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After the Fire: Alternatives to Closed Gorge Trails

Latourell Falls  Photo: Darrin Gunkel

by Darrin Gunkel

There’s no way around it: Columbia Gorge hikers are going to have to do more driving this year. Since the Eagle Creek Fire, nearly every trail on the Oregon side remains closed indefinitely. To get the same bang for our hiking buck, we’re going to have to roam farther afield. But look on the bright side: casting a wider hiking net is a chance to get to know some less famous, but no less worthy trails. The question is, how to choose which ones? Here’s a list of some of the more popular Gorge trails, and their rough equivalents within day-trip range:

Closed: Wahclella Falls Loop—1.8 miles, 300 feet
Alternate: Latourell Falls Loop—2.4 miles, 520 feet
Where do you take your out of shape relatives from out of town? Wahclella Falls was always a good bet, guaranteed to wow urbanites from back east with a taste of Cascadia’s wonders that wouldn’t leave them soured with blisters and aching limbs. Fortunately, the other quick and easy Gorge-walk-guaranteed-to-please escaped the flames. Some say Latourell is one of the most beautiful falls in the gorge—it’s arguable. Do this loop clockwise, working through forest finery and smaller falls before the big unveiling. Then send them back to Ohio duly impressed.

Closed: Multnomah/ Wahkeena Loop—4.8 miles, 1,500 feet
How do you find an alternative with everything this loop offers: the easiest access, a slew of awesome waterfalls, a quick Gorge fix that you can squeeze in after work and still be home before dark (in Summer Solstice season, at least), a decent, but not grueling workout? You can’t. So, here are three alternates that attempt to fill the gap piecemeal:

Alternate: Pup Creek Falls—7.8 miles, 1,695 feet. 
This trail along the Clackamas River gives you all the water you’re missing along the Multnomah/Wahkeena Loop. The trail is longer, certainly not an after-work trip, but it’s not as steep, so the energy expenditure’s about the same. The forest is lovely, and the falls are as impressive as (almost) anything in the Gorge.

Alternate: Mitchell Point—2.6 miles, 1,270 feet
One of the few Gorge trails that escaped the burn, this is your quick fix. Sure, it’s shorter (and steeper), but the time you save can be spent at pFriem Brewery, just 15 minutes away in Hood River.

Alternate: Palisade Point from Fret Creek—4.8 miles, 1,300 feet. 
Almost too long a drive to count as an alternate, this northern approach to Badger Creek Wilderness does provide relief from crowds. It’s an almost identical workout to the Multnoma/Wahkeena Loop, and like it, add-on trips make it more enticing. But rather than viewless Devil’s Rest or the long, long trip up Larch Mountain, from The Palisades, you can go visit the masses ogling Hood at Lookout Mountain, or ramble out to Flag Point and visit with one of the last active fire watchers in the Cascades. The views from the fire lookout or the meadow south of Flag Point encompass much of Badger Creek, and a whole lot of eastern Oregon. The flowers are excellent.

Closed: Multnomah Falls to Devil’s Rest—8.4 miles; 2,300 feet
Alternate: East Zigzag from Lost Creek— 9.4 Miles; 2,300 feet.
Zigzag Mountain lacks waterfalls, but it does have pleasant Burnt Lake. And views. Big views, grand enough to take the sting out of the longer drive.

Closed: Nesmith Point—10.2 miles; 3,700 feet
Alternate: Huckleberry Mountain from Wildwood Recreation Area—11 Miles; 3,500 feet
These trails are practically twins. Huckleberry may be a little lower, but the longer trail makes up the few hundred feet difference in elevation. This route is in really good shape, and the grade is ideal for keeping your heart rate right where you want it. Fine Hood views from the tiny summit meadows. There’s lots of parking at this BLM site, but your Forest Pass won’t work—it’s only five bucks, though.

Closed: Mt. Defiance—12.2 miles; 4,900 feet 
Alternate: Paradise Park-Hidden Lake Loop Hike—18.1 Miles; 4,300 feet
While Mt. Defiance is closed, you’re going to need to find another test hike to prepare for your summer climbs. This could be the ticket. You can get to Paradise Park from Timberline. It’s a pleasant trip, but easier, and where’s the fun in that?

Closed: Horse Tail, PonyTail, and Triple Falls Loop—4.4 miles; 680 feet
Alternate: Falls Creek Falls—3.4 Miles; 700 feet
For your hardier relatives, or when you need a quick jaunt on a rainy day in the off season, the Horse, Pony, and Triple Falls triple threat could not be beat (especially as a launch pad up Franklin Ridge). Falls Creek Falls should be just about as impressive for visitors, and even though the walk has just one cataract, you can add nearby Panther Creek Falls to the trip.

Closed: Eagle Creek to Tunnel Falls—12 miles, 1,640 feet
Alternate: Lewis River—10 miles, 1,260 feet 
Eagle Creek is another one that really has no alternate (Not even the OTHER Eagle Creek, lost in its forest canyon down there by Estacada). So what do we do? Give up the tunnel and a few waterfalls and head for the Lewis River. Some would say that the forest here is actually better, the trees fatter, and the river wider. Go and decide for yourself.

Closed: Indian Point—7.6 Miles; 2,800 feet
Alternates: Cairn Basin from Top Spur—8.7 Miles; 2,200 feet
So the stats on this hike make it a good surrogate, and at 90 minutes from Portland, it’s still a reasonable day trip. It also makes a reasonable alternative to McNeil Point—the two destinations share much of the same route. But there’s something missing … views of a great river in a deep gorge from the edge of a cliff. If that’s what you really crave, spend the extra 45 minutes traveling and head east of the Cascades to the Deschutes River and Criterion Ranch—10.2 Miles; 2,200 feet. A bonus that makes up for the significantly longer drive (still doable for a long day): no trees to block any of the views. Which also means no shade—but the flowers are better. Go early in the year or the day. Or take a really big parasol. Hood and Adams make appearances, too.

Closed: Nick Eaton Ridge Loop—14 Miles; 3,800 feet
Alternate: Dry Ridge to Grouse Point—14 Miles; 3,400 feet
Dry Ridge doesn’t get much traffic. The Roaring River Wilderness is less about scenery and more about protecting deep forests and tributaries of the Clackamas. The steep elevation gains on this trail also keep crowds at bay. If you’re missing Eaton’s stiff workout, this is the place for you.

