Lyra Pierotti - Mountain Guide

NEW BLOG!!!

2010-09-08T09:28:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone!

I have started a new blog, using a better blogging program.

Check it out at: http://lyramountainguide.typepad.com/lyra-pierotti-mountain/

Home Sweet Home

2010-08-29T18:56:00.000-07:00

Being self-sufficient in the backcountry is one of the most liberating, simplifying, and grounding experiences a person can have.

You need nothing you don't have, you want for nothing you don't need. Life is nothing but movement, food, and sleep. The most basic and essential elements.

Perhaps too simple.

NPR has had an excellent series lately, called The Human Edge. They have been exploring all the adaptations, quirks, and habits of our species, and analyzing how each eccentricity has given us an adaptive edge -- made us advance in ways other species never had.

Emotion has been a prevalent subject. Some of their featured speculations (theories posed by various anthropologists and scientists) have challenged my hard-science trained brain -- conclusions drawn more from reason than by experimental replication. Thus is the nature of a subject which cannot be subject to experimentation!

But whether or not you can provide a replicable experiment, every human can tell you there is something more than just food, sleep, and basic physical activity that we need. That something integrates our complex emotional side -- it is the feeling of being home. The companionship, security, and belonging that we associate with our home.

And so, it is very nice to be, once again, home. We are spoiled to live such controlled, predictable lives.

Perhaps this is why we seek out the mountains -- to remind ourselves what we appreciate about the place we call home.

Nonetheless, I had a spectacular month backpacking a very large swath of the Sierra Nevada. For me, some new trails, some old, but ever spectacular. The more time I spend in these mountains, the deeper I fall in love. There is a subtlety hiding behind the harsh exterior. A softness to the arid landscape, a comfort under the brooding peaks.

It is this which I enjoy sharing with my clients -- whether on the side of Matterhorn Peak or from the depths of Le Conte Canyon.

I am glad to be home for now, but soon enough, home will feel too safe, too comfortable. And I will seek that reminder -- the essence of the life we used to live. The simplified version -- where we walk, we eat, and we sleep. And that is all.

"Hard rock, thin air, a rope."

2010-08-16T21:10:00.000-07:00

Pardon the cliché, but really, where does time go? It's as if, with every passing year, time itself seems to accelerate.

But I suppose that is better than if it were slowing, dragging on, challenging you to find ways to fill it up lest you get bored.
I have a good friend who has suggested that our own inability to ever accomplish everything we want to do, the fact that we never seem to have the time to do it all, is the root of all unhappiness.

I disagree.

I think it keeps you interested; tuned in.

Thus it has been for me this summer: Interesting.
Indeed, there is no way to recap it all in the few short hours left before I head back out into the field once again. But for the sake of preventing literary stagnation on this blog I decided to keep, I will give the highlights:

Late April, I headed up for the season on Mt. Shasta. El Nino treated us well this year, and we had some seriously stellar climbing (and skiing) conditions. With winter storms swirling through well into April, we saw periods of very challenging conditions interspersed with conditions that can only be described by the phrase "Stairway to Heaven." In short, it was a full-on season. And somewhere in there, I started learning to fly fish. I think when I retire from this mountain guiding stuff, I might like to be a fly fishing guide.

At the end of July, it was time to say goodbye to Shasta, and pick up in the Sierra Nevada. I had a couple of trips on Matterhorn Peak with some extraordinarily strong climbers. One up the regular mountaineer's route (3rd class gully with some 4th class scrambling to the top), and one on the ultra-classic North Arete (full-value 5.7 alpine rock), one of my favorite routes in the Sierra Nevada.

August had been booked for months ahead of time -- I was to be guiding the John Muir Trail. Unusual guiding opportunity -- how could I pass it up? My client was a bit set back by the terrain (having done most of his backpacking in the desert) and his heavy gear, so we had to adjust our itinerary. Luckily, he was not set on completing the JMT for any reason, and we have been able to pick several highlight trips along the JMT. We just completed the Evolution Loop, from North Lake to South Lake through the Evolution and Dusy Basins in northern Kings Canyon National Park. Hands down one of the most spectacular areas in the Sierra Nevada.

It has been a lovely respite from the challenges of guiding in the alpine realm, and I am savoring every bit. But come September, refreshed and re-energized, I will be much excited to get back to "hard rock, thin air, a rope." (High Conquest, James Ramsey Ullman)

Esha Peak ski descent

2010-05-10T14:31:00.000-07:00

Esha Peak, Sierra Nevada, California (near Mt. McGee, Crowley Lake)

***

Esha Peak is an inviting mountain. It has a round top, with pinwheel snow chutes that join at the base in a large bowl. It begs to be skied, every time you drive by on 395.

From afar, the chutes look massive, steep, and intimidating. In reality, they are only 38-40 degrees. But your mind refuses to believe it so long as the mountain looms overhead and up valley.

An old friend of Dave's from college, Gregor, called Thursday to ask if we wanted to ski Esha. Dave had been non-stop skiing for 7 weeks (guiding in Europe and Alaska), and I had been letting the conditions determine my sport while he was gone, which meant a lot of skiing on Mt. Shasta and in the Sierra Nevada for me. It was an amazing winter for skiing, and thus has continued as an incredible spring skiing season. So much snow!

Both Dave and I had been jonesing to climb, but decided we could take a day off for one last classic Sierra Nevada ski. And to hang out with Gregor, more importantly.

