Tag: Rock Climbing

Posted on

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.

Posted on

PAFlete: Katie Mills—Inquisition of the Arrigetch

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


by Katie Mills

Katie Mills, feeling right at home in
vertical terrain.

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

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

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

On the Ham & Eggs route.

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

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

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

Rebecca & Katie on Ham & Eggs.

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

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

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

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

The mountain Nick and Todd dubbed “The Shiv.”

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

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

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

Notes about route by Nick & Katie.

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

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

Katie on route.

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

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

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

Katie & Todd enjoying their rest day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted on

PAFlete: Chris Wright

I

Interview by Kevin Machtelinckx

As you grew up, was climbing on your radar at all? If not, what was? What did you think you wanted to do with your life?

The short answer on this one is no—I had no idea what climbing was. I guess like the rest of the non-climbing public I may have been vaguely aware that it was a thing people did, but it wasn’t a thing anyone I knew did so when I discovered it I remember asking myself why nobody had told me, because I thought it was the most amazing thing I’d ever done. Growing up in Northeastern Pennsylvania I had an appreciation for outside in that I spent countless hours playing in some beautiful woods as a kid, skateboarded and snowboarded obsessively in high school, but I think by growing up where I did all I really knew was that I wanted to get out. I left Mountaintop, which is about as small as it sounds, when I went to college and, even though Manhattan wasn’t that far away physically, it felt like the opposite of a small town in the Poconos. I went to study film production and I thought I wanted to travel to make movies, but in the end I’ve sort of come to realize that what I really wanted was just to see the world, to share meaningful experiences with people, and to maybe work with those people to make some stories. So in a sense what I’m doing now isn’t all that far off.

Was there a moment or experience for you that made you think “Climbing/alpinism is what I want to do with my life”?

I can’t remember a single moment of inspiration so much as I can remember the feeling after just going out for the first time. I had a buddy in college who was a climber, and one day he just asked if I wanted to go rock climbing. I remember saying sure, not knowing anything about it and of course not knowing that the Gunks, where we were headed, was a world-class climbing area. I just remember asking what to wear. Al told me to wear normal clothes, but I somehow didn’t believe him and wore gym shorts. Anyway, I remember going out to Pete’s Kill and hiking like a half an hour to the top of the cliff and watching Al rig some ovals and webbing around a tree. We dropped the rope down, and not knowing how to rappel (or even that that was what we would have done if we’d had a clue), we walked all the way back around to the base. Then we’d top-rope these crazy steep routes and go swinging off the routes into the trees, laughing and I’m sure looking like complete idiots. Then of course we’d walk all the way back around, move the rope to a different tree and do it all again. And yet I don’t remember feeling self-conscious about it at all. I just remember thinking, “This is fun. I wish I’d known about this earlier, because damn, this is fun.” After that it was all over. As soon as I became aware that people went ice climbing I wanted to do it, and as soon as I saw what alpinists were I wanted to be one, and for me I think even when I was just learning for some reason I just assumed that the end goal was to go someplace to do big new routes. As my climbing progressed of course I found out that not everyone shared that vision, but I was lucky to learn from a lot of great folks and have awesome partners early on, to survive my own idiocy and here we are.

Photo: Lacey Gibbet

You are a self-described ‘avid first-ascensionist’. What advice do you have for those of us who aspire to similar dreams?

That’s a tough one, because on the one hand I want to tell people to just buy the ticket and go, and at the same time I can’t say that’s exactly what I did. As I said, I guess I always knew that I wanted to climb big things, but I think since I didn’t start until I was maybe 20 (I’m 34 now) I knew I had a lot to learn. I was just figuring it all out as I went along, and I was lucky to climb with folks who helped me hone the skills I needed, whether through big-walling in Yosemite, doing the same in winter, ice climbing, guiding – which of course hones your mountain sense by putting you out there so many days in a year, especially on days you don’t really want to go out, going on big (for us) alpine trips to the Rockies, and plugging into the incredible community of climbers and guides who called Bend home at that time. Through those connections it felt like I put in enough time to be proficient in most disciplines, and I just happened to meet a local hardman named Mark Deffenbaugh—who I think will end up being remembered as prolific in our little Oregon climbing community; you’ll see his name on new routes all over, from Ozone to Beacon to Smith and a million other little-known spots in Central Oregon—and become buddies with him at just the right time in my life. He and I are still friends, but honestly I say I didn’t just buy the ticket and go because it was Mark that not only opened my eyes to the possibilities, but took me under his wing and taught me the craft of new routing. He taught me everything from how to see a line to how to place a bolt, and he taught me an appreciation for the craft of opening routes. Going out with him I started doing new, mostly small rock routes at home in Oregon, but it helped me to see the way and I took that with me to the mountains. So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I want to encourage anyone with the skill and motivation to just get out there and do it, but I also know that part of the community, and the kind of mentorship you just can’t really experience without engaging with people who can help you see the big picture.

Sometimes you just need someone to help point you in the right direction, you know? Then it’s up to you, and you really do just have to go do it. You’re probably going to go screw it all up at some point in the process of learning some of the lessons that just have to come the hard way, but that’s kind of just how it is. Failure is a part of doing big things, but you still have to go out there and fail, and hopefully it’s going to make you stronger, make you and your partners closer, and get you that much closer to your dreams. On that note, I’d love to offer whatever help I can to anyone who wants it. I’m at least good at getting excited. Best piece of advice I can give actually is one that Mark gave me years ago, which is that you’ll never try harder than you will on your own routes. I didn’t get it at the time, and maybe it’s not the same for everybody, but it’s true for me. I’ll walk away from your god-awful scary hard route that took years to do as soon as I decide the holds are too small or that it’s too cold. I’m not going to kill myself for a hard repeat. But if it’s new, if it’s my god-awful scary sufferfest, then I’m all in.

Photo: Graham Zimmerman

On your site, you talk about food, beer, and coffee a lot. I think many of us can relate. When you’re in the mountains, how much do you think about those things?

I’m terrible and always thinking about food. Graham and I have found we’re polar opposites in that regard. He makes this absolutely foul, but nutritionally ace brown powdered mix I’ve dubbed “techno-sludge” and could basically live off it in the mountains. I’m lusting after cheeseburgers, and will literally read food articles in the NY Times while I’m in basecamp. I don’t know why I torture myself I guess, but needless to say we take obscene amounts of chocolate and cheese and sausages (Olympic Provisions if possible) and try to do the best we can. At some point even a six-week old unrefrigerated Babybel seems like a treat, but I’m always craving something. I’d take a cheeseburger right now if you had one.

