Islands in the Sky

Galaxy Quest…the purpose of our late August Friday evening hike was to photograph the Galactic Core of the Milky Way over Mount Rainier. There would be a new moon far from the light pollution of the cities and we gambled on favorable night sky conditions. As we entered the Sunrise parking lot at 5:45 pm, I was surprised to see how many cars were still present. The day was perfect, partly cloudy skies, warm temperatures, no wind and negligible bugs. Having driven from the Seattle area which was cloudy and overcast, we were overjoyed at the prospect for clear night skies, or mostly clear. Our intention was to hike up the Sourdough Ridge Trail until the intersection with the Huckleberry Creek Trail, then ascent the ridge and find a vantage point from which to photograph the GC as it rose above the snowcapped volcano. That concept was soon abandoned after hiking up and assessing some narrow sketchy perches with loose rock. There just wasn’t enough room to set up without worry that we’d fall off the cliff. We hiked on…to our eventual destination, the historic Fremont Lookout.

     Arriving at the lookout at 7:10 pm, the beginning of the golden hour, we were surprised to encounter seven other photographers already gathered around the lookout, all hanging out to shoot the Milky Way. It was a friendly group and everyone found their own space, and waited. I killed time before the dark skies by shooting the sunset and the fleeting blue hour. Unfortunately, some clouds drifted in above the mountain and hampered what could have been a perfect night shoot. We tussled with the intermittent drifting clouds that obscured the galactic light show but somehow managed to get some beautiful night sky images. The clouds unexpectedly and dramatically magnified the light pollution of the coastal cities as photons reflected off the atmospheric moisture within. But the big surprise of the evening was the roiling sea of low clouds that enveloped the mountain and the fire lookout peak as islands in the sky. The blanket of the inversion layer was stunning to behold. It added a sense of otherworldly enchantment. As more clouds moved in, we figured that we had probably caught the brief window of clarity and that conditions would continue to deteriorate. It was now cold. We were tired. We could not stay as overnighting was not permitted. Hiking out with the meager light of our headlamps, we focused on staying upright on the loose rocky trail. The memory of our silent time at the lookout hung in our minds and we were satisfied. It was indeed a memorable place and had been a magical evening.

     For the other photography enthusiasts out there, and I know there are many of you, I want to share that I always learn something new from every outing, and some lessons are learned repeatedly. The one I’m referring to is that you can previsualize and make plans, and should, but you always encounter the unexpected and have to throw the plans out the window and respond to the present conditions. And sometimes it’s more of a gift than a hinderance. I always feel that I’m a bit slow on my response to changing or unexpected conditions, but I am always rewarded when I stay open to the new possibilities and work hard to take advantage what I am offered, especially in light of all the effort it takes to hike to some wilderness locations. It’s important to take a moment to regroup, adapt and take advantage of the unique possibilities offered in the present moment. Just saying…as much for myself as for the rest of you. Have fun out there, and be safe, especially hiking around in the dark

     I did capture one spherical panorama at Fremont Lookout. It’s a blue hour shot with the inversion layer that surrounded us. The 360s are hosted at 360cities.net. Click the links and for best viewing click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen.

Blue Hour Vista, Mount Fremont Lookout, Mt. Rainier National Park: https://www.360cities.net/image/blue-hour-vista-mount-fremont-lookout-mt-rainier-national-park-wa-state

Day Hiker Trap

Lake Serene was a lovely name, a name that exuded the promise of a placid alpine destination with a picturesque view. A place to bring someone special, a place to pause and picnic. As I struggled up the so-called trail, I laughed to myself, musing that Lake Serene was a ‘day hiker trap’, a cruel joke that probably lured legions of the unsuspecting out for what they imagined would be a walk in the park. It was that damn name. If it had been called Lake Fearsome, Lake Loathing, Lake Despicable or something like that, people would have thought twice about it. If there’s any truth in advertising you could note that yes it was serene once you got there, and the view was picturesque, in fact stunning, but the getting there was most definitely not serene. Of course, many years later a real improved trail has been created including the building of countless cribbed steps which makes the lake eminently accessible to hikers and has made Lake Serene one of the most popular destinations in that part of the Cascades. But back in 1976…

I could just imagine a young family with a couple of kids, just starting their exploration of Northwest hikes, expecting something well, pleasant and serene. The kids frisky and eager at first would quickly lose interest and turn surly and unmanageable, soon making their family outing a highway to hell. In short order they’d all be cursing and assigning blame to whoever had the bright idea to tackle this hike. “Whose idea was this anyway?” This was the kind of hike that could put you or your kids off the whole program, maybe forever.