We had a leisurely start on Saturday morning, knowing that with the projected weather forecast for cool temperatures, we would be hard-pressed to find any soft, buttery "corn" snow, warmed by the sun, and lovely for skiing. Upon arrival to the trailhead, we found not only cool temperatures but heinous winds. We suited up quickly and darted across the creek and into the drainage, hoping to get out of the wind.

Out of the wind-tunnel, we were more at peace, but gusts still swirled, and we grew increasingly skeptical about the snow conditions. We took long breaks, hoping if we stalled, the day might warm a bit more and the snow might soften up.
But the winds held steady, and slowly our objective grew closer. The slope kicked up, and we slid on the ski crampons, kept climbing. We traversed to a more easterly-almost-southerly aspect, knowing that would have received the most solar radiation.

Indeed it was softer, but it was only the top inch that had consolidated into nice springtime "corn" snow. Underneath was crummy, old winter snow. We punched through stashes of ice and slush, varying randomly. We kept hoping it might get better, so we kept climbing.
Finally it became apparent that there were no good turns to be had on this mountain today. So we declared it a day to "just be out there." Enjoy the good views, good friends, and the opportunity for a challenge on our skis.

And a challenge, it was.Much lower down in the drainage, however, we found some perfectly buttery corn snow, and savored every turn.

Back in the brush, below the snow line, we shimmied back across the log bridge over the roaring creek, past fishermen and day-hikers in tank tops and shorts. Gregor, a top manager at Patagonia, could name each article of Patagonia clothing the hikers were wearing from at least 50 meters away. I was impressed.

A few fishermen stepped out of their idling diesel trucks to ask us if we had just skied that mountain right there.

"No, we skied Esha Peak, just up that drainage."

"Oh, you mean it's further away?"

"Yea, by a few miles and 4,000ft."

"Wow."

We asked them how the fishing was. Only the little guys were biting, apparently. Still too cold to catch anything good. But it was great to be out.

Agreed.

Just as we were getting ready to pull out of our parking spot, another fisherman came over to the window.

"Excuse me, but my friend over there just told me you guys skied a mountain back up in that drainage. Is that true?"

"Yes, Esha Peak. You can see it from 395."

"Really!? So you, like, carried your skis all the way up there and then skied all the way down?"

"Yea, exactly. Not the best snow today, but a beautiful climb."

"Wow, that's amazing. Well, you folks have a good day."

"Thanks, you too."

A bit of perspective after a disappointingly demoralizing ski descent.

At the end of the day, it's all about "just being out there." Skiing, fishing, or hiking.

The Natural History of Interstate 5

2010-04-23T18:47:00.000-07:00

Identifying the true essence of the human spirit has been, for some reason, high priority in my thoughts of late.

I have had a rather busy April, spending 11 full days in the field since April 10th, and awaiting more this weekend. I suppose sleeping outside so much changes you a bit.

I have always noticed this transformation, from the very first expedition kayaking trip I took in Baja to the simple half-day at the local crag. The scope of the effect is, of course, different, but if you look deeply enough, you can recognize the same magnetic force. It pulls you in, makes you feel alive, restructures your priorities, even if just for a split second, and resets your frame of mind. When you return to "life as usual" you feel cleansed, and maybe you don't know why.

I think I came close to understanding while discussing various political, social, and hot-button wilderness topics with some of my favorite Shasta co-guides on my first trip of the season this week. You get away from materialism, consumerism, societal stresses and pressures, thrown into the elements. You realize what matters: food, water, beauty, friends, and the ability to mend your own clothing and equipment. You need nothing new and flashy, just what you have. The duct tape holding your pants together doesn't matter, it is neither fashion sin nor dirtbag status declaration. It just works. Self-sufficiency and ingenuity are mandatory skills. Flimsy green bills can't save you here.

I have been stunned at how fortunate I am to have found a profession that gives me such satisfaction on every level I need: lots of time outside, physical activity, and the opportunity to teach to a willing and able audience of enthusiastic students. My three favorite things wrapped up into one profession.

So amidst this several-week-long work stint, I have come to feel very grounded in the forces of nature, with a heightened sensitivity to the natural beauty surrounding me. And it has affected me in very interesting ways.

I was refilling the propane canister in my boyfriend's camper van at a run-down gas station in Redding when a bird chirped and flew off to another tree in the distance. I heard it loud and clear. I did not hear the road or the freeway, nor the people talking and slamming doors. I heard the wind rustling the leaves on the few trees emerging from the concrete. And the bird again.

I felt exceptionally spacey on the drive to San Francisco, and realized I was seeing the periphery more than the lane in front of me. I was watching the rolling hills, the springtime blooms, the wild clouds revealing high atmospheric winds. I was imagining the forces that could have formed the ripples in the earth before me. I couldn't hear the road noise, my music felt distracting. I turned it off a heard my own breathing.

And then I remembered an interview on NPR with a guy who has researched the effects of noise pollution. He discussed the therapeutic value of natural sounds. People who live in cities have shown to benefit greatly from the presence of natural sounds. In fact, when there are just a few birds chirping above the hum and buzz of the city's traffic (imagine yourself in New York' Central Park), people have reported feeling less stress.

We are genetically programmed to hear these sounds, not the sounds of motors and horns and jackhammers. With the latter, we cope, we do not thrive.

But never before have I been so acutely aware of the sounds I was hearing. And as the daughter of a musician, always sensitive to tone quality and the presence of sound, never before have I been able to tune out the white noise.