We all have important figures in our lives that support us (or don’t) in these activities that we choose to engage in. Can you talk a little bit about who those figures are for you and why they are important with regards to the decisions that you make?

I’ve always felt really supported by my friends, my family and especially my partners. I know my parents worry and don’t really get it, but they still try their best to be supportive. I have the most amazing friends though, and even if they’re not climbers they’re people who aren’t afraid to go for it, and so they get it and they’re with me. With my climbing partners I just make sure to go out with people I love and with whom I see eye to eye. It’s a fine line encouraging someone to hang it all out there and give everything they’ve got, yet to do it mindfully and carefully, but somehow that’s what we do. That’s what you want in your climbing partners, someone who pushes you, but also pushes you to make good decisions and come home safely. To me that’s going to equal success in the long game.

Ok… I have to ask. What is your go-to beer in summer? Winter?

I’m a total beer dork, so I can’t peg it to just one, no matter what the season. What I can say is that I always take my Oregon beer snobbery with me, for good or ill, and we brew good beers in all seasons. Funny thing though is that when I’m here for a while sometimes I get burned out on all the hops and what sometimes feels like an arms race to make beer taste like pine trees, but after a few months away (especially in France), just gimme the pine trees and plug it into my veins. If I had to say though, I’d take a Boneyard RPM IPA or a Weihenstephaner Weissbier in summer, and in winter I’ll go for a Jubelale on Nitro at Deschutes, preferably on Monday so I can get a Local’s Night deal on a cheeseburger. With fries.


Get tickets now for the Portland Alpine Fest.

Posted on

PAFlete Spotlight: Katie Bono

Portland Alpine Festival | Nov. 13–18, 2017

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

by Jonathan Barrett

Katie Bono grew up as a cross country ski racer, and self-identifies as a climber/athlete as a result. It is an attitude and point of view that helped create her most publicly visible climbing achievements: women’s speed records on both Rainier and Denali. However, it is her unbridled enthusiasm for climbing that has carried her forward and opened many doors for her.

At Dartmouth, where she went to college, there was an overlap between the Nordic skiers and the climbers. It was through those connections that she found her own passion for climbing. In the summer of 2008, between her sophomore and junior year, she went with friends to climb her first multi-pitch, Dolomite Wall on Cannon. The route sees few ascents, perhaps because one guide to the area describes it as, “one of the more challenging and exposed free climbs on Cannon. Runouts, micro wires, and loose rock are the norm.” When she left the base, she thought to herself that she didn’t need a headlamp. Ultimately she and her friends had a minor epic when time ran out and she discovered that “sharing” a headlamp ostensibly means walking down in the dark. While some might have been scared off, Katie was hooked by the experience. She continued to learn and grow as climber, and she fed off these climbs that tested her body and her willingness to suffer. Several years later in the Canadian Rockies on her first true alpine climb, she learned that a 20% chance of precipitation has a different meaning than the American Southwest. Significant snowfall resulted in an overnight, exposed bivy on the summit of Castle Mountain after 20 pitches of climbing. Again, her love for the climbing was cemented by an experience that others might find harrowing.

As a climber/athlete she approaches the discipline of climbing with discipline. “I really like trying hard, to find where my limits are,” she says, noting that the mental challenges of climbing are as important to her as the physical ones. Along the way, as she progressed, there were many people who influenced her and supported her, not the least of which being Will Gadd and Sarah Hueniken when she lived in Canmore. Ultimately she credits much of her success to her enthusiasm. It was something that Gadd recognized and which was born on the cliffs of New Hampshire. She feels very fortunate that a wide range of talented climbers saw in her a sincere passion for the sport and were willing to foster that passion even when her talents as a climber were still just emerging.

Posted on

Climbing in Chamonix



by Jonathan Barrett 

First, let me paint you a picture. Jon had squirmed his way up the chimney to a jammed block the size of a cantaloupe, right side in and left side out. Clipping the old tat hanging from it, he was without any other way to protect the next series of moves. His pack dangled at foot level from his harness like a pendulum swaying out of time. Stepping into a sling, he began to pivot and writhe sideways over the block which rocked ominously under his weight. The movement was physical, comical, and bold. I sat in a block of gneiss in the warm sunshine below his acrobatics gnawing on my sandwich from Le Fournil Chamonaird and watched his gyrations thoughtfully because I was next in line. He called down that the interior was surprisingly slick, which perhaps explained his slithering through the gap like a snake. A few moments later, though, he triumphantly appeared peeking over the top of the spire that was barely larger than a doormat. Well, darn it, I thought, I guess that means I’m up to bat next. And I can assert it was twice as much fun to replicate as it was to watch.

Between July 8th and the 23rd, nine of us spent day after day enjoying Chamonix. The participants were Lee Davis (leader), Ally Imbody (co-assistant leader), Rayce Boucher (co-assistant leader), Rhonda Boucher, Chuck Aude, Jonathan Barrett, Jon Skeen, Nicole Castonguay, and Elisabeth K. Bowers. The beauty of climbing in Chamonix is that there is literally something for everyone, and each one of us found a way to draw from the trip something that suited our own desires and tastes. But the climbing itself is only one small part of the experience.

This morning, as I bang out the first draft of this report, I am sitting at the dining room table of our chalet with Jon and Chuck. From my vantage point, I can see the glacier-capped summit of Mont Blanc nearly 13,000 feet above the valley floor. The morning rainstorm has ended, and the impossibly immense seracs of the Bossons Glacier are a complex of light and shadow. All the while, the tangle of roses along the deck bob and nod their heads sleepily just outside the window. The three of us sit and chat casually about writing computer code and outsourcing to India, working from home and being a desk jockey in a cube farm. As a high school teacher, the conversation is a view into a world that is utterly different from my own. This too, is what makes the Chamonix outing unique and special. Just the other night, we built a fire in the fireplace, not because the night was cold but because we could. EKB, having just soaked in the hot tub (oh, by the way there was a hot tub!), stepped outside, still in her bathing suit and wrapped in a towel, to split wood with a rusty French hatchet. The thunderous bangs caused a neighbor with a British accent to call out to her, “Are you about done with that? It is quite late!” Such a polite way to request her to knock it off. Several of us then sat near the fire chatting about nothing and everything simultaneously, and laughing about the ridiculousness of the situation. But not all the moments were quite so sublime and carefree. As evidence, consider the following anecdote.