Closed: Backpacking in the Mark O. Hatfield Wilderness 
Alternate: Badger Creek Wilderness, approached from the east
Losing backcountry camping in the Hatfield is a real bummer: quick and easy to get to, and often snow free while the high country is buried. The next closest thing is Badger Creek. Two loop trips can be launched from the School Canyon Trailhead above Tygh Valley, one longer, up over Tygh ridge, and one shorter, down through the canyon of Little Badger Creek (a reasonable 9 mile, 2,150-foot trip.) Or, you can hike up nearby Big Badger Creek for many pleasing miles. No matter which you choose, all have pleasant camping, and a rarity on the dry side of the mountains, consistent water sources. Badger’s network of trails isn’t as vast as Hatfield’s, but it’s a chance to sleep many miles from cars and lights and cell phone signals, still within a few hours of civilization, early or late in the season. Which is also when you should visit, unless you really enjoy heat.

Closed: Angel’s Rest/ Devil’s Rest Loop—10.9 miles, 2,770 feet 
Alternate: Huckleberry Mountain via Wildcat—11.2 miles, 2,200 feet
This is the lonesome way up Huckleberry Mountain, via the Plaza Trail from Douglas Trailhead, which is a quick hour from Portland, up the Wildcat Mountain Road above the OTHER Eagle Creek, near Estacada. You may find this alternate is actually more interesting than the original, with regular glimpses of Hood, and views that allow you to study the architecture of ridges and canyons at the heart of the Salmon Huckleberry Wilderness. You will find more solitude (where won’t you, after Angel’s Rest?). Oh, and the occasional glimpse of Jefferson–you don’t get that from Devil’s Rest.

Closed: Larch Mountain Crater—6.6 miles, 1,400 feet
Alternate: Memaloose Lake/ South Fork Mountain—4.6 miles, 1,400 feet
The ramble around Larch Mountain Crater is the meal before the dessert of views from Sherrod Point. This alternate trail has the same quiet forest feel of Larch’s crater, and some of the spectacle of Sherrod, too. To get to the views on this trail above the Clackamas River, you have to work a little harder, but Memaloose Lake along the way, with one of the best rhododendron forests anywhere, more than makes up for it. The lake is known for its newts, which you might find migrating on the trail if you’re there at the right time of year. South Fork’s summit is a bit woodsy–the volcanoes are farther away than on Larch, but there are more of them to see.

Closed: Elevator Shaft—6.7 miles, 1,860 feet
Alternate: Green Canyon Way—6.6 miles, 2,500 feet
You like steep? You’ve you got steep on this trip up Hunchback Mountain from Salmon River. And the forest is nicer, here, too. The mileage for this alternate is to the junction with the Hunchback Trail, which you can then follow all the way to Devil’s Peak lookout, and which may or may not be cleared of blow down. Or you could try the other direction, ambling along Hunchback’s ridge until it begins to drop down towards the Zigzag ranger station. Or just head back down to enjoy the burn while you cool your feet in the Salmon River.

Not closed, but you might want to consider an alternate anyway.

Trails north of the Columbia are going to be taking up a lot of the slack this season. Add the new, weird permits on Dog Mountain, and the loss of the two trailheads close to Table Mountain, and you have reason to consider avoiding some of the Washington side classics until things get back to normal.

Avoid: Table Mountain—Formerly 8, now 15.5 Miles; formerly 3,350, now 4,320 feet
Alternate: Salmon Butte—11.8 Miles; 3,170 feet
Since Bonneville Hot Springs Resort has been converted to a rehab facility, and the private access to the Aldrich Butte trailhead has been closed, the trip up the Gorge’s tallest summit has gone from rewarding punishment (multiple volcano views in the Gorge!) to a route only a trail runner could love. That slog along the PCT was always awful anyway… The great thing about Salmon Butte, the trail is prettier, even if, echoing Table Mountain, it follows an ugly retired road at the start. What you lose in Columbia River views on Salmon Butte, you gain in volcano counting from the summit: eight of ‘em! From a glimpse of the Sisters all the way to Rainier.

Avoid: Hamilton Mountain—7.5 Miles; 2,100 feet
Alternate: Siouxon Creek Hike—8.2 Miles; 1,600 feet
There’s no official reason to avoid Hamilton Mountain: it’s open, the trails are in good repair, it’s easy to get to, it’s still a wonderful trip. But closures elsewhere are likely to push the capacity of this already busy trail—not to mention log-jam the parking lot. Siouxon Creek is not exactly a hidden gem, but it is a little farther, a little less on-the-radar. And what Siouxon lacks in majestic Gorge vibes, it more than makes up for with its deep, lush, forest and pretty river.

Avoid: Dog Mountain—6.9 or 7.4 Miles; 2,800 feet 
Alternate: Nestor Peak—8 Miles; 2,980 feet
Unless they can go at night or during the week, the new permit system may force Dog Mountain off many a hiker’s to-do list this year. Fortunately, Nestor Peak is nearby, and a close match to the famous Dog. You won’t be staring straight down onto the decks of Columbia River barges from Nestor, but the flower show is worth the effort, as are the views out to Adams and Hood.

Avoid: Cape Horn—7.1 Miles; 1,350 feet
Alternate: Falls Creek Falls Loop—6.2 Miles; 1,150 feet
Again, aside from the seasonal closure to protect nesting peregrine falcons on the lower trail, there’s no real reason to avoid Cape Horn, other than overcrowding. Here too, parking is bound to be a mess, compounded by the proximity to Highway 14. Lead by example, leave a little earlier and get home a little later and enjoy this extended version of the Falls Creek Falls trip.