Sweat ran down my forehead as I fought my way through the slide alder and up the muddy slope. Were we ever going to get out of this stuff? I felt like myself, as a child, with my brother in the back seat of our dad’s ‘49 Ford, enduring the crushing boredom and agony of an interminable road trip with our parents. “Are we there yet?” we’d whine. This was the same kind of thing; it went on and on, testing the limits of my patience. Except of course that you couldn’t just lay back on a cushy seat and wait it out. This took real work. And it was really annoying because the lake wasn’t even our destination; it was merely a way station before our bigger goal, the climb. It was what climbers offhandedly and sometimes dismissably refer to as the approach.

The provincial town of Index, located on the North Fork of The Skykomish River in the western foothills of the Cascades, was in our imagination our own stripped-down version of Chamonix, the famous French commune that is a mecca for alpine climbers. That might be a bit of an exaggeration because it was way stripped down. It did feature the dramatic and easily accessible cliffs of the Upper and Lower Index Town Walls, sheer rock cliffs, popular destinations with a plethora of aid climbing routes like City Park, Snow White and Japanese Gardens. Across the Highway 2 roadway, clearly visible from the town, the three peaks of Mt. Index, North, Middle and South jutted prominently skyward. Their profiles so classically alpine and visually stunning that they could make a climber’s heart flutter and ice axes rattle as sabers. The desire they created was palpable. Who wouldn’t want to ascend these peaks? And the loftiest of goals was the traverse, to ascend not only the North Peak but to complete a series of ascents across the summits of the other two peaks and descend back to the lake, all in one push. And even without previously having climbed the North Peak, or any of them, that was our chosen mission.

Lunch Rock, Lake Serene: https://www.360cities.net/image/lunch-rock-lake-serene-mt-baker-snoqualmie-national-forest-wa

Dirty Harry's Museum

Several decades ago, Harry Gault made a reputation for himself among the local gyppo loggers by ingeniously building roads and logging many areas thought by others to be completely inaccessible. Harvey Manning bestowed the sobriquet ‘Dirty Harry’ on him in remembrance of his notorious tree felling exploits. Harry eventually departed the scene but left much of his old equipment to rust in the mountains around Snoqualmie Pass. And that was what I wanted to see. On a recent Friday, I solo hiked up to Dirty Harry’s Museum to view and photograph his fabled 1940’s era GMC logging truck, complete with boom. According to my Suunto watch the hike in to Dirty Harry’s Museum was 3.43 miles and 1,893 of elevation gain. After photographing the ‘museum’ I hiked back down to the main DHPT (Dirty Harry’s Peak Trail) and proceeded up to the summit of Dirty Harry’s Peak. Trip total 9.63 miles RT with a cumulative 3,665 feet of elevation gain (which includes a very short detour when I got off route early in the hike).

    The main trail changes character continuously from a wide soft needle strewn forest surface to carefully constructed rocky steps to gnarly narrow sections festooned with tree roots. It’s a mixed bag and mostly in the trees, all the way to the summit of the peak. The trail mixes an upward grind with flatter traverses and offers views only intermittently. While I hiked to the museum and the summit, I skipped Dirty Harry’s Balcony. Along the way, there are a couple of log benches that look out to views.

