North Cascades

Jesse and I took a couple rest days after Rainier to recover and work on our rock climbing. Both of us are reasonably proficient, but climbing well as a team is key to success in the alpine and proficiency does not necessarily equate to good teamwork. We headed up to Index where Jesse led his first pitch of 5.10-. More importantly, we climbed well together after a long hiatus. Things were looking great.

We'd planned on climbing three long, committing alpine routes in the Enchantments. This area of the Cascades is popular and crowded all summer due to its proximity to Seattle and the relatively good weather. Jim Nelson, a friend of Jesse's and the owner of Pro Mountain Sports, talked us out of our objectives. He instead suggested something in the North Cascades National Park -- the Torment-Forbidden Traverse. It's typically a 2-3 day route over a couple miles of technical terrain, but Jesse and I decided to do it in a day. We felt that success was all but assured considering how well the route matched up to our strengths.

The approach went quickly as we half-hiked, half-jogged up to the base. If we could keep our pace up, we'd be off the ridge long before the sun went down.



Instead of wasting time on the South Ridge of Torment and traversing across the Southeast Face, we elected to climb the face directly. I'd read a report on it the night before and the guidebook said that the climbing was 4th class. Jesse started up across steep granite slabs in his tennies. He was ~180' up when he built our first anchor. I was confused, since we'd planned to simul-climb the entire face and stop only on the summit or to unrope. The climbing was more challenging than 4th class, however. I had to yard on gear a few times on account of my boots.

Things were not looking up when I reached Jesse's belay. He'd warned me earlier not to put unneccesary weight on the rope. As I climbed up, I realized why. All three pieces of protection were marginal. Two were plugged into cracks around a big, loose block. Another was wedged between two miniscule, unattached chunks of granite. The climbing above our belay was steep and loose.

Still, it looked like we could escape upwards if we could pull through the next ten feet.

Jesse showed me just how impossible that would be. The key moves would require pulling on a unattached block of granite that, when weighted, threatened to land on the belay. That block was the impetus for his building our crappy belay. We surveyed all possible options and arrived at the same conclusion: time to bail off of questionable protection. Then came that nastly sinking sensation in my guts.

Jesse went first with all of our gear. He had a nut holding the weight and two cams backing it up. The plan was for me to remove the back-ups if the nut looked solid on Jesse's rappel. The nut shifted.

I didn't know that sinking sensations could worsen. I thought that they were like getting kicked in the junk. I thought that as soon as the feeling had taken hold completely, things couldn't get any more intense. When the nut started popping down the slot with Jesse on rappel, I had the feeling of being on a roller coaster that had just gone over a small hump and was now diving down the big drop. I wanted to puke.

The nut re-lodged itself with one side against solid stone and the other held up by a small, artificial constriction of loose grit. Jesse completed his rappel and I decided to leave one of the cams as back up even though I couldn't move the nut from its new resting place. My trip down the rope was terrifying though uneventful. The next rappel when smoothly and soon enough we were down. Back at the base of Torment.

At first I felt grateful that things had gone as they had. After all, we'd escaped from a crappy situation with no injuries. We were alive and well, even though we'd left $110 in gear on the mountain. Then the questions started. What if we'd looked a little harder at the options above the belay? What if we had started climbing from higher up on the snowfield? Why hadn't we done what Jim recommended and climbed the South Ridge instead of the SE Face?

I didn't understand how Dad could appear so peaceful after failing on Rainier. He'd chosen to turn around due only to his fear. Jesse and I were faced with insurmountable, life-threatening obstacles and still, less than 20 minutes later, I felt disappointed and hollow. Our decision seemed questionable. We should not have failed, but we did. Was it really due to insurmountable obstacles or did I share more in common with Dad than I first thought? Had we simply given in to the Fear?

Rainier

I recently got back from a climbing trip to the Pacific Northwest that was full of everything I love about climbing: pain, perseverance, success, and failure.

After the long drive from Salt Lake, I met up with Dad, Kris and Jesse in Mt. Rainier National Park. We planned on climbing the mountain via a technically moderate, but long and strenuous route up the Emmons Glacier -- the longest stream of ice in the lower 48. Three of the four of us had already been on the mountain. Two of the team had high-altitude experience in other countries. We'd all been planning our ascent since spring. I was stoked on how together things seemed.

The approach went smoothly and we hit our 9600' basecamp at mid-afternoon. The next day we rested, brewed up, and did a little rescue practice. Many interesting tales were told. Most involved SE Asia. Almost all involved sex. After Jesse, Kris and I had finished brewing the last liters of water at the end of the day, I crawled back into the tent for the second night on the mountain when Dad let me in on a little secret -- he wasn't planning on leaving for the summit the next morning. He complained of an upset stomach. He complained that he felt sluggish. He complained that it was too risky.

He was scared. Starting at seracs and crevasses all day had shaken him.

Everyone who chases the dragon of risk knows Fear. The frustrating part about Fear is how subjective it can be. What seemed a mellow, grade 2 glacier route to me racked my Dad with doubt. It forced him to examine his life, his priorities, and his motivation. It magnified the hazards of glacier travel until they seemed insurmountable. Rock climbers call it getting "gripped." It's that moment when you feel too scared to move up, down, or sideways. It's that moment when palms sweat and time stops and experienced dragon chasers start talking to themselves out loud or singing their favorite pop song. ("Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" by Elton John is my personal favorite.)

We agreed to discuss things again when the alarm went off, but I knew he'd already decided. I guess sometimes it takes months of planning, roundtrip airfare, and a healthy dose of suffering to know where your boundaries are.

When the alarm went off, Dad rolled over and let me know when I already knew -- he was bailing. I was so angry that I refused to carry a flag to the summit for him. All I could think of was how great it would've been to give him a hug and tell him how proud I was that he'd summitted after two consecutive failures. I was disappointed. It felt like I'd failed even though Kris, Jesse, and I were the first to arrive at the summit that morning.

Still, the sunrise was spectacular. The intervening ridges were highlighted pink and the Enchantment Range - where Jesse and I planned on climbing in a few days - was silhouetted black against the pale sky. I remember mumbling, "this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen" into the whipping wind. I forgot the flag and the failure and felt lucky. Looking back on the Emmons, I'm still not quite sure how I feel about it. The trip that Jesse and I took a few days later to the North Cascades clouded things a little for me.