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A Night on Mt. Whitney



by Stefani Dawn, edited by Wendy Marshall

So many people climb Mt. Whitney, the continental U.S.’s highest peak, that permits can be hard to obtain. Most climb it via the hiking trail, while others take the steep scree-fest of Mountaineers’ Route. Still others go by the technical East Face or East Buttress. A number of people climb it, including the technical pitches, in a day. A typical strategy is to assemble the least amount of gear needed, park at the Portal, and ascend 4000 ft. to Base Camp. Then you climb either the East Face or East Buttress 1000 ft. more feet to the full 14,505 ft. elevation, then descend by the 2000 ft. Mountaineers’ Route. Finally, you hike back down over four knee-busting miles to the Portal. The idea not only sounded like a rough prospect to me, it blew my mind. Still, I like a challenge, and knowing people regularly do it got me thinking: “Maybe it’s easier than it seems.” So, after an attempted climb of Mt. Ogden with my husband Rick, followed by some training, I took Whitney on.

In the planning stage, I recalled the primary lesson from our Mt. Ogden practice: allow more time. First, this means time to acclimate to the altitude, but also to decompress and rest, and allow for unplanned incidents. Estimating the climb at a safe minimum of six hours, ten at most, our team of three — Rick, a friend Simon and I — started before sunrise. But time leaked away with each photo, lead switch, and equipment catch. Most especially, repeated attempts at route-finding gobbled up minutes. One surprise time-sink for us was simply stepping aside for other climbers to pass, since we wanted to enjoy our route and not feel rushed. I have never climbed with so many people on a route before. Future hopefuls, take note: Mt. Whitney is a climbers’ super-highway!

We went for efficiency, each person leading multiple pitches in a row to minimize switching leads. Another person flaked ropes or transferred gear at the same time, and at least two of us or even all three climbed simultaneously as often as possible. Still, the pauses added up, and we topped out at 7 p.m. — 12 long hours after we started.

Immediately after summiting, we tried to descend by the Mountaineers’ Route, but sunset was upon us. We found rock cairns and crude Xs, but after peeking over the edge of each one, told each other: “This looks bad.” As light vanished and the temperature dropped, we decided the safest choice would be to bivy on the summit. Whitney is in the Sierra Nevadas, but the altitude coupled with clear skies can still mean bitter cold. Neither had we planned for a bivy; we had only our extra clothing layers, plus remnants of food and dwindling water. Fortunately, there’s a stone and wood hut at the summit, where some thoughtful soul had left an emergency blanket. We piled under the noisy, reflective fabric and huddled for protection from the freezing ground and rapidly stirring winds.

Soon we heard voices and saw headlamps. We greeted two more climbers with a hoorah, and two more 30 minutes later, all from the East Face route. Yet two more, off the East Buttress, opened the door to chat, then went off to attempt Mountaineers’ Route in the dark, leaving us to shiver and try to sleep. These other climbers relieved my mind somewhat. Before they arrived, I wondered how we had so radically miscalculated our time. I thought, “What could we have done differently?” Given what we knew, and that it was our first attempt at this mountain, not much. We’d chosen safety first, and enjoyment next, based on our gear arrangement. Doubts set in: Was I too slow a climber? Should I not have lead any of our 12 pitches? As we discovered, about half the climbers took even longer than we did. All were first-timers, and most were dumbfounded by the maze-like mess of the last five pitches. Whitney in a day, we learned, is not the norm.

Next morning, we still had no luck finding Mountaineers’ Route. Instead, Simon found a steep scree path on the northwest side. I found myself sliding, barely in control. Large rocks tumbled by me, then disappeared over the curve of the slope with echoing crashes. I froze and began sobbing from fear and exhaustion, thinking, I can’t do this. I could think only of an article I’d read about people dying on an alternate route, falling into the small alpine lakes below. From his vantage point ahead Simon reassured us, but I’d reached my wits’ end, and I didn’t want my physical or mental state to slow them down. I insisted Rick give me the spare gear, to lighten his and Simon’s load. Rick wasn’t happy about our splitting up, but agreed to let me take the gentler hikers’ trail, 11 miles to the parking area, with another four miles down the Lone Pine Creek Trail to Iceberg Lake. Emotionally relieved, I made do with a fruit bar and some water donated by a kind group of folks, and took micro-naps in the sun.

The Whitney trail stretched on, pounding my toes, but my legs held up surprisingly well. I thought of Rick and Simon, hoping they succeeded unhurt in their risky descent. The Whitney Portal Valley appeared, and as I passed the Lone Pine Creek trailhead, I saw Rick, running toward me with his 50lb. pack still on! He and Simon had found a viable descent even faster than the Mountaineers’ Route. Their choice isn’t a good route if there’s a risk of ice, and they met a few sections with “consequences”, they said, but nothing steeper than where I’d had my meltdown.

I felt grateful my teammates were willing to meet me, cutting our odyssey short by a day, and grateful to my husband for taking up the extra gear. Rick and Simon were completely understanding of my decision, and informed me that the prospect of beer and a burger was plenty motivation to get off the mountain.

I can now safely assert that Mt. Whitney is beyond the “common climber”, as I call it, even with an ultralight approach. It’s both easy and not easy, and should not be underestimated. I learned a lot, felt proud and grateful, had fun, and got down safely. But I also got whipped!

If you plan to give Mt. Whitney a shot, here are a few things to keep in mind:

  • The approach to Base Camp is 4000 ft. in four miles — doable, but a strain at times.
  • The Sierra Nevadas are mostly sunny in summer, and Whitney doesn’t get the typical daily summer mountain thunderstorms. Still, be prepared for season storms to sneak up on you, and it can get quite cold.
  • The East Buttress climb is a 5.7 or less, if you can find the right path. Route-finding can be a challenge, especially at the top, where you can be met with an unprotectable 5.10 grade climb! Then it’s down-climbing, traversing, whatever you can, to get to something climbable.
  • Once again, allow plenty of time, emergency and/or overnight supplies, food and water.

About the Author
Stefani Dawn’s favorite pasttime is rock climbing, especially easy trad, multi-pitch and technical sport climbs. Her second favorite pasttime is writing about rock climbing. Third favorite? Hosting outdoor meet-up events to connect with other climbers and mentor newbies. Check out her website, Common Climber (http://www.commonclimber.com/), for articles, tips, reviews, and photos. Submissions invited!

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Families Mountaineering 101

Lillie on a Tyrolean Traverse at Horsethief Butte. Photos: Mari Williams.

This was why we were here—to test and challenge ourselves, and to experience that exhilaration and joy together as a family.



by Grace Taylor

That sunnyday in September was the first time I’d seen blue sky in weeks. The Eagle Creek fire had darkened the skies and caused us to cancel the first of our scheduled field sessions with FM101. But this time, a cool, crisp wind had cleared the air for our first outdoor climb.

