VERTFEST, 2012!

I'd have to say that the best part of what I do is the opportunity to interact with like-minded individuals from all walks of life, from all over.  And although I'm more accustomed to attending both regional and national climbing events on behalf of my sponsors, I had the good fortune--Thank you, SCARPA!--to attend my first-ever ski festival this past weekend in Washington.  Vertfest, founded in 2007, is the largest gathering of Sidecountry and Backcountry skiers and snowboarders in the Pacific Northwest.  This year's event, hosted by Alpental Ski area at Snoqualmie Pass, boasted its biggest turn-out yet, with more competitors in Saturday's randonee race and more Sunday clinic participants than ever before--a testament to the strength of the region's off-piste community, as well as to their commitment to NWAC, the Northwest Weather and Avalanche Center, the primary beneficiary of the funds raised throughout the weekend.
The highlight of this year's event was, no doubt, the snow.  The precip began in earnest as we drove along the 90 towards Snoqualmie Pass Friday afternoon and it never stopped; though Alpental reported totals of 24" by Saturday morning and an additional 14" overnight into Sunday, I can attest to finding much, much more in backcountry terrain adjacent to the ski area boundary--so much more, in fact, that I opted out of Saturday's race in order to assess conditions for my Sunday clinic.  In retrospect, though I regret skipping out on what would have been my very first randonee race experience, my decision to scout the terrain ahead of the clinic turned out to be a wise one.  On Saturday's tour, we discovered quite a few debris piles--most likely the result of the previous night's natural cycle--in and about the same zone where I'd planned to lead my clinic participants.
Despite missing out on Vertfest's "main event," it was Sunday's clinic that I had really been looking forward to.  I chose to focus on backcountry trouble-shooting, calling my clinic, "Lighter, Faster and More Fun."  The idea was to provide a forum in which beginner to intermediate ski tourers could address many of the issues we've all suffered through, especially early on in our backcountry careers--everything from how to dress, what to pack--versus what to leave behind--as well as techniques, such as how to execute a kick-turn and how to remove one's skins with skis on.

 Here's the SCARPA booth at Vertfest early Sunday morning--the calm before the storm of demos!

Here's my clinic, with Molly, Cody, Teresa and Jeff--ready to slay over three feet of fresh POW!

 Molly and Jeff, makin' it look easy on the up-track.  Check out just how much snow fell!

 Molly near the top of the headwall, with Jeff close behind...  It would be Molly's very first real powder day!

 Almost there!  Here's the crew adding a couple hundred extra verts to our tour--the turns were pretty phenomenal!

Finally, we're at the top, no worse for the wear...  These guys did great; we even squeezed in another lap, with energy to spare!
In homage to SCARPA's Italian heritage--as well as that of SkiTRAB--we lunched on Italian Salami and  cheese--you gotta eat well in the mountains if you're looking to cover ground!

Adventures in the Swell

The San Rafael Swell in central Utah is, arguably, one of the more remote and--largely--untouched wilderness areas in the state.  Though there are a great many other Utah landmarks--such as Arches and Canyonlands National Parks--that are, perhaps, better known, the "Swell" is, undoubtedly, the preferred destination for climbers seeking total solitude and full-value adventure.  I was fortunate to have shared two action-packed days with none other than Paul Ross, prolific adventure-first ascensionist, amateur naturalist, breeder of champion Jack Russell terriers, Renaissance man and a living climbing legend--he's also my boss Andy's old man.  With routes to his credit spread across the UK, the French Alps, North Africa, New England and--most recently--the desert Southwest, Paul's what I'd call, the climber's climber--at 76, he's still opening new lines, often in bold, ground-up style, and with more tenacity than climbers a quarter of his age.  He's been at it pretty much non-stop for over six decades, having witnessed the world of climbing change dramatically since the very first time he tied into a rope.  As much as I know to what extent he'd abhor me saying it, Paul--not to mention his son, Andy--is a personal hero of mine, and I'm still sort of buzzing from our time together.
In two short days, we:
opened three new multi-pitch routes, drilled on-the-lead from stances
rescued two toads, a garter snake and juvenile rattler from a deep pothole in the slot-canyon portion of our approach
witnessed two Peregrine falcons hunt mourning doves, both diving at full speed from high above us--we were well off-the-deck ourselves, a few pitches up on the wall
camped with the full moon shining so brightly that we didn't need headlamps
sat in lawn chairs and drank wine, watching lightning strike all around us in the vast desert--I've never seen so much lightning all-at-once in all my life!
bailed from our final route just moments before the skies opened up and a huge thunderstorm engulfed the Eastern Reef slabs

Thanks to Andy and to Paul for an incredible introduction to the area!

