Tag: Climbing

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Groundhog Day

by Jonathan Barrett

It is Groundhog Day … again. In honor of the movie (and the holiday), I have five suggestions for how to break out of your climbing and hiking deja vu. From the gear that we use, to the goals that we set for ourselves, a repeated outing is given context by these things. Although we are to some degree trapped by the fact that the Gorge is only so large and that there are a limited number of crags within an hour or two of home, we don’t need to feel like Bill Murray’s character waking up every day to the same bars of Sonny and Cher: “Then put your little hand in mine/There ain’t no hill or mountain we can’t climb.” It is possible to expand the universe without leaving the confines of its boundaries.

The author considers the merits of eating ice cream on a saddle
during a summer climbing road trip. Photo: Andrew Barnes. 

Use someone else’s gear

We all get used to the gear that we employ: our cams, our pack, our tent. This breeds familiarity, and frankly it makes our lives easier. Setting up your personal tent in a downpour takes only moments because you have done it a thousand times before. Plugging your gold Camalot into the hand-jam-sized crack becomes second nature. Every so often, I get the opportunity to climb on a partner’s gear such as during my most recent ice trip to Hyalite. I have climbed on Petzl Nomics since they were first introduced; my partner had brought a pair of Trango Raptors. Midway up The Dribbles, right before the WI4 headwall pitch, I asked to use his tools. The first couple of swings were awkward. The ice axes felt weirdly imbalanced. To compensate, I turned to using better footwork and looked down instead of up. The features of the ice curtain were transformed. Blobs appeared that I might not have noticed before, and I stepped on them gently, like they were features on a rock climb. In the minutes that followed, I climbed a completely new route with improved technique.

John Sharp investigates up-close the elusive (and viviparous)
rubber boa on the approach to Goode Mountain.
Photo: Jonathan Barrett. 

Climb at an odd time of day (or year)

“You know what I want to do?” Jarred asked me. Frankly I couldn’t guess, given his proclivity for provocative ideas. “Climb Dod’s Jam in the dark,” he said. In the dark? Why? When pressed, he didn’t have an answer really, something about the moonrise over the Bonneville Dam. Because I acquiesced, two weeks later I found myself face to face with a bushy-tailed woodrat, otherwise known as the infamous snafflehound. It’s eyes were glowing spheres under the light of my headlamp. He (or maybe she) tried to squeeze its shivering body into the fissure at the back of the “bird’s nest” belay stance. The moon had not yet risen over the cliffs of the Gorge, so beyond the wan circle of light, it was exceedingly dark: a hold-your-hand-two-inches- from-your-face-and-not-see-anything dark. Typically when I stem up the off-width corner on that climb, the exposure rattles my nerves a little. The climbing isn’t very hard relative to some of the sequences on the rest of the route, but there is something about the way that feature pitches ever so slightly towards the river that normally makes me sweat. That night, though, I didn’t feel any trepidation. I could turn my light towards the Oregon side of the Columbia and view only a wall of black. I carefully pasted the rubber of my shoes against the wrinkled edges and moved upwards with uncommon confidence because I could not see. Three months later, Jarred and I found ourselves finishing Young Warriors in the dark after attempting a multi-route link-up. As I belayed him up onto the final ridgeline, I turned my headlamp toward the remaining slabs and cracks. A familiar set of glowing eyes looked back at me in what must have been disbelief. Or perhaps it was annoyance. What was the little bugger thinking? Maybe: Oh! Not this guy again!

Bring different food

Knowing that a little levity can ease a tedious activity,
Andrew Ault takes the time to posedown mid-slog up
Mt. Adams. Photo: Jonathan Barrett.