After learning about the ancient paintings hidden among the rocks at Horse Thief Butte, we split into groups to practice our climbing and rappelling skills in the open air. Lillie, my 13-year old, headed off with a couple young assistants. My 9-year-old son James and I teamed up with John, a more experienced climber, and his two girls.

I’ll admit to holding my breath watching James rappel down 100 foot cliffs. But nervousness turned to joy when he came down beaming—as proud of himself as I’d ever seen him. This was why we were here—to test and challenge ourselves, and to experience that exhilaration and joy together as a family.

When I next saw Lillie she proudly announced she’d climbed all the routes and passed all the tests for her skills cards. At some point Craig, one of the assistants, had us follow him to a route he’d set up near the trailhead. “Why don’t you give this one a try?” he suggested to Lillie. She studied the route and listened as Craig coached her through how to do a lay back. There was nothing easy about this route. She tried a couple of different approaches and struggled in places, but just kept at it until she got to the top anchor. When she was out of earshot, Craig told me that the entrance crack was classified as a 5.10b “I just wanted to know if she could do it,” he said.

These were exactly the moments I’d hoped for when I signed up for FM101. It’s not always easy finding activities all three of us enjoy together. The two kids are different enough in age that their interests and abilities don’t overlap much. We love camping and being active with friends outdoors, but when it’s just the three of us, it’s a lot to manage. And, we all need the company of others to make it fun and motivating.

Lillie blew me away, not only by mastering skills quickly and taking my breath away with her climbing, but by being a leader and a helper for our family. She kept track of our assignments, studied the course material and helped manage our gear.

James did great too. He didn’t always love listening to lectures, going through safety checks or practicing knots. He got frustrated when he forgot a knot or a technical term. All he really wanted to do was climb rocks. And climb more rocks.

Lillie Taylor Steward belaying at Horsethief Butte.

I did my best to keep up with them. Sometimes I scrambled to get gear and lunches packed after a long work week, or skimmed my way through a reading assignment. I showed up as prepared as I could be, and learned a ton. Our coordinators Brian and Kirsten did an amazing job presenting the material in a way that was engaging and empowering to kids.

All the assistants were great, including the kids who helped lead and teach the sessions. All were patient, kind and encouraging. All were competent and clear in giving instructions. When James was frustrated, they helped him keep going. When he stuck with something they gave him praise. When I was losing patience with him, they gently brought him back to focus with playful humor and respectful reminders so we could all succeed together.

I’ve had a great time climbing, and feel ready for more adventures. Lillie has joined a climbing club at the Rock gym. James is ready to climb more rocks and do more camping, and knows that he can learn difficult things. We met lots of great people and kindled friendships I hope will grow over time. All of us want to go climb mountains.

Lillie’s Perspective

by Lillie Taylor

I have been entranced by climbing since I was eight. Watching people scale the reaches of the world’s greatest peaks and hidden wonders has kept me entertained for five years and I have finally convinced my family to jump onboard with me. FM101 has been the perfect way to engage mom and James in something I’m passionate about and hope to continue in the future. After completing this class, I feel ready to complete all sorts new challenges. I have learned how to make myself feel secure on a wall, and put trust in myself and in others. I hope that I can come back to help with future sessions, and intend to become a stronger climber over time. This class was what I needed to feel confident in my own abilities.

James’ Perspective

by James Taylor
I really loved the climbing and the snow session. I liked how at the snow session there was a surprise, and there were a whole bunch of games in Mazama lodge. For the rock climbing part I really liked climbing and belaying.

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Honestly

Questing on a different type of fun on a first ascent of a hard new mixed route in Colorado. Photo: Karsten Delap





by Chris Wright

Billy Joel says honesty is a lonely word, yet both he and my mother always told me it was important. I know you know this, but I’m telling you now too: it is. It’s hard sometimes, but as Shakespeare reminds us, “To thine own self be true.” If you’re not, you will know it, and when you’re up on that crimp high above that wiggly little cam or strung out on a ridge in goodness-know-where wishing to anything you weren’t there, you may wonder why you put yourself in this position. When it comes to climbing, as it does in so many of life’s avenues, if we could only be honest with ourselves, we could be so much happier for it.

Here’s what I mean. If you’re anything like me, you do things for a lot of different reasons. Some you have to, some you want to, some you enjoy, some you don’t, and some you like sometimes and not so much others. So it is for me with skiing. I love to ski. I’ve done it since I was a little kid, I do a lot of it for work, I do a fair bit for fun, and mostly I like it. My favorite is touring; I love the feel of being out in the mountains, moving elegantly though them, setting a skin track, and getting up high. But what I love the most is the movement. I love laying my skis over on edge, skiing fast, and the feeling of flying that I get when it all lines up just right. But I hate skiing moguls. I hate crud and choppy snow, I don’t like it if it’s icy, I’ve no interest in dropping cliffs (okay, maybe little ones), and I certainly don’t see death-fall faces as my idea of a good time. So if I’m honest with myself, I know I don’t really love to push it in skiing. Sure, I love big days. I like long tours, ski mountaineering, and skiing the steeps. But I’ll never be motivated by the extreme line, the gnarliest huck, or the sickest spine. I know I could probably get better if I logged endless crud laps and drilled myself on the bumps, but it’s just not who I am. I ski because I love the feeling of it, and it doesn’t have to be hard to be good. When it comes to climbing however, my motivations are different.

Give me a painful jam, an epic adventure, a miserable bivy, a god-awful slog and I love it. Give me a nice crimp, a nice crack, a long route, a hard route, a short route, or an easy route and I’d probably take it. I love to climb for so many reasons. I love the feeling of being up in the air, I love the struggle of a hard move, and I even like the feeling of groping desperately, pumped stupid, not knowing if I’m going to fall any moment. I like the uncertainty of seeing how far I can go, how high I can climb, and how far I can take it, knowing the beauty is in the un-assured outcome. But I also like a nice classic 5.easy, I love the feel of a good move whether it’s hard or it’s not, I like big mountains and small, and I’d be lying if I said that I wanted to push it everyday or that I could always wake up and go questing. Sometimes I just want to go climbing, and I don’t want to be scared, or to bleed, or to fall off at all. I just want to go powder skiing, if you know what I mean.