This day, it was as if my natural programming had taken over. And it was the most lovely, peaceful drive down I-5 I have ever experienced.

How many points in an anchor?

2010-04-15T10:27:00.000-07:00

Perhaps the best way to introduce these three is in a photo. Look closely.
Upon first glance, they appear to be, quite simply, three young, able-bodied men, well-prepared for the mountaineering task at hand. And this they were.

But they were so much more. As work buddies from the US Coast Guard, they were also a team of compassionate sh*t-givers, travel companions, and relentless older brothers.

Take, for example, the rainbow hat Robby is wearing. John and Ryan, on the right, declared it "the best $6 I ever spent." They found the hat at a gas station while on the road, and slyly replaced Robby's normal warm hat with this one, hiding the normal one such that Robby was forced to wear it when his ears finally got cold. Classic older brother maneuver.

I kept wondering why, on the first 3 days of our rock portion, John and Ryan kept asking Robby if his ears were cold, eliciting a defensively irritated (but notably amused) response. "No. No, they're not."

Climbing and hiking while at altitude are one thing, but has anyone studied the effects of excessive laughter in the upper elevations? Before embarking on a serious high-altitude objective with these three, you may want to consider your own laugh-fitness. I'm pretty sure I could have climbed Everest after this trip.

John, Ryan and Robby signed up for our 7-day Alpine Climbing course. In February, they had 2 days of ice climbing with Jed, another one of our guides, and finished up with 5 days of rock and snow skills with me this April.

With heinous weather rolling in, we spent 3 days working on rock skills in the Owens River Gorge. The first day was simply a climbing day, just to get some movement skills down. We introduced some basic crack climbing skills, which allowed us to get on a slightly more difficult crack climb the next day. Crack climbing is a crucial skill for alpine climbing, as much of the rock in the high mountains of the world is made of granitic rock, which fractures into spectacular blocks of all sizes, weather-worn and otherwise minimally featured.

The second day was half climbing and half skills, getting into gear placement, anchoring, and some mock multi-pitch climbing. As if a testament to the value of keeping things fun and light, these three absorbed all of the information instantly, enthusiastically putting it to immediate use, asking great questions, and practicing again and again until they really understood. Every instructor's dream student... except, perhaps, for that crusty old math teacher who forgot how to smile 30 years ago.

Crusty, old, and math teacher I am not. So we smiled, laughed, and learned at light speed for 5 days straight.

With weather moving in, we spent another day in the Gorge, under the protection of the El Dorado Roof, beginning our work on crevasse rescue and haul systems. This would allow us to apply our skills quickly and easily to the snow in our now-shortened timeframe.

For the last two days, we hiked up the Horse Creek drainage toward Matterhorn Peak, worked on our last new subjects, snow travel and snow anchors, and applied our rescue and haul systems to the new terrain.

***

I just finished a rather long stint of work, ending with this year's guide training for my upcoming season with Shasta Mountain Guides. We had some very interesting discussions with the guides, both new and old. I was struck at how many of us aligned on our responses when asked why we like guiding. Both a sign of the nature of our venue (Mt. Shasta is not a high profile peak, so people who come to climb with us are often most interested in learning and enjoying the experience) and the quality of the owners' direction, SMG attracts a type of guide who is proficient, open-minded, and respectful. Our resounding response: we simply enjoy facilitating a challenging and exciting experience for our climbers, helping them to attain something they may never have thought possible. California Alpine Guides has worked closely with SMG for many years, largely a reflection of shared ethics and similar priorities -- just different venues.

And in reality, as Dave (CAG owner) has often said, we learn far more from our clients than they learn from us. Most come to us with some knowledge of backcountry travel techniques. Prior to this April, I knew next to nothing about our Coast Guard or the people in it.

It was fascinating to hear about the systems they use for rescues (which is probably why these three picked everything up so quickly!), as well as what all it is they do out there.

But alas, after five days, these three still thought that a single-point, hoovering anchor, used in conjunction with a steel braided rope, is an acceptable setup for a 2:1 hauling system. Guys, come on. Where is the equalized master point? And what kind of prusik are you going to use on a steel rope? (See photo below, courtesy of Ryan Hawn). ;-)

The Haute Route Trek!!!

2010-04-06T17:37:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how many people out there in bloggerland are following my posts... but I wanted to use this space to let you all know (even if it's just my mom) that Dave and I at International Alpine Guides (a division of California Alpine Guides) are offering a trekking version of the classic Haute Route this summer, July 10-18.

The Haute Route is a famous route done by backcountry skiers in the winter and spring. It traverses the French and Swiss Alps, traveling from Chamonix to Zermatt, and passing through some of the most spectacular mountainous terrain in the world. We hike through high peaks and passes, dropping down to sleep in Alpine huts and sometimes in little mountain villages, where we have fine French and Swiss meals, drink excellent wine, and explore the world of cheese. That's my favorite part.

I will be guiding the trip, as I am fluent in French and have lived in the French Alps. I am so excited about this trip that I wanted to write about it here, and ask you all to spread the word! If you or someone you know are looking for a grand and scenic adventure this summer, or just some stunning, life-changing mountain vistas, this is one to consider very seriously.

Check out our website for more info: http://www.californiaalpineguides.com/Haute_Route_Trek_.html

Shevanigans and Bootiny

2010-03-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

If I were to characterize the past year of my life, I could sum it all up in these two words: Shevanigans and bootiny.

