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Quick update from Windland

The moments pass. They always do. But, why then, in times of frustration, does it feel like time slows? A temporal flow damming upon negativity. Inversely, in times of happiness, it seems that temporal flow crashes over the giant Niagara cliffs and evades the dam. Regardless of the greater cause of these temporal regimes, it seems like Iceland has a way of exaggerating the moments. Here are a few moments, thoughts, and ramblings (at times making little to no sense):

The first week went by rather blissfully. It was great to reacquaint myself with the cultural and social differences in this very foreign land. I almost instantaneously broke my diet that has cleaned up recent stomach issues. Though, that did not seem to have a negative effect on me. Reuniting with old friends is always fun. In this case, the season was just beginning and we were all beyond excited to ski on the Troll Peninsula. I  even managed an all nighter to avoid the harsh realities of the time zone differential. I spent the first three days walking in the hills with an extremely pleasant family of Swiss folks. They instantly reminded me of all the reasons I uproot myself for these vastly different experiences, culture, and  people than I get back home.

The Swiss folks enjoyed a roller coaster of weather. Specifically, they enjoyed the wind. Oh the arctic winds! They constantly remind us of their presence. Their strength. Icelandic Wind- n [ice-land-ik win-d] sect of nature that neglects sympathy for pathetic little beings trying to walk against their force. Lucky for me, the Swiss were incredibly easy going and made for a great transition into the Icelandic season. After all, its weather that is out of my control!

I spent my fourth day in Iceland in the Helicopter skiing incredibly hard conditions. The light was very flat. Meaning, it was hard to tell the difference between the ground and the sky. And if you could tell the difference, you still couldn’t see the intricacies of the snow surface. To make matters worse, the recent winds had stripped most of the snow and created an extremely varying snow surface. The surface ranged in texture from ripples not unlike a sandy beach, to patches of alpine ice. I had the fortune of guiding a Ukrainian man of little words that day. He said almost nothing about the conditions, except for a few remarks about “ze light”.

Within all of this time I have tried to focus on a goal I set for myself this year. I am focusing more on mindfulness and the awareness of being in the present moment. Enjoying this as a vacation, along with work. Though, sometimes that feeling is impossible. I have gotten around to smiling when it just doesn’t seem right that this is my job. Laughing at the absurdity of flying around in a tiny metal craft to go skiing.

Always, is the environmental piece on my mind. My favorite little earth, with all it has offered me. How could I be so destructive? I still find myself anxiously pondering questions that cannot be answered.

The Austrians.

I awaited four guests at the airport as the small turbo prop plane echoed off the broken rock walls that encapsulate the fjord. The plane sung loud with reverberating pitch as it sank closer to the earth that it departed from just an hour before from Reykyavik. I walked through the hall towards the baggage claim when I was suddenly called to halt from a police officer. I hadn’t realized the sign as I strolled past a no entry point! He realized the language barrier and grinned as I walked back to the waiting area.

The guests arrived as I held up the “Viking Heli Ski” sign. One man came to me with a smile on his face and I asked if he was coming Heli skiing. His response, “ I think so.” This confused me and we talked in circles until I found that this stalky elder was going to attempt to ski down mountains in Iceland. (It turns out, the guy can ski! I guess growing up around world class European ski resorts is a good recipe for excelling at the sport that was birthed in that exact spot.) I kid you not, he was the exact opposite of someone with an exemplary skiing physique. Franz, along with his wife Ulli and friends Werner and Phillip were beyond excited for the adventure ahead. The questions rolled off of their tongues like wheels with no brakes.

I wielded my Icelandic knowledge with flawless accuracy as we passed fjords with depths to 200m, mountains up to 1500m, and tunnels over 7km long. The tunnels… oh how they grow longer every day! One of these days I am going to turn into the namesake of this peninsula (Troll) if I keep driving through these things. I come out the other side of the tunnels not feeling dissimilar (double negative grammar) to a vampire after a long night of feeding who lost track of time and accidentally embraced the strong arctic sun. I talked of the history of fishing and tourism, of the flora and fauna. We passed through the darkness of the last tunnel before Siglufjorder just as the light was peeling back towards North America.

The weather couldn’t have been worse for their stay and their overall demeanor was pleasant but forgetful. Nevertheless, one memory will last forever. I was tasked with taking them to Akyurei for a beer crawl and dinner. Both of which I wanted no involvement in but put on a friendly face and went water for beer with them. We sat over dinner with about 20 words of English spoken over the course of 5 hours. During the bar crawl, the political nature of “cultured” human beings took over and they proceeded to rant in German for the duration of the night. At times getting so heated that Franz would start yelling and making hand gestures for the entire restaurant to see. As if he was making a speech for the people. The rest of the restaurant stared with disbelief.

The second part of dinner was a reminder of a failed task on my part. This is the second time I’ve been hosed by my aided chopstick sessions as a child. The sticks I used were rubber-banded with a special folded paper that allowed the sticks to be moved with ease (not articulated with human fingers). I ran into this issue earlier with clients in Jackson. Each time, forgetting how lacking my skills are. Honestly, I may be a 2/10 on a chopstick assessment scale. I take the two sticks and brace for dear life as the sushi slithers through barely making contact with my mouth. Dare I dip in soy sauce, or attempt some of the more magnificent pieces? No.

The Chinese.

I must preface this with noting that I have note seen or read “Crazy Rich Asians”, but at this point, I have certainly lived it. It seems that the cast of characters this year have been taken straight out of a Hunter S Thompson Novel. The 14 Chinese arrived like a swarm of navy seals. Some came by car, some came by transport, some came by plane, some came early, some came late, some came prepared, some came fully disorganized, but they all came with the biggest smiles I’ve yet to see in Iceland.

We had prepared for them by researching cultural norms and various things to make them feel welcome and at home. But the people that came broke almost every stereotype on the books. These folks drink like fish, party to the early hours of the morning, ski hard, and laugh harder. They showed up to the clubhouse every day hungover and wreaking of a plethora of fermented grains. Straight to the espresso machine they went. We quickly found that they were about 30-45 minutes late to everything due to the copious amounts of pictures/video that every moment of change creates. One of the translators told us that in one afternoon alone they had posted over 100 pictures and videos to social media. Crazy!

For the rest of these stories you’ll have to ask personally as I don’t think some of the characters would want them posted on the internet world.

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A mired little brain. Ramblings from the land of ice. 3.22.18

I’ll title this one

A short update filled with informal yet informative intelligence from yours truly, a look at the Troll Peninsula from the perspective of me:

More from the meteorologist:

It is often said in Iceland that if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes. This is entirely true. The few weeks that I have resided on this Island have been chaotic with regards to the “nowcast”, the “forecast” and how both of those have great effects on our operation. (More to come on this later). But alas, the snow has been melting at an alarming rate due to warm temperatures and precipitation of liquid in its unfrozen state.

Closing of the last frontier:

This morning we reside in utter chaos. The heliskiing operations on the troll peninsula are littered with macro problems that are trickling down to almost every decision we make with regards to skiing. The three helicopter skiing operations are currently in a contractual land war. We are left with confusion and confrontation as two of the three operations are forced to operate in a continuously diminishing space. The third operation hold the most land and we are forced to pirate the land in an effort to keep the helicopters from flying on top of one another. You can imagine that with top paying clients, in one of the more remote mountain ranges in the world, they are not happy to see another helicopter operating in the same area. On top of that, high avalanche danger and low snow at sea level are constricting our mountains even further.

Surmounted competition in this land of fiction. Trolls, elves and a foreign diction. Trance like bliss with friction a miss, if only, if only this dreamer can wish.  But alas we find ourselves countering the weather with the move of a pawn, the rook slides diagonally across the lawn towards the garden of delight that is so near yet out of sight. The mountains beckon under a deep and dire fog so resolute in its efforts to terminate the mog.

Meanwhile, the eleven experience (an American heli service who has a reputation for stepping on locals feet) with its heavenly interference and unwavering confrontation creates this dire situation as the land battle ensues. We just received word from a neighboring farmer that they are trying to buy the land out even though it is not for sale. We move towards a position where if we don’t win we will lose. Oh, my oh my, we’ve got the Icelandic drama blues!

Cuisine Et Cetera:

The culinary experience has enhanced to levels so salivating to the buds that I have found myself with aches and pains from hazardous levels of caloric intake. The meats, fishes, and cheeses so rich with local flair that my usually vegetarian dietary habits lose care. I feast upon the riches of this land, as the fisherman filet local cod upon the black volcanic sands. The salmon swimming in the North Atlantic waters just off shore, and in the future I’ll dream of the perfectly prepared filets of yore. The summertime comes and the lamb graze high upon these hills. They primarily eat berries, grasses, and mosses at will. Come autumn, all members of the community celebrate the herding of these passive creatures by taking long hikes to the highlands to bring them back home. To shave their fur for textiles and such, to sacrifice their spirits for delicacy meats so savory and plump. The geese fall out of the sky one by one to inhabit our plates, cooked rare not well done! The veal, oh poor calf, how I whimper when I realize how they could have run so free upon these beautiful scape, but alas it’s far too late. We eat them dressed with such rich, creamy delight that I lose sight of the environmental woes associated with the meat industries’ plight. The barley grown just down the road and the cakes diverse and plentiful by the truck load! The berries ferried from across the sea but every now and again we feast on local berries with glee. Oh how grateful and fortunate I am for this opportunity!

