After a hectic season of guiding and ice festivals, I was craving a good day in the mountains. Matt McCormack and I had failed at two-thirds distance on the girdle traverse of Cannon cliff last winter, and we periodically checked in to refine our plan for the next attempt. Conditions needed to be right: enough snow built onto the myriad low angle slabs to make them crampon-able. It couldn’t be too cold or too dark either.

We met at 5 a.m. Matt had cleverly beat out the path up the Lakeview approach trail the week before, and soon we were cramponing up at the base of the cliff. About half of the route is “New England 3rd Class”: bushy neve, snow pillows, and low-angle water ice similar to terrain found on Mount Willard or Webster. To link these easy ledges, there’s about 6 – 8 technical mixed pitches, and 6 – 8 technical rappels.

What’s remarkable about this objective is how much good climbing there is on it. Pitches like NSW Crack, the Fruit Cup Connector, and the Great Flake are some of the best mixed pitches on the cliff. And then, of course, you must finish by making a complete ascent of the Dike.

I’ll upload more images and a topo soon. A few images follow from this classic White Mountain adventure…

- Freddie Wilkinson

Here’s Matt seconding up our first technical pitch of the day. Matt is a dedicated Cannon climber (despite living almost in Burlington), and had only the week before completed the Minotaur, with Bayard Russell.We carried a single 70 meter Sterling Nano, and it was the perfect tool for the job!

This is one of my favorite parts on the whole route, the Fruit Cup Connector.  On this pitch, you leave the comfort of the Moby Grape ledges and begin traversing across the center section of the cliff. Suddenly, all of Franconia Notch teeters beneath your crampons as you climb a quality yet run-out fractured slab to reach a ledge system that leads to the Lab Wall rappel.

Matt climbing the 5th pitch of Sam’s Swan Song, 5.6-ish but kind of serious with crampons on your feet and ice falling on your head.

Gabe Flanders making tracks off the summit off North Baldface, with Evan's Notch beyond. Running in the White Mountains isn't always this nice.

Once I was a runner. That was a long time ago, back in high school, when I joined the cross-country team after grade-school attempts at soccer and hockey failed miserably. Running was, by process of elimination, the only sport left that I was coordinated enough to compete in. Sure, it also promised to be painful, boring, and definitely it was not very cool. But soon I discovered that there’s a certain, hidden beauty to running, as there is with all endurance sports. It rewards hard work, persistence, and a willingness to suffer far more than it does natural talent or skill. By senior year I was captain of the team, and managed to put in a respectable season, even winning a few races along the way. Then I went to college and began spending as much time as I could in the mountains. Running quickly fell by the wayside.

Over the last few years, I’ve found myself spending more and more time running again. There are a couple of reasons for my return to the sport. I love the simple, physical pleasure of controlling my breath and pace, and feeling my body break into a good sweat. I also love the meditative aspect, how a good run can clear my head after a harried day and preserve a little time to think and reflect. And I love the close familiarity running brings me with my neighborhood and the wilderness around my home.  Running lets me observe simple things in my community, like getting to know every dog on my road or seeing how the neighbor’s latest home improvement project is progressing, as well as in nature, like how quickly the snow is melting in springtime or how fast the trees are leaving their leaves in the fall.

All of these quiet gifts running bestows have coalesced since my wife Janet and I built our cabin in Madison, NH, five years ago. We live on top of a hill, smack-dab in the middle of a trail runner’s paradise: there’s unlimited dirt roads and snowmobile trails stretching in every direction. The only downside is that no matter which way you choose to go, a six hundred vertical foot climb is waiting to get back home. Just a ten-minute drive away, the entire trail system of White Mountain National Forest waits for longer adventures.

The final reason for my return to running is that it’s a perfect compliment to climbing – particularly alpine climbing, my primary passion and focus as a professional athlete. Make no mistake about it, alpine climbing is an endurance sport, and to excel at it, you need to be serious about training specifically for it. (The sensible, of-repeated maxim that the best way to train for rock climbing is to go rock climbing most definitely does not apply to alpine climbing.) I was particularly influenced by this blog by Steve House, as well as getting to know Ueli Steck during a recent expedition to the Himalaya. These guys are probably the two greatest two alpinists in the game today, and they spend as much time running and doing other forms of “non-technical” endurance training as they do hanging out at the crag.

The circle.

In preparation for my summer expedition to the Indian Karakorum, I upped my normal running routine to around 50 miles a week in the months leading up to our departure. I also tried to log at least one serious trail run per week in the White Mountains that was in the 15 – 20 mile range. There is, of course, one down side to this kind of effort: it’s virtually impossible to improve both your endurance and power capacity simultaneously. You need to choose to focus on one or the other, or risk not improving in either. As it was, I still rock climbed three days a week, but I focused on mileage in the 5.11 – 5.12 range, rather then projecting 5.13s.

My final training mission was the Great Circle, a classic loop in the heart of the White Mountains that circumnavigates the headwaters of the Pemigewasset River. It clocks in at 33-odd miles (depending several on how many summits you hit that are on spur trails just off the main route), with over 8,000 feet of vertical gain and a dozen peaks over 4,000 feet. Over the years I’ve realized that expedition training goals are devilishly easy to let slip by uncompleted, as the pre-departure time crunch from work, packing, and spending time with friends and family all compete for attention.

Thankfully this spring I’ve found an awesome training partner in my buddy Mr. Gabe Flanders – Gabe’s an incredible hill runner, has a laidback attitude, and is always game for a little pain. We had hatched a plan to do the Great Circle together, and he wasn’t about to let me off the hook, just because I had some errands to do.  I made it home from a design meeting at Mountain Hardwear headquarters late Wednesday evening (equipped with a prototype of the most excellent Fluid 6 running pack), got five hours sleep, and met Gabe at 5.30 the next morning.Running in the White Mountains is not pretty. The trails are rocky with tons of roots, the weather’s often bad, there’s lots of slippery slabs and steep stair-master climbs that you need to power-hike… Eight miles into our run, we broke out of the trees and crested the first summit of the day, only to be greeted by 40 mile an hour winds and thick cloud. We were definitely not in Colorado. But there’s also something liberating about carrying on despite such bad conditions, the same intangible thing that’s drawn me back to running, as well as to alpine climbing and outdoor sports in general. There’s no one keeping score, and the experience is impossible to quantify. You’re completely free to try your best without distraction, and you can only laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Saturday I boarded my plane for Delhi, looking forward, for once, to a few days of airports and jeep travel to rest my legs.