So here’s where the honesty comes in. Freud used to say that we can change what we do, but not what we want to do. That may or may not really be true, but when it comes to climbing – or skiing, or hiking, or running or whatever – you can’t fool yourself into wanting to do what you don’t want to do. You might very well be able to actually do it, but if we do these things for fun and you’re not having any, then what’s the point? Because even if you get up the climb or down the run, if you hate it, why do it?

One of my good friends and climbing partners gives sage advice sometimes. He’s not trying to be profound, but two things he’s said to me over the years have really stuck. We were once standing underneath Heinous Cling, one of my favorite climbs in Smith’s famed Dihedrals, and I was fretting that I hadn’t been on it in a while and didn’t remember the moves. He told me that I should just climb or fall off, and to not make it any more complicated than that. So simple. He also once told me I should grab the white ones and step on the black ones, which if you’ve ever done that route is surprisingly useful beta, but the point is that it worked for me that day. Over the years I’ve found that the days I climb the best are the days that I can just get out of my head and climb. Those are the days when I’m not thinking about falling, I’m not thinking about the buts and the ifs and the doubts, I’m just climbing. But I know that’s not going to happen if I try to go hard every day I go out. I’ll probably have a lousy time, I might fall off a bunch, I might let my partner down, and worst-case scenario I might actually get hurt. So I try to be honest with myself when I ask the simplest of questions in choosing an objective: What is it that I want? Do I want to go on a vision quest, or do I just want to go climbing? Do I want to go big or do I just want to get out? Do I want to dig deep, or do I just want to have fun?

As a mountain guide I’ve seen this experiment play out again and again. I’ve seen people have the most moving experiences and the lousiest vacations, and the bad ones are almost always the result of people throwing themselves at things they actually didn’t want to do. Whether it’s because they never asked the question or didn’t give themselves permission to respect the answer I’ll never know, but for your sake and your partner’s, just try it. Ask yourself what it is you really want to do today, and listen. Sometimes it’s going to be the case that you really do want to venture out in to the void, to pull harder than you ever have and to embrace the uncertainty of success. Sometimes the noble struggle will leave you so satisfied you’ll be glad you fought through it. Other times you might just wanna ski powder, or climb something that’s fun, even if it means that it’s easy. We do need to train our weaknesses, but not every day. It doesn’t always have to be a voyage of self-discovery. Sometimes we can just let ourselves be, give ourselves what we want, and enjoy it.

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The Eyes and Ears of Search & Rescue

Comm team doing communications and mapping on a SAR mission. 



by Kevin Machtelinckx
The news stories about search and rescue operations that happen every summer in Oregon, from overdue hikers and climbers in the national forests to missing persons in urban areas, often focus on the K-9 units and front line searchers. Much less in the spotlight are the men and women of the support units who act as the lynch pins of all those operation. One of these units that help search and rescue organizations function more effectively is a communications group. Russell Gubele, president, board member, and command officer of Mountain Wave Search and Rescue gives us an insight into this critical backbone of his organization.

What is the role of the comm (communications) team in Mountain Wave SAR?
The role of the communications team is to provide communications, coordination, documentation, situational awareness, and technical support to search and rescue operations.

What goes on in the comm truck during a mission?
During a mission, the communications team is actively monitoring and communicating with field SAR teams, aircraft, 911 centers, law enforcement, the military, and any other agencies involved in the search. They also would be issuing satellite trackers to team leaders, radios and GPS units to those that need them, and providing any needed technical support. They are also tracking teams, making missing person flyers, mapping, tracking clues, social media, downloading GPS units and providing overall coordination for the mission.

Com 4 setup and ready for a training mission at Timothy Lake.

Do all SAR organizations have a communications truck/team?
No, most don’t.

How crucial is this team to the searchers in the field?
Communications is one of the most critical parts of any SAR mission.


How did you personally get involved in this role?
After being involved with dozens of incidents where communications was a problem, and always hearing at mission debriefs that the biggest problem on a mission was communication, I got involved because I felt I could help make this situation better.


What equipment do you use?
Too much to list! The short list is radios that can communicate with almost everyone, computers, phones, GPS units, drones, satellite trackers, and more.

What makes Mountain Wave’s comm truck special or unique?
Our rig is unique because it has the ability and equipment to communicate with all agencies; local, state, and federal and not just our agency or a local agency. It is built to be highly functional and able to handle any type of SAR mission or large scale event or disaster.

Com 4 being setup on a SAR mission for a
missing climber on Mt. Hood. 

What technical skills or qualifications does one need to be a member of the communications team?
A background in electronics, public safety communications, and computer technology is very helpful. Being a Ham radio operator is also a plus.

Many times SAR organizations work in conjunction with the sheriff or other local authorities. What is the communication team’s role with these local authorities when out on a mission?
Search and rescue operations in Oregon are the responsibility of the County Sheriff. That is who calls Mt. Wave and the other SAR teams out on missions. Our role is to provide communications and documentation for all the teams and agencies working on the mission.

Are there situations that require more involvement of the communications team/truck than others? Why?
Yes. Larger incidents are usually very active and require more resources and equipment. There are lots of communications from many sources, and a large amount of documentation. For example, the recent search for Kyron Horman at times had more than 400 searchers in the field in addition to state and federal agencies involved. At times, we had 40 people involved and 3 communications rigs deployed.

What would you say are the biggest challenges in this role?
The biggest challenge is to be able to communicate with everyone all the time. There is often little or no communication infrastructure in the rural areas where most searches occur. Our challenge is to setup an infrastructure quickly so everyone can communicate.


What are the most rewarding challenges?
When everyone can communicate and we play a role in bringing the missing person and all the searchers home safe.

Do you have any notable rescues or moments as part of Mountain Wave and the communications team?
The Kelly James search on Mt. Hood in 2006 comes to mind. Our team was able to pinpoint his location in a snow cave near the summit by tracking his cell phone. It was the first time this had been done and caused cell phone tracking to be used in almost all searches.


What do you do for a day job?
I work as an I.T. and communications manager for American Medical Response.