Other Musings:

What else to explain? I find myself guiding clients from all over the world!! The Austrians, Germans, Americans all swirled. My smile infectious upon even the most stern, for they are on holiday and smiles they have earned! Seriously though, it amazes me to see the emotive ebbs and flows that come through our corridor. The disgruntled folks who ask us to change the weather for the better but alas Mother Nature always has the last say. So with a forecast that changes every 5 minutes we just take it day by day. We have operations ready by 11 am and we can fly all the way to 8 pm. With the helicopter, that means we can get up to 20 runs. Clients generally pay for 8, so we stretch out the days with scenic detours, lunches atop surreal summits, photographic encapsulation of views almost unreal, and of course conversational topics that span the course of time and space.

Everyone is fascinated by my splitboard. Most clients have never even seen anything like it, so I explain with patience how it all works amongst jaw dropping faces when I say I sometimes ski it! The vibes here are very laid back. Icelandic time denotes about a 10 minute to 45 minute delay if let’s say a local stops by for coffee and a chat, or we find ourselves rerouting based off of another operation, the weather forecast, the current snow conditions, and/or the groups skiing abilities.

Despite that, even with the laid-back culture weaved into our day to day lives, we still operate under incredibly high stress and in a very complex environment. An environment where every decision can have drastic consequences. Decisions as minute as making sure the proper wax is on the skis and as drastic as correctly evaluating the structure of the snowpack and extrapolating that into the formation of a danger rating for the day.

We have limited outside data, so the majority of our snowpack stability forecasting comes from our own observations and snowpack tests. With that said, we buffer for the incredibly large gaps of knowledge and step out into new terrain very carefully.

Let’s end this with a Poetic touch shall we?

The icy Icelandic waters and the snow covered  pastoral peaks

It’s the adventure that I sought along with uncovering more to seek

Water falls fast in rate from the black volcanic stone

High above, atop the peak I find myself alone

Contemplating the moment so present with my heart

Yet undeniably a deep sadness for when we are apart.

Missing all of you, yet knowing that I am exactly where I need to be.

Love

Benja

(PS. I am going to work on better pictoral support)

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Tierra Del Hielo- Post 1

March 11th- a day in history with no proof reading of the below text. Read at your own risk. Also, pictures will come soon as I can’t get them to post with the internet/ phone combo going right now. —————— Where to begin? My brain is slightly askew with the amount of intake in the recent days. I’ve also been insanely ill with a severe sinus infection that is lingering with no real signs of improvement. To the point where I believe my nose has become Mecca for a Mucal Diaspora. I’ve also not had a moment to transpose my thoughts. So here goes attempt number one titled: “A brief overview of first impressions, a section of my skewed perception, and a minor deflection of current thought splayed about this electronic paper but should it be naught saved for reflection at a later date? (with pictures for those of you that may choose illiteracy for the moment) “ The weather is manic. It’s as if a psychiatric patient were running a marathon with a snow globe yo-yo attached to their finger and subsequently spinning windmills like a heavy metal guitarist with each stride of their seven foot structure. Oh how the sun shines beautifully upon these volcanic hills, the brief times that it doth shine. It glistens upon the white capped waves that violently roll south from the Arctic Ocean. The winds blow cold as if mysteriously brewed by the global warming wizards that concoct the anti-venom that heal the polar pythons of the here and now. In the moment it could be near 0 degree Celsius with a solar synapse so severe it melts your pupils to the core. The next moment, brings about a wind so fierce and snow so blinding that it becomes inhospitable to even exist out of the proximity of shelter. If that’s not the Webster definition for manic, then I may just be mistaken from the delirium associated with such an event. The air is currently blanketed in an opaque veneer of white. Gale force winds and intense blowing snow have shut down life as we know it. Our boss, Björgvin, is stuck in the town in which he resides named Dalvík. Dalvík is a small fishing hamlet on the shores of the Greenland Sea to the north. Their main economic functioning is based off the fishing industry. From what I can gather, their power source is mainly geothermal energy from the volcanic gardens underground. Life is simple there. The pace is slow, friendly, and brings about a calming nature to the people. What it lacks in worldly variety, it gains in picturesque landscape and a community that cares for and supports each other on a level so intertwined that it is no wonder that they have survived a harsh lifestyle from before our imaginable time scale. Further on up the road (reference for my band peoples) lies the town of Olaf’s. That isn’t actually the name of the town but nobody outside of the Icelandic culture can properly pronounce the name. For a reference for the folks following pictorially, we are running north up the easterly arm of the troll peninsula. Olaf’s is an even smaller village, and from what I can gather, not an economic hub of the area. Our lodge is located about 7km up a valley I cannot pronounce nor grammatically encapsulate. Just know that the valley is shielded to the east and west by mountains that rise approximately 1000m above the fjord below. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the blueprint for prevailing winds when they decided upon the geologic events preceding landscape as those mountains do not shield the intensity of the northerly winds that run wild down the valley with no frictional component to obstruct them from peak velocity. As the winds start to accelerate to their maximum capacity, you reach the small driveway to our lodge here called “Pvera”. It seems like everything has multiple names here and those names are only relevant to minute sectors upon the larger macro terrain. Pvera is the name of the farm upon which Viking Heli Skiing and Scandic Mountain Guides operate from. Whereupon we have a lodge, guest houses, ski barn, kitchen quarters, etc. The driveway has seen multiple rotary plow rotations but always seems to hold a large pillow of snow impassible to a vehicle without near monster truck tires and catastrophe insured clearance. It will be interesting to see how this affects our front wheeled drive shuttle vehicles. The lodge itself is more of a giant greenhouse. Björgvin and Johann rent the property from a neighboring farmer who seems to charge an absurd amount for the amount of work that they put into it yearly. As you walk into the tight entry hallway, it opens up to a quaint kitchen, large dining area and a great room complete with multiple lounge areas, a geothermally filled hot tub, and a jungle of trees and bushes that promise fruits and herbs come the spring sun. There is also a small shop selling our sponsors gear, a bedroom, and a yet to be remodeled massage parlor. I walked in a week ago to utter chaos yet I wake up today to a finely tuned experience due to the hard work and visions from about 5 of us working 10+ hour days to create such an environment. It’s still far from complete and we have only a couple of days before our first guests arrive. Anyways... I shan’t give it all up on the first go. Tune in for more verbal babble shortly. Loving and missing all of you. -Benja

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Make Love, Not Newcs

The laptop heavy on my sore legs as I sink into the couch. A whirlwind day, and a physical hangover to follow. Here I sit… contemplating the route that I dreamed about for so long. Here’s a short bit on the Newc Couloir, a chink in the armor of Buck Mountains north face.

The crisp, cool spring air greeted us at 4:45 in the morning. We headed up to Grand Teton National Park, the beautiful adventurers’ paradise in our backyard. It was around 5:30 when we were fully geared up and headed into the mountains under the dawn light of a bright moon. The conversation came and went as we set a blistering pace towards the west end of Taggart Lake. A few “incidents” occurred as we made our way up the beautifully shaped Avalanche Canyon. One highlight lent its self to a collapse on the skin track (pun intended). Bill Withers would have been deeply saddened by Ollie’s lack of structure as I leaned up against him to catch a breath and we immediately fell into a pseudo tree well. All was great again as I offered my apologies and a hand to Ollie. We regained composure and continued up towards the headwall of Mt. Wister.

We veered into the South Fork of Avalanche Canyon as the alpenglow started illuminating the high peaks of the Tetons. Within a few hours we had arrived at the base of our goal: the Newc Couloir. The shaded beast lie silent and still as the sun began to light the canyon walls. I rustled through my pack and picked out my weapons of choice. A pair of superlight CAMP 12 point crampons and my Black Diamond ice axe. Pretty soon we were headed up into oblivion with our nerves leading our legs. The first crux came quickly, and we managed it slowly but carefully. I was leading the troops at the time and called down to wait for me to get into safer ground before anyone else started to move towards me. The fear was that if I were to slip, then I would take out another person below me.  The snow was stable and supportive and presented itself as small ridges carved by the gale winds that regularly tear through the canyon.

I slipped through the crux and hollered down “ Ollie, youre  good to go!”. I quickly proceeded up towards the next cliff band that looked virtually impenetrable. I traversed underneath it until I found a 6 foot section of rock that looked like it would be our best option. I waited for Ollie and Ben to make a decision on our next move. I was starting to get cold which was further agitating my stress. Ben had a rope on him and we decided that I would lead up through the second crux and drop a rope to hip belay Ollie and Ben up to me. So, on the awkward cliff side I packed the rope in my bag and committed to my future.

