you get to tour with Lydia!!!” His enthusiasm is infectious.

As a Kiwi, Brent tries to impress me with how much of a badass Lydia is, even by New Zealand standards, and I take note. I’m also excited to try ski touring. I’ve already watched the trailer of Symphony on Skis, a movie about a ski touring journey made by Elke and her sister. I’m entranced by the idea of putting my skis on glaciers, exploring some of the world’s most breathtaking scenery and being in the company of tough women, including of course Lydia, whose story fascinates me.
So here I am, in August of 2018, with my trusty downhill skis hastily configured with touring bindings. I’ve got a few days under my belt of touring experience in the The Two Thumbs range, where I’ve learnt avalanche prevention and avalanche rescue with Pete Ozich of Alpine Recreation. But this is the first time I’m ski touring on glaciers. And for the first time in my climbing and skiing experience, I’m surrounded by women.

Lisa Kostova and Lydia at Aylmer Col above
the Tasman Glacier.

The cast of characters includes, Jade, an Aussie with a quiet determination; Carla, a bubbly Brit who is a hardcore ultra marathoner and is smoking all of us up the hill; Anna, a gentle but strong Kiwi mother of two whose husband, a helicopter pilot, has gifted her this trip as a birthday present. And of course, there’s Lydia herself. Wearing a pink hat with a canary yellow jacket and a purple undershirt, she has mischief in her eyes. Those eyes have seen the glory of untold mountain peaks. They have scanned vistas that few humans have experienced, but have also seen tragedy and loss. Her voice is strong, commanding, and unapologetic in taking up the space around her. Her laughter is infectious. She’s bubbly and chatty and will talk endlessly about beautiful clothes and mountain fashion. And yet she exudes the authority and discipline that only comes from years of breaking trail and pushing herself to the extreme. I quietly marvel at the enigma that is Lydia.

There’s so much I want to know. I somehow score the bunk right next to Lydia in the leaky attic section of the unheated Kelman Hut, the second highest structure in New Zealand, perched above the Tasman and Murchison Glaciers. In the evenings, after the exhaustion of a full day of touring, making dinner and cleaning up, we have a precious few minutes to relax on our bunks. I’m conscious of not bothering Lydia who has the rare moment to read and focus on herself, not the group. But as I lie there, next to her, reading her biography, reliving her emotions and her achievements from long ago, my mind is swirling with questions. Was she afraid up there? Did she think she was going to die? How did she feel when her Kiwi teammates abandoned her? How did she feel when they and the media turned around and attacked her viciously, calling her a liar and a “confused” woman who had hallucinated her life’s crowning achievement?

 Lydia in front of Kelman Hut. 

Confused—a word used to describe women who are brave enough to live their dreams, speak their truth, and who dare to break out of the social norms of what a young girl should be able to do. With the stroke of eight measly letters, a woman’s life is reduced to a hallucination, to something not tangible, not able to be proven, measured, or verified. Confused. Not loud, and established, and endowed with society’s automatic and blind trust that is conferred to male climbers and Supreme Court nominees who throw around that word easily and freely at anyone who threatens their comfortable perch. Confused. Why would it be that the word of men carries so much weight that not even the preponderance of evidence in her favor could shield a woman from the maelstrom unleashed by this dismissive term?

I read Lydia’s account of how she was practically left to die by her male Kiwi teammates. But she was stronger than that. “As soon as I reframed my thinking, I knew I wasn’t going to die.” She says that while she was very much afraid of dying, her experience helped her “manage her way away from it.” But there’s no way her Kiwi partners could have known that. Instead, the day she was having her life-and-death mental moment on the South Summit, Rob Hall and Gary Ball packed up all the expedition’s gear and left Base Camp. They didn’t know if she was dead or alive. They weren’t manning the radios, leaning in and straining to hear her voice, waiting for confirmation that their partner was among the living, up there somewhere near the top of the world, still clinging to life in the “death zone.” They weren’t ready to send help for her if the radio went silent or she sounded sick or hurt. They simply left.

Having read the chapter on her first Everest journey, I sit with Lydia over steaming pasta with veggies, our breath visible in the frozen air of the hut. I share with her that what struck me about her Everest climb is that she spent most of the chapter, multiple pages, describing the relationships that she formed on the mountain and the experiences she shared with the Slovaks and other climbers. And the actual summit took only a paragraph and was over within two sentences—short and to the point, much like her communication style on the glacier where, she is all about safety and survival. She seems to appreciate that observation and her eyes grow heavy with sadness as she says of the Slovaks: “I lost all of them. None of them made it back.”

There is pain and heartfelt love in Lydia whenever she talks about the Slovaks. They were a team of young men who climbed without oxygen, attempting a new technical on Everest. None of them came back from their summit climb and nobody knows what happened to them. I realize suddenly that at the heart of Lydia’s climb was not the “Lydiagate” scandal that surrounded her upon her return, courtesy of the self-assured men she was climbing with. The defining experience for her was her friendship and love of the Slovak climbers and her subsequent loss of that intimate connection with people who saw her for who she was. That’s the part that is raw and powerful and meaningful for Lydia in her Everest journey. Not the noise and resentment of her Kiwi teammates.

