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Ecology & Conservation: The Cascade Red Fox

by Jocelyn Akins, Ph.D. Candidate, Mammalian Ecology and Conservation Laboratory, University of California, Davis and Project Coordinator, Cascades Carnivore Project
The fox padded lightly through six inches of new snow in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, her nose leading the way to a cocktail of smells at the base of a mountain hemlock. She was so intent on the scented mixture of skunk, castor, and muskrat musk with undertones of chicken from the bait that she did not even hear the click of the camera that caught her image.
Later, on a dark winter afternoon in front of my computer, I sat flipping through thousands of photos that revealed the elusive residents of the Mt. Adams Wilderness: a nervous snowshoe hare, a stealthy bobcat, a gamboling trio of Pacific martens. But then I saw a critter I knew nothing about: a Cascade red fox, a rare mountain subspecies of red fox. This photo shifted the focus of my newly formed conservation initiative targeting wolverines in southern Washington—the Cascades Carnivore Project—to one that focused on the population status, community interactions, and ecological role of this rare and little-known forest carnivore.
Wildlife managers have only recently begun to appreciate the unique contributions the Cascade red fox makes to the fauna of the high Cascades. It is not, however, a simple story.

The Global Red Fox

The red fox (Vulpes vulpes) has had a bum rap for as long as our civilization has been telling stories. Due to its omnivorous diet and innate curiosity, this small carnivore has been considered a trickster in folklore, and persecuted as a pesky chicken killer and a sly and devious predator. It is one of the most widespread carnivores on Earth and is considered an invasive pest in many areas. The species evolved in Africa or Eurasia from a now-extinct fox and is currently distributed throughout the Northern Hemisphere from deserts to temperate rainforests to tundra. The International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) lists the red fox as a Species of Least Concern globally, i.e., one that is widespread and abundant. Before the advent of modern genetic techniques, subspecies divisions of red fox were based solely on geography and morphology, but the distinguishing features among all red fox are a white tipped tail, black tipped ears, and black stockinged feet. Coat color is highly variable. Although this historical subspecies classification scheme does not mesh perfectly with the genetic characteristics of these populations, there are three mountain and 11 lowland red fox subspecies, including a subspecies first described in 2010 that inhabits the Sacramento River valley. These 14 subspecies occupy a variety of habitats and coat colors from deep red to black and silver. Some of this biodiversity has been threatened recently by a lack of conservation concern for these unique red foxes, which are distinct in many important ways from their abundant nonnative cousins inhabiting the lowlands. In North America this has resulted in conservationists largely ignoring potential population declines in this rare and little-studied mountain fox, and making little attempt to understand how their populations, which occur in an archipelago of high-elevation habitat “islands,” could be impacted by human activities, encroachment by potential competitors, and climate change. This begs the question: What factors could impact this animal, which is so far removed from people, and derived from a larger species considered well distributed and common?

Going Back to the Pleistocene Ice Ages (or Getting to know the Mountain Foxes)

Red foxes have a unique evolutionary history in North America that was elucidated by United States Forest Service (USFS) biologist Dr. Keith Aubry and his colleagues in recent decades. The colonization of North America by red foxes was shaped by two waves of migration from Eurasia. Half a million years ago, during the Illinoian Ice Age, red foxes first colonized North America from Asia over the Bering LandBridge, which became established due to the lowering of sea level by the formation of continental glaciers. When the glaciers melted and the Bering Strait was reestablished, red foxes became isolated on separate continents. These foxes swept south and east across the boreal forest. Then, during our most recent glaciation (the Wisconsin Ice Age), the Bering LandBridge formed again and a second wave of red foxes migrated to North America from Asia, which resulted in limited genetic exchange between the Eurasian and North American red foxes. During this last glaciation, the earlier fox migrants were pushed by the ice sheets into the vast, windswept plains and relatively low-elevation forests of the western and central United States, south of the ice. Here they presumably adapted to the colder, glacial climate, which lasted for the next 100,000 years. Once the ice sheets had receded, these foxes moved up into the mountains of the West where habitat conditions were similar to those they occupied during glacial times, leaving the thawing plains of the American Midwest devoid of red foxes. This long separation from their ancestors in the Old World allowed time for their DNA, shaped by chance and environment, to diverge. North American red foxes have now been separated from Eurasian populations for 300,000–600,000 years, and are genetically different from other red foxes. University of California at Davis molecular ecologist Mark Statham and his colleagues recently suggested that all North American red foxes be reclassified as a distinct species, Vulpes fulva—the North American red fox.

The descendants of those early Illinoian Ice Age migrants comprise the three mountain subspecies (V. v. cascadensis, necator, and macroura) that now inhabit the Cascade Range, the Sierra Nevada, and the Rocky Mountains, respectively (with the exception that red foxes in the Cascade Range of Oregon are now believed to belong to the Sierra Nevada subspecies). The valley bottoms are generally assumed to be inhabited by invader foxes that originated on the East Coast and were brought west for fur farming and hound hunting. The mountain foxes live at high elevations year-round in relatively open forests and subalpine parkland. Mountain foxes are typically smaller in size and exhibit a greater variation in their coat colors than lowland red foxes. These are not just the red-coated foxes of fairytales and wildlife calendars; mountain foxes occur in coat colors ranging from straw yellow to red to black and silver. There is also a relatively common “cross” variant whose name is derived from the cross formed by a thin black stripe that extends over the shoulders and crosses one along the backbone. More importantly, the mountain foxes are ecologically unique, feeding exclusively on alpine and subalpine prey such as snowshoe hares, white-tailed jackrabbit, pocket gophers, voles, winter-killed mountain goats, ground-nesting birds, and high-elevation plants. Molded by two ice ages, they have become well adapted to the cold. They rarely occur in the western hemlock and silver fir forests that cover lower elevations of the Cascade Range. They do not leave their snowy abode during the harshest blizzards of winter nor interbreed with red foxes in the valleys. They are finely tuned for life at altitude.

A Fox By Any Other Name

Throughout the year, the Cascade red fox relies heavily upon high-elevation meadows and tree copses to forage for small mammal and lagomorph prey. The eastern slope of the Cascade Range contains relatively dry and open mountain hemlock, subalpine fir, and whitebark pine forests and krummholz copses, as well as ragged pinnacles of rock that support mountain goats, whose carcasses are an important source of food. Like most furbearers, the Cascade red fox has suffered significant declines in abundance and distribution as a result of trapping and poisoning over the last century. Despite the absence of these activities for many decades, Cascade red foxes appear to have experienced range losses recently, perhaps due to the shrinking of high-elevation parklands and meadows from climate change, the loss of subalpine conifers to drought, fire, and disease, or the expansion of coyotes (Canis latrans) into the high-elevation habitats that Cascade foxes rely on. Historical patterns of land use during the past 100 years, including timber harvest, recreational use, and road building, continue to influence habitat conditions at various spatial scales and affect the ability of native wildlife to survive and reproduce.

What’s in a Ph.D.?