I was off for the races as they say, moving conservatively with a sequence of difficult moves which involved front pointing my crampons on small rock ledges and placing ice picks into soft soil in between rock. Soon enough I was through the rock section and digging myself a trench to sit in. I secured myself into the hillside and dropped the rope down to Ollie and Ben. They picked their way up the ledge slowly and poised.

At this point, the guys kept moving as I packed the rope and continued to mold a larger platform in the snow for the descent. Yes… to all the readers, now we were standing on top of 2 cliff bands and looking upwards to continue our mission. Knowing full well that we would have to descend everything we climbed was haunting our minds as we continued to seek out the top of the couloir. Why? You may find yourself asking. I suppose a quick answer would be something along these lines; we seek to find our secure limit. The limit upon which we feel that Mother Nature has taken full control and all we have left to do is smile and fulfill our end of the deal. Security is a relative word in the mountains, but we quickly find where our personal definition stands as the void grows and the plot thickens.

The remaining part of the couloir presented itself in a thin vertical plane protected on both sides by large, impenetrable cliffs. A trough of thinly lined snow on near vertical rock. It is tough to explain the desire to want to ski such an “unskiable” line from an outsider’s perspective. It is the challenge and the awe that it inspires that keeps us coming back.  We pushed through the remaining thousand feet or so with precarious legs and worries about our descent. The snow in the couloir was not quite what it seemed to the observant eye. As we climbed higher, the couloir became thinner and thinner with the snow on either side being only a dusting on rock.

Finally, we came to the end of the line and it was time to take in the beauty of the surroundings and ponder our descent. We transitioned into ski mode and fueled up with sugary food and water. I unlocked one of my crampons and it flung off and went tomahawking down the 50 degree upper couloir. Luckily, it stopped in one of our boot holes about 30 feet down. It wasn’t the best start to our descent, but it certainly made me think about what would happen if any of us were to fall.

I was the first to drop in. The upper choke was an absolute no fall zone. Our skis/boards barely managed to get through as we jump turned through and chattered rock with our tips and tails. We had decided on a method of descending where we regroup in safe spots away from the sluff and debris that each skier would drop down the thin line. Luckily, the line is so steep and thin that the debris generally floats down a runnel in the center of the line, leaving the small outcrops of rock as islands of safety from the raging snow. We moved in sections of 100-500 feet as we picked our way through the shrill, bare crux sections and regrouped to talk about the next section. Our task at hand was skiing the 50 degree couloir, though we all knew that everyones minds were focused on the 2 cruxes that eerily haunted us from below.

After a long and skinny upper section, we made it to the sections above the 2nd crux and talked about of options. We decided that I would check out an alternative option and if it didn’t “go” then I would traverse above the cliff band and position in the trench that I had built on the way up. Well, it didn’t go. So I found myself buried in the side of the hill unpacking the rope. Ben skied down to me as I dropped the rope to create a fixed line to get through the crux. Ben grabbed on and started slowly lowering himself down the cliff with his skis still on . After about 5-10 minutes he was clear through and Ollie was next to get onto the rope. The snowboard added another element of danger as it was harder to move in unison with the upper body. After some repositioning, Ollie managed to get through the crux with no issues. I then packed the rope and started down with no security. My unsettled stomach was ready for the challenge. I dropped slowly and carefully “dry tooled” my axe onto the rock bulges that held my pick securely. I wiggled and hopped my way down the cliff side and about 4 feet from the bottom the near vertical rock forced me to take a leap for my life onto the snowfield below. I landed and rode to them and in a panicky voice said, “ It was my only option”.

After that, the trip was a blur. We made our way slowly through the last crux and skied a wide open apron that pleased Ben’s idea of skiing “open, hero powder the whole day instead of skiing a no fall couloir where we couldn’t even open up turns”. The egress through avalanche canyon was filled with joy and appreciation for the landscape at hand. Back at the car we were fulfilled and already thinking our our next lines as the Tetons peered down on us with sublime beauty.

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When the winds called us home

Adventure stems from the idea of venturing into the wild. The word “wild” can bring about many images and reactions. But the “wild” that this story pertains to is more than the complete withdrawal from society and not lacking of the fear that drives us forward. 

The first week of august was already upon us. Summer was beginning to wind down, though no signs of such recession appeared throughout the bustling town square. Shops started to advertise sales of summer gear, the farmers market flourished with the varieties of a plentiful harvest, and the crisp evening air tickled our nostrils. It was around this time that Ben and I were casually talking about his next adventure into a different aspect of society. He was preparing to move east to take up a job teaching ecology to children in New England. So we were talking about life plans, social commentaries, eventful news, and cracking immature jokes when the topic of his departure leaned towards a final adventure. Pretty soon we were rapid firing ideas from our heads like the magnum of Dirty Harry himself. It was one idea that wedged so brazenly into our minds that the both of us knew it needed to become a reality. This idea was to become the starting block to the building of a great adventure into the Wind River mountain range.

The second week of August was now upon us and the rambling conversation had grown into a coherent plan to set off into the ‘Winds’ (Wind River mountains) as a sail would take to the wind of the sea. We planned on departing just days after Ben ended his tenure with the science school that he had grown to be such a vital part of. We hit terminal velocity on the beta search as we wrapped our heads around maps, guidebooks, forums and personal accounts from fellow climbers. It was decided that we would head to an area renowned for its world class granite domes. The ‘Cirque of the Towers’: a name that plants the root of excitement into any climber’s auricles.

Saturday, August 15 was an early morning full of gear organization before rushing over to Ben’s house to pack our bags for the following day’s departure. I rummaged through my storage unit for anything that related to the trip and packed it all in the car. Soon enough I was en-route to Wilson, WY where we would begin the heralded packing portion of this adventure. The day was filled with ticking seconds which turned to minutes and finally became hours of brute and tedious check lists. After about six hours of scanning through guidebooks and maps, we came upon a conclusion on the amount of food and gear we would need for six days in the backcountry. We drove through the lively town of Jackson and completed the necessary runs to the grocery store and the mountaineering store. We returned to Ben’s house and quickly rationed our food with careful measurements as not to carry an extra pound for the nine mile hike into the Cirque.

The Gear

We split gear as evenly as we could. I was to carry a 65L backpacking pack and Ben was determined to carry in his 40L climbing pack. My gear included a 0 degree Marmot NeverSummer sleeping bag, Thermarest Prolite Plus full sleeping pad, base layers, down jacket, rain pants, rain coat, along with food and group gear. Ben managed a more comfortable sleep system weight with a Thermarest half pad and a Western Mountaineering 45 degree down sleeping bag that stuffed down to the size of a softball. Our group gear:

 Climbing gear:

-BD stoppers 3-13

-BD Cams 00-1, .2

-BD Cams .3-4 (doubles in all sizes except 4)

-11 alpine quick draws

-22ft of cord, 1 locking carabiner (anchor)

-3 extra locking carabiners

-Cord for a prusik

-9.1mm 60meter beal dry core rope

-8.1mm 60meter Trango Amphibian rope (for doubling on rappel)

-Harness, Helmet, Chalk, Shoes

Camp Gear:

-Food for 6 days (dehydrated rice and beans, mac and cheese, couscous and tuna, cliff bar products, oatmeal, cream of wheat, fig cookies, rice sticks, GORP, dried mango, butter and A LOT of hot sauce)

-Aquamira for water purification

-Delorme InReach satellite messenger

-Goal Zero Nomad 8 solar charger

-MSR Hubba Hubba two person tent

-MSR pocket rocket stove with 2 fuel canisters

-20 oz mug and 40-ish oz pot

-Camelback/ MSR dromedary for water carry

 In total, our packs were weighing in at a very modest 50lbs when we were done loading.  We were certainly not thrilled about the excessive weight, but figured we only needed to carry it for 9 miles and then we could set up a base camp in the Cirque.

The day had arrived

 Sunday morning came and went with a few hitches in our steps but we managed to get on the road around 8am. We stopped at the grocery store for breakfast and lunch for the day and then departed the 90 or so miles to Boulder, WY. From Boulder the roads progressively worsened as we climbed the foothills of the Winds in Ben’s Subaru. With every meandering stretch came new views not void of the unimaginable mystique of Wyoming. Insipid grazing land gave way to towering peaks and roaring streams. We approached the Big Sandy trailhead and were greeted by a narrow, washboard road that weaved through the aspen meadows that habituated the river banks. Finally, after 40 miles or so on rough road, we had made it to a very populated trailhead (which was not expected as we were in what we thought was a very desolate place and had not seem a soul except a few cattle roaming the road on our way in).