What about the other members of the comm team?
We have current and former public safety first responders, teachers, software developers, nurses, office managers, pilots, truck drivers, and many other occupations.


Who might find this kind of position interesting and how can they get started if interested in volunteering?
Anyone that has an interest in communications and technology and wants to use these skills to help missing and injured people can go to our web site at www.mwave.org for more information.

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On Mentorship

The membership of the Deerfield climbing club, 1995. Jonathan Barrett is at the top right.
Jim Salem is at the bottom right. Photo: Deerfield yearbook staff.

by Jonathan Barrett

In 2007, I received word from an old high school acquaintance that my first climbing mentor, Jim Salem, had passed away. The news report had said that he had been struck by a passing car while he was riding his bike. That was the extent of the information he was able to give me. Our conversation was brief. Before he hung up the phone, he offered his sincere condolences because he knew the deep and resonating impact that the man had had on my life.

The first time Jim invited me to his home, I was struck by the fact that his shed,where he threw pots, was larger than his house. Some of the vessels, shaped like rotund soldiers, were as tall I was at seventeen. Years later I can still recall their fine-boned structures standing in regimented rows waiting for the kiln. Waiting to be fired. His kitchen’s centerpiece was a wood stove, and herbs hung in thick bunches from exposed beams to dry. At the time, I didn’t know many climbers, or for that matter any besides him who were adults. His home would never have read “climber’s house” in the modern era of Instagram. Instead it whispered haikus about a loving husband and skilled potter, a soft-spoken environmentalist and a conflicted hippie. He was certainly one of the most well-paid staff members at my boarding school because he was the comptroller, but he lived like an ascetic. His art and his connection to the natural world were given pride of place. He split wood for heat, not because it was photo-worthy, but because it was elemental.

He had invited me into his home at that time out of compassion and a growing sense of connection. Jim—although it was always Mr. Salem until I got married—saw in me interest more than potential. While the other kids in our school’s climbing club were satisfied to loll about the base of Chapel Ledge and socialize, I wanted to test myself against every line regardless of the grade. From a cabinet beneath the stairs Jim produced a pair of ice axes which would seem laughable to climb on now. At the time they were beautiful and mysterious to me. That afternoon we top-roped snot-colored frozen drips at a road cut in western Massachusetts. I had never swung an ice tool before,and he was far from a seasoned ice climber himself. The whole experience was foolish, meaningless, and profound. Jim recognized in me a hunger to know what was just beyond the horizons of my own life and was willing to take me there even though the territory was unfamiliar to him as well.

After I graduated from high school, he and I drove north into New Hampshire for a brief foray into multi-pitch climbing and dirtbagging. We slept in the back of his sky-blue two-wheel-drive Toyota because it was cheap and easy. Over twenty years later, the sound of the rain drumming on the truck’s cap is still a resonant tone in my memory. I had felt frustrated that the opportunity would be lost, that the cliff would be soaked. “No point making plans until the morning,” he had said to me. It was neither an affirmation of the fact nor optimism. It was just the truth spoken by a man who lived a truthful life.

At the first meeting of our little climbing club several years earlier, he had distributed photocopied pages from Freedom of the Hills and led us in a knot tying lesson. We also constructed harnesses out of one inch tubular webbing which he assured us would, “pinch the boys” something fierce. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Eventually you may be lucky enough to own a harness.” 

The rain eventually passed and a stiff spring breeze dried the granite of Cannon quickly in the morning. I led every pitch that day while wearing a Black Diamond Alpine Bod harness that was only marginally better than one inch webbing I had worn for my first year. Jim was not a talented climber, so he struggled with sequences that I had felt weightless on. A short finger crack which left me feeling that universal joy of fine movement over perfect stone had him hangdogging through the sequence. This didn’t matter though. Our pack was far too large that day, particularly by our current light and fast standards, but his perspective was not one of speed or grades or sophisticated equipment, but being present. We sat on some ledge for far too long and assembled sandwiches with all the urgency of a Victorian summer picnic. There was a huge, crusty loaf of bread, a mountain of sliced deli meats and cheeses, an entire glass jar of Dijon mustard. It was stupid and beautiful simultaneously. In the place of speed we had a focus on being entirely in the moment.

When I think back on the power of his mentorship, it is clear to me now that I was deeply shaped by his point of view, that climbing was only an element of his life and not elemental to it like it can be for so many self-described climbers. He never aspired to live the life of a dirtbag as we would now recognize it, nor did he want to make it his whole focus. Instead he saw his life through the lens of finding balance. Only once did I ever watch him throw a pot on the wheel, and it was masterclass to witness. His hands which had seemed old and weak in contact with the granite of Whitehorse were confident and steady in contact with the clay. The form never wobbled even as he drew its perilously thin walls up towards his snow-white beard. It found its own center of gravity, its own point of balance against the whirling wheel.

My apprenticeship with Mr. Salem lasted only three years. I left New England and came to Oregon because in that short time his outlook became kiln-fired into my outlook. In that brief span Jim offered me something that I was not sure that I wanted or could even imagine to exist: he gave me the gift of a range of mountains, the Cascades, and the promise that the whole world was not like New England. Mentors work this kind of magic. They stand in a place and offer the opportunity to join them. They say that there is room enough for everyone.

Some years after I got married, I found myself in western Massachusetts with my new wife and time on my hands. An query to Jim about his availability opened up the chance to bring my old world and my new world together. Shelbourne Falls, where he lived, has one notable tourist attraction, the Bridge of Flowers, so when we agreed to meet, he wanted it to be there. I can’t recall Carissa’s initial reaction to this man who loomed large in my life. Surely she was struck by his snow-white beard, glacier-blue eyes, and genuine warmth. The three of us strolled across the bridge that was, at that moment in early spring, still only beds planted with promises to be fulfilled. He and I did not spend the time reminiscing about Chapel Ledges or nameless road-side icelines. We talked about Oregon which was a place my new wife had been to only once. We were thinking of moving there, I told him, but it would be a huge change for us to leave our families behind in Massachusetts. He simply smiled and began to spin stories of living on the Warm Springs Reservation as a economics teacher, of his little apartment which is now a parking lot for a trendy NW 23rd business, and of the iconic image of Mt Hood seen from Portland.