In founding the Cascades Carnivore Project, I am following in the footsteps of two inspiring scientists. Dr. Keith Aubry, an emeritus scientist with the U.S. Forest Service’s Pacific Northwest Research Station, began the first field study of mountain foxes in 1978 (the year I was born) in Mt. Rainier National Park and the Crystal Mountain area in Washington. This study provided important baseline information about the evolutionary and distributional history of both mountain and lowland red foxes, as well as seminal findings on the ecological relations of the Cascade red fox. Dr. Ben Sacks, Director of the Mammalian Diversity and Conservation Lab and my supervising professor at the University of California at Davis, where I am a graduate student, is an expert in wild dog genetics and conservation. The groundbreaking work of these scientists and their collaborators on the evolutionary history of the red fox in North America showed not only how unique mountain foxes are among the red foxes, but also that the Cascade red fox is the most genetically distinct of the mountain foxes, and occurs only in Washington state.
My research aims to develop a better understanding of how environmental changes in the western mountains impact the conservation of this rare mountain carnivore. I have been working with volunteer wildlife biologists and citizen scientists to conduct non-invasive surveys throughout the year at high elevations within the National Forest and National Park systems in the Cascades. We have deployed hundreds of remotely triggered wildlife cameras and walked, snowshoed, and skied endless miles collecting hair, scat, and urine from which DNA can be extracted to determine where Cascade red foxes live and where they don’t. I am concerned that the distribution of the Cascade red fox may be largely restricted to a few isolated, high-elevation areas of the Cascades. By examining if and how well fox populations are connected, and how this connectivity is predicted to change with climate change, we can begin to understand the long-term prospects for this unique carnivore. I am investigating whether the low number and fragmented distribution of the Cascade red fox is sufficient for them to successfully reproduce and maintain adequate levels of genetic diversity. For conservationists, genetic diversity is important for predicting how likely a species is to persist over the long term. With a diverse complement of genes, a population is more likely to include at least some individuals that can survive future environmental changes, such as the introduction of new diseases or parasites or rising global temperatures. The process by which such initially exceptional individuals survive and contribute their genetic characteristics to the next generation is known as natural selection, and results in the continuing evolution of species to their changing environment.
The farther one travels to find a mate, the more likely that mate will be genetically distinct from oneself, resulting in more diverse offspring contributed to the population’s gene pool. Cascade red foxes may be scattered across a vast mountain landscape with huge distances and major barriers between them. My work suggests their strongholds are Mt. Adams, Mt. Rainier, and the Goat Rocks Wilderness. They seem to have been gone from Mount St. Helens since the 1980 eruption. There have been some foxes detected in the William O. Douglas and Norse Peak Wildernesses. They may occur in the Alpine Lakes Wilderness and their presence in the North Cascades is largely unknown.
For the conservation of the Cascade red fox, its unique genetic makeup may be a double-edged sword. On the one hand, we hypothesize that its unique genetic history confers adaptations that have allowed the fox to thrive where others could not. On the other hand, such specialized adaptations can make it more difficult for the fox to adapt to changing habitats and climates. Consequently, our goal should be to preserve as much genetic diversity within the mountain red foxes as possible. Part of the solution will be to identify the best corridors to ensure movement of individuals among islands of suitable habitat.

A Warming World

How does climate change affect the Cascade red fox? The reality is we do not know yet. But there are some strong hypotheses worth testing. Impacts of climate change in the alpine environment have been well documented. Two key measures of climate change are temperature and precipitation patterns. In the mountains, changes manifest as rising temperatures and precipitation falling increasingly as rain, rather than snow, resulting in shorter, warmer, wetter, and less snowy winters.
So what is the relationship between these climatic changes and Cascade red fox conservation? The Cascade red fox is strongly associated with high-elevation mountain habitats and is well adapted for life in snowy conditions. Compared to lowland red foxes, mountain foxes have much more fur lining the soles of their feet, which helps them function as snowshoes, and a smaller body size, which allows them to move with greater ease in deep, powdery snow. The Cascade red fox may use the mountain biome to escape predation from the coyote, which is a lowland-adapted species. Coyote abundance has been on the rise since the extirpation of the gray wolf in Washington in the 1920s and state and federal restrictions on lethal predator control. In addition, Cascade red foxes rely upon the subnivium for preying on winter-active small mammals. Unpredictable changes to the space that forms between the ground and deep snowpacks could have significant consequences for the Cascade red fox. Warming conditions can alter the insulating qualities of snow due to decreased depth and increased density, which is predicted to lower the temperature of this stable environment and reduce the abundance of small mammal prey. In addition, these foxes prey on small mammals in winter by pouncing through the snow to catch them as they move within this protected habitat. However, once the first winter rains fall on the loosely compacted snow, the snow pack hardens and may prevent foxes from accessing the subnivium for periods of time. This pattern is expected to become more prevalent as rain becomes increasingly common in the mountains. Hardening of the snowpack may also have the adverse effect of encouraging new predators and competitors to invade alpine and subalpine areas from which they would normally be excluded due to their reduced ability to travel in soft, deep snow. This encroachment may be the single greatest proximate threat to the Cascade red fox as it could result in competition during winter scarcity as well as increased mortality rates at the paws of predators such as the coyote.
There are two primary environmental alterations associated with a warming climate that could potentially impact the Cascade red fox. The first is the encroachment of meadows by shrub and tree species. Climate change is causing tree line to shift upward in elevation, reducing the extent of the alpine meadows upon which the fox relies. The invasion of shrubs and conifer saplings into subalpine meadows has been well documented on Mt. Adams in photographs of particular locations taken 50 years apart. Subalpine meadows and their small mammal communities provide the primary foraging grounds for Cascade foxes throughout most of the year. The second is the increased spread of plant diseases and pests. Fungal and beetle infestations are decimating the subalpine forest. The loss of whitebark pines from warming temperatures and increases in disease are becoming more and more prevalent on the dry eastern slopes of the Cascade Range where mountain foxes are most likely to live. The Cascade red fox relies upon copses of these high-elevation pines and firs to hunt for snowshoe hares and white-tailed jackrabbits during the winter months, and for cover to use as daybeds and rest sites during the harshest winter blizzards. Finally, recent wildfires have severely affected some of the subalpine parklands and upper elevation forests that the Cascade red fox calls home on Mt. Adams and throughout the Cascades. This year, wildfires in the Cascades were the largest and most destructive on record. Wildfires are a natural part of ecological cycles but modern blazes burn so intensely due to the huge fuel loads that were created by 100 years of forest fire suppression and drought.

An Unpredictable Future

What can we do to ensure that Cascade red fox populations will remain viable? A primary goal should be to continue systematic surveys over the long term and in the North Cascades to establish baseline conditions and monitor changes in their abundance and genetic diversity. Increasingly, occurrence records obtained by citizens are becoming an essential part of this process. Such records enable scientists to identify new areas of current presence and may encourage the establishment of new ecological studies, which will be essential for the effective conservation of this unique and intrepid little fox. Research investigating habitat selection at multiple spatial scales, movement patterns, predator-prey relationships, and home-range ecology is desperately needed to fill many key knowledge gaps about the conservation needs of this species. In addition, we should protect denning sites. This is especially important in preventing unnecessary pup mortalities when they emerge from their dens. The next phase of the Cascades Carnivore Project aims to investigate microhabitats most important to the Cascade red fox and determine how the essential components of their habitats will be affected by future changes to the composition and climate of the landscapes they occupy in their mountain home. Ultimately the fate of all alpine species lies within our ability, or inability, to care for our unique alpine landscape, and to address the potential threats to their persistence. The Cascade red fox has been evolving its unique character for hundreds of thousands of years in North America. With a little more attention from scientists, resource managers, and the public, I am hopeful that we will find a way to help our mountaineering friend persist well into the future.
Report your mountain red fox sightings to cascadescarnivore@gmail.com
This research on the Cascade red fox is generously funded by the Mazamas, the Mammalian Diversity and Conservation Laboratory (University of California, Davis), Gifford Pinchot, Mt. Hood, and Okanagan-Wenatchee National Forests, Mt. Rainier National Park, the Mountaineers, Norcross Wildlife Foundation, Oregon Zoo Foundation, The Wildlife Society Washington, WDFW Aquatic Lands Enhancement Account, Washington Foundation for the Environment, Washington’s National Park Fund, and the tireless efforts of many citizen scientists, wildlife biologists, and laboratory genetics interns at the University of California, Davis.
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Mt. Cruiser Climb: A Rare Sighting

 
by John Rettig
 
It’s not on every Mazama climb that you get to summit a mountain AND encounter a rarely observed animal.
But that’s exactly what happened on June 20, 2015, when seven Mazamas stumbled up Mt. Cruiser in the Olympics’ Sawtooth Range with me.