Food is fuel, but also culture. As anyone who has traveled internationally knows, cuisine defines an experience, even if it is just Le Big Mac consumed on the streets of Paris. As such, the meals that we bring color our experiences in the outdoors. For better or worse, freeze-dried options have transformed backcountry dining and the way that people move through wild spaces. I have both a Jetboil and a Whisperlite. The choice between the two affects the culture of the trip. Typically, I bring the former for many of the obvious reasons: weight, fuel efficiency, and speed of eating. Consider the impact that this kind of choice has on a trip up the Emmons Glacier. With a night before and potentially after the climb at Camp Sherman, the instinct is to go as light as possible. However, a pot of tortellini smothered in pesto, sun-dried tomatoes, and sausage is worth the weight. As a matter of fact, it would be difficult to suppress a smug smile as you watched other parties scarf so-called “Chicken and Rice” from a plasticized foil pouch knowing that the only GI distress you will suffer will be altitude-related and not a function of the food. This is true in other ways as well. Last summer I brought with me the makings for a no-bake cheesecake when climbing in the Bugaboos. A bank of snow served as a refrigerator. Dinner that night felt Michelin five-star luxurious as I spooned out servings for my partner and I.

Find a new partner

Who one climbs with determines the vibe as much as what one climbs. With established partnerships, it is easy to warm up on the same routes, eat breakfast at the same joints, and pack in a matter of minutes, which is generally preferable. A new partner can breathe life into stale routines and jolt one out of tunnel vision. For years, my goal when traveling to distant climbing destinations was to climb as much as possible. This seemed to me like the logical thing to do given the financial outlay involved. Once, on an overseas trip, I was stunned to learn that my partner wanted to take the train into a neighboring country just to have lunch. I argued that it wasn’t raining that hard and would probably stop soon. He chuckled at my stupidity and pointed out that there was more to do than climb from sunrise to sunset. Through that new partnership, I have recalibrated and reconsidered my goals when traveling for climbing. This can be just as true for a local spot as well. Who knows how many times I drove past the Beacon Rock Cafe before a new partner once pointed out that we could climb all morning, drive a short distance down the road for a burger, and then head back for more laps. Suddenly that Clif bar in my pocket seemed slightly moronic.

Set completely different goals

I tend to want to hike fast and climb as many pitches as possible. My regular partners give me a hard time for always setting my watch to see how long it took from belay to belay. My goal is efficiency, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that, per se. However, it does flavor the outing with a sense of urgency. Consider instead the influence that other goals might lend. Photography is not a hobby of mine, and in the attempt to move quickly, I don’t take many pictures. When I return to share my adventures with friends, the sloppy and ill-framed images are nearly useless. This is not to say that I should be asking my partner to reclimb a pitch multiple times to allow me the benefit of having a perfectly captured and Instagram-worthy photo. I do however envy the care and effort that folks like Steph Abegg have taken to thoughtfully and completely document a trip. This goal-setting philosophy can be applied in other ways as well. Out for a hike on a familiar trail? Maybe try to engage others in conversation or at least friendly banter. How many new acquaintances could you make over a dozen miles? Bring a bird, flower, or tree guidebook and stop to actually investigate that glorious flora that you have seen so many times. Use familiar terrain as an opportunity to try out a new piece of technology. What better place to learn the mapping software than in an area where you can double-check your work?

Some final thoughts

What benefits do these changes have for us as climbers and human beings? If Groundhog Day can teach us anything, it is that being stuck in a loop is not necessarily a bad thing in and of itself. How we respond to the conditions of our confinement is the question. In reflection, I can honestly say that making these kinds of changes myself have made me a better and more thoughtful climber. As someone who looks at my life and actions through the lens of climbing, they have also reframed the way that I travel, engage with people, and consider the possessions in my life. In doing so, I am equipped so that there is no hill or mountain I can’t climb.