Lydia summarizes the whole scandal succinctly: “I set myself up to be bullied.” She tells me as we watch over melting pots of snow that the deepening relationship with the Slovak team was the reason for her being ostracized by Rob and Gary (who were climbing with oxygen, and did not manage to gain the summit during that trip). I open the book to a place where a pretty, bright-eyed girl stares back at me from the page. It’s easy to imagine her shifting sympathies causing intense feelings of jealousy in the young males on the mountain. It’s primal and it is ugly. The female chimp gets punished by the alpha males for daring to stray from the tribe. Especially if she dared to outshine them.

Despite all of this, Lydia doesn’t climb with fear. She lets out a rip-roaring laugh as she recalls being described by one of her book reviewers as an “eternal optimist despite her series of failures.” Lydia knows a thing or two about failure. There is the time where she survived no fewer than SIX (!!!) subsequent avalanches in the same day and the time when she had to turn around on K2, the “savage mountain” that claims the lives of a third of the people who attempt it. Lydia loves talking about failure as a necessary ingredient for success. In fact, until the rise of guided Himalayan climbing, failure rates of 50-60 percent were common and were considered standard for mountaineers. So while they reached their objectives “only” 40 percent of the time, they spent the rest of their climbing careers getting stronger and more experienced, gaining that survival mechanism, so they could live to climb another mountain.

As an experienced high-altitude mountaineer, Lydia talks a lot about mindset. During an impromptu prusik self-rescue demonstration, I ask her what type of mind-frame she thinks is necessary to climb Everest. I ask her to think about what makes her best clients successful and what makes it difficult for other people to adjust. It all comes back to the personalities of people putting Everest on their bucket lists. Lydia prides herself on creating strong connections with her clients and I can see that. Nowadays, in addition to guiding groups on Everest, most of her time seems to be spent with repeat clients who book her on private climbing adventures around the world.

Having said that, Lydia also describes a type of Everest bucket-list climber. “Insecure overachievers,” Lydia calls them. She knows, she considers her younger self to have been an insecure overachiever too. And she adds that true preparation matters. The type of preparation that comes from doing non-glamorous climbing trips like the one we’re on. Remembering to dry your inner boots and dry your socks. Prepare, pack, unpack, rinse, repeat.

She has lost count of how many times she has been expected to take care of people, especially clients who are used to other people running their lives. “They’ve got armies of nannies, housekeepers and personal assistants. They outsource their lives.” Taking care of your needs yourself, including simple things like packing your socks and gloves and paying attention to the essentials is a habit you develop when you climb often, you climb for many years and you climb for the joy of climbing. There are many valuable resources and support that money can buy on the mountain. But a climber’s common sense cannot be bought, it can only be developed.

On our ski-touring trip, Lydia teaches us what to pack for all kinds of emergencies—from prusiks and slings, to spare parts for our ski poles, skins and skis, including tape, and a tool set with different sets of tool bits. I’m feverishly taking notes—up on the mountain, a climber has to be her own repair shop and rescue resource. Lydia gets everyone to practice crevasse self-rescue on the rope in the hut and drills people through transceiver search – quickly locating a buried avalanche transceiver. She is relentless when it comes to getting the details right – whether it’s the technical turns when you ski down, the efficiency of your skinning technique and how to improve it, your transition times and how to cut them down. She’s also a perfectionist when it comes to housekeeping. She delegates tasks around the hut that keep the whole place sparkling clean and running smoothly during meal prep and clean-up. I swear we left the public hut in a much better shape than we found it.

Ski touring with Lydia is the ultimate ego-buster. Watching Lydia plow up the slope in a relentless pace, I get used to the feeling of trying to keep up and failing. My only solace is that everyone else seems to be in the same boat (with the exception of Carla, who’s a true energizer bunny). Nonetheless, I grit my teeth and forge on. My heart pounds and I focus intensely on the sequence of movements anytime we stop for a transition. Yet, I always seem to be the last one and I’m told to “transition faster next time, please.” I talk to my fear while perched on a hill, feeling the heft of my backpack. Lydia coaches us on how to ski the stickiest snow cement I’ve ever experienced. Turning would be difficult, “a knee buster,” so “watch out and don’t fall.”

After the mental check of making sure none of my boots are in walk mode, I brace myself for the leg burn of executing the turns as smoothly and in control as is possible, working my willpower and concentration more than my muscles. Lydia seems to have evaluated my technical skiing skills and found them lacking. The cold matter-of-factness of her assessment is non-partial—she also extends it to her own skiing, which she deems “competent” but far from great. After years of resort skiing where I’ve skied double blacks, chutes and trees, I find myself a beginner in the art and craft of backcountry skiing. I have to pick myself up over and over again, playing the mental game of just getting by to the best of my ability.

As soon as I let go of my identification as an “expert skier,” I am free to move about the mountain and enjoy the whole experience. I also notice that on the last day everyone, including Lydia and the more technical skiers—Carla and Jade—are survival skiing. Lydia deems the snow to be “the worst she’s seen on the Tasman” and is proud to have delivered the whole group back to base without any knee injuries.