It was a good reminder that while summit views are almost always spectacular, the things that happen on the way to the summit can be just as spectacular, if not more so.

 
Mt. Cruiser Needle.
Photo: Glenn Widener
Our group had just stopped for a break, when a little critter suddenly popped out to have a look at us. We were sitting in a rocky area above the tree line between The Needle and Mt. Cruiser. (The exact location is being withheld, in agreement with the US Forest Service (USFS) and National Park Service (NPS) scientists, to protect the individual marten). At first, I dismissed the animal as just another marmot or pika. But after a second, more careful, look, I recognized the narrow-set binocular eyes and very slender build that characterizes members of the weasel family. That the animal was extremely curious about us and our activities, and generally was not particularly wary of our presence, was another indicator that this critter belonged to the Mustelidae family.
 
The size of the animal suggested it was a marten or fisher, and after some group discussion, we realized we were probably looking at something quite rare. I knew that sightings in the Pacific Northwest have been very rare for any of the Martes genus, as they are known to live at a very low population density, even within their normal range. But this marten was living at the extreme of its documented range. So the sighting was doubly significant. Fortunately, one member of our team, Shem Harding, had his camera ready and was able to take several photographs. We also took note of the marten’s behavior, which included a breathtakingly exposed four-foot jump. We marked the GPS waypoint, then carried on with our climb. When we returned to Portland, I quickly submitted a report and pictures to the USFS, not knowing if there would be any follow-through.
 
How rare was this sighting? On the Tuesday following the climb, within a half hour of the report reaching the NPS and USFS wildlife scientists, my email inbox ignited with descriptions of how meaningful our sighting was, along with kind words of thanks for documenting and reporting it.
According to Dr. Patricia Happe, Wildlife Branch Chief at Olympic National Park, “Neither I nor any of my crew is likely to go near [Mt. Cruiser]—we are all hikers, but no one is a climber—maybe that is why we have not been finding any marten after all these years of looking …The last verified sighting of a marten in our region was in 2008 near Mt. Rose … [And then] the fisher study JUST (June 3, 2015) picked up a marten in the upper Hoh Valley. Your sighting [on top of this one] near Mt. Cruiser, in a completely different area, is really exciting.”
 
Betsy Howell, Wildlife Biologist with the Olympic National Forest wrote, “We have been trying for many years to get information on where marten are residing in the park and forest and haven’t had much luck … Olympic National Park and National Forest, along with Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife and U.S. Geological Survey, are planning more marten surveys this winter and we’ll be having a meeting soon to discuss. We’ll definitely be talking about your sighting.”
 
The lesson that our marten sighting drives home for me is just how extremely important it is that we all act as responsible stewards for the alpine areas that we love. This encounter is an example of yet another way we can manifest that stewardship. Buried in the email clamor in my inbox was the suggestion that future studies might be able to take advantage of the Mazamas frequent access to the rocky summit areas above tree line. We’ve since prevailed upon other climbs headed into the area to be on the lookout and to observe and record. 
 
Learning how to observe and photograph animals in the wilderness, especially for gender identification, and recording GPS coordinates and gathering scat samples for DNA and other studies will help scientists evaluate the diversity, diet, and health of a given population. Reporting any marten or fisher sightings on the Olympic Peninsula will further this important work. You may submit information about a sighting or request a training by sending an email to conservation@mazamas.org.
 

Pacific Marten: The Facts

The Pacific marten, Martes Caurina, is a rarely seen mammal in Washington’s Olympic National Forest. It is a carnivore from the Mustelidae family, which includes wolverines, badgers, otters, skunks, minks, martens, fishers, weasels, and ferrets. Because it was heavily trapped from the 1890s through the 1940s, it was nearly extirpated. In spite of formal winter studies conducted from 2001 onward, there have been only four verified sightings in 27 years. In 1988, one was seen alive and photographed near The Brothers Wilderness; a spotted owl study found two in a live trap in 1990 in the Buckhorn Wilderness (they were released); in 2008 a deceased juvenile Pacific marten was found by hikers near Mt. Rose; and in 2015 one was photographed in the Hoh Valley with an automated wildlife camera, as part of a fisher study. Our discovery—during a Mazama climb up Mt. Cruiser in June 2015—now brings the number to five verified sightings, and the first one in 25 years to be seen alive in person. 
 

In spite of significant efforts to locate and document the Pacific marten (the 2013-14 winter study involved 15 volunteers working 12 different days, which equates to 78 working days) the studies did not yield any martens (although they did result in documenting a rich and diverse wildlife population of cougars, bobcats, coyote, deer, elk, and yes—humans and domestic dogs). We have, in fact, encountered wolves in Oregon more times than we have martens in the Olympics—and we know there are only 77 wolves in nine packs in Oregon, as of the end of 2014. The contrast is quite stark!

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Meeting Myself at the Summit

by Craig Karls


For as long as I can remember, the outdoors have been my friend. Growing up in the St. Johns neighborhood of North Portland in the 70s and 80s, I spent much of my time roaming the woods and meadows of Smith and Bybee Lakes, Hayden Island, and Forest Park—collecting plant specimens and immersing myself in nature. The outdoors provided a welcome respite and temporary sanctuary from a home life that was dysfunctional and sometimes violent. 

The author on the summit of Mount St. Helens on
Mother’s Day 2015.



One of the most memorable events of my childhood occurred on a Sunday morning–May 18th, 1980, to be exact. From my front yard, I saw Mount St. Helens erupt in all its glory, burning an indelible mark on my soul. As a young adult, I attended Eastern Oregon University in La Grande and had the privilege of exploring the backcountry of the Blue and Wallowa Mountains during archaeological surveys and geological field trips, as well as on my own.

Fast forward to Summer 2014. I was hiking McNeil Point on Mt. Hood with some friends. We continued past the shelter and up the path that runs along the ridgeline. It was a lovely clear day, we were at about 7,100 feet, and we were looking at the top of Mt. Hood. I turned to my friend, Eric Crowley, and said, “You know, I would love to climb to the top of that someday.” 

He smiled slyly and replied, “I have,” and proceeded to mesmerize me with his stories of climbing Mt. Baker and Mt. Shuksan.

