Joe Brown, RIP

Joe Brown, one of my early climbing heroes, died on April 15 at age 89.  Joe was a working-class climber from Manchester, England who advanced the standards of rock climbing during the 1950s and 60s.  He also did notable ascents in the Alps and Himalayas.  His autobiography, The Hard Years (1967) was a formative influence on my own climbing.  Joe was famous for using fist-jams in vertical rock cracks, and I still have scars on my hands from using the technique.  I bought a Joe Brown climbing helmet in the mid-70s, and it is still my one-and-only for rock and ice, although it is a bit scuffed up.  Please read this fine obituary of him. 

-Zenwind.
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Excelsior! by H. W. Longfellow

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
"Excelsior!"

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
"Excelsior!"

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
"Excelsior!"

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
"Excelsior!"

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
"Excelsior!"

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last Good-night,
A voice replied, far up the height,
"Excelsior!"

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
"Excelsior!"

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
"Excelsior!"

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
"Excelsior!"

(-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
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Review: Book and Movie: The Eiger Sanction

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One doesn’t have to be a climber and/or a mountaineering literature enthusiast to appreciate The Eiger Sanction, either the 1972 book by Trevanian or the 1975 movie.  The story is a spy-spoof thriller with a fine dose of extreme alpine climbing.  The 1975 film, directed by and starring Clint Eastwood, has been in my top ten favorite movies list for decades.  I’ve watched it to death, and it is by far my favorite of Clint’s films.  I only just now have read the original 1972 novel by Trevanian, and I was not disappointed. 

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The story is a spoof because it satirizes the insanity of government agencies, especially the national “intelligence” agencies that are supposed to protect our lives and liberties with integrity and virtue, and it features classic conspiracy theorist paranoia about government assassins and shadow planners.  The plot is convoluted and beyond credibility, but it is excellent theater.  Our protagonist is Dr. Jonathan Hemlock (Eastwood), a military veteran, experienced alpinist, art expert, and professor of art; but he has also been an assassin for the US government.  An assassination plot is a main part of the story. 

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The mountain climbing aspects of the story are excellent.  The North Face of the Eiger in Switzerland is considered one of the most dangerous climbs in the Alps.  The history of climbing and death on this Nordwand (north wall) is fascinating, and this story taps into the entire mystique and into many of the actual historical details.  The more one knows about the Eiger’s climbing history, the more the story shines. 

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Movie (1975):  It is very faithful to the book, including dialogue, although some plot changes have been made.  Clint’s ability to deliver classic one-liners with sarcasm adds spice.  The camera work is fantastic, capturing the awesome grandeur of big climbs.  It has a John Williams score, and it is my favorite of George Kennedy’s roles as supporting actor. 

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Clint Eastwood did most of his own stunt work, including most of his climbing scenes, including some leads.  He often has an extra line attached.  During the desert climb, you can see that Clint is top-roped on the chimney climb (contradicting the storyline which has him leading it, but still nice climbing shots); but when you see his back at a distance with no rope above him, that is usually his climbing stunt double.  The double has longer hair, and he doubles on rappel scenes in both the desert and the Eiger as well as at the top of the early building climb scene in Zurich. 

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They filmed the climatic scenes on the Eiger itself, although off to the side of the main face.  A camera crew member was killed by a falling rock, in a spot where Eastwood was standing just before.  To me, one of the best shots of Clint actually climbing is his long pendulum swing on the north face. 

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Clint wears an unusual helmet in the Eiger scenes, one with a small visor like on a construction safety helmet, and I assume this was to protect his million-dollar face from being smashed by rockfall.  I’ve never seen a climber wear such a helmet. 

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More authentic film props are pieces of gear identical to what I used then, in my pioneer climbing days.  Woolen Dachstein mittens are dense, windproof, and will insulate even when frozen; one must break them in like a good pair of boots.  The crampons worn are just like my own first pair.  The climbing boots, both the rock and the ice climbing ones, are typical of the era.  (My own beloved pair of Galibier Super-Guide ice boots were all-leather and non-insulated, and it took me three years to break them in, but they are my dancing slippers of choice on steep ice.) 

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The movie’s mountaineering advisors were all top rank.  Foremost was Dougal Haston.  He was a Scots climber who headed an international climbing school based in Switzerland.  His climbing resume was impressive:   He did new routes on Ben Nevis in winter Scotland.  In 1966 he joined German climbers for the first ascent of the direttissima (“most direct route”) on the Eiger’s north face (the Harlin Route).  First ascent of the south face of Annapurna in 1970, and the first ascent of Everest’s south-west face in 1975.  

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Also advising for the film were:  Norman Dyhernfurth, who led the first American team to summit Mt. Everest in 1963; and Hamish MacInnes, the legendary Scots climber and pioneer in mountain rescue techniques. 

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The South Tyrolean mountaineer, Reinhold Messner, is perhaps the greatest mountain climber in history, and while Eastwood was filming in the summer of 1974, Reinhold Messner and Peter Habeler climbed the Eiger north face in 10 hours.  (There is a photo in Messner’s book, The Big Walls, with them and the film’s stars.)  Messner and Habeler were the first to climb Mount Everest without bottled supplemental oxygen in 1978.  Messner came back in 1980 and did another first:  He climbed Everest solo from base camp to top and back, and of course without oxygen. 

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Book:  1972 by Trevanian (aka, Rodney William Whitaker)

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Although additional history of Eiger north face climbing is given in the novel, there is no mention of Toni Kurz during the fatal 1936 attempt on the north face.  Kurz was the last surviving member of his rope team and was trying to rappel down to the very railroad tunnel “window” on the face that our story’s Hemlock tries for.  (So the “window” rescue scenario has historical background.)  Kurz is dying of exposure with a frozen arm, but he cannot work the knot that joined two rappel ropes through his rappel rig because his weight is on it.  He is jammed and dies of exposure hanging from his rope, just meters from rescuers. 

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Trevanian calls the Eiger north face’s first ascent team of 1938 a “German team” – but it was a combined effort of two teams:  two Germans and two Austrians.  The Germans were Anderl Heckmair (the strongest climber, who led) and Ludwig Vorg (aka, the “Bivouac King,” so called because of his knack for making a cold bivouac, where you put on a jacket and put your feet into your pack for warmth and shiver the night, more endurable, e.g., he pulled out a little alcohol spirit burner to melt snow for tea, and he put on his own wool fleece slippers!).  The Austrians were Fritz Kasparek and Heinrich Harrer (his book, The White Spider 1959, remains the classic Eiger north face book; Harrer is also known for his autobiographical Seven Years in Tibet 1952).

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Errors in the movie:  (Yeah, I know, I’m nit-picking):

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Hemlock’s friend, Ben, limps with a bad knee because of “frostbite” from an earlier climb (identified in the novel as Mt. Aconcagua).  But frostbite of the toes, even including toe amputation, should not cause stiff knees for the rest of your life; and it should not hamper future ice and snow climbing, although loss of toes does affect rock climbing.  (Messner lost over half his toes in 1970, before his greatest high climbs.) 

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The Tyrolean Traverse in the desert climb makes no sense in the plot.  So why is it included?  Well, because it is so dramatically picturesque, of course.  Most classic climbing flicks show it although it is rarely used. 

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Belay technique:  The hip belay was still used at that time.  But the climbers while on early rock pitches of the Eiger are all using poor technique.  E.g., they don’t use anchors at the top of pitches – although in fast alpine climbing one might forgo them.  But then why stand up?  Sitting down, in a braced position, is much more stable with a lower center of gravity.  Also, they are using their inside hand, the hand closest to the cliff face, for their braking hand.  One should always use the outside hand, the one farthest away from the wall, as a brake.  This is because if a fall loads and pulls you, your inside hand may slam against the wall and make you lose your braking grip.  A climber must be ambidextrous and able to brake with either hand; it doesn’t take that much force to brake a top-roped fall.  The actors were all right-handed and instinctively braked with the wrong (i.e., inside) hand.  Also, they don’t use a carabiner on their waist harness opposite from their brake hands to keep the rope around their waists and to prevent it from slipping down under their butt, legs and feet. 

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Best lines: 

1. Hemlock to Meyer during a desperate situation:  “We’ll make it.”  Meyer to Hemlock:  “I don’t think so, but we shall continue with style!” 

2. Eastwood, shouting with echoing effect:  “[Fill in name], you asshole!!!!!!!!” 

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Best film shots: 

1. Hemlock and Ben on top of the Totem Pole in the desert, drinking beer. 

2. Clint’s pendulum swing on the north face.

3. Clint cutting the rope. 

4. Immediate transition from the desert scene when Hemlock leaves Miles standing alone, directly to a full face shot of the Eiger’s north face, an evil 6,000 foot face of ice and crumbling rock.  Whoa! 

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-Zenwind.

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Climbing Memories, Black Betty, and Mundee

My favorite Hard Rocking band in Bangkok is Mundee, who play at The Rock Pub. I see them every chance I get, usually at midnight on Wednesdays.  They play a fantastic cover of Black Betty, an American Southern folk-blues prison work song, plus they play amazing covers of Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, and many other great Rock bands.  They do rock.

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Black Betty was a radio hit by Ram Jam in 1977, and it seems that the song is always connected in my memory with my earliest climbing days since that year was my first for technical climbing.  Later, in 1980 or 1981, I was teaching climbing techniques to an adventure specialty group of teen Explorer Scouts; we focused on mountaineering, climbing rock, snow and ice.  The lyrics to Black Betty came into my mind spontaneously and mysteriously as we were climbing during a storm on one of our multi-pitch rock climbs in the Adirondack Mountains.  (This is a long story, but as we will see at its end, it was Mundee that helped me figure it all out.) 