You can't always get what you want: shots from a lightweight attempt on the West Ridge of Nuptse.

Trying to climb one of the high 7,000 meter peaks alpine-style is one of the most serious games in climbing – a mission I mightw loosely compare to some kind of bizarre, wilderness-experiential, high-stakes poker game. You spend the first two-thirds of the expedition trying to learn as much as possible about the cards you have been dealt: the conditions on the mountain, the weather, your own fitness and psyche, and that of your teammates as well.  The last third of the trip, you lay your money down and make your wager.

I’ve been home from Nuptse for just over a month. Life is beginning to settle down, and, with the distance of a few weeks time to reflect, I’m not really surprised that we failed. What’s always surprising is how much you learn from the experience of failure…

From the very beginning, things didn’t go right.

Little things, like the delay in Kathmandu as we waited for the weather to clear enough for our flight into the hills. After three days of building angst, our trekking agent procured four last-minute boarding passes for us to make the final flight of the day to Lukla.  It took another week for our luggage to catch up with us.

Basecamp was pitched and waiting at 5400 meters. We’d all spent plenty enough time at basecamps of a similar elevation scattered around the Himalayas; for some reason, this go around, the altitude hit double-hard. Perhaps the extra time in Kathmandu wore our immune systems down. My three teammates, Kevin Mahoney, Ben Gilmore, and Cory Richards are pretty tough guys -  but we all had days when making it to the dining room tent and choking down a meal without ralfing took major effort.

The plan was to attempt a new mixed route on the perimeter of the Cobweb Wall – the colossal diamond shaped cliff that dominates the western flank of the south face of Nuptse and Lhotse. The wall itself will probably only succumb to a serious capsule-style aid/big wall ascent, but we had noticed intriguing possibilities just to its right, where a complex face of interwoven mixed runnels rises from the cirque at the head of the Nuptse Glacier between the Cobweb on the left and the classic (and sandbagged) British Route, the historic line that was the mountain’s first ascent.

But as we spent our first week in basecamp nursing various vague altitude-related ailments, those routes began to look more and more Serious, with a capital “S”: two thousand meters of relief, and guaranteed to be technical all the way from the glacier at approximately 5600 meters to the summit ridge at around 7700 meters. Significant seracs hemmed the peripheral edges on both sides, and we also noted regular rock fall and runnels scoured down to exposed rock that ran daily with water. It was clear to us that the bottom third of the face could only be safely climbed at night.  The upper third of the mountain, meanwhile, where the rock changes from granite to shale, looked conspicuously lacking in any logical lines and was thrashed with high winds every afternoon. Over on the British Route, we could see crown lines a quarter-mile long with the naked eye.

We quickly realized that if we were going to climb the South Face of Nuptse, we needed to be able to move fast, and conditions needed to be perfect: the weather, the snow, our fitness, acclimatization, and psyche all needed to be perfectly aligned. With anything other than a perfect hand, the face was just too dangerous. In the meantime, while we waited to see what kind of cards we held, we decided to acclimatize on the West Ridge of Nutpse, a king-sized line by itself, but one that looked from base camp to be less technical and objectively safe.

After a few more bouts with the ‘tude (re: altitude), we four found ourselves ensconced in an advance base camp at the foot of the ridge and ready to make our first stab onto the mountain. Then, a pair of sunglasses unexpectedly broke in the rush of the pre-dawn departure, and it was back to basecamp, yet again. When we finally launched onto the mountain three days later, a few high Cirrus clouds began to push in from the Southeast. Cory prudently suggested going down (yet again), while I somewhat recklessly argued that it couldn’t get that bad. (Fred: “I’ve never seen it seriously storm in the Khumbu this time of year!”) Thankfully I was overruled and we made it back to base camp late that night.

The next day was completely socked in and it snowed six inches. It took another day for it to clear. As we bidded our time playing countless games of war and solitaire, bad news came trickling in. Word came through Cory of the death of his friend Chhewang Sherpa, a career professional guide with nineteen Everest summits who was killed by serac fall on Baruntse. We also heard second-hand reports that our friend Joe Puryear was killed in Tibet when a cornice collapsed unexpectedly.

For the time being at least, we tried our best to keep these tragedies at arm’s length, and focus on giving the ridge another attempt. The climbing thus far had been pretty straightforward, technically speaking, and we were far enough along in the acclimatization schedule that it seemed plausible we could make a serious go for the summit via the ridge, if the weather would only cooperate. Two days later, we said good-bye to Cory, who had run out of time, and Ben, Kevin and I headed up again to ABC, hopeful that at last, this time, we’d make an honest effort.

It was not to be.

The ridge turned out to be – as ridges often are – DOH! – deceptively hard, with two kilometers of near horizontal, knife-edged snow climbing with countless cornices to negotiate; the recent news about Joe being lost on similar terrain did not help our psyche here. After two days of climbing we bivouacked on a spectacularly exposed snow bump at approximately 6300 meters. The setting was out of this world: The the Nuptse Glacier on one side; The Khumbu Glacier and the lights of Gorak Shep on the other. As for Nuptse, the summit was a long, long way away. (Ben: “Another two days of climbing, and we’ll get to the mountain.”)

The next morning, in strong winds, we woke and took a look at the nightmare line up of cornices stretching towards the upper mountain. All of us realized at this point that, should we continue farther along the ridge, there was no way we’d reverse this terrain on the way down, meaning we’d have to on-sight a different descent route.  This factor was the last straw: all other descents we could think of entailed major exposure to seracs and other objective danger.