BCEP team enjoying a fire after a day
at Horsethief Butte. Photo: Kathleen Sciestl

Eric must have remembered our conversation from that summer because I received a text message from him the following New Year’s Eve that read, “Howdy—wanted to see if you are at all interested in taking a basic mountaineering course. I am going to sign up for the Mazama basic course.” I began to barrage him with questions and he gave me the link to the Mazama Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP). I read everything on that link and began exploring everything else on the Mazama website. Saying that I was interested would be an understatement. Eric advised me to go to the BCEP Information Night to learn more.

So I did. I was enthralled by the people I saw climbing the rock walls in the auditorium. I had never been rock climbing, never been in a harness, and knew next to nothing about the sport. Yet, something about the spectacle I witnessed called to me. I heard a quiet voice inside me, saying “do this, now is the time, you will grow and discover things about yourself that hitherto were unknown.” I listened to the presentation and watched the slides, becoming more certain that BCEP was the right choice for me. I went straight home and signed up online. I knew that there was no guarantee of being admitted into the program. I was told that demand for BCEP often exceeds the spots available–a fact that was reflected by the standing-room-only crowd at Information Night.

The team prepping to climb at Horsethief Butte.
Photo: Kathleen Sciestl

I received an email in early February informing me that I had been accepted. I was delighted, but also a little apprehensive. After all, other than hiking, I’d never done any “mountaineering” sports. Also, I tend to have a lot of social anxiety when meeting new people, especially in large groups. Fortunately, my friend Eric was accepted, too, and we were placed on the same BCEP team: Team 21, led by Amy Graham and Patrice Cook. Patrice organized an introductory potluck at her house before the first class, allowing us to get to know one another.

There we each received about six feet of climbing rope with which we could begin to learn our knots. Some of the knots were easy to master; others, not so much. We were being “shown the ropes,” so to speak. It was both gratifying and humbling to learn a new skill. A properly tied and dressed knot is a thing of beauty! At home later that evening, my knot-tying practice seemed to take on a meditative quality—a Zen and The Art of Knot Tying, if you will.

At the first BCEP class, I learned that we were going to be rock climbing at the Mazama Mountaineering Center (MMC) that very weekend. I was as excited as a freshman on the first day of high school. Later that week, I dutifully went to the Mountain Shop in Northeast Portland to buy all the gear I would need to try rock climbing for the first time. Fortunately, there were BCEP assistants at the shop to help me get what I needed and ease me into the world of rock climbing.

When our MMC rock session came, I had a beast of a time getting my two prusik slings the correct lengths. Patience and determination came through, though. When it was my turn to climb the wall, I felt an exhilaration like none other. Getting to the top of the wall, I thought to myself, “Hmm, I think I may have found my sport.” Strangely, I didn’t have much fear of falling. Also, I discovered that climbing has a meditative quality. My chattering mind became silent and focused on the task at hand. There was something paradoxically relaxing about it. The biggest fear I had that day was belaying my classmates. I wanted to make certain I was doing everything correct, lest they fall.

Our camping and outdoor rock session weekend at Horsethief Butte was the last weekend of March. The weather was excellent and the experience magical, confirming that I had indeed found my sport after 45 years on this beautiful planet. I eagerly went from station to station, climbing again and again. I also discovered another activity I adore—rappelling! And I discovered that while indoor rock climbing is fun, outdoor rock climbing is a blast.

We had our snow weekend in mid April, learning about avalanches, self-arrest, crampon use, roped teams, and pickets. Mountaineering is the perfect team sport because the only one you are competing against is yourself and the climb team is only as strong as its weakest member. Thus it behooves you to help your teammates succeed in any way possible.

When it came time for the final exam, I was amazed at how much knowledge and activity had been packed into such a short timeframe. I am now comfortable with the skills that were taught and my BCEP experience has ignited in me a passion to learn as much as I can about mountaineering. I have already taken the Crevasse Rescue Skillbuilder and intend to take additional skillbuilder classes. I see Intermediate Climbing School in my future, as well. 

I learned a whole lot more from BCEP than just mountaineering skills. I learned more about who I am. I’ve learned to trust others more—life is one big climb and everyone you meet is belaying you in some way. I’ve learned the wisdom of the fool—that is, having a beginner’s mind in learning a new skill can bring so much wonder and joy into my life. I’ve learned patience—what really matters is the process, not the product. Sometimes you will be able to summit a mountain, sometimes not. 

Mazama membership requires reaching the summit of a glaciated peak. I summited my first glaciated peak by climbing Mount St. Helens on Mother’s Day. I’ve seen pictures of the summit many times, but nothing compares to being there. The gods of the ancients always lived on a mountaintop; perhaps they were onto something. It is a spiritual experience to be on a summit. I applied for Mazama membership after the Mount St. Helens climb and received my acceptance letter dated May 18, 2015—35 years to the day when I saw it erupt. What strikes me as astonishing is that I didn’t take up this sport much sooner.


I would like to thank my BCEP teachers—Amy Graham and Patrice Cook—and all the assistants from the bottom of my heart for having the patience, enthusiasm, knowledge, and judgment needed to get this kid-goat started in mountaineering. 

To you, I say, “Climb on!” I guarantee you will find yourself at the summit.

 
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Emotional Atrophy Amid the Revelations

The Revelation Mountains are a small, rugged subrange of the Alaska Range located about 140 miles northwest of Anchorage and about 130 miles southwest of Denali. The principal peaks are granite spires that rise out of relatively low-elevation glacial valleys. The high vertical relief of the Revelations creates a dramatic backdrop for some very challenging climbing conditions. They remain mostly unexplored because the weather is notoriously heinous and the flight to get there is long and expensive.

None of this has deterred alpinist Clint Helander, who made his eighth trip to the Revelations with help of a $1,000 grant from the Mazama Expedition Committee. 

The objective for his eighth trip? The tallest unnamed peak in the range, known simply as “9,304.” 
“Words cannot describe the beauty of this peak,” Helander said in his grant application. Helander planned to climb the Southwest Buttress of Peak 9304, a 3,500-foot route, in a single push of 24 hours. 

What follows is his account of the ascent.

by Clint Helander (all photos are courtesy of the author)

There would be no sleeping on this night. Last evening’s -25 degrees Fahrenheit freeze had given way to warmer temperatures, blown in with a ferocious storm. I knew my climbing partner, Tad McCrea, was also awake, but we said nothing. We just laid there in silent fear and listened. The wind moaned a slow, agonizing cry among the summits and lenticular clouds. Then, like an army of charging demons, it screamed down the valley, gaining momentum and strength as the surrounding walls tightened. 

Like counting the growing waves on a shoreline, we began to determine when the biggest of the gusts would hit. Despite our snow walls, they seemed to blow right through us. Our four-season tent would flatten, the fabric stretching and poles creaking. “We’re not going to make it through the night,” I thought. Like a captain talking to his battered ship amidst a tempest, I begged the tent to survive. “Hold strong,” I quietly pleaded.

This wasn’t what Tad and I had planned on when we landed under perfect skies the previous day. But now, in the northern heart of Alaska’s Revelation Mountains, we felt alone and adrift. I braced my side of the tent through the most terrifying of the gusts and began stuffing all of my loose belongings in bags. “Should I put my boots on,” I wondered? “She’s going to break at any moment.”

March’s early morning twilight began to eek through the sagging tent walls. So far, she had weathered the storm. The winds began to ebb, now gusting to perhaps only 80 miles per hour. Our snow walls were gone, the glacier scoured into a shadowy white and gray wasteland. I emerged from the vestibule in full war regalia. We dug all day, excavating a snow cave under the flat glacier. We couldn’t survive another night of wind like that without it.