“No, no, you can’t lock the door. My friends are out there,” I pleaded with the lift operator. He had slid the thick steel bolt into place, closing a door seemingly designed to take a bomb blast. Sheets of rain whipped across the mountain. “No. I close the door,” he responded in clipped English. “No, my friends are still on the route,” I pleaded again and gesticulated with a form of alpinist’s ASL, as if that would help me translate the problem into French. Chuck and I had just finished the East Ridge of the Grands Montet, a rambling low-consequence line that we had chosen because the forecast had been ominous at best and potentially apocalyptic at worst. He and I finished earlier than Ally and Nicole and continued on up the Petite Verte, climbing the final 5.fun section in crampons. The whole time the rock was wet, and there was occasional drizzle. From our vantage point, maybe a quarter mile away, we had waved at them, and they waved back. It was all good. The weather was holding long enough for us to finish. When we returned to the lift, they were not back yet. At last, the clouds could no longer hold their moisture, and it came pouring down. “No, no. They will be here any moment. Please unlock it,” I said again and pointed into the maelstrom. The lift op just looked at me with a puzzled expression. Then Nicole’s face appeared in the window. She was drenched. And my seemingly insane claims were vindicated. The Frenchman’s expression was easy to read, By god, there was someone still out there! He slid back the bolt, letting them in out of the storm. Later, at the base of the lift, the clouds pulled apart sending down strong summer sunshine.

In Chamonix, you can find as much adventure as you wish to seek out. It is entirely possible to make a Tyrolean traverse, like we did one afternoon, from the first to the second Clocheton (roughly translatable as a belfry) on steel t-shaped bars placed a century ago. To do it, though, you need to lasso them like the Lone Ranger. We also climbed a brand spanking new via ferrata route called Via des Evettes, which included a Himalayan bridge over a chasm. This could be extended into a longer via corda route up a vague ridge, where you simul-climbed as a team clipping lustrous steel bolts exactly where you needed them to be. Whether you are a doer or a viewer, there was something for everyone. Riding the Midi lift from Chamonix to the top station at 3,842 meters, we were stuffed into the “bin”—as it is often called—with tourists from Asia going simply for the spectacular vistas from the observation deck and weathered French guides who casually short-roped their clients down a perilous fin of snow all the while smoking a cigarette and saying in semi-encouraging tones, “Good job, guy.”

It is impossible to do much meaningful alpine climbing in a group of eight or nine, so in the evenings we would sit together in the chalet and discuss ideas for the following day. Some would want in on the next day’s adventures and others would want out, preferring instead to take a rest day, for which you could take the train into Switzerland for lunch or have a day at the spa where rainforest sounds are played while you are misted from multiple shower heads. Over a game of Carcassone or Anomia, we would develop a tentative plan, always contingent on the weather. The Chamonix app was regularly referenced. The forecast, although sometimes difficult to translate from French, was accompanied by graphics. We got many laughs from the cartoonishly drawn lightning bolts coming down like the ire of the gods to smite the French/Italian summit of Mont Blanc. It was never entirely clear what that icon meant. Ultimately a plan would be formulated, often driven by a person who was motivated to climb something of personal interest.

As a point of comparison for the range of climbing that we did, I offer the two climbs: Hotel California and the traverse of the Petite Charmoz. The first is in the Aiguille Rouge on the north side of the valley and is accessed via the Planpraz lift. Rhonda and I climbed as a pair, and Rayce and Nicole joined together as a team. The route is entirely bolted and takes a mellow yet interesting line of ten distinct pitches up a buttress. The climbing is enjoyable from start to finish with a variety of styles and movements. Afterwards, we gathered at the Dru restaurant to lounge on the patio. The second climb, Petite Charmoz, was much more alpine in nature. Jon and I took the gamble that the cloudy, wet weather would eventually clear. The approach was severe: nearly two hours of cross country travel up and over the moraines and boulder fields beneath the Aiguilles de Peigne, Plan, and Charmoz. The clouds had dropped so low that our beta was almost useless. “Cross the moraine beneath the Glacier de Blaitiere (huh, is this it?) following the line of least resistance (what is the line of least resistance in a boulder field?) to reach the ridge coming down from the northwest ridge of the Aiguille de Blaiteire (stupid cloud cover!).” Eventually, after hiking up and down the glacier looking for the obvious gully (á la Fred Beckey), the swirling whiteness parted long enough that we were able to orient ourselves adequately. The climbing was wet, exposed at times, and definitely old school. Jon, the chimney master, thrutched his way up part one of the Etala chimneys. I French-freed/aided my way up the second chimney, shredding my jacket on granite that was, paradoxically, simultaneously coarse and slick. Failing to follow the clear and accurate beta from the guidebook, we eventually blundered our way to the summit. The descent was long and brutal: multiple rappels, down-climbing loose scree, descending a series of rusty steel ladders, scrambling down to the main trail, and then hoofing it back uphill to the Midi lift. We were thrashed when done. But it was a beautiful success.

We had a small car for the two weeks, but it was almost never used because the public transportation was so user friendly. A block away, we could pick up the city bus and ride it up or down the valley. It was a common occurrence to see a group of climbers board the bus wearing harnesses jangling with ice screws, carabiners, tricams, and other alpine accessories. There were a plethora of hikers young and old carrying daypacks and trekking poles. On one occasion, two elderly ladies, who were 85 if they were a day, boarded wearing matching home-sewn outfits and hiking shoes from the 70’s. They had battered downhill poles of the same vintage as their footwear.

As for the lifts, we had an all-inclusive pass that gave us unlimited access to all of the lifts in the valley for the period we were there. There was no need for the epic slogs to tree-line we all love to hate in the Cascades. It is lift-serve alpinism at its finest. Once up high, there was more than adequate signage for directions. Both formally established and climbers’ trails were easy to follow. And when we were thirsty at the end of a climb? An Orangina or Coke could be purchased and consumed in a lounge chair while overlooking the cliffs and glaciers of the Mont-Blanc Massif.

Lastly there was the food. Just a block from the Midi station is an exceptional bakery serving all manner of treats: croissants that were the perfect blend of buttery flakiness and chew, sandwiches that could be stuffed into a pack before the climb, meringues as big as a child’s head, and baguettes fine enough for Julia Child. Stopping at one of the huts, you could get an omelet to satiate the hungriest alpinist. Rayce and Rhonda attempted to explore the wild world of French cheese and discovered that explanations in broken English about the flavor profiles of a particular fromage are at best challenging and at worst misleading. How does one say “stinky feet” in French? Then there were the cured meats. In the fine shops, mysterious sausages hang from hooks like magical chrysalises, the exteriors covered in an alchemical mold barely known to science. Sometimes we ate as a group; one night we pot-lucked on the back deck beneath the alpenglow of the aiguilles. Often we dined in small groups out at a restaurant. One night Chuck, Lee, EKB and I dined al fresco at a tiny place called La Cremerie des Aiguilles in Gailland. The meats were grilled in an open hearth behind us, and the sautéed vegetables consisted of tender baby beets and artichoke hearts. The meal drifted late into the evening, without any sense of urgency.