 Our hike in was uneventful but was dreadfully long given the weight that we were carrying

Our hike from Big Sandy into the Cirque was uneventful besides a slight ‘planned’ detour to witness the greatest waterfall in the winds (sarcasm). Once back on trail, we slogged our way towards Big Sandy Lake and took a rest by a babbling brook in an effort to regain some sort of physical demeanor for the burly section ahead.  The next three miles unruffled magical views with strenuous maneuvering through boulder fields and uneven slabs of rock.

(majestic pose) 

We finally made it to the top of a climbers trail at about 10,500 feet after some grueling elevation gained in the last miles of our hike. We fell over with an exaggerated array of emotional display. We quickly navigated through some high alpine meadows to a protected nook just big enough for our tent. We were exhausted, depleted of nutrition, and mentally ready to rest.

So we ate… and we slept.

 A day of leisure

 Day one was very leisurely. We aquatinted ourselves with the innumerable climbers trails and headed towards our four pitch warm up route on Pingora. I picked Ben’s brain on his years of trad experience and practiced anchor building at a few cracks around the base of the pitch while we waited for a group ahead of us to ascend.  I  ‘racked up’ with nerves strewn about in a less than serene manner as this was my first lead in quite some time and i only had a handful of leads all together.

(South Buttress)

We succsefully climbed to the summit using the 5.8 K Cracks variation which was easily the most transcendent pitch of the climb. The exposure and difficulty make for an outstanding setting as we were climbing up a crack in the armor of the cirque around us.

From the summit, the views were beyond extraordinary.  We were immediately drawn to the preposterous ridge to our west. This was to be our intended climb for tomorrow, yet from the angle, it looked near impossible!

We rappelled off the mountain and were back at base camp in about an hour after some side exploration of the meandering trails through the heart of this beautiful amphitheater.

 The wolf and the sheep

 Wolf’s Head beckoned to us. We awoke early and anticipated a long day on the grade four climb. We marched like lethargic wolf prey towards the infamous “class 4” grassy ledges.  The impossibility seemed permanent as we approached to the fantastical fissure before us. This notion continued as we made minimal progress through the first half hour of our attempt on the ledges. Every vertical foot of climbing was met with harsh demands not unlike a fifth class route. Ben and I looked at each other and decided that given the nature of the beast, we were committed and the rappel webbing around us meant that we were ‘on route’.

Once atop the beasts spine came the ever enticing ‘sidewalk’ section. Technically speaking, it was a very easy slab portion, though mentally overwhelming with great exposure to either side. We simul climbed for a few hundred feet and multiple pitches until we hit the area that is referred to as 5.6 climbing. The exposure only increased as we traversed classic sections with minimal footing and awkward movement (with large packs and approach shoes). The piton pitch proved to test my mentality on this rock, followed by a classic hand traverse that Ben fluidly negotiated.

After a few pitches of strenuous climbing we were birthed not unlike a cub through the canal of the monster.

Once atop the summit, a fast approaching storm forced us into an immediate rappel. We were greeted with some August Wind River snowfall on our fifth (or sixth) rappel. We celebrated the gruesome cold and intense shivering with some sausage and cheese with views of the western Winds that stunned our tired eyes.

Finally we were back to Cirque lake and headed to camp after some atrocious down climbing past the overhanging tower and down a filthy couloir abundant with ever moving rocks. We were greeted with views beyond the imaginations grasp.

A day of [much needed] rest

The next day was more or less a recon mission of the East Face Cracks and our envisioned attempt of the classic NE Face on Pingora. Chatting about the approach below. 

The classic- on the approach

Yet another climb that ascended its way into the “50 Classics of North America”.  (did I not mention that Wolf’ Head was a top 50 classic?!) This climb has it all. It’s an extreme mental and physical beating in one hell of a long day.

We awoke at 415am. Ben rolled over to hit the snooze button for five minutes. I couldn’t fall back asleep even though I was stiff from the icy evening and previous days of physical abuse. Something captured my spirit and would not let go. I was overly excited and nervous for the day ahead.

We taped our ailing feet as not to let a section more of exposed skin out of our sleeping bags as possible. Our starlit supper was prepared the night before and our gear already packed. We scuttled to the creek to get water for boiling as the flame from the stove illuminated our weary grins. Stuffing oatmeal down our throats was more or less torturous to our languid paunches.  Though, nothing seemed more unappetizing than the mile or so hike ahead through predator laden country and shadowy uneven ground.

We approached the base of the climb via the meandering lakeside trail. Rustling bushes and an eerie blanket of fog gave way to the upper ledges below the first pitch after some strenuous vertical crusading. We knew the exact location of the start because of our scouting mission the day prior… which was becoming a continuous stream of physical torture. The cold theme had not let up as we bundled up in every layer we packed.

The classic- On the climb

The sun hadn’t yet peaked as we racked up for the first pitch. I flaked the rope as Ben meticulously organized the gear on his harness. Our near immobile fingers made dexterous work very difficult. After preparations were made, Ben started off on the first pitch with a newly discovered vigor. Our tenacity to beat out the crippling cold prevailed and we were underway. Ben lead a very tricky 5.8 (cough cough) pitch with no feet and mere dime sized crystals for hand holds.

 I followed and met Ben at a belay ledge where he had already started sizing up the second pitch. We rapidly traded gear and I started up the second pitch. Due to the length of the climb, knew a successful attempt would be highlighted by flawless rope management and technique.

The second pitch was a leanback crack with minimal hands or feet on the face. It was mind boggling how hard it was for a 5.6. Ben and I quickly concluded that we were in for quite a ride as the route seemed to be somewhat sandbagged in terms of the ratings.

Ben then lead the third and fourth pitches which proved difficult for the grade, though regardless of what he said, his movement dictated otherwise. We were quickly atop pitch four when he traded off the lead for pitches five and six. I took them in stride and made sure to keep a steady pace in order not to burn out only halfway through the climb.

It was pitch seven that took us by surprise. Ben had been worrying about this pitch for days. I had been worrying for Ben about this pitch for days. We knew that given our differing crack ability, he would be leading it (crux pitch). He started up the awkward off width crack with deliberate movement. A few strong moves put him past the hardest section of the pitch and the rope pulled upwards as he climbed out of sight. As with many alpine climbs, this is the scariest part (in my opinion.) I am tasked with keeping Ben tight enough as not to take a bigger fall than would occur if he slipped, though I also need to keep loose enough so I don’t pull him off the wall. It’s a fine balance, though, not as hard as it seems assuming attention is kept on the climber.

Ben and I embraced atop the pitch, overjoyed and exhausted. We had beaten the crux and it was smooth sailing to the summit. I then hopped on the next pitch which teetered into an incredibly awkward hanging belay. 

Ben forced his way under my stance onto a ledge big enough for one and a half of his feet.

We quickly realized that the tough pitching was not behind us as Ben made an awkward transition into lead with a few thin, crux moves right out of the hanging belay. He working through some ‘R’ rated sections with minimal protection and maximum exposure. I held the rope as if it were his beating heart. My hands walked the very fine line of overly clenched and perfectly still. Ben screamed down, “ How much rope?!” I called back, “about 15 meters”. At this point he was long out of site and the rope hadn’t moved in a minute. My mind raced with the possibilities of his actions. Was he setting up an anchor? Was he stuck? After what felt like an eternity, the rope began to move again, slowly but surely. A few minutes later after a halt in movement, he called down, “OFF BELAY!”. By the sound in his voice, I knew we had made it. All that was left to do was for me to follow the pitch that didn’t look so terrible on top rope. I climbed about 100 feet through a good crack system to the top of an overhang. From here, I saw where Ben had run into the issue. He grinned down to me as my head popped over the overhang and laughingly said something along the lines of “good luck”. I took my pack off (now loaded with about 30 pounds of gear) and attached it to my rear gear loop). After taking a few deep breaths I started climbing up the giant, awkward offwidth crack. My movement was horrid and Ben kept me as tight as possible as I awkwardly removed gear from the crack while dangling off his belay. It felt as if I was carrying a small child up the crack as the bag pulled on my ass and caused my stomach distress. After a few powerful moves and some help from a friend, I gained the top of the crack and we both smiled as if we just escaped punishment from a crime. We took a minute to talk about the intensity of the previous pitch before finishing the fifth class pitch with some fun simul climbing to the summit. We were overjoyed. Our goals were entirely checked off, the weather was gorgeous, and we were elated from the (lack of oxygen in the air, extreme lack of nutrition, lack of water) joy of the climb.

We spent some time on the summit to soak in our last adventure for the foreseeable future.

We rigged up the familiar rappel after the slowest rappellers in the world (“seattle crew”) packed up shop at the base. Our descent was riddled with knotty ropes and humorous exchanges that I can attribute to our exhaustion.  We packed up, hiked home, and fell over with joy. Buttery mac and cheese with choice meats dripped down our throats. We were kings who had conquered the land. The cold, wind and snow had not put as much as a dent in our souls. We were unbreakable. We survived.