    The museum is well worth a visit. The trail is unmarked and unmaintained. About 2.9 miles up the trail there is a large flat boulder on the left with a small pile of rocks that indicates the location of the museum trail, on the right, the opposite side from the rocks. The trail proceeds up for about a half mile (according to my watch) and gains about 190 feet. It’s a voyage of discovery as the trail winds up through the trees and at times through a streambed. There are occasional cairns and some faded green surveyors’ tape on tree branches. The route finding is more challenging at the beginning and gets much easier as you approach the truck. Regarding Dirty Harry’s Peak, if you get excited about views of the Snoqualmie peaks and a distant Mt. Rainier, and love a good workout, then do it. I’m glad that I did it but don't plan to repeat.

    Starting at 7:00 am I saw only 5 hikers in the bottom section and had the museum all to myself and after greeting two hikers coming down from the peak, I had that trail and the summit completely to myself. Only on descending did I encounter more people, about 20 in the lower sections of the hike, most all putting on masks and observing friendly social distancing. After the heavily peopled conditions at Summerland last Friday, I needed more solitude, and I got it, however without the sensational vistas offered by Summerland. There are always tradeoffs. Note that this trail gets some traffic from rock climbers who tackle short routes along the trail and in the Far Side Climbing Area. Also, many people come to play in the river.

    I did carry my tripod and camera gear to capture three spherical panoramas at Dirty Harry’s Museum. Because, why not? The 360s are hosted at 360cities.net For best viewing click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen image. Then scroll to experience the immersive image.

Dirty Harry’s Museum, GMC Logger, Side View: https://www.360cities.net/image/dirty-harry-s-museum-gmc-logger-side-view-snoqualmie-area-wa-state

Dirty Harry’s Museum, GMC Logger, Front View: https://www.360cities.net/image/dirty-harry-s-museum-gmc-logger-front-view-snoqualmie-area-wa-state

Dirty Harry’s Museum, GMC Logger, Rear View: https://www.360cities.net/image/dirty-harry-s-museum-gmc-logger-rear-view-snoqualmie-area-wa-state

Wildfire and Wildflowers

A lightning strike had started it. Small at first, on August 11, 2017, it slowly spread through the Norse Peak Wilderness. Through Labor Day weekend, the fire grew, its movements obscured by an enormous volume of smoke. Then the winds shifted to blow from the east, a ‘Chinook Wind’ that pushed the fire towards Crystal Mountain to the west, threatening cabins near the ski resort. The rapid shift to the west had caught firefighters off guard but fortunately the fire finally lost momentum as it came down the valley, turning into a slow burning groundfire. The final toll was staggering, the fire killing most of the hemlock, silver and noble firs in the 55,909-acre conflagration. It was not contained until November 1, 2017. Nearly three years from that time I solo hiked the Norse Peak Trail to view the burn zone. The scorched trees remain as silent sentinels, displaying a tragic beauty. High angle alpine meadows in the burn zone along the trail are resplendent with new wildflowers; lupine, paintbrush, asters, cow parsnip, columbine, arnica, lilies, Beargrass and more, the profusion of which providing a truly mind-blowing show. Mt. Rainier is clearly visible on the horizon to the south west in the upper sections of the trail, with Mt. Adams also distinctly visible due south from the summit. 

    Arriving early on a Thursday, I had the trail entirely to myself as well as the summit where a fire lookout once sat. A low stone wall and rusted cable attached to a metal bracket are the only remnants of the once active lookout. The big flies at the summit were just waking up so they left me alone to explore and absorb the scene. Only on descending did I encounter other hikers, eight parties total, all of whom were courteous with masks and physical distancing. The trail was cool in the morning but hot in the afternoon as there is little shade due to the burned trees. There is a narrow trail section near the summit, only 0.2 miles of a sketchy traverse between miles 4.6 and 4.8 on the way to the top. It is about 12” wide and the slopes are about 45 degrees. If you watch your footing you will have no problems. Overall, the trail was in great shape with a few deadfalls that were easily hiked around. This was my first time and was quite surprised by the intense beauty of the environment, the stark contrast between the burned trees and the profusion of new life. It was so magnificent that I rate it as my finest wildflower hike since the gardens on the Kendall Katwalk trail. It was a banner day with dramatic terrain, bright colors and long views. 