And that is the secret of the Chamonix outing. It was not really a climbing trip. It was a diplomatic mission to meet with Oliviero Gobbi from Grivel, replete with fine Italian food and espresso. It was people watching of the first order. Chuck and I listened to a guide from the Companie des Guides de Chamonix describe to his client, from first-hand experience, what climbing in the valley was like in the 1940s. It was conversation and comradery fostered by shared artisan breads, broken on the deck of a chalet at the foot of Mont Blanc. I know that Lee sees himself there again next year, and I plan on returning for my fourth visit.

About the Author: 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 1st grader, 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.

Posted on

BCEP Leads to the Arrigetch Peaks

Interview with Katie Mills, mechanical engineer, peak bagger, and 2016 Portland Alpine Fest athlete. Katie fondly remembers the old days when there used to be an off season. Now the off season consists of the week between rock climbing in Red Rocks for Thanksgiving and hitting up the Bozeman Ice Fest the next weekend. By Kevin Machtelinckx.

Photo: Jed Brown.
What made you join Mazamas and start the Basic Education Climbing Program (BCEP) in 2006? Did you continue with the Intermediate Climbing School (ICS) as well? 
I moved up here from Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina destroyed my apartment. Like everyone else who moves here, I wanted to climb the iconic Mt. Hood staring in my face every day, but I also wanted to do it safely so I asked around and people told me about BCEP. I’m the kind of person who learns things by taking a class and can’t teach myself anything. So BCEP was perfect. After BCEP I climbed for a year, got some more experience, then went back and took ICS. 
Was there a defining moment in your early climbing career that stands out to you as one that ‘sealed the deal’ on climbing? 
I knew as soon as I climbed my first mountain, Mt. Hood. I was so giddy with happiness after doing the climb that I couldn’t sleep the following night. I had never planned on becoming a technical climber though. In ICS, I shied away from rock climbing and proclaimed it too dangerous. Scrambling and snow slogs were for me! But five years after BCEP, I had climbed all of the major mountains by their non-technical routes, and there was nothing else to do, so learning the technical climbing skills was the logical next step. 
You and your team received the Bob Wilson Grant in 2015 for a 2016 expedition to the Arrigetch Peaks in Alaska. Can you talk about the experience of putting together and organizing an expedition of such scale? How did it differ from your other trips in terms of logistics? 
Photo: Mandy Barbee
I had attempted Aconcagua with two friends on a previous expedition, but I wasn’t the leader so I had all the logistics handed to me and was unable to appreciate what being a leader entails. All of the gear was carried on mule to basecamp so weight was less of an issue. For the Arrigetch trip everything depended on me. From coordinating flights and figuring out which lake I wanted the bush plane to land us on, to deciding which valleys and mountains to hedge our best bets on, to helping my team decide which gear to take. Organizing food you have to carry on your back for 24 days is also a very big task (I took 80 granola bars, and that was just lunch!), not to mention the fact you have to fit it all into bear containers. I also researched every AAJ journal entry ever concerning the Arrigetch back to 1965.
What advice do you have for people who would like to make the jump from mountaineering locally to expedition-style climbing? 
Getting mentally used to the remoteness of alpine climbing and having to be self-sufficient is key. Practice climbing alpine rock because it is very different from cragging, especially when you’re out for weeks at a time. I think routes on Mt. Stuart are an excellent training ground because it is so big you really have to practice your navigation, routefinding, and multipitch ropework skills. But sadly if you want to climb over 5.8 you have to go cragging too! Get your trad skills dialed in by crack climbing at places like Trout Creek or Indian Creek, which is what I did all year before the trip, and is the only reason I was able to succeed on the FA we did. For remote places, I recommend two-way texters over satellite phones. Way cheaper and lighter too.
Photo: Kai Waldron
You’ve climbed on some women’s only teams. Can you talk about the significance of this? What does it mean to you and why is it important?
Often when women go out climbing with men, the man feels societal pressure that he has to ‘lead’. Even if the woman is more skilled, he may be braver. I’m not one to arm wrestle over a lead and will gladly hand it over. But when I’m climbing with only women, it’s nice to not have those pressures and stereotypes. You just woman-up or proudly watch your friend woman-up and get it done. Don’t get me wrong, I know quite a few women who will slap that lead out of a man’s hands cuz they want it and I admire the hell out of them, but not all of us are that assertive.
There are, undoubtedly, a lot of engineers and other science-based professionals that make up the climbing community, including yourself. The engineering mindset can have many advantages out in the mountains. Can you think of any disadvantages? 
I think the only reason I am a good alpinist is because I am excellent at problem solving, which is also why I’m an engineer. Sometimes I do miss the colorful artsy people that are less common in the climbing/engineering world. Perhaps a disadvantage of being an engineer is being data driven,
Photo: Cigdem Milobinski

focused on the summit/pushing the grade/accomplishing an achievement and missing out on the more subtle rewards, like appreciating the beauty of the approach hike or the silly banter with your teammates when you epically fail. For me, who I climb with is more important than what I climb. I’d rather climb something easy with someone I know I am going to form a lasting friendship with than have a random ropegun stranger I have nothing in common with get me up something awesome. But to each their own! You gotta do what makes you personally happy because that is the point.

Most outstanding memory of your climbing career so far?
One of my favorites is climbing the Red Dihedral on the Incredible Hulk with Rebecca Madore in 2014. We were planning on climbing a much more chill route on the Grand Teton, but it was snowing so we chose the Incredible Hulk instead. It was my first climb where we didn’t know if we could pull it off. So we had to push ourselves to do it. The feeling of accomplishment after that was amazing. “Send of the Century,” I called it!
Future goals or expeditions? 

Ruth Gorge girl-power mixed/ice climbing with Rebecca in the spring! I’d also like to go back to the Arrigetch because I saw some pretty stunning unclimbed peaks that I was unable to attempt because I did not have the proper equipment. It seems not a lot of people venture back there a second time, but I definitely want to go back as an experienced veteran instead of a floundering first-timer!

Hear more about Katie’s expedition, along with her partners Todd Torres and Nick Pappas at “Into the Arrigetch” on Nov. 15 at the Mazama Mountaineering Center.