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It was the middle of June, but on the day we hiked up to Mt. Rooster Comb with all of our gear, a cold storm was coming in.  We stashed our bivouac gear on the summit of the mountain, then carried our climbing gear down a trail around to the bottom of the South Face, and our objective was to climb the “Old Route,” an easy but long climb first pioneered by the great German-American climber Fritz Wiessner, one of my great climbing heroes.  (I had first free climbed it in September 1977 as my first major solo climb with minimal roped backup and poor equipment – all alone.) 

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As our Explorer team started this long climb – in a rope-team of five or so – it started raining on us.  I led the hardest pitches, being sure that solid anchors were in place to keep our team from falling all the way to the ground far below.  By the time we were getting to the highest parts of the climb, the weather got colder and turned from rain to hail.  When we looked up at the higher mountain peaks all around us, they were plastered with snow. 

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Our easy rock climb now became much more dangerous.  All of us were soaking wet from the rain, it was cold and hypothermia was a big threat – when hypothermic, a person’s judgment is greatly diminished, as well as his coordination.  And we were at the most exposed part of the face, near its top.  The hail-stones were slippery round balls of ice under our feet, and they covered the tilted rock ledge we had to traverse to our right.  This ledge slants/ tilts outward from the wall left-to-right, and it is scary – it seems like it wants to dump you off the cliff at its highest point.  It is scary to walk this ledge when the rock is dry and sunny, as it had been when I soloed it years before, but now it was horrifyingly dangerous with all of the ice under our feet. 

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But we were roped together as a team, and I was confident both that I could anchor all of us with “bomb-proof” rock anchor protection and that our team was well-trained.  But it is never easy to protect a rope-team on a traverse, so I had a reliable climber go ahead and clip into a solid anchor, in order to belay the team between us as they traversed, and I stationed myself at the most dangerous part of the ledge, to make sure that everyone who climbed up to me and then past me was clipped in correctly and well-protected.  What I was most afraid of was our hypothermia and the possibility of making simple mistakes at that critical spot.  

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I also wanted to show my cold, wet, shivering team that I was upbeat and confident in that exposed spot, so, from somewhere in my crazy mind I got the idea to start clapping my hands, stomping my feet, and singing “Whoa, Black Betty, bam-a-lam/ Whoa, Black Betty, bam-a-lam….”  As each team climber came up to me on the beginning of that high ledge, they looked at me like I was crazy as I sang those lyrics to them while grinning like a madman. 

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These guys had already known that I was nuts – I climbed mountains – but they were equally insane to follow me into such situations.  I was never able to explain to them the weird “Black Betty” lyrics that I sang to them on the most dangerous spot on that climb.  I was never even able to explain it to myself. 

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Only in 2011 in Bangkok did I discover why that song came into my head at that earlier specific time and place in 1980 or 1981.  In February 2011, I was at the Rock Pub on a Wednesday midnight, and Mundee sang Black Betty.  The song really rocked me, and it reminded me of that team rock climb.  So after I got home I looked up the song and its history. 

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I discovered that the song was a radio hit precisely in September 1977, and that explained everything.  1977 was my first year of technical rock climbing.  That year I was constantly on the road, driving to climbing areas with my car’s Rock n Roll radio as my only companion.  In September 1977 I did my first major solo climb – the “Old Route” on Mt. Rooster Comb – and the song on all radio stations at that time was Black Betty by Ram Jam.  (“Bam-a-lam!”) 

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That is the reason the song suddenly came into my head three or four years later on the second time I climbed it (this time with my Explorer team).  The song was embedded into my memory of that rock face from the first day I climbed it alone.  Music has that magical way of embedding itself into our life’s memories – into the soundtracks of our lives. 

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Thank you, Mundee, for refreshing my memories and for playing such great Rock n Roll.  I’m a fan.  (I also wrote about Mundee two years ago HERE.)

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-Zenwind. 

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Maurice Herzog, Mountain Climber, R.I.P. (1919-2012)

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One of my great heroes, French mountain climber Maurice Herzog, died on 13 December 2012 at age 93, both famous and controversial.  Through his pivotal book, Annapurna (1952), the best-selling mountaineering book of all time, he inspired me (and uncountable others in my own and later generations) to climb to the very top – to hell with any and all personal costs.  He and Louis Lachenal summited the Himalayan peak Annapurna (8,091 meters/ 26,245 feet) in 1950 – without oxygen – and were the first known climbers to summit one of the 14 mountains over 8,000 meters in height. 

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In their bold all-out dash to the summit, Herzog and Lachenal wore lightweight boots and risked severe frostbite, and indeed both of them soon lost all their toes and Herzog lost his fingers.  Their retreat from the mountain, aided by some of France’s greatest climbers on the team, was an epic in itself.  It would be 20 years before Annapurna was summited a second time.  It’s a bear of a mountain, and many of mountaineering’s best have died there since. 

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One of Herzog’s immortal lessons to me from his experience this was:  “Don’t lose your gloves!”  That sounds sensible enough, but in the extreme experience of hypothermia, inhumanly agonizing climbing fatigue and lack of rest, one does not always focus to the optimum. And on Annapurna’s high altitude they were massively oxygen-deprived.  On the descent of Annapurna, Herzog took off his gloves to get into his rucksack, and the gloves blew away down the slope.  No spare gloves/mittens = disaster; there is such a thing as taking lightweight packing to absurd extremes.  He lost his fingers (as well as his toes). 

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I remembered his plight in horror when in April 1975 I was alone on the summit of Mt. Marcy in unseasonably brutal freezing winter conditions while shivering with hypothermia and at the end of my wits and strength, and when taking off my mittens to take a photo, one mitt in my only pair of mittens blew away; it started sliding down toward the void of Panther Gorge and I quickly stepped out and got a boot on it before it was lost.  I vowed that very day to splurge and buy an extra pair of mitts for all future cold expeditions.  Don’t forget that lesson! 

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Another great lesson from this Annapurna epic was the survival value of snow caves.  On their desperate descent the frostbitten Herzog and Lachenal were rescued by their fellow teammates, Gaston Rebuffat and Lionel Terray.  Someone accidentally fell into a crevasse that luckily had them slide somewhat laterally (rather than vertically) into a snow cave-like cavity.  There they weathered out the wild wind and cold, but with only one sleeping bag for four men.  (That had to have been one long night.) 

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When they broke out for a desperate retreat to lower camps the next morning, the physically able were snow-blinded, and they were guided by the cripples who still had vision.  It was but a marginal team arrangement, but it got them down. 

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Climbers earlier had been well above 8,000 meters on both Everest and K2, but without reaching the summits.  The French feat was great, and Herzog’s well-written account of it electrified the mountaineering world.  Everest was finally summited in 1953 by the strong British expedition, and K2 was summited in 1954 by two in the Italian team backed up by the immortal Walter Bonatti (another of my greatest heroes). 

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One great achievement by Herzog and the French team in 1950 was that they had to do a quick and completely original exploration and reconnaissance of the mostly unknown Annapurna region to even find the mountain in the far back wilderness, and they were pressured hard by time as the coming summer monsoon would smother them in storm.  Heroes come through in desperate situations.  With a bit of luck. 

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The Herzog legacy has hit some bumps in recent years as newer discoveries in climbing history have made some of the previously unknown details clearer.   Controversy is not unusual to the sport of climbing, since we are all egotistical lunatics and closet glory-hounds.  (Example:  most of my own greatest climbs were solo with no witnesses and of moderate difficulty; yet I will brag about them until my dying day!  Climbing defines us at a very fierce level.)  Some of the members of this 1950 French team did not get the glory they deserved in Herzog’s book. 

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For example: 

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Lionel Terray – author of perhaps the greatest title describing the lunacy of mountain climbers, Conquistadors of the Useless -- was on the team and an important element in the expedition’s success and the rescue of the summiteers.  Terray was a great one, specializing in fast and light ascents way before it became esteemed for its aesthetic purity.  He did the first ascent in 1955 of Makalu (8,481 meters and 5^th highest peak in the world) with Jean Couzy, and this French expedition later put seven more members on the summit before going home, a tremendous achievement.  He also did the first ascent of Cerro Fitzroy in Patagonia, 1952, with Guido Magnone, and the first ascent of Mt. Huntington in Alaska in 1964. 

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Later discovered writings by Louis Lachenal, who summited Annapurna with Herzog, have apparently added new details to the story of the climb.  Lachenal and Terray did the second ascent of the North Face of the Eiger in 1947, an epic event. 

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Also on Herzog’s Annapurna team was Gaston Rebuffat – the skillful master of climbing technique and author of exquisite books on the grace of the upward moving mountaineer.  Gaston helped save the day in the retreat on Annapurna.  On his resume he was the first to climb all six of the Great North Faces in the Alps.  Another of my great heroes.  A stylist, a romantic and a visionary. 

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The controversy, in sum, is that Herzog as organizer/ leader of the expedition monopolized the rights to information for the press and the world at large, and thus his teammates – who saved his life – were pushed a bit into the background in his book and in immediate mountaineering fame. 

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Ok, I accept this.  Mountain climbers are not (quite) gods.  We are often pricks.  Human weaknesses are expected, and humans as climbers are not completely rational.  (How would you categorize someone who lusts for these dangerous desolate peaks?)  I am extremely glad to see the day when the other members of the 1950 Annapurna expedition are given their long-delayed due, and I’m sorry that Herzog did not share the glory as he might have.  I hope to someday read the full accounts of others on the expedition.  Mountains seem (from human perspective) to be not always fair to those who assault them, and neither are mountaineering historians. 