The brunt of the storm passed, but ceaseless wind followed for another five days. We resigned ourselves to passing the hours in our tent and snow cave, emerging now and then to snatch a few glimpses of our distant prize: the unclimbed monolith labeled “Peak 9,304” on our Lime Hills USGS topographic maps.

Tad was running out of time–the pilot would be there to pick him up in less than 24 hours–and the wind had yet to subside. We called for a weather update. It would be calm the next day. We awoke at 4 a.m., but the incessant wind persisted. We rolled over and tried to sleep, but the sound of our enemy outside refused to let us kill more hours in slumber.

At 11 a.m. the wind finally blew away. We skied out of camp in rapid procession. The south face of Peak 9,304, a mountain I had long referred to as “the Obelisk,” held its triangular form as we approached.

A snow-filled chimney held my picks, but threatened to spit me out. My protection far below felt suspect. Sixty meters above, a grainy crack offered a decent spot to anchor in. Tad led a long block of simul-climbing to the base of an ice-streaked headwall. A prow reared out past vertical and the hanging daggers looked almost impossible to climb. The summit was many thousands of feet above us still. We retreated.

Tad reluctantly flew out the next day, and in his place John Giraldo arrived, fresh and unbeaten by the storms. We quickly reached our highpoint on the Obelisk. I searched for courage as I confronted the looming ice above. A bad screw penetrated snow and aerated ice, then a few feet higher a good, small cam. “Watch me, John. This is really hard and scary,” I muttered. My tool shuddered and reverberated as it penetrated nominal ice and struck the granite slab underneath. A deep breath and I trusted myself to it. Another swing and a wide stem and I was still moving upward. I swung again, only this time the tool broke through the ice and into air. A two inch crack! Hanging there, teetering on my loose pick, I excavated the crack and placed a dreamy cam. The crack continued for another fifteen feet of salvation. Seventy meters of difficult climbing continued and I searched for an anchor as the rope came tight. Small cams shifted in odd-shaped cracks, and pins bottomed out in seems. John followed and I studied the anchor while I thought about him on the crux moves.

We continued upward for hours in long blocks of simul-climbing. The absent wind seemed strange on our sunburned faces. We approached the summit in the afternoon, high above most of the surrounding Revelation peaks. At the top, I thought back to the stress of the previous week of fighting the endless winds. I pushed the pain of a failing relationship from my mind. Two words came silently to the front of my mind: emotional atrophy.

On the summit though, it was a brief moment of long desired tranquility.

Clint Helander started climbing in 2003 and has climbed a variety of alpine routes in Alaska, including an integral ascent of the Moonflower on Mt. Hunter and the third ascent of Mt. Huntington’s Phantom Wall. Yet, he returns to the less explored Revelations every year to seek solitude and adventure. It is those experiences in the true wild that mean the most to him.

Over the years, Helander’s trips have culminated in six first ascents and two first ascent routes on mountains that had only seen one prior ascent:
  • 2008: First ascent of Exodus Peak (8,380 feet)
  • 2009: First ascent of Ice Pyramid (9,250 feet)
  • 2011: First ascent of Mt. Mausolus via Mausoleum (4,400 feet, WI5)
  • 2012: First ascent of Golgotha (8,940 feet)
  • 2012: First ascent on the South Ridge of the Angel (9,265 feet)
  • 2013: First ascent of Apocalypse via 4,200-foot West Face (WI5 M5)
  • 2014: First ascent of West Face of Titanic (3,800 feet, M6 5.8)
  • 2015: First ascent of the Obelisk (Peak 9,304’) via Emotional Atrophy (Grade 4 M6 WI5 A0 3,280’) on the South Face. Clint Helander and John Giraldo, March 22, 2015.
This article was initially published in the 2015 Mazama Annual. All rights reserved.
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A Brief History of Youth Achievement at the Mazamas

by Mathew Brock, Mazamas Library & Historical Collections Manager

 Ernie Goble on the approach to Mt. Hood, 1956.
Photo: Walter Goble.

In the summer of 1958, Ernest “Ernie” Goble was taking a well-deserved break on the saddle between North and Middle Sister. While admiring the majestic view of the Cascades, another climber took refuge on the opposite side of the room-sized rock. Suddenly, the huge rock shifted and started to roll. Ernie’s father, Walter, rushed to grab him and pull him out of danger. Although his father’s quick thinking saved him, the rock rolled by close enough to rip the shoulder on Ernie’s parka. In his six-year quest to climb all of the 16 major peaks in the Northwest, this was the only dangerous situation that young Ernie encountered. He was 13 years old at the time and already an accomplished climber. 

Ernie began climbing in an era when notable achievements were rarely written about or recognized. While it is possible that he may be one of the youngest, or earliest, to complete all the 16 peaks, it is hard to say with certainty. He started climbing in the mid-1950s and took part in one of the first Mazama classes offered by the then newly created climbing committee. Over the years, as the classes developed and evolved, generations of new climbers like Ernie were introduced to the sport and taught the skills needed to become successful mountaineers. 
Explorer Post #936 members after a first ascent
Canadian Coast Range,1997, Photo: Peter Green. 

By 1975, interest in engaging Mazama youth reached a new high. As part of the Boy Scouts of America’s Explorer Scouts program, the Mazamas established Explorer Post #901. The nationwide program aimed to get youth outdoors by teaching them skills in mountaineering, as well as water and winter activities. The Explorer Scout committee organized lectures on the philosophy of climbing, suitable outdoor clothing, and proper nutrition. Rope, snow, and rock skill building classes were offered to provide firsthand experience. In their first year, the Post climbed Mt. Hood, Mt. Adams, Mt. Washington, Three Fingered Jack, and Mount St Helens. 
Sahale Flanagan and Margaret Redman at the 1988
Annual Banquet. Photo: Unknown.

The Explorer Post program proved popular with the membership. The program expanded in 1978, and then again in 1981. It fell on hard times in the late 1980s before consolidating and reigniting as Post 936 in 1993. The end of the 1990s were good years for the Explorer Post; the program’s leadership was motivated, enrollment was high, and their adventures captivated the membership. A few of Post 936’s notable achievements included climbing in New Zealand in 1996, four first ascents in the Canadian Coast Range in 1997, and organizing the 20th Anniversary celebration for the American K2 Expedition in 1998.

Around the time of the Explorer Post’s low ebb, a young girl named Sahale Flanagan began her climbing career. Sahale climbed Mt. Hood in 1986 at the age of eight, accompanied by her parents Lath and Mary Jane Flanagan. She became a Mazama in 1987 at age nine. She earned the Guardian Peaks award in 1990, the Seven Oregon Peaks award in 1994, and the 16 Peaks in 1998 at the age of 20. She often climbed with her father and served as an assistant leader on three of their ascents together. The climb report for their three-day climb of Mt. Shasta notes that Sahale acted as climb leader on summit day and did a “great job leading the six other climbers to the summit.”

Ernie Goble on the summit to Mt. Stuart, 1960.
Photo: Walter Goble

The year before Sahale achieved her 16 peak goal, another young climber was just getting started. Quentin Carter climbed Old Snowy, his first mountain, when he was just four years old. Quentin’s father, Matthew Carter, got him started hiking early, at age two, and camping overnight by age four. By the time Quentin turned eight, he’d climbed Mt. Adams, Mt. Hood, and Mount St. Helens, earning him the Guardian Peaks award in 2003. His three summit attempts on Mt. Jefferson rate as some of his most memorable climbs. Bad weather and an accidental fall involving the climb leader turned back their first two attempts. Quentin finally summited in 2008, his third attempt in three years. 
The Families Mountaineering 101 program at Horsethief
Butte in 2015.