Once everyone is out of the danger zone, Lydia somehow manages to miraculously turn a difficult time into a funny moment, lightening the situation with her ability to laugh at herself and whatever it is that may have seemed scary. With a glint of mischief in her eyes and wise crack of a joke, she infects everyone with her laughter, releasing all stress and tension like an escape valve. That smile, that laugh, that ability to surmount any obstacle and find joy and share it with others is the memory of Lydia that will stay with me forever. And as much as my confidence in my skiing has taken a hit after the trip, I know that touring with Lydia has cracked me open and elevated my game as a climber, skier and human being.

Check out Lydia’s book Going up is Easy and keep an eye out for a movie about her life coming out soon. The She’s on Skis trip was organized by Alpine Recreation —a family-owned guiding and climbing company out of Tekapo, New Zealand.

About the Author: Lisa Kostova is an entrepreneur. She blogs about her mountaineering, skiing and outdoor adventures at www.dispatchesfromthe45.com.

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One Last Hood Climb


by Rico Micallef

Since the beginning of March I have had two house guests, Ruth Reitsma and her son Earl. Ruth was a former Mazama climb leader who passed away in November of 2015, and her son Earl passed away December of 2016. Ruth’s daughter’s, Diane and Jan, wanted their mother and brother’s ashes to be distributed on the top of Mt. Hood, and asked the Mazamas for assistance. I was honored to be asked to help fulfill their wishes.

I got to know Ruth through many emails with Diane and Jan, and through photos that they sent to me. Ruth led an all women’s climb for the Mazamas. Ruth’s husband Earl, who passed way in 1965, was also a Mazama climb leader. Ruth and Earl led many Mazama climbs together. I was thrilled when they sent me a picture of Earl’s Guardian Peak award from 1957—when Mount St. Helens was 1300 feet higher!

Diane and Jan recounted how their mother carried sand to the top of Mt. Hood and had a beach party on the summit. I knew instantly that Ruth was the kind of climb leader that I would have enjoyed climbing with.

Diane and Jan and other family members wanted to be on Mt. Hood when the ashes were distributed. They were traveling to Oregon from a variety of locations—Washington, Arizona, and California—so we agreed on a summit attempt on May 5. I was planning to lead a team of 12, primarily my 2018 Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP) students, up Mt. Hood on their quest for their first Mt. Hood summit. Once we set the day, we prayed for good weather.

Our prayers were answered with a fantastic warm night with little to no wind. I was concerned about the how warm it was going to be and even more concerned about how busy the mountain would be, so I moved the climb start time up to 11 p.m. I told the team that if we maintained a decent pace we would get to the summit by 6 a.m., in time for sunrise. The team rocked it and we were on the summit by 5 a.m. It took us 5 ½ hours to summit.

On our way to the summit we found the Pearly Gates route in the best shape I have ever seen. I thought it was very fitting to bring Ruth and Earl to their final resting place via the Pearly Gates.
We waited for sunrise to scatter the ashes, another fitting piece to this day. The dawn of a new day—in my head I had the song the “Morning has Broken” playing—the song I have told my kids I want played at my funeral.

The climb team donning their Hawaiian shirts on the summit.

As the sun finally began to light the day, we got ready to distribute the ashes. I had told the team that in honor of Ruth we were going to wear Hawaiian shirts on the summit. Fortunately I have an overabundance of them and supplied the team with shirts from my collection. We put on our Hawaiian shirts over or puffies and got ready.

As the new day began, we scattered Ruth’s ashes on the summit while reading a poem that family had placed in the bag with the ashes:

Look to this Day
Look to this day:
For it is life, the very life of life.

Ruth & Earl’s ashes on the summit of Mt. Hood.

In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendor of achievement
Are but experiences of time.
For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision;
And today well-lived, makes
Yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day;
Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn!

We then spread Earl’s ashes next to his mother. Finally, I placed a picture of Ruth in the middle of the ashes.

After descending I finally got to meet Diane and Jan, where I presented them with a Mazama Climb certificate for both Earl and Ruth.

Climb leader Rico Micallef with Ruth’s daughters post-climb.

Our climb saw eight first time summits. But, this climb was bigger than all of us, and more important than reaching the summit for the first time. As a team, we were united in helping a family put their mother and brother to rest. I never knew either Ruth or Earl, but I felt privileged to be able to assist Ruth in getting one final Hood summit.

Diane and Jan, don’t worry about your mother I will be checking in with her periodically.

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About Ruth Reitsma
Ruth Reitsma was a member of the Mazamas from 1950 along with her husband Earl A. Reitsma. Together they were leader and co-leader of numerous climbs of various peaks in North America. Earl received his 36 peak award and Ruth received her 26 peak award. In June 1966 Ruth lead a successful all-women’s ascent of Mt Hood. Climbing partners included Dave Bohen, Edwin Rieger, Bill and Margaret Oberteuffer, Jack Grauer. Other climbing friends included the Whittaker brothers. A lifelong outdoors women her worldwide travels included living for two years in Afghanistan. Her appreciation of the outdoors was passed on to her children in numerous camping, hiking, skiing, and snowshoeing adventures. Rest in peace.
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2018 Climb Application Stats

by Sarah Bradham, Mazamas Director of Marketing & Communications

In April 2018 the Mazamas launched a brand new website that changed the way the Mazamas have managed climb applications for the last 43 years. Gone is the antiquated paper process that required an intricate level of knowledge of the organization, up fronting the cost of a climb by purchasing a climb card, rewriting information over and over again on paper applications, as well as the need for envelopes and stamps. In its place is an online process that is based on a user creating a profile that details their experience and activity history, finding a climb they want to participate in, and providing payment information (and only being charged for the climb if accepted).

