Things we didn't evolve with

The shower is a great place to get some thinking done. White noise to block everything else out; warm, meditative environment. My shower-thinking sessions are particularly stellar when I've been camping and climbing or skiing a lot, and haven't had a shower in a while...

These days, one of my favorite shower-thinking topics-of-choice is our society's unhealthy relationship with health. After reading an article titled "Dietary lean red meat and human evolution" by Neil Mann some years ago, I started to consider our "diet fads" in light of evolution. That is to say, since evolution occurs over millions of years, how can this brand new product, promising to lower your blood cholesterol! can possibly solve problems we didn't have only a few centuries ago -- problems that, interestingly, have only arisen in the same time period as their supposed solutions. Considering a longer timeline could give us insight into what our bodies are actually evolved to digest, and therefore how to nourish ourselves, not just feed ourselves.

Perhaps the invention of margarine could be considered the spark that ignited decades of research, theories, and myths about the health benefits and detriments of various items in our diet, both natural and otherwise.

Debate has whirred around the various nutrition fads for decades, if not more. As one gains favor, others are forgotten. And as things re-appear on our grocery mart shelves, we forget to ask where they came from in the first place.

I guided Norman up Mt. Whitney this past September, taking the long way around via Cottonwood Pass to the south. We had many very interesting discussions, and I came to see that many nutrition myths can be deciphered using a lot of common sense and a bit of scientific study.

What does it meant to be hydrogenated, for example? In the process of hydrogenation, food chemists add hydrogen atoms to a certain molecule of fat in order to alter its physical state: add more hydrogen atoms to a fat that is normally liquid at room temperature, and it will now be solid at room temperature. This is useful when you want to use cheaper oils to do the job butter is supposed to do.

But the new structure, with carbon molecules now saturated with hydrogen atoms, is devoid of the high-energy double bonds between carbon molecules -- reducing the energetic benefit we incur upon digestion.

And all the current hype (or rather, anti-hype) about trans fats? When a certain fat molecule is heated, it reaches a point at which its structure is strained, and flip-flops into what's called the trans form of the molecule. The consequence: your body's enzymes, specifically designed to attach to the naturally-occurring form of this fat molecule, will no longer be able to attach to the fat molecule, meaning your body cannot break it down.

In much the same way, scientists have been looking at the role of grain in our diet, and are finding that our bodies are rather ill-equipped to digest seeds, which have become a major part of our diet in just a few thousand years -- not enough time for our gut to evolve to digest it.

So what should we eat? Things we can hunt and gather: lean meats, and seasonal fruits, vegetables, some seeds. But of course, we couldn't sustain the whole world with this strategy, and that gets to a whole other issue.

As I was scrubbing away, washing the grime that had built up after days of skiing and camping, I started listing other things we haven't evolved with: cars, television, soap...

Does evolution explain the deer's classic "deer-in-the-headlights" look when facing sure death by car? Freezing in place might fool a mountain lion, but not a car.

Then there are the Dene women of way northern North America who become emotionally tied up in the lives of their favorite soap opera characters -- because the only people they know are real ones, not fake ones who exist solely in a lighted box.

And it hit me. Did prehistoric man use soap? Soap must have come after the domestication of animals, when people combined animal and vegetable fats with other things to cleanse themselves. But certainly they weren't using detergents such as sodium lauryl sulfate?

All I know is that my skin and hair feels best after a week of bathing in mountain streams. And now, post-shower, my skin is dry and scratchy. I think Evolution is telling me to spend more time in the mountains.

Sprinter Killer

It has been suggested that I have a Sprinter curse on me, perhaps more to insist that the deaths were not my fault; but the fact remains that it was I who drove the Sprinters into the delivery van underworld. Two, to be exact, in a six month period.

April, it arrived smoking. Dave and I were renting a Sprinter van, much like his own, but outfitted for passengers. We were taking a group of clients to climb Picacho del Diablo, the highest peak in Baja California, and were going to drive everyone from San Diego. We had them drop the van off at my brother’s house in east county. He lives on a hill. After several other hills. A hill much like several in San Francisco – difficult to walk up (especially in flip flops where you fall out the back), and if you drive a tall vehicle (like my ’85 4Runner) you might wonder if you’re going to tip over backwards. But you just drop into first and eventually you get there.

