Everest 1963

Mount Everest‘s earliest attempt was in 1922. Its first ascent was in 1953. Its first winter ascent in 1980. Somewhere in the early 1990s current events stopped being interesting.

It became like the American space shuttle program. At first everyone watched every launch with wonder. Then attention slowly evaporated. Then no one cared unless the stale routine turned into a deadly fireball.

I regret that the mountain has become Burning Man on the Khumbu. Okay, that’s a bit off. Even unfair. Burning Man is a much more exciting event today.

So until some wild alpinists successfully traverses Lhotse, Everest and Nuptse in a single push, the activity around the mountain will likely remain less than compelling. But I still enjoy Everest for it’s history. And this spring marks the 50th anniversary of the first ascent of Everest by an American.

Over the holidays I read Jim Whitaker’s 1999 autobiography, A Life on the Edge: Memoirs of Everest and Beyond, published by the Mountaineers Books in Seattle. My copy was pre-read and evidently bought at an Eddie Bauer based on the price tag firmly baked into the dust jacket.

Whittaker recounts his introduction to climbing as a child, his involvement in mountain rescue organizations, his career as a guide on Mount Rainier, how he grew and expanded outfitter REI, his relationship with the Kennedy family, and of course, his ascent of Mount Everest.

Whittaker’s ascent was actually only the seventh ascent of Mount Everest. With so few lines completed to the top of the mountain at that time, the American expedition, which included Tom Hornbein, and Willi Unsoeld among others, had a virtually blank canvas and yet Whittaker and the majority of his teammates drew over the same line climbed by Hillary and Norgay 10 years earlier. Whittaker’s ascent became the popularly marketable climb through National Geographic and others because he was among the firsts. Yet, the next to reach the top, just days later, took a bold, original line and completed the first traverse of Everest. That climb receives plenty of accolades too, but in many ways deserves more.

During the1963 American attempt, the expedition split into two teams above the Ice Fall. One team, which Whittaker and Sherpa Nawang Gombu eventually lead the way to the top, took the route established by Hillary and Norgay up the Ice Fall along the South Col. Meanwhile, Hornbein and Unsoeld were going to create a new route up the West Ridge, and descend by the South Col.

There were more variables with the new route. The West Ridge was steeper and the progress was slow. Hornbein and Unsoeld arrived on the summit quite late in the day. They later spent a cold, strange night on the South Col route at high altitude with two of their partners that had summitted earlier that same day. Overall, their ascent was light and fast. In some ways, the climb was ahead of its time in the same way is was old fashioned; like going up an Alp in the 1800s with only your axe, a loaf of bread and a blaze of courage.

Years later Mark Twight would write with venom about the death of the American alpinist. Since we now know that Steve House and others have redeemed the American alpinist, I guess we can say what Twight perceived wasn’t really death but rather dormancy. Clearly the American alpinist went into hibernation after the West Ridge ascent, because Hornbein and Unsoeld were very much awake and alert American alpinists.

We can’t all be Hornbeins and Unsoelds or Whittakers. But perhaps there is some of that American alpinist dormant in us, ready to keep things interesting.

Thanks for dropping by again. If you enjoyed this post, please consider following me on Facebook or Twitter. And feel free to share this post with your friends. Climbing matters, even though we work nine to five.

Sources: 1) Whittaker, Jim, A Life on the Edge: Memoirs of Everest and Beyond (Seattle: The Mountaineers Books, 1999); and 2) Hornbein, Tom, Everest: The West Ridge (Seattle: The Mountaineers Books, 1998).

What Do You Seek?

Maybe the question is not the tiresome why [do we climb],” Kelly Cordes says, “but what do we seek?” –Katie Ives, The Sharp EndAlpinist 41

My favorite commercial from the SuperBowl hit the mark on the climbing experience I want. Oddly, it was a car commercial.

