1989 Issue - The Harvard Mountaineering Club

HARVARD MOUNTAINEERING
Number23
January 1989
HARVARD
MOUNTAINEERING
Number23
JANUARY 1989
THE
HARVARD MOUNTAINEERING CLUB
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
Henry Snow Hall, Jr.
1895-1987
The Harvard Mountaineering Club has lost its most honored
member, Henry Snow Hall, who was its chief founder and
supporter over the long years of his life. The HMC was indeed
founded in 1924 in the living room of the house graciously
presided over by Henry and his supportive wife Lydia. He
inspired and encouraged young climbers and was the guiding light
of the Club for many years. By chatting, planning, sharing
information with undergraduates and giving them all kinds of
support, he was largely responsible for the fact that for many
years, from the founding of the Club until World War II, there
was scarcely a climbing expedition to any part of the world on
which the HMC was not well represented. His study, so cluttered
with heaps of books, journals, maps and letters from
mountaineers of many lands that you could scarcely squeeze in,
was where we youngsters congregated to have Henry steer our
thoughts to high places. We could feel how he loved to be
anywhere in the mountains, not just on steep walls, snow slopes or
summits, but in the forests, alpine meadows and wilderness and to
be there in the company of young climbers.
Henry Hall cut his mountaineering teeth in the Alps while
still in his teens. The White Mountains were his lifetime haunt.
He climbed in New Zealand, Mexico, the Caucasus, Japan,
Colombia, Africa's Kilimanjaro, but his greatest accomplishments
were in North America. In 1925, he was on the team that made
the first ascent of Mt. Logan, although he did not go to the
summit but unselfishly escorted a teammate down who had
frostbitten his feet. He was with Brad Washburn on Mt. Hayes in
Alaska. But his real love was for the Canadian Rockies and the
ranges of British Columbia. His list of first ascents there is a
formidable one and includes a new route on Mt. Robson and the
first ascent of the north peak of Mt. Waddington. He opened up
valley after valley of "new" country. And none of us will ever
forget his wonderful bear stories, which contained the essence of
his spirit.
Henry's love of the mountains and wilderness was a never
ceasing source of inspiration for hundreds of members of the
HMC as well as many another climber. He shaped the lives of
many of us whom he taught to love those high and distant places
and to be moved by the glory and magnificence of nature.
- Adams Carter
3
CLUB OFFICERS
1984-1985
President: Geordie Wilson
Vice-pres: John Ross
Treasurer: Gordon Hardenburgh
1985-1986
President: Geordie Wilson
Treasurer: Rob Ronan
1986-1987
President: Carl Gable
Vice-pres: John Amason
Treasurer: John Ross
1987-1988
President: Nathan Faulkner
Treasurer: Carl Gable
Secretary: Alexandra Moore
Equipment: John Amason
1988-1989
President: Phil Beck
Treasurer: Carl Gable
Secretmy: Alexandra Moore
Equipment: Peter Green
Cover Photo - Southwest Face of Nevada Alpamayo, Cordillera
Blanca, Pe!U- Alexandra Moore
FACULTY ADVISORS
Douglas E. Coulter
William A Graham
John Z. Imbrie
JOURNAL STAFF
Editor: Alexandra Moore
Staff: ChlOe Breyer, Lou Derry, Peter Green, and the rest of the
members of the HMC.
Additional copies of this and previous issues of HARVARD
MOUNTAINEERING are available at $8.00 each (slightly more for
older editions) from the Hmvard Mountaineering Club, 4 University
Hall, Hmvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts 02138, U.S.A.
Contents- Bouldering in the Califomia Coast Ranges- A. Moore
Below- Stinking Water Mountain, Absaraka Range- ChlOe Breyer
A Weekender's Guide to the South Face of
Aconcagua
LOUIS A. DERRY
The world's greatest mountaineering exploits often take place
not in the great ranges of the world, but rather in the living rooms
of climbers armed with books and photos of comfortably far off
places. For most of us, for whom climbing is only an avocation, it
is easier and safer to climb the Big Walls from the couch. But
what happens when the Walter Mitty that occupies each of our
souls is pushed aside, perhaps a little bit unwittingly, and replaced
by a real climber facing a real mountain, somewhere far from
home? This is an account of one such experience.
I had been reading Fifty Classic Climbs too much and so I
wrote my long time climbing partner Charley Mace a letter.
"We've got to go some place really exciting, some place far away.
How's Alaska sound?" I said. Charley wrote back and said he'd
met Bryan Becker in a bar in Telluride and that he'd said that the
South Face of Aconcagua was a great climb, so that's where we
should go. And on top of it all the weather sucks in Alaska
anyway. If I had any questions I should look at Messner's book,
The Big Walls. Well, at least I'd heard of Aconcagua, and knew
that it was the highest peak in South America, even if I wasn't
quite sure what country it was in. Messner's book turned out to
be one of the best dream manuals ever, with accounts and route
descriptions of famous climbs around the world. He rated the
South Face as among the Three Great Faces of the World, along
with the Rupal Face of Nanga Parbat and the Eiger Nordwand.
All in all, it really didn't look like a place for a weekend hero
who'd never been above 14,000 feet before.
However, the idea stuck, and two years later Charley and I,
along with Alexandra and Peter, arrived tired but excited in
Mendoza, Argentina. Mendoza is a picturesque city at the edge
of the Andean foothills, and is the jumping off point for most of
the several hundred climbers from all over the world who trek up
to Aconcagua each year. After a couple days of sunbathing and
ACONCAGUA- Charley Mace and Lou Deny beneath the South
Face- PIOTR KONOPTKA
9
organizing, we took the bus up to Puente del Inca, a windy,
desolate village that serves as an outpost for the Argentine army
near the border with Chile. From here one may hire arrieros
(muleteers) to carry loads to the base of the mountain.
Our plan was to first climb the Ruta Normal, the winding,
non-technical, route up the northwest shoulder of Aconcagua. If
all went well, Charley and I would then go around to the other
side of the mountain 'and try the South Face. This way we hoped
to be acclimated to altitude and to the packs. With these simple
goals in mind the four of us started out the next morning on the
40 km hike to base camp in the brilliant sunshine of the high
Andes. We walked a little way through green meadows filled with
yellow and white wildflowers basking in the Austral summer until
we came around a bend and were stopped in our tracks by the
sight of Aconcagua, 6959 meters (22,835 feet), thrusting its white
head into the deep blue sky. I had read, much as you are doing
now, that one thing that is impossible to convey with words or
photos is the scale of a really big mountain. Well, it's true.
The approaches to Aconcagua are all from the south, so
during this day and the next we walked around the mountain to
the west, up a broad but steep valley carved out of the colorful
red and yellow rocks by the Rio los Horcones. All around are
signs of the mountains being stripped away at a prodigious rate;
the river rushes past brown with silt and boulders grind in its bed.
Huge gravel bars that were once in the stream bed are now
hundreds of feet above, and are torn down even before they have
a chance to consolidate. Charles Darwin passed through Puente
del Inca during a. break from his famous voyage on the Beagle,
and his views on the geology of mountain building and erosion
were profoundly influenced by these same sights. Later during
our trip I would appreciate even more fully the process of
bringing down great mountains bit by bit.
I will not tarry on the story of our ascent of Aconcagua by the
Ruta Normal. We arrived in the colorful, crowded, and
unfortunately unsanitary base camp in due course. Over the next
week we met climbers from around the world as we gradually
worked our way up the mountain, getting acclimated, taking in the
sights, and grazing through our voluminous food supply.
Everybody seemed to get along well enough with the altitude, and
as predicted by the arrieros, the weather held more or less stable.
I still don't know how much of this was due to lots of running and
how much to Diamox, but I suppose it doesn't matter. On a clear
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and cold day we went to the summit and peeked over the edge of
the South Face, which falls away in an amazing sweep of
steepness and height to the broken glacier below. On the way
down we rescued a Peruvian climber who had stayed too high too
late the day before and been forced to bivouac at 6500 meters.
The thin air and bitter cold during the night had sapped his
strength and will to live. We took turns pleading and cajoling,
and at one point a heroic Peter even carried him a little way. Had
we not happened by he would have soon ended up like the
Argentine climber who "sat down to rest" on the summit a few
days before. He sat there still, a grim frozen cairn marking the
top of the Americas.
AVALANCHE- From the ice cliffs of the lower hanging glacierLOUIS DERRY
11
The hard part was yet to come. No, not the desperate climb
of the towering South Face, nor even the harrowing descent in the
dark. I refer rather to the 28 mile, 9000 foot death march out to
the village with all our gear on our backs. However, hard work
sees its own reward, and the bar and restaurant were still open
when we staggered in at 10:00 pm. With those small comforts,
along with hot showers and sleep, we set about recovering for
round two.
Peter and Alex soon left the mountains for warmer regions of
Argentina, and Charley and I settled into our favorite game;
haggling over what to bring and what to leave behind. This time
we arranged to ride horses to Plaza Francia (4000 m), the base
camp for the South Face, named for the French group that made
the epic first ascent in 1954. Having never ridden a horse before I
faced this prospect with slightly more trepidation than the climb
itself. We spent a leisurely day riding up the valley to the glacier
which lies at the foot of the face with Daniel, the arriero, and
Dirk, a cameraman from a German television network. He was
there to film the first Parasail descent of the South Face. When
we arrived the scene was entirely different from Plaza de Mulas
on the other side. Clean water, no crowds, no garbage, just two
Polish climbers and a staggering view of the Wall.
We were not alone in our ambition for the South Face. Our
planned route had been ascended a number of times since 1954.
Messner put up his variation in 1974, now the commonly used
route on the upper part of the wall. The first true alpine style
climb was done by three Americans in 1980, but two of them were
lost in a storm before they could come down. In 1984 a Yugoslav
expedition put up a difficult route on a pillar leading to the north
summit. The next year the South Face was climbed twice by
teams consisting of a man and a woman, the first women to climb
the mountain by that route. The route has also been done in the
winter, but at great cost in lives and frostbitten limbs. This year
the good weather was especially inviting. As we arrived at the
bottom of this magnificant valley, a Frenchman and a Spaniard
were about halfway up the French route, an Argentine and a
Chilean about a quarter of the way up, two other Poles on the
Yugoslav route, and the two Poles in camp gearing up for an
attempt on a new route on the left side of the wall.
The two Polish climbers at the bottom were tremendously
friendly and very experienced. We spent the next day viewing the
Face with Piotr, Zbigniew, and Dirk, who insisted he was no
12
climber and begged us not to lose him in the glacial wilderness.
Of course we soon did (accidentally!), and only to his everlasting
surprise was he able to find his way back to camp without having
some unspeakable fate befall him. We spotted the three pairs of
climbers on the Face with a 'scope, and got our first hard look at
the routes and the wall. The South Face rises for 3000m above
the valley floor, and is split in two by a great couloir. On either
side of this couloir is a rib, the right climbed by the French and
the left by the Yugoslavs. The original French route takes this
rib up the center of the Face, staying out from under the huge
hanging ice cliffs on the right and the avalanche funnel of the
central couloir on the left. The route is logically divided into
three sections by two hanging glaciers. The lower part of the
route climbs the gradually steepening buttress, which reaches the
first hanging glacier at about 5000 m. Above that, there is
another rock section which leads through a serac band (6000 m)
and onto the second glacier. From there the French climbers
went right, weaving together a line of weaknesses to reach the
summit from the southeast. Messner's route is more direct, and
goes through a section of mixed climbing onto the summit
icefield. Several hundred meters of ice finally lead to the summit
ridge we had visited a week earlier from the other side. We
hoped to use these natural breaks as bivouac sites and climb the
route in three steps.
That evening we saw signal lights flashing from low on the
wall. It was clearly the South American team, and it looked like
they had a problem. The lights gradually were working their way
down the lower part of the first buttress, so Piotr, Zbigniev and I
went out to see if we could help them. Eventually they came
down to where we could hear them, and hollered that they were
O.K., just coming down. When they reached us we guided them
through the badly broken glacier to camp, and earned many
thanks from the exhausted pair by carrying their packs. The two
had decided that they were not moving fast enough on the wall,
and elected to come down before committing themselves to the
upper part of the climb. However, the Poles had the perfect
medicine for fatigue and disappointment; "wise tea", a mix of
Polish grain alcohol, tea, honey, et cetera. This virtually
guaranteed elevated spirits and a sound sleep for the patient.
The next day the South Americans headed down the valley
and we stayed to watch the fabulous spectacle of avalanches
rolling off the Face. Huge ice blocks the size of apartment
13
buildings would break off the ice cliffs six thousand feet above us,
and roar down. The top of the peak was mostly hidden in clouds
through the day, and Dirk could get no contact on his radio from
the parasailing team. We expected them to wait for better
weather, and thought no further of it. Near twilight, as we
lounged around eating dinner a load fluttering noise came from
above. We jumped out from under our "dining" canopy to see a
very cold parasailor land in the middle of camp. Elmar "den
Flugelman" had reached the summit by the Normal Route earlier
in the day, but had found the winds too strong to jump. He had
waited until late afternoon before trying it, only to find that the
updrafts were so strong he couldn't make his 'chute sink. He
spent two hours flying back and forth across the valley as it began
to get dark, looking for a place were he could lose some altitude.
Finally he was able to descend, but by the time he reached us he
was so cold he couldn't even unbuckle his harness. "Wise tea" was
again administered with the usual success, and the patient and
rescuers alike recovered rapidly.
CHARLEY MACE- First blood on the French Rib - LOUIS DERRY
14
Sitting around base camp is rarely so entertaining.
Nevertheless, the next evening Charley and I packed up and tried
to sleep. At 3:00 am we arose and headed out over the darkened
glacier. The glacier was a maze of seracs and crevasses, and it
was difficult finding our way across it in the dark. We headed to
the left of the pillar on the lower French route. We planned to
climb a snow field between the central couloir and the pillar,
joining the original route perhaps 300 m up. This looked much
faster, but meant passing beneath the looming mouth of the
central couloir and some broken cliffs which were the source of
regular stonefall during the day. It was a race against the sun as
we made our way up the avalanche cone, across the bergschrund,
and angled beneath the menacing cliffs to the ridge. My pack felt
like it weighed a hundred pounds, but the sun seemed to carry no
such burden. As we neared the ridge and relative safety the first
rocks began to fall. Fortunately they all missed, and we found the
sun on our backs as we crested the ridge.
From where we stood, route finding looked like it wouldn't
present much of a problem. Fixed ropes, some old, some not,
marked the way. The most recent set probably belonged to a
Japanese team, who had made a winter ascent in 1986. All three
members had disappeared, apparently after reaching the top. We
had avoided a section of slow and uninspiring looking climbing by
our detour, and now the real climbing would begin. Out from
under the shadow of that cliff, my pack still felt heavy, but
maneagable. Above us was a short section of loose blocks, held
together by a little ice that was beginning to melt in the morning
sun. Perhaps a harbinger of things to come? Charley led the way
up and over, and we were on our way. The rest of the morning
was spent climbing the easy mixed ground that was the lower part
of the rib. It was delightful to be moving over rock and snow in
the brilliant sun, watching the glacier below grow further away.
We were confident as we took a break for water and a bite in the
early afternoon. The fabled "Big Towers" section, reputedly the
crux of the route, was not far now.
The rib steepened, and I began the first serious rock climbing
of the trip. Our rack consisted of two each of Friends, Tricams,
and knifeblades, along with a few Snargs. So far it seemed
excessive; there were very few placements of any kind in the
rotten gray-brown rock. The pitch I was on was scary. I was face
climbing on crumbly flakes and edges; many of the best holds
moved when I grabbed them, and most of the others simply came
15
off in my hand. It was one thing to ponder erosion on the hike in,
now I was experiencing it "up close and personal." Plastic boots
are O.K. for standing on small edges, but only if they don't break
off. I quickly learned to milk the few decent holds for all they
were worth. First reach for it, then mantle on it, and finally step
up on it. Thirty feet out or so I got in one 'blade, and then fifty
feet more of fear. If I fell here I could easily rip both the piton
and the belay. Our isolation began to sink in as it dawned on me
how rarely second chances appeared up here. The pack tugged
me in all the wrong ways. A bit higher I got in the other pin. The
rock (volcanoclastic junk) was pretty seamless. Charley was
getting impatient, and I was dying to get to a belay and let him try,
but it was a little futher yet. Finally I got to a scoop, made a
tolerable stance, and quickly brought him up. "Top ropes make
heroes of us all," I thought. As I write, it doesn't seem like it was
technically much, but that was then, this is now.
LOU DERRY - Crumbly climbing beneath the Big Towers CHARLEY MACE
16
Charley led off the next pitch, which led up a smooth ramp
and into the chimneys of the Big Towers. He slowly made his way
up to the base of the crack/ chimney and got some good pro' in.
The next sequence of moves demonstrated why I'd brought him.
This was hard climbing, perhaps 5.9, and at over 16,000 feet with
a big pack on it was very impressive. I followed with difficulty.
The bottom of the chimney was the hard part, no positive holds
and slightly overhung. I clawed my way up into a semi-rest
position, and then used my Hummingbird to hook an ice runnel,
while my other hand found a slot. To the left and above were
some 'Gunks type holds that led onto the belay ledge, and with
much encouragement from Charley I hauled myself up and
flopped, spent, onto the ledge. It was getting late in the day, but
we had a long way to go yet. The belay was a rats nest of old
ropes tied around dubious blocks, and another deep chimney led
up from it. After an abortive attempt, Charley decided to leave
his pack behind, and began to make his way up. I was left to
absorb the shower of (mostly) small rocks that came out of the
chimney. I used his pack to block most of them but I decided that
I had spent wisely on a helmet. After a while he was out of view
and I sat and tried to stay warm. Finally he was ready to begin
hauling, which didn't go so well. The pack stuck (predictable, you
say), so I began to push it up from beneath as I climbed. I took
my own off so I could move in the chimney, and push me-pull you
we got Charley's moving. I figured the two of us could haul mine
more easily.
All of a sudden I heard a big rock rolling down the chimney, a
really big one. I was trapped like a rat, nowhere to hide. It kept
getting closer, and I began to panic; I held Charley's pack over my
head with one hand and closed my eyes and prayed as the sound
grew in my ears. This was like being tied to the tracks by Oil Can
Harry and hearing the train whistle. Finally I realized that the
noise had stopped, but I couldn't figure out why. It had to have
been right on top of me, and the way it was moving there was no
way it was going to get stuck some place. After a long minute I
peeked out from under the pack, and saw no sign of the rock. We
began again to haul and push. When I got to the top of the pitch
we tried together to haul my pack, but of course it too got stuck
and so I climbed back down the damned chimney and started the
whole exasperating procedure over again. The upper part of the
pitch was very strenuous, and after two trips I was pretty drained.
It had been a long day already and we still had to find a place to
17
spend the night. In due course and gathering darkness, we were
assembled with luggage on a small shelf, enough at least to sit on.
Charley then told me that when he'd reached the top of the pitch
he had wrapped a sling around a large knob, the best-looking
belay anchor. As I began to climb the knob had broken off and
fallen in Charley's lap, still tied firmly to his harness. He had
quickly worked to get separated from it before it pulled him off
his belay and dragged us down into the depths. Once free he'd
tipped it down a neighboring slot and it had rumbled down,
causing my despair. He then tried the second best anchors and
we resumed operations. He figured he didn't want me to get
nervous, so why bother telling me?
It was quite dark when we broke out headlamps and made a
short descent into an ice gully. Never were clip-on crampon
bindings so welcome. As I had brought Charley to subdue the
hard rock climbing, he had brought me for the ice, so up I went
looking for a place to spend the night. The gully eased and we
were soon climbing together, plodding through steep snow. From
below it had not looked too far to the lower hanging glacier where
we hoped to find a flat spot, but it was clearly further than we had
anticipated. On into the night we climbed, severely slowed by
fatigue and hunger. Finally we came to a spot where the
snowfield reached the edge of the cliff, and on a sort of flying
buttress there was a barely tent-sized site that would do. We
hacked out a platform, set up the tent and crawled in. All of this
takes far more time and energy to do than to imagine. By the
time we finally got in our bags we were on empty. Altitude and
exhaustion made even simple things like taking ones boots off a
struggle. In a situation like this you do nothing that is not
essential, because there is no energy for anything else. We knew
we could not afford mistakes of any kind while we were plastered
like fly specks on this huge wall; we needed every ounce of
strength and concentration to get off. This in itself is one of the
most demanding aspects of big alpine climbing. I was for the first
time realizing how total our committment was, just how far we
were pushing our confidence and abilities in order to return to
terra fimw, terra cognita.
When, late the next morning, I stuck my head out the tent
door, I was suitably impressed by our position. We were perched
on a little tongue of snow and rock only slightly wider than the
tent. On three sides the cliff fell away to the distant valley floor.
We were at the foot of the first glacier, with a thousand meters of
18
climbing below us and two thousand more to go. That day we
chose to rest; it was a site safe from avalanche and rockfall, not
too high (5000 meters), and we needed to rest before the next
section of hard climbing. We had been on the move for nearly 24
hours and climbed a thousand meters the previous day. As we
lounged in the warm sun our spirits returned, despite suffering
through some loathsome macaroni and cheese. While at the
endless task of melting snow for water, I made snowmen, and the
day passed easily.
In the morning we began again, but stupidly not early enough.
The slow, hot slog up the glacier in the deep snow was
demoralizing as we headed for the "sandstone band" that
separated the lower glacier from the seracs and ice cliffs below
the upper hanging glacier. Finally we postholed to the rock. We
moved fairly quickly over the first few pitches of easy fifth class
rock, which, unsurprisingly, turned out to be more volcanic stuff
rather than sandstone. Fortunately it was more solid and had
more holes and pockets for protection than the crumbly junk
below, and the climbing was very enjoyable. The top of the band
was higher than it looked, and as we moved up we watched the
sun move across the sky. The huge ice walls of the upper glacier
loomed to our right, but today everything was still. Toward the
top we hit a difficult section, which used up precious time; finally
we arrived at the ice. Escape from the serac band onto the upper
hanging glacier was rumoured to involve 20-25 meters of vertical
ice somewhere above, and as the day waned it seemed like a good
project for the morning. We climbed on over 50 degree ice
looking for a bivy spot as darkness fell and a cold wind blew.