As we transitioned to this new system there was both a lot of excitement, as well as a heavy dose of anxiety about how the process would work. Would hopeful climbers need to be sitting at their computer at 9 a.m. on the climb registration open date to even be considered for a climb? Would the most popular climbs immediately be full? How would it work with all the climbs not opening on the same date as they had in the past? Would the new system be easy to navigate?

We did a lot of prep work in the months leading up to the launch to get the message out to our members and the community about the new application process. We shared information via our monthly magazine, weekly e-news, and social media channels. We also talked to our climb leaders about implementing a new phased application process to lessen the stress on the system; in case problems did arise we would be better able to manage them with only a subset of climbs opening on any given date. Our climb leaders also agreed to increase the number of applications they were willing to review in order to ensure applicants did not get shut out from the application process.

So what’s the verdict?

The early results are extremely promising. The first 28 climbs of the season opened at 9 a.m. on Monday, April 16. We were in full on call center mode at 8 a.m., staffed up and ready to handle all of the emails and calls from applicants. And … they never came. Between 8 a.m. and 11 a.m. we handled approximately 5 phone calls and 4 emails. And in that same time we received 250 applications for climbs. We did have one major challenge that came to light on Wednesday April 18 as leaders began accepting applicants. Our 3rd party payment processor had changed something critical in their API that caused a payment failure for anyone who had previously paid for an activity through the new Mazama website. This caused approximately 50 payment failures. But thankfully, since we had launched with a phased application process, the issue was relatively small in scope.

Since that initial opening we have had 4 separate registration open dates:

  • April 16: 28 climbs
  • April 23: 37 climbs
  • April 30: 36 climbs
  • May 7: 88 climbs
The anxiety about climbs filling immediately upon the application opening did not occur. In fact, most climbs have yet to even reach their maximum applicant number. This means that you do not need to be sitting at your computer or on your phone at 9 a.m. when the application opens in order to be considered for a spot. However, it is wise to apply for the climb on the first day the application opens, as if the climb does have more applicants than spots available, the climb leader may factor the date you applied into the acceptance criteria.

What does the application data look like?


If you aren’t interested in stats you might want to stop reading now, because we are about to geek out on data. In the past, without a centralized process for activity management, the Mazamas have been unable to confirm any of the rumours that circulate regarding difficulty getting on climbs or even identifying the most popular climbs. We can now crunch the numbers to get an informed picture of the number of applications submitted, the number of unique applicants, and much more.



As of 5/7/2018 at noon, here are some stats:

  • # of climbs on the schedule: 193
  • # of spaces available on climbs: 1773
  • # of applications for climbs: 2031
  • # of unique applicants: 561
  • Average # of climbs applied for per applicant: 3.62
  • # of applications accepted for climbs as of today: 580
  • # of unique applicants accepted on a climb: 335
  • # of applications in the awaiting approval queue: 725
  • # of unique applicants that have applications in the awaiting approval queue: 344
  • # of Mt. Hood climbs: 19
  • # of spaces available on Mt. Hood climbs: 150
  • # of applications for Mt. Hood climbs: 449
  • Most popular three mountains/routes: Mt. Hood South Side, Mt. Ellinor, and Unicorn Peak.
  • # of climbs that have reached their applicant capacity: 15
  • # of climbs that reached their applicant capacity within 24 hours: 0
  • # of climbs that reached their applicant capacity within 5 days: 3
A few things to remember if you are thinking about applying for a climb:
  • Climbs are NOT first come first served. The climb is open until it either:
    • The Registration Close Date arrives
    • The climb reaches its Maximum Application Capacity
    • The leader selects their team and closes the application
  • Only apply for climbs that you will be able to attend, i.e. don’t apply for two climbs on the same day
  • Apply for later season climbs, they tend to have more availability
  • Think outside of the major peaks – there will be fewer applicants and less competition for peaks with names you might not recognize, but that doesn’t mean they will be any less fun!
Get all the details on how to apply for climbs at beta.mazamas.org/applyclimbs
Do you have feedback on the new application process? Please share your thoughts here.
We will share more data as it becomes available. Until then, happy climbing!
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Iditarod 2018

Anna Berington, 22nd finisher, approaches Nome. Photo: John Richards.





by John P. Richards

We finally saw some movement on frozen white landscape and sky. From a distance, it appeared to be a team of reindeer hauling an abominable snowman. As they came closer, it was clear that Nicolas Petit and his team of dogs had arrived at the White Mountain checkpoint. Petit was the second musher into the checkpoint, just behind leader, Norwegian, Joar Leifseth Ulsom, who slept soundly while waiting out the mandatory eight-hour rest stop. Petit looked dejected as he settled in and fed his dogs. His dogs looked dejected too. Dog teams sense their musher’s emotions. Highly trained and intelligent athletes, they know where they stand. A day earlier Petit was cruising through the race, in the lead with a nice margin ahead of Ulsom. He lost the trail marker in a storm and fell four hours behind, arriving now in second place.