The mechanics advised us that the smoke was just some excess oil burning off and that the van was serviced and ready to go on our Baja adventure.

With that, we were on our way to pick everyone up, and drive across the border.

Our first stop was at Dave’s dad’s winery and inn, where we would spend a lovely afternoon wine tasting, enjoy a gourmet dinner, get a good night’s rest, and be on our way early the next morning: into the wild mountains and pine forests uphill from San Vicente.

Uphill.

Driving in Baja has always rated an adventure, even after all the years I have been driving through. The random unmarked topes (speed bumps) on the highway threaten to flatten your shocks in one distracted moment; the absent shoulder on the narrow, windy roads, compounded with a steep drop off the pavement, could make one tiny swerve disastrous. It’s not a casual driving experience. One could even call it a sport.

The roads up to Parque Nacional San Pedro Martir are no exception: narrow, windy, and now with steep dropoffs on a grade that would again be difficult to walk up in flip flops.

And we were in the largest Sprinter van made.

The van stalled. But it’s an automatic transmission. I started it up again, and dropped it into second gear to try to keep more power on the uphills. It stalled again. Then white smoke started leaking out of the dashboard. Then pouring.

A pull out. The first one I’ve seen in miles. We duck into it, turn off the engine, pop the hood. White smoke is pouring out of the engine block. Bad news.

We manage to turn the van around and coast downhill to a ranch we new about. A ranch that would become home for a couple of days as we finagle a van swap to try for the parque nacional again.

Fortunately for us, the new van was a Ford. Sprinter curse: irrelevant. Now it was in the hands of a poor, misinformed Argentinian exchange student working for the rental company with instructions to drive it back to San Diego (he had no idea the cab was filling with fumes). And our second attempt at the parque nacional (and summit!) proved a resounding success with minimal time lost.

***

Four months later…

Dave was guiding in Europe, and I was van-sitting. Our friend and fellow guide, Lynette, would be piling in for the drive from Shasta (where we were working) to Bridgeport, where we had a week long backpacking trip to guide. All was normal, and the Sprinter was running great. I remembered noticing a slight loss of power, but we had an unusual amount of gear and all of Lynette’s home in the van (she was to be moving to Truckee after the trip), so I assumed it was just straining a bit to haul it all around.

And the check engine light was on – but it had been for two years, so that was nothing new. Carson Dodge said it was nothing to be concerned about.

Then the oil light came on. I picked up some Delo, stopped for a milkshake, and checked the oil. It was indeed a little low. I topped it off, stashed the remaining oil, and we were off.

I came out for a resupply during the trip, and repeated the milkshake and oil routine, now becoming a little concerned. I checked for a leak, but could find nothing. I text Dave in Europe to ask him where I can take it, but there’s no one for miles. I drive back to the trailhead to restock the group and finish the trip, and decide to drive it south after the trip, keeping an eye on the oil level, knowing that I would be getting closer to some diesel specialists in Bishop.

And then power started to decline rapidly, the oil light flashed on, and a glance in the side mirror revealed black smoke billowing out from underneath the van.

I pulled over and shut off the engine. Seriously bad news. Thankfully I have AAA – so we had the Sprinter loaded onto a mondo tow truck and carried to Bishop. I spent some time with friends troubleshooting (because of course this all went down on a Friday evening, and no mechanics there work weekends). We thought of several possibilities, perhaps it was a leak somewhere and the smoke was just the leaked oil burning off. Nothing added up except the worst possible scenario: that whatever it was, it was bad, because we couldn’t figure it out.

The next week we got it in to the Sierra German Auto shop. The owner hooked it up to a diagnostic machine and told us a piston was burned. What did that mean? How expensive is it to fix?

You need a new engine.

Read: expensive. And time-consuming. Not to mention it’s really hard to find an engine for these things, given how new they are.

So it took several months to even find an engine, another month to work out the payments and shipping, and now we are back at Dave’s dad’s Inn in Baja while the mechanic puts it all together, escaping the cold until we have the van back and can get back to our lives of climbing and skiing in the eastern Sierra Nevada.

Two people trying to live out of an old 4Runner, complete with climbing, skiing, and guiding gear, just was not going to work. Especially in the winter. Forget peeing in the middle of the night with the frost fusing the automatic window shut (that’s the easiest exit in these vehicles, especially with the front stuffed with all our gear).