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Yet, all in all, Maurice Herzog, by publishing Annapurna in 1952, ignited a holy spark in so many of us misfits and inspired us to climb far beyond our limitations and to reach for the very top.  I thank him for that heroic vision. 

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-Zenwind.

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Contents of Climbing Log

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Here are the titles (linked) of all entries in my Climbing Log in order of their arrangement from the top to bottom. To access all of these entries on one page, click on the “a Climbing Log” label either below this entry or on the "Index" list of labels to the right. To access a single entry, click on its title here.
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Silver Moonlight
The Banshee Cry
Ancient Boundaries
High Slab Climbing
Nietzsche quote: On the Mountains of Truth
Photo: Zenwind high at Seneca Rocks
Gothics North Face
Minus 40 Degrees
The Coldest of Ice Climbs
Chouinard’s Gully
Roped Solo Technique (old style)
Encounter on a Rocky Ridge
The Frostbite Trip
Breath Control and Extreme Climbing
My Cousin
Purpose of my Climbing Log
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-Zenwind.

Silver Moonlight

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(Part 1 of a 4-part saga about my September 1981 Adirondack trip. Part 2: “The Banshee Cry.” Part 3: “Ancient Boundaries.” Part 4: “High Slab Climbing.”)
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This was one of the most beautiful – as well as unusual -- nights I have ever spent in the mountains. It was the September Full Moon of 1981, and my objectives on this mini-expedition were Mt. Algonquin via traversing trail and Mt. Colden via its north face slab climb.
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It was to be a lightweight and fast trip with minimal gear. Instead of a sleeping bag I used a half-bag with a parka, both out of good synthetics. No tent, just a 1-pound Gore-Tex bivy-sack, which was really only a water/wind-resistant mummy-shaped sleeping bag cover.
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Starting from the Adirondack (ADK) Lodge Trailhead, I got a very late afternoon start straight up from Heart Lake to the summit of Mt. Algonquin, the second highest mountaintop in the ADK range, and the highest peak of the triple-peaked mountain mass that is also called MacIntyre Mountain.
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Before reaching the Algonquin summit, I stopped to examine the nearby off-trail site where a B-52 had crashed in bad weather into the top of the mountain decades before. An engine-mount is still embedded in a crack.
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On Algonquin’s summit I enjoyed a great view in all directions. It was a beautiful end to a beautiful autumn evening, but the air was fast becoming chilly and the sun was low. On the general summit area I found the only spot suitable for a bivouac, which was a small flat ledge about 40 yards from the summit, to its SE.
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I took off my boots and cooked supper while sitting in my half-bag and parka. As I put my cooking gear away, I watched the sun go down on my right and the full moon rise on my left over Vermont. My feet were pointed south toward Avalanche Pass below and its beautiful lakes: Avalanche Lake and Lake Colden. My next objective, Mt. Colden’s north face, looked very steep and very big. Exhausted from a 10-hour drive and the hike up to the summit, I fell right asleep.
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I woke up at midnight in a beautiful world of silver. There was no color, only shades of silver. I was disoriented at first, not least because the entire world seemed to be below me. The moon was centered in the south, looking me right in the face and reflecting brightly off the lakes below my feet. The whole universe was silver, the moon and sky above me, the mountains and valleys all around me and below me, and especially those lakes and streams below to the south. I saw a small glimmer in the distance that I finally identified as a silver waterfall on some mountainside far below.
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The night was still and peaceful, and this was among the finest moments I have ever had in the mountains or anywhere else. In times like this, my heart aches because I want so much to show such beautiful mountain sights to family and friends. But they never choose to come this way, to make the effort of the ascent. So such beautiful experiences seem to be both the blessing and curse of a solo rambler like me.
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I enjoyed the silver moonlit world around me and below me for as long as possible, trying to keep my eyes open and to sit up. But eventually I fell back asleep.
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(This saga is continued in Parts 2, 3 and 4.)
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-Zenwind.

The Banshee Cry

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(Part 2 of a 4-part saga about my September 1981 ADK trip.)
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While bivouacking close to the summit of Mt. Algonquin, and after falling asleep to a beautifully calm midnight view of clear silver moonlight, I woke up at 3am to an entirely different world, one of chaos, loud blasting wind, and shards of torn cloud pin-wheeling past my face. The moon, now in the SW, was barely visible behind racing cloud formations.
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Then I started to hear an absolutely unearthly sound, and it got steadily louder. It was unbelievably frightening, and I do not frighten that easily. It gives me chills as I recount it now, decades later. It was an earsplitting sound like a ghastly scream. All I could think of was legends of the “Cry of the Banshee.” It was blood-curdling and insanely loud. I was terrified. I could not explain it. In all my experiences, no natural forces could ever produce a sound like this.
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I am not a superstitious person, but my emotional experience at that moment was as if there were, in actual reality, a raging supernatural demon out there, the kind of demon-greeter one could imagine meeting at the very Gates of Hell. I consulted my rational mind and easily agreed with it that only natural forces operate in the universe. But what the hell was making this ghastly noise? I could not even begin to rationally explain it.
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Thinking that I absolutely must explore this weird phenomenon, I got out of my bivy gear and put my boots on. The screaming sound was coming from the summit, 40 yards away and a bit higher up to the NW of my bivy site. I put rocks on my gear so it would not blow away, and I started climbing toward the summit and the noise’s source. All the hairs on my body were actually bristling with fear, but I just had to check it out.
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Moving toward the summit rocks, a gust of wind blew me off my feet. I got up and moved onward, crouching low, and the terrifying screaming sound just got louder. The final few yards were the scariest, as I was about to peek over the summit rocks.
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Finally reaching the summit on all fours, facing into the full force of the wind, I looked over the far side of the mountain. Between me and the valley of the Olympic town of Lake Placid to the NW was a huge storm cloud. Its base was far below me and its top was far higher than the entire mountain range. And it was advancing straight toward me – fast.
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“Oh,” I thought, “it’s just a storm.” (Albeit a really horrendous and scary storm.) That completely explained the unearthly screaming sound. It had simply been powerful wind racing over the summit rocks upwind of me. All clarified, I quickly headed back to my bivy site. This was a hell of a storm.
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Back to my bivouac, I got out the only lightweight shelter I had packed, a one-pound Gore-Tex bivy sack. I got it over my half-bag and parka, but before zipping it closed I put all my other gear, including boots, into my pack and put heavy rocks on top of it all so it would not blow away. Zipped inside my bivy, I waited it out.
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Wind gusts were so sudden and violent that they actually rocked me with each gust as I lay there, almost rolling me off the ledge -- and I was on the lee side of the summit. I could not sleep, and the storm just got worse, accompanied by more loud ghostly sounds.
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Finally morning light came as the storm blew over. I felt quite beat. After all, I did not sleep much, and the fear in the night had exhausted me. It had become very cold and wet, and I knew I would not try climbing the smooth friction slab of Mt. Colden today in wet conditions, so I declared this a rest day.
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(This saga continues in Parts 3 and 4.)
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-Zenwind.

Ancient Boundaries

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(Part 3 of the 4-part September 1981 Adirondack saga.)
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While still on Algonquin’s summit after the night of “Silver Moonlight” and “The Banshee Cry,” I took a side trip to hike over to the other, slightly lower, summits of this MacIntyre Mountain massif. These are Boundary Peak and Iroquois Peak, which few people visit although they are only several hundred yards off the main trail. This is a highly recommended detour.
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The Native Indian tribes of the Algonquin to the north and the Iroquois to the south were said to have had boundaries between them through the center of the Adirondack Mountains, on a SW-NE line, and this boundary went right over the top of MacIntyre Mountain. The boundaries of their hunting grounds were defined by the watersheds.
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You cannot really appreciate this from Algonquin peak alone; you must walk over Boundary Peak to Iroquois Peak (where you get a unique view of Wallface Mountain’s sheer east face and the wilds of Indian Pass in between). Then walk back to Boundary Peak and stand and look around.
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Looking SW you see the line of great boundary passes dividing the watersheds of the range between Algonquin tribes to the north and Iroquois tribes to the south, e.g., Indian Pass. Then turn to look NE and you see the line of boundary passes continue to trend off in that direction, e.g., Hunter Pass. I know of no spot in the range where you can see the divide so well as at Boundary Peak, and that is the origin of its name.
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The detour completed, I packed up and stumbled down the south trail off Algonquin toward Avalanche Pass and the lakes area. I studied Mt. Colden’s north face, my next objective, which loomed across the valley, as I descended. I bivouacked early in the Pass, looking for an early start the next morning.
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(This saga continues in Part 4.)
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-Zenwind.