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Daring to Be Lydia

by Lisa Kostova

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Lydia in front of Kelman Hut. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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First Crack: Ice Climbing in Lillooet, BC

by Wendy Marshall

While my family was neither wealthy nor outdoorsy, I’ve always had a passion for being in nature. As a result, I easily landed in Geology studies at Western Washington University, yet “extreme” sports like snowboarding still felt as distant as Mars despite my PacNW upbringing. That changed the day I spotted a weekend trip posting on our Outdoor Club board. Lillooet Ice Climbing, it said. As a figure skater who hoped to work in Antarctic science, I already had a deep love for ice—but ice climbing? A little research, and I had the facts. This wasn’t just any ice-stomping, but straight-up frozen waterfalls. One of those sports. Here was my chance, to enter a world of edgy skills, glossy magazines and pure alpine adventure. I knew I had to go. After paying the fee and tooling up on boots, axes, crampons and clothes at my very first used-gear sale—my head bursting with brands from Charlet-Moser to Grivel, and terms like monopoint crampons—I was ready.

On February 12th, eight of us plus Ryan and Dave, the young but competent leaders, piled into the vans and set off. A hub of interior British Columbia, Lillooet is a tiny place whose economy still utilizes extractive industries like logging and mining. It also offers some of the best vertical ice terrain in the area, plenty of it easily accessible by road for short excursions. First, of course, you have to get there. We wound deep into the Canadian Rockies on the Trans-Canada Highway, passing towns with names like Hope and Spuzzum, and by the time we reached Hell’s Gate—a thin, sketchy red bridge and air tram swaying precariously above the little river that thundered through rocky Fraser Canyon—we felt alike nervous, excited and surreal. Our target destination: Marble Canyon, barely an hour north of Lillooet.

Marble Canyon shelters clusters of frozen waterfalls, which we could see from the road, clinging to rock faces between ridges of snow-dusted conifers. We craned to look, our necks cricking. Then suddenly we arrived. Grabbing our mix of owned and rented gear, we hiked a short way across the frozen Crown Lake, up a slope to a popular family of icefalls, crowned by the famous 3-pitch route named Icy BC.

This group offers routes rated WI3-6, from fat chunky well-bonded ice columns, to thin glaze mixed with bare rock and hanging sheets. Saving Icy BC for later, we started from the left, at the broad Deeping Wall. Ice climbing with a group, I learned, is great fun and camaraderie, but you also stand around waiting. A lot. Nervously, if you’re a rookie. I picked up what tips I could, befriending Allison and Jen and the rest of our team. We watched Ryan and Dave climb to set up topropes, inserting ice screws as they went. The first volunteers followed, and cries of “Ice!” “Ice!” (or in the case of Andrew, a Brit, “Oice!”) rang out whenever somebody knocked loose any sharp ice chips or plate-sized “death cookies” with axe or crampon, at which we ducked our helmets.

But nothing compares to that virgin attempt at a new skill. Everyone was so encouraging, and I tried to feel reassured by the tug of the toprope at my waist, when I’d never even climbed with a toprope on rock. Soon, my forearms were burning. Tiny ice chips stung my face and plinked off my helmet, as the wicked-looking recurved technical axe I’d proudly purchased ricocheted maddeningly off the rippled blue ice time and again. Now I couldn’t get a foothold—what was wrong with me? My crampon had popped off my foot! Time to descend. I felt a bit discouraged, weak and clumsy, not to mention sweaty, my pumped arms like jelly. Back to waiting and watching in the cold. But it was hard to feel sad for long in such a beautiful place. I got a sweet photo of Allison and Jen hugging for warmth, grins and pink cheeks and nose-ring barely peeking out of cozy winter woolens. Then I wandered over to look at a stunning pillar of ice that emerged magically from beneath an overhang, creating a glowing cave of translucent blue like a temple of ice. Crawling in, I felt awed and exhilarated.