Not to be negative, by any means. But often the greatest obstacles and hassles are the first things to come to mind when remembering all the events of a year gone by. And if anything, it sure makes you appreciate where you've gotten to, everything you have surmounted.

And it definitely can help you appreciate the small things. Like a car that runs, a roof over your head, and boots that fit. So this is my year-in-review:

Shenanigans + van = shevanigans.

Boots + mutiny = bootiny.

For the full story on the van, refer to my blog post: Sprinter Killer from December 2009. The new engine is still having power issues, and even after visiting two different Dodge dealerships, our local mechanic, and talking to the guy who rebuilt the engine, no one can figure it out. I am learning to appreciate my humble 1985 4Runner more and more every day. It's just simple.

And for my bootiny... I think boot drama comes to every climber at some time or another. Sometimes several times. I have always had good luck with boots, but at the end of last Shasta season, my mountaineering boots decided to seize up and shrink. Ouch. I finally got ahold of a pair of La Sportiva's new Batura, and have been blissfully happy in them since. Boots are our direct interface (the days of hob-nailed boots for glaciers and "stocking-feet" on rock are long gone) with the mountain environment, and it really stinks if it's a poor connection.

But as always, life goes on, things get worked out, and all the while you realize you've been having the time of your life -- if you've let yourself appreciate it.

Here are a few photos from Jim Porter, a part-time professional photographer on our last Advanced Mountaineering Course at Matterhorn Peak. He captured some great smiles, on a day that could remind even the greatest of cynics that we live truly blessed lives.

Enjoy.

On the approach to Matterhorn Peak. Photo by Jim Porter.

Starting the climb into the East Couloir, Matterhorn Peak. Photo by Jim Porter.

Topping out on the East Couloir, Matterhorn Peak. I love this shot. It captures the vast-ness of the mountains, and gives a good idea of the steepness of the climb. Great perspective. Photo by Jim Porter.

My rope team at the summit of Matterhorn Peak. Left to right: Me, Greg, Will (peeking over the top), and Caitlin. Photo by Jim Porter.

6 feet under? No, at least 7,000.

2010-03-24T17:25:00.000-07:00

Challenging days in the mountains can really test your mental and physical stamina.

Rick and I have been wanting to "go big" for some time now. We've been throwing around ideas: I really want to ski Basin Mountain, and climb the 4th class route to the top; he wants to hit Scheelite Couloir in good conditions; Williamson with the longest ski run in the Sierra Nevada at 8,000ft has been high on the list.
But with a weekend of warm temperatures behind us and a few days of cooler temperatures, we were guessing that the skiing would not be that great. We started looking at the high peaks to the south -- high because the snow might be more well preserved, and south because it might get just warm enough down there to soften up the snow at lower elevations.

Reasonable, but still kind of shooting in the dark. So we decided to look for a peak based on the climbing, not the skiing per-se.
Josh, a ski patroler and avalanche forecaster for the Eastern Sierra Avalanche Center, decided to join us. This rounded out our group demographic quite nicely. Rick is a local ER nurse, and then there's me, a burgeoning mountain guide. A group well-seasoned enough to have matured beyond the ego that often afflicts groups of athletes, and well-equipped in backcountry decision-making tools.

We decided to try Mount Langley -- 14,026ft just to the south of Mt. Whitney. It is the Sierra Nevada's southernmost 14,000ft peak. Clarence King summited it thinking he was summiting Mt. Whitney. Oops. From certain angles, they do look a little alike.
Actually, Mt. Whitney was only a name at the time -- the name of the highest peak once they found it. So this was not it. And it was named Mount Langley.

It is one of the easier 14ers in the summer, with a relatively easy trail right up to the top and only 4,000ft of elevation gain.

Winter is another story. On a scale of 5 in difficulty, it gets a 4 in the Falcon guide. The northeast couloir, our objective, is not too steep, but enough to keep you interested. And from where you have to park below the snowline, it is at least 6,500ft of climbing.

This day, it was about 7,200ft. Big day.
We cruised up the south fork of Tuttle Creek, making great time despite clothes-lining ourselves with the skis protruding from our backs, and making friends with the grabby willow trees.

The alluvial fan below the couloir had been blown over for days, and developed a very slick surface with a thin layer of drifting snow over it -- perfect for slipping and losing a step or two for every five.

We finally reached the base of the couloir, and put the skis on our back again. Perfect boot-packing conditions up the couloir.
And that would be the last time we could use the word "perfect," or anything similar.
The summit was cool and only a little breezy. Obligatory summit photos and register-signing, and the skis were back on the feet.
I opted for the south-facing, less-steep chute off the summit to access the couloir.

Side-slipping was very fast on the ice. I made several downhill kickturns in lieu of making any real turns, and thus keep my speed under control. I was in full-on survival ski-mode.

We all breathed a sigh of relief when we met at the top of the couloir. Now for some decent turns!

Nope!
The snow was packed firm by the wind, and textured into bathtub-sized grooves by the same process.

Chatterchatterchatterscratch! And repeat.

Two turns down. Forty to go. Then we'll be in the alluvial fan. The snow is sure to be better down there.
And it was. Sort of. It lasted less than 10 turns, and we found the ice again.

Indeed, the day had not been warm enough to soften the previously-softened and hardened snow, so it just remained as ice.

But once we got into the trees, we were sure to find some nicely preserved snow in the north-facing trees.
And we did! In pockets barely even big enough to make one turn without hitting the crust again.