    Hiking in low cut approach shoes, I took no poles to save weight. I did however, lug 2.5 liters of water and my tripod with serious camera gear to take some spherical panoramas They are hosted at 360cities.net For best viewing click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen image. Then scroll to experience the immersive image.

Norse Peak, Summit Knoll with Wildflowers, WA State: https://www.360cities.net/image/norse-peak-summit-knoll-with-wildflowers-wa-state

Norse Peak, Upper Burn Zone with Wildflowers, WA State: https://www.360cities.net/image/norse-peak-upper-burn-zone-with-wildflowers-wa-state

Norse Peak, Burn Zone with Mixed Wildflowers, WA State: https://www.360cities.net/image/norse-peak-burn-zone-with-mixed-wildflowers-wa-state

Norse Peak, Burn Zone with Lupine Meadows, WA State: https://www.360cities.net/image/norse-peak-burn-zone-with-lupine-meadows-wa-state

Granite Mountain Galaxy Quest

Galaxy Quest! It sounded so epic, at least to me. No, we would not be hurtling through space on an interstellar starship constructed by sentient beings, we would be hurtling through space on a planet, our starship Earth. And yet we would be amongst the stars.

Mark Valdez and his son Chase jumped at the chance when I invited them to join me on a hike up Granite Mountain to photograph the Galactic Core of the Milky Way. Packing heavy photo equipment and overnight gear over several miles and up 3,820 vertical feet was brutal, but soon forgotten as we unfurled our sleeping bags for a bivy amongst the summit boulders and then dined on Mark’s scratch made camp stew. The hearty warmth of it with the subtle flavors of mixed vegetables and savory smoked chicken sausage would fuel our bodies for the chilly late-night light show ahead.

We settled on a viewing spot, looking south past the vintage fire lookout tower, towards the regal glaciated form of Mt. Rainier. If my PhotoPills app was correct, the Galactic Core of the Milky Way would arc majestically up into the night sky over the summit of the volcano. I set up my tripod and got my settings adjusted for the long exposures necessary to capture the ancient lights that would be conveyed to us across almost inconceivable distances. The waiting was punctuated by some late arriving hiker photographers that wanted to capture the sunset from the summit. Their visit and our conversations with them helped pass the time as we waited for the main event.

As the sun set and the blue hour emerged, they all departed, hiking down the miles to the trailhead, their path illuminated by only the stars and the tiny lights of their headlamps. We waited and told stories. It got colder. Mark and Chase positioned their pads on sloping boulders as if they were lawn chairs and snuggled into their sleeping bags to wait. I stood shivering by my tripod and ate an energy bar. And finally, we were rewarded with what we had come for. It was a cloudless, wind free night and the app was spot on as the GC of the Milky Way appeared where predicted and our eyes adjusted to take in the brilliance of the star clusters that sparkled in the clear night sky. I worked the camera into the dark, feeling like I was fumbling along in my attempt to capture the GC as it rose almost vertically to dominate the southern skies over Mt. Rainier. I kept shooting, trying a range of exposures, with two different lenses, not wanting to miss this hard-won opportunity.

At last, I was satisfied and feeling suitably fatigued, we finally tucked into our bags at our bivy site, breathing in the crisp mountain air and staring up at the infinite universe sweeping over us. It was a breathtaking view, without the light pollution of a nearby city. It was a long time ago, as a child, at a remote lake cabin in Minnesota, that I could last remember seeing so many brilliant stars, all shining with such amazing intensity.

Waking at dawn, we took photos of the sunrise, ate more stew, and then reluctantly packed up and hiked down from the site of the night sky magic. We had not encountered many hikers on our afternoon ascent the day before but today would be different. It was the weekend and this was a popular trail. We counted 102 people coming up Sunday morning as we descended (even before the Pratt Lake Trail intersection). There would be a party up top. We decided to award a mini chocolate bar to the 100^th hiker we encountered and since the universe is a strange place, number 100 was a woman who Mark had worked with at K2. Of course, Diane was delighted with the chocolate prize and seeing her old friend Mark again. Really. You can't make this stuff up. Trip verdict? Priceless!!!