The mark of Zorro.

No words needed to be said. We all looked at the cards one more time, and knew that it was time to fold.

Two days later, as we struck basecamp and headed towards Namche, a helicopter crashed on Ama Dablam, taking two more lives. It had been trying to rescue a pair of alpinists who had become stuck on the incredibly steep snow formations of the mountain’s upper North Ridge – terrain very similar to what we encountered on Nuptse’s West Ridge.

What strikes me now about our Nuptse misadventures, despite the obvious signs that things were not going as planned, is that we still found the space to daydream. On the right hand edge of the Cobweb Wall, a small rib protrudes just far enough from the main face that it might be protected. This feature connects the opening snowfield to the final couloir in an elegant diagonal zig-zag, a masterpiece of alpine aesthetics which we dubbed the Zorro Line. In perfect conditions, holding the perfect hand, was this line climbable? We left basecamp without a real answer – and that, more than anything, is the most frustrating aspect of a trip such as ours. The cards were so bad, we never really got the chance to place our bet.

In closing, I’m tempted to write something introspective and fluffy – something referencing vague ideals of personal growth, balance, and understanding.  But that’s not the truth. “If you’re not falling, you’re not trying hard enough,” is a phrase I occasionally hear at the local crag or gym. Falling is rarely an option in alpine climbing, but failing certainly is. The Zorro, and Nuptse, is a stunning challenge. Despite all the disappointments along the way, I don’t regret the six weeks of my life I spent trying to unlock its secrets.

The simple fact is Nuptse kicked our ass, and we turned and went home running.

Many, many thanks to everyone who supported our trip, including Mountain Hardwear, La Sportiva, Julbo, Sterling Ropes, Clif Bar, The Copp-Dash Inspire Grant, and The American Alpine Club’s Lyman Spitzer Award. We hope that our decisions and conduct on the mountain honor all who were involved.

Strange reports have been filtering through from Boulder, Colorado and Wilson, Wyoming as well. “Hey, what IS the baggage scene in Qatar, anyways?” Something stirs.  And all the while, a dozen timezones and half the world away, we know that it is waiting, shedding a bit more of the monsoon snows with each day… the South Face of Nuptse. This will be my third trip alpine climbing trip to the peaks of the Khumbu; I’m not sure why I am drawn back to the same mountain ranges again and again. I hope it isn’t a lack of imagination. I suspect instead it might have something to do with finding the inner peace and contentment that only comes when you are irrevocably, head-over-heals committed to throwing your best against some overwhelming challenge. Come what may.

Regardless, what I’m thinking about right now is how life takes on a marvelous simplicity once you have a plane to catch. The hours and minutes tick by, until you realize there isn’t time left to do anything else but make sure you don’t forget the essentials and say goodbyes…  And then you think that getting on the plane is probably the closest you will ever come to understanding how old mariners must have felt the moment they could no longer see the last hazy smudge of land on the horizon, and had only to contend with the waves and winds of open ocean.

“How many pins did Ben say he was bringing?” Six weeks is a good amount of time; enough time to focus, and, maybe, dig deep enough to find some piece of your full potential.  “Fuck it, we can get anything you really need in Namche, anyway.” Janet and I talk about all the traveling we do. Sometimes, we wonder if our lives at home in New Hampshire are artificially stressful because we spend so much of our time here getting ready to leave. Should we start to worry if boarding a plane at the start of an expedition carries the same emotional release that most normal people equate with coming home?

I’m on the 4.30 from Boston to Chicago, then bouncing down to Asheville for one more book presentation. I’ll see Kevin again in Qatar, and Cory and Ben in Kathmandu.  And then… the Big Wild waits.

On the first ascent of the Swamp Donkey Express, the South Face of the Moose's Tooth. Photo: Renan Ozturk.

Talkeetna in June feels like a slow afternoon at a forgotten country fair. The sky is alternatively bright and steamy, or dark and wet.  Typically a mosquito hatch is on and the kings are running.  Princess Tours pumps a continuous convoy of air-conditioned, 55 passenger buses down the spur road, buses teaming with anxious tourists behind high, tinted windows, depositing a fresh infusion of dollars into the town’s seasonal economic machine.  There’s not much to do. The tourists find a handful of bars, Nagley’s general store – with attached liquor establishment and the West Rib,  greasy-spoon deluxe, the park service building, river boat rides, overpriced pizzas and overloaded breakfasts. It’s a good place to celebrate. Or lick your wounds for a day or two…

Zack Smith, Renan Ozturk, and I flew into the Ruth Gorge on Monday, May 17th, psyched to find perfect conditions: hard freezes at night, but daytime temps that were warm enough to comfortably wear rock shoes. After taking a day to pack and scope in basecamp, we left camp at 6 a.m. the following morning in order to do the objectively exposed approach from the Gorge to the ‘Root Canal’ camp beneath the Southwest face of the Moose’s Tooth in the morning shade.  I had navigated this same ice fall seven years ago, and was surprised to note the amount of traffic it had apparently received this year. Several distinct boot tracks left by different parties criss-crossed up the glacial canyon – some more exposed to hanging seracs and avalanche slopes than others.

We arrived at the Root Canal by 1 p.m., and were soon ensconced in our friend Seth Hobby’s base-camp — Seth having arrived with two clients via the direct flight.  We waited out a day of squally weather, then crossed the bergshrund and began soloing up the snow slopes between Bear’s Tooth and Moose’s Tooth.  The South Face of the Moose’s Tooth is an obvious challenge that had been attempted sporadically for several decades. Badly rotten rock and a deceptive section of gendarmed ridge had defeated all teams within the first hundred vertical feet of climbing above the Bear’s Tooth / Moose’s Tooth col. The real challenge for our team was not letting these discouraging reports effect our morale before we even started the real business.