At age fourteen, Quentin had earned the Oregon Cascades award and by age 19 he had achieved the summits of all the 16 major peaks. Long time Mazama climb leader Dick Miller was instrumental in Quentin’s climbing career. Over his 12 year quest to get all 16 peaks, Miller was a teacher, mentor, and friend. One of Quentin’s most treasured mementos of his early climbing is the modified ice ax made for him by Dick. In modifying the full-size SMC axe, Miller cut down the shaft, dulled all the sharp edges, and stamped Quentin’s initials in the head. 

Quentin on his first  climb in the Goat Rocks.

The Mazamas interest in engaging young mountaineers has changed and expanded as the membership has grown. The Mazama Families Committee, begun in 2013, focuses on getting families outside together. Leaders in the group teach kids the joys of mountaineering in a way that instills a sense of joy and brings them back. They aim to build a community where children and parents learn from mentors and experienced climbers in the organization. The committee currently offers a Families Mountaineering 101 course that teaches kids and adults entry level rock and snow climbing skills. In the past year, Mazama Families members have put those skills to work hiking Dog Mountain, skiing Mt. Hood Meadows, and climbing at Smith Rocks, among other events. 

Quentin Carter on the summit of South Sister in 2004.

One of the legacies of getting youth involved with mountaineering is the formation of a lifelong affinity for the sport and the Mazamas. Many of the youngsters that started climbing with the Mazamas as part of the Explorer Post program have stuck with it. The odds are good that many of the young kids in the Mazama Families initiative will go on to be adult climbers. Now in his early 20s, Quentin has aspirations to one day become a climb leader like Dick Miller, his mentor and favorite climber. As for Ernie, after many years away from the sport, on his 68th birthday he climbed Mount St. Helens with his daughter, herself a third-generation Mazama.

Quentin Carter

Quentin Carter on the summit of Mt. Shuksan in 2014.

His final climb to complete the 16 major NW peaks.Matt Carter first took his son Quentin out hiking at age two, and by four, they were camping. Before starting his 16 peak quest, at age eight on Old Snowy, he’d already explored Yosemite and City of Rocks among others. Like many others, he’d planned on doing Mt. Hood as his first official Mazama climb, but a climbing accident and a helicopter crash on the mountain that season forced a change in plans. They ended up climbing Unicorn Peak instead. His second climb, Mt. Adams, in 2002 was almost his last. During a glissade on the descent, Quentin’s pants filled with snow, and he became hypothermic. Quick work by members of the climbing team got him out of his wet clothes and warmed up. For his fourth Mazama climb, Mt. Hood in 2003, Dick Miller presented Quentin with his custom modified ice ax and crampons. As his climbing career progressed, Quentin’s father insisted that he have advanced training. Besides taking part in Mazamas training, they also took 12 days of intense climbing education in the North Cascades as part of the American Alpine Institute’s Alpine Leadership class. Quentin went on to assist on several of his later summits, including Mt. Baker and Mt. Shuksan, his 16th peak.

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Gaia App: Viable GPS Replacement?

by John Godino

I’ll always remember my first introduction to the navigation potentials of a smart phone. A few years ago on a North Sister climb, we ended up taking an unexpected route back to camp. On our cross-country bushwhack, we experienced a little of what might you call “positional uncertainty.” I called a halt for our team, got out my map and clunky old GPS receiver, waited for it to get fired up, and then started plotting our UTM coordinate on the map to find out where we were. One of the younger members of our climb team strolled over and said “Hey, can I show you something? Here’s exactly where we are.” And he showed me his iPhone screen, with a reassuring little blue dot directly over a high resolution map. That was when the lightbulb really went on for me: the holy Grail of navigation (a good map with a “you are here” mark) had arrived.

GPS smartphone apps can now go head-to-head with dedicated handheld GPS receivers. Along with increasing chip speed, screen size, and battery power, smart phones actually have several advantages: more intuitive user interface, much better screen resolution, a much wider range and better quality base maps, and a vastly lower price.

The two main potential problems with GPS smart phones, fragility and running out of batteries, are easily solved with a sturdy case and an auxiliary battery pack and extra cable. GPS works on your phone without cell phone coverage, and you can download free, high quality maps ahead of time for use when you are in the backcountry.

Most climbers already carry their phone. Why not add one more navigation tool that only costs $20, doesn’t weigh anything, takes maybe 30 minutes to learn, and might just really save the day sometime?

One of the leading wilderness GPS apps is called Gaia GPS. Gaia has a few key features that put it at the head of the pack. It’s really focused on backcountry use, and not recording every arcane statistic of your hike and letting you post it to social media. They have terrific technical support, a wide variety of base maps, including satellite imagery and open source map layers, and the interface is easy enough to get you up to speed in a few minutes. And, it’s only $20, compared with a standalone GPS receiver that starts around $200 and goes up to $600, ouch! Gais GPS has a version for both iPhone and Android users.

The Mazamas is partnering with Gaia GPS to introduce more of our members to this powerful tool. This is being done in two steps. One, all Mazamas climb and hike leaders are eligible to get a free copy of the app. This will be rolled out over approximately the next year, and will be coordinated within the climbing and trail trips committees.

More broadly, Gaia has generously offered the Pro version of their app to all of the Mazamas membership.

To access this offer, you first need to purchase the app for $20, but then you will get an upgrade to the Gaia Pro, which normally cost $40 a year. This opens up lots of new map layers, lets you plan trips and print maps from the Gaia website, and more.

There are a some good resources to learn to use this app. One, if you go to mazamas.org and navigate to Resources then Maps for Hiking and Climbing, you’ll see a video link for a tutorial on how to use the app. Watching this video for 10 minutes will give you the foundation that you need to go start practicing. If you’d like more in-depth training, the Mazamas have a skill builder class in smart phone GPS coming up in June that still has some openings.

But, you really don’t need a class. Watch the instructional video, go for a walk around your neighborhood for an hour or so, mark some waypoints, record a track, practice downloading maps for use outside of cell range, use the Guide Me function to get distance and bearing to an existing waypoint, and you’ll get the hang of it pretty quickly.

And now, next time you experience a bit of “positional uncertainty,”you’ll have a solid tool to get yourself unlost.


Author’s Note: Electronic mapping tools do not replace paper maps. We recommend always carrying a paper map with you on your backcountry adventures.

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True Confessions of a Novice Climber

The author soaking in the
views. Photo: Stephen Hirai
by Jamie Anderson, Mazama Membership Services Manager

Every month, a copy of Rock and Ice arrives at the MMC. I flip through the glossy pages, look at photographs, and think: Nope. That’s not me. I’m not a real climber. I “sort of” climb. The easy stuff. The local beginner’s routes.  Nothing big.

I will let you in on a little secret, however. Deep down, I am proud of those routes. An even deeper secret: each of these routes, all alpine rock, scared me. I have been listening to our executive director talk about “shared growth experiences in the mountains” for over two years now. For me it is alpine rock where the boot-rubber hits the rock and this concept makes sense—it is where I have felt my comfort zone expand the most.