Granite Mountain Dawn Patrol: https://www.360cities.net/image/granite-mountain-dawn-patrol-alpine-lakes-wilderness-washington-state-usa

Granite Mountain Sunrise: https://www.360cities.net/image/granite-mountain-sunrise-vista-alpine-lakes-wilderness-washington-state

Granite Mountain Cirrus Clouds: https://www.360cities.net/image/granite-mountain-cirrus-clouds-alpine-lakes-wilderness-washington-state

Our Vertical Park

I don’t know why we thought it was a good idea. I guess we were just bored or frustrated that the weather had been so lousy that it would be pointless to make any big effort to climb anything that required a long approach and more favorable conditions. The rain kept on coming as I sat on my couch at home, reading the route descriptions. That April of 1976, The Mountaineers had just published a little 62-page saddle stitched soft cover book titled: “Darrington & Index Rock Climbing Guide’ by the inimitable Fred Beckey. I snagged a copy off the shelf in the book alcove at the Swallow’s Nest, put my money down, and headed home to peruse the options. The little guide even had a 4-page centerfold. No, it wasn’t a reclining rock goddess, it was better, black and white photos of the Index Lower Town Wall with routes mapped out with dashed lines in red ink, each clearly labeled so you could imagine yourself there. A route description on page 30 caught my eye, ‘Japanese Gardens’ and another on page 35 ‘City Park’. I found the names intriguing and that was enough.

Those route names were bestowed when first climbed because of the pervasive vegetation. Through usage, the routes had become somewhat cleaner but the wall was still home to a lot of moss and the occasional small tree or tufts of brush. That didn’t matter to us. We just wanted to get out of the house and do something that we thought would advance our climbing skills. It didn’t matter that the walls might be wet and cold with water streaming down the face, that would pose no problem, at least not when visualized from the comfort of home, seated before an actively flaming hearth.

The Lower Town Wall, just outside the mountain hamlet of Index, hosted those two routes and many others and some with several variations on their central theme. It was a plethora of choices. The area had not become a serious venue until the mid-1960s but in the 1970s it had become fairly popular as an all-season training ground for those who wanted to practice their aid climbing skills. The routes, several hundred feet high, ran up the vertical granite walls near a quarry on the edge of town. Eventually many would be climbed completely free as climbing skills advanced. But back then, for us, it was a combination of free climbing and aid. For some reason, we thought that we might need to develop aid skills and so we packed our gear and headed east to Index.

The Darrington climbs were further away on the Mountain Loop Highway and you were also at risk of becoming a victim of the notorious trail head thieves that would think nothing of breaking your car window to rummage it contents. That had happened to us before while on a multi-day hike into the Glacier Peak Wilderness and it left an unsavory taste. Index did not have that reputation and the trailhead was but a short drive from the tiny town on the Old Gold Bar-Index Road. It was then just a brief hike across the railroad tracks and through the trees and brush up to the base of the wall.

We dumped our gear and looked up. The dark stark face that loomed overhead looked inviting when viewed through our eyes. Still fresh from the warmth of the car, the chill of the damp overcast day had not yet entered our bodies. After sorting our gear, we enthusiastically began our ascent of City Park using aid techniques, setting nuts and clipping in with webbing etriers, and stepping up into them, trusting our weight to our anchors. The work of it was slow and arduous. As the guide said, ‘Fitness is important; speed and stamina are less essential’. It might also have added patience as a virtue.

It was only through our diligent efforts that we were able to make vertical progress, the increments of which were all painstakingly gained, and we imagined that it would be an impossible task without aid. We were wrong. The crack climb would finally be freed just over ten years later by a nationally renowned elite climber, Todd Skinner, who rated it at 5.13d, which at the time we were climbing was an absolutely inconceivable level of difficulty. And it certainly couldn’t be done in wet conditions.