The next day came and went with little memory except the repulsive fragrances coming off of our packs. As Leave No Trace devotees, we carried out our waste as would any fecal proprietor. This meant a bit of distance in between us as we trudged through the scree fields, steep descents and onto the flat meandering path to the car.

And that, my friends, is how the winds called us home.

[go-further-explore]

A Skillet Attempt 4.11.15/4.12.15

I write to you in a state of deflation. Not because of strength and not because of weakness. Sometimes Mother Nature steers you in a direction where you have no choice but to fold the cards and watch the hand get played out. Spring weather in the mountains is a game of Russian roulette with the unknown lingering just on the other side of the mountains. Sometimes the forecast isn’t as reliable as you had hoped… this was one of those days.

This day, however, was different than the countless other days of getting turned around this season. We were underprepared. Like heading to college without having tasted a beer.  That kind of underprepared. I shot a text message to my buddy Vince the night before as I was about to pass out (at 8:30pm). It read something like “skin out to skillet 2mrw and ski Sunday AM?” And I went to bed. When I woke up I saw his response and immediately responded, “so are we a go?” He said, “I’m in.” We decided to shoot for 2 oclock at the backcountry permit office and go from there.            

Well, as it turns out, Vince was involved in a going away party for a couple of interns at his place of work.  Thus, his condition was on the wrong side of not having tasted a beer. As vince lives in the boondocks of Kelly, WY, it was soon clear he would have to come into town to rent crampons and get grub for the trip. We met up at around 1pm at my place to go over gear, create a *mental foodlist, and pack up the car. We were on our way to the grocery store after a short while and picked up some food for the night. Then in no particular order: We forgot breakfast items on our mental foodlist (which we didn’t realize until at the String Lake TH… 7mi into our trip), turned around at the elk refuge to go back into town for ski straps to strap to the bikes, and get snack bars that Vince forgot at the grocery store.

Well, We still arrived at the permit office around 230  and obtained a permit with minimal questioning by the ranger.

Accordingly, we packed up and were on the open road. Well, actually it’s a closed road that is plowed for the month of April and only open to human powered traffic. (makes for very nice, peaceful, pre Yellowstone gaper brigade.)

After 7 miles of biking with a 40-50lb overnight pack loaded with food, water, skis, crampons, ski crampons, ice axe, tent etc… We were at the String Lake TH and getting ready to transition for the skin out to the base of the Skillet Glacier on Mount Moran. We ran into some folks who just skied Mt. Woodring (a great spring objective), and they gave us a confused look when we said we were headed for the Skillet. (not the normal route to take this time of year, but neither of us were too into skinning over Jackson Lake.) Fortunately, we proved them wrong and made great time across the shores Leigh Lake and up through some dense vegetation that required some profanity, careful side stepping, and pulling ‘hitch hiker’ branches out of my ever so tangled and mangled curly locks.  

We made  it to camp. Jumping with joy (not literally due to the lack of bloodflow to my legs) we quickly set our minds to the next task at hand – getting the tent up before the snow and wind picked up any more than it already had.

Then, we cooked dinner and the meal was everything we could have imagined and then some. Though, in the front country, we would most likely have been repulsed by the aloo gobi/tuna/cous cous combo.  

Sleep was nice. Very nice. The driving wind and snow soothed us to bed as our wet skins hung silently above our heads on a makeshift drying rack in the tent.

We awoke at 330am… or did we ever fall asleep?

(post dusting the 3-4in off the tent and cleaning off our skis)

Here is where the weather forecasters got it all wrong. We awoke to 3+inches on the tent… at 7500ft. I don’t want to rag on these people, but it was quite deflating to have come about 12 miles and know right off the bat that we weren’t going to get very far before we had to stop due to avalanche concern. (at 12,600ft (summit) the snow would have been more like 10in+ and we late found out the winds were gusting at 60mph at 10,500 feet.) All this new snow sat upon a very slick and slippery sun/ melt-freeze crust.

So, we moved around for a bit, gained about 500feet in elevation, and turned around. And had an unbelievable morning on the Teton Magical sightseeing tour.

On a side note:

Throughout this trip I was haunted by the fact that as I enjoy myself (yet push myself to my physical limits), there are so many problems with the world. How is it fair that I am able to complain about the weather when people have far more to be concerned with? I couldn’t wrap my head around any answer, except to just take it all in and realize how fortunate I am to live in a place as inspiring as the Tetons. In particular, I couldn’t help thinking about a dear friend of my moms. I wont go into detail for her privacy, but she is very sick. Throughout the trip as the weather turned, as we realized we were short on food, as we slipped on the skin track, as our skins glopped with slushy snow, as we pushed ourselves… it was her strength that brought me home, and it brought me home safely. Every time one of those mishaps occurred, she was with me. She guided me through the ups and downs and kept a smile on my face throughout. She made me continuously realize how fortunate I am to even have the opportunity to seek my little adventures. She kept me conscious of all the beauty around me, and all the little joys that I might normally pass up as I tune out to try and beat the physical and mental battle. Her strength, and her fight… I have no idea how hard it is. But I can admire and I can strive to achieve that strength. So as you sit back and relax, try and think of someone who provides strength for you, and thank them.

 -Benja

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Grand Teton 3-14-15

Months in the making In seeking adventure we succeed For the grandest gift the Tetons have to offer The summit shakes our souls And we are freed.

Sometime in February Ben and I were talking about plans for the coming spring. Ben looked at me and said, “I need something big.” I put my mind in sixth gear and stepped on the gas. Ideas were racing through my head. The unique aspect of the Teton mountain range is that each peak has so many different options to offer, most of which are not even conceivable to the untrained eye.  We talked about a line off of Mt. Moran called “The Skillet”, which we have had our eyes on for over a year. Last spring/summer we unfortunately couldn’t make the trip happen so we decided to start thinking about the future sooner rather than later and let another spring season slip away.

I thought upon the notion very heavily. My mind and body were in full training throughout the end of February. On a seemingly uneventful day, where I skinned up Snow King Mountain in town, the ice park beckoned. I called up Ben a few days later, after some research into this little unknown gem in town, and told him, “Well… we have to climb ice if were going to climb the Grand Teton!” If anyone took to the idea, it was him. He was ecstatic to try ice climbing for the first time. We met up a couple of days later… fibbed the exum guides into telling them we had an idea as to what we were doing (though I had only ice climbed once before, and I was absolutely terrible).  Quickly it became apparent that we were ‘gapers’ in the world of ice climbing. Exum guide Tom saw we knew how to belay and rock climb so he started giving us tips on how to shift our thinking towards ice movement rather than big reachy rock movement. Ben took better to this idea than I did. After all, my flexibility is one of my best climbing traits, so how could I give that up? The night ended with hastily built fires burning in rings around the picnic tables in the ice park. Ben was beaming with excitement as we had just climbed some of the falls that were much harder than what was to be expected on the grand. Though neither of us knew how to place an ice screw, nor lead climb on ice, a plan was starting to come together.

With the exception of Love Adventure calls from above And lures me unlike anything imaginable Enticing as the sweetest fruit on a tree Quite far fetched, almost blind to see

The beginning of March settled in with what was becoming the usual warmth of spring in the Tetons. High pressure, blue bird days came and went. Green light objectives were becoming the norm. Day in and day out I was blasting my body with big days in the National Park.  I happened to glance at my phone on the night of March 6th and find a text message from Ben that simply read,” Grand Teton. March 15th.” I responded immediately with the word “deal” and it was on.  Finally, the dream was starting to become a reality. We started a quick thinking, emotionally charged exchange of text messages in a group message with a third mate of ours Ben3. Mother nature sometimes doesn’t like to cooperate so we decided on setting an objective timeline of 3 days. This gave us flexibility due to weather, snow conditions, and any other outside forces that could cancel the mission. Ben3 had a tight work schedule so the only day that would work for him would be Sunday the 15th. The exchange culminated in a recon mission into the North Fork of Garnet Canyon that would occur in the following days.

A few days passed and Ben hit a series of unfortunate setbacks with work and play. I went over to the village on the Sunday before our big weekend to watch him race in the Dicks Ditch competition that he won in the amateur division a few years ago. He hadn’t been skiing much due to overworking and a looming completion date for his master’s thesis. Due to all these factors and then some, he didn’t race as well as he would have hoped, but that didn’t deter him from our underlying goal.  He looked at me and said, “ Well, that’s finally over. Time to focus on the Grand!” I constantly applaud this guy for his fortitude. Even still, his work schedule was packed with concrete so dense I thought I was going to lose him for the weekend later.