Jessie Holmes, Rookie of the Year, thanks
his team at the finish in Nome.
Photo: John Richards.

My wife turned 60 years old in March, and it’s been her dream to see the Iditarod. That made choosing a special gift very easy—a trip to Nome, Alaska, to the finish of the 2018 Iditarod. We connected with Laurent Dick, a local guide and photojournalist, to help us get deep into the race, festivities, and provide an insider view.

The Iditarod is a dog sled race from Anchorage to Nome, spanning 1,049 miles, and held annually in March since 1973. The race was inspired by the 1925 Serum Run, a dog sled relay that delivered much needed serum to Nome, to help stop a deadly diphtheria outbreak in the winter of 1925. No other means of transport could deliver the serum to the isolated town fighting extremely low temperatures and blizzard conditions. On February 1, 1925, musher Gunnar Kaasen and his dog team arrived with the lifesaving medicine. Many lives were saved that winter. Kaasen and his lead dog, Balto, became instant celebrities.

We had taken a small plane from Nome to White Mountain, a tiny village on the Seward Peninsula with about 200 inhabitants and 77 miles from the finish in Nome. This checkpoint is an ideal location to catch a glimpse of the mushers and their teams as they move toward Nome. A large percentage of the residents were out in the cold air and light snow to see the leaders arrive. That large percentage is still a relatively small number of spectators making the race a very intimate, accessible, and transparent sporting event. It was very easy to get up close, talk with the mushers, and interact with the sled dogs. The checkpoint is entirely managed by volunteers as is much of the race logistics and activities. Most of these volunteers are veterans, returning year after year, not able to resist the annual call of the Iditarod Trail.

We headed back to Nome after the arrival of Mitch Seavey, pre-race favorite and, between he and his son, Dallas, had won the Iditarod every year from 2012. Last year, 2017, several of the Dallas Seavey dog team tested positive for the banned substance, tramadol. The musher was not penalized as proof could not be found that Seavey intentionally had given the dogs the substance. Dallas Seavey has strongly denied the incident and boycotted this year’s race in protest. The 2018 Iditarod was not to be a Seavey win, as Mitch sat it third place at White Mountain, too far back to be a serious contender.

Anna Berington sled dog at finish in Nome.
Photo: John Richards.

It was bitterly cold in Nome at 3 a.m., March 14, as the red and blue lights of the Alaskan Trooper announced an approaching team from the far end of Front Street. A police escort guided Ulsom and his team over the last mile, arriving to victory under the Iditarod Burled Arch. Spectators had come out from a short night’s sleep or staggered out of the many local dive bars lining the final stretch. As Ulsom kicked in the sled brake, he looked exhausted, but his dog team looked fresh. The bright lights of cameras and chaotic set of dog handlers, race officials, and media surrounded the winner. Heavy breath hitting the extreme cold rose above our heads, a mystical vapor framing the scene. This is not a rich event. The winner takes home $50,000 and a new truck. That doesn’t cover the typical investment needed to race. The mushers are not here for the money. They race for passion, pride, love of the sport.

The crowd called out to the winner, congratulating he and his dog team. The dogs, who many know by name, receive as many accolades as the mushers. These dogs are the engine that drives the musher to the finish. The lead dog, tactically finding the trail, motivating the others, piercing wind, snow, and cold, dutifully finding the finish line. Another group lined along the finish were holding signs in protest, PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. A few shouting matches could be heard among the crowd, two opposing opinions, fans and locals in full support of the race and its athletes, mushers, and dogs, the other in protest. Whether it was the dead of night, the freezing cold temperature, or the unfinished beer left in the bar, the exchange ended quickly and never surfaced again. Ulsom exited the finish line quickly, tired and cold, and was ushered to the press conference at the Nome race headquarters, then to sleep. Within the day, Nicolas Petit finished in second place and Mitch Seavey placed third.

Mitch Seavey arrives with his team at
White Mountain check point.
Photo: John Richards.

Our vision of the sled teams was a procession of well-matched Siberian huskies with a malamute or two for strength in the back. This is not so. While Siberian huskies and malamutes still pull a fair number of sleds, it’s the unofficial breed of Alaskan huskies that is the racing dog of choice among the elite teams of the Iditarod. Strength, speed, agility, and endurance are the characteristics that prove successful. Breeders have combined German shorthaired pointers, salukis, Anatolian shepherds and, in some cases, wolf, with the traditional malamute and Siberian husky to arrive at the ultimate racing machine.

A day after Ulsom finished in victory, we woke up to a clear sky. We had planned to jump on some snow machines and head to Safety, some 22 miles up the Iditarod Trail and the last checkpoint before the finish line. Without delay, our group of ten boarded the machines in pairs and headed out on the tundra. Within a few minutes we realized that the -40 Fahrenheit we spoke about at REI while choosing our boots is not the same -40 Fahrenheit we experienced in Alaska. With the wind chill it was brutally cold. Needless to say, our boots will be showing up at the REI Garage Sale, and if we ever go back we will get the odd and awkward “bunny” boot engineered by the Army and sold as surplus.