We have started the final countdown, and expect to have the van back by the end of next week.

But I don’t think I’ll be allowed behind the wheel for a while.

If Pico de Orizaba were to erupt

If you have seen the 2008 version of 2012: Doomsday (not the same as the 2012 that just hit theaters, featuring John Cusack), you might have seen the most spectacular display of embarrassing special effects ever to exist in the movie industry.

The movie largely takes place in central Mexico, and shows scientists studying the volcanic activity in the region, with Pico de Orizaba erupting in the background. (It then goes on to muddle the regional history, showing Mayan artifacts they somehow found in the Aztec's central Mexico.)

Really, the eruption was just a cheesy cardboard cutout with a candle burning behind it -- fumes billowing out at a rate of speed that would implicate the presence of a super-vacuum sucking them up into the sky.

Having climbed next to an erupting volcano, I must call their bluff.

***

Dave and I flew down to Mexico City on November 7th, with two back-to-back volcano trips lined up and some serious fine dining to do.

Our first trip was with Andrey and Victoria from Vancouver, B.C. and Emilia and Gary from L.A. Sort of. Except that Andrey was really from Bulgaria (and has great stories from his days working in a tomato processing plant when Bulgaria was part of the communist Eastern Bloc); and Emilia and Gary were both Armenians who spent much of their lives in Russia and met in Los Angeles.

I love my job. Guiding turns up people from the most fascinating walks of life.

As the trip got started, conversation wandered from the healthcare debate (Victoria is a pediatrician in Canada, and has found many advantages in her country's public healthcare system, where everyone gets the same coverage), to communism, to mountaineering.

Gary and Emilia had just gotten married the day before they flew to Mexico City. This trip was their honeymoon -- and, I do believe, the first newlyweds I have ever guided! Emilia had only started hiking this year, and generally prefers to wear high heels, so this would be a very new experience for her. From hiking Mt. Whitney only a month prior to climbing an 18,500ft snowy volcano with us would be quite a jump. And Emilia climbed as if it was her second nature, a smile quick to emerge at any point. Finally, at 18,000ft, we got a complaint out of her: "Well, I'm a little tired." No surprise at 9am when we've been up for 8 hours already. Phew, she's human.

The climb went smoothly for the most part; unfortunately, Victoria was hit hard by the altitude just above 15,000ft. We found out a day later that her acclimation had been largely curbed, and her altitude symptoms exacerbated, by a cold. But she toughed it out as long as she could, and the moment she recognized that the pace she needed in order to feel halfway decent as we climbed, would not be a pace that would get her or anyone else to the summit that day. A very hard but admirable decision on her part. I scrambled back down the scree with her to get her back to the hut, and decided to try to catch up to the rest of our party in order to assist Dave who now had a larger rope team.

I managed to catch the team at the crater rim, allowing us all to summit together. The weather was impeccable, and we enjoyed several minutes relaxation on the summit.

***

Our second trip was with three friends from Nevada City, California (northwest of Lake Tahoe). Tom and Rob work together in geotechnical engineering, and Peggy, Tom's wife, is a nurse. This trip would also include Iztaccihuatl at 17,000ft as an acclimating peak.

La Malinche was again first on tap for our acclimation regimen, and we were again accompanied by five or so dogs to the summit.

We then drove up to the hut on Izta, which lies at approximately 13,000ft. Here we spent a day acclimating (read: reading, watching movies, sleeping, eating, wandering around aimlessly, and just generally trying not to do anything too active) before heading off at 2am for the summit.

Izta is more of a very long hike than a climb, per se. As such, it is not the most technically interesting volcano to climb, but with Popo erupting in the background (and closed to climbing for the time being), it is by far the most scenic and geologically fascinating, complete with dulled thud sounds in the distance.

I learned much about the anatomy of a volcano on this climb. Rob and Tom were able to point out old flows and plugs, eying ribs of basalt that reveal where the lava flowed into the volcano -- now uncovered by centuries of erosion.



Despite the threatening clouds we saw move through on our rest day, we had impeccable weather for our summit day, and spectacular views from Mexico City to Pico de Oriazaba, our next (and final) goal.