After two hours of soloing and simul-climbing, we arrived at the base of the South face proper. Zack transitioned to rock shoes and the show began. He found the rock loose and the climbing run out – but we were able to make progess. Then came a significant aid pitch that demanded the combined efforts of two men and one hand-drilled bolt six hours to overcome. Several more wet and loose pitches with challenging route finding followed. But then the angle of the climbing decreased and soon I was cramponing up for a few easy mixed pitches that lead eventually to the southern end of the M.T.’s summit ridge. Zack, Renan, and I stood just below the tip of the mountain’s highest dollop of cornice at approximately eight p.m.. We quickly rappelled Ham and Eggs (which, in it’s modern iteration, we found completely equipped with rappel anchors every thirty meters) to arrive back at the Root Canal camp around midnight. Though tired, we chose to press on and descend to the Gorge immediately in order to take advantage of the cooler night time temps. An hour after we had exited the canyon and skied out into the center of the Gorge, rockfall exploded off one wall, showering the glacier with debris.

“That was death on a stick,” Zack murmured.

Back down in base camp, the weather was good.  Then it got too good.  We started on our ultimate objective, a traverse of the entire Moose’s Tooth massif from Espresso Gap to Ruth Gap. Unfortunately, the glacier was barely freezing at night and we encountered deep, isothermic snow that made for frequent and frustrating transitions between rock shoes and mountain boots as we climbed the South Ridge (Ozturk/Smith, 2009) of the Sugar Tooth. Renan took an unexpected fall while seconding a bouldery gendarme, badly cutting our sole lead line. Then we dropped an ice tool. We eventually bivied very near the summit of the Sugar Tooth.  In the morning, somewhat disheartened by these setbacks and our generally slow progress in the sub-par conditions, we traversed across the summit and decided to rappel the couloir between the Sugar Tooth and the Eye Tooth to return to basecamp to re-supply and re-psyche.

The next day, as we were relaxing in camp and contemplating another attempt, something came down Hut Tower. Something big. I skied close enough to see flecks of color in a fresh debris field at the base of the ice climb Freezy Nuts. Later that evening, a NPS helicopter picked me up to confirm the worst: two climbers were dead. They had been camped a few hundred yards away from us and sadly, I realized, I never got their names. When we flew back to Talkeetna on June 2nd the Ruth Glacier had not experienced a hard freeze in over a week. We relaxed in town, drank more beer than was healthy, and enjoyed the company of old friends.  I don’t think any of us regretted our decision to leave the mountains early.

The tragedy happened almost exactly a year after we lost our good friends Micah Dash, Johnny Copp, and Wade Johnson in a similar event in China. Mountains become far more dangerous as the temperature rises – at an elevation of only five thousand feet, the Ruth Glacier is a temperate place despite its northern latitude. There is a definitive transition that occurs each and every spring when it simply becomes too dangerous to climb the Gorge’s gullies and couloirs. As individuals and a community, we should always remember to approach objectively threatened situations with vigilance and respect. For popular moderate mixed objectives like Freezy Nuts, Ham and Eggs, and the Japanese Couloir on Mount Braille, I strongly recommend the month of April as the optimal time to plan an expedition.

Sincere thanks go to The Copp/Dash Inspire Grant, The Lyman Spitzer Award, and the American Alpine Club for supporting this expedition, as well as Mountain Hardwear, Sterling Rope, Julbo, and La Sportiva for supporting me personally.

We’ll be back – hopefully in colder temperatures.

Summary of activity: First ascent of the South Face of the Moose’s Tooth via The Swamp Donkey Express: 5.9+ A2+ with some mixed. Climbed May 21st, 2010, by Renan Ozturk, Zack Smith, and Freddie Wilkinson.

Colin Haley in the Niponino Bivy, Torre Valley, January 2007. I originally did the following interview of my old friend  for the La Sportiva website… As often happens, the following conversation was condensed into an eight-hundred word piece for their print catalogue, but here is the raw-cut.

In North America, most of today’s climbing youth approach the mountains with a degree of respect that borders on trepidation – first spending the obligatory seasons in Yosemite and Indian Creek, learning to ice climb in Colorado or New Hampshire before venturing into serious alpine terrain.   Not so Colin Haley.

Colin’s meteoric alpine career began by spending as much time as possible in the mountains — by the time he was eighteen he’d already pulled of successful climbs in Peru, Patagonia, and logged serious time in his home mountains, the North Cascades.  And these early trips were only the harbinger of what was to come.  In 2007 alone, Colin pulled of major new routes in Alaska (The Entropy Wall on Mount Moffit), Patagonia (The first complete ascent of the Marsigne-Parkin/West Face route on Cerro Torre), speed-climbed established test-pieces (The Denali Diamond on Mount McKinley), and turned more than a few heads with his exuberant, outspoken personality and willingness to discuss alpine climbing’s addictive nature.

I first met Colin in 2000, when he was a fifteen year-old high-schooler with an awkward, seventies-glam-rock haircut. But it was obvious even then that he was completely captivated by the mountains, and committed to learning the diverse skill-set necessary to climb them as quickly and efficiently as possible.  It’s been thrilling to watch his early years of apprenticeship pay-off big time, and I know there will be much more to come from America’s most promising alpine talent.

1. Talk to me about the North Cascades. I have a ton of respect for them, mostly from all the time I’ve spent with Bart and Miles. Is it the terrain, accessibility, or having a vibrant alpine scene with climbers from the older generation who are willing to mentor, or all three?

Actually, I consider the lack of easy access the only thing that makes the North Cascades not a world-class climbing destination. At the same time though, I feel that I owe most of my alpine experience and route-finding skills to long, rugged approaches that the North Cascades require. The North Cascades are the only real alpine-climbing in the Lower 48 – period. The approaches are long, the weather is foul, but if you want to prepare for Alaska or the Himalaya the North Cascades are the only area that will give you a relevant experience. This is of course why so many of the US’s best alpinists have come from the Cascades: Fred Beckey, Tom Hornbein, Willi Unsoeld, Ed Cooper, The McNerthny Brothers, Doug Klewin, Todd Bibler, Rob Newsom, Steve Swenson, Jim Nelson, Kit Lewis, Mark Twight, and Steve House – to name just a few of the many.