It went like this: A high school kid is dressed in a tux and about to go to the prom solo. He gets a boost of confidence from his dad who lends him his Audi. He barges into the party and passionately kisses the girl, then the football-playing boyfriend decks him. The commercial cuts to the kid driving away with a smirk of satisfaction and a blackeye.

The part I savored wasn’t about what a car can do for me or the rush of adrenaline and excitement of taking a risk and becoming memorable (legendary, no doubt, in this case), but rather the combination of bravery and living in the moment. The high awareness of the moment and the perspective that comes with euphoria and sense of wholeness. It’s when all your bodily effort and your soul touches someplace that feels outside time. Happiness is involved too.

Kelly Cordes’ point about asking what we seek when we climb, rather than more broadly why do we climb is clever means to drill into our ice-core souls. Why has always been a dull bit when I’ve tried to clearly explain things to my family. I’ve felt the need to justify my love for climbing as an activity and an intellectual interest by addressing their values. I thought it was a persuasive approach. I realize now that I was being partly untruthful. I’d say that it helped me serve clients and customers better because I took the time to separate myself from the routine of suburban and urban life. I said it was about therapy. It worked but the answer didn’t really explain it entirely.

My family and friends found the pictures and stories from my trips the most compelling but they still questioned the safety and comfort of the endeavor. I usually just shrugged. I understand more clearly now that to do anything worthwhile, there is always a little bit of effort and it sometimes involves a degree or misery. I’m okay with that and I even apply the principle to a lot of activities in life.

What’s compelling for me — as in the real goal of an wilderness adventure — is to reach that moment of touching someplace metaphysically higher — call it heaven. After a long slog, the satisfaction of the top that opens to an expanse — particularly a wide open space such as the top of a route or a bald summit — is euphoric. I’m not worried or even thinking about due dates, my next errand or the emails or even bills accumulating at home or at work. It’s strictly thoughts of wonder at the place I’m in. Concentration on my balance. Conscious of the weather conditions and the angle of the sun. Blissfully happy.

The perspective is an important one. Because for me, I’ve found wide open space — even a hillside meadow — and the feeling of separation from the daily grind and elevation to a peaceful place nearly outside of time are somehow linked with me. There I have these fleeting moments of wholeness and bliss where the world seems to hold still both physically and in my modern multi-tasking mind. It’s still long enough that what really matters is crystal clear. I can think of numerous examples from coming to a clearing in Shenandoah, to the hillside unkempt lawn at my favorite resort in Vermont.

Unfortunately, wherever or however I come to those pinnacles, I can never hold onto them. A religious leader once told me that this was the difference between happiness and joy. Happiness is a temporal state. Alternatively, you can be going through a rough time and still be joyful. Joy has to do with keeping the bigger picture in mind, even if the memory of what’s important gets muddled in the confusion of life.

Interestingly, I just recently realized that I don’t have to climb to achieve that heavenly awareness. It came to me in a meadow at Trapp Family Lodge last September when I was playing with my wife and daughter. The state of mind was the same place I had visited during my most memorable climbs and hikes. Really. Yet, getting to that point took a lot of work: Building relationships, saving for the expense of time off, arranging for work to operate in my absence. The work of getting to that state was akin to sackcloth and ashes or a narrow bivy, low on rations and you dropped your fuel canister.

The temporal state of a happy place is hard to reach consistently. But the quest of boiling everything down to life’s essence is what I work on doing (mostly unsuccessfully) every day. It’s a quest, and I believe that there is no better means of reaching that objective than mountain climbing. I also think alpinism is the ultimate method to stretching one’s abilities and getting what I’m talking about. This may not be the case for everyone, but I suspect most would agree and where we disagree it’s a matter of semantics.

One final thing I want to mention: If you are only reading Climbing or Rock & Ice — which are good publications that I read too — you might not be getting all that you need if you’re into the essence and sharing the actual experience of climbing. You have to read Alpinist too. It helps identify and maybe even look into those soulful moments of being whole almost anytime.