With no more time to get a recon mission in with Ben, I decided to get out there and get eyes on the objective without making a big fuss about it to my other partners. I started with skiing a route off of the Middle Teton with my buddy Derrik. I was wondering if he realized that I was so fixated on the neighboring behemoth of a mountain, the Grand Teton. I was gathering footage and keeping a careful eye on the various couloirs we would need to take up (though I couldn’t see the most technical pitch called the “Chevy” couloir). A few days later I went up with another buddy of mine to the Dike Snowfield to get an idea of how route finding would be getting to the Teepee Glacier under only the light of our headlamps and la Luna. It seemed easy enough as I was becoming more and more familiar with the area that I felt I could get to the Teepee with my eyes closed.  As we dropped into the Dike snowfield, just below the East face of the Grand Teton, I decided that I had the route finding part of the mission secured. The next best thing to do was rest. Unfortunately I dropped my in reach (SOS device) on the snowfield during our descent. I came as close as I could have to completely losing my mind when I found this out. I knew the repercussion was that I would have to go back up and get it the next day (which was already a planned rest day for my exhausted legs).

I decided that I might as well not waste an opportunity to get one more recon mission under my belt. I packed copious amounts of snack and h2o and woke up at 330am the next day. In a zombie-like haze, I managed to make it to the trailhead by 445 and set out for a mission under the stars. I took the exact same route to the Teepee Glacier as we would take in the coming days. The skin track was so glazed in the past weeks sun that it felt more like an ice rink than a snowfield. Fortunately I made great time and I arrived at the Teepee Glacier right behind a couple of guys who were going for the grand. I was bummed that I was forced to ski the ice, and wind blasted dike snowfield rather than follow them up to the Glencoe Col, but I knew my day would soon arrive. Needless to say, I did not find what I was looking for as a wet slide had taken out the skiers left side of the snowfield at some point in the afternoon after Ollie and I were long since back in safety of the valley below. The mission was not a complete failure though. I found that a few rather large wet slides had demolished the right flank of Spalding falls (which was my planned route up to the Teepee) and that the other group had realized this and solidified the boot pack that Ollie and I put in the day before to the left of the falls.

A journey that leads to another Is why we do what we do The hill continues anew And we grow through and through

By March 11th we realized that our weather window was slim. Sunday was calling for rapid warming; potential rain up high, and wind gusts exceeding 50mph. Saturday the winds would start brewing in the afternoon, but we were hoping to get off early enough to avoid such a breeze. Also, a partial cloud cover would keep the snowpack cooler and less vulnerable to wet activity that has been rampant in the Tetons. Ben3 was out.  Ben3 was our “lead ice” enthusiast, so the plans rapidly changed when he was forced to bail (not to mention we were really sad) Ben and I relayed a couple of texts and we were both still as committed as ever.

March 13th, Ben and I met up at my place and went over our gear stash. This included two newly acquired 19cm ice screws in mint condition that Ben splurged on at Teton Mountaineering.  The technical gear we decided on was as follows:

2 -8.1 60m twin ropes

2- 19cm ice screws

Set of various sized stoppers

6 alpine runners

2 sets of anchor building materials

Alpine harness

ATC, extra lightweight biners

2 hybrid-technical ice axes

12pt steel crampons

All of this gear was very weighty between the two of our packs but it would make for the safest passage for our first time on the Grand. After consolidation and the rest of our gear (water, food, layers, headlamps, avalanche gear) our packs weighed in at an embarrassingly high weight. The weight was going to slow us down but we felt comfortable with our timeframe and the amount of protection/safety we had with us. We packed most of it into my car and Ben headed home for dinner with the lady with the intention of meeting again in a few hours to make the trek up to the National Park.

Somewhere in there I put in a futile effort to sleep. 2 hours of shut eye and I awoke before my 1130pm alarm. I put a couple of breakfast burritos (made hours prior) in the oven, opened up my thermos and took a sip of coffee. My already queasy stomach did not take so kindly to the taste of the caffeinated beans.  Ben arrived at 1215am as planned and we loaded into my car as Van the man Morrison let us know that it was indeed a wonderful night for a moon dance.  We passed through town and giggled at the line outside the Cowboy bar, noting that most of the night owls evenings were also just starting! The 20-minute drive up to the park felt more like an eternity as we were trying to break out of dreariness. My calming playlist was not helping, as Elton took over and we both hummed to the tune of “Rocket Man”.( though neither of us know what he really says in the chorus… does anyone?) Finally at 1250 or so we arrived at the trailhead as Norah Jones ensured us that a “Sunrise” was to ensue.

By 1am we were all packed and departed the car, thinking we had an idea of the journey that lay ahead.  We slogged our way to Bradley lake in just under an hour and took a quick rest. Both of us felt under the weather. My stomach felt like a class four hurricane and Bens overall tiredness was culminating in one of the biggest days of his life. Needless to say that along with the miserably icy skin tracks from the recent rain we didn’t make record time up to the Meadows. We started what I thought was the bootpack that Ollie and I had set on Monday going up the North Fork of Garnett. Unfortunately, the wind had destroyed that bootpack at some point in the middle of the week and we were left with nothing but kicking our own steps into ice. My toes felt bruised after about 150 feet of kicking steps in with snowboard boots. We decided to put our planks back on with ski crampons. It took another hour or so until we were in the mouth of the Teepee Glacier. At this point I already was thinking pretty negatively about my legs, my stomach and if I could succeed at our goal. Ben could sense my mental and physical discontent and offered to take over the bootpack after we skinned as far as we could up the glacier.

Soon enough we were at the Teepee Col and stashing some gear that we would no longer need. A magnificent sunrise obscured by a series of low neon infused clouds now led the way so we ditched our headlamps. We also put our skis/boards together and ditched the skins and ski crampons. 

From here it was a short hike up to the very windy Glencoe Col traversing past the “Couloir of Death”, which hangs over a very large cliff. We took another break on top of the Col, and then another break just below at the mouth of the Stettner Couloir. Neither of said much. I think at one point Ben exclaimed, “ Well, we’ve made some progess in the last 30 minutes!” Though he was exaggerating as we had only traversed across the Cols and took three breaks in the process.

Though we were exhausted, our legs continued on without us. Ahead in the Stettner Ben and I took turns breaking trail on wind scoured snow. We got to the crux of the couloir, a bulge that had been sloughed into a very steep and icy narrow passage. I went up ahead and pulled off to a safe zone on the right as Ben made his way to me. 

At this point we were at the the lower part of the Chevy couloir that connects the famous “Ford-Stettner” route which we were to ski. With no anchor in site we decided to start soloing up to the ice bulge and see what kind of protection we could find.

Ben arrived first and called down to me that we were going to have to build an anchor to belay the lead climber up the ice. He plugged a couple of stoppers into a crack just below the first ice bulge and we made a quick, makeshift anchor. Ben looked at me with an eerie grin and said, “Rock, paper, scissors for lead?” My heart sank. I hadn’t really eaten since the breakfast burrito at the car and the small snacking that my stomach could take on the way up.  I doubted if I could even go any further. I looked at him and said “So winner…” and he quickly said, “Gets to lead!”.  It didn’t take much more than a second for me to say “Well, you bought the screws so If you want it, its yours.” I made sure he knew I was willing, if he didn’t want to, but I think he sensed my hesitation and grinned boldly as he exclaimed he was stoked to take the sharp end.

I uncoiled a 60m rope as Ben sorted through his protection. He tied in and quickly took off as neither of us had much feeling in our hands, or our entire bodies for that matter. The wind chill and lack of sun made life near unbearable. Ben made quick work on his first lead ever, and his second time ice climbing EVER. He looked like a pro through the first bulge, placing a screw and making fluid movements. 

He attached a couple of fixed stoppers above the bulge and made his way to the second move (potentially the crux of the pitch). He cautiously placed another screw in the bulge as his footing was lacking at best. Without hesitation he made a couple of quick moves on some sketchy ice and a few minutes later I heard a yell of “off belay”. 

I took him off belay as I knew he was safely attached to an anchor above and quickly followed up to him, removing the screws and runners on my way. We got to the second pitch in the Chevy and decided to simul climb the rest of the route up to the ford as the variable conditions and any fall in that type of exposure meant certain death.  We made quick work of the Chevy even though we were both chilled to the core from the wind and the conduction of ice cold steel through our hands and feet from the crampons and axes.

At the top of the Ford we stashed the remaining weight  (ropes and protection) securely to the anchor. We took a quick break although I still did not have an appetite and was becoming very shaky. Ben had put in all the work in the Chevy so It was my turn to take over for a minute. 

We both inched our way closer and closer to the top of the Ford before taking another break for food. I force fed myself a cliff bar and we both sipped on some icy water.

 Soon enough the power of chow started coursing through my body and I felt as strong as I had since getting to Bradley Lake about 10 hours earlier. It was my turn to contribute to the cause and I started hooting at hollering at Ben that the summit was a stones throw away (though it was actually a couple hundred feet) and we were going to make it. I rhythmically stepped in turns of 20 and then would take a break. 20->break->20->break. This went on and on until I reached a small, protected spot under the summit.

 Ben made his way up behind me and fell over when he reached the island of safety.