Get More Info & Tickets at portlandalpinefest.org.

Posted on

Climbing Life: An Interview with Scott Bennett

Photo Credit: Garrett Grove

Interview with Scott Bennett, 2016 Portland Alpine Fest athlete. With first ascents, from Alaska to the Waddington range, the Cascades to Patagonia, Scott has established himself as one of the most active alpinists of his generation. By Joe Fox.


You said you were climbing yesterday? What was going on? Where were you guys?

Yesterday, I was kind of unintentionally climbing. We went for a ridge run-scramble. My friend, Jon Frederick, and I went up to Red Peak which is in Summit County, kinda near Vale in the mountains of Colorado. And scrambled up the peak, which is I think low 13-er, and tried to traverse this long ridge of towers and buttresses and such, and it was one of the chossiest things either of us has ever been on. Actually Jon grew up in Washington, so he’s climbed a bunch in the Cascades, and he was like this

Photo Credit: Cheyne Lempe

is Cascades-quality choss up here. So, we got pretty scared running around in running shoes for a while. And eventually found a way to bale off it down some gully. We meant to go swing tools for the first time of the season, but it was too hot. It was like 80 degrees in Denver.

Can you pinpoint a moment perhaps in time or in your own thinking about the sport of mountaineering, where you took a conscious step away from being a hobbyist and toward being a true professional, expert, master?

That’s a really good question. The question of mentality, of intention with it. The moment for me where I started to think of myself as accomplished, or more capable, as someone who had a unique skill set. It was probably my first trip to Patagonia, which was in January of 2011. I went into that trip and I had never done any first ascents. I had never set foot onto a glacier. I grew up in the Midwest and I learned to climb mostly in Colorado and Utah, in warm dry places. I hadn’t really ice climbed at all. But a climbing partner, Blake Harrington, who is another Northwest guy, we rock climbed a bunch in Denver, in Colorado that year, and he suggested we go. And obviously I was pretty intimidated by that idea. But he convinced me it was a good idea and so we went down there. And, I don’t know, just right away felt at home there, in those wild big granite mountains, sticking up through the glaciers. The photos had seemed really intimidating, but when we actually got there it just felt like rock climbing, which is what I’d been doing anyway. So that was the moment for me, where I was like, “I’m really comfortable in this environment.” And I know not everyone is or can be, so I think I have something unique going for me here that I should really focus on. So that trip was the first of a whole series of more alpine-

Photo Credit: Colin Simon

focused expeditions for me. Going to back to Patagonia the next year, and going to Alaska the next year, going to the Waddington Range in British Columbia. And at that point my climbing really moved away from just going on a road trip to Indian Creek … which is super fun—I’m going there next week actually—it’s something I still love doing. But it’s more of a social, recreation thing, and when I think of making progress in my own climbing, it’s expeditions, its big trips, it’s first ascents, and something with an exploratory element as well. So, yeah, that first trip to Patagonia opened up my eyes, I guess, to the fact that this was possible and that I had a lot of the skills necessary and I had the right kind of desire and boldness to go do those things. That’s really when my focus shifted.

On where he learned to climb…

I grew up in Michigan. And I did learn to climb when I was in college in Ohio. I was involved with the outdoor club at my little liberal arts school in rural Ohio. And there wasn’t much to do, so I was in the outdoor club, to go on backpacking trips, and we would do weekly trips, also, to a makeshift

Photo Credit: Blake Herrington

climbing tower that this farmer had built in his field, fifteen minutes away from campus. So we would go there every week and climb indoors, in what looked like a silo, it wasn’t actually a grain silo, but that’s sort of what it looked like. And he had a mix of actual gym handholds, and some were just rocks and pieces of wood that were bolted onto the walls. It wasn’t a public gym. The farmer would let us climb there; the guy who owned it, he was also a climber, and he gave us keys for it and let us climb there. And, we’d go in the winter and it wasn’t heated. It had a propane heater, but it wouldn’t be on. So we’d have to go and start the generator, and start the propane heater, and get the lights turned on and get it heating up, before we could start climbing. So it actually, in hindsight, was good preparation for alpine climbing. Because you would frequently get “the screaming barfies” on your first climb of the day. Because it would just be Ohio in January. It would be freezing.

Wow. The Ohio farmer who converts a grain silo into a climbing gym. Sounds like an interesting character. 

Yeah, totally. Tom is his name. I’ve been meaning to climb with him again. I know he comes out to Vegas pretty often to climb at Red Rocks. So I’ll have to get in touch with him and climb with him now, because it’s been, what, 9 years, 10 years since I graduated from college? So I haven’t seen him in a while.

So for kind of all four years of college we climbed there, and then my senior year, me and the few other people that were really into climbing, we found a professor that had at one point climbed at The Gunks, and had been a climber in his youth, and still had a trad rack, and we convinced him to take
us out climbing at the New River Gorge. And that was the first time I went outside. And he taught us how to place hexes, and whatever. This was like easy cracks at the New River Gorge. But it really progressed super quickly for me from there. Because this was my last year of college and I was climbing outside for the first time, but then within a couple years, I was climbing, almost full time. I mean I wasn’t doing anything else. Working, waiting tables so I could make enough money to pay rent and buy food, and just climbing a 100% of the remainder of the time. I had moved out to Colorado at that point. So the progress came really quickly. In terms of getting out to Yosemite and climbing on El Cap, probably, within a year of first climbing outdoors.

My next question is a little bit darker. But I did all the interviews last year for the Alpine Fest as well. And among the folks I interviewed barely a year ago was the late, great Scott Adamson. Scott was a truly brilliant climber and a great friend to the Mazamas who was lost this past season in the mountains of Pakistan. And as I was sitting down to make some new questions for this year and trying to figure out which of the old questions would still work, I felt particularly focused on risk, and in particular the risk of death in alpine climbing. And just the fragility of human life, you know? I still have the audio recording of Scott talking about how he took a 100 foot whipper in the dark and thought he was going to die, you know what I mean? And then he did. And it’s just kind of, hard to stomach. And I was just wondering how you regard your own mortality. Do you think about death, since you’ve taken it to this next level?

