It'll Burn Off

The rain continued to drizzle through the cold, damp air, and visibility was closing into near white-out conditions. So far, we’d been traversing and climbing a combination of rock and sun-cupped snowfields and hadn’t needed either crampons or the rope. That was the good news. And then things changed.

We were in the process of descending another immense snowfield, this time looking for White Rocks Lakes, our designated camp 3. As we continued to descend the slope, it became painfully clear that we were off route. We had lost too much elevation and not found the lakes. We were now in a steep section. The surface was icy, it was starting to get dark, and we were lost. Serious doubt crept into my psyche.

We finally stopped, knowing that to descend further would only compound our mistake. It was too late in the day to turn around and climb back up. We had run out of time in our search for the lakes. We determined that this stopping point was going to be our camp 3. We started chopping out a platform for our tent on the icy slope. We worked furiously, hacking away with the adzes of our ice axes.

It took a while. The adze on an ice axe isn’t very big. Memo to self: When we get back, create an ice axe with a bigger adze. When we had cleared just enough space, we hastily pitched the tent on the barely adequate platform and crawled inside. We would sleep on ice that night. The first on the agenda was to get warm. We fired up our trusty gas-fueled MSR Model 9 stove, our little friend, who would keep us company that night.

The MSR stove was a godsend for mountaineers and backpackers alike. The ingenious design used the fuel bottle as an outrigger to stabilize the burner assembly and support your cooking pot. The best feature was the fuel pump, which allowed you to pressurize the white gas in the tank and keep the fuel flowing even in freezing conditions.

Stoves that relied on canisters of butane fuel were almost useless in a deep cold environment, where you needed them most. They lost their fuel pressure, and the flames were pitiful. They were only a fair-weather device. By contrast, the MSR stove was a true mountaineer’s tool. Its other outstanding feature was its burner head. It was a freaking blow torch that made a lot of noise and cranked out a lot of heat, which you needed if you were melting snow to get water.

We huddled around the little stove as it roared away. We weren’t melting snow. We were trying to get warm, leaning over towards the stove, hands cupped and yearning like two small children.

“Please sir, may we have another bowl of warmth?”

This activity would become our ongoing routine that night. We called it taking a warmth break. That night at camp 3, our down bags were each a sodden mess of wet down clumps sandwiched between two sheets of nylon. Beginning loft: 9” Current loft: 1” But at this point, you really couldn’t call it loft because that implied a fluffy mix of down and air.

Our bags were completely useless, and we slept on top of them that night, fully clothed in our wet wool. Sleep is a euphemism because we didn’t sleep much at all. We passed the night in brief snatches of that nether world that exists in the fuzzy border between sleep and consciousness. We punctuated our stupors that night with frequent warmth breaks, crouched over our little gas-fueled friend as it roared away.

Try as it might, the little stove provided only enough warmth to keep us engaged with getting through the night. I was shivering, freezing, certain that I’d get through this night, but I was feeling really ragged and seriously questioned how much more of this I could take. I wondered if Nicolai was concerned as well. I asked him,

“So, if the conditions don’t change, how many more days can we do this until we die?”

Nicolai was among the smartest people that I had ever met, and nothing if not self-assured. If you wanted the perfect model for a t-shirt emblazoned with the words, “I might be wrong. But I doubt it.” Nicolai would be your first choice. Hunched over the stove, he paused as if making a few mental calculations and then turned his head towards me.

“Three days.”

This is a brief excerpt from ‘It’ll Burn Off,’ a mountaineering adventure story from my recently released memoir. Banquet of the Infinite is now available as an eBook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.

Classic Crack

Classic Crack just sounded so cool you had to do it. The short practice route on Eight Mile Rock, just up the Icicle Creek Road, was not many miles from Castle Rock. Easily top-roped, a popular hangout for climbers who wanted to practice hand jamming. The fundamental technique involved inserting your hand into the crack and wedging it tight by some combination of twisting or contortion so that you could put weight on it as you climbed up. Classic Crack angled up to the left from the ground before straightening up. That introduced additional difficulty with balancing issues added to the equation. We practice climbed the awkward crack with both hand and foot jams.

The best way to do it was not by drawing on physical strength but with technique and finesse, and that’s why the practice was so valuable. If you were able to make several consecutive ascents and feel in control and rhythmically flowing upward, you had then added another technique skill to your quiver. And would soon be ready to handle such cracks on longer, more committed routes with confidence.

Both a test piece and a milestone with a meaningful rite of passage, Classic Crack challenged us all. The scene was much like you might expect of a small gathering at any demonstration of skill. Each climber, in turn, would approach the crack, hands taped, pause for a moment, and enter the crack looking to solve the puzzle. Waiting climbers would observe and evaluate, noting both skilled and fumbling moves. A gathering place to meet other members of the climbing community, we took turns belaying each other. It felt like family.

This is a brief excerpt from ‘To Climb a Rock,’ an early story in my recently released memoir. Banquet of the Infinite is now available as an eBook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.

Adventure Girls

Judy proposed a hike to Kennedy Hot Springs in the Mountain Loop area of Washington’s Cascades. The trail was snow-covered and the day overcast, damp, and cold. Despite the conditions, Judy was in good spirits, urging her doubtful companion forward. We saw no one until we arrived at the springs. Simply a small, square liquid hole in the ground, about six feet across, battened on the inside with wood timbers with an entry facilitated by a rustic wood pole ladder. Flatwood slats wrapped around the perimeter of the pool, which was not clear or inviting.

     The whole thing was an untidy, messy affair that would have disappointed most expectations. The water appeared a murky muddy brown color, but it was hot, and we were chilled. We encountered another couple already in the water and quickly shed our clothes and joined them. The relaxing liquid heat revived our spirits. After a long and slightly muddy soak, we emerged and gingerly walked, stark naked over to the nearby stream, and stepping carefully over the river rocks, entered it and splashed ourselves clean.

     After our experience at Kennedy, Judy was excited about another hot springs destination and proposed a night hike to Goldmyer Hot Springs. Sited on a privately owned property in the Alpine Lakes Wilderness, it featured natural, clear, hot water pools both inside and outside a cave in the middle of a dense forest. It sounded much more enticing than Kennedy.

     I don’t remember much about the route we took as it was a covert operation, just the two of us sneaking mile after mile towards our goal under a cold luminescent night sky. We hiked stealthily with only intermittent moonlight as flakes of snow drifted lazily around us, covering the miles in semi-dark, and making one dicey river crossing before arriving at the hot springs.

     We removed our clothes and waded alone into the water inside the cave. Arriving at the back end of the cave and settling into the soothing warmth of the water, we were astonished and delighted to discover more than a half dozen fat candles, already flickering, providing a magical light, as soft as fireflies, dancing across the walls and ceiling of that quiet chamber. We stayed for quite a while, speaking softly and laughing contentedly with our good fortune. And surprisingly, we did not encounter anyone else. Reluctantly, leaving the fat candles burning, we emerged and hiked back out through the snowy night.

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