Annus Mirabilis

From the Latin, meaning "year of wonder," or, "year of miracles," I'm borrowing this phrase to name a new route we completed yesterday, just one of three FAs this week.  About a month ago, our friend, Andy, needed some help in documenting a long-neglected zone in Little Cottonwood for his upcoming guidebook project. Despite its proximity to the road, for whatever reason, the area had eluded other first-ascensionists--a rare thing in this town, as the Salt Lake valley is home to, perhaps, the highest concentration of climbers and of climbing talent in the country...  Take that, Boulder!  Anyways, it was during this early recon that I spotted several lines, all of which--through my binoculars--appeared to boast some of the best rock quality in the canyon, made evident by its orange-pink color.  And so it all started, in earnest, last Saturday; Georgia Shaun and I set out early to explore the area, and, after spending the better part of the morning unable to forge a new line without the use of bolts, we decided to go at it the old-fashioned way and hoof it.  Had we been successful in opening the initial pitch--in other words, had I not been so stubborn and brought the hand drill--we would have climbed right to the base of the intended buttress; instead, Shaun and I endured several hundred vertical feet of sketchy, unroped "adventure-neering," as Andy calls it, to finally reach the base.  Uncertain whether we'd have enough daylight to complete the first ascent, we admired the views for awhile until my ambition got the better of me and I rushed to rack up and tie in--it was nearly 3:30 in the afternoon, and we were going for it!  Here's what we put up that day; I have yet to decide on a name for the route, and I suppose that as it's an unclimbed feature, I get to christen it whatever I wish.  But I'm not quite there, yet. 

The following Monday, Coby and I revisited the zone, and I tried to open the independent, left-hand line, on-sight.  I fell at the roof, which, on Thursday, I finally sent with my buddy, Tyler.  Both lines are of superb quality, in every respect--great, remote position, excellent rock and stellar movement...  What more could one ask for? 

And just when I thought, "how can I be so lucky, to discover an unclimbed--and very aesthetic--feature in a canyon that's been crawling with strong, imaginative climbers for decades?"--BAM!!!  There it was:  a pillar of perfect, pink-orange granite, separate from any other known formation, complete with its own mini-summit!  I spied what appeared to be a reasonable weakness, and after hours of examining zoomed-in digital images on the laptop, and peering endlessly through my binos, I asked my boss, Andy Ross, to join me in climbing it.  Yesterday, with the help of our friend Gene, it all came together:  a new and challenging route, on a formation that's remained untouched by humans--let alone climbers--until just before five in the afternoon, when, fighting the jitters, I launched into the insecure liebacks of the upper headwall and managed, just barely, to top out above the difficulties and clip the anchor.  Annus Mirabilis, 5.11, Andy Ross, Gene Vallee, Shingo Ohkawa, 4 June, 2011--how better to celebrate what has, no doubt, been one hell of a year, not just for new routes and for climbing, but for life, in general! 

 Here's a pic from our first recon; on our way down, a light rain made capturing a clear image a bit difficult, but as you can see, it's a bit steeper than what the next image suggests--once on the route, however, the climbing is quite a bit steeper!

YAARRR!

The weather...

here in SLC has been very, very wet--in the past week, the mountains received over two feet of new snow, bringing the season total to over 750 inches!  Lower down in the valley, it's mostly come down as rain, making this desert-basin city as green as I've ever seen it.  The climbing's been off-and-on due to storms; just last Saturday in Little Cottonwood, some friends and I were just about to launch into some interesting, new territory when a rather exciting thunderstorm rolled up unexpectedly from the west...  After a quick retreat, my buddy Shaun--the same friend from a few of this season's earlier posts, I just learned that his name was spelled with a "u," instead of a "w"--and I took cover in a small cave I'd noticed the week before, a spot I dubbed, "the Dog-House Cave," as it's most likely where I'd come to bivy in the event I ever really pissed Coby off, or was ever to be, "on-the-lamb."  The feature is an enormous, house-sized granite boulder that, as it fell down the gully some time ago, split in this most elegant way, creating a gap that--from a distance--appears as if framed by the outline of a large standing wave.  We sat underneath the huge natural roof and sipped cans of Coors as the storm passed, every now and again catching the fleeting arc of lightning in our periphery.  After about an hour-and-a-half, the thunderstorm subsided and the canyon was, once again, filled with Sun, it's long, unbroken slabs glistening.  We descended; all along the trail, boulders had already dried--just another of the canyon's secrets, as the dry, desert air which, in the valley is responsible for the static shocks I've become conditioned to fear from our car door does a wonderful job with rapidly dessicating our beloved stone.  Nevermind that it rained this morning--it'll be drier than you think! 