With the successful ascent of Pico de Orizaba, Tom and Peggy would complete their goal of reaching 18,000ft or above on every continent (excluding those without peaks so high). So, with mountains such as Russia's Elbrus, another high peak in the Andes, and Kilimanjaro already under their belt, they were well prepared for Pico de Orizaba.

Orizaba was yet another smooth summit day with this team. Rob excelled on his first high altitude climb, smiling the whole way. And the consensus on the difficulty of the climb: more difficult than Elbrus, and generally a physically demanding climb due to the variation -- from scree hiking to rock scrambling (where there used to be glacier coverage only 20 years ago!) to steep snow climbing.

But perhaps the best part of the 9-day course is our stay in Puebla. Between Izta and Orizaba, we have a full rest day in Cholula and Puebla, and a very healthy appetite. Puebla is at the heart of mole poblano country, and a very cosmopolitan city rich with complex and fascinating histories. The ideal contrast to the demanding nature of the climbs, and an adventure in exploration in its own right.

***

Our next trip will be another 9-day Mexico Volcanoes climb beginning January 2nd. Until then, we'll be taking advantage of the slowest month of the year, out on the rocks and the slopes -- on a "professional development retreat," if you will.

Halloween on Matterhorn Peak

It's fun to track your own whereabouts, year by year, by remembering where you were for a certain holiday.

Last year on Halloween I was walking the strip in Vegas with 4 French friends visiting from the Alps. Dave and I had taken them on a climbing road trip to Red Rock Canyon, a stellar climbing area 20 minutes north of the city.

The year before that, I was dressed up as a 1980s sport climber in my house in San Diego, with many of my closest friends nearby.

And the year before that, I was sitting in a bar in Grenoble, France, my own home in the Alps. It's amazing how much your life can change in a year. Or two. Or three. And then seem to come full circle.

This year, I was cozy in a tent beneath the moonlit profile of Matterhorn Peak. In the mountains again.

With Dave's van in wait of a new engine, we've been sharing my truck, which makes logistics a little tricky at times. So rather than driving circles around the mountains, I decided to join him on an intro to mountaineering course he was giving up on Matterhorn Peak. For me, it would be a good way to scope the route for when I may be guiding it this winter.

We met Dave's client, Matthew, at the Westin in Mammoth Lakes the night before the course was set to begin. We whisked him off to Tamarack Lodge for dinner -- hands down the best restaurant I have ever known in my life (run by a French chef, bien sûr!). We discussed some of Matt's goals for the trip, and decided to do a day of rock climbing skills the first day, then head up Matterhorn Peak the next two.

October had been a weird month for the Sierra Nevada. Early in the month, we had one decent-sized snow storm (enough that Mammoth Mountain opened for a few days!), followed by warm weather (Mammoth Mountain closed), and then another storm that dumped 4 feet of snow in the high country.

The result: crusty newer snow over a layer of bulletproff, ice-like snow. The type of snow you need crampons in to avoid slipping and sliding, but the moment you put them on, they get clogged with the soft snow on top. Walking is therefore punctuated by the soothing ting ting of ice axes whacking crampons. Lovely.

To make it worse, the snow was only knee to waist deep, making it treacherous to navigate around talus (a field of large boulders), as one would frequently posthole into trapped airspaces around the boulders. Ideal.

So we dropped the thought of even attempting the summit, found an acceptable snow slope, and got in a bunch of cramponing and footwork techniques, as well as self-arrest practice. Beautiful weather made for a highly enjoyable day, despite being foiled by the conditions.

At lunch, in an attempt to reclaim the feeling of glory associated with bagging a peak, and make the most of the marginal snow conditions, we staged a snowball-rolling war. Step one: form snowball. Step two: toss snowball up slope. Step three: hope that as it rolls downhill, it will pile on more snow. The winner is the one with the biggest snowball when it rolls to a stop.

Matt not only mastered footwork and self-arrest techniques in lightning speed, he also mastered the art of snowball rolling, and currently holds the title of Cinnamon Roll Snowball Master of the Matterhorn Peak Snowball-Rolling Championships.

Lonely in Lone Pine

I don't solo.

But soloing and bouldering don't appear much different to someone who doesn't rock climb.

And I do boulder, sometimes. Nothing serious, but just enough to have fun and stay in shape when I need to.