High Slab Climbing

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(Part 4, final part of the September 1981 ADK saga.)
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The next day I climbed Mt. Colden’s north face as an easy free-solo rock climb (or “slide”/”slab” climb) in hiking boots with no rock gear. It is not too technical, but is very high, the entire face being somewhere under 1,000 feet high.
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You start by going up a waterfall gully (geologically called a trapdike) on the left of the face, which is an easy rock climb if not too wet. At a certain point, you escape the gully to the right when you can climb out onto the slab. This slab is a long, huge, moderately steep and very exposed friction climb to the top, with no real foot- or hand-holds, and very little places to put climbing anchors even if you had them. You just rely on balance and friction techniques – and dry rock.
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(This Colden’s north face is also one of the classic Adirondack ice and snow climbs in winter, if the snow on the slab is consolidated enough. One climbs up the now-frozen waterfall/trapdike and then out onto the moderate snow climb of the slab. I have never got the chance to do this as an ice climb, as it was never in good condition when I was ready for it, but it is still at the top of my list.)
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The rock slab was not too bad for me. The exposure was not freaking me out as I moved up, as I had been climbing a lot of rock that year. I was hundreds of feet up, at the top of the slab section and very close to the summit, when I came to the little 12-foot wall at the top of the slab that blocked the way to the wooded summit.
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But there was a thin layer of morning ice glaze on this wall, right where I did not need it, and I was a bit concerned about what to do. Down-climbing was out of the question, and there did not appear to be any escape off the slab to the right or left. I could not even rest comfortably on the slanting slab, and my legs were starting to cramp up badly. I consulted the climbing guidebook and realized that I had no choice but to go up the icy wall.
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It was a bit dicey. If you fall off this short wall, you land on the upper reaches of the steeply-sloping slab with nothing to grab, so you are looking at a long, sliding, bouncing and accelerating skid of hundreds and hundreds of feet down into the trees below. Not pretty. My concern was getting close to real fear as my leg muscles started to cramp into knots.
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I actually remember very little about the specific climbing moves that got me up that last short iced wall. All I remember about that spot was the battle to control my fear and to think, to look carefully at the ground I must climb, and to act decisively. But I somehow did gain the summit of Colden, which is somewhat disappointing as a summit because it has trees that obscure any 360-degree view.
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I descended the west ridge, picked up my gear and very humbly limped down the valley trails back to the roadhead.
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-Zenwind.

On the Mountains of Truth

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“On the mountains of truth you can never climb in vain: either you will reach a point higher up today, or you will be training your powers so that you will be able to climb higher tomorrow.”
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-- Nietzsche.

Zenwind high at Seneca Rocks

Gothics North Face

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This was one of the most memorable winter mountaineering experiences I have had.
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In late winter 1985, a Bruce Springsteen song was on the radio all the time. So we called this ice climbing trip the Great "Born in the USA" Ice Tour.
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Steve Landin and I went to the Adirondack Mountains in late winter 1985 to do some ice climbing and hoped that the North Face of Gothics Mountain would be in condition to climb. It is almost 1,000 feet of bare rock that sometimes ices up in later winter with good frozen snow. It is one of the great Adirondack winter classics.
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The mountain is located up in the High Peaks region. Fast and light skiers can leave their car, ski up to the mountain's base, climb the north wall, retrieve their skis and return to the roadhead in one day. But for us, the trails were covered in hard ice, and it would be a three day expedition with two bivouacs: one day to the foot of the mountain, one to climb the face and one more to return.
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Saving weight was imperative, so many things had to be left behind. We decided to leave the tent, the snowshoes and the rope. We would carry ice boots, crampons, two hand-tools apiece, sleeping bags and pads, and a cooker and pots.
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Day One: We carried up to the foot of Gothics Mountain and bivouacked. I was horribly cold, because I had been too fanatical about light weight gear, and I took too light a sleeping bag. The few more pounds of a warmer bag would have been great. I was experimenting with a "vapor barrier liner" concept for a sleeping system. Somewhere between theory and reality, I shivered all night.
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Day Two: The climb. The first section of the North Face was terrifying verglas.
This is hard water ice only a quarter of an inch thick over solid rock. It is too thin to get in a deep axe placement, but it is hard and slick. Only one of my picks was of the newer design that would hook in at all, so I had to front-point up one-handed. I momentarily thought of chickening out and climbing instead the tree-lined slope off to the side of the face. I was extremely scared climbing this section unroped but started up anyway behind Steve. He was a much stronger climber and had hooking capability for both his picks, so he found the route, led it and set an example for me. He gave me a constant "psychological belay." One scary spot was a traverse across a small gully. Steve was anchored only by one axe placement, but he swung over a sling for me to grab. This gave me the courage to make the move across.
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The middle section of the face was beautiful. It was that deep re-consolidated frozen snow that you can run up. Crampon points and hand-tool picks sink in easily and hold. It was fun, and we made good time up this. By the time I had caught up to Steve near the top of this snow section, he had chopped two "buckets" in the snow for us to sit in and rest. In traditional alpine manner, he shared chocolate as we looked down the mountain. A snowstorm was heading straight for us from the northwest, so we did not stay long.
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The top section of the face was more grim. It was mixed with a lot of bare rock, some powder snow and a little ice. Straight up was out of the question, for it was bare rock without weaknesses. We went up diagonally to the left through mixed ground. Steve did the route-finding.
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One small traverse involved carefully placing the right crampon front-points into a small iced rock depression for a delicate temporary movement of weight-distribution. I moved like a phantom, barely breathing, with hundreds of feet of void beneath my heels. I remember thinking: The entire consciousness of the cosmos is focused on the placement of one-and-one-half crampon points on a tiny bit of crumbling ice.
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Easier ground was eventually gained with the summit ridge in sight. As we gained the ridge, the snowstorm was swirling around us, almost a white-out. We got to the summit and took some photos. The void below us that should have been the North Face was completely enveloped in blowing snow. These are the conditions that the Scots climbers enthusiastically call "full conditions."
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We blindly descended the West Ridge and got to the pass between Gothics and Mt. Saddleback (the same pass I had camped at with frozen toes in January 1976 - see blog entry "Frostbite Trip"). The snow was very heavy as we trekked down to our bivouac gear by dark. We hauled it to an ADK leanto on the trail below. We cooked a supper and tried to sleep as snow swirled around our noses.
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Day Three: It was a hellish labor to haul our packs down through thigh-deep snow. We should have brought the snowshoes! Agony and discouragement, I wanted to just lay down and die. I thought of Albert Camus' discussion of the Myth of Sisyphus. The only thing that kept me going was Marine mentality and a dose of Ayn Rand. Perhaps it was also the pathos of Springsteen's lyrics, still going through my head, "Born in the USA," that gave me some grit.
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As we finally called an end to this climbing trip and started the drive back home, guess what song greeted us on the radio? "Born in the USA... Born in the USA." It was one hell of an ice tour.
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-Zenwind.

Minus 40 Degrees

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(Part 1 of a 3-part saga. Part 2: “The Coldest of Ice Climbs.” Part 3: “Chouinard’s Gully.”)
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My coldest experience in the outdoors was in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York in February 1979. I (barely) endured 6 days and nights bivouacking out in temperatures that got down to Minus 40 degrees every night. (-- 40 F = -- 40 C.)
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It was the week that I went there to ice climb and bivouac. I had picked the week of the Full Moon, of course, for reasons of aesthetics and zen.
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Back home on my father's farm in Pennsylvania, the pre-dawn temperature was --28*F every day that week. It was -30*F that week in nearby towns. That is as cold as it ever gets in this part of Pennsylvania. My father kept a weather journal from personal observations and from TV and radio news.
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The coldest spot in the USA for that entire week was -45*F at Old Forge, NY, in the heart of the Adirondacks. Lake Placid, NY was -35*F. I was bivouacking up in Chapel Pond Pass, sleeping on the frozen pond. I had a good thermometer, but it was too damn cold to be fiddling much with thermometers. I rounded it off to -40*F from quick readings. There was a bitterly stiff wind, but it was too cold to think about the additional wind-chill calculations. "Desperately Frigid" sums it up.
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I had an excellent integrated sleeping bag system designed by Paul Petzoldt: an enormously thick Polarguard suit (parka and pants suitable for extended winter camping, with double insulated booties), and it all fit without constriction both over my wool clothes and also into a companion tailor-fitted Polarguard sleeping bag. It was too cold to set up my tent, so I just used it as a bivy bag.
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At supper's finish, I would put a quart of hot water into a water bottle and throw this into the sleeping bag.
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Yet for the first 4 nights, I was extremely cold. I would wake up, shiver for 2 hours, then sleep for 1 hour out of exhaustion. Wake up, shiver 2 hours, sleep 1 hour, etc. On each of these mornings, the water bottle had a quarter of an inch of ice in it. I had to break the ice to drink. That bottle had been inside the sleeping bag all night, between my parka and the bag, and it still froze.
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During these nights, as I tossed and turned, shivered and cursed, the lone round Moon ruled the sky and lit up the entire snowy world. Cold silver silence. It was beautiful and severe. No pity from the big orb.
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Silence ruled, until the pond ice beneath me suddenly let up a loud echoing "Crack!!!" sound. This terrified me. I had imaginings of the ice suddenly opening up and swallowing me, trapped inside my mummy bag. But it was just the groans of the ice forming deep below me. The Moon remained silent above it all. It was spooky.
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The last 2 nights were better, yet the temperature and wind-chill were the same. The only adjusted variable was my food intake during the night. During the 4th of my sleepless nights, I had remembered reading advice from the great mountaineer Paul Petzoldt about taking a bag of food into the sleeping bag with you. If you wake up cold, eat.
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It worked dramatically. I would wake up chilled, and, without waiting for it to get worse, I would sit up (not even opening the mummy bag opening) and feed myself. I had chocolate, cheese, pepperoni, nuts, dried fruit, etc., though I had to chop up the frozen pepperoni and cheese into bite-size chunks with my ice axe prior to bedtime.
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I would eat, but the warmth did not come until about a half hour later. Initially, I felt chilled. It took time to metabolize the food. Then, a cozy glow of warmth spread completely over me, and I fell into a delightful sleep. I would wake up 3 hours later, chilled. I would eat again, like throwing wood on a fire. Again, I experienced a half an hour of chill before the food metabolized and warmed me up. For those last two mornings, there was no ice in the water bottle. My increased body heat prevented it.
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Lesson: food creates warmth. I am a slow learner, but this is one empirical lesson that is high on my certainty scale. (Having extra food in your home or car if you are stranded may save your life.) Paul Petzoldt had written this clearly in his Wilderness Handbook, based on his decades of experiences, but I had not taken the lesson to heart until my very bones were shaken with deep chill.
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It was the coldest Moonlight I have ever experienced. The Hobo of Chapel Pond made it through, gaining some wisdom and feeling humble.
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(This saga is continued in Parts 2, The Coldest of Ice Climbs, and 3.)
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-Zenwind.