Finally a "flattish" spot appeared beneath a big serac, and we set
to the arduous task of hacking out a space for the tent. I was tired
enough to dismiss the possibility of having this house sized ice
cube fall on me during the night, and we eventually burrowed in
to our bags and began the long ritual of the evening meal.
The next morning we were witness to just how spectacular a
campsite we had found. The tent perched on a little ledge
beneath the overhanging ice wall above, and out the back door
was a truly breathtaking drop. After packing up, I led right and
up across the ice, trying to turn the corner on the seracs. After a
few rope lengths the way up was clear, and shortly after we
crested onto the hanging glacier. If we'd only known the night
before... We trudged across the glacier for what seemed like
forever, sinking into the sun-softened snow, and always going up.
19
That afternoon we set up camp at the edge of the bergschrund
that separated us from the last section of the climb, at about 6200
meters, and watched the sun's red glow on the fantastic upper
wall of the mountain. I could pick out the route taken by the
French in 1954, as they struggled with frostbite and exhaustion to
reach the top and survive. In the event of bad snow conditions on
the summit icefield, this would still be the way to go, less direct
but less prone to avalanche. We retired to the tent and ate our
last soup; after tomorrow we would have no food. This was just as
well, because there was no place to stop on the wall above except
at the top. John and Titoune Bouchard had been caught there by
a storm, and had endured a miserable semi-hanging bivouac on
the summit icefield, wondering the whole time if they would be
swept off. I didn't want any part of that. Tomorrow was make it
or break it. Besides, we planned to go to the beach before
heading home, and the shortest way went over the top.
It's hard to sleep well at 20,000 feet, so the next morning we
were sluggish as we began the interminable task of melting snow
and packing up. Water is the central theme of ones existence in
the tent. It's very hard to stay hydrated; even while sleeping you
lose lots of water to the cold, dry air as you breath. Chapped lips
and sore throats are only the minor symptoms of dehydration.
You start melting snow as soon as you're awake, and keep at it
until nearly all else is packed. While it's difficult to have much of
an appetite up high, warm liquids are a blessing, and so we found
that we had done well to bring things like hot Jello mix and
Instant Breakfast that were easy to get down and provided both
liquids and calories together. Mostly, you try and dress and pack
in the tent while trying not to knock over the stove. Naturally all
the carefully placed gloves and socks have by morning
disappeared into the tangle of brightly clashing nylon cocoons, so
every day starts with a little treasure hunt around the tent. Finally
you emerge into the brilliantly illuminated world with its
impossibly deep blue sky.
From here we could see the tracks of the French and Spanish
climbers, and we followed them to the edge of the bergschrund,
and managed to struggle over it. The next few hundred meters
were my favorite of the climb; varied and delightful mixed
climbing in the brilliant sunshine. The loose rock and bad belays
BWOUAC- In the serac band, 5800 meters -LOUIS DERRY
21
seemed part of the fun today, as I wove a way through the ice
runnels and rock ribs of the lower face. At one point I had
belayed off an old fixed rope, well backed up by a Friend and ice
gear, when the anchor for the old rope pulled. I dropped a couple
feet, all my prejudices about fixed ropes confirmed. Finally I led
up and left over unconsolidated snow onto the summit icefield.
The summit ridge and escape was only a few hundred meters of
relatively straightforward ice above.
We angled left on 50 degree ice to avoid the serac that sat in
the middle of the slope, and slowly reached a resting spot.
Charley, usually so organized, had somehow dropped his
Hummingbird earlier in the day, and was climbing with an axe in
one hand and a Snarg in the other. Very traditional, I thought,
but I think I'll use two tools myself. We argued about whether to
unrope, even though we were climbing together and without
protection. Charley wanted the psychological protection, and
perhaps remembered the time I stopped a fall in a similar
situation. I was scared stiff that one of us would pull the other off,
and didn't think there was any way I could hold a fall up here.
Perhaps uncharitably I made Charley do it my way; we each
trailed a rope but were not connected. Believe me I'm no purist,
but two years later I still know it was the right thing to do. While
we sorted out a few things to make life easier, Charley saw two
figures emerging from the mixed ground below. We slowly began
again to move up the gradually steepening icefield. Soon Piotr
and Zbigniew caught up to us, on their way to the fastest ascent
yet of the South Face. They had abandoned their new route as
too dangerous, and had started after us only yesterday. It was
hard to believe that they had covered so much ground so fast, but
there they were. As Piotr passed me he said "Look down Lou,
this is Big Vall!" In truth, busy just trying to breath and keep
moving, my attention had been fixed on the goal above. As I
looked down between my legs to the valley floor nearly 10,000
feet below, it reminded me of my one try at parachute jumping.
The features of the broken glacier, and the great talus slopes
coming down from the valley walls, were flattened to look more
like an air photo than the real thing. A man is a very small and
frail thing in a place like that.
FOLLOWING THE TRACKS- Of Felix and Dominique across
the upper hanging glacie1~ 6100 meters- LOUIS DERRY
23
Slowly the summit ridge grew nearer. We were still 250
meters below it. I moved off to the left trying to aim for its lowest
point, hoping to save a little climbing, but soon realized the error
of my ways. The snow here was deep, and clung only tenuously to
the steep slope. "Relax" I said to myself "you just want to get off
the wall." Ever so gingerly, I edged back to the right, hoping
mightily to get back to more solid ground before the whole damn
thing came off with me on top of it. It is hard to imagine what it
would be like to fall that far. I was now a rope length or two
behind the others. Finally I got back to where the surface snow
had slid off already, and I was a much happier man, even if it was
a bit longer to the top. The climbing was again straightforward, at
least as much as climbing unroped 10,000 feet off the deck can
ever be. Moving steadily up had a calming effect, and a feeling of
inevitability grew, that if only I didn't do anything else stupid I'd
get there O.K. A few meters at a time and stop, might as well
enjoy the view, and anyway hauling the pack up the steepening
face at 22,000 feet was no picnic. A little above me Piotr and
Zbigniew pulled over the top and waved, and in another minute
Charley made it too. For a few minutes I was alone on the vast
South Face, two miles of air beneath my feet, as the sky deepened
with the evening. The last fifty meters was the steepest, perhaps
sixty-odd degrees, and the best ice, a lovely styrofoam consistency.
It was a fantastic finish to a fantastic climb. As I neared the top
the others threw me a rope. Like I said, I'm no purist. With a
silent wink at Charley but without a moment of doubt I accepted;
it would have been a shame to have five days of hard work go
down the not so proverbial chute if the cornice broke. I pulled
over the top and sat on the cornice, one leg over the Face, one leg
in the land of the living. I was off the Wall.
In the gathering darkness Charley, Piotr, Zbigniew and I
hugged each other. We were a couple hundred feet below the
summit still, but as late as it was Charley and I got ready to go
down. We'd been there. Zbigniew had not, so he and Piotr
headed lloP as we started down the ridge, looking for the drop into
the scree gully of the Ruta Normal. Looking back, I still don't
know how we did this, but some combination of darkness,
exhaustion, and hurry caused us to miss the gully and go too far.
As we descended a horrible talus pile it dawned on me that this
THE SUMMIT ICEFIELD- 6600 meters - CHARLEY MACE
25
was not what we had done ten days ago. An incredulous Charley
demanded proof, because it was hard even to conceive of going
back up. However, it was true, and a genuine epic ensued.
Before realizing our mistake we had dropped several hundred
feet, so rather than try and go all the way up to top and start over,
we tried to climb up and over the spur that separated our gully
from the one we wanted, the Canaleta.
This was the hardest thing I have ever done. Exhausted,
underfed, and psychologically blindsided, I wondered aloud about
a bivouac. Charley told me to get off my ass, and we struggled up
onto the ridge, only to find we would have to rappel down into the
Canaleta. Charley went first, as his headlamp still worked, and I
followed in pitch darkness, setting up the rappel by feel with my
frigid hands. A rock fell and hit Charley, and from the sound of
his howl out of the darkness I thought he was badly hurt.
Fortunately he wasn't, and we staggered on. Another blind rappel
followed, on anchors that struck me as humorous for some
macabre reason. Charley had tried to back it up with a Tri-cam,
but as I weighted the rope it fell out into my lap. Why leave a
perfectly good Tri-cam, I thought, so I removed it and slid down
the rope. The rope jammed when we tried to pull it down, but
there was so much loose rock above us that we didn't dare pull
too hard or climb back up to free it, so it was out with the knife.
Finally we reached the place we were supposed to be, and with a
feeling of numbness and relief I hadn't known before, we
stumbled down the trail of the normal route.
Shortly before midnight we arrived at Berlin camp, a sordid
collection of huts, tents, and garbage at 19,000 feet that most
climbers on the Ruta Normal make their high camp. Nobody
stirred as we looked around. One of the huts, with no roof and no
door, was empty, so we piled in, melted some (probably yellow)
snow for tea and settled in for what was the coldest night of the
trip. Tired bodies do not good furnaces make, and I spent a
miserable night enviously eyeing Charley's Marmot bag. In the
morning as the sun warmed the camp, he was up hobnobbing with
the other climbers as I dozed. They had bad news for us. Felix
and Dominique, the French and Spanish climbers whose tracks
we had seen above 6000 meters, were several days overdue.
Dominique's girlfriend was waiting for them on the normal route,
SOUTH FACE- and summit ridge from the very top. The route
tops out in the middle ground of the photo -PETER GREEN
26
and had alerted everyone on the mountain to look for them. We
were the first to come from the South Face, and our arrival, with
no news of the pair, effectively spelled the end of hope for them.
Soon the Poles came down from their bivouac, at the 21,000 foot
Independencia hut, and confirmed our story: No sign except
footprints. Somewhere between our last camp and the top these
two men, who were perhaps very much like us, had disappeared.
An avalanche was almost certainly the cause, and even now I find
myself thinking of what it must have been like to be so close, and
to begin that long, long ride to the bottom of the Face as the
world exploded in on them.
On battered knees we staggered down to the squalid and
colorful tent city at the bottom of the normal route, and spent the
day eating scrounged food, drinking, and basking in the sun. The
(relatively) warm, thick air at 14,000 feet did wonders. The next
day was memorable; the same 40 km death march, only this time
in plastic boots. The word, I believe, is torture. I think that the
last few miles were the hardest part of the whole trip for Charley,
as we dragged our beaten, skinny bodies through the dark to the
village. The only consolation was that finally, the way to the
beach led downhill. Fortunately, it is the Argentine habit to dine
late, and the restaurant was still open when we arrived.
The path home led through Buenos Aires and the beaches of
Pinamar, where we were royally treated as surrogate sons by a
friend's parents. After lying on the warm sand watching the
colaless bikinis, the next thing I knew I was landing in Boston, just
before the airport was closed by a blizzard. I was back. It had
been a long weekend.
For a very different perspective on climbing Aconcagua, read
William Broyles' article in Esquire, June 1987. Yes, we were the
young Americans 'Just off the summit ... with that distant stare ... "
And no, I didn't say all that.
For an account of the tragic first alpine style ascent see Sports
Illustrated, April14, 1980.
28
29
The Bus Ride's the Crux: Nevado Alpamayo
ALEXANDRA MOORE
Nevada Alpamayo has often been referred to as "the world's
most beautiful mountain." Other peaks may be higher, or harder,
and not having seen all the world's mountains, I can't be an
unbiased judge. But Alpamayo is truly something special. Like a
gem that one may keep in some secret place forever, Alpamayo
stays with everyone who has ever seen it.
A favorite joke among climbers is to say that "the approach is
the crux of the climb." In Peru this takes on a new meaning.
Generally, the hardest part of the trip is arriving at the trailhead.
Peruvian local transport has a worldwide and well-deserved
reputation for delays, cancellations and a general lack of
information concerning schedules, fares and even destinations. I
often remind myself that the meaning of life is found in following
the path and not in arriving at the destination. If so, travel in
Peru is fraught with meaning. Having bought tickets on the 12:00
bus to Huaraz, we were still standing in line waiting to check our
luggage at 12:45. Two Norwegian travellers who didn't speak
much Spanish were rather concerned about this, and asked me if I
knew when the bus was supposed to leave. They thought I was
crazy when I replied, "twelve o'clock." Asi sea.
We arrived in Huaraz late that evening. In the darkness, I
don't think my companions, Mark and Nathan (newcomers to
Peru), had a chance to truly appreciate their surroundings.
Morning found us hanging out the windows of our room at the
hostel, taking in the stunning views of the Cordillera Blanca. We
hastily stuffed too many things into our packs and caught a bus to
Caraz, the turnoff for Alpamayo. Mark, Nathan and I were the
only gringos, riding squashed in between the campesinos and their
chickens. I had a puppy sitting on my shoulder for most of the
trip. We had discussed the possibility of hiring burros to carry our
things to base camp, and the matter was taken out of our hands
during the truck ride up to Cashapampa, the trailhead, when an
arriero named Jaime Martin hopped aboard the truck and offered
his services. We spent the evening in a pasture at the edge of
SOUTHWEST FACE OF ALPAMAYO- View from high camp in
the Alpamayo-Kitaraju Col- ALEXANDRA MOORE
31
CASHAPAMPA - The little girls crawled around mooing like cows ALEXANDRA MOORE
town, and were entertained by about a dozen little children from
the village. I'm sure they thought we were equally entertaining.
The little girls crawled around mooing like cows, and Nathan and
I crawled around taking their pictures.
The trail to Alpamayo leads up the Quebrada Santa Cruz,
which is simply spectacular. It is a deep ravine cutting eastward
through the Cordillera Blanca, whose entrance is guarded by the
twin pyramids of Nevada Pukaraju and Aguja Nevada. They
reach upwards to the sky; all white with snow and ice, in striking
contrast to the black rocks and shadows of the canyon below. We
left in the cool of the morning, walking alongside the cascades of
the Rio Blanco de Santa Cruz. Nine hours, twenty five kilometers
and four thousand vertical feet later, we arrived in base camp. As
the sun sank behind the mountains, the temperature began to
plummet. Jaime had only a pair of sandals made from old tires
for his feet, so Mark gave him a pair of new red wool socks. He
looked warmer and much more colorful. Jaime, a native
Quechua-speaker, knew less Spanish than I did, but we managed
to get our business done.
Base camp is set in the head of the Quebrada Arhuaycocha,
with Alpamayo to one side, a large glacier-filled cirque
32
surrounded by the snowy peaks of the Pukajirca group on the
other side, and spectacular views down the valley to still more icecovered mountains. The peaks here sport very appropriate
names: Aguja Nevada, the "Snow Needle," Cerro Mal Paso, the
"Mis-step." I hate to think of the unfortunate soul for whom this
summit is named.
Above base camp, there is an intermediate camp at 16,500 ft,
and then the high camp in the Alpamayo-Kitaraju col at 18,500 ft.
Some well-acclimated climbers go all the way to the high camp in
one day. Not us. We were only three days out of Lima, and so
were looking forward to a day of rest and relaxation, followed by
two days of humping heavy packs up the mountain. Nathan and I
had spent weeks debating what we were actually going to climb,
and I think even sitting in base camp we were still unsure. The
most likely candidate was the Ferrari Route on Alpamayo's
southwest face. However, we'd decided not to decide until we
actually got a look at it.
The trail above base camp climbs steeply through the talus of
a glacial moraine, and approaching the glacier one begins
scrambling over polished granite slabs, recently revealed by the
retreating ice. We constructed a tent-site on top of a very large
boulder above the glacial-melt stream which issued from under
the ice just a few feet away. In my opinion this was a magnificent
tent-site, but Mark referred to it as a "perch." We shared our
perch with another group of climbers from Boston, and a group
from New Zealand. After dinner the Kiwis came by to do some
"Yank-baiting." We talked about weather and sheep, and they
complained that Yvon Chouinard (whose name they pronounced
Eevonne Shooeenard) and his Patagonia synthetic clothing were
ruining their national economy by putting all those woolly little
sheep out of business.
As we were quite high on the side of the mountain, the sun
rose early the next day. Somewhat later, we arose and packed up
once again to move up to the last camp. It was here that Mark
realized he'd been sand-bagged. He had come to Peru to assist
me in my thesis research, and while I had mentioned that we were
going to take a little detour, I guess I hadn't really explained
exactly what we were up to. I'd told him that we were going
"hiking in the mountains", and as we stepped out onto the glacier,
I reminded him of a popular television beer ad, which describes a
trans-Canadian dogsled race as "some people's idea of walking
the dog". While Nathan and I laced up our Koflachs, Mark
33
strapped my old hinged crampons onto his Hitechs and off we
went.
I always find glacier travel delightful (although there was that
time in the Sierra when I fell into one of the few 'schrunds in the
entire state of California). As we wandered in and out of seracs
and snow bridge-spanned crevasses, Mark frequently commented
on what a strange and weird place this was. Just before reaching
the crest of the ridge and the camp on the other side, we got our
first look at the southwest face of Alpamayo. We could see
several parties on the route, and my first reaction was, "Oh my
God!", but after studying it for another moment I thought, "Hey,
that looks pretty good!" I'd been slow getting up the hill and was
suffering from an exquisite headache, so I went to bed early with
Diamox, codeine, and a cup of hot Tang.
The following day was a rest day, and I spent it trying to get
rid of my headache. Dave, one of the other Bostonians,
attributed my illness to the rocks I was carrying in my pack (I'm
used to hearing everyone who picks up my luggage ask if I'm
carrying rocks - ha!ha! - but being a geologist, usually it's true!).
But really there was only one small one, to put under the MSR
stove so it didn't melt itself into the snow. Everyone suggests that
I use a piece of ensolite pad instead, but I've tried that. All it did
was turn itself into a black bubbly goo that remains welded to the
bottom of the stove to this day.
The sun at this latitude and elevation is tremendously strong,
and despite the fact that we were sitting on a glacier, it was
incredibly hot, not to mention blindingly bright. We watched the
NZ'ers flash the route, which gave a huge boost to our
confidence. By dinnertime Nathan and I were "totally psyched,"
and we did "hi-fives" over our bowls of ramen noodles.
The major difficulty encountered on the summit day was
trying to get out of bed at 4:30 am. We failed miserably. We
finally walked out of camp just as it was getting light. It took us
about an hour to walk down and across the glacier and then back
up to the bergschrund, which was the start of the technical
climbing. Nathan led the first pitch, and we took turns moving up
the face. Some previous party had had the bright idea to fix
pickets and conduit for anchors, but for some unknown reason,
they were each 55 meters apart. This being the case, most pitches
required a running belay to complete. But the climbing was
straightforward and very enjoyable. Being used to brittle New
England ice, I was thrilled to swing my tools and hear a
resounding "thud" as each one buried itself up to the shaft in the
34
soft glacier. The Ferrari Route leads up a single ice couloir which
climbs at an angle of about 70 degrees. The climbing actually
reminded me a lot of some of the routes in Huntington Ravine at
home. The major difference of course being that here we were
climbing at more than 5000 meters, not 5000 feet. At times I just
had to stop and lean my helmet forward against the ice to try and
breath.
NATHAN FAULKNER- Just below the summitALEXANDRA M GORE
35
I had the pleasure of leading the final pitch. This was the
most continuous ice of the route, and just a little over 50 meters
long. I stretched the rope to reach a comfortable seat at the last
belay, with the top just a few easy steps above me. While I
belayed Nathan up, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. What a
feeling of pure joy! We'd done it! When Nathan had climbed up
beside me, we looked down at the col camp, and knowing that
they were watching we raised our arms and howled. We waitedone one thousand, two, three ... and finally we heard the
answering yell. One o'clock in the afternoon and we'd made it!
We didn't stay around too long, just long enough to snap
some pictures and write "HMC" in the snow. Then we rapped
back down the route. Nathan, being much heavier than I had no
trouble reaching the anchors. I came up a little short on one, but
thank God for rope stretch! The last pitch ended with a 30 ft
hanging rappel off the 'schrund, and then we were on our way
back to camp, where Mark was waiting with congratulations.
Unfortunately, once we had completed the climb, we wanted
nothing more that to be in Huadiz having pizzas and beer. But
even from the base camp it's still several days to "civilization".
Our arrival back in base camp was greeted by a mountain
rainstorm which sent Mark diving into the tent since he didn't
have a raincoat. I stood around talking to Nathan and Dave,
testing the waterproofness of my new goretex parka, and finally
joined Mark in the tent, deciding that nothing is truly waterproof.
The rain didn't last long, and it seemed like a good idea to warm
up and dry off around a campfire. I doused a pile of wet sticks
with benzina (a fuel sold in Peru, and worthless for anything
except dousing piles of wet sticks) and we had a fire in no time.
Being tired, I was easily talked into looking for an arriero to
take our packs back down. I found Jesus, who looked to be about
fourteen years old, although he said he was eighteen. He had
trouble finding all the burros and we got a late start, arriving in
Cashapampa just as it was getting dark. We had missed the last
bus down the hill and Jesus' mother was looking for him (I still
think he's fourteen). When we did arrive in Huadiz we
proceeded to graze from one end of the city to the other, and then
tackled what did turn out to be the crux of the trip; trying to get
Nathan back to Lima in time to catch his flight home. All the
DESCENT- Alexandra Moore rappels off the bergschrund NATHAN FAULKNER
36
busses leaving the next day were full, but we got seats on the night
bus, which would arrive in Lima only two hours before Nathan's
plane was scheduled to leave. The next day I tried to get him on
two different busses without success. However, I almost got taken
away, as I was on one bus trying to bribe a passenger out of his
ticket when the driver closed the door and started rolling down
the road! But despite our worst fears we made it to Lima the next
morning with time to spare.
The climbing was done. Our "hike in the mountains" had
been successful and tremendously enjoyable. Nathan went home
and Mark and I went south to work. But I think that each one of
us will carry a little of Alpamayo with us, always.
RETURN TO HIGH CAMP- MARK CAUDILL
39
The White Mountains of Peru
JOHN ARNASON
From the city of Huaraz, the mountains look like big clouds.
In the green hills of my home state, I used to squint my eyes and
pretend that the white clouds on the horizon were the tops of
huge mountains in the distance. Now, stepping off the bus in
Huaraz it is as if those same clouds had solidified into stone and
ice. It is hazy and warm, and the white mountains seem to blend
into slightly bluer sky.
Cordillera Blanca means "White Mountains," and they are
indeed white. One has to look hard to find a rock peeking
through the mass of ice and snow which covers every high peak.