In November, Lone Pine, the gateway to Mount Whitney, is transitioning from slow season to absolutely dead season. The hikers are gone, the climbers have moved south, and the seasonal bohemians have gone back to work. So I assumed my brief visit to Lone Pine would be some long-awaited but not-so-needed down time. So my feelings were mixed.

I wandered into the outdoor store in Lone Pine to try on some shoes I've been looking at for a while, kill some time. The owner is from Joshua Tree, and always has some dirtbag climber-types kicking around the shop.

Except for the owner and myself, the shop was empty. Full of gear, begging of grand adventures -- but adventures that are not to come until next season.

Enter young man, climber-type. A very common species, but sightings are rare this time of year. And as all animals do, he sensed the presence of his own type. "Hey, you wanna go bouldering this afternoon?"

"Um, sure! I've got a few things to do. Meet you back here in an hour?"

"Perfect!"

"Okay, see ya!"

So I get my few things to do done and cruise back over to the shop. Dusty roads, the orange glow of backlit granite boulders, and I find myself in a land of bygone westerns and today's would-be Afghanistan: The Alabama Hills. (Known as the filming locale of many old-tyme westerns and most recently, scenes portraying Afghanistan in the movie Ironman.)

Myles had promised to show me some really rad boulders he's scoped in the Hills. Red flag, I can't help but think. Is he just another one of those guys trying to sell the world on all his fantastic finds? Stoked on the climbing just because he runs the show out here? Not to be jaded, but I've found myself lured to many-a-boulder with promises of: "Dude, this is the sickest climb at the Buttermilks. Seriously." Well, okay, I'm sure it's great -- but I'm 5'8" with a wingspan of 5'6" and I don't have a go-go Gadget arm function. Really, I can't reach that hold. And with every world-class climbing area (such as the boulders of Bishop, CA just to the north of Lone Pine), there is a perimeter of offbeat climbers seeking the locals-only hidden gem, or the "next biggest thing" that never will be.

Bouldering can be funny, and sometimes a bit contrived. The sport loses me entirely when it is taken as the ends and not the means. That is to say, to me, it is a way of training for powerful moves on bigger climbs; it is not a sport unto itself. So I don't make big risky moves that threaten to pop out a shoulder or twist an ankle. Then I'd be out of a job! ...Though I suppose I could outfit my crutches with crampon points...

Anywho, Myles shows me his first boulder problem. It starts under a boulder, wraps around the side, and tops out on slopey, gritty holds. I manage to cruise it first try. The top-out was a little junky, but the lower portion was quite stellar. This guy just might have the eye!

The next problem, a long, semi-inverted traverse on patina (the partially-eroded outer layer on some granite rocks which forms very positive holds and super fun climbing). Powerful moves, good holds. I'm still interested.

Around the boulders, he's found more features and linked them up into elegant climbs, finding variations and alternative starts and finishes. He has no idea about ratings, and no interest. He's just looking for the most aesthetic line, interesting, challenging moves, good rock. I can dig it.

The eastern side of the Sierra Nevada is a bit of a throwback to times gone by -- the days of cowboys and pioneers, explorers and mountainfolk. It is perhaps the last place in California where you can turn down a lonely dirt road and find yourself in perfect solitude, with a view worth $200/night out the back of your truck. And those seeking a land of no judgment and anything-goes tend to gravitate here...

We found a beautiful hand crack in a corner. Myles climbed up and I was stemming (using my feet on opposing walls) to the base of it just as a rather round older gentleman wandered our way. He stopped nearby and said, "Now, this I gotta see." And gave an approving grunt.

When I got back down, he was talking animatedly to Myles, saying how his nephew has climbed El Capitan in Yosemite and he just can't imagine, can't even imagine, how anyone can do that. I mean, he said, he'd get scared 5 feet off the ground!

Apparently he thought what we were doing was truly extraordinary, and was impelled to share with us his own stories of death-defying feats of survival.

Growing up in Big Sur, he did a lot of fishing off the coast, scrambling around the rocky seashore, and he was never afraid of anything when he was our age, just like us (um, sir, I wouldn't exactly say I'm some crazy, fearless, gravity-defiant adventurer -- I just like climbing and I am aware of my limits. Really.). One day, he went to leap across something (I didn't really understand what -- I think he was a little stoned), and the ground collapsed beneath him. He found himself sliding. He jumped back and managed to stick to the eroded, moist soil above him. And he never dropped his fishing pole. A true fisherman never lets go of his fishing pole.