The Coldest of Ice Climbs

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(Part 2 of the Minus 40 Degrees Saga.)
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My entry above described the agony of bivouacking in the extreme temperature of minus 40 degrees F in the Adirondacks (February 1979). These next two entries will describe the ice climbing that week.
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All the climbing was done in Chapel Pond Pass. Chapel Pond Slab is a 500 foot face with a long, high, steep direct line at the very top. There are a host of other, mostly shorter climbs nearby.
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The great American climber, Yvon Chouinard, had just published his book, Climbing Ice, an incredible Bible of ice climbing. I had studied it diligently. Every ice climber around was discussing the techniques and lore of this work, and we were eager to see what we could do.
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One morning, I met two hardy North Carolina climbers who had never experienced an Adirondack winter. They were also relative novices at ice climbing like myself.
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I was alone and really wanted another human on the other end of my rope, so I schemed to team up with these guys, since they seemed sensible and reliable. The problem is that a rope of three climbers is too cold in winter, because there is a lot of wait-time while only one climber moves at a time. A rope of two is faster and warmer.
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I plotted to con them into roping up with me. I wandered up to the foot of the Slab area with them, giving them a guided tour. The entire lower section of the Slab is lower angle and was covered with extremely climbable firm frozen snow - very solid and very good for using the flat-footed French Technique, which is restful and really saves the leg muscles from the strain of Front-Pointing.
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Front-Pointing is more instinctive, like climbing a ladder, but it tires you out quickly. It is the necessary technique on extremely steep ice. French Technique is awkward and hard to learn, but I had been practicing. So, I started "French-stepping" immediately up the face, un-roped, looking like a French guide, chattering away about climbing techniques and history.
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It worked. They thought I was an accomplished ice climber, and, when I asked them if they wanted to rope up with me, they said yes. We worked our way up the lower part of the snow-slope, me teaching them how to conserve energy by French-stepping.
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We got to the steep direct section of the Slab and decided it was too hard for any of us to lead, as it would require sustained Front-Pointing on steep brittle ice. So we opted for a shorter, less steep, leftward route up an icy gully that bypassed the harder section. I led up, Front-Pointing and placing several ice screws for protection, then anchored to a tree and belayed them both up to the top with me. We rappelled down another gully.
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They camped that night near my bivouac on Chapel Pond, then they decided the next morning that it was too cold, and they headed home. I never even got their names. I now had to look for new climbing partners.
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I ran into two climbers from southwestern Pennsylvania, Andy and Bruce. We talked and decided to climb the direct steep Slab route tomorrow. These guys were great technical climbers with excellent knowledge of climbing and its history. They were safety minded and cool. But they were not prepared for Adirondack winter and were not dressed for it. They wore knickers and knee-socks, suitable for a summer climb in the Alps. Gloves instead of mittens. And, worst of all, they stayed the nights in motels, ate in restaurants, and drove in their pickup truck to the climbs. By being in heated environments, the shock of minus 40 degrees was too much, and they would become frostbitten in the end.
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We started up the Slab, me free soloing again up the snowy lower part French-style, while they were safely roped up but going too slow. By my being in constant but relaxed motion, I neither sweated nor got cold. We got to the steep ice wall at the top section of the Slab, and I roped up with them, tying on to the second man, Bruce. Andy led, and I was third. He led boldly and decisively up and over the top. The second man climbed up next, while Andy belayed him.
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I was all ready to follow on belay, when a voice from above asked, over the screaming wind: "Can you climb off the face on your own? We cannot bring you up." They could not belay me up to them, and my guess was that they were too cold in the brutal summit wind. I yelled back: "Okay, but untie my rope and let me retrieve it." My rope fell back down to my feet. I went off to the left and ascended the gully I had led with the Carolina guys, but I did it roped solo this time. Damn, it was cold up there on top in the wind.
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I traversed over the top of the Slab to meet my two former rope-mates, only to see them slowly staggering up to me. From a distance, I assessed the situation immediately: these guys were severely hypothermic and in great danger in this frigid wind. When I reached them, their speech was slurred and eyes glazed. Their thinking was slow and indecisive, and all I could understand was that they were cold and their hands and feet hurt terribly. They asked: "How will we get down?" I started feeding them chocolate, nuts and other stuff, and giving them lots of water. I tied them to me and led them over to a wooded cliff with plenty of trees for rappel.
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Their hands would not function well, so I tied all knots and rigged all rappels. After many rappels, we got down out of the wind and to the bottom of the cliff, then we trudged back to where their truck was parked. They headed back to town, while I settled in for a night's bivouac again as the Dharma Bum "Hobo of Chapel Pond."
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We had planned to climb Chouinard's Gully together the next day, but they never showed up, and I had to climb it alone, roped solo. When I rappelled to the bottom of this climb, after completing it, my friends showed up, looking a bit beat. Andy's earlobe was frostbitten and Bruce had badly frostbitten fingers. They were easily chilled all over, in pain, and on their way home.
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I had decided that morning that this would be my last climbing day this week and that I would head home by dark. I could not bear to spend a 7th night in bivouac at minus 40 degrees. My fingers were cracked and bleeding from the cold, and it was painful to do anything with them.
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I had honed my winter camping skills, avoided frostbite, had done some ice climbing at a higher level of boldness than anything I had ever experienced before. I had watched a cold Moon travel across the skies, lighting up a vast, frozen world. I had a great week's vacation.
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[Part 3 of this saga: Chouinard's Gully]
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-Zenwind.

Chouinard’s Gulley

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Part 3 of the Minus 40 Degrees Saga
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This is the third and last entry about my February 1979 ice climbing trip to the Adirondack Mountains when it was 40 degrees below Zero all week. On the last day, I climbed Chouinard's Gully, the ice climb I had most wanted to do.
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This is an ice-filled gully named after the great Yvon Chouinard who first climbed it in the late sixties. It is at Chapel Pond Pass.
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My two buddies from the day before did not show up, and it was too cold to wait around, so I decided to do a solo climb of Chouinard's Gully – roped solo.
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The hardest parts of Chouinard's Gully are near the bottom. The easier upper sections go on through the trees for near 400 feet above the pond. I was armed with an ice axe and a short hammer, both with the classic curved "Alpine" style pick that shattered ice more than penetrated it, and which has been replaced since by more re-curved styles. The crampons on my boots were old-style, and my boots were non-insulated French Galibier Super-guide boots.
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The first crux near the bottom went alright, with only a few scares. I felt like a real mountain climber now.
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Way up, on the second crux, I found myself on a vertical wall of hard, blue, brittle, shattering water ice, while I was running out of strength and starting to freak out. I had "sewing-machine legs," where my legs shook violently, threatening to pop my flimsy front-point crampon placements out. My arms were tiring out quickly and my hands were numb. For every one good axe placement, I had to hammer four times, breaking huge plates of ice off which almost knocked my foot placements out. I looked down below my heels at my last ice-screw placement, far, far below. I got really scared. I thought: "I'm going to fall." And I almost did.
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The Zen of Fear.
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I looked down, and knew that down-climbing was unthinkable. I looked up to my right and to my left, and I decided to make one desperate attempt to climb up and to the left to escape off the wall. Crampons almost coming out, I loosened my left-hand hammer-pick and tried for a quick and adequate stick off to the left.
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As I was doing this, a lyric of poetry or song came to my mind from somewhere: "Don't stop me now...." I swung, and the pick stuck. Not a bomb-proof placement. Just marginal. But it stuck. So I kicked in my left crampon further to the left, and then my right one. Then I loosened the right-hand ice axe and, as I was getting ready to plant it directly above my head, the lyrics repeated in my head: "Don't stop me now...." And, after three desperate swings, the axe grabbed a rather feeble hold. Now, with two marginal hand placements, I started to climb up with higher foot placements, and, while doing so, the rest of the lyrics came to me: "...‘cause I'm havin' such a good time." Then, wack in another, higher, left-hand placement, and then the right.
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As I moved up, the lyrics kept cycling through my head. At one point, my axe was shattering the ice and not getting any kind of stick at all, and I got that old feeling of "I'm going to fall." The legs were crapping out, my left-hand hammer would never hold me by itself, and the fear was at my throat. "DON'T ... STOP ... ME ... NOW...." Swing, kick, kick, hammer, kick, kick, sweat, tremble ... "...'cause I'm havin' such a good time." "Don't stop me now...."
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And I moved up and off the vertical wall onto a gentler slope. That song saved my life – or at least saved me from a most grievous fall -- and I could not identify the singer at that point.
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I finished the rest of the climb above, which was much easier. At 400 feet above Chapel Pond, I felt like the champion of the world. I rappelled down the entire climb in several sections, while fragments of that song were triumphantly running through my mind. "Two hundred degrees, that's why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit. I'm traveling at the speed of light."
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"I'm a shooting star, leaping through the sky." "Don't stop me now, ‘cause I'm havin' such a good time! Don’t stop me now!"
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As I rappelled the last pitch down to the pond, I noticed the two guys from the day before that were supposed to do this climb with me. They were quite damaged by the cold from yesterday's Chapel Pond Slab climb. They were badly frostbitten and were going home. They could hardly believe that I had soloed the Gulley (even if using rope as a safety backup).
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I had had enough of bivouacking and climbing in minus 40 temperatures for 6 days and nights, so the road sounded good to me also. As I fired up my car to head home, the radio played a song that had been on the air a lot in the last few weeks. I suddenly recognized it. It was my song: "Don't Stop Me Now," by Queen.
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"I'm havin' such a good time. Don’t stop me now!"
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-Zenwind.