And that day it was wet, with water running down the wall, over our gear, into our wool clothing, and past us into the earth. The day was bleak and chill with sopping cloud cover And yet we persisted, happy with our meager progress, finally getting some aid climbing experience. We had the wall to ourselves, save one other party further down the wall, and felt free to focus on our curious task. We ascended the route and spend the rest of the day practicing. Despite the less-than-stellar conditions, we agreed that it had been fun. Though we didn’t admit it at the time, it wasn’t nearly as much fun as climbing free and it was doubtful, we’d chose any future Cascade alpine routes that would require the techniques. And as time passed, we didn’t. It was though, for us that day, an exploration of another avenue of ascent. It was our day at City Park.

This is an excerpt from ‘Our Vertical Park,’ an adventure story from my recently released memoir, Banquet of the Infinite, which is now available as an eBook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.

 

The 12,000 Foot Wall

We gathered at Paradise and after I made my introduction to four other climbers that Lara knew, we shouldered our packs and began our hike up towards Panorama Point and then onto the Muir Snowfield for the final ascent to Camp Muir at 10,000 feet. It had been foggy and chilly at the parking lot but now the gray had departed and the sun shone down in full force making us sweat for every step up the ever-softening snow. Gibraltar Rock loomed overhead, piercing a cloudless brilliant blue sky. The weather was favoring us and that was no small thing. We set up our tent camp and ate together, making plans for the day ahead. Turning in early, I hoped to get enough sleep before our nighttime start. While we would travel roped, the Disappointment Cleaver route was not a highly technical route and so I was not anxious about that.

Up at 3:00 am, I felt on autopilot as I put on my frigid boots, super gaiters and crampons. Quickly eating a cold breakfast, I fastened my harness and was ready. We were silent ghostly figures only distinguishable from each other by the light of our tiny head lamps whose beams splayed hauntingly across the snowfield in the dark. Roped up and ice axes in hand, we began our slow ascent. The icy crust of the snow crunched beneath the spikes of my crampons and ice axe. It was the only sound, as we were fortunate to have a morning free from wind. Crunch, crunch, crunch…we made steady progress, only stopping to hydrate from our water bottles. And soon the whole sky was bathed in a saturated deep blue during that sliver of time between the dark of night and the golden hour, just before sunrise. It was 1975 and Mt. St. Helens stood tall and proud on the southern skyline. It was our Mt. Fuji, a stunningly beautiful symmetrical white cone. I paused and took a photograph. I wanted to remember the moment.

That section, traversing from the upper Cowlitz Glacier up to the Cathedral Rocks Ridge was perhaps the most beautiful part of the climb in that early morning light. It was a joyous experience and I was filled with both a satisfaction of the present and an optimism for the climbing to come. I thought, “This is so spectacular!” After traversing the Ingraham Glacier, we approached the lower southern base of Disappointment Cleaver and the massive overhanging seracs. The visual drama of them made me feel small and vulnerable. We hurried past as best we could, not pausing for an instant.

And then suddenly, toward the top of the Cleaver, around 12,000 feet, I felt the wind go out of my sails. I felt that I had hit a wall, it was that pronounced. Of course, everyone had slowed down but that didn’t change my experience. I simply couldn’t get enough breath or strength to power up the mountain as my brain wished me to do. It just wasn’t there and that was both frustrating and scary. I’d make a step or two and have to pause for another breath before resuming. I had never felt anything like it and began to doubt my ability to go higher. It was through sheer force of will that I continued. What had been such a stunningly beautiful climb only hours before had now become an interminable trudge. We continued, no one speaking. Finally reaching the top of the east crater, I sat down and demurred as the others made their way across to the true summit on the west crater rim. I just needed to gather myself and enjoy this place on the mountain. It was good enough, and I really didn’t care about the other side of the crater. Yes, I was a bit disappointed in myself but I was just too spent and wanted to save something for the descent.