With Jim there was no formal curriculum, no immutable agenda. His life was one of clay, infinitely moldable, always reformable, and yet eternally fragile. The wheel spins, and he held on but never too tightly, neither to his own life nor to mine. Such was both the freedom and security of his mentorship. When my friend offered up his condolences that day in 2007, I think that he had missed the point. He should have instead expressed his joy that I had been given such a rare and transformative gift at all.

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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.

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PAFlete: Rebecca Madore—Reflection on Patagonia

This article initially appeared in the Mazamas 2016 Annual (published in September 2017).

Rebecca Madore & Katie Mills will be presenting on their experience climbing the Moose’s Tooth in Alaska during Portland Alpine Fest. Tuesday, Nov. 14, come out to Ham & Eggs at the Mazama Mountaineering Center. Get tickets today!


by Maureen O’Hagan 

Rebecca Schob Madore and Brad Farra were the first recipients of the Bob Wilson Expedition Grant, which provided $10,000* to help them make a big trip to Patagonia to climb Cerro Torre. They trained hard, did their homework, and arrived in El Chaltén in December of 2015 very well-prepared. Unfortunately, the realities of climbing in Patagonia got in their way. They spent much of the time waiting for a weather window. When one finally arrived, they set out on their journey but were forced to turn back.

It was demoralizing for both of them, and they struggled to adjust to these feelings when they returned home. Madore threw herself into non-climbing projects, as well as examining the thoughts and emotions that had bubbled up since the trip.

She and I sat down in May 2017 to catch up on what’s happened over the past year. One of her goals was to take on more leadership roles, and in that she succeeded, becoming a Mazama climb leader, among other accomplishments. She also talked about an event she and Mazama Valerie Uskoski held last year at Arc’teryx in Portland in which they invited women interested in climbing—whatever their experience or ability level—to come to listen, learn, and connect with one another. The event was called “Define Feminine: Unveiling the Mystique,” and the idea was to create a space for sharing and mutual support. The event was a huge success. “A room full of amazing energy!” is what Madore called it.

As we continued talking about her efforts to support women climbers, the conversation veered in an unexpected direction. At this point, she told yet another story that will ring true to many climbers. It’s a story of stress and fear—and ultimately finding her way back home.

How did you pitch the Arc’teryx event? 

I just thought about what we deal with as climbers, and as female climbers. I was reaching out to climbers of all kinds—mom climbers, gym climbers, alpine climbers, women who had accidents or lost their lead head or just wanted to climb harder.

It was mostly just a series of questions that I posed, saying if you want to talk about these things, come on down. Over 120 people showed up.


Wow. Was it hard talking to a group that big? 

No. I actually loved it because there was this sense of community and support. And my take on it was there’s no difference between me being up here speaking and you being out there listening. We all have fears, we’re all facing our fears, and we’re all one and the same. I think there’s more opportunity for this in our community.


Tell me about what you’ve been climbing since then. 

Last summer I spent time climbing with women that had all had injuries from climbing and were trying to get back their lead head. That was where I put my energy. It was kind of recognizing a need in the community—people that wanted to get into AR (Advanced Rock) or get their lead head back or needed some technique in terms of crack climbing.

Did your experience in Patagonia help you be more supportive to these women? 

Well, I realized I was dealing with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) about climbing events that had occurred before Patagonia. By “dealing with it,” I mean climbing well below my ability in order to feel safe and to manage the stress associated with climbing.


PTSD? Was there a particular event? 

A particular event doesn’t matter. It can be anything, really. It got to the point that I was going to quit climbing. At that point, I read Waking the Tiger by Peter Levine. And I got some help. Essentially, one session of EMDR treatment (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) changed my negative thoughts from constant stress, fight-or-flight to hopeful excitement. I had this renewed sense of my own personal power as a climber. I got back in touch with why I loved it and why I was good at it, and what good it brought to my life and how amazing ice climbing, in particular, felt in my body.

So you went on the trip to Patagonia not really understanding you were dealing with PTSD? 

Excitement and fear are enmeshed. They’re the same neural centers of our brain. There’s a good, healthy amount of fear in climbing. This was not that.

Can you talk any more about the PTSD? So may people have probably been in similar situations. 

When you climb, Mother Nature doesn’t give a damn who you are. At some point, you’re going to see something that is jarring, whether it’s rockfall that freaks you out or somebody has an accident or you’re part of a rescue. Maybe the well-being of somebody you care about is being threatened, or maybe it’s your own well-being. And that’s enough. That’s a traumatic event. Nobody asks to be put in that situation. You think, I’ll just be able to muscle my way through this. But the mental muscle takes a different kind of treatment. It was a matter of me being able to step into the role of somebody that needed help.

You had lost the joy of climbing? 

Sadly, yes. I was constantly vigilant. I was constantly thinking about the what ifs and what would go wrong instead of what would go right. When I came home (from Patagonia) it was not enjoyable to climb and I had to recognize there was this bigger bump in the road.
I had one (EMDR) session and the sun came out again. I had already done my own personal work, too, but I didn’t know that I couldn’t handle it on my own—which is a big type A personality pitfall. EMDR is the gold-standard for PTSD. I want people to know there are some really helpful services out there.

What are your goals now? 

In November of 2016 my goal was just to have fun climbing again on top rope. And then I was like, I want to lead ice again. That was goal 2. Goal 3 was that Katie (Mills, a fellow Mazama and recipient of the second Bob Wilson Grant) and I had a grant proposal to the Expedition Committee to climb Ham and Eggs in Alaska. It was a super classic alpine line, in super thin conditions. I led crux pitches. In November, I didn’t know if I was going to lead ice again and here I am in May succeeding on this for-real alpine climb. And I’m with another female climber. It allowed me to really own our success in a way that was different than the climbing experience I had with others in the past.

We successfully did it in a weekend, less than 48 hours. We watched the weather from Portland. We bought our tickets on Tuesday, flew to Anchorage, flew onto the Root Canal Friday morning, climbed, and flew back to Portland Sunday morning. I went to work on Monday. It feels like quite an accomplishment. I learned how to read the weather from John Frieh. I learned how to put the whole system together from my experience with Brad (Farra). We had done a similar type of climb three years ago. Katie had been to Alaska three times before. There aren’t many people you can ask to pick up and haul out to Alaska on a weekend!