My two companions and I have climbed together in New
England's White Mountains, but never in mountains as big as
these. Like most of our trips together, this one had its origin in
the library of the Mountaineering Club in Claverly Hall as we
drank beer and thumbed through old copies of the American
Alpine Journal. Or was it in Alexandra's office in the Geology
Department as we colored in maps of her field area in Peru?
"Let's go climbing next time I go to Peru," she would always say.
"Let's go," I would say.
Alex is a Harvard graduate student studying structural
geology. Structural geologists often become climbers and viceversa, because both spend a lot of time in the mountains. Peter is
a graduate student in chemistry at MIT - he just likes the
mountains. As for myself, I had just graduated from the College.
I have traded the rest of my summer for these two weeks in the
mountains. After this vacation, I will assist Alex for two months
of field work in southern Peru. It is one of the better trades that I
have made.
As the warm afternoon sun sinks, we explore the town and
discuss the climbing and dining possibilities in the region. We
didn't make any firm plans in advance about which peaks we
would climb, because we wanted to find out more first hand.
Also, the uncertainties of travel in Peru can destroy the best laid
plans.
THE APPROACH- Peter Green and John Amason hike through
eucalyptus groves approaching Nevada Huascar{m- A. MooRE
41
Sometime between dinner and bedtime, we make the
decision to climb Nevada Pisco Oeste (5752 meters), commonly
climbed as a warm-up to higher peaks. It is a small bump
surrounded by 6000 meter peaks on all sides. While not a
technically difficult route, it will provide an opportunity to get
used to the altitude. We will approach Pisco from the south via
Quebrada Llanganuco, a spectacular, slot-like canyon between
the Huandoy Massif to the north and the Huascaran Massif to the
south.
In fitting with its inferior stature, I suppose, Pisco has a
humble story behind its name. In July of 1951, when the French
climbers who pioneered the mountain returned from their climb,
they found that their Peruvian porters had consumed two liters of
Pisco, a favorite national spirit.
We are not as well-equipped as the French were, but we are
confident that we can do the climb. The very next day, in
worsening weather, we set out from the trailhead in Quebrada
Llanganuco, which holds two aqua-colored lakes. The path
climbs steeply through alpine meadows and along an old moraine,
left by a glacier of the last ice age. At the first campsite are signs
of other gringos before us. To our dismay, several soggy, brown
shopping bags bearing the logo of Eastern Mountain Sports are
strewn about the campsite. Apparently, their owners hadn't even
bothered to unwrap their new equipment until this point halfway
up the mountain. The next day we cross the dusty top of the
glacier which flows down from Huandoy. Somewhere under all
this dirt and debris is a slowly moving sheet of blue ice. Early in
the afternoon, we reach the second campsite which sits below the
saddle between Huandoy Este and Pisco Oeste. From here we
can easily make the summit and return in one day.
Ours is the third tent in this alpine community. Camped at
this same spot are two American women and their guides just
down from the summit of Pisco, and four New Zealanders who
would attempt a formidable route on Huandoy Este the following
day. In our subsequent travels in Peru and Bolivia, Alex and I
would meet many more Kiwis, an adventurous and well-traveled
lot. Peter and Alex have climbed Aconcagua in Argentina, but
I've never been higher than the summit of Longs Peak in
Colorado, something over 4000 meters.
In the morning, Peter is not feeling well. Since we arrived in
Huaraz, he has had stomach trouble and has not been able to eat
much. He decides to stay behind and rest. Alex and I set out for
42
the base of the glacier. After several hours of easy climbing, we
are standing on a snow-covered peak at 19,000 feet, but it feels
like the Cape Cod beach on a warm day in July, not what I
expected from such an icy peak. There is hot sun and no wind.
The views are spectacular all around. Alpamayo, Piramide,
Chakraraju, and dozens of other peaks with Spanish and Quechua
names are visible on all sides. It is perfect tanning weather,
except that removing one's clothes here would be tantamount to
taking a bath in a microwave oven. On the way down, we meet
Peter. He is feeling better and is headed for the summit alone.
The route is safe and the weather is good, so we have no reason
to worry. Everyone is back at camp by lunchtime.
After lunch, we pack up and descend. Returning to the
camp/trash dump, the sun is setting orange on the icy flanks of
Nevado Chopicallqui. The next morning, as if not to be outdone
by the performance of its neighbor, the east face of nearby
Huandoy glows golden against a black western sky, accompanied
by silver mists pouring over the mountains from the eastern
jungles. On the walk down through the high meadows above the
Llanganuco Valley, we are fortunate enough to see a few vicuna,
a wild cousin of the alpaca.
With Pisco behind us and a little more than a week
remaining, we must decide what to climb next. Peter and I have
been looking across the valley at Chopicallqui, planning routes
over the glacier and up the steep snow ridges to the summit. Alex
suggests Huascaran Sur, which at 6768 meters is the highest peak
in the range. And so, after hearing reports of rockfall problems on
Chopicallqui, we eventually opt for Nevado Huascadin.
Exhilarated by our first climb and anxious to take advantage
of the continuing good weather, we hire a jeep from Yungay and
head for Huascaran. Driving south out of Yungay, we pass by the
remains of the old town which was buried by a catastrophic ice
and mud flow released from the western face of Huascaran Norte
in the 1970 earthquake.
Fortunately, there are no earthquakes at this time. Arriving
in the village of Musho in the early afternoon, we find that all the
burros have been hired to transport gear up to Base Camp. We
can either wait until tomorrow morning for the burros to return,
or carry everything on our backs. Impatient to be on the
mountain and to escape the local children who tirelessly begged
for candy, we hit the trail that afternoon. We share the burro trail
with villagers and their sheep for several miles until we leave the
43
town. In the evening, we camp in a small field planted with
eucalyptus trees, and spend our time packing and planning.
According to the legend in the guidebook Yurak Janka,
Huascaran was once a woman with many children. Her husband
was seduced by another woman who was a better cook. In
jealousy, Huascaran castrated her husband and fled with her
children. When they stopped their flight, they were transformed
into the Cordillera Blanca, and their tears caused the streams to
flow into the Rio Santa and Rio Maranon. Her husband, his
lover, and their children were transformed into the Cordillera
Negra, a lower and drier range to the east.
For the entire next day, we are pack animals. There is no
approach climb to Huascadin, and so for eight hours, we climb up
with heavy packs, one switchback after another. The town of
Musho lies on the hip of the mountain, and the trail begins to
climb immediately out of town. In the nine kilometers from
Musho to the summit, the land rises 3.8 kilometers vertically, a
42% average grade. Soon the tin roofs in the village below blink
in the morning sun like bits of glass. The large moraine above the
village is now just a wrinkle in the great apron of rock and debris
below us. In the early afternoon, we reach Base Camp where our
burros would have to turn around, if we had any. It's too early to
quit, so we continue. Unrelenting, the path continues upward
over huge slabs of granite once polished by the glacier, but now
grooved by the water which runs from its toe. As the sun drops
behind the Cordillera Negra, we come upon a flat spot on an
upper moraine. Camp at last! Soon the pressure cooker is
singing supper, and we feast on lentils, rice, dried fruit and
pudding.
By the end of the next day, we are far up the glacier. Pitching
our tent just before dark, we are passed by two local guides
carrying downhill ski gear. Close behind the guides are their
charges: two tall Swedes in bright yellow climbing suits. They tell
us that they plan to climb to the top and then ski all the way down
from the summit to the col, down the icefall, and down the
glacier. We wish them luck as they plod on. That evening, the
whole Rio Santa Valley below us is dotted with thousands of
orange fires. It is the winter solstice - the coldest night of the
year. Fires are traditionally lit on that evening, to warm, and to
call for the return of the Sun who has been gradually shortening
his daily sojourn on Earth.
By morning, the fires are gone and everything on the glacier
is still and cold. Before the sun warms up the icefall, we hope to
44
ICEFALL- Huascaran Sur- ALEXANDRA MOORE
45
be above it and camped below La Garganta (The Throat), the col
between the north and south peaks. The icefall is steep, but not
technically difficult. We move as quickly as our heavy packs and
the altitude will allow. Eventually, we reach a campsite below the
col. It is protected from the wind, but is bitter cold nonetheless.
It takes an hour of exhausting work just to carve out a platform in
the soft snow and pitch the tent. Crampons, ice axes, pickets, and
other sharp things stay outside, while down sleeping bags, booties,
and soft things go inside, creating a giant pin cushion in the snow.
At this height no one feels much like eating. Despite the
incredible physical demands of the day, the mere thought of fatty
foods is repulsive. The bottle of squeeze Parkay margarine
remains unopened. We force down soup and crackers and a little
chocolate.
After dinner, we close up the tent and enjoy a little breathing.
At 20,000 feet, the activity of choice is lying on one's back and just
breathing. Eventually, however, we grow bored and Alex pulls
out For Whom the Bell Tolls. We take turns reading aloud by
headlamp. We have been reading every night since the beginning
of the trip to Pisco. Alex complains because when it comes her
turn to read, there is always a romantic scene which she has to
read aloud. As I drift off to sleep I think about the problems of
the Ingles and his revolutionary friends, and forget about the
climb in the morning.
We are somewhere in the snow on the interminable summit
ridge of Huascaran Sur. Clouds and fog swirl around us in the
subfreezing temperatures. Everything is white. Hot sunbeams
occasionally sweep through the fog like searchlights. We are over
6000 meters and there is little air around us and above us to
absorb the sun's energy. There is somebody in front of me - Alex.
Peter is behind me. We are connected by a 9 mm purple rope
which has become a frozen white cable. The wind is whipping
fiercely at my clothes, and everything is white. I am panting
fiercely to get enough oxygen for my legs to climb and my brain to
think. I have to count steps and rest. 100. Rest. 50. Rest. 30.
Rest. When I need to stop, the rope transmits the message to
Alex in the front. She is becoming impatient with my slow
climbing, I think. I know that I will make it up, but I just have to
COL- Between Huascarfm Sur and Norte. Alex Moore looks for
a way to cross the crevasse- PETER GREEN
47
ASTRONAUTS ON VENUS - Summit of Huascariin Sur PETER GREEN
go slowly. There is no view to distract me from the effort. It feels
as if I am dreaming. What time is it? I can't find my watch under
all/fl}e mittens and clothes that I am wearing. The ridge is
endless.
At last we are at the summit. We can't see much, but it is
very flat. We come upon a stamped-out, circular area in the snow
with bits of granola and trash. I can't see any of the peaks that
must be all around us, but I know we are at the top. We embrace.
All I can see of Alex and Peter are their mouths, and they are
smiling. I can't feel my face very well, but it must be smiling.
Peter engineers a camera stand with two ice axes and using the
self-timer on the camera, gets a photo of us. We look like three
astronauts on Venus. A few more minutes on the summit and it's
time to go down. I am exhausted, but the steps down are
infinitely easier than those going up. It's so easy that I have to
concentrate on my footing.
They say that when you get to the top you're only halfway
there. Getting back down again safely is the other half. We have
to downclimb some steep ice before we are back in the col. It is
awkward, and demands concentration. Once down in the col, we
lose the packed path and struggle through knee-deep drifts, piled
there by the constant gale. Stepping carefully, I think of a friend
48
who in haste skewered his calf with a crampon frontpoint a few
minutes from camp. I just want to lie down and breathe.
Except for my toes, my whole body rejoices with every step
down the mountain the next day. In the burning sun, Alex applies
zinc-oxide to her face like war paint. Out of the icefall, we
unrope and skid down the glacier, each lost in their own thoughts.
Suddenly, I find myself thinking far ahead into the future. The
last few days have been lived completely in the present.
49
Alturas:
A Student Discovers the New World
ALEXANDRA MOORE
"Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto
Me ha dado la marcha de mis pies cans ados
Con ellos anduve ciudades y charcos
Playas y desiertos, montanas y llanos... "
- Violeta Parra
I am a geologist. Many geologists look at a mountain and see
only the rocks from which it was formed, and think only about the
tremendous forces that raised it up above the valley below. They
strip away everything but the bare elemental materials of the
mountain, forgetting that there are people and history and culture
associated with that place. Many climbers do the same. A
mountain is a challenge: a face, a ridge, a delicate traverse
leading to the culmination - the summit. Often we travel
thousands of miles with the sole objective of completing a climb,
and preoccupied with this goal, we inadvertently close ourselves
off to everything else that surrounds us.
Over the course of researching my doctoral thesis, I have
spent almost a year living and working in Peru. I have both loved
it and, at times, hated it. It is a land as diverse as the people who
live there, and more than anywhere else I know, it is a place
where the land and the lives of its people are inseparable. They
have each shaped and molded the other, and neither one can be
isolated from the other. . From the blue Pacific Ocean and the
arid strip of coast, up to the high and lonely sierra and down
through the lush vegetation of the Amazon basin, it is a land of
contrasts. Geographical isolation encourages the people to
maintain traditions and technologies that are centuries old. I am
most familiar with the mountains of southern Peru, and the
indians who populate them. However, with the arrival of Peter
and John, we ventured north to the Cordillera Blanca, to climb,
and to see a part of the country that I did not know.
NEVADO CHOPICALLQUI - View southeast across Quebrada
Llanganuco -ALEXANDRA MOORE
51
It was suggested that I begin by telling how on the morning
we were to leave Lima for Huaraz we were awakened before
dawn by an explosion which destroyed a bank only two blocks
from where we were sleeping. While it's true that the building
was bombed by terrorists that morning, we slept through the
whole thing. Only Peter woke up, and he didn't know what had
awakened him. Often, people ask me if traveling in Peru is
dangerous. Even after viewing the damage from the bomb I
would still say no. Peru suffers from the tragedy of terrorism, but
it is just one symptom of the greater malaise of hunger,
unemployment and illiteracy which plague all too many third
world nations.
I would prefer to begin by saying that, true to local custom,
we arrived at the bus station a half-hour late and still had to wait
for the departure of our bus. This gave us the opportunity to get
to know two young couples from North Carolina who were also
traveling to Huaraz. The ride is long but lovely. The
Panamerican Highway winds around cliffs above the ocean and
gradually climbs above the winter fog of the coast to the brilliant
sunlight of the province of Ancash. Approaching Huaraz, the
snow-covered summits of the Cordillera Blanca begin to peek
above the hills bounding the Rio Santa and the valley of the
Callej6n de Huaylas.
The first view of Huascadin can only be described as
spectacular. John and I were both prompted to exclaim over its
enormous size. Huascaran is the highest tropical mountain in the
world, but its proximity to the equator (nine degrees south
latitude) doesn't change the fact that it is covered with snow and
ice year-round.
We reached Huaraz in the early evening. The local people
were herding their llamas along the side of the highway, oblivious
to the fact that our bus was whizzing past at 100 kph. Most
campesinos, or country people, live in houses that they have
constructed themselves, from mud bricks that they made
themselves, without heat, electricity, running water, or plumbing
of any kind. On my previous trip to Peru, I lived for two months
in such a house. The difference between Tayataya, where I lived,
and the Callej6n de Huaylas, is that nearly all the people of
CAMPESJNAS - Pisac -MARGARET MOORE
Taquile -ALEXANDRA MOORE
53
Ancash make some sort of living off the foreigners who come in
droves to climb. It was not unusual to see houses that did not
have electricity but did have generators to run their television
sets. It was hard for me not to laugh as we got off the bus and one
of the North Carolinans looked at me with astonishment in her
face and remarked that she hadn't known that there were still
places where people lived "so untouched."
As in Cusco and other tourist meccas, the people of Ancash
equate foreigners with money. Even the tiniest children have
learned to put out their hands and ask for caramelos (candy) or
propinas (tips). These are not the people that I have encountered
in the south where I work. In the province of Puna the
campesinos live in much the same way as their ancestors. In fact
there is evidence of their ancestors at every turn. Pre-columbian
terraces line the hillsides, and it is as common to see an Inca ruin
in the back yard of a farmhouse as it is to see a llama in the front.
Many of these people have little or no contact with foreigners.
They are at times suspicious, and always incredibly superstitious.
We were warned of the sacacebo, the terrible monster that roams
the mountains in the dark of night, attacking the unwary and
feasting on human fat. A foreign-sponsored development project
met with failure here when the windmills they built to pump water
to drought-stricken communities were destroyed by the
campesinos, who thought that the mills blew the clouds away.
Unfortunately, education is not a priority of the financially
overburdened government. The women in the market can quote
the price of any item in U.S. dollars, but very few have any idea
where the United States actually is. One college-educated
acquaintance thought that it must be very close to China, because
I had mentioned that there was a large asian community on the
west coast. Two young schoolgirls, after listening to me go on and
on about my native country finally asked, "What is. the United
States?"
To me, Huadiz, while still beautiful, was somewhat
disappointing. It was so full of gringos, trekking agencies, and
pizzerias that it hardly seemed a part of Peru. However, this did
not reduce our desire to climb, and after spending the next
morning gathering last-minute provisions in the market, we
climbed aboard the local bus to Yungay - the gateway to the
lovely Llanganuco Valley, and our first objective, a mountain
called Pisco.
54
SCHOOLGIRL- Near Lake Titicaca -ALEXANDRA MooRE
The town of Yungay has been relocated twice in recent
history, due to the frequent recurrence of earthquakes and
landslides. The community was originally situated in a river
valley on the western slopes of Huascaran, but was destroyed by a
mudslide decades ago. The new village was reconstructed farther
to the north and behind a small hill, to protect it from another
slide. Unfortunately, in 1970 the region was rocked by a major
earthquake which dislodged tons of material from the north peak
55
of Huascaran. The town was buried and almost all its residents
killed. All that remains are the tops of three palm trees that grew
in the plaza, and, ironically, the cemetery. The government
topographic map reflects the destruction. One may follow the
green strip of the Callej6n de Huaylas northward to a blank spot
on the map that once was Yungay.
As a geologist, I viewed this incident with a sort of
professional curiosity, until an afternoon several months later
when I was talking to my friend Paquita. She told me that her
family was from Ancash, and that she had lost several relatives
who had lived in Yungay. I realized that I was being very
detached and horribly "scientific" about an event which, even
though it occurred when I was only nine years old, still affected
people that I know and care about. But I suppose that this feeling
is not uncommon; that one really doesn't understand or care
about things until they are experienced first-hand. It is that
experience, the chance to live in and know this country that has
enhanced all other experiences here.
Our first attempt at climbing here was successful and
immensely enjoyable. But I've left that story for others to tell. I
think that if there is a danger traveling in Peru, it would be the
danger of simply "trekking" through the country and the lives of its
people, and not becoming familiar with the traditions and way of
life. In order to live and work there, I've had to become
extremely sensitive to local customs. At times, my life has
depended on it. While the influence of terrorist groups in Peru is
growing, I think that its importance is dramatically overstated by
the foreign press. Drugs and terrorist attacks are news, starving
peasants are not. My own experience suggests that a visitor who
wanders off the beaten track will encounter more difficulties with
the impoverished villagers than with gun-toting guerrillas.
However, an andinista who takes the time to learn about this
strange and beautiful place will not only encounter fewer
problems, but will also find a whole new world to explore - far
beyond the countless peaks and valleys of the Andes.
The quote that begins this story is from Chilean poet Violeta
Parra and reads, "Thanks for the life that has given me so much.
It's given me the steps taken by my tired feet. With them I've
crossed cities and puddles, beaches and deserts, mountains and
plains". Although it's been long and difficult, I'm glad that my
path has led to the Peruvian Andes, to admire and climb their
beautiful sculpted peaks, and to call their people my friends.
56
Good Judgment is the Result of
Experience....
Annapurna South, 1988
WILL SILVA
Yes, indeed, and experience is the result of poor judgment. I
think I picked up that gem from Thorington's first guide to the
Canadian Rockies, while browsing in the HMC library fifteen
years ago. It's widely applicable, and not just to mountaineering.
Still, our 1988 American Annapurna South Expedition
provided ample learning opportunity. I had seen this 23,712 foot
peak while trekking five years before, and it was love at first sight.
That's usually a mistake. This mountain was everything I thought
we'd want for a first Himalayan venture. Moderate size. Easy
trek to the village nearest the peak. Attractive. Several ridges
that seemed objectively safe ....
Aha. Cardinal blunder #1: I was seeing only the top 6000
feet. I ought to have been more circumspect. The reason the
south ridge we were attempting hasn't been climbed, despite its
looking down on every trekker leaving Pokhara, is because there's
no good way to get onto it. But more on that later.
Arriving in Kathmandu on March 12th, our radios were
immediately impounded, as expected. I spent the better part of
three days making trips to various ministries trying to spring them
free, largely because the frequencies weren't engraved on them.
The afternoon I arrived, a horrendous hailstorm struck. The sky
blackened, the wind rose, and soon pieces of roofing steel were
flying through the air to the accompaniment of shattering glass.
Seventy-three people were trampled to death in the soccer
stadium, trying to escape through the one open exit. Inauspicious.
Ken Andrasko, Jim Beall, and Chris Bretherton arrived in
Kathmandu on the 21st, delayed by airline problems. Their
unexpected stay in Bangkok's Royal Orchid was a great delight,
but lost us a couple of days. Blunder #2: though several of us
couldn't have shaken loose from our jobs any earlier, we should
have been in Nepal by March 1st. In retrospect, we should have
arrived on September 1st. I learned from the indefatigable
Elizabeth Hawley that of the 28 attempts on Annapurna South,
eight had b.een successful and another party had reached the
57
summit ridge; and that of these nine, all but one had been autumn
expeditions. Spring, it seems, is not a good time to be in the
Annapurnas.
The radio chase proved to be only a warmup for the Great
Customs Epic. No matter whether your gear arrives as air cargo
or as excess baggage, if you've more than three bags apiece, you
will need to get an import license. You should either limit
yourself to the three bags apiece, or plan ahead. Get an itemized
packing list for each bag to your agent before you arrive, and
hope for the best. With luck, you can clear customs in three days.
While I spent a week getting our gear out of customs, Jim,
Ken, Chris, and our sirdar, Ongel Sherpa, went out on
reconnaissance. They quickly hiked from Pokhara, a day's bus
ride west of Kathmandu, to Chomrong village. Learning that
travel up the Chomrong khola was impossible due to waterfalls,
cliffs, jungle, and steep gullies descending to the stream, they
hired a local goatherd as guide and hiked up through high
pastures and across grassy slopes to a 13,000 ft col on the lower
continuation of the south ridge. Hampered by storms, they
climbed up onto a point a thousand feet higher and saw that the
ridge continued. They sited our basecamp at 12,200 ft, below the
col, and met me and the caravan of porters in Chomrong on
April 3. Two days later we were well ensconced in camp, and
started hauling loads up snow gullies and grass slopes to the base
of a pinnacle at 15,300 ft where we thought to put a camp ....