It was an exercise in managing the over-the-handlebars sensation as snow conditions rapidly changed, making tight turns, falling-leaf side-slipping (backwards and forwards), and when all-else failed, reverting back to one of the safest and most controlled turns: the stem-christie (otherwise known as the pizza-french-fry turn from when you were 5). Survival skiing at its best.

Or worst?
The best snow we encountered was perhaps the thin, watery stuff at the very end of the day along the trail, in between bouts of dirt and rocks. No joke.

We reached the car (before dark, remarkably) and found the beer we stashed in the nearby snow. Cold beer never tasted so good.

An excellent day, despite how awful it was. We all agreed that we couldn't remember the last time we skied in such horrid snow. Indeed, the only thing consistent about the snow on this day was how consistently terrible it was.

But it was a good experience, and we were stoked to have pulled off such a big day.
As for me, I was just glad to be 7,000 feet under, and not six.

Yes, you were supposed to laugh at that.

***All photos by Josh Feinberg***

Matterhorn Peak -- a successful summit!

2010-03-22T15:34:00.000-07:00

My mom has always told me a story of when she was in her twenties, visiting a friend in Switzerland, and they went for a hike around her friend's family's chalet in the Bernese Oberland. The folks they were with insisted upon stopping every 45 minutes to eat, explaining how even on the seemingly mildest of days, weather can change on a dime. And they will be fueled and ready to handle it.

A very wise strategy, whether it be weather around the corner, or a slightly-too-friendly alpine bull. For my mother, it was the latter. Fortunately, she was fueled and energized -- good thing for all the running (and laughing) that ensued.
This has always been one of those stories that drifts into my head when I am talking to groups about pacing and break-taking techniques on summit day. We do not take "rest" breaks, we take "maintenance" breaks. We break often enough to fuel ourselves, but not so frequently to break our rhythm. We keep a slow and steady pace -- as we say, "slow is fast, and fast is safe."

In this way, we are fresh and fueled at every turn, ready for whatever lies ahead.

In the Sierra Nevada, it is rarely weather or bulls. We don't have much of either here. The weather tends to be fairly predictable. I like to call California the "land of idle threats" for how many times I have seen the thunderheads build and produce nothing but great photos and wracked nerves. But mountains are mountains, and every range has its challenges and curveballs.

***
Zeb and I met Caitlin, Greg, Will, Mark and Jim in Bridgeport on a typical brisk morning. We had skied around Matterhorn Peak the day before, so knew we were likely to have agreeable climbing conditions by summit day.

Our first day, we punched out the hike in just under 5 hours -- 4 hours and 57 minutes, if I recall Jim's exact calculation. A good pace into camp, which set us up with extra daylight hours to get some avalanche beacon instruction in.
The second day was skills day. And we covered them all! With excellent weather (for a change), we managed to hold a full and extensive snow school, practicing crampon and ice axe techniques, as well as self-arrest, including the favorite: falling headfirst-backwards! The whole group did excellently, and we saw our chances at summiting increase yet again.

We dug a pit in the snow to talk about avalanches. Zeb has worked on ski patrol at Squaw Valley for 4 years, and has taught avalanche courses. He was able to uncover the mysteries hidden in the layers of snow for us -- and we learned that indeed, we have a very stable snowpack in the Sierra Nevada. Summit chances looking even better.

Last, I set up a top-rope on some 4th class snowy rocks to practice climbing in boots. The last bit of the Matterhorn Peak climb is a couple of short pitches of 4th class rock scrambling. Nothing major, but good to practice climbing in boots. And the group excelled once again. Summit, here we come!

***
We woke at 5am and hit the trail by 6:30am, immediately having to put on crampons to get up the hill just out of camp -- it had firmed up quite a bit overnight on this southeast-facing knoll.
But we made steady progress, and soon attained the ridge at the tarn (where we camp for our summer and fall trips). Here, the snow was soft but just firm enough to be perfect for booting, and before we knew it, we were at the glacial bowl below the peak.The snow got deeper, and turned into a lovely wind-buff once we reached the east couloir. One of our other guides, Lynette, was on a 2-day climb, and had started up much earlier than us in order to make it all the way back to the trailhead by nightfall. She had already broken trail, and we had a perfect staircase all the way to the top of the couloir. I still owe her a six pack. At least.

We passed Lynette mid-couloir on her way down, thanked her for the stairs, and cruised steadily upward.

We took a nice break at the top of the couloir, soaking in the views, then continued around the backside of the peak to find our path-of-least-resistance. The south side was still holding quite a bit of snow, and the climb looked to be challenging. Zeb and I short-pitched it, climbing up, setting an anchor, and bringing our group up.
It was 1:40pm, and I had set a strict turnaround time of 2:00pm. I topped out on the second short-pitch, and sighted the summit -- this would finally be my first successful summit! I promise, I'm not cursed -- I blame the weather. Not the bulls.

Bulls?

Anyway, we fudged my 2pm turnaround time a bit, now knowing we would make it down relatively quickly with only two short pitches to belay down.

Our groups traveled strong and safe, we soaked in the views, signed the register, and were on our way down in no time.

Spectacular day.

We made it back to camp just as the sun disappeared behind the ridge, and started melting snow for one of our favorite meals: Thanksgiving Dinner.

Yes, that is Thanksgiving Dinner. In the backcountry.

A healthy meal for some healthy appetites.

