 |  |
|
|
| Introduction You may have talked to the author of the following article, Coley Gentzel, AAI's Domestic Programs Coordinator. You may have also
read his article describing a new winter route he completed with two friends on Pyramid Peak in the Cascades this past season in our last newsletter. Looking for more adventures on a similar scale, he travelled to the Alaska
Range in April with AAI guide Seth Hobby to attempt a series of peaks. What follows is Coley's very down-to-earth account of that mountain
journey.
Ruth Gorge Climbing and Ascents with Coley Gentzel and Seth Hobby April 20 - May 10, 2003
I have noticed that climbing for me has been a pretty progressive thing, if progressive is the right word. I try not to think too much about the similarities between my approach to this hobby and the classic symptoms of an addiction. I made the mistake recently of reading a questionnaire that was supposed to help you determine if you placed too much importance on climbing. I quickly realized that this questionnaire must be flawed because not only was every sign and symptom described in this survey of sorts present in my life, I could expand on each of them and add a few of my own. I know denial is one of the stages in the addiction process, but I can't remember which. While engaging in one of my favorite things to do while not climbing, talking about climbing, with my good friend and climbing partner Seth Hobby, the idea of a trip to Alaska got tossed into the mix. Seth and I share the same love for the mountains, have similar likes and dislikes when it comes to climbing style and approach, and were both psyched on the idea of a trip to a bigger range of mountains. As I mentioned before, climbing is a progressive thing for me, and in my thinking, Alaska was a pretty reasonable option for the next step in this progression. I thought it would be a good opportunity for Seth and me to up the ante a bit and test our mettle against some bigger objectives. Making climbing plans is kind of a funny thing, especially for folks very immersed in the climbing lifestyle. Wish lists are made, ideas are tossed out, goals are formed and changed almost on a daily basis. I haven't been able to figure out the recipe that somehow magically transforms the pipe dreams into hard plans. It just sort of happens. Of course it takes some sort of meeting of the minds between climbing partners and some tenacity at least on one side of the relationship, but I think luck and timing are factors as well. Regardless, our idea of an Alaska trip began to materialize piece by piece and plan making started to morph from coffee time conversation into buying tickets and something I have read about called training.
Some of the folks I talked to in order to gather information for climbing in Alaska told me that training would be a good idea. Webster says training is: "Improving physical fitness by exercise and diet". Sounds terrible. I made a few changes to the standard definition of training and decided to personalize a program for myself in order to maximize chances for success. I have heard it is cold in Alaska and one can rarely eat enough calories in a day to make up for the energy spent climbing and just staying warm. With this in mind I thought it wise to stock-pile a few calories. With the help of places like Boundary Bay Brewery and Jalapenos Mexican restaurant, I was able to accumulate a reasonable supply of adipose tissue from which to draw once in the mountains, thus statisfying the diet part of my training regimen. Exercise. Webster has a few definitions for exercise. The one that most closely aligned with my preferred method for training was something like, "a piece of work intended to test someones knowledge or skill." My friend Polish Bob is quite a piece of work and my knowledge and skills are tested everytime we climb together so I thought climbing with him would satisfy the exercise part of the regimen. So there you have it. Eating a lot and climbing as much as possible was my training strategy in preparation for eating very little and climbing a lot in Alaska. Sounds about right. Bob and I ended up climbing a new winter route in the Cascades, and Seth and I were able to get a few trips in to the Canadian Rockies for some ice climbing. By the time April rolled around Seth and I were both feeling reasonably strong and we were anxious to see some new mountains. Seth headed up to Alaska a week or so before I did to visit some friends and work a bit for K2, the aviation company that would eventually fly us onto the glacier. We met in Anchorage on the 19th of April and spent that day shrinking the balance in our bank accounts at places like Costco and Safeway. People say everything is bigger in Alaska. With the amount of food that we bought for a 3 week trip, I was pretty sure by the time I left I would be bigger. Seth had packed the food for all of our guided trips in Alaska for the past two years, so I was inclined to trust his judgement on most things, but honestly, a five pound block of cheddar cheese? I guess if we didnt eat it, at least it would keep the tent from blowing away.