Wrong again! Around either side of the tower, the climbing
quickly turned to exposed class 4 or 5 on loose mossy rock.
Having put three days into that route, we descended and hiked
over the col above base camp into the Kyumnu khola valley to the
west. We should have looked from there to begin with,
particularly since we knew that a French party in 1970 had been
unable to get onto the south ridge using that approach. From the
Kyumnu, we saw a kilometer of towers and deep gullies
connecting our high point to the rest of the mountain. Blunder
#3. Reconnoiter well, before committing time to an approach.
After we'd spent another five days of grubbing around in
jungles, scree, cliffs, and prickerbush, Ken and Chris managed to
find a way into the cirque to the east of our ridge. Getting to our
SOUTH FACE- Of Annapurna South, 23,712feetWILL SILVA
59
11,800 ft advanced base camp took a full day, and involved
traversing cliffs and very steep grass and mud slopes. They fixed a
few hundred feet of line, sometimes on pickets in the earth. Even
with the help of Sherpas Mingma and Gombu, who carried loads
part of the way from base camp, getting our gear to advanced
base was hard, unpleasant, and dangerous work. We'd start in the
morning sunshine, but it would last only a few hours before clouds
would blow in bringing snow.
A dozen gullies descend into the cirque between Annapurna
South and Hiunchuli, its 21,130 ft eastern outlier. The Chornrong
glacier, which fills the narrow cirque, is built of avalanche debris.
Upon first arriving, we wondered whether the three-inch to 2-foot
snowballs all over were left over winter from the previous
season's monsoon. This optimistic theory was soon debunked by
the mid-morning sun which brought recent snowfall cascading
down the gullies. New flows of the familiar "potatoes" rearranged
the glacier's surface most every day. Climbing a couloir on the
Hiunchuli side to 14,500 ft, I was able to pick which of the gullies
would lead to a col on our ridge across the valley. That seemed a
bright thing to do until the next day. As the four of us sat
planning strategy in camp, a huge ice avalanche from Hiunchuli's
summit glacier swept the gully and ledges where I'd sat 24 hours
before, blithely eating my lunch and sketching a map. We dove
into the tents to duck the half inch of snow that fell on advance
base nearly a mile away. We didn't talk much for a while. We
had seen a lot of avalanches in Alaska, but those slides paled in
comparison. Morale sank to new depths. Why do this? Why take
so great a risk to climb any mountain, least of all one that you've
got a slim chance of getting up in the first place? By now it was
mid-April, and the weather showed no sign of improving beyond
the few hours of morning sun we enjoyed before the daily "pooh"
moved in. We each thought this through and decided to continue.
That was the only option which involved doing any climbing.
We'd each put so much into getting where we were, that to give
up then was unacceptable.
Perhaps I was mistaken in becoming so invested in trying this
route that I was willing to face considerable, if undefined risk. I
had worked at putting the trip together for two years, though, and
had gone out on a bit of a limb to take three months off from my
medical practice; it was hard to picture doing that again anytime
soon, and the years do fly by.
Far more important than any of these rationalizations was the
simple fact that I was pursuing a lifelong dream to go
60
mountaineering in the Himalaya. The image in my mind's eye of
standing beneath a dark blue sky in a sea of summits drew me
onward through two Seattle winters of setbacks. That image
stayed vivid through the tangles of red tape, through the mud and
prickerbush, through the fear of death falling from above.
We carried loads up the glacier and a west-trending couloir at
its head, eventually establishing Camp I at 14,300 ft. The
climbing was easy if unnerving at times. On one of my last trips
up, a big slide released in the Left Death Gully a half hour after
Jim and I had hurried across its base to enter the couloir below
camp. That night, a five inch slab released beneath my foot as I
walked along the minor crest where we'd dug the tent platform.
We cramponned down the frozen slide track before dawn the next
day, but Chris and Ken wouldn't heed our warning and took loads
up. Chris was up and down before the snow softened too much,
but Ken was an hour behind him and narrowly escaped with his
life when another slide carried him down the couloir, over ice
cliffs, and down onto the glacier. Despite a 1500 ft ride, he got
away with bruises and scrapes. We were all relieved by Ken's
good fortune.
Jim and I moved up again, while bruises healed and stomachs
settled. The couloir continued to a col on the south ridge at
17,000 ft where we set up Camp II. The first time I'd been on the
col was ten days before with Chris during a reconnaissance trip. I
had felt an almost magical sense of well-being come over me
when at last we had seen the route all the way to the summit. We
looked across at Hiunchuli, and saw Machapucchare coming out
from behind it. I had entered the abode of snow.
The party was together again within a few days of establishing
Camp II on the col. Though only a week of food remained, we
felt optimistic seeing the ridge leading up to the summit glaciers;
they seemed so close, though still 6,000 ft above. Jim and I had
climbed a few hundred feet of ice to gain the big hanging glacier
in mid-face. Twice we'd kicked steps up deep, loose snow to its
head, and had seen a good way back onto the narrow, upper
ridgecrest. We fixed a couple of ropes, and the four of us moved
into Camp III at the head of the glacier on May 5th. Digging out
the tent platforms in a small storm at 18,500 ft was tiring, but the
sky cleared during the night revealing magnificent stars.
The next morning I waded through bottomless snow, climbed
a mixed ice and rock pitch back to the crest, and took in a
stunning view of mountains in the morning sun. That all changed
61
when the pooh moved in again. We tried to traverse the glacier
heading in the basin below the ridge, but the strain in Jim's voice
when he nearly fell into a hidden crevasse made me shudder. I
pretended to belay Ken off a half-planted axe as he climbed up an
ice slope, around a gargoyle, and set a picket. He led along a
loose snow and ice knife"edge in eerie fog. In an hour we were
past the difficulties, and slogged up to dump our loads on a snow
dome at 19,200 ft.
The following day, aided by fixed ropes, we reached the dump
by lOam and set up Camp IV. What an incredible place to be!
Shovelling platforms while Chris and Jim climbed the ridge above
camp, Ken and I agreed that life simply couldn't get any better
than this. The day was still, warm, and clear; new vistas had
opened so that now we looked over the Hiunchuli headwall to the
summits of Gangapurna and Annapurna II and III;
Machapucchare rose beyond Hiunchuli, and in the distance we
saw the dark bulk of Manaslu. This was what I had come to find.
Jim and Chris set out slowly up the icy crest, where soon the
clouds overtook them. They tried to climb a rocktower straight
on, but were turned back by loose steep crud. They tied off a
100 ft line on three or four pins in the base of the tower and
rapped off, returning to camp in a storm.
The next morning the clouds sank below us briefly, and Ken
and I had just reached the fixed line when grayness closed around
us yet again. From shaky belays, Ken traversed three pitches over
loose rock and rotten ice on the east side of the tower to reach a
50 degree couloir leading back to the crest. The visibility was just
good enough to see airy seracs overhanging the gully. It was a
frightening and unpleasant place. Rising wind provided a good
excuse to descend to camp. Even that was scary.
Continuing stormy weather confined us to camp the next day.
We wondered whether the monsoon had arrived in earnest, and if
we'd ever be able to get off the mountain safely. Knowing that we
still had difficulties to overcome even after the ugly bit around the
rock tower, and with only a couple day's food remaining, we took
advantage of the following morning's sunshine to retreat to
Camp II. Earlier we had hoped to cache enough supplies there to
allow a few days' rest and then make another summit attempt, but
that was out of the question. Besides having little food, we'd all
JIM BEALL -Above Camp II-
WILL SILVA
63
had quite enough of sticking our necks out. We descended the
gullies one last time, with heavy packs.
Flowers were blooming near advance base now, some of them
deep purple against the dark earth. We struck camp the next day
and left the cirque, pulling in and burying the fixed ropes behind
us. We spent a day packing and cleaning up base camp before the
porters came. Leaving only trampled mud and our faded prayer
flags, we hiked out in the rain and soon re-entered the lives we
had left behind.
The dream remains. My only regret from this trip is not
having had a few more days to spend up high. Perhaps we could
have completed the climb if we'd arrived earlier, had known how
to deal with customs, and had done better reconnaissance. We
could have fared far worse. I would love to return, though never
to this route. Perhaps there will be another Himalayan
expedition for me some day, and tempered by this experience,
perhaps my judgment will be better next time.
"As the dew is dried up by the morning sun, so are the sins of
mankind, by the sight of the Himalaya".
64
Adventures on the DNB
CLINT CUMMINS
From the first time I heard the name the DNB, it always
seemed a bit larger than life. The acronym seems to assume that
the route is important enough that you should know what it stands
for and where it is.
Some of my high school-era climbing mentors may have
mentioned the name, but it was Andy Embick who first provided
a compelling description to an impressionable freshman. "Yeah,
the famous 5.10 mantle has a bolt right there so it's not too scary.
A whole day's face climbing. Then you have to exit on the PowellReed ledges, unless you want to climb chimneys the whole next
day." Developing confidence on Eastern face climbing, the DNB
immediately became my main Yosemite Valley goal.
Sophomore year, I put the DNB into a computer climbing
game which was my Nat Sci 110 project. It was right up there in
status with Stoner's Highway and Astroman, the latest hot routes
from Mountain magazine. The funny thing about that game was
that I let Bob Palais play it, and he managed to do much better at
it than I did. Yep, he even soloed Astroman, more than ten years
before Peter Croft. Whenever I tried it, I cratered.
A few weeks prior to junior year, I finally made it to the
Valley. I got to see the general line of the route, and it was
awesome. I asked Chris Kaiser, a California native, about doing
the route, but he had heard "it was pretty devious" and we were
scared of getting off-route. We did manage to do the East Buttress
of Middle Cathedral, a route on the same formation as the DNB,
but it took all of our strength in the 100 degree heat. The DNB
seemed quite out of reach, but fortunately Chris was mellow
enough to introduce me to crack-of-noon starts, hiding in the
shade, and Happy's Favorite chocolate milk and breakfast rolls,
later my ever-present Valley staples.
Years passed. The line remained awesome. Eventually I
moved to California, and I started getting back in climbing shape.
John Imbrie came out in October with plans to do Half Dome.
We "hamburgered" our hands on Reed's Direct (only a few months
later, Andy Embick, now known to some as "Dr. Pump", showed
me how to use tape to prevent this). Undaunted by our poor
showing, we went for the DNB as a test of speed. This seemed a
65
bit disrespectful, as I never thought of it as a training route, but I
was glad to have John, a strong face climber, there to help with
the leading.
The start was an immediate problem. It seemed we had to
pass the gauntlet of a flaring chimney with a hand crack deep
inside to reach the promised face climbing above. Rated only 5.7,
I was barely able to manage it, with much foot slippage and hand
pumpage. The chimney also swallowed the haul sack, in spite of
our best efforts to keep it outside. John had a lot of trouble with
his raw hands, but finally we cleared it. The next pitch was easy
and got us to the base of the infamous Mantle pitch.
I was the presumed expert on mantles, so I drew the lead.
The 5.7 lieback was surprisingly hard, and the long reaches and
runout 5.9 mantles which followed really raised the excitement
level. I stared at the W-shaped hold of the crux mantle and
clipped both bolts. I could press up on the hold without too much
trouble, but I couldn't lift my foot up to it. The wall above was
glassy smooth, and I was going nowhere. After a few attempts
with different positions, I brought John up for a try. He didn't
have much luck either, finding even the press quite strenuous. It
looked tough for the kids, but I just had to try again, even though
I had no good ideas. This time, I just jumped up into the press
position, as my left tricep was too weak to muscle.the move in the
normal slow manner. I tried to bring my foot up, but it wasn't
even close. Just then I thought of something crazy. Why don't I
just grab my foot with my "free" hand and pull it up forcibly to the
hold? A move only a cripple would have thought of, but it
worked like a charm. Soon we were both at the belay, scoping the
white, grey, and orange-colored wall above.
John took off on an inobvious and slightly runout traverse,
and soon had polished off the pitch. The topo said the next pitch
took the third corner on the right and then traversed back left
under a roof. It looked wild, but I was at least consoled by the
fact that the route had been soloed (only once, though). It was a
beautiful finger crack with plenty of the multicolored face holds
and incomparable textures that Middle Cathedral is famous for.
A classic pitch, but as I neared the roof, it got hard fast. The
crack got too small for fingertips, and several fixed pins and nuts
appeared with ancient back-off slings. I desperately clipped the
pins and tried to keep my hopes alive. Liebacking was the only
way I could reach between finger pockets in the crack, but my
tenure on the tips edges was bound to be short. I reached up
66
from my highest edge and could not find the next one, only the
remains of a dead bush. I pulled it out easily, but I still had to
clean the roots out with a wired nut before I could get an edge,
then back down a ways for a rest. Up again, barely able to crank
the move, and I clipped a well-rusted fixed nut. I found a few
sharp holds and tried to rest. Suddenly my feet blew and I was
hanging from the nut, surprised it was holding. Only 5.9, huh?
Maybe when that bush was healthy it might have made a great
hold, but not now. (The next spring, Jimmy Dunn and Al Rubin
backed off of this pitch after Jimmy's repeated proclamation of
"this is not 5.9!"). I found an inobvious rest and started arranging
protection for the traverse, which by now had that 5.11 look. I
couldn't imagine myself soloing this, that's for sure. After placing
the last pieces of my rack from wild one-arm positions on the
traverse, and somehow managing to style the final undercling, I
arrived at the belay with a real sense of accomplishment hardly
dimmed by the fall. John followed without much trouble and we
had some lunch.
He stemmed the glassy start to the next pitch and sped up the
nicely rough-textured 5.7 remainder. I tried to lead the next pitch,
but with its runout, high-stepping moves without good handholds,
and drained from my previous efforts, I backed off and John did
it. At this point we had done only seven pitches and it was
starting to get dark. Unwilling to spend a "shiver-biver" in
sweaters, and feeling that we did most of the face climbing, we got
down in only 5 raps with one anxious moment when the rope
jammed temporarily over a fixed piton.
Half Dome didn't work out, as I got a major blister a few
hundred yards from the base, after carting our gear all the way up
there. In retrospect, it was fortunate, because an early winter
storm struck two days later, freezing two Japanese climbers on El
Capitan. We would have been in serious trouble. The next May
we made up for it by finally bagging John's first Grade VI (and
only my second), the Salathe Wall on El Capitan with Dennis
Drayna, also known as John's bachelor party or "the Three
Stooges" expedition. As Dennis described our three-man
technique, "two people climb, while the third gets to play with
gear."
The DNB had been a great climb, despite its incompleteness,
with a lot of pitches right at the limit. I wanted to return in better
shape and complete it somehow, but the question was how. The
chimneys didn't seem like much fun and were out of character
67
with the face climbing on the first half. Rappelling seemed better
than "escaping" on the Powell-Reed ledges, which really would
involve gaining 1000 ft with several fifth-class pitches. I had really
enjoyed the pitches which were close to the airy right-hand edge
of the buttress, and somehow a wild scheme began to emerge -continue up the edge instead of traversing at the end of pitch six.
After all, when Frank Sacherer freed the route, he eliminated
some 100 pitons of aid, and I didn't see how pitch seven could
have been aided. Perhaps the original route had continued up the
edge. There seemed to be at least a few cracks there, and I even
saw one piton. These sketchy hunches began the second phase of
my long obsession with the DNB -- this time with the idea of
"straightening out" the route and extending the wonderful
climbing of the lower half.
Almost two years later I went up again, this time with John
Lockhart, my frequent climbing partner. It was in June and he
really wanted to do Zodiac, but he allowed me two days to work
on the new finish. We covered the first six pitches very quickly
with my previous knowledge and better fitness, as he jumared
with the pack. The first pitch on the new ground started easily up
nice hand cracks, but it got tough as I did some hard runout face
climbing over a roof to gain a dirty crack. A long shower of dirt
followed for John as I cleaned out the crack and aided up it on
wireds. It looked like hard 5.11 to free, including a short
pendulum, so I was discouraged. The next pitch was only 5.8,
though, and we arrived at a good ledge and dropped off the pack.
John used a pin to protect a hard face move and quickly moved
up the interesting dark grey rock. I arrived to find him at a
hanging belay high up in a large corner. I barely cranked off the
headwall traverse moves which started the next pitch -- it looked
loose but luckily wasn't. We left two ropes fixed to a tree and
went back to the bivouac. Back at our high point the next
morning, things looked discouraging. A loose and mossy chimney
continued above the tree for at least a full pitch. We went up it a
ways, but the route just couldn't go up here if this was to be an
improvement on the DNB. It looked steep and blank out right,
but over left seemed interesting. We rapped back down to a good
ledge below the large corner and I set off left. It was a good crack
JOHN LOCKHART - With the DNB taking the line between sun
and shade - CLINT CUMMINS
68
with nice liebacking which ended just above a short roof. After
loading the roof with wireds and Friends, I cranked the licheny
fingertip liebacking moves above it and got a Friend behind a
fragile flake. By pinching the flake I managed to traverse left to a
knob and kept going to a long, narrow ledge. At the left end of
the ledge, I struggled to place a bolt at full stretch. The bit kept
jamming because I had no way to blow the rock dust out. Poor
John was sleeping on the belay ledge by now. After finally sinking
the bolt, I leaned out from it and scanned the possibilities above.
It looked like glassy 5.10d to get past the bolt, and above the
buttress seemed too smooth, with a traverse to the DNB chimneys
or the mossy chimney both bad options. We rapped down and I
was discouraged, but we did have fun on Zodiac.
The next spring we went up on the DNB again, but this time
John wanted to do the original route. It was very cloudy as we got
another crack-of-dawn start, so we took a second rope in case of
the weather. All we had in our pack was some water, candy, and
two trash bags for an "emergency shiver-biver." We simul-climbed
the first two pitches, and the next four went very quickly, since I
had them so wired. John flew up the seventh, and I struggled on
the glassy moves near the end, above the only pro -- an old fixed
#6 Stopper with sun-bleached perlon. The next pitches went well,
even the 5.8 offwidth, which was very low-angle, and we simulclimbed again in the chimneys. John led the 5.9 traverse on pitch
12, and it was only llam, but the skies opened up. We rapped all
the way down, getting soaked but staying fairly warm.
Later that afternoon, I didn't want to waste the rest of the
day, so I set about cleaning dirt from a crack on a potential new
route in the Church Bowl. I was a little too cocky, though, after
doing all those rappels on the DNB without any hangups. I
brought no jumars, and sure enough, my second rappel jammed
just as it was getting dark. After some coaching by SAR Ranger
John Dill, I made a lengthy attempt to prussick up the ropes with
two one-inch webbing slings. This ended with near cramps on an
overhanging wall, but I did manage to get under a roof out of the
cold rain. The final result was an embarrassing but very welcome
rescue by John and Bill Russell from the rescue team at 3am, and
my second appearance in Accidents in North American
Mountaineering.
Bad memories fade with time, and nearly every morning in
Yosemite, I would look up at the DNB, hoping for some way
70
around that mossy chimney. There was a corner system which led
out right from the tree, and more systems further right. If only it
wasn't too steep -- maybe some traverses could be done to link
them up. I went up with Dave Coombs in chilly November when
the route gets no sun. We barely managed to reach the small
ledge midway up pitch seven when darkness fell. I had hoped to
reach the better bivouac above, but we did manage to get into our
bags and get some sleep. To shorten the bivouac, I placed a bolt
at night just above the ledge to protect a mantle on a right-hand
variation which I hoped would provide an easier free pitch than
the dirty crack I had done before. The next morning I did the
mantle and some easy ground above before stopping at a very
thin, root-filled crack. It took a long time to garden and even
then my tips wouldn't fit in -- it looked very hard to free climb. I
aided up onto a nice big hold and drilled a hole for a bolt. By this
time, poor Dave had been stuck in his sleeping bag on the narrow
perch for more than 18 hours, and was voicing his displeasure. I
went to hammer the bolt stud into the hole, and discovered to my
horror that it was a 5/16" stud in a 1/4" hole. The rock around
the hold started cratering and I attempted to lever the stud back
out, but somehow using my finger as a fulcrum was a bad idea
(lack of sleep?) and I drew a lot of blood. Down. The key free
climbing pitch now looked fairly hard but quite possible.
The next May I was eager to go up again. Having seen snow
stick to the crucial traverse area, it really started to seem possible.
Joel Ager was visiting in the Valley, as was Dan Nguyen, but Dan
refused to go up on the route unless I agreed to name it The Ho
Chi Minh Trail. Joel and I went up instead with great speed
(except for a slight delay at the mantle), but only two quarts of
water. The pitch I had worked out with Dave went free with just
one 5.10c move, and we placed a bolt to protect the hard move
above John's bivouac. The pin he had used had been removed,
and there were no nearby nut placements. This time I had a new
sharp drill and a correct stud -- it went in very easily. Soon we
were at the tree below the mossy chimney, peering out right at the
potential traverse. It went free at about 5.6 on incredible knobs.
A second traverse followed which was slightly harder, and I set up
a belay below a flaring squeeze chimney. Again, I felt we had to
avoid any such chimneys, and a way out right seemed possible, but
we were running out of daylight, so I aided up a thin crack and
cruised up easier ground to a reasonable bivouac ledge. It had
been a long day and we had to go easy on the water. The next
71
morning it took me four hours to lead the next pitch -- massive
dirt mining up what will be a nice double cracks pitch in the
future. Joel ran up the next two pitches as I followed dizzily with
the sack. Reaching the Turret, we looked up at the final part of
the buttress, but had neither the water nor the strength to finish.
After "summitting out" on the Turret, we rapped down the right
side and rehydrated.
On the rappels, I got interested in doing the Turret Route with
a new start up the Left Rabbit Ear. In July, Nancy Kerrebrock
and I made it to the Left Rabbit Ear, but the ant-covered bivouac
didn't look too appealing, so we rapped off. Later in the summer,
I went up with Dennis Drayna, and we were able to make it to a
bivouac at the Turret. However, the pitch to Tree Ledge and all
three Turret pitches had required aid (the last pitch being done
. by headlamp ). Dennis tried to level a good bivouac spot in the
chimney behind the Turret, while I checked out several different
ledges and sawed down one large bush before settling into a good
ledge near the outer edge of the Turret. That night we were
entertained by two climbers who were trying to finish the DNB
chimneys and do the Kat Walk by headlamp. They thrashed long
into the night, eventually bivouacing on the Kat Walk above us.