This could be called the True Confessions of a Novice Climber, or, What Has Made My Knees Wobble:

  • Scree. I used to think that scree fields were benign, stable rocks that one hops across. Not anymore. Now I have a four-fold classification: 1st class: deep and sandy (easy, if exhausting); 2nd class: deep, largish stone (easy to move through but can cause some danger to climbers below or from climbers above); 3rd class: small pebbles on a steep, hard substrate (Wiley E. Coyote on ball-bearings; can I keep control?); 4th class: large, moving rocks on a steep, hard substrate (everything moves, and fast. You can’t trust anything above or below you; getting out of control or being smacked by a boulder are equally unpleasant possibilities.)
  • Fourth-class scrambles. I loved the idea of scrambling until I discovered scrambling with exposure. Something about heights makes me want that rope bad.
  • Rappels. These were fun, AFTER I got started. The first step off of an edge wondering if I put my system together correctly and if that creaking tat is going to hold? Not so fun. My first climbs I ran through BARK at least three times before trusting it, and then I still held my breath on that first long step.
  • Pack weight; or, can I possibly keep up? This is more trepidation than fear. A full day’s gear for all weather, water, food, group gear, up a steep approach has led to the concern of can I cut the cardio mustard?
    •
  • Down climbing. Going down is just like going up in reverse, right? I remember the first time I looked down a stiff scramble and thought: “I have to go back down that?!?”

None of these actually address the actual fifth-class climb, supposedly the most difficult part, but this is where the real “growth experience in the mountains” has come for me. I’ve learned to trust myself and recognize risk. I’ve also discovered  many “ah ha!” moments when I realized I used those fancy gym laybacks and mantles on a block of basalt looking down hundreds of feet to snow slopes and scree fields and miles of forest. My comfort zone grows a bit with every peak, and that’s climbing.

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The Threat that Binds Mazama Volunteers: Inspiration

by Dan Schuster

The author on the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro.
Photo: Godlisten Christosa

Ask any longtime supporters why they give heart and soul to the Mazamas and you’re likely to get different answers. Contrary to popular myth, we aren’t all climbing sport enthusiasts. Yet to say we all love the mountains or mountaineering may exclude rock climbing buffs who’d rather hang out at Smith, or hikers who love the woodlands. It’s difficult to identify a common thread binding us together because our passions sometimes drive us apart. While we each may have a different vision of what the Mazamas should be, one thing we all share is inspiration. Mazama volunteers have inspired us and in turn, we volunteer to inspire others.

For many of us, that inspiration started with our BCEP instructors, and I was no exception. My BCEP ‘88 instructor, Bo Nonn, is one of the unsung Mazama heroes. That’s not to say he didn’t receive all the awards that come from being a long-time climb leader, but he kept a low profile, focused instead on inspiring us to pass on the love of mountaineering. I followed his example through BCEP, ICS, and ASI for the 28 years since, and as a climb leader for the past 14. Over the years, I’ve given both personal time and money to the Mazamas and with so many other critical needs out there, you might ask, “Why the Mazamas?” It boils down to inspiration.

For example, you may have seen the movie “Meru,” and been inspired by the extremity of purpose and commitment that might seem absurd to some. Yet the adventure aspects of the movie inspire even non-climbers in a way that golf and baseball never can. The movie had particular significance to me because of my experience with another Mt. Meru, Kilimanjaro’s unassuming cousin. In 2007, I traveled to Tanzania to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. My daughter accompanied me as far as Moshi, and while I was on the mountain, she volunteered her nursing skills at a local hospital. Afterwards, she shared her dismay on discovering how little of the hospital’s medical equipment was in working order. We later learned through a WHO report that up to 80% of East African medical equipment was nonfunctional. Inspired partly by Greg Mortensen’s school construction project for Afghan girls and partly by my BCEP instructor’s Peace Corps experiences in Botswana, I set about to remedy the equipment situation. It occurred to me that the many engineers who travel to Africa on safari and to climb Kili were part of the answer. “Voluntourism,” historically dominated by medical staff, was in dire need of technologists. After struggling to find a cooperative venue, I returned to Tanzania in January 2010 as an instructor at Arusha Technical College (ATC). Nestled in the shadow of Mt. Meru, ATC was created to fill the demand for qualified technical personnel in Tanzania. Since that first visit, I’ve spent 18 months in Arusha training future biomedical technicians to repair medical equipment and established a nonprofit corporation, Biomedical Engineering Technology Aid International (BETA Int’l), to support that endeavor. BETA Int’l has subsequently facilitated a biomedical engineering technology program at ATC by training faculty, providing modern test equipment and parts, and providing stipends for student internships at area hospitals. With a comprehensive training program in place, ATC now supplies electrical and biomedical engineering graduates to hospitals throughout Tanzania.

I’m not sure any of this would have come about if not for the volunteers that inspired me and the inspiration that comes from my own volunteering. Climbing taught me many valuable lessons including this from scree and soft-snow slogs: slide back a step for every two forward, keep going, and you eventually make the summit. You definitely need this kind of tenacity to deal with bureaucracies and governments in developing nations. And inspiration has opened doors to new opportunities. Now BETA is teaming with GE Foundation to address medical technology issues in all low-resource countries. Haiti is next, although it is more like climbing Mt. Everest. We’ve been slogging there since 2011, without yet reaching the first base camp.

For some of you this may not resonate (unless you climb Kilimanjaro and have need of hospitalization). For me, it justifies my “Curmudgeon Challenge” to raise funds for the MMC, and the countless hours I’ve put into Mazama training, climbs, and committees. My Mazama training was a prelude to a much bigger life mission—one that has become world-transforming. I understood that in 2003 when I teamed with Monty Smith to rescue a family on the Eiger’s neighboring peak; our oft-repeated leadership training saved five lives. So mountaineering will never be just a sport to me—the inspiration goes far deeper, and it is a fundamental test of character. Yes, I do love the mountains and any excuse to be in them—anywhere in the world. What inspires you may be different, but do keep our volunteer tradition alive within the Mazamas, and pass along the inspiration to others. Inspiration is the most pervasive impact we can have in this world, and our only legacy.

Author’s note: If you are bound for Kilimanjaro, interested in voluntourism opportunities, and have a medical or engineering background, see BETA International’s website at www.bmet-aid.com.
Author’s bio: Dan Schuster is a Mazama climb leader (2001) and has taught climbing since 1989. A retired Caltech-educated engineer, he founded Biomedical Engineering Technology Aid International (www.bmet-aid.com), a 501(c)(3) non-profit, and is also a volunteer science museum educator in lasers and robotics at OMSI.

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How a Team of Volunteers Changed My Life

The author on the summit of Mt. Hood, July 7, 2012.
Photo: Steve Deardorff

by Kristie Perry


It started with seven little words.

“Take Beecept, Kreestee. You vill love eeT.”

So proclaimed Ania Wiktorowicz, a relentlessly cheerful co-worker and one of the many awesome ambassadors for mountaineering that make the Mazamas such a terrific organization.

I wasn’t so sure about this BCEP thing. At that point in my life, I was about 18 months away from my last cigarette and about four years away from my last bottle of red wine. I had, at least, quit committing slow-motion suicide. But I was, at most, a recreational hiker and car camper with a head full of “I can’t.” Should I really do this BCEP thing?

I was quite convinced the answer was No. But every Monday morning, there was Ania, egging me on. “Take Beecept, Kreestee. You vill love eeT.”