2. Name the three most influential partnerships in your early years as a climber.

1. Bart Paull was willing to attempt big routes with me when I was only sixteen. He showed me the determination and pragmatic approach to alpinism that allowed us to attempt almost anything in the Cascades as a day trip.
2. Mark Bunker became my regular climbing partner when I was seventeen. On countless trips into the Cascades in winter he taught me all the techniques of full-blown, cold-weather, multi-day routes. These are the skills that I feel prepared me for climbing in Alaska, Patagonia, and the Himalaya.
3. Rolando Garibotti is the most talented climber I have ever tied in with, and the person whose advice I trust most in discussing what might be possible to try.

3. Your epic with Bunker on the NE Buttress of Mount Johannesburg seems like it was the full expression of how committed you can get in the Cascades… How did that prepare you future trips farther a field?

Yes, our winter climb on the NE Butt of J-berg still remains one of the most intense climbing experiences I’ve ever had. After that climb, things like the south side of Denali no longer seemed like impossibly big objectives.

4. Having meet both your parents, my impression is they are each pretty unique and free-thinking personalities to let their son have so much freedom in high school. Your first international trip was to Peru, right? Do you remember if you had to work very hard to convince them to let you go?

I went to Peru by myself when I was seventeen. I didn’t have to convince them at all – I just told them I was going to Peru! My parents have both lived incredibly adventurous lives – in many ways I am actually quite cautious and conservative relative to both of them.

5. Describe your first trip to Patagonia.

I went to Patagonia for the first time with Bart Paull during my winter break from my freshman year at the University of Washington. I only had 2.5 weeks actually in El Chalten, and we had no amazing weather windows, but we still managed to summit Poincenot, Guillamet, and Aguja de la S. It was an incredibly successful trip for me at the time, and really opened my eyes to what I consider to be the most beautiful mountains on Earth. I’ve been a Patagonia addict ever since.

6. The time you came over and stayed with us in Chamonix was around the same era. You are definitely an extrovert, and enjoy hanging out in other cultures, meeting people, trying to learn the language… how much of this appealed to you when you began to do lots of expeditions? Does the travel ever get old?

The travel itself gets old – the planes, buses, and baggage fees. But once I’m there, I love it. Chamonix and El Chalten especially are such fun places to hang out between the climbs – with whole communities of people that are alpine junkies, just like me. In many ways, I feel more at home surrounded by other alpinists and skiers in Chamonix and El Chalten than I do surrounded by generic Americans in the US.

7. Empanadas or dumplings?

Whatever it is, if it’s free I’ll probably eat it.

8. It seemed like something happened a few years ago, when suddenly, you just went on a tear. I know that it’d been quietly building for sometime before, but was there a tipping point, sometime you realized that you really wanted to raise the bar?

I think it appears that way to someone else, but I feel like I have been steadily applying the same determination and energy to alpine climbing that I have since I was fifteen. It’s just that a few years ago the climbs I was doing starting getting media attention, but I was operating the same as I always have. Now that I have finally finished school, however, I hope to devote more time to climbing than I’ve ever been able to before.

9. What’s the most committed you’ve ever felt on an alpine route?

The first ascent of The Entropy Wall with Jed Brown (on Mt. Moffit, in Alaska’s Hayes Range) was definitely the most committed I have ever been. Two climbers, two ropes, in an extremely remote area, with no radio, attempting a super-technical, unclimbed face that is almost 8,000 ft. tall, with precipitation every day, and the hike out involved two days of tundra and a serious river crossing.

10. Doing the Torre Traverse with Rolo, and Emperor Face on Mount Robson with Steve, climbing two of the most iconic mountain features around with two of the sport’s current legends – that must have been pretty cool for you. What lessons did you take away from partnering with each of them?

The Emperor Face was a really great climb, but I don’t think it was a particularly significant climb for either Steve or I. The Torres Traverse, however, was far and away the best climb I have ever accomplished, and I felt that I learned a huge amount from climbing with Rolo that season. I’ve never seen someone so “dialed,” with extremely proficient climbing skill and also extremely calculated attention to detail.

11. What’s the appeal of alpine soloing?

Alpine soloing is an extremely satisfying game. To put it simply, it is the most difficult style in which you can attempt a route. I think that climbing a difficult route with a partner is always more impressive than an easy route by yourself. But still, I think soloing is the ultimate demonstration of mastery in your climbing discipline.

12. Let’s talk about the Himalayas. You’ve done four trips to Pakistan, and in your own words, failed each time… But, by the scale and commitment of the objectives you are attempting – Nanga Parbat, Ultar, the Ogre, Latok 1 – It’s obvious you thrive on throwing yourself into the deep end, going after some of the most impressive unclimbed lines in the Karakorum, especially on the 7,000 meter peaks. Why would you rather fail on the truly gnarly beasts, versus picking objectives where you know you would have much better chances of success?

There is no adventure, and therefore no appeal, in attempting a route that is easy for you and ensures almost certain success. Climbing in the Himalaya is an extremely large commitment of time and money, so why would I waste it on climbing something easy? Climbing the standard route to the summit Cho Oyu would feel like a failure just as must as climbing half-way up the North Ridge of Latok I.

13. Are you content calling the Seattle area and Washington State in general “home”?

My financial situation at this point in my life dictates that I live with one of my parents when not on climbing trips, who fortunately are kind enough to let me do so. I would love to live in Chamonix if I could, but I am pretty grateful that my parents live in Seattle and Bellingham, as the only place I’d rather live in North America is Squamish.

14. What other personal challenges or goals have you set for yourself in 2010?

I’m about to head to Patagonia for three months, to hopefully climb with Rolo most of the time. I’m also planning a big Alaska trip for this spring. I am taking a year off from the Himalaya though, and during the summer I hope to keep improving my rock climbing skills.