 He was utterly drained… and can you blame him? I didn’t have much either, but my stomach was feeling better and I was warming up due to the peaking sun. We took a quick break and I was able to eat a “Benja Ball” creation happily, as the tides had turned and Ben no longer had an appetite. After the break we decided to keep moving on for the next 40 or so feet to the summit.  The snow was scoured which led to easy bootpacking. Ben pulled over about 5 feet from the summit and graciously told me to get on up there. I told him I couldn’t as I felt he deserved the first views, but he stubbornly protested and I broke down in happiness as I tapped the summit marker with my axes.

We were elated. So tired. And full of adrenaline as the winds howled at gusts of over 50mph. We simply laid there for a few minutes taking in the beauty that Wyoming and Idaho have to offer. 13,775feet above see level, the second tallest mountain in Wyoming. We had done it. With skis and snowboard on our back none the less. 

We took classic summit shots and made a transition into ski mode. The consensus was that even though it was going to be very hairy and we would have to pick through a bunch of rock, we were going to ski from the summit. Ben dropped first and made a couple of jumping turns around some rock and picked his way through the upper bit.

 I followed and paid no attention to the exposure around me. I was so excited to finally be going downhill that my legs hit a new gear. I jumped and picked my way through a rock garden up high and we met up for some great, soft east face snow. I skied the east face to the top of the Ford. 

From there ben skied past me and made a few turns in the variable snow below. I leapfrogged past him and made turns to a safety zone as crusty slough pounded past me.

Ben took the final leapfrog down to the anchor and I met up with him.

We were both on a high that I cant really compare to anything else. We setup rappel and were quickly moving into the Chevy. After a couple of rappels we ended up at the Stettner again. 

From there, Ben skied to the choke but panic ensued when the tips and tails of his skis were the only part on snow as the sloughing of the upper Stettner left a rather large runnel right down the middle and we couldn’t pick through the choke. 

He timidly unclipped his skis and downclimbed a few feet. I had the scariest downclimb of my life through that bulge and broke myself a 1x1ft platform to strap in onto. We met up in the bottom of the Stettner, around the corner from harmsway, and were both extremely tired and happy to be through safely.

Elation at its purest form A high no drug can recreate The calm before the storm This place, our fate.

A snack break and we were back at it with a quick hike back up to the Glencoe Col.  At this point the wind was gusting and circling so hard that I went to urinate and actually peed on my face. The force of the wind pushed my urine in all directions. I didn’t even care. I was so tired. I laughed about it with Ben for a minute and we made our way to our gear cache to grab our skins, ski crampons, and headlamps. (More weight to our already destroyed backs). From there we made some decent turns on the Teepee Glacier and back into Garnet Canyon all the way down to Bradley lake, about 5,000 vertical feet or so.

In a blur we were back at the car in just over 15 and a half hours. Ben looked at me after limping into the passenger seat and said, “What’s next?”

[go-further-explore]

3-6-15

Fear

Stemming from the unknown A bird has flown Deeper and deeper You descend alone

Flight is a concept The reality not far From a trigger of solitude The illusion cut and marred

We shatter the notion We conquer the depths We take to the heights The abyss comes next

We choke and tear The now and here We find our minds are clear And destroy our fear.

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3-5-15

Derrik and I on the Middle Teton’s Dike Couloir-> Glacier Route 

Getting Steep in the couloir

Reaching the Dike Col 

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Another day in the Tetons (Chuter Buck day)

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SLIVER- FOUR HOUR 2.15.15

Sunday February 15, 2015

Derrik and I planned on getting into the park the night before. I had some trickery up my sleeve and was planning a bigger day than he expected. We met up at 7am at my house and made our way quickly up to Taggart Bradley. On the drive up we talked about our objective for the day and I mentioned to him that we might be able to catch the sliver on a corn cycle. He was stoked about the idea but we decided to bring the rope and harnesses as well just in case we might get ourselves into some other trouble if the sliver was occupied or hazardous. We hit the false summit of Shadow Peak after a very brisk skin up about 3,000+ vertical feet. We made quicker pace than expected as the GU Derrik brought was a turbo charger to my exhausted legs. We knew we were going to be the first up there since we broke trail through about 2 inches of fresh snow.

We transitioned our gear and headed down the backside of Shadow Peak in order to get closer to the sliver and make a final assessment. Everything was green lighted. Snow was starting to corn (still hardpack in places), the rock was just starting to see sun (no rockfall), and our legs were holding up.

 We strapped up crampons a safe distance from the mouth of the couloir and began bootpacking up. After about 1800 feet of climbing we reached the notch that holds the key to the Sliver couloir on the front side and East hourglass couloir on the back side.

 We quickly took off our spikes and ate some food knowing that waiting too long could mean dangerous rockfall from above. The skiing was great (minus a few crusty turns up top) and we made our way back up to Shadow Peak to link up with the Four Hour Couloir. 

The 4hr held great snow up top but we ran into old slough debris down low and it was like skiing over concrete basketballs. 

The split ski out of avalanche canyon and onto Taggart lake was uneventful but I was thankful that my whirlwind three days had culminated in success.

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MOONWALK- CHUTER BUCK 2.14.15

Saturday February 14, 2015

BenJ and I decided westill had the itch to get steep and deep but we didn’t have the legs for much. We decided on a 10am meetup at GVJ and made it up to the park by 1030 or so. We parked at the Taggart/Bradley TH geared up with too much “training weight”. We started up 25 short and after a slightly embarrassing slog with 30+lb packs  (yet again), we made it to the summit and were greeted by bluebird skies and HUGE views. We passes by Turkey Chute and took a peek in… it looked very wind scoured.  We continued on towards our objective of Moonwalk. The winds picked up at the top of the couloir and we transitioned as quick as possible. The ridge down had some good exposure over a cliff ban of a couple hundred feet on one side and the couloir on another. We opted to down climb the upper bit that was laden with rocks and bulletproof snow. 

I dropped first and took a look at a small shot higher on the ridge before thinking twice and taking the more obvious line. After a couple great turns on breaking wind crust I made it to a safe zone and awaited BenJ’s turns. He styled the upper bit and met up with me to talk about getting to Chuter Buck (our second objective of the day). I finished out Moonwalk on the apron below and waited for Ben in a safe zone.

Ben then skied all the way over across the canyon to Chuter Buck with minimal pole planting so I figured I could make it on my snowboard.

We dropped in and had our best turns of the day on the upper part of the couloir that is protected by a large rock prow on either side.

Our first rappel was a bit spicy as it was right above a 15 foot cliff and down into a very narrow passage. A fall above the first rappel would be more than costly. Regardless, we got through both rappels quickly and skied a fun apron out back to Taggart lake.

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APOCALYPSE COULOIR 2.13.15

Friday February 13, 2015

In the moment-

0445- Alarm rings. I wasn’t sleeping anyways. I start movingquickly, but in a fog of preconditioned and routine activities. Gear check- beacon, probe , shovel, harness, crampons, ice axe, helmet, goggles, water, food, cord, poles, boots, layers. Looks like I have everything I need. BenJ  is bringing 2- 30m half ropes, ice screw, and an assortment of anchor building material. BenR is bringing anchor building material and an optional 60m rope. My brain hums with to the beat from overexcited nerves. QUICKER- BenR will be here in 15 minutes to pick me up! Coffee is made, caffeine immediately begins coursing through my system to add to this seismic cerebral awakening. Bathroom break. Back to it, cereal and milk… breakfast of champions?

0500- BenR pulls up. I start loading my gear into the hallway as not to awaken the sleeping beauty in the next room. We load up and the old man is listening to NPR which is hurting my head due to the fact that I am thinking. Thinking, at this time, is a serious offense to my brain. Lack of sleep has caught up with me and I am purely a physical machine right now. Loaded and off we go. We pull into Gros Ventre Junction, our meeting point. Old Tacoma headlights are blazing a trail towards us through the vast western darkness. “This must be BenJ “, I say. Sure enough we time it perfectly and are begin loading quickly. On the open road yet again we are heading north towards our favorite playground. Norah Jones “Sunrise” calms our overexcited nerves.

0540- We arrive at the Death Canyon trailhead and start gearing up. The ominous name preludes the death of  a Teton skiing legend who died in an avalanche in the very couloir we are planning to ski just a couple of years ago. The apocalypse couloir… a name we hope not foreboding. The three of us have been eyeing this couloir for a long while now and the conditions seem stable and ripe for the picking.

 And the journey Began-

0600- We started the refrozen skin track under a blanket of stars and began our arduous journey towards Prospectors Mountain. After a long, dark hour the sun began to break over “Sleeping Indian” in the Gros Ventre Range due east. This was a fitting start to the beginning of our true ascent up to the Apocalypse.