Roped Solo Technique (old style)

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I have done a lot of solo climbing, and find these moments to be among the most rewarding and memorable of my experiences on rock, snow or ice. But it was really not always my choice. In my earlier years of learning to lead big climbs, I could not find any climbing partners. Thus, I had to go it solo. When I pulled it off, it felt like a kind of instant satori.
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There are two types of solo climbing: Free-Solo and Roped-Solo.
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"Free solo" is climbing completely un-roped. (See my early entry, below, "Breath Control and Extreme Climbing," for a sample of this insane style.) No net to catch you. This is *fall-and-you-die* climbing, not for everyone. It is my sinful secret, my favorite style.
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(Do not confuse "free soloing" with "Free Climbing," the latter term simply meaning using only hands and feet for the means of going up, without artificially using rope or anchors for aid in ascending. The Free Climber may, and usually does, use ropes for safety back-up just to catch a fall. Free soloing is a species of "free climbing," but it is a rare breed, as free climbers usually do use ropes.)
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"Roped solo" climbing is a slightly safer variation of the solo climb. Roped solo free climbing utilizes a rope and anchor system, not to help you ascend, but solely for safety, to shorten any fall. It, also, is a species of "free-climbing" but is more a type of free lead-climbing, with all anchors and ropes below you, except that you are in this case alone. It is still not as safe as having a living, thinking human on the other end of your rope, feeding out only as much rope as you need while you lead upward above all the anchors. Roped soloing uses trees, rocks and climbing anchors below you as a last-ditch means of keeping you on the mountain. If you fall, you may still fall way down past your highest anchor for a long way before the system stops you with a jolt. Maybe.
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In more recent years, I acquired and use a piece of gear called "The Soloist," made originally by Rock Exotica, which makes the whole roped soloing thing much safer. It is a truly wonderful gadget. But there was no such gear when I was really pushing my limits and learning to lead climb. So I had to rely on written advice from climber Royal Robbins' books, *Basic Rockcraft* and *Advanced Rockcraft*, and, though it was state-of-the-art at the time, it was touch and go. A bit scary.
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The technique was to tie one end of the rope to a tree or other anchor, then give yourself enough estimated slack rope-length to get to the next rest ledge above. You tie a loop in the rope at that point and clip it to your harness. As you go up, you place anchors (slings around trees or rocks, rock anchors, or ice-screws) and clip your rope so it runs through the anchor's carabiner. This is similar to the normal leading of a free-climb. If you fall, the distance fallen is at least twice the length of rope between you and that nearest anchor below you. You should not fall all the way down the mountain, but if there is a ledge below you and you have a lot of rope out you can hit it hard. The old mountaineering advice was always: "The leader must not fall." So the soloist must not fall.
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One of the tricks is to find a rest spot before the slack runs out so you can tie another loop further along the rope's length to clip into. Then you must un-clip the old loop in order to give yourself enough slack rope to move further up. Often, the rest spot is only a place where you have one hand momentarily free, and you find yourself tying and untying knots with your teeth while hanging on for dear life with your other hand. These are some of the scariest times, in which you truly get to know yourself well.
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Once you get to the top of the pitch, you tie the rope to a good anchor and rappel down the entire pitch, removing anchors, knots, slings, etc., and untying the bottom end of the rope. As you climb the pitch again, it is no big deal because you are tying and clipping into loops that are on a top-rope, anchored *above* you. Any falls now will be much shorter than they would have been on the first, leading, ascent. Essentially, you have to climb the pitch twice, so roped soloing can be slow work.
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Once you have cleaned the pitch and retrieved all anchors and freed your rope, you start the next pitch, tying the bottom end of the rope to an anchor, giving yourself slack, clipping into a loop, and going up again into new territory above.
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I have used this system countless times on rock and ice when I had no climbing partners, and it gave me that small extra margin of confidence that meant the difference between chickening out or going up.
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Not only did I teach myself how to lead climbs on rock and ice this way, I also learned a lot about facing fear of death when I was totally alone -- without fellow Marines as back-up. On my solo climbs, it was just me, my fear, and the mountain. Mountains have no sympathy. They just sit there, soaring above you or gaping below you. The rest is up to you.
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"Be still as a mountain,
Move like a great river."
~~Wu Yu-hsiang~~
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Roped solo climbing has provided me with moments of deep meditative calm and bliss at the top of the climb, but of course these zen moments are sometimes preceded by moments of sheer terror on the journey upwards. I am a richer person for having ascended these paths.
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-Zenwind.

Encounter on a Rocky Ridge

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I could have easily killed the furry caterpillar. I could have squashed him or just flicked him off the high rock, condemning him to a very long and treacherous fall. He was unavoidably in my way, just inches away from my face, and he scared me with his bristly, spiky "horns," which looked like they could sting. I met him on the scariest part of a high rock climb in the days when I was still learning to climb.
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I decided to view him with compassion as a fellow climber, and it changed me somehow. This was over 30 years ago, and it is still one of my greatest memories.
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I was free soloing a "chimney" climb. It was fairly secure for the first 90% of the climb, because you are inside a big crack and can just jam your body into place against the opposing walls. But the crux of the climb is the ending, where the chimney crack narrows and forces you out unto the face. The very top turns
into a thin ridge with the narrowing crack on the left and a sheer drop to the right.
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The technique here is to hug the ridge for dear life, straddling it and inching your way up. Your left leg and left arm are jammed into the crack for anchor. Your right leg and boot are applying pressure to the outside wall of the ridge, while your right hand grips the spine of the ridge. Your belly and chest are tight against the rock, as is your face. One tends to get nervous here.
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On this sunny, late spring day, I was moving up this crux section when I saw the caterpillar directly in front of my face on the ridge's spine. He was blond-colored with a pair of black bristly spikes or horns on each end. The spikes looked like stingers of some sort. At this close range, I could see the breeze ruffling the creature's fur but not the spikes, which were rigid. I surely did not want to touch him.
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What to do? Down-climbing was out of the question in those infant climbing days of mine. I thought that he would have to go and that I would have to flick him off the ridge. But, as I watched him inch his way up the rock with graceful caterpillar-like movements, I felt a kind of sympathy and compassion for him. He was pursuing his own project and was not bothering anyone. Besides, what was a human doing in such a strange place? I was the intruder, the trespasser, the unwanted guest. So, I decided to somehow climb over him without hurting him. It was not going to be easy.
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This was extremely awkward and gave me a feeling of far less security than if I bellied up the rock, hugging it closely. As I started moving over him, I lifted my face about 6 inches above him and noticed that the exhalations from my nostrils were blowing his fur as if in a strong wind. He stopped still, probably wondering what manner of huge beast was hovering over him. I carefully found new positions for my hands and feet, planning out the crucial move when I would move my torso over him, with my weight dangerously out away from the rock.
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As I started the execution of this critical move, I let out a strong, measured exhalation. My poor caterpillar friend looked like he was in a howling gale, with his fur positively flattened by the wind of my breath. He hunkered down, seemingly gripping the rock tighter. I kept 6 inches distance between him and me, and I started climbing up. Looking down between my body and the rock, I moved my chest past him, then my abdomen, then my knees. When it was time to move my feet past him, I looked down with special care, lest my heavy boots would accidentally hit him.
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When I had finally cleared him and when my feet were several feet above him, I looked back to see him continuing on his original path across the rock. It was as if we never had crossed paths. The top of the climb was immediately above, and, when I reached it, I sat in the sun while watching my little friend go about his measured pace to whatever destination he was bound.
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I think of this encounter often. I learned an important lesson about compassion from this caterpillar bodhisattva. "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" for all of us. Laissez nous faire (i.e., "Leave us alone").
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-Zenwind.

