48

By the time you read this, I will have begun the biggest athletic adventure of my life. This post will self-publish at 5:00 AM on Saturday, July 26, about the same time that I'll be heading up the Signal Ridge Trail on Mount Carrigain. It's my declared intention to visit all 48 peaks over 4,000 feet in my home state as swiftly as possible. A team of family and friends will be monitoring my progress as well as providing food, road transportation, and moral support over the next three days. My plan is to stop the clock at the Mount Kinsman Trailhead sometime on Tuesday the 30th after covering nearly 200 miles, and 68,000 feet of elevation gain if everything goes according to plan. (Ha!)

I’m not the first person to pursue the Fastest Known Time (FKT) of the Four Thousand Footers. Others have blazed this trail before; the Fitch brothers, Ted "Cave Dog" Keizer, Tim Seaver, Sue "Stinkyfeet" Johnston, Cath Goodwin, my friend Ryan Welts, and Andrew "Traildog" Thompson. I've drawn years of inspiration from these people and now it's my turn to try and stand on their shoulders. I've researched and planned and trained enough that I'd like to think I'm going into this with open eyes despite the fact that it's far beyond anything else I've done. It's going to hurt and my resolve will be tested in ways I can’t yet appreciate. The lows will be low and the highs will be high. Failure is deliberately a possibility. 

So why do it? For one, I get to spend four days trying to break new ground in the mountains I love. The deeper answers are hard to articulate, but I will say this: I've collected an unusual set of skills and capabilities over the years as a hiker, climber, and runner. These mountains in particular have been burned into brain over the last twelve years and I strongly feel that I'm as qualified to do this as anyone has ever been. Simply put, I’m doing this because I want to and because I can.

Tim Seaver tells me that when he broke the record in 2003, he was sure it would be lowered again in short order, but attempts on his time have been few over the last decade. Just this summer, Andrew Thompson managed to trim 51 minutes off Tim's time, lowering the record to three days, fourteen hours, fifty-none minutes. Coincidentally, I feel like I’ve been on a collision course with the Four Thousand Footers record since 2003, I just didn’t know it for most of those years. Since the day I discovered a list of the Four-Thousand Footers in the back of an old copy of the AMC White Mountain Guide, I've been unable to sit still. The mountains got me off my sedentary ass and fundamentally changed me. They put me in control of my own life, and blessed me with new experiences I never would have imagined. This adventure will be another one of those experiences, succeed or fail, in a relationship with the Whites that will continue long after this is over.

The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy. - Albert Camus

Madison Gulf Ice - 12/18/2010

It was mid-December and our options felt limited. Frankenstein Cliff and all the other usual crags were in marginal condition and neither one of us felt like dealing with the crowds in Huntington Ravine. Then Courtney suggested Madison Gulf. With five miles and 4000 vertical feet to cover on the approach, we could count on having the place to ourselves and, with its decent altitude, the Gulf seemed like a safe bet to find some fat ice. So, without a guide book or recent conditions report we set out on the Valley Way to have an adventure.

Now we're getting somewhere:

A shoulder of Mount Adams comes into view:

Mount Madison catches the morning sun:

A brisk day to be above treeline:

Madison Gulf Trail plunges off the edge:

Photo by Courtney Ley

Downward through unbroken snow, this trail sees sparse use in the winter:

Photo by Courtney Ley

The ice comes into view to our right:

Photo by Courtney Ley

The entry fee:

Photo by Courtney Ley

Almost there:

Wildcat and Carter Notch to the East:

Courtney leads the first pitch:

With many options, we're able choose a line to suit our desired difficulty:

Photo by Courtney Ley

Some easy terrain:

Photo by Courtney Ley

As well as some moderately steep stuff:

Photo by Courtney Ley

View over to Mount Madison:

Photo by Courtney Ley

Some dork at the last anchor:

The walk off at the top takes you through this. Don't forget to put your hood up!

Finally home free on the Buttress Trail:

Photo by Courtney Ley

Winter Presidential Traverse - In a Day -12/30/2010

For quite some time the Presidential Traverse has occupied a special place in my mind. Looming large from the first time I heard about it, the traverse has been the scene of several pivotal moments in the course of my life - not the least of which being my first daylight meeting of my future wife on Mount Adams in 2005. As with many other achievements, completing such a long route once seemed like a reach goal. It was the reason I first started running on a regular basis.

While I still kick around the Whites quite a bit, one stone that had been left unturned for me was traveling the ridge in winter. For a while I bought into the traditionalist school of thought that multiple days would be required and that the going would be slow and heavily laden. Like so much other dogma, I've discarded this notion. Under the right circumstances of weather, experience, and fitness, a single day winter traverse is quite doable at an acceptable risk level. When I briefly mentioned to someone that I'd left out a few items to lighten my pack, I was met with predictable disapproval. I've been thinking about the risks I take for some time and I'd like to lay out my thoughts on them in more detail in a future post.

