The Natural History of Interstate 5

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?

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!!!

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

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.

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!

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?

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.