But he was panicked, frightened. He shot a songbird once, and as he looked up, he saw one looking down at him from a tree, as if to say, "Hah! Karma!"

But this next part is what really struck me.

He looked all around himself, at the trees and the birds and the waves and the rocks. They were all as they should be. Everything was in order. He was the only one having trouble. And somehow this soothed him. As his panic subsided and his emotion gave way to the reality of his situation, he became angry and determined. Determined to live.

And that's what he did. With 8 fingers, he clawed his way to the top -- for two of those fingers were hanging on to his fishing pole.

I couldn't help but smile. Maybe it was because of his toothless grin and wet, nasal laughter. Or maybe it was the window into human nature he gave me: we are all stars in our own adventure flick. Each person's adventure parameters are a little bit different, but that's not what matters.

Whatever your adventure, it's about matching your own vision of yourself with reality; making it happen, whatever it is.

Day 2 in Adventures with Myles
Myles had another day in Lone Pine before driving to Arizona, and I was going to be kicking around as well the next day. We make plans to climb in the Whitney Portal area. He is immediately excited, and suggests the Womack route. I get the sense he thinks I am stronger and bolder than I am after a day of bouldering with him. I ask what it's rated. We start on No Country for Bold Men. The first pitch is junk, and he's got a line set up that we can jug (read: climbing up a rope with a device fixed to the rope to catch a fall). The second pitch is a 5.10b slab. Then the route diverges onto Womack, and he puts the next pitch at 5.11d, and the fourth at 5.12d.

Holy smokes! There's no way I'm getting up that!

But we decide to try anyway.

I take the slabby pitch, which, unbeknownst to me, turns into some weird squeeze-chimney. I top out with proud scuffs on the back of my left tricep. Squeeze chimneys can often require a certain technique called a "chicken wing." Imagine your arms flapping like a chicken, then stick your elbow above your head and wedge your whole bent arm in a crack about the same thickness as your body. That's the "chicken wing." Super solid when you get it right. Then try moving up on it... It's the type of crack you can't easily fall out of, but can take every ounce of energy to move 6 inches upward.

Myles starts up the second pitch. Some elegant stemming moves in a dihedral, then a delicate move onto the face. He had said he'd never climbed it clean (without falling). He cruises the thing, makes it look easy, even! He shouts with glee at the top and calls down to me: "I'm so glad you're a girl! I was showing off! I wouldn't have sent it if you were a dude!"

This guy is hilarious. It is common for the male in a male-female climbing duo to tend to show off, but rare for him to verbalize it. (Margaret Wheeler, one of the first few American women to be certified by the IFMGA, and president of the AMGA, wrote a very interesting article on gender and decision making called "Backcountry Skiing and Gender." Check it out at http://www.proguiding.com/images/wheelerArticle.pdf)

I set off up it, pulling through more naturally where he had struggled, and struggling myself where he had looked as if he were walking: a common display of the different strengths and weaknesses of male and female climbers.

With a lingering Achilles tendon injury, I was unsure how well I would do with the steepness, slabby footholds, and thin fingertip crack. My tendons felt the burn already from the previous slab, but I was able to climb with only one rest to cool the tendons, and then I fell at the crux (hardest part). Darn. A very impressive lead on his part, and a super fun climb.

By now, my tendons were screaming and the shade was creeping up the wall. Myles headed up the 5.12d pitch with much difficulty after expending all his energy on the clean ascent of the previous pitch. He made a couple attempts at the roof before we had to back off and rappel into the shade, back to our jackets and cars.

A great day of sustained, strenuous climbing, and most importantly, a new friend.

Last Ascent

It is indeed the slow season in guiding. We call it "Roctober" (although it sometimes starts in September). Great time to go rock climbing, and there's no work, so there's plenty of time!

Before the snow flew, Dave Miller (owner of California Alpine Guides) and I made it out to Norman Clyde peak in the Palisades (Big Pine creek drainage, out of Big Pine, CA). It was likely one of the last ascents (the first was taken almost a century ago anyway) of the season, marked by a certain crispness in the air and frozen fingers and toes. I think I even pulled a heel-hook on a chunk of frozen snow...