That night, we camped in tents, in the coldest night I’d ever faced. One by one, we drifted from the cheerful campfire, filled by a tasty dinner of sloppy bean stew, and to bed. The thermometer dropped to 10 degrees F. Morning came, and the last thing I wanted was to poke more than my nose from my sleeping bag, but I knew I’d be warmer moving. I couldn’t feel my foot, so I shoved it hard into my boot, heard a crack, and thought, “Oh well—I might’ve broke a toe, but I can’t tell!” (I hadn’t.)
Over the weekend, I learned valuable techniques from our leaders, which we practiced between climbs. A bent-kneed “monkey hang” from extended arms will save them from fatigue. Coupled with the hang, wrist straps offer added support when your grip becomes tired on the ice axe. Using the weight of your lower leg pendulum-style, kick straight in, drop your heel and try not to wiggle your foot. Aim for the pockets of dense-looking blue ice between the lighter-colored prominent bulges, which are often highly aerated and/or fractured. But the greatest feeling came from a properly-executed swing of the axe. After being shown how to line up my shoulder, elbow and wrist to transmit the force of my swing with maximum efficiency, the serrated pick sank home with a solid, satisfying ssthunk. Chills flew up my spine. “Yeahhh,” Ryan growled, to cheers from my teammates.

On the third day, we hiked a bit further to a beautiful route called Cherry Ice, where victory found me at last. My axes landed solidly more often than not, and my hands and feet found their rhythm: Thunk-thunk, followed by the chip-chip-chip of crampon steps. My teammates grew tiny below. Too stoked to stop, I rounded the waterfall’s sloping crest until the rope topped out, then looked out at the amazing view. I felt fantastic, wishing I could climb again immediately. But as I handed off the rope at the bottom, a tiny ice chip whizzed by and cut my ungloved hand, as if to say: “Don’t get too cocky, now!” I felt the respect, but my joy was undiminished. The others shared my sentiments. “We chopped this to s—,” one guy said happily. Then all too soon, we were leaving, me sitting next to Dave as the van pulled away, and by accident we broke into the same song at the same time: “On the road again …”

A few years later, this same trip was again offered. Then I would climb Icy BC itself, stay at the Mile 0 Hotel, and try the notorious Figure-4 move just for fun. Since moving to Portland, Oregon, I’ve discovered the Columbia Gorge offers some exciting water-ice possibilities, while the Mazama Center’s new ice climbing wall provides a place to work on techniques. But I will always treasure my first ice climbing trip, most of all for what it represents: The courage of trying and the joy of being.
Wendy Marshall found the Mazamas in 2014. She loves herbs, nature, and mountain sports, and supports the latter through a budding career in writing, aided by a steady supply of Fig Newtons and dark chocolate during rough stretches.

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The Summer Solstice: A Masochist’s Thoughts About How to Squeezing the Most Out of the Longest Days

by Jonathan Barrett

Sunshine Route, Mt. Hood. Photo: Greg Simons

Fifteen hours and forty-one minutes. That is the length of the day on the Summer Solstice. Not including the extended light of dawn and dusk. The question is how to spend it. Here are a few ideas to be considered as guiding principles. While not everyone has that Thursday off, these principles would work just as well for the weekend warrior on the previous or following Saturday/Sunday.

Pull-off a really, really long climb

Yes, Infinite Bliss in Washington is fraught with controversy, given that when it was bolted, it ended up being in an established wilderness area. But it is a really, really, long climb and as a result benefits from having a really, really, long day to complete it. One would benefit from having the longest day of the year as a matter of fact. At 23 pitches, it was possibly the longest “sport” climb in the United States or Canada when first bolted, but to call it a sport climb misrepresents what the route really is. Although the crux pitches are well bolted, there are run-outs of close to 100 feet. Additionally, if going up takes a long time, you also need to rap the route … 23 rappels. A full day, and full use of the Summer Solstice. Substitute your favorite super-long climb as desired.

Pull off a really, really long approach

Most will climb Mt. Olympus over three days. Approach the 17+ miles on day one. Summit and return to camp on day two. Hike out on day three. But given a really, really, long day, a fit team could conceivably knock it out in “one day.” Consider the following: with some light jogging and fast hiking, you might be able to do the approach in around six hours. The climb to the summit and descent could happen in six or seven hours. Then one just needs to endure the slog out, another six hours. Given the length of predawn and post-sunset light (nautical twilight starts at 3:34 a.m. for that latitude and ends at 10:48 p.m.), a person has more than 19 hours of light, which is plenty of time. Assuming your feet hold up. The Olympics and Cascades are awash in long approaches, so it is easy to pick your poison when considering this use for the longest days of the year.