Our guide Laurent, just before departure, heard that two mushers were missing in an area called the blow hole, a treacherous area of sudden high winds and snow storms, fierce and unpredictable. The blow hole was half-way between White Mountain and Safety. As we barreled our way over ice and snow to Safety, we intersected two sled teams guided from behind by a single snow machine. There were no mushers. It didn’t register immediately, but the mushers had been found.

The checkpoint at Safety is just one building, the Safety Roadhouse. After an hour on our machines, we just wanted a warm place to hang out. We got that. A large black wood-burning stove filled the roadhouse with heat, and much of it. It was a quaint bar, its walls papered with dollar bills, signed and left by visitors. We grabbed our wallets and pulled out ten dollars, nine for the Bud Light, and one to staple on the wall. We relaxed with a beer, and with questionable judgment we decided to head in the direction of White Mountain, up the Iditarod Trail, into the blow hole.

It started with smooth riding, hard packed snow and ice, easy for the snow machines to navigate. The sky was clear blue, a nice respite from the otherwise subtle difference in shades of white between ground and sky. Then, with little warning, the snow machines began to hop on accumulated snow drifts. The sky turned light blue, then white, then gray, in minutes. We found ourselves in a storm and entering the blow hole. We wisely retreated. And, back to Nome.

As we parked our snow machines, safely back in Nome, our guide noticed two fat tire cyclists. They had finished the Iditaride, the fat tire bike ride that follows the Iditarod Trail. Cyclists Jay Cale, Phil Hofstetter, and Kevin Breitenbach had found the missing mushers, Jim Lanier and Scott Janssen. Lanier’s sled had been lodged in driftwood in the blow hole and Janssen, passing by, heard his calls for help. Both men had become hypothermic, unable to move, freezing and huddling with one another. Neither musher had the ability to push the help button on the GPS tracker. The cyclists found the tracker and pushed the button. With race officials notified and search and rescue deployed, Lanier and Janssen survived with little injury. The dog teams were recovered and doing fine. A close call and a clear reminder of the risk and danger of the Iditarod Trail.

It would be three days after Ulsom finished that the final team would arrive to collect the coveted red lantern, as Magnus Kaltenborn completed the race on March 14. The red lantern is a symbolic prize for last place. Every finisher is considered a hero. Other notable finishes: fourth place was Jesse Holmes, highest finishing rookie and Aliy Zirkle, the top female, finished 15th.

There are challenges ahead for the Iditarod. Sponsors are beginning to pull out, perhaps due to controversies of dog care, doping, or just waning interest. Prize money is shrinking as sponsors fade away and a few mushers made note of that at the closing banquet. Climate change is encroaching. Arctic winter air temperatures have risen by 8 degrees Fahrenheit since 1979 and winter ice volume has dropped 42 percent in the same period (Scientific American, April 2018). With no arctic, there is no Iditarod. The excitement and pride that is the Iditarod had a melancholy undertone, as concerns lingered in many conversations.

We had a discussion with Howard Farley, now 86, a founder of the Iditarod and also a musher from the original race in 1973. He told us to go back home and tell 1,000 people of the Iditarod experience. He professed that news media, social media, and big sponsorship money was not needed—in his view it’s word of mouth that will keep the race going. I wanted to believe him, that it might work. In the world of big money sponsorship deals, big brands with logos plastered on apparel, endless advertising, huge deals for athletes, and constant stream of social media, it seemed like an impossible dream that word of mouth could solely sustain this event.

As we, and throngs of visitors, bottlenecked the tiny Nome airport, swamping the few bag handlers with big duffels full of warm clothing, I thought that Howard might be right. The passion of the mushers is pure. They are not in it for the money, but for the love of it. The sled dogs, at each rest stop, anxious to get moving again, to run, the few spectators, enthusiastically delivering praise as racers pass by, enough to prompt a wave of thanks and a wag of a tail. Maybe this is the Iditarod, the past, the present and the future, the race itself a test of survival.

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PAFlete: Jess Roskelley—Finiding His Place in the Mountains

by Jonathan Barrett

Photo: Ben Erdman

Jess Roskelley is a guy who is obsessed with climbing. It is logical, of course, that the alpinist who ticked off the unclimbed South Ridge of Huntington in Alaska would be single-minded about his climbing. However, he was not always this way. One might expect that the son of celebrated mountaineer, John Roskelley, would have felt the from the very beginning the lure of the mountains, but it was not always there for him as a kid.

Despite being very aware of his father’s climbing career and even dabbling in climbing as a kid, he was not particularly interested in the sport when he was young. In high school he was like most teenagers. He did not think much about the future or about what he wanted to be. His priorities were, in his words, “wrestling and chasing girls.”

Paradoxically climbing was at the same time an integral part of his life. When he started guiding on Rainier at eighteen, it was not a big deal to him. He described it as a

Jess camping with his family in 1986.