So with high hopes and even higher anxiety, I enrolled in BCEP.
It was a life-changing experience.

There came a moment during the eight-week class when I fully realized that the massive undertaking that is BCEP is run entirely by volunteers. A lot of them: volunteers who are recent college grads, moms and dads, and grandmothers and grandfathers; volunteers with full time jobs as social workers, accountants, physicians, lawyers, engineers, and sales reps; volunteers who seem to have been born wearing crampons; and volunteers who only recently learned how to tie a butterfly knot.

That light bulb moment about BCEP came at the conclusion of Jodie Adams’ presentation on strength training exercises for budding mountaineers. Jodie is a Mazama member and physical therapist. She’d just had a baby. It was still very tiny. And yet Jodie hauled herself down to Jackson Middle School on a rainy Tuesday night in March 2013 to talk to a bunch of wannabe mountaineers about the proper body position for deep squats.

I felt tremendous gratitude for Jodie’s willingness to share her expertise with us. She did it for free. She did it with cheer. She did it even though as a new mother she was extraordinarily sleep deprived.
I experienced many moments like that during BCEP. There was Colleen Sinsky, who rescued me from a meltdown during knot-tying practice. There was Sue Giordano, who coaxed me up my first climb of the MMC rock wall. There was Kyle Heddy, who hugged me after I stemmed up the chimney at Horsethief, and Brian Anderson who made sure I did my BARK check correctly before rappelling back down. This chorus of “You got this, Kristie!” was conducted by BCEP Team 7 Leader Kevin Clark, who patiently instructed me—again—on how to plunge step after accepting me on his Mt. McLoughlin climb.

Volunteers. Every single one of them. Teaching me the skills of mountaineering. Doing it for free. Doing it because they wanted to. Doing it with a magical mix of patience and encouragement. Amazing.

Every single one of those volunteers played an important part in evicting that rat’s nest of “I can’t” that had been so thoroughly ensconced in my head for so long.

So I did the only thing I was really qualified to do for the Mazamas right after taking BCEP: I joined the Publications Committee. I got to geek out with other grammar nerds on the finer points of the Oxford comma. I got to apply my administrative and organizational skills to some process improvement projects. Eventually, I got to be chair of the committee.

And with every article I proofed and every meeting agenda I put together, I got to say thank you. Thank you to each and every Mazama volunteer that has come before me and made this organization what it is today: a welcoming place where even timid, middle-aged chicks with a head full of “I can’t” can learn to glissade with the best of them.

About the author: Kristie Perry is a three-year Mazama member and Director of Donor Relations at Central City Concern.

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John Frieh: Q & A

In November 2015, John Frieh participated in the 3rd annual Portland Alpine Festival, offering clinics, seminars, and an evening presentation on climbing in Alaska. Several weeks prior to the festival, Joe Fox interviewed him about his thoughts on climbing and the origins of the Portland Ice Comp.


On the origins of his passion for the outdoors
I definitely grew up in a family that recreated outside. Spent a lot of summers camping. Though I love climbing, I think, at its core, I love being outside. And really there might come a day where climbing is no longer an option or a pursuit, but I don’t ever imagine a day where I won’t be getting outdoors.

My parents stuck me in the Boy Scouts at age twelve in hopes of instilling good moral fiber, I don’t know if that was successful. But during that time I climbed Middle Sister at age fourteen. And it was pretty rad. My experiences in the Boy Scouts allowed me to somehow talk my way into a gear shop job at 16, at a local shop in Eugene. Everyone else who worked there was a student at the University of Oregon, in their outdoor program, so there was always somebody willing to drag me along on the weekends. So I did a lot of climbing. I kinda grew up at Smith Rock. That led to me completing a NOLS course right out of high school.

On his “smash and grab” style of climbing
I only got three weeks of vacation a year at Intel. And, if you flip through any Alaska guide book—I remember I got the red one, the Joe Puryear one that everyone gets, when that came out in what ‘07? I think it was?—I remember buying it, flipping through it and just being depressed because every suggested time was two weeks, suggested time one month. I remember thinking I either have to leave Intel or I’m never going to climb in Alaska.

And then in 2007 Colin Haley, over his spring break, climbed Mt. Huntington. He happened to be up there, he thought he was going to ice climb, and the weather looked good, so he flew into the Central Range. And I was like, if Colin can do it, you know he just happened to be there when the weather got good, why couldn’t I watch the weather from Portland and fly up when the weather got good? And that’s what we’ve been doing ever since.

On the climb that convinced him to start training
In the Mid-2000s, I was using Jim Nelson’s Selected Climbs in the Cascades, an excellent guide book. I was just going through there and ticking everything off that I could. I would go down the bookmarks, and think “where was the weather good” “what routes are near here that Jim says are good,” I’m going to do one of those.

And there’s one on Mt. Stuart called the “Girth Pillar,” and it’s actually one of the few “true” alpine routes in the Cascades where you actually have to climb up snow and ice, up to water/ice 3 (WI3), to get to the base of this rock climb that’s 9 pitches, up to 5.11 and then you’ve got to scramble to the summit, and then descend the other side. You have to carry over. It’s a pretty committing objective for the Cascades. And we did it. I think we planned on one bivy. We bivvied somewhere on the rock, and then we went up and over the next day. On the way out we were literally two hours to the car, and I remember I was so wrecked I had to lay down and sleep on the trail. And this route was put up in the ‘80s, you know, it was not some cutting edge route. I realized that if I want to do harder routes than this, and maybe do first ascents someday, I need to get my s**t together. Because up to that point, all I really had done was trail run and go to the rock gym, which is, what everybody does in the beginning.

On his long time ties to the Portland Alpine Fest
If you really go back, nine years ago or so, my climbing partner and I, Marcus Donaldson, wanted to find more people to carpool with us to Bozeman, because it’s the closest place to climb ice in the winter that’s “in” all winter. We started talking about having a party, and Marcus was like well you have that woody in your garage, we’ll have a bouldering competition, or something like that. We got to talking and one thing turned into another, and I probably got a little carried away, but I said, “we should just see if the Portland Rock Gym (PRG) will let us do an indoor dry tool comp in their gym.” So we went and saw Gary Rall (owner of PRG), and he’s a really nice guy, but he thought we were crazy when we said we wanted to bring ice tools into his rock gym. But somehow we talked him into doing it. We called it the Portland Ice Festival, and made it a fundraiser to give back to the local community. We had over a hundred people show up! It ended up being one of the biggest days at PRG all year. We raised a bunch of money, and a lot of people who had never even touched ice tools tried it for the first time. So that summer, Gary called me and said, we’re doing it again this year right? And I was like, I guess so.

We did it for seven years. I would hassle the local shops for donations, I’d hassle my contacts, people I know that worked at different companies, and every year it would be crazy. Every year I’d be say this is the last one because it was just Marcus and I doing it, and I was getting burnt out. Then Lee Davis, Mazamas Executive Director, approached me and asked what I thought about the Mazamas helping out, and taking it over? I told him that as long as they stayed true to why we organized it in the first place, which was to get the community together, hopefully get them excited about ice climbing, and raise some money for local organizations, then fine with me. So I handed it off. The Mazamas obviously have a lot more resources at their disposal than I do, and they’ve incorporated the the Ice Fest into the Alpine Festival, and now it’s this giant week-long celebration. They’re doing more with it than I ever could, and it’s just great to see.