The jumping off point for climbing in the Alaska Range, including most routes on Denali, is a tiny town called Talkeetna. I recently saw a bumper sticker that accurately described Talkeetna as a quaint little drinking village with a slight climbing problem. It is a small place with a few bars, a general store, and a landing strip from which a handful of aviation companies make a living by flying climbers, sightseers, and adventurers to different parts of the mountain range and the surrounding hard-to-access countryside. We got into town on a Saturday evening, post shopping spree, and were due to fly out the next morning, Easter Sunday, with one of K2's finest pilots, Randy Kilborn. The next morning, after enduring a few rounds of sarcastic teasing from Randy regarding packing like a couple of tourists, we got all of our gear and food loaded into the tiny little Cessna airplane and Seth, with a 50lb sack of food in his lap, Randy and his snide comments, a fellow named Fabritzio who was along to help Randy poke fun at us, and I with a carton holding 5 dozen eggs and a backpack on my lap, were airborn and headed for the glacier. It was a cloudy day so we really couldn't see most of the mountains on the way in. The mountains we could see looked big, steep and scary. Must have been the lighting or something. I hoped they would be less scary once we would see all of them.
A hair-raising landing via the skis attached to the underside of our plane put us out the door and into the cold snowy world that would be our home for the next few weeks. Watching the plane depart, I thought it was curious that the pilot could fly straight at the side of a mountain I was sure couldn't be more that 1/2 a mile away. An investigation of the topo a bit later on revealed the error in my perception by telling me that that mountain was about 9 miles away. It would take a while before my eyes and mind would adjust to the scale of things here. Fortunately, the clouds that had obstructed our view on the way in continued to drop as we dug in camp that afternoon, and the snow that fell for the next 3 days kept me from spending too much time visually adjusting to the environment. By the end of those first few days I was rather well adjusted to and good at sleeping, eating, and wishing bad things upon all of those that had told me we would sit in the tent for the duration of our trip. I was starting to think they may have been right when it finally stopped snowing.
When the snow finally let up it was still cloudy, and we couldn't see much at all. We had been sitting idle since our arrival, so we decided to go for a ski tour up the west fork of the Ruth Glacier to break trail in preparation for heading up to climb Peak 11,300 if the weather cleared in the next few days. The map showed the distance to be about 9 miles, but judging by how close the peak appeared to me I was sure it couldn't be that far. From start to finish on this trip there were valuable lessons to be learned at almost every turn. Alaskan Lesson Number One: objects in the distance may be larger than they appear. We skied for a few hours without visible progress on the vast glacier. The peaks in the distance weren't any closer, and although our camp had gotten smaller behind us, the peaks on either side had not moved. Depressing. We eventually made it a good way up the West fork and got a bit of a look at the route. The going was kind of slow due to the three feet of fresh snow. We hoped that things would harden up in the next few days so we could get on with it. We returned to camp late in the day, but you wouldn't have known it by the amount of day light left. Another one of the many cool things about climbing in Alaska is the length of the days. It was getting dark at about 11:30pm and then light again at 3am. Lots of climbing hours for those willing to stay up past their bed time and keep moving.
The weather continued to improve, and as the sun warmed the fresh snow, there was a significant mass wasting event (large scale avalanching) on most of the mountains we could see. After a day of good weather spent watching the avalanches, we packed up and headed back up the West Fork and made a quick camp below the base of our intended route. The long ski with too much gear tired us out a bit, and as a result we started climbing a bit late the next morning. It was really warm in the sun, and instead of the hard neve conditions we were hoping for, the new snow was very soft and sloppy. The climbing wasn't steep getting onto the ridge (only about 45 degrees or so), but it was pretty scary because of the mashed potato consistency of the snow over steep rock in places. We simul-climbed for about 1500 feet to the crest of the ridge and set up a manky belay below a mixed corner that looked interesting. Seth cast off on the lead, and after quite a while of fighting for protection and upward progress, he retreated. It was late, we were soaked from wallowing in the warm snow all day, and there were some nasty looking clouds boiling over the Rooster's Comb, a peak just behind us. We agreed that in light of the snow conditions and our lack of speedy progress towards where we needed to be by the end of the day (the only decent bivy ledge on the route), we should bail. We made a handful of 70 meter rappels and managed to get rid of some of our carabiners, slings and stoppers along the way. At least the rack was lighter now. So we got several additional Alaska lessons: #2: It takes a few days after a big snow, not just one, for conditions to improve. #2.1: Start early to stay out of the sun on a south facing slope. #2.2: Getting wet just before the temperatures drop to near zero is a bad idea. After a day of rest and another long sled-laden ski, we were back at base camp enjoying the sun and great views that we should have been seeing from a much higher vantage point.