 “way to get out of the house and seriously. At that time in his life, he would, “run out with some other kids,” and occasionally put himself in danger. Climbing was a thing on the side.
make a little money.” Perhaps this should have been the first indication that he was due for much bigger things when a nonchalant job for him is a lofty aspiration for many young climbers. He continued to climb off and on in his late teens and early twenties but not particularly

It was not until he was twenty-five that there was a shift. Like many climbers, there was a moment, a single climb that reframed his perspective on the sport. Slipstream, a famous alpine line on Snow Dome, caught his imagination, and he asked his father, who was sixty at the time, to join him. Plans went awry though when the weather turned sour. He and his father were forced into an open bivy by terrible conditions, and the rangers were sent out to rescue them. The experience made him realize that climbing could be an intellectual pursuit as much as a physical one. He wanted to know how to do it better and to gain the knowledge that he was missing. Jess has that pivotal experience and has not looked back since.

Photo: Clint Helander

Although he has made other mistakes from time to time, he has learned to be patient while acquiring his skills. He noted that, “some guys go out full bore,” when beginning their career in alpinism, and there is the tendency to make mistakes. He described his progression and growth as being a natural one. When asked if he has had any close calls, he admitted that they have become more frequent in recent years. Two stand out in his mind. In Patagonia he recently ended up climbing a serac that he recognized at the time was highly risky. The next day, the glacier cut loose over the path that he had just been on. On Mt. Huntington, he almost took a fatal ride when an icy glove led to unclipping a carabiner.

Jess acknowledges that he does take some risks on climbs and that the more challenging the objective the greater his tolerance for risk is. The question is, of course, why. The longer he has been at the game, the more confident he has become in his skills and judgment, and the deeper his motivation is to strive for lofty goals. It is an obsession for him now. Jess believes that all serious climbers feel the compulsion in some way or another. For him, “it runs the show.” Climbing has determined his choice of job as a contract welder, the locations for vacationing with his wife, and the way that he eats every day.

He recognizes that he is very fortunate that climbing continues to bring meaning and purpose into his day to day existence. “Life is simple on a mountain. Your only job is to survive,” he said. “I feel like life would be mundane without the experiences I get while climbing mountains.” The experiences that his has in the mountains sustains him in his normal day to day life.

Photo: Clint Helander

When asked what his endgame was, he responded in the following way: “To be content is the endgame.” Has he achieved this yet? In his mind, the answer is a resounding yes. Somehow he manages to be both driven to achieve at higher and higher levels, and at the same time be satisfied with all that he has already done. When asked about what it was like to be the son of a prominent alpinist and whether he felt the pressure to follow in his father’s footsteps, he said, “Somehow my dad did it the right way, when it came to me with climbing.” Jess was allowed to find it on his own terms and define satisfaction by his own criteria.

Get your tickets to The Summit on Nov. 18 where you will get to hear Jess speak about his experiences int he Mountains.

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Memories of the Columbia River Gorge

Photo: Sandor Lao

We were extremely saddened by the fire that raged on through our beloved Columbia River Gorge starting in early September. The trails, waterfalls, foliage, and fauna in the gorge are significant to the Mazamas and to our community. Every year we collectively hike thousands of miles in the gorge—exploring its beauty, relishing in its lushness, and training our legs. Last year alone thousands of people participated in Mazama activities and classes in the gorge and hiked more than 10,000 miles on the trails.

We have heard from so many of you already about your deep personal connection with the area and the strong emotions you are feeling as this fire continues to burn. Here are some of your stories of what the Gorge means to you.


The Gorge Brought Me Back

Photo: Marti McCleskey

by Marti McCleskey

For me the Gorge was a place for emotional healing after a divorce that ended my 28-year marriage. I had been told for a long time all the things that I could not do. I decided to take up hiking, hoping the exercise would help me feel better. I was at an extreme low point and searching for hikes. I looked at the description for Eagle Creek. I must mention I was terrified of heights then. Maybe it was the description of the “Vertigo Mile” that made me decide to challenge myself, or maybe at that point I really didn’t care if I did fall off of it. I can’t really remember which, but I do know that on that particular day in Eagle Creek I came to several realizations.

The first was, “Wow! Eagle Creek is really, really beautiful!” The second was, “It is really cool to be standing on the edge of something that drops off like this.” And third, “I really want to find more hikes like this one.” Finally, “I can do this by myself.”

Something awoke inside of me that day, a growing sense of adventure that has since grown to climbing mountains, rock climbing, and even traversing the entire Mark O. Hatfield Wilderness and bagging most of the peaks in it along the way in one 75-mile, 17,000+ foot of elevation gain, four-and-a-half day through hike. I am thankful for that experience, all of my hikes I have done in the Gorge since that day, and the memories and photos I have of it before it was ravaged by this fire. I am thankful to the Gorge for bringing me back to life.

The Gorge Gave Me Plenty

Photo: Darrin Gunkel

by Darrin Gunkel

Summer of 2015 wasn’t a great year for Gorge waterfalls. Record low snowpack meant streams petered out early. So, not expecting a much beyond a fine stroll, my wife Karin and I set out one July afternoon on the Wahkeena-Multnomah Loop. We were in for a pleasantly palatable surprise. Who knew such a dry year could produce the bumper crop of huckleberries and thimbleberries we stumbled into! With all the dawdling to graze on the fruits of the forest and take pictures of wildflowers, we did the loop in a record (slow) three and a half hours.