The next day we managed to solve the key first pitch above
the Turret by a blind traverse around a corner which allowed us
to avoid an offwidth crack. The next pitch went up a solitary
crack which started thin but turned into a corner and then an
arch. My feet pedalled on lichen as I completed the arch and
looked up at a singular white, blank, but short inside corner. I
managed to aid it with a few moves and eyed some looseappearing but solid holds for an eventual free ascent. The crack
continued at a nice hand size and slowly narrowed to fingers, but
we were on aid to facilitate cleaning out the dirt (Dennis, the
victim here of yet another DNB dirt shower, remarked that it was
the dirtiest he had ever been in his entire life!). Another arch,
this time right, avoided an overhang and a few aid moves gained a
belay at a large hollow flake. Above and right we could see the
spectacular "Flake of Destiny", a wavy flake right on the airy edge
of the buttress. It was definitely the climactic finish which the
route demanded, but the start looked a little loose, and we were
tired, and short on time and water, so we opted for a fairly nice
5.8 cracks pitch straight up above the belay. A final short but
classic 5.7 hand/fist crack brought up to the base of Thirsty Spire
and third class ground. Rather than hassle with the Kat Walk
72
descent, we had left our pack at the Turret, and we easily rapped
the entire route to the ground in two hours. We had covered a lot
of new ground, finally reached the rim, and it looked like it would
go entirely free.
A few weeks later, Dennis called to say that he had "a vision."
Long accustomed to his schemes resulting in wild adventures, I
prodded him for details. He wanted to hike to the top of the DNB
via the Cathedral Chimney and the Kat Walk, and then rappel
down the route, doing some additional gardening on those last
pitches and caching water for an eventual free ascent. I had
considered the same idea myself, and was determined to do it
before the winter rains set in, so that the rains could complete the
crack cleaning task. I managed to convince Dennis that it was a
one-person job, so I did it myself. Due to some recent rain, I
avoided the Cathedral Chimney and instead went up the Spires
gulley, around Higher Cathedral Rock, and over the top of
Middle. Some downclimbing and two rappels brought me to the
Kat Walk, which looked difficult. I was glad I didn't try to solo
up/across it. Some loose and devious downclimbing and another
rappel brought me to the rappel point at the top of the DNB.
Down I went, furiously gardening as the light faded all too
quickly. Water was stashed, and plans to rappel down the left
side of the Turret were abandoned.
July 17, 1988: Bob Palais and I moved around in the pre-dawn
gray, hoping that lack of sleep would not prevent success.
Another year, and it seemed I had recruited another HMC friend
for an attempt. There was a hint of desperation this time -- my
wife Nancy was pregnant and I wasn't sure how many more
chances like this I'd get to free climb the route. Our mantra -courtesy of Joel-- was "the Ho must go!" I was out of shape, but
fortunately Bob was in fine form and we set a good pace in spite
of our grogginess. Bob got a nosebleed while leading the
undercling pitch, but he stopped it and fired the 'cling. I was
marginal on my leads, with my uncalloused fingertips peeling
early as I gripped the holds with occasional fear, not having
enough confidence in my feet. We took a break for lunch below
the 5.10c pitch, chugging the last of Bob's juice pouches and most
of our two liters of water. We felt a bit tired already and little did
we know that this day was the peak of a heat wave, with an
unheard of 103-degree high in San Francisco. I took a fall trying
to rush the crux move but got it on my second try. We plugged
onward without drinking and I gave Bob the spectacular Knobs
Traverse pitch.
73
COLOR PLATES
75)
NEVADO ARTESONRAIU- Climbing Quebrada
Arhuaycocha to Alpamayo base camp. View south ALEXANDRA MOORE
76)
CORDILLERA BLANCA - View east from the Callejon de
Huaylas -ALEXANDRA MOORE
77)
CAMPESINO CHILDREN- Sillustani Ruins, near Lake
Titicaca -ALEXANDRA MOORE
78)
SOUTH FACE OF ACONCAGUA - Climbing in the serac
band- CHARLEY MACE
74
COLOR PLATES
79)
ACONCAGUA - The summit ridge - CHARLEY MACE
80)
SOUTH FACE ofACONCAGUA -ALEXANDRA MOORE
81)
CORDILLERA BLANCA - John Amason approaches the
summit of Nevada Pisco Oeste- ALEXANDRA MOORE
82)
NEVADO HUANDOY NORTE- Dawn- JOHN ARNASON
83
Above this loomed a short but wildly exposed pitch that we
hoped to free climb. I couldn't see the knobs I had remembered
from before so I tried to start up the offwidth. No go. I couldn't
turn around to exit from it. The last resort was a steep, arching
lieback flake with plenty of lichen to spoil the footing. The
protection was good though, as I headed for a bush with even
more lichen. My fingertips dug into a dry dirt hummock as my
feet threatened to blow from another rapidly disintegrating dirt
clod, but we made it and I couldn't hold back a victory yelp. Bob
cruised, and shortly thereafter I also freed the Double Cracks
pitch (5.9). Unfortunately it was now almost completely dark and
we were feeling desperately thirsty and weak. Bob managed to
fire the difficult 5.8 traverse at the start of the next pitch, but
couldn't figure out the supposedly 5.7 overhanging crack move.
He ended up entangled and cursing in the limbs of an evil dead
belay tree! Perhaps being slightly less dehydrated, I managed to
make the move by barely reaching for a dubiously thin "Thank
God" branch extending from a tree above. Stemming the wide
crack in the dark was slow but fortunately not too demanding in
my marginal state. Bob wrestled the pack upwards and we
reached the Turret. Our worst fears were not realized, as we
found the two liters of water I had stashed there. We
immediately guzzled 3/4 of it. We could have used a lot more,
but at least we had sleeping bags, so it was a comfortable night.
Morning brought thirst as we finished the remaining water
and headed up the already sun-drenched rock. We had visions of
two friendly liters of water waiting for us at the next belay. It just
wasn't enough, as we stared at each other and the nearly finished
bottle. The next pitches would be. too tough without feeling
healthy and we regretted once again being short of water (two
liters each is not enough for 16 pitches in a heat wave!). We
headed down, with the route still to be free climbed.
Hope seems to spring eternal; Joel and I plan to finish it off
this spring by taking several days and a real haulbag loaded with
water. Even the FFA of Thirsty Spire itself is planned. Along the
way, we'll establish several bolt belays to make future ascents and
retreats easier, but I pity the party caught in a rainstorm at the
end of the Knobs Traverse -- there's no way to rappel down the
blank wall below!
Yeah, 20 pitches doesn't seem so bad when taken as a wall,
but I'm sure that it will soon be fired in a day and perhaps even
soloed before the current craze dies out. The name? Well,
84
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The Ho Chi Minh Trail has grown on me, perhaps due to the
jungle/commando bravado required, although I've never been
able to get Dan up on it. I hope to make several complete ascents
of the route with my climbing partners over the years, and when
the time arrives that I can't summon the energy to pull off the
mantle, the undercling, and the thin cracks, I will still look up in
the morning and climb it in my mind. That's the way it should be
-- the same way the whole thing got started.
86
Denali South Buttress
or, how I spent my summer vacation before attending Harvard
Business School
RONALD ANTHONY MIS
Part I: The Plane Crash
By Tuesday I wanted out. Talkeetna was beginning to get to
me. Nights at the Fairview were rapidly losing their charm.
Clouds and rain had pinned us in this tumbleweed-town since
our arrival three days earlier. Without a clear view of the
mountain, our pilots had no hope of maneuvering through
Denali's canyons, and delivering us to the glacier floor. So by day
we fiddled with our equipment, and by night we rehashed our
plans over beers at the Fairview Inn,
Wednesday's dawn rang clear--like a fire bell--and like
firemen, we scrambled to throw our gear into the planes. Donny,
the lead pilot, gunned his Cessna's engine and lifted us from the
runway. I felt a rush of exhilaration as he pulled back on the
stick. Now, the adventure was beginning!
Donny steered us up the Ruth Glacier and headed towards
"The Gateway" between Mount Barrille and the Moose's Tooth.
This section of the glacier is called the Great Gorge, and for good
reason: the enormity of the place overwhelmed us! We
resembled a mosquito flying inside a house. As our little bug-like
engine whined, we peered at the granite walls rising above us.
Our destination was the West Fork of the Ruth Glacier.
Exactly where on the glacier was unclear; since so few people
tried to climb Denali by this route, no safe landing place had been
established. Donny's plan was to take a look, perhaps come in
low to leave a track in the snow, and then land us in the spot that
seemed best. Tony, the second pilot, would follow.
Instead, Tony descended first to make a landing. Donny saw
him as we banked inside the canyon. His whining voice sliced
through me. "Goddammit!" he cried. "They've crashed!"
I felt stunned. Then nauseous. "No," I thought. "This can't
be happening." It wasn't real. I looked down on the glacier for
smoke or signs of wreckage.
Donny dropped lower. There was the plane: still intact, but
planted, nose down, in the glacier. No one seemed to be moving.
87
Donny made another pass, still lower. This time we saw
someone on the glacier. We watched him lift off the door of the
plane and saw another person scramble out of the cockpit.
Thankfully everyone was safe, except for a few minor cuts and
bruises. The plane, it turned out, had stuck a ski into a crevasse
after landing and plowed nose first into the glacier. One of the
wingtips had broken off, but not much else seemed to be
damaged.
Thus began our expedition to climb the South Buttress of Mt.
McKinley. We radioed for help with the plane, set up our first
camp, and downed our supply of beer to erase any vestiges of
trauma.
Part II: Ascent of the Headwall
Crash-landing at 7000 feet had eliminated any uncertainty
about where to locate Camp I. From there, though, we had to
move all our gear to the head of the west fork of the Ruth, where
we could climb onto the South Buttress. The next day, after the
plane was repaired and gone, we began to make our carries.
We roped up and donned snowshoes, and shouldered a
50 pound load. The first days were pretty straightforward, but as
we neared Camp III, at 9500 feet, the glacier became steeper and
more broken. Our route became more circuitous as we navigated
around the larger crevasses. Occasionally we hopped over the
openings, moving with all the grace you might expect of someone
wearing snowshoes, carrying a pack, and towing a sled behind
him.
At about 9000 feet on the glacier, the route was overhung by
precipitous ice cliffs and the valley floor was strewn with debris
from previous avalanches. To minimize our chances of being
squashed by tumbling ice blocks, we muscled full loads onto our
backs and dashed, as best we could, beneath the hazard.
Still hauling the full loads, we grunted our way to a
bergschrund, and there chopped out a platform for the third
camp. Carting the full load and excavating a campsite exhausted
me; no amount of jogging or swimming laps could have prepared
me for this! Too tired to make a dinner, I crashed heavily into the
depths of my sleeping bag.
CESSNA - Carrying three climbers, nose down on the west fork of
the Ruth Glacier, below the north face of Mt. Huntington - RON MIS
88
We awoke to a clear-skied morning, and examined the
headwall close up. Though not very steep (40 degrees for the
most part), there appeared to be no clear route through the maze
of crevasses and seracs. Hoping to find a way once we got up
there, we each shouldered a half-load, roped up, and started to
plod up the snow slope.
Finding a route through the jumbled seracs of the headwall
proved impossible. It had been a lean snow year, and crevasses
that might otherwise have been bridged were left wide open. The
only possibility appeared to be a direct line up the side of the
headwall, followed by a traverse of a high and fairly steep snow
slope. Rob led out.
The sun rose higher as we reached the start of the traverse,
and the snow began to turn slushy. We placed pickets to anchor
our moving belays, but I doubted they had more than
psychological value. We just kicked into the slope as best we
could, and ignored the yawning slots below us.
By late-afternoon I was cooked. My calves were aching from
so many hours on front points, and my stomach was aching from a
lack of food. We reached a small platform and I belayed the
others in, but there was no time for rest and relaxation. The sun
went behind the ridge above us, sending the temperature almost
instantly to zero. I struggled to put on a parka and inhaled a
frozen Snickers bar with its wrapper.
Fortunately we were past the hard part. Above, the slopes
averaged 35 to 45 degrees. After adding a layer of clothing, we
began to wind our way up, methodically placing each foot higher.
We climbed for another two hours, emerging--finally!-- at the top
of the headwall. The evening sun shone straight in our faces,
beautifully silhouetting Rob and Gordy as they put up their tent.
I wanted to drop. I cried hoarsely to Chuck and Jim that we had
made it, and belayed them up. It was nine o'clock at night.
Part III: A Waiting Game
I could have used a rest day after that. Unfortunately,
however, we still had to retrieve the other half of our gear, since it
included most of our food. Reluctantly, I sat up in my sleeping
bag and began to lace up my boots.
MT. McKINLEY- The South Buttress leading towards the east
shoulde1: South Face in background- H BRADFORD WASHBURN
91
Repeating the traverse was out of the question: that route
was way too long. We were going to have to descend straight
through the icefall. Thus after descending the upper slopes of the
headwall, we tied together all of our climbing ropes and heaved
one end off the top of a huge, overhanging ice cliff. One by one,
we sat back and rappelled into space.
We made it to the food cache in less than two hours and
gorged ourselves on gorp, cheese, and candy bars. Then, with
refilled stomachs and packs, we began to jumar up the
freehanging ropes. Inch by inch, and then foot by foot, I shinnied
my way up, taking frequent rests on my waist cords and enjoying
the spectacular view. I felt like a window washer, sitting back on
his safety belt from the 75th floor.
Once again the sun retreated behind the headwall before we
could reach the top. I began to shiver as the temperature
plummeted. We grunted to the top of the ropes, then continued
upwards to Camp IV at 12,000 feet. We arrived cold and tired,
but just in time: bad weather was moving in.
It began to snow that night, and it continued for six more
days. Without visibility, and fearing that the slopes we needed to
cross might be loaded and likely to avalanche, we had no choice
but to hole up and wait it out.
On the sixth day of our entrenchment, June 3, I made the
following entry in my journal:
We're still here. The weather has not relented. We're
playing a waiting game, trying to mask frustration and trying
to quickly pass time, in hopes of a break in the weather. I
slept (or stayed in my bag) for 13 hours; that left 11 hours
more to kill. While the snow blew around us, Chuck and I
managed 10 minutes of "mountain aerobics" to stay loose and
alert. Now we're in the tent, about to savor a granola bar
with cream cheese on it for one of our two meals today.
We turn on the stove only once a day to conserve fuel.
Yesterday a.m. we melted some snow, so we won't use it
again until tonight. I've had 11/2 dinners in 5 days.
The weather was squeezing the strength out of us. Rationing
our food and our fuel, we hoped to preserve enough resources to
support a bid for the summit. From Camp IV we needed six
climbing days to reach the top. At this point, we had about eight
days of food and fuel apiece.
92
Part IV: End of the Rope
But on the seventh day, the weather relented. And like
animals emerging from the Ark, we piled out of our tents and
packed up to go.
Cheered by the wonderfully blue sky, we began our traverse
to the saddle between Peak 13,050 and the ridge of the South
Buttress. The snow had consolidated and allowed for safe
crossing. Along the way we enjoyed fabulous views of Foraker
and Hunter, and snapped innumerable photos.
No sooner had we arrived at the site for Camp V, though,
than the bad weather caught up with us. What had we done to
deserve this curse? At least we had advanced during the one day
of good weather in a week.
We realized we had no choice regarding the weather: we
were just going to have to deal with it. Rob and Gordy began to
fix ropes for the next day's climb while the rest of us set up Camp
V. The next morning we packed everything and assembled at the
base of the Buttress. There was no way we could climb it: the
wind and clouds would have kept us from communicating during
the 10 or 12 pitches up the Buttress. Depressed, even if used to it,
we trudged back and re-established Camp V.
The next day we awoke to high winds and blowing clouds.
Another great day to stay in camp. We had to keep moving,
though, and loaded our packs, again, for the Buttress.
Rob clipped into the first rope as the winds howled at us from
the north. One at a time we ascended, jugging methodically with
our heavy loads and wavering from side to side as the wind caught
hold of our packs. Occasionally the blasts tore holes through the
clouds. Through them we caught glimpses of other peaks now
well below us.
The climbing was pretty straightforward--45 degree ice
covered by a half foot of snow--and we moved quickly. By late
afternoon we topped out at 14,000 feet on the South Buttress.
Stepping onto that ridge jolted all of us with enthusiasm. The
whole South Face of Denali loomed to greet us. Below and in the
distance lay all of the Alaska Range, each peak a fortified castle
bristling with defenses; the glaciers, white winding highways,
snaked with a smoothness that proved their age.
We admired these views for some time, and then set to work
on Camp VI. And (would you believe it!) no sooner had we
93
gotten the tents up and loaded than the wind and the clouds rediscovered us. There seemed to be no escaping them.
Spirits were high, though, as we huddled in our bags. They
were still high the next morning when we awoke to more wind and
snow. We were eager to push the Buttress. So, after waiting for
conditions to settle, we broke camp and roped up.
That, we soon learned, was a mistake. Visibility was terrible.
I could see forty feet, and that distance lessened as the wind blew
into my face, icing my eyelashes and layering my glasses with fog.
Meanwhile, somewhere to my left, the Buttress fell 3000 feet into
space.
We advanced about 200 yards, realized the impossibility of it
all, and returned to re-establish Camp VI. Damn this weather!
The next day was not any better, and we spent it listening to
the wind while re-reading our twice-read novels. We inventoried
our food to assess our position. The count: about five to six days
worth. The summit was five climbing days away.
Clearly, our own supplies were no longer sufficient. But
where to find food and fuel at 14,000 feet on the South Buttress?
We had a plan.
A previous South Buttress expedition had cached supplies at
16,000 feet. That was two days away. If we could find their cache,
we would have enough food to make it. Our descent route,
moreover, would be the well-trafficked West Buttress. Surely we
could bum a few candy bars off those well-supplied climbers. (As
I write this now I wonder how much the altitude was affecting our
thinking.)
With this plan in mind, we broke camp the next morning: a
clear and windless day. The views from the Buttress were
spectacular. We cramponed to 15,000 feet and dug in Camp VII.
That was to be our highest camp on the mountain.
From Camp VII, we continued up the narrowing Buttress.
The weather held. Surface conditions, however, were terrible.
The last few days of snow had loaded the slopes and primed them
for avalanche.
We soon came to an especially narrow, fluted section, piled
high with drifted snow. The ridge fell 5,000 feet to either side. I
named it Suicide Saddle. For us it was the end of the rope.
RON MIS- Rappelling down "Lotsa Face," 13,000 ft. on South
Buttress
95
In a day or two the snow would have consolidated or sloughed
off. Unfortunately, we didn't have the food to wait. Rob radioed
our position, and announced our retreat. With a mixture of
disappointment and relief, we began our descent of the Buttress.
Three days later our pilot retrieved us from the glacier.
Note: Ron returned to Denali this summer to lead a climb of
Denali's West Rib.
96
No Bugs, No Rain, No People:
Humbug Spires
PETER GREEN AND DAVID CUSTER
At 8:30 AM, after the first clear night in a week, we watch
banks of cloud and fog engulf Pigeon Spire and the Conrad
Glacier. We have already exhausted our supply of cookies and
thick novels. Halfway up the Kain Route (III 5.4) on Bugaboo
Spire, we also exhaust our patience with the sleet. Two cold
fronts a day had been dumping slush on us all week. We retreat,
break camp (as it starts to snow), pack out, and start driving
south. A total of fourteen hours after backing off, we are asleep
under clear skies in the Humbug Spires Primitive Area. Rumors
of a drought are true; it is warm and dry. Daylight brings views of
the area which Dave had visited before becoming a climber.
Recollections of granite pinnacles and spires in a beautiful, wild,
setting prove accurate. He scouts out several routes on the
nearest crag before Peter wakes.
Humbug Spires, a "trail-less" primitive area, administered by
the Bureau of Land Management, is located near Divide,
Montana, about twenty miles south of the intersection of
Interstates 90 and 15, in Butte. Leaving I-15 at the Moose
Creek Rd. exit (the exit is not marked on highway maps), one
drives northeast up a well-maintained dirt road along Moose
Creek through dry well-grazed hills. Gradually, at about 5600
feet, the grassland gives way to forest: dense willows occupy the
creek bed, and widely-spaced juniper and pine take root in the
otherwise bare sandy soil. Lumps of weathered granite appear
with increasing regularity on the left, and soon the road crosses
Moose Creek and ends at a parking lot.
This deserted parking lot gets early morning shade -- a boon
for late sleepers, but sunny climbing on Fuchsia Spire is available
within a half-minute's walk from the sleeping bag. Parking lot
amenities include an outhouse and Moose Creek, an ideal place
to cool beer and body. In the four days we spent camped here, we
shared the lot only once, when a family from Bozeman came to
day-hike the trail up to the "mine".
From the parking lot, we made forays into the spires. One
could camp in almost any section of the Humbugs, but we traded
lugging gear into a campsite for daily one to three mile hikes.
97
Walking is generally easy, even off of the trail. Moisture falls as
snow in the winter months, and the sandy soil does not hold
enough water for undergrowth to survive warm dry summers.
Thus, the woods are almost parklike and one can stroll wherever
one wishes. Modest difficulties are encountered near streams and
old beaver ponds, where vegetation is lush. Although small (7000
acres), we would recommend the Humbugs to anyone who wants
to walk in solitude.
We arbitrarily divide the spires into the four areas we visited
and a few we have seen from a distance (see map). We have
climbed on Fuchsia Spires, Salsa Spires, Upper Moose Creek
Wall, and Organ Pipe Spires. All these areas are recommended.
We took a good look at Lower Moose Creek Wall and Jeremiah
Spires late in the evening, and we'll be back. From a distance,
Double Top Spires and Castle Spires look worth trying. There
are many many more spires and outcrops which we have missed
because of limited time.
The rock is very much like Joshua Tree rock, great bulbous
hunks of granite. Much of it is sharply crystalled, well weathered,
well rounded, and off-widthy. Closer inspection reveals the
numerous gems. Climbs are generally one or two pitches long.
We chose crack climbs because we enjoy them and because
protection sinks in every two or three feet. Face climbing
abounds for top-ropers and those willing to deal with limited
protection. We had no problem finding and recognizing climbs in
the 5.5 to 5.10 range. Nearly every climb we did rated two or
three stars.