Thanks for a great summit, "Team Awesome!"

Advanced Winter Mountain... Shoveling?

2010-03-06T15:30:00.000-08:00

What exactly is the essence of Winter Mountaineering?

Mountains, of course; snow and rock; hiking and climbing; weather.

Sound pretty standard? It is! But the one big difference between winter and summer mountaineering expeditions is the weather. Winter Mountaineering could be compared easily to Forrest Gump's box of chocolates.

And I assure you, it's equally as tasty. Leonard will attest to that.

***

I met Leonard, Emma and Nazli in Bridgeport on Thursday, February 25th. They all had some background in mountaineering, and were looking to expand their repertoire of skills in our Advanced Mountaineering Course. The venue: Matterhorn Peak. The Objective: the west couloir.

Thursday was a sparkling clear day, the sun begging for flip-flops. But one foot out the door and my capillaries demanded otherwise. A deceptively bitter cold sinks into the valley around Bridgeport, and is sluggishly slow to leave.

We checked gear, divvied up group equipment, packed it all up again, took it all apart when the guide found more gear to take, and packed up again. Off to Twin Lakes.

The hike in was in the worst conditions I have ever seen here. The snow was heavy and deep, punchy and loose. In a word, exhausting. We made it to camp just as our adjoining Ski Mountaineering group (which Dave was leading) was turning on their headlamps.

Then the work began: building a bomb-proof camp for the huge storm purported to roll in Friday night.

We would have all of Friday for skills and drills, and further camp bomb-proofing.

And a stellar camp did we make! Roofed kitchen, fortress tent spots. Cozy all-around.

And the storm trickled in a little early. Then it lingered a little longer. Our Saturday summit attempt was out due to avalanche concern and, quite simply, too much snow to make any reasonable progress. Skills trump wallowing, so we worked on snow anchoring, belayed (partner) travel techniques, crevasse rescue systems. Just as I set up a top-rope anchor to practice movement on rock in boots and crampons, a squall moved through again, and the rock quickly became too wet to climb. Back to skills.

In conclusion, it was a trip testing our flexibility and ingenuity. We managed to get quite a few instructional moments in-between retreats to the kitchen tent and hot chocolate. Leonard, Emma and Nazli maintained the best of attitudes through some of the gnarliest conditions I've seen here. And we all had a blast.

Nazli has climbed with us before, and I first met her in Yosemite when she came to climb with one of our other guides, Mark Grundon, who was working for YMS. She makes great Persian food, and is becoming quite the well-rounded climber.

Emma is a Captain in the Marines, and every bit as tough and even-keeled as you would imagine. I was particularly excited, therefore, when she busted out the baby blue Life is Good cap with a pink heart on it. It was a gift, she assured me.

Leonard's self-professed goals were, simply, to get out and push himself. His great attitude and flexibility proved unequivocally that he was, indeed, just happy to be there and learn as much as he could. He liked everything that came out of the kitchen, whether it be crevasse rescue or our backcountry version of Thanksgiving dinner.

And just as the trip started, we walked out in deep powder, under a bright blue sky.

Every chute in sight had at least a small loose-snow avalanche that had slid during the storm, so for good measure, we had our eyes on overdrive watching for any motion as we walked out, steering clear of old debris zones. Things had stabilized significantly overnight, and we saw no slides. Avalanche danger in the maritime snowpack climate of the Sierra Nevada is "fast to rise, fast to fall," very clearly demonstrated for us in this storm.

And we ended our trip plowing through several inches of fresh snow, ducking through the hushed understory of a true winter wonderland.

Intro to Backcountry Ski... Guiding!

2010-02-24T16:00:00.000-08:00

I joined Dave this past weekend on an Intro to Backcountry Skiing course he was holding at Pear Lake, in Sequoia National Park. The weather was going to be rolling in, and at first they predicted 1-3 inches: just enough to mess things up. "Dust on crust" does not provide the most exciting of ski conditions.

Gradually, however, the forecast trended worse and worse, which made us hopeful. Several more inches of snowfall would actually give us some good turns!

We met Doug, Chris and Andy at the Wolverton trailhead on Friday morning under a threatening sky, and after checking gear and talking about skinning techniques, we were on our way up the hill.

We made it to Emerald Lake just in time for one last glimpse of Alta Peak, before it was engulfed by fog -- to be seen only once more peeking out of the clouds on the last day. Visibility would be quite limited the whole weekend, but just enough to be awed by the spectacular peaks and chutes looming above. An extreme skier's paradise, but not our agenda.

The second day, we covered basic avalanche safety, practiced searching for buried "victims" with our beacons, and hammered out the ever-elusive kick-turn. Traversing over to Pear Lake, we found some excellent snow on the north-facing slopes, and got some sweet turns in on the LFP (see previous entry: LFP=Lame Flat Powder).

Pear Lake hosts one of the Sierra Nevada's few backcountry ski huts. We skied down to it and popped inside to check it out. The caretakers, Miles and Jess, were there tending to the fire and keeping it warm and cozy inside for the skiers staying there. It sleeps about 10, and costs $40/night -- but you'd better be lucky and have your whole winter planned out in order to score a spot. They hold a lottery in November for every weekend in the winter, and they fill up fast.

I asked if there were any plans to put in another hut; after all, they promote enjoyment of our natural environment and help to preserve the wilderness by concentrating camper use to the hut. But our wilderness system does not allow any new structures to be built, and upkeep costs must be exorbitant -- something our meager wilderness budget couldn't possibly support.