The Frostbite Trip

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January 1976. I froze my toes. This is a very long entry, as I want to record the entire four-day expedition. Perhaps you can learn how better to keep warm outdoors from hearing of my mistakes here.
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I was new to winter mountaineering, a rookie, a boot. On this backpacking trip in the High Peaks area of the Adirondack Mountains (ADK) of New York, I suffered some superficial but extremely painful frostbite on three toes, resulting in losing half of the toenail on my big toe. A lot of skin on these three toes also sloughed off later. I learned a lot about keeping warm through my mistakes that week, and it severely tested my Zen equanimity.
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The Buddha said that life is full of Dukkha (i.e., suffering, unsatisfactoriness, etc.), and this trip was full of it. Yet the beauty of the winter in high cold mountains made all the pain and suffering worth it.
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It was January 1976 and the temperature got down past minus 20*F every night with brisk winds. I had assembled some good new equipment and had done my homework. I just lacked experience. I had a new tent, goose down sleeping bag, cooker, goggles, boots and snowshoes. On the advice of Jim Wagner, the great Keene Valley climber/outfitter, I rented an ice axe. I could not afford to either buy or rent crampons also. My total backpack load weighed 65 pounds, not counting clothing worn and hardware in hand.
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Clothing in those days was wool, head to toe. Polar Fleece and the miracle synthetics had not come out yet. Soft merino wool was worn next to the skin. The two layers of wool were enclosed in an outer wind layer of nylon/cotton blend.
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There were several reasons that I froze my toes. 1.) My boots were too tight. 2.) I put on cold boots in the morning and just sat around cooking breakfast. 3.) I was not eating enough to generate body heat to combat the terrible cold.
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I left the roadhead at nightfall, climbing up the forested mountain trail in the moonlight. Here was a Dharma Bum who did not yet know what agony awaited him. I reached an ADK leanto shelter and bivouacked for the night. I failed to cook a meal because I was exhausted from a 10 hour drive. This was a big mistake, because my metabolism needed fuel to produce heat.
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[Day One.]
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The next morning I froze my toes. I got out of my sleeping bag, put on my boots (which were cold and too tight), and started cooking breakfast on my one-burner cooker. I had to melt snow for water for cooking and drinking, and I had not practiced the technique enough. I sat in cold, tight boots while waiting for the long slow breakfast process to unfold. My feet did not cease hurting for 16 hours.
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There were many lessons learned from this painful ordeal:
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Wear larger boots. I had too many socks packed into a boot that could not contain them without restriction. Your toes must have wiggle room so that blood can circulate. (Later, I moved up a boot size and I now wear less socks.) Loosen the laces until you are climbing and need the support. Put boots in the bottom of your sleeping bag during the night to keep them warm. Or, do not even put the boots on until ready to climb. Cook while your feet are either in sleeping bag or in warm moccasins. Do not put on cold climbing boots until ready to move out. Gather snow for melting in a garbage bag the night before, so you can feed it into the pot while in the sleeping bag. Melting snow is a complete art in itself.
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After breakfast, I packed up, laced on my snowshoes and headed up the trail. The snowshoes were laced up way too tight, which further cut off the circulation in my feet. I was in tremendous pain but continued on. Perhaps this was due to Marine Corps stubbornness, or I could have been hypothermic and just slow-minded. My feet were cold all day. I climbed up the Ore Bed Brook Trail for the entire short January daylight.
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I had always wanted to climb over the Range Trail, reputed to be the most strenuous but most scenic trail in the Adirondacks. It ascends up from a high pass, up and over Saddleback Mountain and over Basin Mountain, leaving you deep in the High Peak area, with astounding views all around.
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At dusk, I reached this high pass between Saddleback and Gothics Mountains. The wind was ferocious and the temperature was plunging. I desperately set up my tent in the gathering darkness. It was brand-new, and the guy-lines were not properly adjusted (big mistake), so I had to take off my mittens and tie new knots and make numerous adjustments. My fingers and hands became so cold, I could not feel anything but extreme pain.
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I managed to unzip the tent door and throw my pack inside, falling inside after it. It was now dark, and I was horrified to be lying there with frozen fingers and toes, in unspeakable pain and relatively helpless. I thought I was going to die. I had read true stories of mountaineers freezing to death or losing their fingers and toes to amputation after frostbite. I was crying from the pain.
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I managed to shut the tent door, get my sleeping bag and foam mat out of the pack, get into the bag and zip it closed around me. I could not cook because my fingers were useless, so I just lay there in agony. Dark, pain and stark fear. Dukkha, dukkha,
dukkha, ... this is the First Noble Truth: All Life is Dukkha. Indeed, it was.
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I thought about what options I had. I thought that I might be able to race down the mountain at first light of morning and get to civilization. I would have to put my boots on with frozen fingers. I was certain that I would lose fingers and toes to amputation but was hoping that I could save my life. I would have to abandon all this new equipment, because I could never re-pack it into the pack.
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After a while, I realized that I could salvage the new backpack by putting it on my back and I may be able to save the small cook stove by throwing it into the pack, but I must leave my tent and sleeping bag behind. For hours I lay in pain like I have never experienced, before or since. I cried and moaned. I felt bleak and alone.
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I woke up at midnight. My feet were still hurting intensely, but my fingers were numb and painless. Good, I thought. My fingers might work. Now I may be able to salvage the sleeping bag, which was a big investment. But the tent would have to be left. I felt a little bit better and more confident that I could live through this. I fell asleep again.
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[Day Two.]
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At dawn, I awoke with no pain in my toes. This was such a great relief. I had to urinate, so I got out of the sleeping bag, into my boots and out of the tent. My fingers and toes became cold and painful almost immediately, but not the intense pain of yesterday. It brought tears to my eyes, but it was manageable pain.
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Realizing that I was quite hungry, I thought about trying to cook a meal before retreat down the mountain. Before entering the tent again, I looked up at the east face of Saddleback Mountain above me, the beginning of the original Range Trail objective. In the blinding sunlight of a cloudless day, I could see the trail winding upward through untracked snow. It was so seductive. I have always been easily seduced by the prospect of a dangerous adventure.
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Breakfast went well and refreshed me. I lay back down in the sleeping bag and let the food digest and warm me. I drank a quart of tea. The pain was gone, and thoughts of Zen contentedness came back. Distantly, thoughts of options and decisions to be made lingered. What should I do? Should I go down or - unthinkably -- up?
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Deciding that I would make the choice later when I got booted up again and outside the tent, I packed my cooker and sleeping bag inside the pack and laced the boots and gaiters for major travel, in either direction. Then I stepped outside, donning snow goggles for the dazzling snow-reflected sun.
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I looked down-trail at my old tracks leading up to this high pass. The idea of the warmth below was tempting. Then I looked up at the Range Trail above. On impulse, I opted to continue upward. I tore down the tent, stuffed it into the pack, strapped on the snowshoes and shouldered all my gear on my back. During this packing ordeal, my fingers and toes became terribly cold again, making my eyes tear up. But, the snow above was without tracks of human or beast, and it lured me on. I committed to the ascent.
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The snowshoes (original Sherpas) were designed for steep climbing, and there was a primitive trail up Saddleback's east face. I waded through deep untracked snow, up zig-zagging ledges, hooking my ice axe over boulders or around roots. I struggled all day up and over Saddleback, catching views of the surrounding mountains that I could not believe.
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It was when going down the south side of Saddleback that I almost died, nearly falling off the series of large rocky steps. There was a coating of verglas ice on these huge ledges and it was a very steep face, so the snowshoes had to come off. Looking down the face, it was obvious that any fall would cause you to bounce and skid down these icy ledges until you plunged down into the snowfield and forest far below. Falling could not be contemplated at this point. Crampons would have been nice, but I could not afford them, and a climber on a budget cannot complain.
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As I started down these huge iced steps with heavy pack, my feet slipped and I sat down hard on the step with feet hanging over the edge. But I continued sliding down toward the step below, and as my feet hit the next ledge they slipped off that one too, causing me to sit hard on it, continuing to slide downward. There was clearly no end to the trajectory, and I was picking up speed.
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I took one look down at the treetops far below and instinctively executed a "self-arrest" with my ice axe, turning toward the ice and leaning all my weight upon the axe's pick. (I had read about this many times in the history of climbing but had never practiced it.) The pick was 6 inches from my eye as I watched it dig deep into the verglas, catching solid after skidding for about 9 inches. I was anchored, but my feet were in mid-air.
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I felt around with my feet and found a spot of rock that was not iced. Moving to the right, I got onto a ledge that led away from the icier ledges. Off the face, I lay in the snow, trying to re-gain the composure of the Zen mountain hermit. Whew! We know all about Buddhist detachment, but the thought of becoming *detached from the mountain* was just too scary!
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In snowshoes again, I stumbled over the pass between Saddleback and Basin Mountain and up to Basin's north ridge. With one hour of daylight left, I found a flat spot high on the north ridge suitable for a tent site. The trail was untracked snow, with no sign of a human presence. The powder was deep. I stomped the snow with my snowshoes on to pack a platform for my tent, then I set it up, going around it to adjust the guy-lines.
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What a beautiful wind-swept wilderness! Not a sign of living tracks. There was only endless powder snow, rocks, and some scrub balsam. It reminded me of a Zen rock and sand garden. The wind was cold, with gusts that nearly knocked me over.
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Thinking that the snow in the immediate area was packed enough to support my weight, I unlaced the snowshoes and stepped off the left shoe. To my surprise, my left leg plunged completely into the power snow until I was up to my crotch, and my foot still did not touch ground. My right leg was horizontal to the surface, supported by being across the snowshoes, while the left side of my body was buried up to my left armpit. I struggled to get up until I was exhausted. Finally, I used a snowshoe as one would use a raft on water, and I muscled up onto it. After that, it was always snowshoes on when outside the tent. It was the deepest snow I have ever floundered in.
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Supper, a very deep and restful sleep, and then breakfast. I was feeling better and without pain, except when first booting up and whenever doing anything with my hands. Life was good, or, at least, exciting.
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[Day Three.]
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Now it was time to saddle up and ascend the north face of Basin Mountain. Bright sunlight on the east side and freezing cold northwest wind on the other, it was an exercise in extremes. My sunward left side would be hot and sweaty, with the left eye of my goggles fogged up, while the windward right side would be freezing cold, with the right eye of my goggles clear because of wind ventilation. The wind was threatening to blow me off the mountain. I had to execute a scary traverse over very steep ice close to the summit. Then came one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen.
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As I reached the top of the north side of Basin Mountain, I stumbled in the cold over the summit plateau. Suddenly, in the distance I saw Mt. Marcy and Mt. Haystack ahead in the brilliant sunlight. Snowy, alone and aloof, Mt. Marcy looked like the perfect mountain. I felt at the top of the world.
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I wish so much that you were there with me to see it, but I realize that not everyone is willing to go through the hazards and discomforts necessary to experience such environments. (Han Shan would have understood, however, and he would have laughed with glee, scampered off and written another stanza to the Cold Mountain Poems.)
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Coming down Basin's south side trail was pure fun. It was a long sloping descent on deep untracked powder snow. I was able to take long plunging steps downward with my snowshoes, and it was much like the "kick and glide" technique of cross-country skiing. With a 65 pound pack on my back, I took bold plunging strides down into the endless powder. It was effortless, and I was covering a lot of ground quickly. The snowshoes hit the cushioned snow and slid down in a controlled floating glide, one foot, then the other. I remember laughing at the fun that I was having. Then, I was overcome by darkness.
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I had suddenly and without warning fallen face-first into the snow, head downhill and feet uphill. I fell so fast, I did not have time to put my hands up to break my fall. My arms were still at my sides. The 65 pound pack drove my head and shoulders deep into the snow. Snow was packed into my nostrils, mouth, and between my glasses and face.
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I could not get up, and I was practically upside-down. The weight of the pack kept me down, and, as I thrashed in the snow, I realized that my right foot was caught on something on the trail above me. Finally, I realized that I must undo my pack harness to get out of its weight. I pushed the pack behind a log nearby to keep it from rolling down the mountain, then I struggled up to my entangled right foot. The snowshoe’s frame had been hooked on a root, which stopped me cold and pitched me face-first downward. I moved down the rest of the mountain with more humility after this.
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Finally down from Basin Mountain, I came to a trail crossing. I decided to stash my pack near there, quickly do a day climb of Mt. Haystack, come back here to my pack, take the trail northward that leads down to the valley and camp somewhere on that trail. As I started towards Haystack, I saw the first person in days, at his camp by the trail. He was a lone rambler like myself, seeking solitude and the beauty of the High Peaks. He may have been a Dharma Bum, but we only talked briefly of the philosophy of equipment, weather, snow, wind and trail.
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On the climb up Haystack Mountain, I ran into a party of five coming down. I noticed how easily they walked with crampons on, and they used ski poles for balance against the gusting wind. All of them nodded a friendly greeting to me as we passed, except for the last guy, who reproached me for my lack of wisdom in climbing solo. He was, of course, right, but it still disappointed me that he could not tolerate my own choice to pursue happiness in my own way.
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After a delicate climb up rock and ice (crampons would have made it safer), I reached the long ridged summit of Haystack. It was in the Alpine Zone, with no vegetation bigger than mosses. There were mountains in all directions. Mt. Marcy was close by and directly to the west, with Panther Gorge between us, yawning open at my feet.
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The day was wasting away quickly, so I carefully down-climbed to the trail and hiked back to my pack. Taking the side trail towards the valley, I made my last camp on a windy spot on the trail. Like so many end-of-trek camps, this one was cold, bleak, windy and lonely. It was a miserably cold night. My goose down sleeping bag was not as warm on night Four as it was on night One. The night temperature was minus 20*F, just like every night, but the bag was not as warm.
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Goose down is not adequate insulation material for really desperate expeditions in humid weather, and, in fact, it can be dangerous. It does not handle moisture well, and I had been thrashing through snow, sweating, etc. Goose down just absorbs moisture and will not dry out. It may be excellent for desert treks, but not for winters in the northeast. For a few extra ounces in weight and a bit less compressibility, the new synthetics tolerate moisture, provide more warmth over a long wet outing, and can save your life.
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[Day Four.]
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I awoke cold. I ate a breakfast, packed up and hit the trail downwards with the goal that I would make it to the roadhead today. I was cold, tired and beat.
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Climbing down a mountain is often the most painful part. Your feet are bruised and your legs, back and body are so sore. You feel like an abused refugee from some unspeakable war, staggering toward civilization, beat and alone. It is hard to find the strength to take another step. In times of torment like this, I think of Gary Snyder's teaching of the "meditation of the trail," where he taught Jack Kerouac that it is all about just placing one foot in front of the other. I call it Trail Zen, and it has kept me walking out of many a wilderness when all I wanted to do was lay down.
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As the trail descended into the valleys, its slope leveled out more, and the nature of the winter landscape was not as harsh as on the peaks above. Without the wind, it seemed almost warm. I was terribly thirsty. (Little did I realize it, but I had been drinking water without minerals in it for many days, because I was melting snow for water, and snow is distilled water.) It was at this point, only several miles from the roadhead, that I experienced The Best Drink of Water in my Life.
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As I was crossing the narrow footbridges over the streams of the lowlands, I could hear the gurgling of the water flowing beneath the snow. This drove me half crazy from thirst. Finally, I found a footbridge where the stream seemed close below. I took off my pack and pulled out a goblet that I had been given as a gift before my trip. Laying on my stomach on the bridge, I reached down through a hole in the snow to the flowing stream. I scooped up a goblet-full of water and drank.
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It was a shock of absolutely wonderful taste. The full mineral content made it taste as rich as champagne to my deprived senses. Merely water from a mountain stream, it was delicious. I toasted the sport of winter mountaineering and also my escape from danger and pain, and I drank my fill.
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End of epic.
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-Zenwind.