As in Joshua Tree, be prepared to have adventures getting
down off of whatever you climb up. Many spires have walk-offs
on the back-side, but others are like beachballs on top, smooth
and round, offering no placements for rappel anchors and no exit
for would-be hikers. We found a second rope very useful: we
would drop it over the backside of the spire and tie it to a tree on
the ground. Make sure the belayer doesn't fall over backwards.
Unlike Joshua Tree, we never saw any trace that anyone had
ever climbed before us: no bolts, no pitons or piton scars, no
rappel slings, and no other climbers. Climbs are not well
groomed, and perched boulders abound on top-outs. It is wise to
place the belayer out of the line of rockfall. A Kalispell climber
DAVID CUSTER- Poetry Antology- PETER GREEN
98
we met at Devil's Tower claimed that a few folks do climb in the
Humbugs, possibly entering from the north, and that one spire
(we suspect Castle Spire from the description) has a summit
register on top and anchors set for a wild long free-swinging
rappel. Montana climbing books mention Humbug Spires but
give no route information.
Climb descriptions:
(Numbers show approximate locations on the map.)
All climbs have "G" protection rating and make use of a varied
rack.
Fuchsia Spires:
1) Fuchsia Shock 5.9+ **: On the left wall of a large cleft, climb
the double crack system. Second pitch much easier. Walk off on
the back. Other crack systems may be found deeper into the cleft.
5.8ish on the left and 5.10/llish crack/overhang on the right.
Chimneying the cleft might be amusing. Fuchsia Spire also offers
many easier off-widthy climbs.
Salsa Spires Front Wall:
2) Bush in '88 5.6 *: An immaculate 5.8looking crack drops down
and ends eight feet from the ground. Twenty feet to the right of
this crack, is another which leads to a bushy ledge. Do it.
Traverse all the way left and walk off the backside. (Bush can't
really make it to the top-- can he?)
Hand Jelly 5.9 **: From the Bush Belay, follow the crack up and
right to unexcelled hand jamming, followed by flakey loose feeling
fingery stuff (we top-roped this -- the pro here is only as good as
the rock). Slither down chimneys on the backside.
Fritillary 5.7 *: Halfway out the Bush traverse, follow a right
leaning crack (undercling) up to unprotected face holds.
Salsa Spires Back Wall:
3) Paul's Onion Buns 5.8 * *: The second right leaning crack left
of the right leaning arch. Start on top of a triangular flake. A
100
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little loose about 15 feet off the ground. Fun rhyolite protrusions
(buns). Rappel trees on top.
Upper Moose Creek Wall:
4) Poetry Antology 5.8 * * *: At the far right of the Upper Moose
Creek Wall is a prominent prow. Several hundred feet left of the
prow is a low angle buttress with an overlap/ crack that runs up
the ridge. When the overlap runs out, step right and scramble to
the top (beware of loose blocks). You may need weapons to fight
off the big black ants. Walk off the back.
Organ Pipe Spire:
5) Blond Hairdos 5.6 * *: (Bushy bushy) Directly under the
massive overhangs are a variety of off-width/chimney cracks.
Belay at big ledge beneath the brain salad wall. Wander left and
up on the brain wall. Tiptoe off the backside.
6) Anchors Aweigh 5.6 *: Several hundred feet to the left of
Blond Hairdos is an off-width crack system. Climb to a niche
beneath a pine tree. We rapped on account of darkness. You'll
be wanting plenty of large pro for the off-width above.
A formation we called The Needle looks like fun to climb. You'll
need to use some creativity to get off of it.
The massive ceilings look like fun too (traverse out from under.)
102
Master and Student
JOELAGER
"Once you were the master and I was the student. I am the master
now."
- Darth Vader to Obi-wan Kenobi, Star Wars
Every climber has a hero. Gavin's was mighty Layton Kor;
both large and a bit irrational, they were a good match. Mine was
closer to home. Although seemingly handicapped by a serious ice
climbing accident, his high-standard climbing days a thing of the
past, Clint's natural generosity, wise counsel, and genuine love for
the sport were immediately helpful to me as a young climber. I
ate up Clint stories as eagerly as Gavin devoured those of Kor.
The bold leads on ice and rock, the wild solos, the occasional long
plunges, perhaps embellished by the passage of time, added to the
legend. If I could only climb like that...
He was there when I took my first quivering steps on the
polished granite of the Quincy Quarries. After a couple of
successful jaunts in the way-less-than-vertical realm, I heard for
the first time that seductive voice, "So, do you want to try
something a little harder?" The slightly overhanging 5.7 jug line
was plenty challenging for my first rock climbing day. Clint talked
me up, and I had my first taste of climbing at the limit. That night
at dinner, fumbling with the silverware with trembling hands, I
knew there was no looking back.
Indeed, I began to live the passion that I have to this day. I
remember my spring break apprenticeship with Clint and Ken
Nichols, pioneering obscure new lines on Connecticut Traprock. I
remember also a Saturday in May, watching Creature Double
Feature and leafing through the old green Meyers topo guide to
Yosemite, wall by wall, classic line by classic line. And I
remember my first view of El Cap, standing straight up in the bed
of a moving pickup truck, my eyes overflowing with granite,
screaming in the wind. It was almost one year to the day after
that first evening in the Quarries that I walked into Camp 4 with a
rack of hexes and old Chouinard stoppers borrowed, of course,
from Clint. I climbed in the Valley all that fall and the next
103
spring, upping my leading standard to 5.10, and slowly learning to
master the myriad techniques of crack and friction climbing. I
returned to school the next year with a new hone which I was
eager to try out on the East Coast rock.
At that time I even got to climb a little bit with the master,
but I could see it just wasn't the same game for him. I saw the
smooth effortless style that they had all told me about as he
walked up an Echo Bridge arch in his tennies. It seemed a bit of
a tragedy, as the man was clearly still honed but his injuries were
keeping him from the sharp end. I moved to Boulder, wishing
him my best.
It was later that year that the characteristic USPS generic
postcards started to arrive. Clint follows Unconquerable Crack in
his tennies. Clint buys a Datsun 280-Z. Clint abandons graduate
school to move to the Bay Area. I was especially impressed when,
armed with Fires and a rack of new-fangled Friends, he started to
lead some climbs in Tuolumne. Is the master back?
We made plans to meet in the Tree. I trained hard,
traversing the walls of the CU Engineering center with frozen
fingers and rehearsing my best Darth Vader voice. No dice. I
climbed well, but the man was clearly even better than those old
stories. I particularly remember his lead of EBGB's (5.10c).
After managing the initial mantle by somehow sliding his boney
hindquarters onto the sloping shelf, he disappeared around the
corner to deal with 50 feet of steep and insecure face climbing.
At that time, Clint was strictly applying the "leader-must-not-fall"
ethic, understandably concerned that a big dive might injure his
fragile spine. Still, despite the slim pro (only three bolts), he
styled the pitch without a whimper. I aided the mantle and barely
made it up the slab, marvelling. The master remains the master.
Maybe I don't think about that master and student business
that much anymore. Clint's one of my best climbing partners and
we've shared some fine climbs now. It was only appropriate that I
do my first grade VI with him: Half Dome. I was amazed when
he stoically managed the long approach march and high altitude
bivvy so we could do the Diamond, which I had eyed with
manifest desire for four years from Boulder. Maybe a couple of
times now I've even had the upper hand, usually when he's out of
shape. Still, sometimes there's a hint of those old memories. Last
CLINT CUMMINS - On Rosy Crucifixion, Eldorado Canyon,
Colorado- ]OELAGER
105
spring I flew east from my temporary Yosemite home to see Paul
Milde's wedding. By car, plane, bus and Bob Palais' car, there I
was, eyeing steep Gunks lines, all alone. I had glimpsed the route
when I climbed M.F. with Paul the previous fall and had mentally
committed myself to someday solo it. In top form from five
months on the road, the time had come. Below the crux bulge I
briefly paused before placing my left hand into a flared finger
jam. In a motion remembered from the previous day's ascent of
Mr. Natural, I carefully torqued, pulled up, and grasped the
buckets. It was as perfect an unroped moment as I've ever had,
the air below lightly tugging the backs of my legs, the amply
jugged headwall above gently drawing me up. Later that month, I
reported my feat to Clint. He had, of course, also third classed
Something Interesting in the early days. And the crucial finger
jam? Too gripping. He went for the buckets directly with a
"controlled lunge," a move I still cannot envision. I will always be
the student.
JOELAGER- Rosy Crucifixion- CLINT CUMMINS
106
The Picket Range, North Cascades: An
Enjoyable Grunt
CARL GABLE
From the start, ·none of us had a clear idea of what to expect
from the Picket Range. We knew the area was an inaccessible,
rugged and remote part of the North Cascades; in a week
traversing the range we learned firsthand that its reputation is
well deserved.
In the last week of August 1987, Bryan Kriens and I arrived in
Seattle from Cambridge via a couple of weeks in Vancouver;
Steve Pearlman and Dick McDougald flew in from Berkeley; Pat
Gallagher and Alasdair Street were the Seattle locals. Our goal
was a north-south traverse of the Picket range. In his guide to the
North Cascades, Fred Beckey describes the range as "the wildest
and most unexplored region in the North Cascades." It sounded
like an invitation to us, although in retrospect I might use even
stronger words to describe the terrain. Perhaps the names of the
peaks in the range give a clue to the type of terrain the area has;
Mt. Challenger, Mt. Fury, Mt. Terror. Or maybe the comments of
Pat's friends at a BBQ in Seattle the night before we left should
have been a clue. It appeared that Pat had a reputation for
setting strenuous goals. But we were off.
We left the trail behind at noon on the second day, breaking
ourselves in slowly by scrambling over Easy Peak and traversing
towards Perfect Pass. We followed the only northern approach to
the Challenger Glacier. Recent movements of the Whatcom
Glacier had blocked the other possible approach. Our progress
towards the pass was stopped by a deep and narrow gorge which
was invisible to us, and the map, until we were right on top of it.
The next morning we resigned ourselves to dropping down 1000
vertical feet in order to traverse below the gorge. The traverse
took us below the impressive SW face of Whatcom Peak. The
face is a sheer wall but not of rock that would attract a climber.
We all agreed it looked like a face covered in fuzz and in need of
a shave. Not a feature that would excite climbing urges.
We were now getting into the Picket Range. We would not
see a trail or footprint, unless bear tracks count, for the next four
days. Blueberries were ripe all around and provided a pleasant
distraction from almost continuous rock hopping through talus.
107
After a couple of nerve-wracking hours of delicate climbing
up loose rock and dragging ourselves through fml'rth class bushes
we were on top of Perfect Pass. We wondered if the gorge which
had blocked our progress the day before should be called Perfect
Impass.
Crossing the Challenger Glacier to Challenger Arm was
undoubtedly the easiest part of the entire trip. There is a lot to be
said for walking on hard snow versus boulders.
That evening as we discussed the route up Mt. Challenger,
the west coast contingent implied that experience on New
England ice provided the qualifications required to lead the
route. It turned out to be an easy approach with a little high-angle
snow, a short traverse on a sharp snow ridge, and a couple of
pitches of easy rock climbing. It really was pure joy, combining so
many mountaineering skills to get up a remote peak on a calm
sunny morning. We all put on cardboard cut-out "nose masks"
and a good time was had by all.
The rest of the day was spent going down, down, down into
Luna basin. What had looked like a broad, rock-filled valley from
above was a rock-covered glacier of refrigerator-size boulders.
Progress across the valley proceeded at a painfully slow pace.
However, the amphitheater we were in was magnificent, the north
face of Mt. Fury rising up 5000 feet less than a mile away, the
sheer face of Challenger to the west. The calm of the valley was
sporadically interrupted as seracs broke away from hanging
glaciers. That night we had a light show of Aurora Borealis. We
were in the heart of the North Cascades, feeling that we must be
in one of the most difficult places to reach in the lower 48. I think
that is the feeling we had come looking for.
By noon the next day we stood on Luna Cirque, with a
panoramic view in all directions. But we had a decision to make.
Would we continue our traverse into the Southern Pickets or take
our only chance for bailing out into McMillan Creek? It was hard
to give up our goal, but we needed to be out in two days and the
previous five days taught us that even the easy way out would be a
grind.
We went for the bailout which turned into a bushwacking
marathon, about six miles in over twelve hours. But what would a
trip to the Cascades have been without bushwacking? Incomplete
I'm sure.
THE NORTH FACE OF MT. FURY- From Luna Pass. Deciding
not to continue into the southern Picket Range - PAT GALLAGHER
109
So what had this Cascade experience been to me? We never
slept in a tent the whole trip; I guess the weather must always be
good. We spent a day and a half bushwacking 6 miles; stay in the
high country! It was fortunate we had King Bushwacker Kriens
along to lead the way when the brush got its thickest. You could
always count on Bryan. When the nettles were over your head and
Devil's Club bushes were all around you, Bryan would be up
ahead, "It doesn't look too bad this way!" the eternal optimist.
Perhaps a lot of the trip required elements of brute force but
the trip as a whole brought together many years of
mountaineering experience. Whether for picking routes over
fourth-class passes, swift river crossings, getting over a
bergschrund, making the committing step on an airy traverse, or
running from hornets' nests we stepped on, we were constantly
drawing on and extending the limits of our experience. The
Picket Range is not for the weekend trip or the crag climber. It is
for mountaineers who wish to challenge themselves and use a
broad range of mountaineering skills.
PERFECT PASS- Getting onto the Challenger Cilacler DICK MCDOUGALD
DICK McDOUGALD- (Left) Takes in the view below the summit
of Mt. Challenger- CARL GABLE
111
Mt. Elbrus
DOUG COULTER
Rick Sylvester and I had talked for years about skiing down
Elbrus (5642 m) in the Caucasus, until finally making it in 1988
with four of Rick's climbing friends from the west coast. Rick and
I have remained good friends and climbing partners ever since
meeting in Leysin, Switzerland in 1966. Rick was the first person
to ski down Mt. McKinley, and he dreams of skiing down the
highest peaks on all continents.
The Soviet sports organization, Sovintersport, organizes all
the climbing in the USSR. They flew us down from Moscow,
bused us into a hotel at the base of Elbrus, and assigned us a
"trainer", Vadim, with whom we became quite good friends.
Vadim is an experienced climber and a physicist in optics, who
diplomatically orchestrated the choice of our itinerary, negotiated
the jungle in the storeroom for our food, and restrained our
overambi tion.
On the first day we took two cable cars and one chairlift part
way up Elbrus and skinned the rest of the way up to the "Refuge
of the Eleven", which can house about eighty. To acclimatize, we
climbed about a thousand feet above the camp to 15,000 feet and
skied down. The next morning at 3:15 the bad weather made
attempting the summit ridiculous, but four of us climbed for a
couple of hours and met a descending French and British group,
which had turned back because of the weather. The weather the
next day was just as bad, and the French/British and Russian
group as well, had to leave without making the summit. A
"cyclone" blanketed the area with a low pressure front for the next
three days, so we skied down to the hotel, skinned up and skied
lower peaks on Cheget (3761 m) and Kogutai (3891 m). We also
skied into the wild, spectacular valley of Shekelda (4320 m). The
sky opened up just as we left Shekalda, and revealed all the snowcovered peaks with their seemingly vertical fields of snow. The
broken heads of glaciers could be seen peering over the tops of
these mountains.
RICK SYLVESTER- With the two peaks of Elbrus in
the background. The westem (highest) is the farthest leftJANET COURDURIER
112
We returned to Elbrus, but at 3 a.m. the next morning the
wind knocked one of the members of our group off his feet and as
a result, we spent the day just climbing up to 15,000 feet and back
down again. The following day the wind sounded so loud that we
dawdled and didn't leave until 5 a.m. When I first stepped
outside, I found the darkness and loneliness deeply intimidating.
Two of us decided at the last moment not to take our skis, but
Rick and three others astoundingly persisted in carrying their skis
on their backs in the heavy wind.
The route is straightforward: three hours up to rock
outcroppings, the "skala", then three to four hours traversing the
col between the two summits, then an hour and a half up to the
western, taller summit. Tremendously powerful gusts of wind
began to hit us during the last third of the traverse. Gusts
knocked me easily twenty feet off the packed snow track at least
twice. Estimates placed this between eighty and a hundred miles
an hour. A large Swiss group attempted the summit at the same
time that we did, and everyone was forced to crouch down when
they felt a gust, brace themselves against their ski poles, and then
rush as far as they could before a new gust's onslaught. The
Swiss began to come back down, lying down and planting their ice
axes in the snow when they stopped. They said they were tired of
being thrown around and at that pace they were not going to
make the summit anyway. The outer shell of a mitten flew past
me. Its owner turned out to be a member of our group who later
was forced to have part of his thumb amputated.
At the base of the saddle between the two peaks, the four
who had intended to ski down from the summit decided they
couldn't possibly do it in wind like that, so they started to ski
down from the saddle. Even so, in many places they all took off
their skis and walked, except one, who had to ski down broad
sheets of ice for hundreds of meters.
The track to the summit follows a large bulb around a turn up
to the left, and more than halfway up the snow becomes so steep
that it is almost technical for a short stretch. Black lava rocks
protrude out of the snow all over the place -- Elbrus is an old
volcano -- and the average slope overall is forty-five degrees.
After the steep part, the route cuts right across a much more
gently sloping ridge, and this becomes the rounded part of the
summit itself. A small hump stands on the left, and around to the
right a more distant rounded hump has the clear authority of the
summit itself. From the summit you can see the rich plains of the
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Kuban to the north. The snow-covered sharp peaks below, like
Ushba, stick out in a thick, jagged bed stretching to the horizon in
each direction -- much denser per square kilometer than the
Alps -- as the Swiss themselves agreed. Only the two of us who
had not brought our skis made it, a big disappointment for those
who'd come only for this, because we had to return to the hotel
the next day and return to Moscow. But the experience fascinated
all of us.
Sovintersport has a spring camp in May and two summer
camps in July and July-August. To join them, write to V /0
"Sovintersport, Boljshoi Rsheveski pereulok 5, 121069, Moscow,
USSR.
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An Ordeal With Jay Cassell (MBA '7 5)
DAVID K COOMBS
Being an account, in Heroic Verse, of a Climactic Episode in the
First Ascent of Mount Everest's Kangshung Face, October 1983
(With Apologies to the Legacy of Robert Service).
There were brave things done in the mountain sun
By alpinists in the cold;
Lowe's tattered old ropes up the avalanche slopes
Helped us scale the Headwall bold;
The dizzying heights had seen grim sights,
But the grimmest I'd ever dare tell,
Was that night on the wall of Everest tall
I suffered with Jay Cassell.
***
Now Jay Cassell was a Texas swell
(Where the bullshit blooms and blows);
Why he left his home on the Range to roam
To Tibet, God only knows.
He seemed out of place with his drawn, lean face,
And that hideous Lone Star drawl;
But the tall ex-Marine was resolved and keen-He'd climb that grisly wall.
From the start it seemed we were damn well-teamed,
And we worked like Trojans true;
On the lower rock slopes as we jugged fixed ropes
There a genuine friendship grew.
But at Pinsetter Camp in the gloom and damp,
The climb took a fearful price-We had loads to haul up that bleak, black wall
From a perilous ledge of ice.
We labored all day in a dogged way,
'Till our fingers were rubbed right raw
By the lines that ran up the dizzying span
Towards a fearsome and ice-toothed maw.
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Then the pale sun set over lonely Tibet
And we'd stiffly crawl inside
To massage our feet, and perhaps to eat
Lying propped up, side by side.
Jay'd rarely complain but he showed some strain,
For the yak meat was long since gone;
And the grub grew grim and we got quite slim
As the dismal days dragged on.
"Oh God," cried Jay in a mournful way,
"My ribs now are showing through,
"And I'm cold to boot, in my Gore-Tex suit-"Why I'm shivering, almost blue."
"Well you'd better well feed, for you'll surely need
"More strength when you get up high."
So he reached back in to the food bag thin
And pulled something out, and sighed:
"This is all we've got; please pass the pot;
"It will probably make me ill."
And I watched with fear, lying much too near,
As he hungrily ate his fill.
Like a blast from Hell, then the ailing Cassell
Gave vent to vapours obscene!
In the tent that night, aghast at my plight,
Lay I, whose friend he had been.
The hardships we'd shared were as nothing compared
To that foul and loathsome blight-With a curse deeply meant I burst from the tent
Out into the stark black night.
It was twenty below as I knelt in the snow,
Frostbitten by a wind that was keen;
Though my limbs froze black there was no going back
In there where the air had turned green.
But at length I knew as that cold wind blew,
That I couldn't stay out too long-I would have to crawl down to the ledge tent brown,
Where the gas roared loud and strong.
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I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out, and they danced about,
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside"-So I stooped down low, brushed away the snow,
And the door I opened wide.
And there lay Jay in a disinal way
'Midst the rubble about the floor;
He stirred himself on the icy shelf
And groaned: "Please close that door.
"It's thick in here, and I greatly fear
"Y ou'lllet in the ice and storm;
"I can't breathe well, and it stinks like Hell,
"But at least I'm finally warm."
***
There were brave things done in the mountain sun
By alpinists in the cold;
Lowe's tattered old ropes up the avalanche slopes
Helped us scale the Headwall bold;
The dizzying heights had seen grim sights,
But the grimmest I'd ever dare tell,
Was that night on the wall of Everest tall
I suffered with Jay Cassell.
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Soft Focus
BOBPALAIS
My camera lens has accompanied me on many climbing
adventures. It also has been responsible for some.
I first learned about the Pentax 40mm lens from Yogi Sklaran-anda. Yogi is an optics wizard who got an advanced degree in
lens design at an Eastern university, but his visions were still
peculiar. Yogi was sharing some classified info on his latest pet
project, a big X-ray laser up at Livermore called SHIVA, over
some pakoras and tandoori in San Fran. "It has some peaceful
purposes: medical, environmental; and it keeps the bomb boys off
the streets." He changed the subject. "You asked about cameras.
That 40mm lens is a great reason to get the new Pentax. Nice
name too -- 'ME Super'. The lens is as thin as this chapati bread,
so it won't get banged up climbing." He paused. "Unless," he
giggled, "you drop it!" As we reimmersed ourselves in the meal, I
couldn't help recalling his pronouncement, now immortalized
upon a t-shirt, "Climbing may be hard, but it's easier than growing
up."