Anyway... On the second to last day of 2010 I found myself departing Appalachia on the Valley Way trail at six in the morning. It was still quite dark as we worked our way steadily upwards under a clear sky. The headlamp behind me was held up by my vastly more talented friend, Farmer. Though our goal was a traverse all the way to Mount Jackson, this was only a part of a much more ambitious multi-day adventure for him.

Our pace was brisk and we reached Madison Hut more quickly than I ever have before, though too late to catch the sunrise. Conditions were relatively warm, the skies were very clear, and the wind quite light. With Farmer a bit ahead of me, I dropped my pack at the hut and hurried to catch up. A 20 mile per hour breeze kept things fresh on Madison's summit; these would the highest winds we'd feel all day.

Washington and Adams from Mount Madison:

The normally rough and rocky slopes were filled in with firm snow and our return trip to the hut went much more smoothly than it does in summer. Earlier that week, winds in excess of 140 miles per hour had stripped nearly all the loose snow from the alpine zone and sent it into the collecting valleys below. What remained in most places was a firm styrofoam-like surface that made for very favorable travel conditions. However, in lee areas where the topography was sheltered from the prevailing northwest winds, we had to contend with deep and unconsolidated drifts. This slowed our progress to Mount Adams but was overcome soon enough.

Just below Adams' summit, we switched our snowshoes out for Kahtoola Microspikes. These minimalist traction devices worked quite well, being lighter and much less cumbersome than crampons.

Madison from Mount Adams:

Next stop, Mount Jefferson:

Farmer heading for sunlight on the slopes of Jefferson:

Approaching Mount Jefferson, we opted to contour around to shallower slopes on the northwest side rather than contend with the steeper pitches that the trail follows. Normally we'd stay on the trail above treeline, but with snow covering everything we were free to take whatever route we thought best. The summit came and went rather quickly and Farmer was able to pull away and put some distance on me on Monticello Lawn. Due to a combination of different fitness levels and an oncoming cold, I spent the rest of the day lallygagging behind.

Looking back toward Jefferson from the slopes of Mount Clay:

I worked my way alone up Mount Washington for my first time on the actual summit in about a year. Though I spend a lot of time within a mile of the top, I've developed a preference for avoiding the circus. Today, there were only a few people to be seen but I still didn't stay long. With ideal weather holding I worked my way in a semi-direct line down to Lakes of the Clouds Hut. There were a few steep, hard snow slopes to cross that were mildly sketchy in the Microspikes, but good French technique foot placements got me safely by without any drama.

Mountains into the distance:

The Southern Presidentials. The remainder of our route follows the crest of the ridge over Mounts Monroe, Eisenhower, and Pierce. Lakes of the Clouds Hut is visible right of center.

Seeing as Farmer was a bit pressed for time, the conditions were excellent and the hardest part of the Traverse was behind us, I had no problem with him jetting on ahead at his own pace. This left me free to move at my own speed and was probably better for both of us.

Looking back to Washington from Mount Pierce.

Upon reaching Mount Pierce, I decided that I'd had enough for the day so, while Farmer went on to bag Mount Jackson, I took the easy way down on the Crawford Path. Reaching Route 302 at 2:52 PM gave me an elapsed time of 8:52, my fastest Presisdential Traverse yet. I still have yet to really run a strong summer Traverse and I'm very much looking forward to that this coming year.

First Ice 2010/11 Season

Photo by Courtney Ley

Resuming an activity after a long break is always puts me through a range of emotions. After many months without ice climbing (or motorcycling, or trad climbing, or whatever), I find myself a bit hesitant to start back up again. Not only do I feel rusty, but the time away allows me to inflate the dangers in my own mind. Fear of avalanches and falling ice, inattentive drivers, and cams zippering out of the rock grow out of proportion until I wonder why I ever did that activity in the first place. Nightmares makes this feel quite vivid at times.

I start out by going through the motions: packing my gear, walking up the trail, and racking up - anything to procrastinate a little longer. Maybe, I think, if I drag my feet enough the weather will get worse and I'll be able to save face and weasel out of this without having to admit to being such a pussy. This is where a good partner comes in - some reinforce this fear and make it easier to find an excuse - others have no mercy. Given my natural level of caution, the latter is usually just what I need. When the moment of truth comes I say, "yep, looks good to me - let's do it."

It takes a few feet of climbing before the elvis-leg starts to go away. A bit higher, I've placed a few screws and the urge to down climb with my tail between my legs is steadily fading. Each swing feels solid, I look at things more rationally, and realize how much damn fun this is. By the top I'm building an anchor and fighting through the painful rush of blood back into my cold hands. Circulation isn't the only thing coming back, and I'm now looking forward to my best season of ice climbing yet.