Fit More Into Your Day

Given that the average Mazama is a working stiff, probably with fairly normal daytime hours, we are generally resigned to hitting our local crags only on the weekends. Evening sessions at the gym have to suffice otherwise. What if the day was a little longer? What about an alpine start to your cragging session? At 3:52 a.m. on June 21, you could be calling “on belay” to your partner and starting up a route at Ozone. Depending on traffic or where you work, this might give you four to five hours of climbing time, more than enough to leave your forearms so pumped you can barely type for the rest of the day. Those that find the early hours horrifying—although it is certain to be much more quiet—can replicate the experience, but after work. With usable light until 10:30 p.m., one could conceivably get a five hour session in after your day working for The Man. The Army is famous for the saying that they do more before 9 a.m. than most people do all day. Now you can say that you are more productive than the Army.

Summit Hood And Be Home For Breakfast

This is one that I have pulled off myself. Sunrise is 5:21 a.m. in Portland on the solstice but from the summit it is a little earlier. You can catch those golden rays reflecting off the Columbia River and lighting up the Eastern Oregon desert and still be back in Portland in time for waffles and bacon with the family. High-five the sun and descend as quickly back to Timberline as possible. With a little jogging, glissading, or skiing, being back at your car by 7AM is totally doable (safety first, of course). Then, when you arrive at 8:30 stinking like sweat, summit, and summer’s first rays, it will be the perfect compliment to breakfast along with some wild blueberry syrup. You can have both: a climbing life and a family life. You just might need to crash in the hammock for an afternoon nap though.

Catch the Best Light, For Longer

Photographers know that sunrise and sunset are the best for capturing the soft dewy light that is so prized in the making of quality images. Consider the fact that civil twilight lasts for 38 minutes on the summer solstice and only 29 minutes on the spring equinox. There is something astonishing about the fact that during this time of year, it’s almost like the Earth is rotating more slowly. This gives the artist thirty percent more time to capture just the right light illuminating the Crooked River and Asterix Pass at Smith Rock or Haystack Rock on the coast. There are some differences between the two times though. In some ways dusk is better because the photographer knows how the shadows and silhouettes are going to fall. All she needs to do is sit and wait for the right moment with the camera in position. In contrast, in the predawn hours, it is much harder to know what shapes, shadows, and textures are going to look like. When the sun finally does appear, having these few extra minutes can be a godsend as the photographer rushes about making final adjustments.

A Long Hike To Avoid Overnight Permits

It is a fact of life in the Northwest that some areas are more difficult to access due to permitting issues. Getting a backcountry camping permit can be almost impossible during the busy periods of the year. The Enchantments is one such place where acquiring a campsite is impossible, but through-hiking is very doable. Over the course of a long day, it is possible to experience all that the area has to offer without having to be encumbered by both overnight gear and regulations. At a skoch more than eighteen miles, the trail through the Enchantments involves 7,100 feet of elevation gain if going from Snow Lakes to Colchuck trailheads and a knee-busting descent down from Aasgard Pass. With stashed bike at the end, it is possible to then zip (relatively) easily back to the car on (mostly) downhill roads. Although Colchuck would likely still be cold enough for a penguin, there is still enough time during the solstice to take a dip and ice your sore feet before grinding out the last four and a half miles.

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One Last Hood Climb


by Rico Micallef

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

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

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

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

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

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

The climb team donning their Hawaiian shirts on the summit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Sarah Bradham, Mazamas Director of Marketing & Communications

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

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

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

So what’s the verdict?

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

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

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

What does the application data look like?


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



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

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

by Jonathan Barrett

Photo: Ben Erdman

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

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

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

Jess camping with his family in 1986.