1000- By 10am we were at the mouth of the Apocalypse couloir with big views of the Tetons all around us. A grim wind gusted and the sweat on our backs started to cool. Goosebumps were rampant as we knew the conditions were safe and we would begin our decent very shortly. We started to uncoil the ropes and tie the ends together so we could rappel the craggy entrance to the first anchor hidden in the darkness below. 

BenR went down first, followed by myself, and BenJ was in on cleanup duty. We all reconvened at anchor number one and realized we would need at least two more rappels due to our choice of 30m half ropes. Soon enough we had one three rappels and were offered the safety of a snow cave high up in the couloir.

Pictures are worth a thousand words-

1100- We dropped into an interesting wind packed powder mix. In leapfrogging fashion, we all met at safe points through the first pitch.

The elevator pitch proved to be very steep and fairly narrow. Our best turns were had…

A few open but steep shots laid ahead and we passed through rather quickly.

The Ice fall is really what makes this couloir so special. We had the beta from a friend who skied it the day before and he said we could side step the narrows (or side slip for me on a snowboard). BenR led the cavalry and carefully picked his way through blue ice and a lot of exposure. Once through, the warming of the rock was producing slough and cornice failure the size of houses. We exited the apron as quick as possible surfing all sorts of avalanche debris, wind buff, and occasional Teton powder pockets.

Success!!! The exit through the mouth of death canyon lead to some exciting split skiing and we made it to a nice snow beach by Phelps lake by 1245pm for some much deserved lunch and rest.

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Good day.  Story below :) 

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Alone in the Wild

5pm December 6th- hung up and decided it was still on. My buddy wasn’t up for the long day anymore, but I had my heart set on getting into the high Tetons. I packed up my gear and prepared for a very long solo ascent with about 25 pounds attached to my unthankful back. Night came and went under a hazy recollection of dreams and bladder control. 6am and the alarm blared. My mind was running, per usual, and I hopped out of bed. I greeted my mouth with some leaping lemurs (a delicious array of peanut butter and chocolate ‘puffs’), downed some chocolate milk and took Keeks to work.

I arrived at the park at 7am. I was already packed so it took me about 15 minutes to get my boots and and motivate to face the trek ahead. A group of Potato baggin (ID plate) hoodlums appeared in a Toyota minivan as I was gathering my gear. They blasted ear aching rap and passed a joint around in the parking lot. I quickly left as to make sure they were aware of my disapproval.

720am December 7th- The day was off to a rough start when my skin on my right board fell off 3 times in the first 100yds. I gathered myself, mentally of course, and continued on my way up the familiar terrain ahead.

815am- My first obstacle was the very questionable (frozen?) Bradley lake. I was not about to cross over the glacial watering hole due to the recent weather. Temperatures at about 6500ft have been above freezing for most of the week. So I skirted a near 45degree icy skin path that someone had so graciously set. I skirted around the lake and ended up in the mouth of Garnet Canyon. From here I was left to fend for myself, for a LONG skin ahead. I started gaining elevation and quickly started to feel my early season legs, my dilapidated lungs, and my increasing lack of mental fortitude. I decided that I would take picture breaks and pretend like they didn’t count as ‘true’ breaks. With this quick but brilliant logic, my rests were instantaneously doubled!

1045am- At this point I have already taken a ‘lunch break’ where I munched on a bar that was new to my snack arsenal. I didn’t think too much of the title of the bar at the store but noticed that it was loaded with carbs and protein. Big mistake. The ‘Think Thin’ bar was absolutely offensive to my unassuming taste buds. Milk Chocolate Toffee ended up tasting like whey protein that was just shat out by a cow. I took a mental note that reads something like this “stick with what you know, because your taste buds are screaming at you YO! Get that ______ (insert expletive here) out of my tasting zone, it’s the main throne and youre bringing in these shit dropping drones?”

I forgot to mention, that at this point I was taking a picture break to get some beta for days/weeks to come of the west/east hourglass couloir off of Nez Perce. This picture break turned out to be about 20 minutes of me standing around with frozen toes and a breath heavier than Bill Clintons after he didn’t inhale.

1155am- The past hour has been an absolute struggle up icy 40 degree terrain which has paved way to wind affected boulder fields. I strap my split boards my pack and begin a long and arduous bootpack on slippery, rime-laden rock. My legs are screaming at me, I forgot my salami sandwich, my nose may have fallen off around 1045am, yet I am a state of utter tranquility. No words are being exchanged between myself, and I am content with the progress of the trip.

1255pm- I am in the thick of the SW Couloir. The clouds part way to the heavenly terrain above. The first time I have seen this beauty up close and naked in about a year. Rewind: I am talking about the Middle Teton. The high Tetons are showing their curves through the layer of precipitous matter as I gain elevation of about 12,000 feet. The South Teton with her rime sparkling in the midday sun. The summit Middle Teton looks like it was just transported on a semi from Buffalo, NY. My eyes would be fried in minutes without glasses as the ice and snow reflect the UV Rays that the sun is so graciously sending down. The radiant heat thaws my toes and softens the slabby snow pack. Each step and I am knee deep in some transported snow and my legs are violently shaking. I am alone, tired, and unsure of my next moves. Regardless of all that, Im about to ski some good ole Teton corn and I am going to love it. I move towards the very flank of the couloir and attempt to start mixed climbing on some rock and ice. I make very technical moves for the next 50 feet until I round the corner and am starting at the summit Notch.

115pm- I hit a notch in the SW Couloir where I ditch my snowboard and my backpack as I have decided that I am not a gargoyle and cannot ski through rock. This, again, is assuming we are talking about the gargoyles that live in the caves below the Tetons and are proficient on their ancient rock skis…. Not the ones in the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  I decide I want to bag the summit without my snowboard and start up a VERY narrow and rocky stairway. A couple of crampon infused hand foot matches on large chokestone boulders and I am about 20 feet from the summit notch. My crampons literally squeal as they try and stick in the densely formed ice.

145pm- I make a decision that I have made in the past. I am going to turn around. Heartbreaking. Yet, something inside of me still feels proud as I have come all this way. I am so close! But,  I have left the summit on the table for another adventure. I am closer than last year, and this time it was only my legs and my heart leading the way. The last stretch of the couloir was literally just rock covered in ice. My calves burned out about 500 feet prior, but my will to succeed did not.

2pm-  After a very quick, and slightly sketch down climb, I made it back to my gear. I sprawl out onto my backpack and dig my face into the snow. I am about to make my descent. I have accomplished the day’s goal and the payoff awaits.

210pm I shredded the deep corn snow of the upper couloir and am now traversing/ side stepping back down to the next skiable snow field. I get into the snowfield and strap back into my board. The next 15 turns are great snow in a 45 degree face below the clouds. I get to the very steep area above where I started my bootpack into the couloir and make a decision to try and aim down the same line I came up. Mom- stop reading here.  I don’t think twice about skiing the steep face to meet and greet with the boulders below and I drop in. This is where the variability of the snow almost handed me a VERY bad day. I shred just left of my boot line on the other side of a wind affected ripple and hit a sheet of ice. Im talking Titanic sinker… Caption: OH SHIT IM GOING DOWN! I try to lay a heel side edge in and slam on the breaks. The edge isn’t holding. I have a go pro in one hand and an ice axe in the other. I am doing what Ill call the Benja SAver (Self Arrest or its over) My pick is literally bouncing off the ice and my edge is still sliding. I am headed straight for a boulder field that is approaching 40 degree pitch. Finally, My pick digs in and I flip over to toe side to save my slide. I am in the boulder field.

230pm-  I am traversing across, crampons once again attached to my boots. My goal is to finish my run with the lurking Cave Couloir below. In order to get there I have to boot through a rock/ice field of about 200 yards. I get through without incident and drop into the heavily wind affected couloir. Staying to the skiers right I find great, fast turns.

320pm- After snowboarding-> split skiing-> snowboarding the nearly 6000 vertical feet to the mouth of Garnet I am back at the west end of Bradley lake and ready to tackle the disgusting skin track ahead. I stop occasionally to snap photos of the Tetons and reflect on the events that just unfolded. I arrive to the car at 4pm overly excited that I am unscathed and my dignity is mostly intact. I take off my boots and put on my shoes as my socks are drenched from snow and cold. I start up my engine and depart for Jackson, the last of the old west. 

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The day started with chai tea and cocoa crispy cereal. The day ended with a bowl of chili, grilled cheese and two pieces of raspberry jelly toast. 4+ miles of touring on flat but undulating terrain, then nearly 3000 feet of vertical gain to reach the summit of 25 short. The name stems from the elfin geographical characteristics. Elfin, of course, being a relative term for short 25 feet short of 10,000 feet. The day was filled with moose prints, cedar wax wing birds, squirrels, deer, elk, and great grey owls! Overall, it was a great day but very exhausting... as I am sure you can tell in my writing. Cheers all!

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We hiked up Mt. Glory to the summit. 80+mph gusts blew ice particles into our eyes. The biting cold wind giving us brain freezes. We were in the right spot.