The best moment, after watching Karin jumping to pick not-so-low hanging huckleberries, was her creation of the Woodland Amuse-bouche: thimbleberry wrapped in an oxalis leaf. The tart leaf and earthy berry combination opened for us a whole new dimension in forest nibbling. Too bad morel season was over; a few of our favorite mushrooms to accompany this treat would have landed us in Iron Chef territory, for sure.


The Gorge is Part of Me

Photo: Carmen La Macchia



by George Cummings


My love affair with the Columbia Gorge and the Mazamas began on July 26, 1959 when I joined a club hike on Observation Peak north of Carson, Washington. I had moved to Portland six weeks earlier and was working in a lab at what was then the University of Oregon Medical School (now OHSU). Two of my co-workers were Mazamas who, on finding that I liked hiking, told me that the club had a hiking program I might enjoy. So on that July Sunday morning at 7:30, I met up with a group of hikers in front of the Pacific Building on SW Salmon Street and got a ride with the Sazlow family. I don’t remember anything about the hike itself, but I do remember that, instead of returning the way we had driven on the Oregon side, the Sazlow’s chose to give me a better view of it—the best side they said—from the Washington side.

I hiked frequently with the club during the fall and winter and became a Mazama after taking Basic Climbing School in the spring of 1960 and climbing Mt. St. Helens. I have no idea how many times I have hiked on the best side in all seasons with friends, family, students, and alone in the 58 years since that first hike, but I know that its trails, streams, forests and hills are part of me, and I am grateful for that.

The Gorge Feels Like Home

Photo: John Leary

by Jenny Dempsey Stein


As a college student in New York in the early 90s, I worked at the library returning books to the shelves. While I was pondering my future, I found the tiny section of books about Oregon, and two stood out. One featured a black and white photo of Multnomah Falls, which I gaped at open-mouthed. The other featured a story about female forest rangers.

 My imagination took off, and soon I landed a Student Conservation Association position in the Gorge with a U.S. Forest Service team and was based at Multnomah Falls visitor center. I also did campfire talks, paraded on July 4th wearing a hot Smokey Bear outfit, sold items from the bookmobile, and traveled on the interpretive Lewis and Clark Amtrak train.

 While discovering hot springs, huckleberries, old growth trees, and eventually my fear of heights too, I “fell in love outward” as poet Robinson Jeffers coined the term, and my life, now to be lived out west, was never the same again.

The Gorge is a Place for Adventure

Photo: Trapper Sutterfield

by Thomas Gibbons

No picture, just memories: In the summer of 1940 when I was sixteen I hitchhiked up the old gorge highway to Tanner Creek. Several of us found rides with the construction workers building Bonneville Dam. This trip I was alone and planned to find the “trail” leading above the main waterfall of Tanner Creek that my friend Bill Lenahan had told me about.

At a point about one hundred yards below the falls I crossed the creek on a log jam and scrambled up a scree slope. Low and behold it ended at the opening to a gully that led steeply up to the left. The gully ended at approximately two hundred feet above the creek. A scramble left brought me out to the cliff face!
Now I was on a narrow trail, with a cliff below and above. It was so narrow I had to turn sideways to avoid my pack brushing the wall. As I proceeded upstream the narrow trail became more like a game trail, and wandered through a steep forested hillside. Passing another waterfall the canyon opened up and nice pools invited me to fish for native cutthroat.

With enough fish for dinner I looked for a bench on which to make camp. Around a bend in the creek was just the spot; but someone had erected two large cabin tents and built a nice fire pit. While debating where to make camp three adults walked into camp and said “Where did you come from?” When I told them they could hardly believe it was possible. They were engineers surveying for the main power line and construction road on the east slope of the canyon.

One of them knew my parents and suggested it might be wise to join them the next morning, a Saturday, to hike out. Upstream we connected with a trail that led about two miles to a road heading west to Larch Mountain. About fifteen years later I did the hike with my young bride, later Mazama President Lois Gibbons. When we got to the game trail we turned up slope to Munra Point ridge and down the rough trail to I-84.

A few years later I led a Mazama hike up the route. Unfortunately the trip is no longer possible. A crack in the gully over time widened from erosion and expansion from ice and the whole wall on the creek side fell into the creek and created a partial dam. But a few of us have great memories of a beautiful, and adventurous, trip!

The Gorge Will Rise Again

Photo: Sandor Lao

by Reena Clements


Every winter, AYM is invited to visit the Trails Club of Oregon’s Nesika Lodge for an overnight backpack trip. Nesika, nestled near Multnomah Falls and Larch Mountain, recently lost both dorms to the Eagle Creek Fire, while the main lodge appears to be standing. A longstanding winter tradition, the annual Nesika trip is the perfect way to introduce our members to backpacking and to both our group and a sister hiking organization.

We have many fond memories and traditions at Nesika, both exploring trails, finding an old Buick deep in the Gorge and making new friends through board games, a potluck, trying to bake bread in the oven, and watching the Empire Builder go by on the opposite side of the Gorge. AYM feels deeply for the buildings Nesika has lost and will be there for Trails Club when the time comes to rebuild.