I was happy when the others rejoined me and we began our journey down. We had been fortunate that it was a cloudless, windless day. The giant seracs glistened in the sun. The mountain was now again a place of breathtaking beauty. But it was not yet over. Even the descent was hard work in the rapidly softening snow and the intense heat of the sun reflecting off the glacier. I grew weary and stumbled a bit as I caught a crampon spike in one of my gaiters and I nearly pitched forward onto my face. I had to stop and regroup and make a mental note to shake off my lazy approach and take this part of the climb every bit as seriously as the ascent. I soldiered on. As we neared Camp Muir, I began to feel more elated with the accomplishment. What had happened up there I wondered. The truth is that I had hit some sort of physiological barrier at around 12,000 feet. It was the altitude. It had simply kicked my butt.

I would later wonder what or if I could have done anything differently. I don’t know. But the upshot of it was that I temporarily lost my enthusiasm for climbing Mt. Rainier, that is until a bunch of us thought it would be a good idea to try a winter ascent of Liberty Ridge. I do remember being at home in Wallingford in mid-May of 1980 when we heard news of the enormous volcanic explosion of Mt. St. Helens that blew the entire top of the mountain into ash. It was fascinating and hard to believe. In that moment one of my feelings was one of meaningful regret that I had not climbed it when it was still a pristine cone, our Mt. Fuji.

Tools of the Trade

My first ice ax was a hickory shafted Italian CAMP ax, a high-quality useful tool. But since then, with design advances having arrived, I of course subsequently acquired my trusty 70 cm Chouinard-Frost Piolet, which was manufactured in Italy by Nicola Codega and Sons to Yvon and Tom’s design specifications. Before their piolet, the available axes all had the longer hickory shafts and straight picks that more or less resembled the ancient tools used by Edward Whymper, who had made the first ascent of the Matterhorn in 1865, which is to say they had not evolved that much. The new 1969 Chouinard-Frost ice axe featured a much shorter shaft constructed of laminated bamboo strips, which was infinitely stronger, practically unable to be broken, and a chromoly steel pick that was gently drooped, curved further down for more effective ice purchase and self-arrest. And the pick had two sets of teeth, one near the pick end and one near the shaft, for better grabbing of structure during climbs on ice. Available in three lengths, it was a design of surprising simplicity and yet a giant step forward in function. 

And their design was both exquisite and timeless. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry explains it thus in his 1939 literary narrative ‘Wind, Sand and Stars’: ‘In anything at all, perfection is finally attained when there is no longer anything to add, but when there is no longer anything to take away, when a body has been stripped down to its nakedness.’ And the Chouinard-Frost bamboo shafted Piolet perfectly exemplified that principle. It was for a time, in a brief ebullient shining moment, absolutely the most beautiful and functional of them all.

The innovative Chouinard-Frost piolet set the stage for all those which would follow. And after that, in the years ahead, that simple breakthrough unleashed a repressed but latent surge of engineering creativity, the arena of ice tool design providing fertile territory for all manner of innovation in both design and materials. With the evolution of metal shafted axes, laminated bamboo as a material has completely disappeared in the wake of the functionally superior aluminum alloys.

They were pioneers during the ‘Golden Age of American Climbing’. A uniquely talented man, and a prolific climber, Yvon Chouinard had acquired the skill of blacksmithing for the purpose of creating his early chromoly pitons, new durable pitons that could be reused. Tom Frost was also a climber, who began his exploits as a member of the Stanford Alpine Club at the university where he earned his engineering degree. They had pushed their climbing skills forward making many difficult first ascents together and thus they were a potent combo when it came to envisioning and designing future tools for the world of alpine enthusiasts.

Both renaissance men, Yvon and Tom were not only designers of breakthrough functional outdoor gear, they were artists as well. The products had a physical and visual aesthetic that embodied a classic elegance that just felt right to the eye. You couldn’t possibly add any more or remove anything, a sort of Goldilocks manifestation of form and function. And the way that they presented them, with their crafted words and inspired photography, completed the package. Their stuff was of the highest quality and while not cheap in the conventional sense, their prices were fair, actually a bargain as you could not find stuff of this quality and design, or anything nearly like it, anywhere else. And in the remote hard places in the mountains, their gear was highly functional, completely reliable and a sheer joy to use. Their ice axes and other climbing hardware were your solid and trusted companions. And that, for serious hikers and climbers was catnip itself.