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

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

Photo: Clint Helander

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

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

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

Photo: Clint Helander

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

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

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PAFlete Spotlight: Graham Zimmerman

Portland Alpine Festival | Nov. 13–18, 2017

See the Portland Alpine Festival’s full lineup of 8 athletes here!




 by Darrin Gunkel

 How did you first discover climbing?
I grew up in the Seattle area and was first exposed to climbing through a club in high school and through one of my dad’s friends who took me up the south spur on Mt. Adams when I was about 15. That was my initial exposure to climbing. It was kind of a slow start; I think I got more and more into it as I went through high school. My parents signed me up for a course with the American Alpine Institute to learn the proper techniques to deal with mountain terrain. That gave me the idea of what’s possible for the mountains of the world and got me really fired up. I’ve been pursuing those goals ever since.

What is an important lesson you learned early in your climbing career?
The first expedition I ever went on was to the Kyrgyzstani Pamirs. I’d been reading a lot of Mark Twight at the time and gotten fired up on climbing without much gear, going really, really light. The big climb that we did there was on something like an 1,800 meter face, a big technical thing. I had a partner who wasn’t as experienced as I was, and we really didn’t bring much with us. For three days, I think we brought five cams, a rack of wires, a couple of ice screws, a single rope and just sleeping bags. We got away with it. It was sweet, no big deal, but I look back on that and think, o.k., you got away with that one, but in the future we need to bring more stuff. So if a storm comes in, you end up not being able to get through some of the terrain on the mountain, or whatever, you can either hunker down or get off the mountain quickly. If we had to get off that thing for whatever reason, it would have been quite the ordeal. Having a slightly heavier pack is o.k.
That’s a bold statement these days.

We still carry really, really small packs, but you still should probably have a tent if you’re putting up new routes in the greater ranges. [laughs]

Did you have a climbing mentor?
There have been so many people who have been climbing mentors over the years. Mark Kendrick down in New Zealand initially got me into some of the first big, steep alpine routes I did. Mark Allen is somebody who taught me a lot when I was younger and then later turned into one of my primary climbing partners. Steve Swenson these days has been guiding me through the art of dealing with big mountains in Pakistan. All these folks I couldn’t have done it without.

It’s one of the really cool things about climbing: we have a lot of opportunities for mentoring, and there’s a lot of patience in the community for dealing with people who are learning. There’s a recognition that you cannot do these things without a lot of knowledge, and so sharing knowledge is super important. I’m really grateful for that and those folks who have helped me over the years.

You’ve climbed all over the world, was there one region, or even mountain, in particular that originally drew or inspired you?
It’s funny. I very specifically remember seeing photos of the Baltoro region of Pakistan when I was in high school in some picture book. I remember seeing those images and thinking, “That looks really sweet. It would be totally unreal to go and climb in mountains like that.” I did my first expedition to Pakistan two years ago and so it’s coming full circle. Right now, my current inspiration is what I was inspired by when I was younger: the Karakoram. It’s a place that really gets me fired up now and has gotten me fired up for a long time.

 Was there a moment early on when it hit you that climbing was IT? 
I was originally born in New Zealand, lived there until I was four, and moved back when I was 18 to attend university. I had a bunch of time to climb before I started school, and it was at that point when I started to really zero in on climbing. Up to that point, my main mountain sport had been skiing—I did a lot of that and had a lot of fun with it—but by the time I moved to New Zealand, it was pretty clear that climbing is what I wanted to pursue. So, I didn’t actually bring skis to New Zealand and just brought a climbing kit. This guy Mark Kendrick, who I mentioned earlier as a mentor, and I were both living in Mt. Cook village, a little town beneath Mt. Cook in the central South Island. He asked me if I wanted to go climb the south face of Cook. It was something way out of my league. I told him as much and he just said, “I think you’ll be fine. I’ll lead all the hard pitches. It’ll be fine.” I really had a hard time on it. I didn’t fall or anything like that, but I remember being totally worked. We wrapped it up and it went pretty well and I remember it as being a sign, ‘O.k. This is something I’m capable of and this is something I really want to do.’ So I zeroed in on the pursuit of big mountains at that point. I still had to go to school, but it’s what I wanted to do in the long term.