Damnation Gully

The excuses are there. You could use them and no one would blame you, but you'd still feel regret. You know because you've been down that road and you'll probably travel it again at some point. But not today. Butterflies keep you on edge the night before, on the drive up, and while you lace your boots.
The doubts fade for a bit as your competitive instinct sets in. There are a handful of parties already signed in for the Ravine, some of them left shortly before you. With a little effort, you might be able to catch them and your chosen route will more likely be free. You know you have the advantage as a soloist, there's no rope to weigh you down. Shirtless in the cold, you can push harder up the hill and still arrive with dry clothing.
This is the last flat ground you'll experience for a while. The self doubt floods back as you pause to suit up. Harness goes on, mechanical trinkets adorn, crampons snap into place reassuringly. You check everything, wouldn't want any unpleasant surprises later. The avalanche danger is low and the skies are blue and clear, as expected, so there's no help there. The wind howls up high and, in person, the route looks so...big. Well, no shit, what did you expect? The name - Damnation Gully - and the fact that people have died here are almost enough to send you packing, but the urge is shelved. Feeling almost detached, you crampon your way up the steeping snow slope. I'll just have a look, there's no harm in looking.
Soon, you realize you are going more up than forward and you've transitioned to climbing. Both ice tools come out and you stab them into styrofoam snow. Being a uniform surface the outwash of the gully is easy and there's a simple, calming rhythm to moving upward on it. Rock walls close in around you in a steep slot canyon. A steady stream of ice-pebbles flows down the gully, making a funny maraca noise. The angle tips back as the first ice bulge is reached. In the sun, the frozen water is soft and plastic; hero ice. A pause and a look over the shoulder reveals only sky. To look at the ground you've already covered you have to look down, between your the boots. This is the point of no return. A fall from here would send you rocketing down the slope for several hundred feet into the rocks below, merely crippling you if you get off easy.
The world shrinks into a 15 foot bubble of focus and upward progress resumes. As if on cue, the wind gusts down the gully and buffets your body around. With two sunken ice picks you brace for a moment, your head down as spindrift and ice pellets shower you from above. A clunking sound gets louder and louder and then a loud crack dominates your senses. A hunk of ice the size of a coffee cup ricochets off your helmet and continues it's plunge down the gully. Then another, and another. While waiting it out you notice your shadow is crisply cast onto the snow, and you smile. This is what you came for, this is the real thing. The wind ebbs and you claw upward in a surge of pleasure. Ice picks are scratched around on rock until they find secure hooks, boots break through an icy crust and paddle through unconsolidated snow, but the climbing continues. The wind gusts still come intermittently, along with their rain of debris, and the pauses take their toll on strained calf muscles.
The horizon changes as you round a corner and your upward field of view is perfectly split between blue and solid white. The wind is getting louder and small puffy clouds shriek by overhead. The lip of the ravine is very close. However, it's not over yet. The abrupt transition from the flat weather-ravaged expanse of the Alpine Garden to the downward-plunging gully has done odd things to the wind. As the stream of air passes the lip, it curls back on itself in a vortex. Through the intricacies of compressible fluid dynamics, snow has been deposited at the very top of the gully, forming a cornice. The upshot of all this is that there's a five foot wall of vertical to overhanging snow guarding the top out - a very distinct demarcation of where climbing ends and walking begins. You know you can't take this obstacle head on, it likely would collapse if you asked it to hold your weight. Tunneling through it might be a possibility, but again the threat of collapse is too great. Retreat is also an unattractive option.
Looking out to the left, the cornice appears much smaller. Snow and ice, the primary mediums of your method of travel, rapidly give way to rock and moss in this direction. You move more cautiously now. Ice axes are swung gently, and even then they sometimes are rejected by rock underneath. You hook features when you can and stick your picks into frozen blobs off moss that turn out to be almost as solid as the ice itself. Now your head is high enough that you can peer over the top. To a bystander you might look like a kind of hooded, helmet-wearing gopher. One tool is placed on something hopefully solid, while you holster the other to free your hand. Palming downward on a rime-encrusted rock, you place your crampons points on tiny indentations and stand up. A single forward step deposits you back into the land of the upright and evolved.
Success! Though not a boisterous person, you allow a quick whoop only because no one else is around. No one can hear you scream. A feeling of fulfillment floods through your body, even though you're already getting back to business. Hood cinched down and ice axes stowed, you walk though the whiteout, leaning sharply into the freeway-speed wind that tries to blow you back over the edge. Though your route was of moderate difficulty, the dangers were exaggerated in your own mind, and you're keenly aware of your status as a mediocre dilettante, none of this can undermine an intense feeling of personal satisfaction. No one can take this from you.