Back at camp we had spent quite a bit of time analyzing our decision, patting ourselves on the back for making a good one, kicking ourselves in the butt for bailing, and talking about how we should proceed. We knew (see lesson #2) that it would be a few more days before the snow settled and became better for climbing. Mount Barrill down in the Great Gorge has a route on it called the Japanese Couloir that we thought might be in good shape and clear of unsettled snow with the recent avalanche activity. So we packed up a few days worth of food and gear and headed down into the Great Gorge (a 3 mile ski), and set up camp out in the middle of the mile-wide glacier between Mount Barrill and the Moose's Tooth.
A pseudo alpine start got us to the base of the 2500 foot couloir where much to our dismay, we found snow almost as deep as our despair. We began postholing up the initial 35 degree slopes, and much to much to our delight, after crossing the bergschrund and getting onto the steeper ground above, the snow began to improve in consistency. Higher up the route, the new snow had avalanched out of the couloir and had left a smooth and compact layer exposed that made for great climbing. We cruised on the upper portion of the route and didn't get slowed down until 30 vertical feet before reaching a col and the top of the couloir. We had simul soloed all of the 50-65 degree terrain up to this point and I had a bit of a lead on Seth.
The last 30 vertical feet to the col were perhaps the worst bit of climbing I have ever had to endure. The angle was only about 55 degrees, but the snow resembled a lighter, more crystalized version of sugar that had no bottom. I thrashed upwards for what seemed like a century, working several minutes for each few inches of upward progress while enduring Seth's shouts of disapproval from below. Seth's understandable frustration and the included verbal beration were resulting from his getting bombed with the biproduct of my trench digging efforts. Relieved, a bit scared, and out of breath and patience, I reached the col and waited for Seth to get close enough to drop him the rope. He was happy to have it for the last section, and he seemed to have a much easier time with the section than I did. From the col the route traversed across an exposed face and gained a broad ridge that wound easily to the summit.
A small cornice problem provided a little excitement, but it was nothing compared to the excitement that awaited us on the descent. The views from the summit were amazing and being on top of this mountain really gave us some perspective on the area. Mount Dickey was immediately south from Barrill, and our gain of 3000 feet from the glacier to Barrill's summit seemed insignificant when compared to the 5600 foot relief of Dickeys East face. Barrill would be a large mountain in most other ranges, but it looks like a baby when it is viewed with its neighbors from a distance.
We had read about two options for descent from the top of Barrill. One was to descend the climbing route and the other was to down climb and rappel the SW Ridge. The sun was now on the climbing route, and being a couloir, the route can be a funnel for things falling down it. We opted for the ridge. Lesson #3: Descending a south facing ridge with new snow on top of large cornices in the warmest part of the day is not a good idea. A few stomach twisting hours later, we were off the ridge, out from under the huge hanging seracs on Dickey, through the crevasse field, and back to our skis at the base of the route. It felt good to have gotten up something, and the route was really fun, but it was hard to us to feel happy while looking at the mountains that were dwarfing the one we had just climbed. The next day it snowed again, and we ate most of the food we had planned to use to climb the Mooses Tooth. This meant another trip back to basecamp to resupply. We rounded up some more food, dropped some items we didnt think we would need, spent the night at the comfy camp, and then headed down to approach the Moose's Tooth the next morning.
After the 3.5 mile ski, we were at the base of what is known as the Root Canal. The Root Canal is the glacier that starts at the base of the Southwest Face of the Moose's Tooth and drops 2200 feet in about 2 miles back to the Ruth Glacier. Needless to say, it is pretty rough going on the glacier, and route finding is key to getting through safely and quickly. We got it right the first time, and about eight hours after leaving camp, we dropped our monster packs at a flat place to camp, just a short way from the Ham and Eggs Couloir, the route we hoped to climb the next day.
Ham and Eggs is one of the better snow and ice routes in the Ruth's Great Gorge. It is a 3000 foot route that is mostly 40 to 50-degree snow with sections of steep ice climbing. Depending on the time of year, there may be a bit of rock climbing involved as well. We brewed drinks and ate a substantial pasta dinner in preparation for what we were thinking would be a long day of climbing to come. From what we had gathered, most parties take about 20 hours from camp to camp on the route. It has been done a whole lot faster and a whole lot slower but 20 seems to be the norm. You cover a lot of ground regardless of how long you take, that's for sure.