Has your climbing mentality changed? 

I’d say it just feels like I had quite a lot of experience pretty rapidly in my short climbing career and the perspective that it offers is that I don’t have to climb everything now. It’s important to have fun and do what you enjoy and be with people that you care about. So essentially it’s helped me to chill out.

I like to build on many small successes before I take the next big jump. I’ve followed my own path in climbing, and it’s been incredibly great and rewarding.

And I am very thankful for the contributions of the people that have taught me on the way and the Mazamas Expedition Committee which has supported me in doing these things that I would have never been able to do without their support and their belief.

It’s really something when (the organization) just hands you (a check) and says go ahead and give it a try, tell us about it when you get back.


What are your future goals? 

Have fun. Climb with friends, climb with people I care about. I’m planning to climb Denali with my husband next year.

Do you feel like you have to have big goals at this point? 

I like having something to work towards. I like the process of seeing something that seems out of reach or really challenging and then breaking it down into all its component parts to get there. It keeps me invigorated. I can enjoy chilling out now in a totally different way than I did before. It’s much easier to take a slower pace and to be thankful for what you get. It’s really about the time I’m with people and I’m doing something that I love rather than having to prove something to myself.

*Note: Grant recipients are required to pay taxes on their awards based on their specific tax bracket.

The Mazamas provides a service for Critical Incident Stress Management (CISM) to any climber who asks for it. Just call and leave a message asking for a critical incident debriefing and trained volunteers will get back to you. 

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PAFlete: Aaron Mulkey

We are excited to have Grivel athlete, Aaron Mulkey, returning to the Portland Alpine Fest in 2017. Aaron is teaching two clinics on Intro to Ice & Mixed Climbing on November 18.

Few are as dedicated to ice climbing exploration as Aaron Mulkey, who has spent the last decade systematically scouring the canyons of northern Wyoming for undiscovered ice lines. Seeking untouched frozen treasures deep within Wyoming’s toughest mountain terrain, he often trudges for days in his boots, testing his own limits, and the patience of his climbing partners. But, the occasional gems he discovers fuel his determination, pushing him forward to find the next untapped treasure. As the ice begins to melt, Mulkey trades in his ice tools and climbing rack for a kayak and paddle. The exploration continues, this time through the spectacular watery gorges buried deep in the Rocky Mountains. His year-round hunt for uncharted ice and water in some of the most remote locations in the West makes him one of the most prolific pioneers of the Rocky Mountains. Follow the exploration at www.coldfear.com.

The theme of our series of interviews of climbers is ‘before I was a Badass.’  It seems your love of exploration started in childhood when you would go hunting with your father in remote canyons. Can you tell us a bit about that? 

Photo: Nathan Smith

I grew up in California until I was about 18. My father took me out hunting when I was probably able to walk. He taught me to respect wildlife and our wild places. As I got older I was able to walk further and so we hiked further to get away from other people and explore places people rarely went. I was able to discover some incredible places and we were rewarded with many meals.Thus the appetite to explore began.

Do we have to go back to diapers and toddlerhood to find you holding on to someone’s hand for safety, nervous or otherwise feeling incapacitated in some ‘non-badass’ ways?

Haha, I believe until I was around 13 I wouldn’t go into the grocery store without my mom or dad…:(


Can you tell us a bit about your early, formative years? Where did you grow up? When did you first discovery climbing?

I grew up in California until I was 18 and then moved to Colorado for college. While working at a factory a guy took me out Rock climbing a couple of times and then winter came and he took me Ice Climbing. At that point, I was hooked on Ice climbing and sorta never stopped. 2 years later I would move to Cody, Wyoming simply to ice climb and explore.

What elements in your upbringing and childhood (or is it just the lucky draw of genetics) do you think gave you the quality of mind and of spirit to prepare you for such focus, determination, and character for such as a continuously successful life of climbing?

I wish I knew the answer to this. I think luck is definitely involved and good mentors that kept me alive. I made so many mistakes and bad decisions early in my years. One piece of advice I would give to a new climber is to pursue professional training and choose good mentors.

Perhaps, at this point, we need to define ‘bad-ass’. After all, one person’s bad-ass could be another person’s ‘day at the office.’ How would you define ‘bad-ass’?

To me, Bad Ass is someone that is bold, but smart. Above all, a bad ass person motivates others and shares their passion. It’s that one climber you meet that is having the most fun.

Do you view yourself as a bad ass like we do? 

I don’t consider myself one. I’m scared and doubt myself like many others. I’m lucky to have been given the opportunities in life to pursue my passion.

Who are the people in your life you look up to, or who do you think have played a significant role in making you the man and climber you are today?  

My parents played a large role and the partners I have climbed with. Over the last 7 years, my wife has been a major roll in my life in supporting my passion.


What is it about climbing ice that keeps you coming back? 

I love that ice comes and goes and its never the same twice. Its the pursuit I love more than anything!

How do you think your life would be different if you had not discovered the vertical world? 

Wow, I think about this and my life would simply not be the same at all. I have learned so much from climbing and climbing has given me so much outside of climbing. I feel like my life would be sorta boring.

What is your favorite climb that you have ever done? 

Too many to choose one.

What do you think were some of the major life-changing events that you are grateful for, but that also were the toughest? (or maybe you weren’t grateful for, and they were just tough).

I have found that everything happens for a reason and that the toughest times in life are also the things that allow you to grow. Clarity often comes after the toughest times, but that time in the moment can be painful.

Did having a family changed your priorities and risk-assessment? 

Actually, I think getting older has changed those priorities. As I have gotten older and my kids have gotten older I find risk assessment changes. The bonds become stronger.

Tell us about your experience climbing Gannett Peak with your daughter Afton when she was 15.

I can’t talk enough about this and how proud of her I was. It will truly be one of many great moments with her and I hope those memories will last forever. I can only hope climbing will give her what it has given me in life.

How was it different to be climbing with your daughter as compared to an adult climbing partner? 

This is the hardest part by far. It’s like being on constant guard and over analyzing everything. It’s actually very difficult to relax at times. I have to remind myself to enjoy the time and worry less.

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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.