Use is a delicate issue for our National Parks and Wilderness Areas -- but I can't help but think of all the huts in Europe, how they teach people to appreciate the natural environment, allowing them to live in harmony with nature, and thereby developing a profound respect for their wild lands. This is reflected in their public policy decisions, in their diet, and society's overall health. Think of the French paradox. How can they eat such a high fat diet, smoke, and still be so healthy? Well, I would argue it is in fact because they eat rich foods, but also because they walk. To the metro, to work, back home, and for the pure enjoyment of it in the mountains.

But our wilderness policies focus on keeping people out, further forging a divide between humans and our natural environment. Of course, we don't want overuse to degrade our wild lands to levels beyond repair, such that they are no longer healthy, functioning ecosystems. But a binary solution to a complex issue is wholly inappropriate. "Open or closed" seems to be the management scheme, further dredging the gap between humans and wilderness. A complex issue deserves a complex solution, and with the massive amounts of creative energy at our fingertips in our society, why can't we find a happy middle ground? Our State budget is certainly one problem, but a lack of appreciation is the bigger issue. Our population is growing at staggering rates, and these numbers are reflected in the use of our Parks. Let's go way back to the basics, educate people on the value of our wild lands, and enforce, with a certain conviction, restrictions that have been deeply researched and proven to be of high priority. It does not suffice to lock the gate and simply restrict permits. It is a quick fix that may have further-reaching and more long-term consequences than we can yet recognize. I realize I offer no solution, but with enough thought, I think we are inventive enough to find one that can work for all.

Enough from the soap box.

We managed another lap on our north-facing slope before heading back to camp and holing up for the night as the storm blew in stronger and stronger.

The next day, we started up a west-facing slope, but it proved to still hold a certain crust under the new snowfall, so we headed for a north-east facing slope on the other side of the lake, and managed some stellar, steeper turns in excellent snow, despite the low visibility.

The group excelled on the kick-turns, and acclimated quickly to the variable nature of backcountry skiing. It was a fun, athletic group to ski with -- the guys all had a very healthy respect for the seriousness of skiing in the backcountry.

For me, it was fascinating to see the artistry in ski guiding. Climbing is much simpler -- you must move safely and quickly, keeping out of harm's way at all time. But the nature of skiing forces you into harm's way, and you must learn to manage it. When climbing, you avoid avalanche terrain as much as possible; but the fun part of skiing puts you square in the middle of avalanche terrain, and you must learn to manage the risk -- quickly. Make your assessment of the stability, keep your eyes open to changes, get yourself out there, and have fun.

It is an art unto itself, and one I look forward to learning more of in the years to come.

LFP

2010-02-03T13:31:00.000-08:00

LFP = Lyra F. Pierotti

I have long been wanting to take a road trip to Colorado. Through the years, I have encountered many people from the state of fitness. From super strong clients on mountaineering trips to daring skiers on Mexico's volcanoes, Colorado seems to produce a great number of outdoor enthusiasts. And with North America's highest concentration of fourteeners, it is no wonder.

Dave and I joined some friends from Bishop, and a former client (now friend) of mine from Golden, Colorado, for a week of ice climbing in Ouray, and decided to take another week or two afterward (before the winter trips ramp up!) to get some of our own climbing in: professional development, if you will.

The Ouray ice park is a great place to get strong, hone your technical ice climbing skills, and for me, a great place to get some practice leading on ice. But just as with the climbing gym, it soon comes time to move beyond the ice park.

We headed out to Skylight area, a roadside ice "crag" with several multi-pitch ice climbs. It was a beautiful day, so many of the climbs were taken. We spotted a curtain of thick ice on Chockstone Chimney, and headed to the base.

Ice can change dramatically from place-to-place, year-to-year, day-to-day, and even hour-to-hour. The ice we found here was nice, a little less chandelier-like, a little less shattery, but with the top in the sun, quite a bit drippy. A few laps each was enough to wear us out, craving a big meal of pasta and sleep.

After several days of ice climbing, I needed a rest day. Refusing to sit around with ample opportunity for adventure in Colorado, Dave, Rick and I headed up to Red Mountain Pass near Silverton, to go ski some...

LFP = Lame Flat Powder.

Dave was very proud to discover another use for my initials. Ha ha. Ha.

But lame it was NOT! Excellent quality, fluffy soft powder, all under 30 degrees (there was "considerable" avalanche danger reported, which in avi lingo means "natural avalanches possible, human triggered avalanches probable," so we stuck to low-angle snow, least likely to slide).

Rick, in addition to being a very solid, efficient ice climber with excellent technique, is also an elegant telemark skier, and former professional photographer. With a beautiful blue sky and striking white mountains all around, he was snapping away all day.

The snow was so stellar and the terrain so mellow, that we just couldn't stop skiing. For some reason, the mountains in Colorado seem fore-shortened when compared to the Sierra Nevada. That peak in the distance is really only a 30 minute skin-track away. Perhaps it is my eyes that are calibrated to a much larger relief -- in the Sierra Nevada, your trailhead can be at 6000ft and your peak at 14,000ft. In Colorado, you would start at 10,000ft or so.

So we kept going, up and down, up and down... and before I knew it my "rest day" had turned into merely an exchange of muscle groups. And we couldn't have been happier.

Seven days straight of activity, and finally I find myself in a nice warm coffee shop in Ouray, with a huge roast beef sandwich I still can't quite seem to finish.