On the way to our camp for the Ham and Eggs route we passed under another route on the same face as ours called Shaken Not Stirred. It is also a steep snow and ice climb with a few mixed steps, and it is reportedly a bit harder than Hammies. It was late in the day, and there was a party still climbing up the route as we passed. They looked to be about 1500 feet up the route with a lot of ground left to cover. We didnt really give them another thought for the rest of the day and hoped they made it down safely as we went to bed. I was stirred from my sleep at about one in the morning by someone shouting towards our tent saying they needed help. After donning my headlamp and giving myself a minute to wake up, I walked out to see what was going on. A lone climber was hobbling towards our tent, and after a few minutes of talking to him, Seth and I were able to piece his story together and figure out that he and his partner, Ryan, had been rappelling the Shaken/Stirred route when their anchor failed, sending them on a 800-900 foot fall off the mountain. His partner was still down at the base of the route with a suspected broken leg and additional injuries. Seth and I decided to split up. I headed down to enlist the help of 2 other climbers who were camped farther down the glacier, and Seth headed down to the injured fellow. Mark and Joe, two Seattle climbers, were a bit startled to see me, but they got up soon enough and collected some gear including a sled, and we headed down to find Seth and the others. Seth had the injured climber's leg splinted with a foam pad by the time we got to them, and the climber looked to be pretty stable, so as quickly as we could we began moving these guys and their stuff off of the avalanche cone and to a spot where a plane might be able to land and pick them up. Easier said than done. Ryan, was seated in the sled; Mark and Joe had daisy-chained into his harness, one on each side and uphill from the sled; Seth had set up a series of anchors up the slope that we had to drag the sled; and I was on the back stabilizing Ryan's leg and pushing from behind. After a lot of effort we made it up the initial slope. All that was left now was some traversing, a few controlled lowers down a moderate slope, and then flat ground to a potential landing strip.
We got the guys down to Mark and Joe's camp and tucked them in before stomping out a huge SOS on the snow. Without any form of contact with pilots in the area, we were hoping a plane would fly over and see the SOS and radio for help. The Root Canal is a very hard place to land a small plane, and there is zero room for error. There is only a pilot or two that is willing to land there. After a few hours, a plane flew over and made a few circles. We were pretty sure they had seen our sign, but there way no real way to tell. Our sleeping bags were occupied by the injured climbers, we had pieced together warm clothing and sleeping pads so we could nap a bit while waiting for the plane. Being up since midnight working had taken its toll on everyone, so we all slept really well until we got too cold to lay still any more and had to move again. Joe brewed up some Starbucks French Roast extra dark and we passed the mug of dark Joe around to warm up. A blue and white plane from Talkeetna Air Taxi finally made a pass and came in for the landing. Paul Roderick with TAT is the pilot that pioneered the landing strip on the root canal glacier so we kind of expected him to show up. We got the guys loaded on the plane and wished them the best on the way out. The remainder of the day was spent swapping (more like listening to) stories with Mark and Joe. They have been climbing in Alaska for 10 years and had each spent time as Climbing Rangers, so they had an interesting stock pile of stories to share. We had each intended to climb this day, so each of our plans had been thrown a bit out of whack. The weather was supposed to hold, so we parted ways each hoping we'd be able to climb the next day.
Lucky for us the weather held, and we woke at 3am to clear skies. We hurried through breakfast and made our way to the start of the route. Some 45-degree snow led to a corner and crack system and the start of the route. An easy 5th class rock step led to some broken ground and into a gully. Some moderate snow climbing and a few traverses put us at the base of the first difficulties, a rotten step of ice that although short, was quite vertical and lacked any sort of protection from a long fall. The spindrift pouring over the top of the step and the subsequent white-wash made the exit moves pretty exciting, especially when contemplating the long fall onto the belayers head.
The climbing above this step first step was mostly perfect neve slopes between short vertical ice steps. This climbing eventually mellowed out and gave way to a long snow slope, which we simul-climbed, for about 600 vertical. Our simul-climbing ended at the base of what we thought would be the crux of the route, a 30 meter water ice step that was pretty steep and thin in places but generally in very good shape.