Photo Caption: Matt Van Biene

You know, it might be a self-protective thing, but I don’t really think about my death in the mountains. I mean, intellectually I know that there are certainly a lot of risks with what we do. But, yeah, the possibility of my own death isn’t something I am emotionally connected to. It doesn’t seem vivid. I don’t have nightmares or anything. But what I do think a lot about is friends dying in the mountains, because that’s happened to me. And it sucks. I guess my own safety feels like it’s in my control. I mean, obviously, it’s not fully in my control. If I’m climbing in the Karakoram underneath a serac, you know? That’s an objective hazard. But that’s something I can deal with and mitigate. But friends dying … Kyle and Scott were friends. I didn’t climb with either of those guys, but I certainly knew them and respected them. And they were heroes of mine, and friends as well. That’s something that I do worry about. And again, I guess maybe from a self-protective standpoint, I think I’ve intentionally kept my circle of really close climbing partners fairly small. Like I really only do big trips with a handful of people, really two or three actually. And folks that, obviously, whose judgment I trust 100%. So I can feel pretty good about them going out on trips without me, that they’re going to come back safely. Because that’s the fear that gets to me the most, I think, is having friends leave and not come back. I’ve been lucky enough, that none of my truly close climbing partners or friends has died in the mountains.

But with Kyle and Scott… I was climbing in the Karakoram last summer, which is going to be subject of the slideshow that I give in Portland, is that trip. And we were climbing at the same time as Kyle and Scott, in a different place, in a different valley, but we were well aware that they were over there and we were thinking about them pretty often. And we did actually find out about Scott’s big fall and injury while we were in the mountains, at our base camp. We had a sat phone and we were in contact with friends back in the States and so we found out about it through them. And it really did kind of color our experience for the remainder of our trip. I think it made us more conservative with what we were willing to do, and just a little wearier. It was a strange season last year, I guess this was 2015, because it was quite warm. It was unseasonably warm all summer. The snow was not super well set up. A lot of the ice was coming apart. And I suspect that’s what led to their accident last year, the 2015 accident. So those things were in our minds when we were climbing on K6 which was our big objective on that trip.

On big wall speed climbing and it’s applications for alpine climbing….

I’ll set myself sort of arbitrary goals, whether it’s here in Colorado or in Yosemite. Trying to do multiple walls in a short time period or trying to do a specific route really fast. Stuff that can kind of seem silly and arbitrary, but which really forces you to develop a new creative skill set. That you can then apply in the mountains and apply onto bigger routes, where moving fast is necessary to be safe and to actually finish the climb.

Photo Credit: Garrett Grove

There’s a local climb here at the wall that’s the five pitch route, up the middle of the wall. Its a 5.11, so it’s kind of the classic, moderately hard route that people aspire to do. And I’ve done it a bunch of times, so over the years I’ve tried to whittle it down to faster and faster and faster. And I’ll time it from the base up to the summit, and back down again. And over the course of a couple years, I took my own personal time from over an hour, like an hour and half, down to now less than half an hour. So I took this climb that most parties would approach as a full day climb, and that in the past I’d approach as, at least, two or three hours if you’re moving at a normal pace, and just ruthlessly making it more efficient and dialing in your systems, so you can climb it really fast.

Mountaineering legend, Reinhold Messner, has often been quoted comparing mountaineering to a creative pursuit, and the climber to the artist. Does this idea resonate for you at all in your experience?

I mean definitely, this is something that’s been said many times, but doing a first ascent, you know, looking up at a wall, and painting in that line in your mind, “we’re gonna link this feature with this feature.” I mean it’s partially a logical pursuit. “Ok this crack looks good. This crack over here looks good. We’re going to avoid that section because it’s got rock.” So there is a very analytical side to that. But I do think that there’s also an aesthetic sense, “this is where the line should go. This is going to be the most rewarding way that we can get up this mountain.” My friends and I often talk about trying the line of strength of the mountain, the proudest line we can find. That obviously has an implicit aesthetic judgment. Part of the reward of climbing is getting down and then drawing that line onto a photo, and being like, “yeah, that’s beautiful. That’s something that I created and its beautiful. It’s art.”

Get Tickets & More Info at portlandalpinefest.org

Scott Bennett’s Portland Alpine Fest Schedule

  • Alpine Fast & Light (Clinic) Nov. 16, 8–11 a.m. at PRG (FULL)
  • Intermediate/Advanced Ice/Mixed Climbing (Clinic) Nov. 16, 1–4 p.m. at the MMC
  • Into the Karakoram (Clinic) Nov. 16, 7 p.m. at the MMC
  • Intro to Ice/Mixed Climbing (Clinic) Nov. 17, 6–9 p.m. at the MMC (FULL)
  • Big Wall Techniques, Nov. 18, 8–11 a.m. at PRG

Posted on

Geeking out on the Mountains

Interview with Colin Haley. Colin credits most of his success in climbing to this early apprenticeship in the most rugged mountains available in the Lower 48. He strives to maintain a relatively high level in every discipline of climbing, from bouldering, to El Cap routes, to highly-technical alpinism, to high-altitude slogging. While Seattle is still technically his home, he spends much more time in his three favorite towns on three separate continents: El Chaltén, Argentina, Squamish, BC, and Chamonix, France. By Joe Fox.


Can you pinpoint a moment perhaps in time or in your own thinking about the sport of mountaineering, when you took a conscious step away from being a hobbyist and toward being a true professional, expert, master?
Pretty much ever since I was 12, 13, 14 years old I wanted to make climbing my life and I wanted to raise my skills as high as I could and do the hardest climbs I could. It’s not like I was a climber for a long time who wasn’t ambitious, and then all of the sudden decided “ohh, I’m gonna start taking this seriously.” I’ve always been ambitious with climbing, it’s not something that happened at any one point.

My relationship with climbing, in terms of what it means to me and how seriously I take it has pretty much always been the same.

How did you get into it so early?
I’ve been backpacking and skiing and backcountry skiing and all that stuff since I was super young. Like I have no memory of learning how to ski, for instance. So I’ve always been doing stuff in the mountains. And then around when I was 10 years old my dad started taking my brother and I mountaineering.

How do you regard your own mortality? Do you think about death, given the extreme risks involved in this sport?
Yeah, I do. I’ve had a lot of friends and climbing partners who have died. Some of them quite close, people I’ve climbed with a lot, and some of them just acquaintances. And I think it would be delusional to do the type of climbing that I do, with the frequency that I do it, and not realize that that inherently exposes me to a lot of risks in the mountains, regardless of how careful I am and how smart of decisions I make. I mean, I accept that. Everyone accepts risk at some level for the climbing they do. I really don’t want to die climbing. I’d like to live to get old. And so I do everything I can to minimize those risks, which is of course a balance with trying to achieve the things you want to do. But I know there’s a possibility that I would die in the mountains. And I accept that. Someone who claims otherwise is not being realistic and conscious.