Having achieved historic action with the healthcare bill passed last month, the Obama administration wasted no time re-focusing on new priorities. Last Friday, April 16th, leading conservationists, environmental groups, outdoor recreation advocacy organizations and industry representatives were invited to Washington DC, for the White House Conservation Conference.  During the event, President Obama signed a Presidential Memorandum establishing America’s Great Outdoors Initiative, a national effort to “promote and support innovative community-level efforts to conserve outdoor spaces and to reconnect Americans to the outdoors”.

For all its fanfare, the event did not mark an immediate shifts in policy, but rather the beginning of a dialogue.  In what has become a political hallmark of the Obama presidency, the commander-and-chief said that his first goal was to listen: “We’re not talking about a big federal agenda being driven out of Washington. We’re talking about how we can collect best ideas on conservation… we’re going to build on successful efforts being spearheaded outside of Washington”.  Sitting in the diverse audience were not only the expected players like the Sierra Club and the Nature Conservancy, but also representatives from the ranching and timber industries, the National Rifle Association, urban green-space initiatives, and a host of smaller advocacy groups that are typically left out of the Washington policy-making bubble.

As a committed rock and alpine climber, I was surprised to learn that even my own modest constituency had a voice: our man was Brady Robinson, executive director of the Access Fund.  Compared to the Sierra Club (membership: 1.3 million; annual budget: $44.6 million) the Access Fund is a small organization, with 10,000 members and an annual budget of roughly one million dollars – making it just the kind of grass-roots, beyond the beltway organization Obama seemed to be appealing to for fresh ideas. Yesterday, I got Brady on the phone for his take on the meeting.

“It was organized on extremely short notice,” Brady told me, “The press releases went out on March 26th, and invites went out around April 1st. For the Access Fund it was an honor to be included. It’s a sign of the times that human powered recreation is being taken seriously, that conservation and recreation go hand and hand.”  In fact, the Access Fund’s presence was thanks in part to a policy strategy it adopted four years ago, when it co-founded the Outdoor Alliance, a policy-advocacy group formed with the American Canoe Association, American Hiking Society, American Whitewater, International Mountain Bicycling Association, and Winter Wildlands Alliance.

Our man inside the beltway: Brady Robinson, Executive Director of the Access Fund

“For a longtime, human powered outdoor recreation groups weren’t very organized – undermining our own efforts,” Brady explained, noting that motorized, equestrian, and hunting /fishing communities have been well organized for years.  “With the Outdoor Alliance, we’ve worked out a joint policy platform and have a constant presence in Washington. Each organization may be relatively small, but if you take a look at who participates in our respective activities, we represent the recreational interests of 1 in 3 Americans. By combining our efforts, we have a lot more traction.”

So, with the President asking for fresh ideas, what did Brady propose? The conference, he was quick to say, was more of a rallying-call and networking opportunity than a serious policy workshop. However, in smaller breakout sessions after the main event, each representative was given a minute and a half to speak.  “Like others, I spoke of the need for full-funding of the Land and Water Conservation Fund, and also more emphasis on low-impact recreation from the US Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management. Unfortunately, we frequently find that the talk coming from Washington doesn’t always match the management practices on the ground. A lot of their time goes into resource extraction and other obligations versus consistent recreational land management.”

What direction the conservation movement will take in the twenty-first century is still to be determined, though opinions are already being voiced. Carl Pope, Chairman of the Sierra Club wrote of healing the divide between rural conservationists – farmers, hunters, and anglers – and urban environmentalists. Others noted that Obama, the first president in more than a generation to come from a truly urban home, would likely make green efforts in cities and close to large population centers a focus of the initiative.

And Brady spoke of money: “The budgetary crunch is obviously a huge issue right now, so it would be a mistake to expect a big influx of funding right away. But for me, the take away point was that the administration thinks conservation and access to outdoor recreation for all Americans is important. They want climbers and the human powered outdoor recreation community to be represented. We have a place at the table, and the ability to help set the agenda.”

Rescuers boarding a Black Hawk during a SAR in the winter of 2007. Although the New Hampshire Air National Guard volunteers their time for rescues, they are frequently deployed overseas and unavailable, necessitating more costly measures.

It’s fair to say Scott Mason bit off a little more than he could chew.

In April, the Eagle Scout embarked on an ambitious one day traverse of the northern Presidential range in New Hampshire’s White Mountains. Early into his hike, he twisted an ankle, but chose to continue. A few miles later, Mason re-considered and opted for a quicker route back to the road, only to find the trail blocked by numerous streams swollen by spring snow melt.

While the young hiker settled down for an uncomfortable night without a sleeping bag, ensolite pad, or tent, a search effort was launched. His parents reported him missing, and soon New Hampshire Fish and Game officers, aided by an army of volunteers, were combing the mountains. A helicopter was brought in from neighboring Maine. Finally, after three long days and nights of difficult back-country travel, Mason reversed his route and rendezvoused with a search party not far from the summit of Mount Washington. When he was reunited with his parents, several network television crews and a phalanx of reporters were on hand to capture the drama.

It appeared that the Mason SAR had reached a happy conclusion. The boy was found, alive, and while he had certainly made a serious error in deciding to continue into a remote area after spraining his ankle, he also exercised some good judgment that allowed him to emerge from the experience unscathed. The embarrassment at making the A-section of the Boston Globe and being on the evening news seemed like the right dose of punishment to ensure that he would learn from his mistakes and mature to become a better prepared outdoorsman.  The New Hampshire Fish and Game Department, meanwhile, got to bask in some positive PR. And dozens of volunteers got to skip work for the day and play hero.

Then came the fallout: two weeks ago, Mason received a bill for $25,238 from the State of New Hampshire.  “It was his negligence that led to him getting into that predicament,” Major Tim Acerno of the New Hampshire Fish and Game recently said, adding that a helicopter used in the search significantly increased the cost of the mission. Mason has until August 9th to pay settle up or challenge the bill in a court of law. His family has declined to comment further on the matter.

In the meantime, the situation has ignited a minor firestorm that continues to smolder as the Mason family considers their options. Not only was the teen – who, at age seventeen, was a minor at the time of the rescue, but has since turned eighteen – suddenly saddled with a bill equivalent to a year’s tuition at a private college, but he was also subject to a second round of ruthless Monday morning quarterbacking.