Fortunately for us, the ice on this pitch was in good shape, and it was thick enough to get adequate screws in for protection. The spindrift on this pitch was out of control. I started up the pitch, which was vertical at first, and was forced to down climb and cower at the base while a steady river of snow pummeled Seth and me. I started up again, and once I committed to the pitch, I was forced to put my head against the ice a few times and just wait until next round of pounding stopped. Trying to force upward progress in the river of spindrift would be like trying to read a guidebook while getting a fire hose in the face. Not really possible. This pitch ended with a belay under a nice granite roof, and the sheltered stance was very welcome after the previous battle. More snow and ice steps led to another cruxy ice step which was quite awkward and strenuous. Most of the short cruxy sections of ice had
a lip at the top that was formed by the spindrift pouring over the top of them. These added an awkward, almost overhanging feel to the top
of of each of the sections. We were now in the narrow part of the route, and the climbing was on ice two to three feet wide in spots with
granite walls on either side. Where the ice was thin enough that you couldn't place ice screws, you could get rock protection in the walls
on either side.
After a few more pitches the ice petered out, and we were in the final snow gully that led to the col at the West Ridge of the Moose's Tooth, a classic climb in its own right. We enjoyed a brief stay in 50+ mph winds at the col and began the first of about 23 rappels down the route.
Rappelling is probably one of my least favorite aspects of climbing, and each of the 20+ on this descent served as a strong reinforcement of my feelings. On a few occasions, the rope tangled so badly I thought it might be easier to keep going with the snarl and fashion a sweater or maybe a quilt out of it rather than untangle the mess. Eventually we were out of harms way, and with one last rappel over the bergschrund (off one single knife blade piton), we were on level ground and back to our tent again, about 19 hours after having left. After a brief internal struggle, I was able to muster enough resolve to light the stove and make a few hot drinks and soup for us. Seth fell asleep with his Nalgene bottle open and on his chest and woke up to a soggy sleeping bag full of noodles a few hours later. I was too tired to laugh.
We descended from the Moose's Tooth and made it back to camp with some additional gear toted out as a favor to the guys who had fallen. The ski back to camp was a long and tiring one, especially with the extra stuff, and we were really happy to see camp when we finally got there. Having eaten only light meals for the last few days, we were excited to get back to camp and eat some of the heavy and tasty stuff we had stock piled there. In light of my dwindling energy reserves and the substantial caloric depletion of the last few days I thought an all feta cheese quesadilla would be a good way to build some of those stores back up. Boy was I right. I am fairly certain that there were enough calories in that one quesadilla to light the city of New York for a few hours. We had hoped to give Peak 11,300 another go, but once again the weather pooped out and left us with another couple of feet of snow and only 4 more days to stay. We decided that this wasn't enough time for conditions to get good again and that we wouldn't have the time for another route. We packed up and moved our camp from near the Mountain House to the runway to wait for a plane ride off the snow and ice. A few hours later, the in-coming clouds made it clear that we wouldnt be able to catch a ride out that day, so we got to go through the joyful process of unpacking and re-establishing camp. Sometimes it seems like these trips are 90% dealing with gear and 10% other stuff, like climbing. It is a constant struggle. In the morning we were rudely awakened by a plane landing within yards of our tent, which I guess isn't such a bad thing if you are waiting for a plane ride. We sent word out with the pilot, who worked for a different air taxi, that we were ready to head out, and Randy was back in a few hours to fly us to Talkeetna.
We rounded out our time in Talkeetna by doing some odd jobs for K2 including washing planes and doing miscellaneous yard work to kill some time before flying back to Washington. As a perk of being a K2 honorary employee, we got to join a scenic flight on which one of K2's new pilots was being trained on the area by a senior pilot. During the 2.5 hours flight we not only did laps over the summit of Denali, but also got to take a bird's eye look at just about every other peak in the entire range. It was a special treat to say the least. The ride however, was a bit different. When there aren't paying customers on such a flight the pilots like to have a bit more fun. The feeling in my stomach on that flight made the gripped feeling I occasionally had on a few of our climbs seem like a minor case of indigestion. None the less, it was a spectacular flight and now, after seeing all the other amazing mountains that the Alaska Range has to offer, my climbing-to-do list is much, much longer.
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Seth digging one of our many snow seat belays while descending the ridge. Careful!