Maybe I should get back to work on that...

Common Denominator

2010-01-20T15:26:00.000-08:00

Part 1

I have been labeled as the "common denominator" in the demise of two separate Sprinter engines in the past year.

Indeed, it was I who was driving when our rental Sprinter van blew the head gasket on a deserted road on the way up to San Pedro Martir National Park in Baja. Then, just a few months later, I was van-sitting for Dave while he was in Europe guiding, and on a work trip out of Bridgeport, black smoke came billowing out the back, and that was the end.

However! I must clarify that the first Sprinter arrived smoking and with 300,000 miles on it (they assured us it was okay -- we won't be renting from them again!), and the second turned out to be an issue with a sensor which took a very long time to finally burn out the engine. So, though I may be the common denominator in both cases, I promise you, it was not me.

Part 2

There has come to be another series of events in the past few weeks which have altered plans and turned heads, and which I have happened to span two countries in order to partake. This one involves weather.

We had a very large group of climbers for our last 9-day Orizaba climb at the beginning of January. Weather forecasts are hard to come by in Mexico, especially for the elevations we climb to. But there was word of a big cold front coming through.

Cold in Mexico! Oh, come on. We're from Mammoth! Mexico never gets that cold!

So, that cold front that dusted Florida in snow? Well, if you were to look at the map of the States, and connect the dots of the front dipping south from California and back north through the eastern seaboard, you could imagine that it passed right through central Mexico.

We like to integrate a rest day into our 9-day itinerary just after climbing Izta. As this is probably the more physically demanding climb (though not technical at all -- it's just a lot of hiking above 16,000ft, which proves very taxing), this rest day is quite critical in elevating chances of success on Orizaba.

So we hunkered down in Cholula for a full day's rest. I awoke in the middle of the night to a pitter-pat, pitter-pat.

Honestly, is someone doing housework at 3am? That's ridiculous.

Oh, it's raining.

And it rained all day. Into the evening. All night.

We got ourselves loaded up in the van the next morning, and headed for Tlachichuca (bless you!) where we pick up the 4wd to the hut on Orizaba. The weather came in and out all day. At times we thought it would clear up, then it would close in again.

Finally we were approaching Tlachichuca. There was a break in the clouds to the south, offering a window to Sierra Negra, a 14,000ft peak next to Pico de Orizaba. It had snow on it. A lot. The hut on Orizaba is at about 14,000ft.

Hm.

Another party was headed to the hut that day, so we decided to get lunch and wait for news. With several climbers at the hut waiting to come down, the driver had to head up anyway. The drive takes you through town, onto a dirt road to North America's highest village (at approximately 11,500ft, it's higher than anything in Colorado!), then hits the 4wd road after town.

The truck could barely make it past the village. At around 12,000ft there was over 3ft of snow.

So we went back to Cholula and celebrated a safe and successful summ... uh, drive. Which is nothing to be taken for granted in Mexico!

Flash forward a week. Back in California, I get an email forwarded to me from my supervisor at Mammoth Mountain Ski Area, where I give natural history tours. It's a warning from the Dean of Natural Sciences and Mathematics at Cal State Fullerton. He is predicting the storm of the century, to hit California in T-minus-5 days.

I've heard "wolf" cried many-a-time around here, and nothing ever seems to turn out as big or as devastating as they say. But okay, it's a big storm on its way. Cool, we need it!

Well, I've signed up for Crossfit. It's a fitness program with a personal trainer. I would describe it as yoga set to weights (and extremely intense). A local Bishop guy just opened a gym in his garage. So far, I am quite a fan.

Why am I telling you this?

Because it is raining and snowing so much here that I, someone who tries to get outside for a run, ski, or climb... or at least SOMETHING... every day, can't even go on a light ski tour up the road past Aspendell. I could bundle up and tough it out -- but the avalanche danger is too high. And I like running, but it's slushing sideways outside my window right now. No, not raining, slushing. In Bishop.

And there's hardly a break in sight for the next week.

I haven't done much math in the past few years, but if my calculations are right, there's some weird juju following me around.

So, anyone up for an Intro to Winter Mountaineering trip President's Day weekend?

I promise, it won't be like last year's, when we got weathered out at Lassen and ended up cancelling the trip for wind and snowfall. Really, it'll be great.

Feliz Ano Nuevo!

2010-01-01T16:19:00.000-08:00

Arrived in Mexico City early on the 31st, just a couple days before the start of our next 9-day Mexican Volcanoes trip. We thought we would spend New Year's in an interesting, presumably hoppin' cosmopolitan city.

Interesting and cosmopolitan it is, hoppin' on New Year's it is not.

With most storefronts and restaurants shuttered, the city seemed more prepared for a cataclysm than a celebration.

But we managed to find some charming bars to hang out in for a bit, and zipped over to the Reforma, purported to draw millions to the streets to bring in the New Year. Well, it must be a really big street, because it hardly felt crowded.

We parked it near the live music minutes before the countdown. It took a bit more thought to reverse my numbers in Spanish, but I eventually found "uno" and fireworks blasted directly overhead. Right in the middle of the city. One of the many things you see in Mexico that you would just never see in the US.

Solo en Mexico!

Things we didn't evolve with

2009-12-17T13:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-05T11:32:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-02T11:50:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-05T09:29:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-02T16:02:00.001-08:00

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

2009-10-29T11:04:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-26T12:47:00.000-07:00

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.