Beers in the Stream

Xanthus, Nicolai’s 63’ Ford Galaxy, skidded to a halt at the end of the dusty, rutted, undulating, rock covered road. We emerged and stretched, ready. Socks and boots now on, we shouldered our packs and headed up the woodland trail, optimistic about the climb ahead. Some yards along, Nicolai dropped his pack and approached the tumbling trailside creek. Soon we could no longer see him, but could easily visualize his mission. He would search around for the perfect hiding place and stash our six-pack of beer amongst the rocks in the tumbling waters of the mountain stream. For this big climb, the beers would be hefty 16 oz cans of Colt 45 Malt Liquor. This modern mead would be our reward for our heroic quest.

On most of my other mountain trips the beer of choice would be ‘Vitamin R’, Rainier beer, ‘Mountain Fresh’ Rainier beer as their ads proclaimed. Olympia’s slogan was ‘It’s the Water’ but that always sounded pretty lame compared to ‘Mountain Fresh’, so I always chose Rainier over ‘Oly’. Rainier was a pretty decent beer, a local brew, made in Seattle, and their TV ads were pretty damn funny. In one, a herd of Rainier beer cans with legs would cluster nervously near the side of a forest road, a car would pass and then they’d scurry across. There was always an official looking sign in the foreground that said ‘Beer Crossing’. The voice-over would then say something about needing to stay on the lookout for the ‘Wild Rainiers’. Part of the charm was that unlike the bear in the Hamm’s commercials, the ‘Wild Rainiers’ weren’t animated, they were adult people wearing costumes that were king sized beer cans. Their legs were pretty shapely so they must have been female beers.

Another ad featured a thirty something woman talking on the kitchen phone with her girlfriend, pleasantly discussing something, or someone. An unseen voice, supposedly a working man’s voice, rudely shouts out from the living room behind her; “Hey Marlene, get me another beer.” It was easy to visualize this boorish off-screen character, in a t-shirt, leaning back in his easy chair watching a football game, confidently expecting Marlene to drop the phone, scurry to the fridge and dash to his side with another cool one. Marlene, pretty as a picture, politely asks her friend to hold on for a minute. She then cups the phone, turns her head towards her unseen spouse and in a snarling roar, yells back; “GET IT YOURSELF, BOB.” She then turns back to her polite chit chat with her girlfriend, not missing a beat. I always thought it was hilarious and I stayed brand loyal. ‘Vitamin R’ was my usual choice for six packs in the mountain stream.

The climb of the North Ridge of Mt. Stuart had been superb and the stories of it filled our conversations as we hiked out the next day. As we approached the trailhead I was focused on my feet. They were really tired and they hurt. I could hardly wait for the hike out to end. Finally, we stopped at the spot on the trail near the creek where Nicolai had hidden the beers on the way in. He disappeared into the brush and we waited. After a bit he emerged from the vegetation victorious, holding the dripping six-pack high. Hiding beer was an art form and you wouldn’t always be successful. You could hike a good way up the trail and thrash through the brush to some obscure spot and stash your beer in the stream under some rocks where you’d swear that no one would ever find it, in fact you’d have doubts that you’d find it again, and then after some epic climb, yearning for the cool refreshment of your beer, you’d return to that very spot to find that it was gone.

But on this day, we had the beer and we celebrated. I took off my boots and socks, stretched out on a flat granite boulder and warmed my feet in the sun as I slaked my thirst with the ice-cold 16 oz. Colt 45. Rehydrating with beer, it was the right thing to do. Sun beating down and a light wooziness setting in, I was very happy to be alive. After that, I nearly floated down the trail to the parking lot and flopped into the back seat of Xanthus. Packs stashed, boots and socks off, we rolled down the windows and thrust our bare feet out into the breeze. As we bumped down the rutted and rocky forest road on our way to the pavement, I was already thinking about our next ascent.

This is an excerpt from ‘Beers in the Stream,’ an adventure story from my recently released memoir, Banquet of the Infinite, which is now available as an eBook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.