Thanks for dropping by again. If you enjoyed this post, please consider following the Suburban Mountaineer on Facebook or Twitter. Climbing matters, even though we work nine to five.

More on those Ten Expeditions — Plus Four New Ones

This is a follow-up to my a recent post where I mentioned ten expeditions that received climbing grants. Here I provide some detail on those 10 expeditions that have received one or a combination of Mugs Stump Award or a Lyman Spitzer Cutting Edge Award plus four more that received funding from the Copp Dash Inspire Award. They’ll be attempting new routes in Afghanistan, Alaska, Greenland, the Karakorum, the Himalayas and in Patagonia. Enjoy!

AFGHANISTAN

Kohe Pamir — Mick Follari with Dylan Thomas. First ascent of central buttress of Kohe Pamir (6320m) in Afghanistan’s Wahkan Corridor.

ALASKA

Middle Peak, Saint Elias Range — John Frieh — his second attempt 5,000-ft W face of this unclimbed peak, this year with Daniel Harro and Colin Haley.

Mount Hayes — Ryan Johnson and Samuel Johnson will attempt the unclimbed 6,000-ft E face of the south summit — and possibly one of the largest unclimbed in N. America — followed by a ridge traverse to the higher main summit of Mount Hayes.

Mount Deborah — Michael Wejchert with Bayard Russell and Elliot Gaddy. Unclimbed 4,500-foot south face of Mt. Deborah (12,339′) in Alaska’s Hayes Range.

Lowell Peak — Pete Dronkers with Jonathan Crabtree. South Pillar of Lowell Peak (3630m), St. Elias Range, Canada.

GREENLAND

Torssukatak Fjord, Cape Farewell — Lizzy Scully with Quinn Brett. First ascents of unclimbed, unnamed big walls and ridges.

KARAKORUM

East Face of Uli Biaho Tower — Matt McCormick, Pat Goodman, Jean-Pierre Ouellet attempt a new route on the E face

Tahu Rutum (6651m) — Scott Bennett and Graham Zimmerman will attempt the steep mixed NW ridge, expecting everything from rock (free and aid) to ice and mixed.

Shispare Sar (7611m) — Doug Chabot, Rusty Willis and Bruce Miller attempt obvious N ridge route

K6 West (7100m) — Jesse Huey, Raphael Slawinski and Ian Welsted will visit the Charakusa valley to attempt NW face

Tahu Rutum (6651m) and Kunyang Chhish East (7431m) — Kyle Dempster attempted this in 2010 solo. Now, Dempster returns with Hayden Kennedy and Urban Novak for their third season together in the Karakorum to attempt the W face.

HIMALAYAS

Panbari (6905m) — Clint Helander and Mark Westman will go for this remote peak’s second ascent via the south pillar. It was previously not permitted, so the FA was in 2006.

Lunag Ri (6909m), Nepal. Chad Kellogg and David Gottlieb will make their second attempt on the NW face of this mountain, which is currently the highest permitted unclimbed peak in Nepal.

PATAGONIA

Cerro San Lorenzo — Bryan Gilmore, Mikey Schaefer and Josh Wharton attempt the E face of this peak.

Thanks for dropping by yet again. If you enjoyed this post, and haven’t already, please consider following the Suburban Mountaineer on Facebook or Twitter. I believe climbing matters, even though we work nine to five.

Sources: Alpinist, Alpinist and the American Alpine Club.

Duke of Abruzzi versus Denali

This is the continuation of my previous post about whether Luigi Amedeo, the Duke of Abruzzi, and his men would have been able to meet the challenge of summitting the true high point of North America, Mount McKinley/Denali (20,320 ft./ 6,196 m.) instead of the peak that was believed to be the roof of the continent, Mount St. Elias (18,008 ft./5,489 m.) The Duke made it to the top of Mount St. Elias in the summer of 1897.