What motivates a climb like your remarkable recent free solo, 12 hour and 29 minute, ascent of the Infinite Spur on Mount Foraker in Alaska?
Well, I had been scheming to solo the Infinite Spur for at least five years. Climbing it with Rob Smith, beforehand, kind of confirmed for me that it was something that I wanted to do. But … I don’t really think that deciding to solo the Infinite Spur has any great difference in motivation from anyone going and climbing mountains. Because I’ve dedicated my life to climbing mountains, doing something that puts me in a place where I feel really challenged and really excited about the goal, is going to of course be a different sort of scenario than someone who has much less climbing experience. But I think that the general search for this challenge, and this intensity of experience in an extreme environment, is the same whether it’s a beginner going up The Tooth, or me trying to solo the Infinite Spur.

There are a lot of different esoteric fields of knowledge that help the mountaineer’s lifestyle. What do you geek out on the most? What’s the “shop talk” conversation that you could have with any climber in the world, no problem?
Hmm … tons. I’m a total geek in general. And I can say very confidently that that aspect of alpinism, the fact that there’s such a mental side to it, and such a geeky side to it, in terms of logistics and scheming how to go about things, is definitely one of the biggest reasons why I like alpine climbing. It’s not just running a hundred meter dash, or sport climbing, which are very distilled athletic activities. But it also has this very big mental component to it. It’s a very big part of why I like climbing mountains.

In terms of what I like geeking out on? Tons of things. Everything from how to train efficiently, to what to eat while on a climb, to how to use your stove in the most fuel efficient way possible, to how to make your gear lighter, to how to use different belay techniques to be more efficient. I mean, the list could go on and on and on. But everything from using knowledge of chemistry, to physics, to physiology.

What’s something that you’ve been turned onto recently or learned recently that has helped you?
I mean this will get pretty geeky pretty fast. But have you used isobutane stoves much in cold weather?

Umm … yes not with a lot of luck, but …
Yeah, they don’t work that well in the cold, because of pv=nrt—you know, decreasing pressure in the canister causes the canister to get colder, which lowers the pressure even more, and, you know, your stove just stops working very well.

About 20 years ago, the canisters that we would get for these kinds of stoves were pure isobutene, and then about 20 years ago or 15 years ago, they started making them a mix of isobutane and propane. And the reason they do that is because propane has a higher vapor pressure than butane. So it creates more pressure in the canister and helps the stove function better in cold weather. But they can’t make it all propane because then there would be too much pressure in the canister when it’s warm out, and you would risk having the canister explode. And so it’s this balance. But one thing you might have noticed sometimes is you put a fresh canister on the stove, and it works really well for a while, and then all of the sudden it starts working really poorly. It’s not like this slow gradual taper, it just sort of falls off a cliff at some point. And I just recently learned why, and it’s because when the canister is sitting upright, the propane is mostly in a gaseous form at the top of the canister, and the butane is mostly in a liquid form at the bottom of the canister, and so basically you burn off all the propane first, and then all of the sudden the pressure inside the canister drops because it’s mostly butane that’s left.

Wow, and can you mitigate that effect by shaking the canister up, or something like that?

Umm, shaking it up wouldn’t work, but that is why turning the canister upside down can be helpful. Which I had heard years ago, and I had tried turning the canister upside down, and I was like well, it doesn’t really seem to get much better, so I thought that must be wrong. And that’s because when the canister is full, having it upside down or right side up won’t really make much of any difference, but having it upside down should theoretically make a difference over the longevity of the canister because when it’s upside down you’re mostly exiting butane out of the canister because it’s in liquid sitting at the bottom, and the propane higher up is maintaining that pressure inside the canister to help push the butane out, and so by turning the canister upside down you’re not getting rid of the propane straight away, you’re keeping it in the canister for longer. I told it would get geeky fast, so …

Wow. Yeah, I love it. I love it. That’s great.

But that’s something that I learned recently, that I thought was very interesting, and I thought could have a positive effect on my ability to climb mountains.

So, did you discover that when talking to somebody else, or did you just read about that?

I discovered that when talking to somebody else. There’s a guy who I met because he’s in the Alpine Mentors Pacific Northwest Program and I volunteered a couple days for that, a couple of years ago. His name is Alex. He’s doing a PhD in some field of chemistry and we were talking about this stuff, and he explained that to me.

On bringing his iPod shuffle up the Infinite Spur …

I don’t listen to music when I’m doing properly technical climbing. At that point I want to hear, you know, how my crampons sound when I’m putting them on a hold, and all these little things. But when I’m doing less technical climbing like just pounding up a 50 degree ice slope, or just walking up a glacier, or ski touring or something, I love listening to music. And I feel that if I’m listening to music, I can be putting out a really high cardio effort and it doesn’t feel as much like an effort, it’s just so much fun.

What are you listening to on those trips? What is some of your “high energy” music?

A few examples of some of the artists that are on the Shuffle, some of it’s guitar like Tool and Alice in Chains, some of it’s electronic stuff like Sub Focus and Knife Party, some of it’s dark in between stuff like Nine Inch Nails, some of its techno, some of its dubstep, some of it’s drum and bass, some of it’s metal, some of it’s grunge.

Do you ever think of doing a “Snow Slog Playlist” a la Barack Obama?

Haha Not really. But yeah I could some time. That’d be a cool idea. Maybe I should. I’ll make a blog post about it.

On his goals for his presentation at next month’s Portland Alpine Fest?

My general guideline is that I try to put together a slideshow that I know I would be psyched to watch. So probably, I think that most of the people at my slideshows whether they are beginners or not will enjoy it, but I think the people that like my slideshows the most are the ones who are like me – climbers who are fully in the grips of the alpine climbing addiction, just can’t get enough, and are super excited about it and dream of all these things they want to do. Yeah, I think my slideshow is catered more to them than anyone else.

I love giving slideshows in the Northwest because it’s my home turf as a person, and also because the audience is full of people that really love the mountains, and really know the mountains, and that just makes for a fun energy.


Learn More & Get Tickets at portlandalpinefest.org

Colin’s Schedule at the Portland Alpine Fest:

  • Moving Fast in 5th Class Terrain (Clinic) Nov. 18, 9 a.m.–noon at the MMC (Full!)
  • Beyond Waterfalls (Clinic) Nov. 18, 1–4 p.m. at the MMC
  • Beyond Waterfalls (Clinic) Nov. 19, 9 a.m.–noon at the MMC
  • Ski Mountaineering: Mixing Skis with Ice Axes (Seminar) Nov. 19, 12:30–2 p.m. at the Mountain Shop
  • The Summit: An Evening with Colin Haley & Sasha DiGiulian, Nov. 19, 5–10 p.m. at Revolution Hall
Posted on

Evolution of a Climber

by Kerry Loehr

This is my story, my evolution. One man’s journey from flailing on rock to being the proud new owner of a shiny trad rack. So if you don’t feel like you can rock climb, stick with it. You may surprise yourself.