Real world activities are always intruding!
[Laughs] Yeah. Unfortunately you still have to do all that stuff for better or for worse!

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Don’t Forget the Lettuce: A Brief History of BCEP


by Jonathan Barrett
This spring, many newly minted Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP) students will be signing their climb cards, anxious to test their skills for the first time. The south side of Mt. Hood will be the first “real” climb for many of them. When thinking about this, I was struck with a question that seemed both elemental and obvious. What did the first BCEP graduation climb look like? To answer it, I dove into the Mazama archives with the expert assistance of Mathew Brock, Mazama Library & Historical Collections Manager.
As is often the case, the precise origins of things are sometimes difficult to pin down. Randall Kester, a Climbing Committee chairman, started the forerunner of the current program in 1943. It was a series of eight classes and four field sessions that began in February and ran until June. Unfortunately World War II ended his attempts to initiate a program, and it was not until 1950 that Warren Wilson picked up the effort. Son of a former Club president and chairman of the Climbing Committee which had been formed sixteen years earlier, Wilson resumed the efforts to bring formal climbing education to the Mazamas. Initially there were six classroom and eight field sessions. Attendance topped 150 participants. However, it wasn’t until 1956 that the program, as we would currently recognize it, finally emerged.
It was under the watchful eye of William (Bill) Oberteuffer that we finally got what might be considered the first truly “BCEP” program. It is impossible and unnecessary to recount the full richness and complexity of his life here. However, I would strongly recommend reading his biography, held in the Mazama library, titled, Gazing Down From The Mountain: The Story of William H. Oberteuffer. In the fall of 1937, at the age of eighteen, Oberteuffer rode on horseback from Portland to Tijuana, Mexico with his cousin Bob and friend Bud. They were only joined for part of it by Oberteuffer’s father. A decade later, he would begin a high school teaching career in science that would span 32 years. He once recounted about his teaching practice, “Always wishing to give my students the most say and being less than sure of my own rightness, I discussed with my class what the course structure might be for about a week. We eventually wound up with about 15 areas of possible study most of which fell within my area of expertise and were possible from the standpoint of time and materials. The students then voted on the 7 or 8 most popular suggestions and these then became our course content. (This is teaching democracy by doing it.)”
In the winter of 1969, Bill and his wife, Margaret, requested a sabbatical and spent nearly all of 1970 and 1971 backpacking around the world. His expansive climbing career had begun when he was in college. He once observed, “My professor had climbed so he loaned me his ice axe and crampons, and I climbed Mt. Hood with Margaret, Moshe Lensky, Dave Raffety, and Gil Staender (the godfather of Smith Rock) who was in high school, and was the guide … On that first climb, Gil Staender taught us all self-arrest on the way up.” I note all of this because, as every BCEP student knows, the instructors—their stories, their personalities, and their lives—richly and fully define the experience of their students. It must have been astounding to learn under the watchful tutelage Oberteuffer.
As evidence of his diligence, the teaching notes from that first BCEP course are still in the archives and even include instruction on how to speak in a manner that is clear and effective during lectures. These sessions, held at the Oregonian Hostess House, began on April 30, and they culminated with a graduation climb of Mt. Hood on June 10 and an “examination” two days later at the Mazama club house. Topics for the dozen sessions would feel familiar to present-day BCEP students. Lectures included wilderness travel, equipment, snow climbing, glacier travel, weather, and rock climbing. As well, there was a presentation by a Dr. Charles Dotter on “Climbing Miseries,” which would prove to be surprisingly prescient given the events of the graduation climb. All of this, as well as a conditioning hike and outside rock practice, was coordinated under Oberteuffer’s leadership. Students were given all kinds of sage advice including this gem about nutrition on climbs: “Many persons are subject to an acid stomach during a climb. Avoid rich, concentrated, fatty foods (chocolate, nuts, etc.). Simple sugars are good because they digest easily and produce water during oxidation. Avoid eating snow or drinking ice water fast. Fresh grape-juice may be carried in your canteen. Suggestions for lunch: Two sandwiches (with lettuce), cookies, oranges, and candy (such as caramels or fruit lozenges).”