Two years later - The South Face of Mt. Watkins
Paul's startled (expletive deleted) caught my attention in time
to watch a blue blur tumble past my head, out of reach, at
disturbing speed. When I became coherent a moment later, I saw
a camera pack arching not-so-gracefully towards the base of Mt.
Watkins. "The belt clasp must have caught on my shirt," Paul
muttered apologetically.
I realized there was no use crying over spilled cameras. The
situation was absorbing our attention fully, anyway. I enjoyed
being able to say, "What the hell, it's only a camera, some
pictures. It's the experience that's primary." Eight years earlier,
when my favorite old climbing shoes were swiped at the Gunks,
Paul had reminded me not to attach myself, even sentimentally, to
my material possessions. Then, too, a small bummer enhanced
my appreciation of good times with good friends.
Still, I made a mental note of the spot at the base of the route
where the dot that was my camera had tumbled down a corner to
rest. The pack and film might be salvageable. I recalled how his
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camera was busted in his pack at the end of our Nose descent,
after I had refused to add it to my load. Revenge or karma ... ?
We returned to the business of getting off the wall. We felt
strung out -- there were no tourists riding the green dragon buses,
nothing in sight except Chief Tenaya glowering down from Clouds
Rest. And retreat was cut off by all the traversing we had done
the day before. I tried to forget yesterday's crises which began
when I broke some crunchy half-inch webbing (I knew I would)
and only saved myself by having ready a 'biner on a wrist loop. I
clipped through the piton's eye less than a second before the loop
snapped. The pin shifted, but held. Below me, six fixed rurps and
bashies were ready to zip out and make me fast friends with a
ledge thirty feet down. Then in a rush for the bivy, we forgot to
exchange the haul line. We planned to pull the bag along the lead
line across the hundred-foot long fourth class traverse to spare the
water bottles any insults, but instead I had to prop the bag on a
sloping ledge so we could pull it across. Ten feet across holdless
"4th class" I got a sick feeling at the sound of a stacked rope
rapidly uncoiling itself off the ledge. I felt death before I could
consciously understand the consequences; the inevitable plunge of
the heavy sack on the end of the rope which was now tied to my
waist, followed by my own long swing across the face until the
rope sliced. Too far and frozen to act, I turned to see the pack
fall to one side and stop. Paul calmed me, "It's all right, it's not
going to fall. Now hurry over." "OK. Take in fast!"
The rest of the wall was less eventful. As darkness came, we
were a pitch from the top, but I had reached the first big ledge in
a while, and we had enough food and water for the night. One
deceptively easy-looking pitch above and a long night ahead eased
the conversation. I felt closer to my friend than I had in a long
while. We shared feelings and an awareness that seemed to
justify our unintentional risks. We spoke of our college friends
who had disappeared on Mt. Robson the year before (I had found
out from Paul, calling on his birthday). We shared our views
inwardly, of our selves, why we were here, our doubts, our eight
years as friends. On the Nose I was fully up to the task myself,
but this time we relied on each other in serious situations, and
made a connection that was missing before. That connection
PAUL MILDE- Pancake Flake pitch 24, El Capitan, Nose BoBPALAis
120
made the wall one of the special experiences of my life. And Paul
has since broken his vow that it would be his last wall.
That was why I found myself repeating the horror approach
the next week. I had to relieve any doubts I would have if I'd left
the camera up there. I overestimated the advantage of not
carrying packs, so it was already getting late as we approached the
wall. How I conned Jimmy into this epic I'll never figure out!
On top of this, Jimmy hadn't brought climbing shoes, I forgot
my harness, and we didn't have two ropes to expedite the rappels.
In spite of our efforts, we successfully got past the 5.8 offwidth
(this on the approach!) and grabbed the camera pack. Ironically,
the back had been popping open by itself, and the duct tape job
I'd done seemed to keep the back shut. The aftermath is a tale in
itself; late return to camp, late start on Higher Cathedral Rock
the next day, night in the descent gully. "Well at least we got off
the route before dark. Must've been a grade IV or something.
After twelve years I deserve at least one forced bivi, and at least
it's warm." "Bob ... " "Sorry, Jimmy." But the pictures turned out
well, and the surprise to Paul in Boston a week later was worth it
(well, maybe not to Jim ... ).
Yosemite- Two years and many fuzzy pictures later
I got the lens repaired, which was dented into a usable
"instamatic" with a fixed focus of 30 feet, and brought it back to
Yosemite. With me was Jason Stern, a precocious 16-year-old
friend who was climbing 5.13's at the Gunks in his first year.
Jason convinced me to bring the camera on Astroman. I really
wanted myself to be the only thing focusing on the route, but
Jason appealed to my vanity. "I want to get some pictures of you."
"He hasn't taken any so far," I mused.
I clipped the 'biner right to the camera pack this time, no
longer trusting the belt, but one of us must have unclipped it.
Maybe it was when the one picture I took on the fourth pitch
turned out to be the end of the roll. As I moved the daypack to a
more convenient spot on the fifth belay, the camera rolled by me,
just out of reach, into space. The rest of the climb eased the pain,
or maybe the Harding Slot just overwhelmed it.
The next day, we had to drive back to Colorado, but again, I
had to find out about the camera, the film, and the lens, which by
now had been out of production for three years and was very hard
to replace. Jason must have put those funny-looking mushrooms
122
in the omelettes that morning, because halfway up the trail,
finding the camera just didn't seem all that important. I noticed
periods of intense harmony and discord; getting to the upper trail
faster, though in less of a hurry; a feeling of oneness with all the
islands of life energy I perceived. The mosquitoes didn't bite,
though I understood that if they had, it was the miracle of life that
they were trying to perpetuate. My friend and I shared moments
and thoughts of happiness and laughter, and sadness and tears.
My mind filled with thoughts: of our families and ancestors, of
those who had preceded us in Yosemite, the Indians, of our
homes and friends back in New Paltz and how separated we get,
our brief but wild trip, our new friendship, our old friends, and the
years that bind and separate us.
Jason went off to experience the Valley as it was, and I went
for the camera. I wondered how the drama would end -- in
triumph or frustration. My internal soundtrack built to a climax
as I reached the base of yesterday's route. I was feeling the loss
that comes from realizing a lifelong dream, when I had an intense
feeling of deja vu. Once before, I had climbed the tree behind me
and found my camera. When I looked around and up, I saw a
camera pack hanging from a high branch, where I could not have
123
seen it before. "This is too weird," I thought (it was a week later I
realized that I had in fact retrieved a friend's #2 1/2 friend from
the very same tree three years earlier). The music inside built as I
inched toward the camera pack twenty feet up. Visions of
headlines: "Climber killed in fall from tree" occupied my thoughts
as I pulled the pack off the tangled strap that I decided was better
left as a tribute. I impatiently grabbed at the zipper. No such
luck. The mangled camera sat amongst loops of film. I laughed
at the drama I had made of my quest, and the adventure and
lessons it had inspired. "It's only the approach," Jason had
pronounced, "And it's good to have a goal, however pointless."
What was the broader meaning? When we got back to the car,
Jason exclaimed that the vehicle we took for granted in two weeks
of living and traveling had a beauty he had never noticed.
I pondered my beautiful Pentax lens. Glass intact, a new dent
in the focuswheel, identical to the one it had before. "I might as
well fix it", I thought, "For the next adventure".
124
Cabin Report
Huntington Ravine, Thanksgiving 1987
The party from the green pastures of Harvard College this
weekend included an expatriate Palestinian, an Irishman, two mad
Germans, a dazed Bostonian and a French-Dutch-American
princess. The band of freshmen, all sub-novice outdoorsmen (with
the exception of Herr Stephan Klasen, slavedriver and adoptive
grandfather of the trip), packed up an entire collegiate wardrobe,
several hundred fruits and vegetables, a small library, food for 15,
and a deadweight of inexperience. After schlepping in at mid-day
and negotiating with Yampa [John's dog] for entry (we finally
showed University J.D.'s and were allowed in), the menfolk trod up
to the base of the icecliffs. The day had been glaring sun and cold,
and the low clouds rode like lakes around the purple peaks of the
"White" mountains. More than one of the little band recalled W B.
Yeats' "Who could look upon this and not be moved".
Next morning we busted out at 7:30 into sunshine and t-shirt
weather. We ascended via Raymond to Lion's Head, broke, and
made the summit by mid-morning. Visibility was near-perfect and
wind almost still, so we spent several hours sunbathing and eating
honey. Looking down across the tundric shoulders of the summit,
desert-like with the sun and hyperborean smoothness of the snow's
125
swface, Dina Abu-Ghaida might have remembered the well-nigh
forgotten days when her namesake pursued a ''ghaida"- a tall,
beautiful woman with long dark hair - across the desert sands on a
milk-white steed.
The Boott Spur trail was a barely controlled slide of one hour,
and great fun, despite the saboteur antics of the Gennan contingent.
Regaled with the favorite ditties of John ''Erin go Bragh" Shovlin, the
peals of their childish laughter echoed and re-echoed through the
near-peifect amphitheater of the gorge, as Albert Wenger brought the
capacity crowd to its knees with coarse, well-meaning jokes.
Saturday evening was marked by a painstakingly prepared meal
and several hours of obscure card games and cheap rum. Many
thanks to Caretaker John and the floor-mates who directed us off the
big mountain. A wondetful weekend, and the fair weather held until
Sunday morning (actually, as noted this weekend, all weather is
'Jair'; unfair weather is a pathetic fallacy).
Sean Gulette
Dina Abu-Ghaida
Marlies Morsink
Albert Wenger
John Shovlin
Stephan Klasen
The Huntington Ravine Cabin celebrated it's 25th
anniversary in 1988. It still sits peacefully below Raymond
Cataract, but if you haven't been there in the last few years you'll
notice some changes. Contributions made in memory of Nicholas
Vanderbilt and Francis Gledhill were used to install a propane
system, which includes six stove burners and three lamps. The
cabin is now much safer and more cheerful. Other additions
include a new floor downstairs and repairs to the front door,
stovepipe and windows. Most recently, an Area M-82 solar panel
was installed which will recharge the caretaker's radio. The fee
for non-club visitors has been raised to $8.00 per night, to help
cover a 500% increase in the cost of liability insurance.
We've been extremely fortunate to have had conscientious
and able caretakers over the past several years. Susan Leary
(1984 - 1986) and John Jackson (1986 - 1988) have passed the job
on to Ted Dettmar for the winter of '88-'89.
126
NATHAN FAULKNER- Caulking windows on the Huntington
Ravine Cabin - PETER GREEN
JOHN ARNASON- Climbs Pinnacle Gully - PETER GREEN
127
Club Activities
1986-1987 In January HMC members Lou Derry, Alexandra
Moore and Peter Green were joined by Charley Mace for a climb
of Cerro Aconcagua. They all made an ascent of the standard
route. Lou and Charlie then went to the south side of the
mountain and climbed the South Face via the French Route with
the Messner finish. Alex and Peter returned to South America in
June with John Amason to climb Nevados Pisco and Huascaran
in the Cordillera Blanca.
In North America, Carl Gable, Bryan Kriens and Steve
Pearlman were joined by Pat Gallagher, Dick McDougald and
Alasdair Street for a traverse of the northern Picket Range in the
North Cascades. The area lived up to it's reputation for rugged
terrain.
Local activities included climbing at many nearby areas, with
instruction for beginning climbers. Trips to the Gunks, Cannon
and North Conway are common weekend excursions.
Fred Beckey was the featured speaker at the Winter Banquet
this year. Drawing on his vast background, he talked about
mountaineering in North America. In the spring, Pat Clark
STINKING WATER MOUNTAIN- (Left) Absaraka Range,
Wyoming - CHLOE BREYER
129
LOU DERRY- Pulls a sled to Chimney Pond, Mt. Katahdin CARL GABLE
K-MART KIDDIE SLEDS - Are not only useful for hauling gem~
but as entertainment on rainy days as well - CARL GABLE
THE KNIFE EDGE- (Right) Traverse from the summit of Baxter
Peak to Pamola Peak -ALEXANDRA MOORE
130
described his trip to Baffin Island, including several new routes.
Lou, Alex and Peter also showed slides of their trip to Argentina.
1986 was also notable as the year that the HMC "got
computers." For the first time the mailing list was computerized,
and "mailing label parties" became a Thursday night staple.
1987-1988 Nathan Faulkner and Alexandra Moore headed south
once again to climb Nevada Alpamayo in Peru. Fair weather and
fine ice made for an enjoyable ascent of the Ferrari Route on the
SW Face.
Locally, the HMC continued it's assault on the NE crags.
While College Rock and Crow Hill were favorite "hang-outs,"
highlights included trips to Ragged Mtn. CT, Lake Willoughby,
and many ascents on Cannon Cliff. Among them, the Black Dike,
climbed by Lou Derry and Carl Gable. In January John Arnason,
Lou Derry, Carl Gable, Bryan Kriens and Alexandra Moore
ventured north to Mt. Katahdin. Brutal cold gave way to rain and
temps in the 40's, and the trip members watched philosophically
while most of the ice lines washed away. Climbing, skiing and
sledding were enjoyable despite the weather.
Featured speakers this year were Sam Streibert, who
presented a slide show reviewing his twenty five years in climbing.
Dr. Charles Houston came down from Vermont to show slides
and movies spanning fifty years in the Himalayas, and Alison
Osius gave her presentation, "Rock Climbing Grows Up",
including climbing exchanges in France and Australia. We also
began a new tradition with the "What I did Last Summer" slide
show, where club members shared their adventures in North
America, South America, Australia and Europe.
We said a fond farewell to John Jackson and his dog Yampa
who had been taking care of the Huntington Ravine Cabin for the
last two winters. John made his presence felt in the Ravine,
whether on search and rescue missions or simply with his
hospitality and good cheer at the cabin. He has returned to North
Carolina to continue his studies. We wish him good luck!
Over the summer we were visited by enthusiastic Brit Julian
Duxfield. He teamed up with Ed Baldwin and Lou Derry for an
assault on the classics at Cannon, Cathedral and the Gunks.
LOU DERRY- Takes it Slow and Easy on Cannon ClzffALEXANDRA MOORE
133
LOU DERRY - Comes face to face with Repentence, Cathedral
Ledge - GEORDIE WILSON
ED BALDWIN- (Upper Left) Bouldering at Crow Hill- C. GABLE
CANNON CLIFF- (Lower Left) Carl Gable on the direct stmt to
FallingAspirations (5.10)- LOU DERRY
135
Routes included Moby Grape, Recompense, the Book of Solemnity,
Pas de Deux, and of course, High Exposure. "Brilliant" was the
word best describing this miniature climbing exchange.
ChlOe Breyer spent most of July and August helping to lead a
backpacking trip in the Absaroka Mts. The group also made a
successful ascent of Mt. Moran in the Tetons
Improvements were made to the clubroom, including
expansion of the library and the training room. The gym now
sports a Bachar ladder, a jamcrack board, two pegboards and a
Metolius Simulator.
1988-1989 A chilly fall did not deter HMC'ers from an active
season on the rocks. Several successful beginner's trips were held,
including an introduction to ice climbing held on a particularly
frosty weekend in Huntington Ravine. Climbers returning from
the Ravine were surprised to find the Cabin thermometer reading
-15°, and not at all surprised to find that several car engines did
not want to start for the return trip to Boston. A little more than
a month later, HMC'ers were found swimming in goretex and
crampons on Frankenstein Cliff, as the bank thermometer in
North Conway read 65°.
John Imbrie was coaxed out of semi-retirement and returned
to show off his talents to younger climbers in his old haunts at
Lake Willoughby. We hope to pry him away from his desk more
often in the future.
The Winter Banquet was held in December, followed by Ad
Carter's slides of his 1976 expedition to Nanda Devi. The second
annual "What I did Last Summer" slide show featured the Alps,
Andes, Himalayas, Canadian Rockies and the peaks of Borneo.
The inventory of gear available for loan to club members has
expanded considerably recently, thanks in large part to generous
donations from friends and alumni. We are now able to shoe a
battalion of beginners with sticky rubber soles. After a hiatus of
several years, a pumpkin once again appeared on Oct. 31 atop a
Mem Hall gargoyl.
And last but CERTAINLY NOT LEAST, 1989 was
memorable for the publication of Volume 23 of Harvard
Mountaineering!
ALEX MOORE- College Rock- CARL GABLE
136
137
Climbing Notes
Certainly the high point of the last several years was climbing
with the American Everest Expedition to China in 1983, which
made the first ascent of Everest's East, or Kangshung, Face. That
was a remarkable, even rare team effort: we were the first team
to climb Everest by any route without Sherpas or Tibetans above
an advanced base camp, and every member of the party carried to
24,500' or above without oxygen. We put six on the summit
(October 8 and 9) and got all but a few fingertips down safely.
Harvard members included Lou Reichardt and Jay Cassell (both
to the summit), Geoff Tabin, John Boyle, and myself.
Since then I've moved to California. Betsy and I have made
spring ascents of Shasta and Matterhorn Peak (both with skis),
and under the tutelage of Clint Cummins I've tried to learn how
to rock climb. Clint and I have made a specialty of topping out on
Yosemite Grade IV's and V's in the dark, usually drenched in
rain or snow. I've managed to get up some of the Valley
standards including the NW face of Half Dome and the Nose of El
Capitan, the latter climb featuring a lead up Texas Flake in hail
and Gore-Tex. Sierra climbs have included North Palisade
(winter), Mount Conness (West Ridge), and Bear Creek Spire
(NE ridge solo). In June 1987 Will Silva and I enjoyed a happy
reunion on some high-country classics including Fairview Dome
and Mt. Whitney.
I spent August 1986 in Chamonix. It was the summer of the
Bicentennaire of the first ascent of Mont Blanc, and the
mountains were even more crowded than usual. Dave Dossiter
and I clawed our way through multilingual queues on classics like
the Midi South Face (Rebuffat), and swore to go mountaineering
instead. We were by ourselves on the Frendo Spur of the Midi
and confirmed that Nordwands, even when relatively mellow, do
indeed weed out the riffraff. After Dave left I joined with
Frederick Charlet, a Chamonix guide, for a mad daytrip up the
Pilier Gervasutti of Mont Blanc du Tacul. We started up the
Teleferique at seven, jogged across the Valle Blanche, did the
route in six hours (much simul-climbing), and were back in town
well before dinner. That was the finest alpine rock climb I've
FRANKENSTEIN CLIFF - Lou Deny ascends the second pitch of
Dracula - CARL GABLE
138
')
ever seen - twenty-four pitches of gorgeous granite, mostly long
flaring cracks up the face of an airy buttress, continuously 5.5 to
5.9 the whole way.
- David K Coombs '73
Since the last journal, I have left California and returned,
spending a few years as a post-doc in New York, commuting from
a house in the Gunks (Tillson) in '86-7. Aside fromvisits to old
and new climbing areas, I went to Tibet in the summer of 1986,
primarily to learn about the country and people. I found it a very
easy and friendly land for travel, and got a big assist from HMC
Tibet veteran Ethan Goldings - who is now a grad student at
Stanford, studying in Tibet (anthro ), and is off to Everest this fall!
I also learned about the tragedy of the continuing Chinese
occupation of Tibet. I urge anyone going there, or anyone
concerned, to find out more about the situation through me, or
the Office of Tibet inN ew York.
Sticky rubber has brought many more routes within the realm
of fun for me, so I have again been spending too much time
climbing. The most rewarding routes still seem to involve the
most effort though. In the Colorado area, I have been lucky
enough to do a Black Canyon route (Scenic Cruise 1984 w/ Wayne
Burleson), the Diamond's D7 (also with Wayne, three years later),
a first ascent of Canyonland's Franklin's Tower and Eldorado's
Naked Edge with Jeff Achey, the Flame (Pike's Peak) with Bill
Myers, and Whimsical Dreams (Turkey Rock) with Jimmie Dunn.
Back East, returns to Cathedral were too few, but the Arete alone
is worth the trip. Dracula on Frankenstein seemed easier after 6
years away from ice, so I may wait even longer for the next time.
Living in the Gunks was paradise, as much for the local
atmosphere - fresh cider & cheese, houses, families and shops
dating back to the 1600's, friendly natives and recent arrivals - as
for being able to wander up to the cliffs to climb or ski then bop
on home for dinner, etc .... Traditions and new ideas in harmony.
This reflects in the climbing- from High Exposure to the Nouveau
Mutants, CCK to Girls Just Want to Have Fun. Some favorite
discoveries were ... there are so many it's hard to go wrong. My
BOB PALAIS- Crack of Bizarre Delights (5.11), 'Gunks
140
latest discovery is that Hueco Tanks has the most fun cragging
and bouldering in the world, and a very pleasant atmosphere at
the Quonset hut climbers ranch. I've been there five times in two
years, and still want to go back for more! Optical Promise may be
the epitome, with 3 pitches of solid overhanging rock with holds
so big you can sit down in some of them to rest! It would be a
prima spot for an HMC New Year's get together! Chuck
Wheeler, who turned me onto Hueco has also given me the tour
of his home turf, the excellent crags of Mt. Lemmon in Arizona.
Paradise Forks, up north, hints at the nice areas Flagstaff has to
offer. Closer to my current home, I got around to doing some of
the long routes California has to offer - El Cap: Nose (with Paul
Mil de), West Face (Jason Stern), Moratorium to East Buttress
(Wayne Burleson), the latter a superb and reasonable one day
route, Half Dome: NW (John Gilardi), Snake Dike (Dave
Altman), Sentinel: Chouinard-Herbert (Jason), Steck-Salathe
(John), Leaning Tower (solo), Mt. Watkins (Paul), Lost Arrow
Chimney (Elliott Robinson), Mt. Conness: Harding route (Wayne),
Royal Arches to Crest Jewel, a 27 pitch day, (Alison Osius),
Washington Column South Face (Lori Richards). And there are
plenty of wonderful shorter routes in the lower Valley when you
don't need the stress, and all over California: Lover's Leap,
Donner Summit, Sugarloaf, Calaveras, Phantom, Tuolumne,
Joshua Tree, and Red Rocks where I finally got to do a route with
Sam Streibert at last December's AAC meeting (Lady Wilson's
Cleavage). The HMC has still provided many of my partnersClint, Joel, John Imbrie, Paul, Peter Lehner.... It would be fun to
hook up with some of the newer members!