Assuming that the Duke would manage to reach the Alaska Range, which would be not easy feat considering the obstacles and the territory they would have to cover cross country, he would likely have arrived on the southern side of the range. Denali is most easily accessible. From the north, the mountain is defended by fewer foothills, lengthy glaciers and other significant mountain peaks, which would seem immense by themselves in most other mountain ranges, such as Mount Huntington. Choosing the right path may or may not have appeared obvious. The Ruth and Tokositna Glaciers run north to south and lead from the southern forests to the range, with the former providing the most efficient route. However, both were over 40 miles (65 kilometers) long at that time. To the best of my knowledge (so far), only the Russians had tried previously to investigate the greater area back in 1834, but they turned back before anything substantively could be accomplished.

Once on the glaciers, the Duke’s team would be there for two or more months, most likely. Finding their way through the glacier- and silt-filled valleys, peaks, talus and rock walls would require some luck, especially in terms of weather, both to allow mobility and for reference navigation.

Alternatively, if the Duke’s team had sufficient resources and willpower, they might have been able to walk east of the range, to the point where the current NP office headquarters is and walk around the range on more level ground. They would then proceed westward to the mountain, which would be in plain view in decent weather. If they were to take the most direct route to the mountain, they would most likely go straight to it’s north face. Of course, this is the less direct and longer route.

The north face of Denali was the site of the true first attempt to climb the mountain in 1903. After some intelligence from a USGS surveyor that wrote and article on the possibility of climbing Denali, Judge James Wickersham and four others went to the base of the north face and stood in awe. They witnessed recurrences of frightening avalanches and frequent rock fall. They did muster up enough courage (or bullheadedness) to climb the wall; they made it to 8,100 ft. before retreating because of those horrible conditions typical on the face. I suspect that the Duke’s team would also have also been deterred around this point, in part because the pace of climbing of the day was hardly fast and light; the siege style employed would have enhanced the risks.

Whether the Duke attempted to climb from the north or the south (perhaps by the Southeast Spur if the approach came from the south), the challenge could have been. Many attempts that failed in the years to come were by small teams, like Judge Wickersham’s. The Duke’s team was larger and quite determined. Even then, inexperienced teams with tenacity and grit (perhaps stubbornness too) like Hudson Stuck’s and the Sourdoughs, made it high on the mountain.

If Duke of Abruzzi set his sights on Denali instead of Mount St. Elias, I think the real determinant of whether he would have reached the summit in 1897 would have been a matter of timing and how they well he and his men could travel cross country. They would have bushwhacked a significant portion of the way and would have had to manage several river crossings — that would be high with spring runoff. In order to reach the mountain by about June to make a real attempt and have sufficiently good weather during their return to the coast, the expedition would have had to leave earlier than they had, possibly even at the end of winter. There likely would not have been time to sight see the gold mines, which they visited on the St. Elias expedition.

I don’t know whether the Duke had any true beta on the Alaska interior. If he didn’t, he probably would have underestimated the terrain; today hikers are told to double the expected time of travel over a certain distance. For example, I can cover four miles an hour at my normal walking pace. There I shouldn’t expect to gain more than two. I believe the Duke could have reached Denali and climbed it; he had the vast resources, including manpower for a seige attempt, the planning and advisers necessary.

Let me explain that last part: The Duke wasn’t the sole decision maker and thinker on his expeditions. At least one of his advisers was someone best known today for his photography: Victorio Sella. On the relatively brief journey inland to Mount St. Elias, a sudden and rare clear day, the Duke and his men saw the mountain in surreal perfection and became quite excited. The Duke summoned his people to break camp and announced that they would start work on the route immediately as the mountain was as if it just before them. Sella realized that it was an optical allusion because of the clear skies and that the mountain wasn’t merely a mile or two away but several. Any effort to reach the mountain now would fatigue and demoralize the expedition. Speaking up took courage. The Duke was reported to have been appeared visibly disappointed. The Duke retreated from the group for a period. When he returned he declared that all routefinding decisions going forward would be made by Sella.