Enrollment was 447 students that first spring, and 28 Boy Scouts or Explorers and 11 Girl Scouts were in that first group. Perhaps these numbers were so high because enrollment was free to all who registered—500 would initially sign up—and the course was advertised in local high schools and colleges (note: Mazama Membership was 1,086 in 1956). Although Oberteuffer was never in the army himself, he took cues from the military when running field sessions where assistant instructors were managing between 80 and 130 students at a time. To do this, they wore colored arm bands so that the participants would know who to report to and when.
When the graduation climb came on June 10, there were 161 participants. Each had been provided with an equipment list of required gear: “Waterproof boots, nailed or heavy lug soles—no slick soles allowed. Adequate clothing (prepare for rain, intense sun, high wind, temperatures down to 25⁰, mittens, sun goggles, canteen, small packsack, woolen socks (plus extra pair), mountain lunch (from home), crampons (must fit properly), pocket mirror, ice axe, sunburn preventative, flashlight.” At the time, there were two primary places in Portland to procure the tools for mountain climbing—the Mountain Shop and the Beebe Company. The former still serves many of the same needs and customers; the latter still exists in Portland but now has a decidedly different clientele. Participants spent that night at the Mazama Lodge where dinner cost $1.20, the midnight snack was $.50, and lodging for members was $1.00 (an extra $.20 for non-members). The climbing fee itself was just $1.50, with some exceptions where it was only $1.00.
Only 11 participants summited that day, which seems like an appallingly poor success rate for the graduation climb of this first BCEP class. Oberteuffer’s notes provide a hint as to why. In his report filed after the climb, he noted of the weather: “Lighting, fog, hail, blizzard.” Undoubtedly it is forgivable that so many failed their first time. He also noted the following: “With 161 in the climbing party, we broke party into 2 separate groups with a leader and 3 assistants each. Then to ‘share the wealth’, the total ‘financial support’ due these 8 leaders was divided among 17 leaders and rope leaders who had participated generously in the climbing school.” It sounds like the philosophy that he espoused as high school teacher carried through to this moment as well. He allowed, perhaps even required, the students become the leaders and to own their experiences.
Later in life, Oberteuffer was asked if he had ever done anything wrong on a mountain. He recounted this very graduation climb on June 10 of 1956: “We divided up into two main groups, Erwin Reiger and I as main leaders. Weather deteriorated all the way up. We got to the lower hot rocks, where it was snowing hard. We should have gone down. I asked if anyone wanted to go to the summit under these conditions. Don Eastman wanted to go, Jim Craig, about 7 or 8 guys want to, so I said OK, and appointed a guy to go down with the others. Reiger also went down. Weather was bad at the base of Crater Rock, with stinging snow. We went up a new route around the end of the crevasse, the chute, didn’t sign the register, turned around and went down. I couldn’t see the crevasse but I sensed it, went around it, and got to the hot rocks. One guy had hypothermia, a husky, young fellow, not dressed properly, starting to stumble. Two folks took him and got him to a snowcat. All was OK, but it was something I didn’t need to do. It was a challenge I guess.”
For all those BCEP students who will be packing their packs this spring for their “real” mountaineering climb, I would encourage you to think about this first group. Consider the advice to add lettuce to your sandwich. Wonder at the hundreds of students who bought their first ice ax from the Mountain Shop. Compare the electrolytes that you may add to your water bottle against the grapefruit juice in their canteens. Continue to question your climb leaders about their lives and experience—and,yes, even their choices. And remember that, even in 1956, BCEP students were being reminded to make sure that their crampons fit properly before they left home.
Author Bio: Jonathan Barrett grew up in New England and moved to Oregon in 1997. He joined the Mazamas in 2007. When not working as a full-time language arts teacher at North Marion High School or being a father to a kindergärtner, he finds the occasional morning here and there to sneak up Mt. Hood, pull some plastic, or crank out a long run in Forest Park.