-Bob Palais
This past April I made a 15-day hiking trip in the trailless
section of the the Grand Canyon National Park on the north side
of the river. Most people do not think of hiking in the canyon
country as "mountaineering" but many elements of
mountaineering are there. On the 100-or-so miles I must have
descended and ascended close to 15,000 ft, maybe more.
We (a guy and gal in their 20's, and I in my 60's) started at
about 4600' and hiked over Saddle Mt. (about 7500') and down
the Nankoweap Trail to the Colorado River (about 2200') where
the trail ended. Because vertical cliffs frequently end in the river,
142
we had to ascend around them and the cliffs of each of the
multitudinous side-canyons and their smaller side-canyons and
sometimes the side-, side-canyons' side-canyons. It's like walking
around the silhouette of a Christmas tree, sometimes having to
ascend as much as 2500' vertically above the river, and of course
having to descend to the river again for water.
The Grand Canyon is a near desert. Even in April there are
very few water sources, and these are sometimes acrid, salty and
not potable. The Colorado was silty downstream of the Little
Colorado River. The gal couldn't handle the high-angle gravelly
slopes, which were hard-packed, often with a smooth surface and
the maximum angle of repose for their pea-sized and smaller
pebbles. She visualized herself falling and rolling over the edge,
as did some of the stones we dislodged. On the fourth day we
were at the river's edge when a private rafting party agreed to
take her to Phantom Ranch. The guy wanted to raft too, and
asked if I minded. So, for the last eight days I was alone. The last
two days after that were on trails where I met others. I got down
to a cup of water once when the only spring on the map was dry,
but I found a puddle of swimming things and dead bugs which I
strained through the side of my underwear and Chloroxed. It was
a true God-send. The whole experience was and is one of my
most adventuresome and memorable. I call it mountaineering,
even though in a canyon.
- Larry Miner '47
Now that I'm living near Yosemite and am married to Nancy
Kerrebrock, I've climbed countless routes. Highlights have been
several "trade route" walls: VI -- The Nose (John Holt), Salathe
(John Imbrie, Dennis Drayna), Lurking Fear (John Lockhart),
Zodiac (JL), Darn Direct/Shield (JL, Jack Wenzel), Never Never
Land (JL, JW, Nancy), Half Dome (Joel Ager), IV /V -- Yosemite
Point Buttress (Dave Coombs), East Buttress of El Cap (DC),
Chouinard Herbert (DC), the Column (DC, Nancy). June 1987
John Imbrie came out for a week and we did The East Buttresses
of Middle Cathedral and El Cap, Royal Arches/Crest Jewel (with a
matches-bivvy after hitchiking failed), Steck-Salathe and several
classic short routes. New routes include several forays on The Ho
Chi Minh Trail (S.lla), Fifty Crowded Variation (5.10a) right of the
bottleneck pitch four of the East Buttress of Middle (Nancy), Silent
143
Majority (5.10a) three pitches left of the Apathy Buttress (JA, Jim
Lutz), and Beyond the Fringe (5.10b) above Lunatic Fringe (Dan
Nguyen). Further afield, besides several trips to Joshua Tree,
Thanksgiving 1987 saw a trip to Red Rocks with Nancy, Dan
Nguyen, Phyllis Ponte, and Michael Lehner, with ascents of
Dream of Wild Turkeys and Levitation 29. A few summer trips
"home" to Seattle have netted ascents of Forbidden West/East
Traverse with my father, and a great climb of Bonanza Peak with
Nancy and both our fathers.
- Clint Cummins
1986. Clint Cummins and I had a quite successful Tuolumne
trip in July, i.e., no rain for two weeks. We bagged the usual
assortment of crag classics, in addition to three "big routes" on
Fairview Dome, Fairest of All, Lucky Streaks, and Regular North
Face. The latter was climbed largely unroped. We ventured
briefly down into the Valley, so I could bag my first grade VI, the
Regular NW Face of Half Dome. I returned the favor by
entertaining Clint in Boulder for a four day "power weekend."
We warmed up for two days in Eldorado by cruising Werk Supp,
Outer Space, Rosy Crucifixion, and the Yellow Spur. The next day
was devoted to borrowing gear and the approach march, and on
the last day we fired off the Casual Route on the East Face of
Long's Peak. In performing the twenty minute stroll to the
summit, Clint bettered his personal altitude record set ten years
previously on a winter ascent of Kiener's. In spite of a blown
sensor in my ancient vehicle which lead to a near-catastrophic loss
of oil, we had no problems making Clint's 9:00 p.m. return flight
that night. Other "Park routes" climbed that summer include
Syke's Sickle on Spearhead with Scott Wharton, the Kor Route on
Cathedral Wall with Tom Wiselogel, and the classic NorthcuttCarter on Hallett's Peak, solo. Before settling down to write my
thesis, I shared a Gunks power weekend with Bob Palais and Paul
Milde. Ringwraith, No Exit, and MF. were the highlights.
1987. I began "the year of hone" with a two week ski vacation
in Steamboat Springs with Paul Milde and John Morrone. Our
JOELAGER- On Right Unconquerable (HVS, 5a 5.10a), Stanage
Edge, Peak District, England
145
touring highpoints were the Vail Pass to Vail tour (Commando
Run) and an ascent of Hahn's Peak. Advanced degree in hand, I
then packed all my essential belongings in my 1964 Valiant and
headed south to Hueco Tanks State Park near El Paso, Texas,
where Bob Palais gave me a fine introduction to the steep
climbing and bouldering. I was "in residence" for about six weeks
with an international contingent of high-standard (5.12 and
above) climbers, led by the notorious Todd Skinner ("Joel, if you
could only up your standard a bit"). I continued on to Joshua
Tree (my seventh visit) where I met up with Clint Cummins,
Nancy Kerrebrock, and Dan Nguyen. In April I began my "low
profile" stay in Yosemite. The April weather was fabulous, and I
finally got to climb the Nose route on El Cap with visiting
northwest ace Stuart Ford. The May weather was horrible by
local standards with almost daily afternoon thundershowers, but I
still managed to squeeze ascents of the N.E. Buttress of Higher
Cathedral, the Steck-Salathe, and the E. Buttress of El Cap into a
JOELAGER- Typically steep bouldering at Hueco Tanks
146
busy five days with visiting Englishman Peter Bishop.
Unfortunately, a thorough drenching on the top of the Half
Dollar aborted an ascent of the Salathe with the bachelor party
team of Paul Milde, Bob Palais, and myself. Paul and I partially
consoled ourselves with an ascent of the classic Royal Arches to
Crest Jewel combination. Of course, it wasn't all long, moderately
hard, and free. Crag ticks include leads of Outer Limits, Lunatic
Fringe, Gripper, Sherrie's Crack, Serenity Crack, Wheat Thin, and
The Tube. I finished off my California season by teaming up with
Clint for an ascent of the excellent War of the Walls on mighty
Calaveras Dome.
I did my first European cragging in August with Pete Bishop.
The Mousetrap, Quartz Icicle, and The Stand were a fine
introduction to Welsh sea cliff climbing. I looked up old Hueco
buddies Steve Lewis and Craig Smith in Sheffield and Leeds and
visited Stanage, Millstone, Stoney Middleton, Calley Quarry,
Kilnsey, Malham Cove, and various pubs along the way. New
Year's was spent in Finale, Italy climbing steep, bolt protected
pocket lines on limestone and dabbling in "Continental" ethics
and tactics.
- JoelAger
The North Cascades were the site of adventures for Peter
Hallinan ('85-6) and Charlie Ford ('85) in late August 1987. First
we attempted Mt. Shuksan (9, 127 ft). Fading daylight, empty
water bottles and a lack of rock pro for the summit pyramid
convinced them that prudence was the better part of valor, and
that the prudent climber returns to try again another day.
The Shuksan results only whetted our appetites for Mount
Rainier (14,410 ft). We recommend the Emmons Glacier Route
on the northeast face; less rockfall and fewer tourists. At Camp
Sherman (9,800 ft) we met a NOLS group that had just
helicoptered off a climber who had had a heart attack above
12,000 ft. A warning: keep your food away from the camp's high
altitude mice! After a 4:00 am start and eight hours of wandering
in a maze of crevasses we gained the summit - eight mile visibility
instead of the usual lenticular cloud. We recommend Rainier for
climbers new to big mountains!
- Charlie Ford '85
147
3:00AM - Unknown climber approaches 18th floor, putting up new
aid route on unidentified Hmvard apartment complex
MT. SHUKSAN- Charlie Ford and Peter Halinan wait for the water
to boil
148
Membership
of the
Harvard Mountaineering Club
LIFE MEMBERS
Joel Ager, '82, Blumenstrasse 33 D-6900 Heidelberg 1, West
Germany,
Peter Aspinwall, '54, 18520 5th Avenue North, Plymouth, MN
55447
David R. Bassett, '49, 1600 Brooklyn Ave., Ann Arbor, MI 64104
Robert H. Bates, '33, 153 High Street, Exeter, NH 03833
Gordon Benner, MD, '54, 155 Tampalpais Rd., Berkeley, CA
94708
Caleb Brokaw Jr., '42, 646 West Road, New Canaan, CT 06840
Dr. Tom Brushart, '71, 3803 St. Paul St., Baltimore, MD 21218
Ted Carman, '63, 121 St. Stephen Street Apt. 37, Boston, MA
02115
H. Adams Carter, '36, 361 Centre St., Milton, MA 02186
RobertS. Carter, '39, P.O. Box 172, Medina, WA 98039
Dr. HarrieR. Chamberlin, '42, 1001 Arrowhead Rd., Chapel Hill,
NC 27514
William L. Clarke, '59, 39 Baldwin Rd., Carlisle, MA 01741
Lester A Collins, '38, 1415 Thompson St., Key West, FL 33040
Dr. Caspar Cronk, '57, 8 Langbourne Ave., London, ENGLAND
N6AL
Clint A Cummins, '79, 443 Ventura #15, Palo Alto, CA 94306
Stephen L. Den Hartog, '55, RR1 Box 429 Blueberry Hill,
Lebanon, NH 03766
Dr. Doug Dolginow, '75, 3369 Dyer Drive, Lafayette, CA 94549
Dr. Frederick L. Dunn, '51, 3829 22nd St., San Francisco, CA
94114
Andrew Embick, MD, '78, P.O. Box 1889, Valdez, AK 99686
Dean Archie Epps, 4 University Hall, Cambridge, MA 02138
Benjamin G. Ferris Jr., MD, '40, Box 305 10 Town House Rd.,
Weston, MA 02193
Robert W. Forster, '50, 2215 Running Springs, Kingwood, TX
77339
Richard Goody, '58, P.O. Box 430, Falmouth, MA 02541
149
Andrew Griscom, '49, 1106 N. Lemon Ave, Menlo Park, CA
94025
Ian M. Hamilton, '50, 48 Southover High St., Sussex, Lewes,
ENGLAND
Larry Hansen, '53, 175 Main St., Room 617, White Plains, NY
10601
Robert Hartshorne, '59, 768 Contra Costa Ave., Berkeley, CA
94707
H. Eric Heinemann, '54, 7 Woodland Place, Great Neck, NY
11021
Kenneth A. Henderson, '26, 29 Agawam Rd., Waban, MA 02168
George J. Hill, MD, '57, 3 Silver Spring Rd., West Orange, NJ
07052
Keith P. Kerney, '57, 5505 Glenwood Road, Bethesda, MD 20834
Paul M. Ledoux Jr., 7 White St., Arlington, MA 02174
Francis P. Magoun III, '50, Spy Rock Hill Rd., Manchester, MA
01944
W. V. Graham Matthews, '43, Box 381, Carmel Valley, CA 93924
James C. Maxwell, '30, 4053B Trinity Drive, Los Alamos, NM
87544
RobertS. McCarter, '46, P. 0. Box 8916, Rancho Santa Fe, CA
92067
John McLeod Jr., '54, 5 Maya Lane, Los Alamos, NM 87544
Paul Mil de, '82, 33C Orange St., Nashua, NH 03060
Maynard M. Miller, '43, 514 East First St., Moscow, ID 83843
Richard G.C. Millikan, '63, 2917 Regent St., Berkeley, CA 94705
Terris Moore, '33, 123 Brattle St., Cambridge, MA 02138
Thomas 0. Nevison Jr., MD, '51, 130 Pearl St. # 204, Denver, CO
80203
John Notman, '41, 902 Second Avenue Rd., Clinton, IA 52732
Lincoln O'Brien, '29, 1535 Bay Point Drive, Sarasota, FL 33579
John C. Oberlin, '35, 26140 Robb Rd., Los Altos, CA 94022
Samuel H. Ordway III, '52, 19409 Ordway Rd., Weed, CA 96904
Robert A. Page Jr., '60, 3125 Woodside Rd., Woodside, CA 94062
Robert Palais, '81, 1704 Walnut St., Berkeley, CA 94709
Charles Pittman,Valley Forge Towers, Apt. 1306 1000 Valley
Forge Circle, King of Prussia, PA 19406
Stephen M. Pomerance, '63, 335 17th St., Boulder, CO 80302
William L. Putnam, '45, Carrol Travel Bureau 1383 Main St.,
Springfield, MA 01103
Paul John Rich III, '59, Training & Career Development Dept.
P.O. Box 1300, Doha, QATAR
150
Walter T. Ridder, '40, 1219 Crest Lane, McLean, VA 22101
Cervin Robinson, '50, 251 W. 92nd St., New York, NY 10025
John H. Ross, '48, 150 Upland Road, Cambridge, MA 02140
Douglas C. Scott, '35, 14 Northeast Rd., Farmington, CT 06032
Thayer Scudder, '52, 2484 N. Altadena Dr., Altadena, CA 91001
Peter C. Sorger, '83, 319 Highland Ave., Winchester, MA 01890
John L. Sosman, MD; '43, 648 Lowell Rd., Concord, MA 01742
Lyman Spitzer Jr., 659 Lake Drive, Princeton, NJ 08540
DavidS. Stacey, '40, 423 Sombrero Beach Rd., Apt. 9, Marathon,
FL33050
Leon A. Story Jr., '56, 238 Essex St., Middleton, MA 01949
Sam Streibert, 294 Highland Ave., West Newton, MA 02165
David R. Van Baak, '79, 1643 Hiawatha Rd.,SE, Grand Rapids,
MI 49506
Mark Van Baalen, '66, 124 Witcomb Ave., Littleton, MA 01460
John B. Walker Jr., '33, 643 Oenoke Ridge, New Canaan, CT
06840
Ritner Walling,East Coast Salvage 29th and Adams Ave.,
Camden, NJ 08105
Steve Warren, '72, Univ. of Washington, AK-40, Seattle, WA
98195
H. Bradford Washburn Jr., '33, 220 Somerset Street, Belmont,
MA02178
Earle R. Whipple, '55, 35 Elizabeth Rd., Belmont, MA 02178
John Wilkinson, '78, 22 Marlowe Rd., Cambridge, ENGLAND
GRADUATE MEMBERS
James Alt, Ross Ave, Phillips, ME 04966
John Amason, '87, Department of Geology Stanford University,
Stanford, CA 94305
Stephen Arnon, MD, '68, 3020 Holyrood Dr., Oakland, CA 94611
Steve Arsenault, 5 Tilden St., Bedford, MA 01730
Bill Atkinson, 343 South Ave., Weston, MA 02193
Eric Ayrault, '88, 14 Forest Ave., St. John's, CANADA
Ed Baldwin, 24 Townsend Rd., Belmont, MA 02178
Dr. James E. Barrett Jr., '55, 5 North Park St., Hanover, NH
03755
William D. Beal Jr., '46, P.O. Box One, Jackson, NH 03846
George I. Bell, '46, 794 43rd St., Los Alamos, NM 87544
Eric Bjelrnstad, 137 North Main St., Moab, UT 84532
Dr. Judy Blake, 505 Dugway Bridge Rd., West Kingston, RI 02892
151
Winslow R. Briggs, '50, 480 Hale St., Palo Alto, CA 94301
Jeffrey D. Brown, '79, 320 W. 90th St., #6-B, New York, NY
10024
Wil Brown, 13 Williams Glen, Glastonbury, CT 06033
Peter T. Carman, '64, Box 686, Wilson, WY 83014
Madeleine Carter, '83, 5036 Glenbrook Terrace, N. W.,
Washionton, D.C. 20016
Lowell Chamberlain, '49, 12 Pacheco Creek Dr., Novato, CA
94947
John C. Cobb, MD, '41, P.O. Box 1403, Corrales, NM 87048
David Coombs, '73, 5831 Acacia Ave., Oakland, CA 94618
Sue Coons, '73, 14 Chestnut St., Brookline, MA 02146
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Ray D'arcy, '26, 119 Huron Ave., Cambridge, MA 02138
Irving Delappe, MD, '42, 8907 Ridge Place, Bethesda, MD 20034
Dr. Dennis Drayna, '80, 72 Uranus Terrace, San Francisco, CA
94114
Mark Dumont, '72, 61 Dartmouth St., Rochester, NY 14607
Garrett Eddy, '38, 4515 W. Ruffner St., Seattle, WA 98199
Harry K. Eldrige, '57, Mountain Meadow Farm Cascade Rd.,
Lake Placid, NY 12496
James Elkind, '84, 146 Webster Ave., Apt. 3, Cambridge, MA
02141
Linwood M. Erskine Jr., '46, 23 Trowbridge Rd., Worcester, MA
01609
Bob Everett, '87, 77 Donazetti St., Wellesley, MA 02181
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Piedras, PR 00931
William B. Osgood Field Jr., '26, P.O. Box 583 55 Hurlbut Rd.,
Great Barrington, MA 02130
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02181
Matthew Hale Jr., '66, 3028 Rodman St. NW, Washington, D.C.
20008
Peter Hallinan, '86, 24 Townsend Rd., Belmont, MA 02178
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96815
Julie Meek Hamlin, '72, Box 156 449 Hale St., Prides Crossing,
MA01965
152
Gordon Hardenburgh, Dartmouth Medical School, Hanover, NH
John L. J. Hart, '26, 29396 Shell Cove, Laguna Nigual, CA 92677
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Charles S. Houston, MD, '35, 77 Ledge Rd., Burlington, VT
05401
Steven A Jervis, '59, 482 East 16 St., Brooklyn, NY 11226
Adrian M. Juncosa, '72, Harvard Forest, Petersham, MA 01366
Michael Lehner, '77, 2 Brimmer St., #2, Boston, MA 02108
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Alan K. Long, '79, 108 Fletcher Road, Bedford, MA 01730
Michael P.R. McGrath, '65, 448 Barretts Mill Rd., Concord, MA
01742
Seth McGrew, '88, Box 142 B, Thetford Center, VT 05075
George Merriam, MD, '69, 11015 Ralston Rd., Rockville, MD
20852
Karen Messer, '79, 2399 Jefferson #18, Carlsbad, CA 92008
George C. Millikan, '61, 1435 Arch St., Berkeley, CA 94708
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05767
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04103
Carl Muhlhausen, '80, 10 Harvest Lane, Tinton Falls, NJ 07718
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William B. Patterson, '71, 43 Harrison St., Newton Highlands,
MA02161
Dr. Louis F. Reichardt, 900 Darien Way, San Francisco, CA
94127
David S. Roberts, '65, 24 Concord Ave. #108, Cambridge, MA
02138
Susan Rockwell, '83, 5001 Sedgwick St., NW, Washington, D.C.
20016
Eric Rosenfeld, '64, Schupak, Rosenfeld & Fischbein 919 Third
Ave., New York, NY 10022
John Ross, '87, cjo NOLS Box AA, Lander, WY 82520
Tom J. Shankland, '58, 6 Mariposa Ct., Los Alamos, NM 87544
Will Silva, MD, '73, 331 NW 76th St., Seattle, WA 98117
George E. Skillman, 78 Winthrop Rd., #2, Brookline, MA 02146
Leo Slaggie, '56, 6358 Lakewood Dr., Falls Church, VA 22041
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Kathleen Trever, '88, P.O. Box 6105, Reno, NV 89513
153
Michael Useem, '70, 29 Valley Spring Rd., Newton, MA 02158
98195
George West, '72, 1018 Rock Street, Little Rock, AR 72202
Quad Wheeler, '82, 97 E. Hunting Ridge Rd., Stamford, CT
06903
Eric S. White, '67, 237 Oblong Rd., Williamstown, MA 01267
Geordie Wilson, '86, 60115th Ave., Greeley, CO 80631
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V5A 1B4
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CANADA H3G 2E7
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ACTIVE MEMBERS
Molly Ackerman, '92, Weld S-10, Cambridge, MA 02138
Elaine Aliberti, 24 Oxford St., Cambridge, MA 02138
Amity Appell, '87, 56 Linnaean Street, Cambridge, MA 02138
Shona Armstrong, '92, Weld S-12, Cambridge, MA 02138
Emil Awad, 2 Peabody Terrace 204, Cambridge, MA 02138
Gary Axen, 24 Oxford St., Cambridge, MA 02138
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John Breen, 16 Chauncy St.,# 17, Cambridge, MA 02138
Philip Beck, '89, Lowell J-22, Cambridge, MA 02138
ChlOe Breyer, '91, Claverly 30, Cambridge, MA 02138
Steve Brown, '90, Quincy 312, Cambridge, MA 02138
Harry A Chernoff, '89, Dunster G-54, Cambridge, MA 02138
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02138
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Carl Gable, 10 Prentiss Rd., Arlington, MA 02174
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02139
Patrick Gurian, '89, Mather 156, Cambridge, MA 02138
Bertrand Heriard, 10 Martin St., Cambridge, MA 02138
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154
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Rob Loveman, 24 Emery St., Medford, MA
Reuben Margolin, '92, Pennypacker 28, Cambridge, MA 02138
Rebecca Merrill, 111 Lake View Ave., Cambridge, MA 02138
Ron Mis, 27 Ash St., Cambridge, MA 02138
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Ted Stimpson, '89, Eliot H-51, Cambridge, MA 02138
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Larry Widrow, 19 Chester Rd., Belmont, MA 02178
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FACULTY ADVISORS
Douglas E. Coulter, '65, 2 Ware St., Cambridge, MA 02138
William A. Graham, Study of Religion Phillips Brooks House,
Cambridge, MA 02138
John Z. Imbrie, '78, 214 Fox Hill St., Westwood, MA 02090
155
BRYAN KRIENS - College Rock - CARL GABLE
156