“If you go to these isolated areas to be “away from people…” then be prepared to die or if we have to come rescue you then get ready to pay,” one online poster opined in the comments section of a Boston Globe article. “The kid lacked basic sense. Maybe this fine will discourage other macho stupidity,” a second wrote. “It’s about time these unprepared bozos pay,” said a third.  Everyone from newspaper columnists to experienced guides have been sounding off with their own opinions on what happens when the government attempts to regulate adventure.

With that in mind, I’ll offer a few thoughts of my own.  The following is just my private opinion.  It’s based on my own general experience as an outdoorsman and guide, but also on the fact that, as a volunteer rescuer, I participated in the search for Scott Mason. And moreover — by a combination of circumstance and plain luck — I was the person who happened to find him.

It turns out Scott Mason did not need to be rescued.  When I spotted him, he was approximately a mile below the top of Mount Washington, moving towards the summit at a steady pace. I have no doubt that he would have reached the observatory located there under his own power, irregardless of the massive search operation that was under way. (I don’t mean to imply that the search effort was inept. The same swollen creeks that had boxed Scott into the Great Gulf had boxed search teams out; for three days everyone was caught in a frustrating and inadvertent game of cat-and-mouse.) But regardless of the circumstances of his “rescue”, the State has held Scott liable due to his original decision to continue into a remote area with a sprained ankle. By the letter of the law in New Hampshire as things currently stand, that is probably true.

It sets a dangerous precedent when the government assumes the authority to regulate personal decisions made in the wilderness.  As Edward Abby wrote: “A venturesome minority will always be able to set off on their own, and no obstacles should be placed in their path; let them take risks, for Godsake, let them get lost, sunburnt, stranded, drowned, eaten by bears, buried alive under avalanches–that is the right and privilege of any free American.” I whole heartedly agree.  And having worked alongside many Fish and Game personel during SARs, I’m convinced they don’t want to have to police the backcountry for negligent hikers either.

But even an adventure libertarian like me must acknowledge that rescues cost money, and our personal decisions can carry greater social repercussions that demand all outdoorsman assume responsibility for their actions. In the midst of a recession, land management agencies at the local, state, and federal level are all experiencing severe cash shortages.  Scott’s 25,000 dollar bill was a re-imbursement, not a penalty or punishment. The simple fact is his search cost a lot of money, far more than 25,000 dollars, and someone needs to pay the bill.

While the dispute may be headed to court, lost in the controversy is the fact that a third option does exist. If you’re in a car accident without car insurance, or get sick without health insurance, you are likely to face big financial problems whether it’s your fault or not. One can also purchase rescue insurance.  Though not commonly carried in the United States, that is the standard in Europe, and even here in the US some organizations like the American Alpine Club offer its members a basic policy. Just as I think it’s irresponsible for anyone who can afford it to not have a minimum catastrophe health insurance, outdoorsmen who choose to engage in risky adventures should make sure they are covered in the event they need help.

Nobody – not outdoorsmen, not tax payers, not the land managers themselves – wants government to be in the business of regulating adventure. But it’s clear through rising special user fees and search and rescue repayment laws that that is the direction we are headed in if the outdoor community doesn’t take responsibility on its own. Organizations like the Appalachian Mountain Club and the Sierra Club should offer their members rescue insurance. Adventurers should also have more choices for purchasing a rescue/evacuation rider on their existing health insurance plans (many do already exist). These kinds of improvements would protect the individual from big fees like the one Scott Mason currently faces, but also help prevent government agencies from applying rigid legal definitions like “negligence” to wilderness situations in their effort to re-coup costs and stay under budget.

In the meantime, be warned: if you choose to roll the dice by continuing into the wilderness with a sprained ankle and no insurance – you may unfortunately have to pay the price.

K2: The Savage Mountain

Charles Houston/Robert Bates, McGraw-Hill 1954; Lyons Press 2009

Brevity is one quality frequently lacking in modern adventure stories – yet this book succeeds in recounting the epic American 1953 K2 expedition in a snappy 140 pages. In decided contrast to the big European siege assaults of the era, the trip was a lightweight venture undertaken by a tightly knit and well organized group of friends. K2 was unclimbed at the time, and they succeeded in establishing a high camp within spitting distance of the summit, only to be struck by a powerful storm.  The ensuing descent quickly became an all out fight for survival. Houston and Bates alternatively narrate most of the story (a device that works brilliantly when Houston is knocked unconscious and suffers a concussion in the midst of the descent), and two other team-members contribute individual chapters as well – a reflection of the low-key, humble attitudes that made the expedition so successful. The story is a powerful reminder of how hard 8,000 meter climbing was in the age before SAT phones, gortex, or specialized forecasts, but the clear-eyed voices that speak from each page harken back to a more innocent time.  K2: The Savage Mountain is a fitting testimate to a true high watermark of American Himalayan climbing.

Young Men and Fire

Norman Maclean, University of Chicago Press 1972, 1993

Clearly, novelist Norman Maclean knew a thing or two about how to tell a good story. In Young Men and Fire, he does not try to keep the reader in suspense. Rather, he begins his tale by taking the reader on a walk through the burned-out landscape of Mann Gulch, the day after a forest fire killed thirteen smoke jumpers in an unexpectedly violent blow-up. By acknowledging the “what” so early on, Maclean frees himself to concentrate on the “why”, and the following account of his thirty year obsession with the tragedy becomes as much a musing on his own mortality as it is a search to reconstruct the final moments of the young men’s lives (the meticulous research into the science and physiology of fires begs comparison to The Perfect Storm). But the reader should not be surprised if, by the end of the book, they are more concerned about the fate of their narrator than the “thirteen lonely crosses”: this is non-fiction of the highest order.