It was my first trip into the Palisades, a crest notorious for poor rock quality and a genuine alpine "feel." The itinerary: hike in to Brainard Lake in the evening, get up early the next day, climb the peak and hike out the next evening. The time plan: Start hiking at 7pm, 1.5 hours to the base of the route, 4 hours to climb the route, 1 hour back to camp, and another 2 hours to get out. So we should be back at the car by 4pm.

The reality: with an unexpected 2 pitches of technical climbing and some extensive scrambling, we took almost 3 hours to get to the base of the route. However, we gained some time on our climbing timeplan, and still made it to the summit on schedule: just before 1pm. Stoked and a little bit frozen, we emerged in the sunlight at the summit pinnacle, only to be smacked by winds whipping over from the other side of the mountain -- from which we had been fortunately sheltered most of the day! Record speed register signing and snacking (this sandwich tastes so much better up here!), and we were on our way down.

The descent route was the original route of ascent by Norman Clyde in August of 1931. A mixture of 4th class downclimbing and exposed 3rd class traversing far more extensive than we had expected put us well beyond our estimated timeplan for the downclimb (turn of the century climbers were seriously amazing alpinists!), making our day an all-too-common lesson in the usefulness of guidebooks (often not very!), and the ever-unexpecteds of climbing in an alpine environment. While beta (other climber's descriptions of a route), photos, and written route descriptions can be very useful tools, they can never replace a climber's own experience, vision, and skill in the mountains.

In the wise words of Annie Dillard, "One more reason to keep my eyes open."

Upon return to camp, feeling the length of the day and the exhilaration that exposure in the mountains gives you, Dave and I decided to stay put and enjoy the view from camp one more night. With no pressing plans and decent weather, it would seem a logical, almost luxurious decision.

And then the promised winds finally came in, and we spent the whole night with the tent flattening on our faces.

Luxurious, indeed.

New Directions

Perhaps every post-college adult experiences the self-reflection crash course that we call "ahh! What am I doing with my life now???" As a relatively recent academia-plegic, cut off from my scholastic world, I have done as many do: take up something entirely different. Or perhaps several somethings.

But my academic years were hardly limited to all-things-scholastic. While studying at the University of California, San Diego, I split my free time between guiding for the university's outdoor program and working in a benthic ecology lab at Scripps Institution of Oceanography. Never could I decide which to focus on, but I didn't really have to, so I just kept on with both.

A year after I finished college, I found myself at a crossroads -- go back to school and study ecology, romp around the mountains collecting bugs and putting them in vials to be classified and studied back in the lab, or...? After years of classroom-based study, I didn't feel ready to re-enter the classroom, at least not yet. Ecology offered an enticing balance of romping and studying, but indeed it was the mountains that pulled the most. So I drove buses for Mammoth Mountain Ski Area.

Wait a minute. Driving buses? Okay, so it was really just a ploy to get a free ski pass and make decent money in an area I love. And I was buying myself time to decide what the next chapter of my life would be.

The more time I spent climbing and skiing on the Eastern Sierra, the more apparent it became to me that it was the mountain lifestyle I wanted. But I missed teaching (which I did a lot of in college), and I especially missed the exhilaration of watching a new climber or hiker or paddler find a new perspective, discover inside of them a new resilience, or just have a grand adventure. With a background in guiding backpacking, rock climbing and sea kayaking, I knew I could fuse everything together. The next summer would be my first season with Shasta Mountain Guides.

And a fabulous season it was! A veritable cure for my academia-plegia, with athletic, intellectual, instructional, and natural challenges on every trip.

This past fall, I completed the first of many courses with the American Mountain Guides Association (AMGA): the Rock Instructor Course. This is the kicking-off point for a career's-worth of technical guiding opportunities, and I intend to pursue higher courses in rock and alpine climbing, and eventually skiing.

Keep an eye out for new postings this fall (and winter!) as I guide with California Alpine Guides on Orizaba (a snowy 18,490ft volcano near Mexico City), and throughout California.

In the ever-wise words of Annie Dillard: "How we spend our days is how we spend our lives."

Here's to another good day in the mountains.