Growing up in Southeast Portland I didn’t fully appreciate the tremendous opportunities afforded to me. Sure, I grew up skiing on Mt. Hood, but it wasn’t until I moved back from living in Ohio for four years that I truly appreciated the Pacific Northwest—the ocean, the high desert, and especially the mountains. I was 30 years old and I had yet to climb any of the glaciated peaks I grew up gazing at from afar.

I resolved to start “small” with Mount St. Helens. Note to any new climbers, do not do St. Helens in the fall unless you really really like scree. Next up was Mt. Hood. That was an eye opener!

Having a few summits under my belt, I started hearing about this group called the Mazamas. Hood also made me realize I needed to make sure my skills were solid if I wanted to keep climbing, which I most undoubtedly did. I was lucky enough to meet a group of Mazama mentors who took me under their wing. I joined the Mazamas and kept climbing with my new friends. Bigger mountains and harder routes were my goal, but still my focus was solely on glaciated peaks. Summits of Mt. Adams and Mt. Shasta followed, along with the Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP).

BCEP was great, I learned valuable skills, met new friends, and was introduced to rock climbing. I have to admit, though, the rock sessions (especially Horesthief) were not my favorites. I was terrible at rock climbing, pure and simple. I was comfortable on snow, but rock baffled me. Still, I endeavored to climb at the Portland Rock Gym occasionally. Results were poor, and frustrating. It wasn’t until my climbing mentors brought me along on a climb of Unicorn Peak in the Tatoosh Range near Mt. Rainier that it started to make sense.

For those unfamiliar, Unicorn is a “mixed” alpine climb that involves steep snow slopes on the approach and a low 5th class single rock climbing pitch at the top. It was challenging, but my whole climbing world opened up then and there. I now understood why people rock climbed! Mixed climbs were now my jam.

Fast forward, I climbed a few single pitches at Smith Rock (still flailing), and then was fortunate enough to get invited to a climb of Liberty Bell in the North Cascades. Wow. Just wow! Still, to this day, one of my all time favorite climbs. 3.5 pitches of alpine rock climbing. I seconded a very skilled Eugene Lewins up that route, and it forever changed me as a climber. The beauty, the challenge, the problem solving all came together. I wanted to be a rock climber. Who would have guessed that?!

A series of resolutions followed: more gym climbing, to become a lead climber, and to take the Mazama Advanced Rock (AR) Program. I’m pleased to say I’ve achieved all of those goals now. I just graduated AR this year and I am stoked! In fact, I’m writing this from Ashland, OR having just climbed the Cosmic Wall on Mt. Hubris in northern California. That’s four successful climbs in four weeks, leading Unicorn Peak, climbing Mt. Hood, swapping leads on Ingalls Peak, as well as the Cosmic Wall. Not a bad summer so far!

I’m comfortable leading trad climbs, and now truly have freedom to do a lot of what I think are cool things in the moutains. Along the way I have had many mentors, developed skills, and have climbed with new and old friends.

Posted on

Finding the Nubbins: A middle-aged, first-time climber matches skills with teenagers at Smith Rock State Park

by Ken DuBois

It was 85 degrees on an April day at Smith Rock, but felt much hotter with the heat radiating off the rocks, the lack of shade, and the self-imposed pressure of climbing my first rock wall just minutes after my first rock-climbing lesson. I was on this high school outdoor education trip as a no-skills-necessary assistant, but now that all the kids had gone up, I wanted my turn. I’d watched a dozen teenagers scramble up this same rock face and float down, declaring it “too easy” and moving on to more challenging sections further down. 
“I don’t feel anything,” I said, referring to the nubbins. The instructor continued to guide me with the same advice about looking for chalk marks—left behind by the chalked-up hands of real climbers—and the little outcroppings of rock on which I could supposedly put my full body weight, pulling or pushing myself to the next stage in the climb. But the conversation went in circles, like someone pointing to an empty table and telling you to pick up a pen that isn’t there. 
I was getting impatient to make some kind of progress, so I decided to go for it, nubbins or not. I found an outcropping about the size of an almond and tried to stand on it, but I slipped, swung to the side, and banged my back against the rock face. Dangling like a marionette, I accept defeat, for the moment. 
“I’m done,” I announced, sitting in the dirt and pulling off my shoes. The instructor simply agreed, “Okay.” I looked up at the rock wall, which appeared even flatter and more nubbinless from this perspective. 
In the darkness of the school bus, heading to the campground, I confessed my problem to one of the other adults, clustered as we were in the front seats away from the teens. “I can’t find the nubbins,” I told her. “I feel little bumps on the rock face, but I just can’t see how I could put my whole body weight on that.” Her darkened silhouette appeared to be nodding sagely, and then she delivered the advice that changed the whole experience for me. “Your instincts are telling you that the nubbins won’t hold you,” she said, “but actually they will. And the only way to really know that is to try it and feel it. Practice by standing on nubbins close to the ground.” 
Walking towards the rock walls the next day, I stopped to practiced by putting my full weight on nubbins just inches above the dirt. I realized that I could actually stand on those bits without sliding off. I could feel them. I watched the kids sprint up a few rock walls, and got myself motivated to do the same. And I checked myself: “Remember,” I thought, “you are forty years older than these kids.”
But I did find the nubbins, and made my way, one little bump after another. I stood up on bits of rock I could barely even see the previous day, and with each step I felt a little bit stronger, more capable, and certain I would prevail. The exhilaration propelled me, and I picked up speed. And before I knew it, I was at the top, sitting on the ledge. 
“Are you ready to come down?,” they called up to me, but I said no, I wanted a minute. I looked out at the enormous canyon, and the river winding through it, and all the climbers on the ground, far below. I thought to myself, “How soon until I can do this again?” 
About the author: Ken DuBois has enjoyed hiking in the Pacific Northwest for almost thirty years. He joined the Mazamas in 2011 after interviewing Executive Director Lee Davis for an Oregonian article, and having his misconceptions about the organization swept away. He learned that Mazamas, far from being an exclusive club, is welcoming and open to all, with outdoor adventure opportunities for almost any age, skill level, inclination, and budget.