The Long Walk

Slavomir Rawicz, Lyons Press 1956, 1997

Epic is a word thrown around a lot in on the covers of adventure non-fiction these days. For a true definition of the word, I suggest reading Slavomir Rawicz’s The Long Walk. A Polish cavalry officer on the eve of World War II, Rawicz was captured by the Russians and sent to labor camp in Siberia. Before long, he and a small band of compatriots hatch a plan to escape… and walk to India. His journey across Asia, including the Siberian arctic, the Gobi desert, and the Himalayas is nothing short of incredible. It would be tempting to revel in the undeniably grim circumstances of the venture, but with World War II raging beyond the horizon, Rawicz never forgets that it is a far better fate to be a man battling nature than a man battling men. The Long Walk is a refreshing triumph of simple human dignity and courage.

It’s all that, plus they kill a deer with an axe.

In Memory of Wade Johnson, Micah Dash, and Jonny Copp

Friends, family, and climbers around the world are mourning the loss of Micah Dash, Wade Johnson, and Jonny Copp. The trio were last seen alive when they left their basecamp in the Gongga (Minya Konka) Range of the Eastern Himalaya in Seuchuan Province, China, on May 20th. Jonny and Wade’s bodies have been positively identified by search parties. It is likely all three perished in an avalanche.

In their home city of Boulder, Colorado, friends mobilized as soon as it was discovered they had missed their flight home. Some immediately flew to China, while others stayed awake for days on end to coordinate information, procure travel visas, collect donations, write press-releases, and provide comfort within the close-nit adventuring community. The outpouring of love and support on their blog has been staggering.

I never had the opportunity to meet Wade. But I can imagine the excitement he must have felt to be going into the mountains with Micah and Jonny, who I knew through years of haphazard encounters while traveling and climbing. I would bump into Jonny in Alaska or Micah in Yosemite Valley, share an evening of revelry, and then not see them for another nine months or a year. I am grateful for the few chances I had to tie into a rope with them at the crags, and saddened I never shared a true mountain adventure with either of them.

2003: Some friends and I were slumming it at Kahiltna International Airport when Kelly Cordes and Jonny arrived.  Most of the West Buttress expeditions had been keeping a dignified distance from our slushy hovel, but Jonny and Kelly came right over to say hello and socialize. We watched them blaze up to the third-ice band on Depravation on Mount Hunter, then they headed to the East Fork of the Kahiltna for something a little more remote. That was so Jonny: he seemed like he’d rather go see what was around the next corner, instead of wasting all his time on the obvious, popular objectives like Hunter. I remember watching as they skied back into BC several days later in swirling grey clouds. They’d found adventure, all right. After FA-ing a 4,000 mixed route, Kelly had gone into a crevasse while skiing down in a white out. After hauling his partner out, Jonny found their tiny bivy tent. They crawled inside to brew up, and, though they were out of food, Jonny reached into a stuff sack to present Kelly with… a can of beer. That was also Jonny. You knew he was capable not only of leading the crux pitch or haulling your arse out a crevasse but he also had the class to produce a malted beverage in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness.

The first time I met Micah was in Indian Creek, back in the early 2000-s… Somebody had fallen near the top of a hard, tricky to protect finger crack, and they asked Micah if he wanted to go up to finish the lead. “Sure”, Micah responded, “– but pull the rope because I want to place my own gear on this… “. He sent. A couple of years later he was pacing around the Camp IV parking lot, waiting for temperatures to cool so he could go try the Phoenix. “Is it too warm? It’s still a little too warm, but it will take an hour or two to drive over there and warm-up, and by then it might not be too warm…” He was mostly talking to himself, twitching with excitement, and by the end of the conversation he had convinced himself that temperatures were really not too warm to go climbing. That was Micah: hyper-frenetic, with the infectuous joy of a golden retriever, impossible to stop from doing whatever he wanted.

This February I drove with Micah from Ouray to Boulder.  At that moment Micah didn’t have formal living arrangements in town.  Which is to say he wasn’t paying rent anywhere. Of course we would normally stay at his girlfriend Nellie’s apartment, but her mom was in town. No problem, Micah said, we can stay with friends.  I normally feel a little awkward about crashing a friend’s house or invading their personal space, but Micah waded into his friends lives in South Boulder with such gusto and genuine love. He heckled Zack about when he was going to marry Sasha, heckled Nick about going to college, heckled me to become a better sport climber.  He had the same frenetic energy for the people around him as he had for climbing.

I think one of the most revealing things about both Jonny and Micah is that they were always in the company of accomplished, independent, and extremely intelligent women.  If you only see someone’s climber-personality, it is easy to think of them as just another passionate, talented dirtbag. But it was obvious from their girlfriends that they had their shit together and their priorities in line. My second-to-last day in Boulder, Micah got more nervous then I’d ever seen him. He was going to dinner with Nellie and her mom, and wanted things to go perfectly. “Here’s what you do,” I offered. “Two-thirds of the way through dinner, get up to go to the bathroom and slip the waiter your credit card, so the bill is already taken care before you’re even brought the check.”

“That’s a good – fucking – idea, ” Micah said, totally captivated, like I had just given him the key beta for free-climbing the Salathe headwall.

Micah passed me off to Jonny for the evening. We did a crushing Mountain Athlete workout, then went to dinner with his girlfriend Sara. The evening passed in a blur of talk about the various non-profit organizations they each were involved with. I don’t think we mentioned climbing once. After eating, we went to rendezvous with Micah. He was beaming. “Dude — I killed it with your check trick! She loved me!” he said. I cracked a smile myself, realizing that Micah Dash thought more highly of me for this little piece of advice then anything else I had done in our short friendship.

Before we headed back to South Boulder to crash, Jonny grabbed me. “Let’s go do the Daily Camera Chimney,” He said, leading me through an alley and down the street. I protested that I was drunk, and we’d get fined if the Boulder Police caught us. “Come on, you’ll love it,” he said. An inset brick arch around the entrance to the building made for a nice climb, something I could indeed pull off even after a few beers. We started on opposite sides and met on top, right where the apex of the arch formed a little perch to stop and look down on the street. We lay there on stomachs, catching our breathe, taking it all in.

“See, isn’t it cool up here?” Jonny asked.