The Duke of Abruzzi was successful in part because he had smart people with him and they also had the courage to speak up. I believe that it’s this dynamic that lead to the Duke’s success as an explorer. He may have gotten the praise, but his men enabled his success. I think the same would have been true in attempting Denali, if he attempted to climb it in 1897.

Once more, thank you for stopping by for a read. If you enjoyed this post, please consider following the Suburban Mountaineer on Facebook or Twitter, because, like you, I believe climbing matters, even though we work nine to five.

Duke of Abruzzi versus Interior Alaska

Don’t worry; you didn’t miss it. My posts on K2’s earliest photos haven’t been published yet. They are slowly being developed. So check back for that in a bit.

But in the course of looking at K2 and its related topics I’ve had several thoughts about one of its most famous explorers. He was made famous before his K2 expedition for climbing what was believed to be the highest mountain in North America.

In 1897, the elevations of certain peaks were not certain and word that Mount McKinley/Denali was the highest only started making its way around certain circles early in the year. By the spring, Luigi Amedeo, a.k.a. the Duke of Abruzzi, was en route with a large entourage under his leadership to reach the summit of Mount St. Elias (18,008 ft./5,489 m.) He and his people traveled across the Atlantic to America, went cross country to Seattle where they chartered a boat, before chartering smaller boats to take them to the shore off of Mount St. Elias and hiking the remaining distance.

He and his large team struggled upward for about a month before making the mountain’s very first ascent. A formidable accomplishment done with no beta and mostly grit and determination.

I can’t help but wonder if the Duke had set his heart on summitting Denali instead, could he and his men have done it?

Traveling across Alaska’s interior is, in many ways, a different challenge than managing the coastal areas. The scope is much larger, even without established paths. The first inhabitants of Alaska laid relatively few trails cross country and what trails that existed were only occasionally used for trading and hunting. Even if the roads were navigatable, river crossings could be like an impenetrable obstacle depending on conditions. Railroads, highways, ferries and bridges wouldn’t be built until shortly after the Duke’s adventure.

An example of a cross country journey of this magnitude came only a few years later with no new infrastructure to help: In 1902 a U.S. Geological Survey team of nine traveled to Rainy Pass (which is about 125 miles northwest of Anchorage and part of the southwestern arm of the Alaska Range.) It took them 105 days to cover the 80 miles to the Pass from Cook Inlet.

This means the Duke’s relatively short journey inland to Mount St. Elias was easy and brief compared to what might have been required to get to Denali. Mount St. Elias is a mere 10 mi./16 km. from the Taan Fjord off Icy Bay. If the Duke and his party could have made it from Anchorage to the Alaska Range around Denali, he and his party would have had to navigate getting to the mountain, which is most easily accessible from the north, not the south, where they would have likely started such an expedition.

The Duke and his men would have had to start their journey to America sooner than they had and been prepared to start their journey as early as March or April — the edge of winter — just to allow sufficient time to reach the range and explore its defenses and navigate the passes.

On his Mount St. Elias expedition, the Duke is also remembered for taking a brass bed frame with him to sleep in at base camp. Years later, when he explored the Korakorum to attempt K2, he left it behind. He must have realized the effort involved to move it was great. There is an anecdote from the approach to Mount St. Elias where he scolds photographer Victorio Sella for having a porter carry his camera equipment; the Duke made it a policy that each man must carry his own gear (though the bed must have been considered part of the camp equipment). It seems this policy was wise but not yet take to its logical extreme as it was on the K2 expedition. Perhaps the bed would have been left behind in the Alaska Interior for some future prospector or lazy bear.

Now, assuming the Alaskan Interior made for a difficult journey and that the expedition came prepared for the hard slog, he would have come to the southern side of the Alaska Range, still far from the top, in summer time with less stable ice and snow conditions, and no beta on what route would suit his team’s skills and abilities best. But that’s for my next post…

As always, I’m glad you dropped by. If you enjoyed this post, please consider following the Suburban Mountaineer on Facebook or Twitter. Like you, I believe climbing matters, even though we work nine to five.