The mighty Gargoyle Wall in LCC:  the shaded, right-facing corner near the photo's center is the goal.  Could it be that it has gone unnoticed and unclimbed all these years?  I wouldn't be surprised to find some sign of passage beneath the prominent roof!  The Dog-House Cave is a few hundred feet below, in the gully. 

Spring's first nice day and the view from 454 S 500 E

Yesterday morning, Tyler and I skied the two main shots on Gobbler's Knob with nearly a foot of fresh, on top of roughly a foot from the storm three days prior--which we also got to ski first, incidentally.  Yet today, it seems that Spring has finally arrived.  I had plans to be picked up at 5am this morning for another round, but fortunately, my partner bailed, and I stepped out to see this from our buiding's front step. 

This last one I took from the second-story parking lot of the Smith's across the street.  Of the entire Central Wasatch skyline, this part's my favorite, as you can see--starting just right of the light pole, from Little Cottonwood to the Draper Ridge--the Coalpit Headwall, Thunder Bowl, Bighorn Peak and Lone Peak, with Peak 10,292, the Crow's Feet and the Dolphin, visible as well.  This is the backyard, and just one reason I tend to be so distracted at home!  

Another trip around the Sun

Just when I thought that all hope was lost, a brief, yet intense Spring snowstorm dumped over a foot of light snow in the mountains Wednesday night, allowing us to, once again, enjoy a priveleged day in the Wasatch--a rare treat these days, as the Sun continues to rise higher in the April sky.  Thursday wasn't the deepest we'd seen it--or, our biggest day in terms of vertical gain--but the novelty of occupying a landscape that will, in a few short weeks, be radically transformed from a vast, unbroken carpet of white into an erratic mass of jagged talus, is a very cool feeling--in spots, you're probably standing ten to fifteen feet above the Summer surface level!  Mountains are dynamic places, and if you can spend enough time in them, these gradual, often miniscule changes become evident if you're of a mind to notice.  Tuesday will be 33 years.  Not a long time, just 33 such transitions from Winter to Spring up there in those secret and remote points in space, 33 laps around our star. 

Blogs are a pain-in-the...

I can never seem to get it together when I'm in front of a computer to write, and so I apologize about the long lapse.  Indeed, it's been nearly a month since I last posted; though, rather than summarize the events of the past few weeks, I'd rather just keep it short and sweet--it's a lot easier to write about the more random stuff that comes to mind, rather than to compose an involved synopsis...
So the Wasatch can't seem to make up its mind, whether it's still Winter, or if, in fact, Spring is finally here.  The second half of March saw frequent, sizable storms that were almost immediately followed by stretches of clear skies and a Sun that, these days, sits a bit too high in the sky.  All that great snow--on more than a few instances, we received over a foot each night--and yet, the clock started ticking the moment it touched ground.  By most afternoons, nearly every aspect at all elevations got cooked, leaving a nasty, unsupportable crust over much of the skiable terrain of the range.  As if to have even more fun at our expense, these storms have been punctuated by brief periods of warm, sunny weather--conditions perfect for rockclimbing--and though I'm still trying to stay PSYCHED for April powder days, I must admit that the prospect of long days climbing in t-shirts and in shorts is becoming more and more difficult to dismiss.  What a problem to have, eh?  Nate, if you're reading this, there's certainly some truth to that old notion, "too damn Western!"
On a more somber note, two weekends ago, a friend and a fellow Lone Peak fanatic, Garrett Smith, died from injuries sustained in a large avalanche just about an hour and a half south of the city, along the Manti skyline.  Garrett was a bit younger than me, and had just gained a foothold in the outdoor industry as a rep for Petzl's Work-Rescue division.  These last few years, I would often run into him at tradeshows, but it was our random run-ins at Lone Peak Cirque that I remember most; in addition to being an avid skier and a seasoned climber, Garrett also took photos.  One of the images that stands out for me and that you may have seen in a recent issue of Alpinist Magazine--I can't remember which--can be viewed here at his website:
http://hammersincphoto.com/#/Portfolio/Climbing/2  That's our mutual friend, Scott Epperson, racing the sunset on the last pitch of the Cirque classic, the Lowe Route, on the Question Mark Wall.  Here's to you, Garrett!