Sources: 1) National Parks Service; 2) Waterman, Jonathan, A Most Hostile Mountain, 1997

Rarely Seen Rarely Attempted: Fitz Roy’s West Face

About a month ago, a friend shared with me Alan Arnette’s opinion piece on the standards of some of the guided commercial expeditions to Mount Everest. It pointed out what I hope are some exceptional promotions to prospective clients, like guaranteed Internet access in BC, gourmet food, and never having to lug more than a daypack up the mountain. I couldn’t help but think that a climber choosing this guide company because of these promises didn’t deserve to be there.

Regardless whether my knee-jerk thought was valid, it also reminded me of the places that are still climbed mostly independently by climbers without choosing the challenge because they picked it out of a glossy brochure. I say “mostly” because there are still competent and experienced climbers that hire guides because they help bring an competent amateur climber elevate their game and possibly climb a grade higher.

Still, there are mountains that seem to be the objectives, either for their difficulty or style of climbing, that lend themselves to independent climbers. Take big walls, like those in Yosemite, Baffin Island and Patagonia. No one can help you climb those, really. You and your teammates have to climb them on your own.

But while El Capitan, Mount Asgard, Polar Sun Spire and Torres del Paine have all been done, where do we go for the truly unusual ascent. There are certainly more obscure peaks, but what about a rarely seen face?

Fitz Roy in Patagonia is part of that iconic horizon always captured in photographs and drawings from the east. But visitors, including even some climbers, only ever see if from that angle — mostly from the roadside. It’s highly visible flanks are also the most commonly accessed ways to the top. Aside from having competent climbing skills, the weather has to remain calm long enough to allow passage. So proceeding further, to the “backside” of the spire is often to gamble with valuable time.

Fitz Roy’s West Face is bigger and more complex than its popular eastern face and north pillar. Surrounded by a glacial moat, it rises 7,834 ft./2,400 m. from the Torre Glacier. The first section, which stretches up at a low angle for about 2,297 ft./700 m. appears to be not too difficult, however this area is prone to frequent rockfall. According to Alan Kearney, it has forced many parties to skirt this portion and reach the more vertical portions by indirect routes.

The first attempt on the West Face was in 1962 but there isn’t a great deal known about it, though we know it was attempted by Jose Luis and an unnamed partner. The next attempt was made in 1977 by Alan Rouse and Rob Carrington, but lack of gear and those notorious short weather windows turned them back.

Still unclimbed in 1982, six Czech alpinists worked for two months and made four pushes to gain elevation. Difficult technical climbing high up, combined with violent weather, finally forced them to retreat.

Less than a year later, Czechs Zdenek Brabec, Robert Galfy, Michal Orolin and Vladimir Petrik returned and brought with them Milan Hoholik and Dr. Frantiseki Kele and Tibor Surka. They skirted the hazards of the initial 700-meter slope by approaching from the Fitz Roy Glacier. They climbed from mid-December thru the middle of January.

On a particularly windy day, where the wind was lifting the climbers’ gear and ropes far from the wall, a rock fell, bounced off a ledge covered with snow and smashed into Brabec’s leg, “leaving an acrid smell of pulverized rock in the air,” as Kearney wrote. The team quit their attempt and helped their partner down to their shelter nearly 3,000 meters below.

After a rest, Galfy, Orolin and Petrik started up once more, despite being driven down eight times. From their previous high point, the crux became a lengthy offwidth that Orolin tackled. At last, they stood on top on a perfectly clear and windless day.

These climbers didn’t enjoy a comfy camp, gourmet food or good connections to reach home or the latest news. They climbed to climb something worth exploring. Isn’t that what’s it’s about?

Thanks for dropping by again. If you enjoyed this post, please consider following the Suburban Mountaineer on Facebook or Twitter. Climbing matters, even though we work nine to five.

Sources: 1) Kearney, Alan, Mountaineering in Patagonia, 1993; 2) 1984 American Alpine Journal.