Breath Control and Extreme Climbing

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There have been a couple of noteworthy times in my climbing career when proper control of the breath has literally saved my life. Together with a sober Aristotelian respect for reality, the Buddha's advice on mindful breathing has made the difference between success or grievous injury. When engaged in extreme climbing, one is often a knife's-edge away from losing the psychological control necessary to stay on the wall. Physical strength and skill is taxed to the limit, and it is only the mental part of the game that adheres one to the mountain.
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By "extreme" climbing, I mean pushing oneself beyond your limits, climbing harder than you ever have before. Thus, for the great Reinhold Messner, an extreme climb would be a world-class record-breaking endeavor, but for me (never a strong climber) an extreme climb would be a simpler, easier one that would nevertheless tax my limits to the hilt. For others it would be a piece of cake. It's all relative to the ability level.
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In 1978, I decided to "free solo" a rock climb that is rated moderately easy. I had climbed much harder climbs with top-rope protection, but “free soloing" means climbing without a safety rope of any kind. To fall means to hit the ground, and that can make it an extreme climb if it taxes your abilities to their max. Free soloing is dangerous, but it is also great style and is very satisfying if you pull it off.
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It was my second year of technical rock climbing. I had provisionally named this climb "The Law of Identity" or “A is A” after Aristotle's law of logic. (Reality is what it is – “A is A” -- and you cannot pretend that it is different from its actual nature or identity.) On this climb, your technique, called a "Lay-Back," had to be without contradiction, the rock had to be dry, and your psychological stuff had to be together and completely sorted out.
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I had climbed this route many times before on a top-rope, where trusted friends had belayed me with a safety rope to catch me in case of a fall. I had fallen on many of these early attempts, but I had successfully climbed it many times, so I knew the moves.
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This time I was alone. The rock was dry. I had just come from several intensive rock climbing trips in the Adirondack Mountains and was in fine shape, and I had practiced the Lay-Back move on rock and in my head (using subliminal rehearsal before sleep and immediately after waking). I was ready, and I was tuned.
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Standing at the foot of the climb, I let my breath find the right relaxed and even place, the mindfulness of breathing that the Buddha advised. Then I got on the climb and paused at the very bottom to assess both my sense of adhesion and my finger strength. It felt good and right, so I committed to the climb, took in a full, slow breath and moved up. It is a sustained difficulty in its first half, so you must move quickly, surely and confidently.
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I aimed for the first rest spot, a little slanting ledge that you can just barely get your feet on. All my strength and endurance was nearly spent as I moved up to the ledge, and I reached it, panting for breath. I think that fear was taking as much wind from me as was the physical effort. You are off-balance on this little spot, pushed out by the over-hanging rock wall, so you have to jam an arm into the crack to hold you in.
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As I jammed myself into position on the tiny ledge, I realized that I needed to keep from becoming the least bit psychologically unglued, or I would fall off. And I was scared. I had barely enough reserves of strength to finish to the top, and fear was causing my legs to shake. Climbing back down was impossible, because that first half was the most sustained part of the climb. I could only go up.
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So I concentrated on the breath. Easy, full in. Easy, full out, with the anxieties and fears leaving me with every exhalation. I looked out at the forest and lake, which were level with my eyes. I looked up at the climb above. But I never once looked down. I imagined that I was standing on a little ledge that was only one foot off the ground, and that I was merely trying to perfect my climbing moves with no danger involved, refusing to fall off merely as a matter of pride in one’s craft. I found myself enjoying the scenery with delight, tuning out the fact that I was in a precarious situation. The breath returned to normal.
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When I would look up to plan my next moves, my heart would start to race. I would then concentrate again on the breath, look at the beauty of the rock crystals that were an inch from my eye, and listen to the wind in the pine tree on a ledge above. Never look down. Regain control of the breath. Regain equanimity. It took a number of attempts before I could calmly work out my strategies.
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One more rest ledge before the top. The wall over-hangs, so I could not afford a mistake. I grunted and huffed, scraped and scratched, and fought and battled my way up, pausing where necessary to work on the awareness of breath. When I reached the rest ledge, I let my exhaustion work itself out in a series of breaths, first deep and heaving, then more moderate and measured, and finally easy and deep. Concentrating on the mindfulness of breathing, control of mind and body rebounded back.
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The final move to the top was an awkward foot placement, requiring more mental concentration than brute strength. It was terrifying. I completed it with one controlled exhalation.
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I was on top. I breathed more easily for the rest of the day. This remains one of my favorite memories in rockcraft.
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I assume that I was the first to climb this route in a style more sporting than that of protection from a top-rope, so I claimed the right to name the climb. I dubbed it “The Law of Identity,” although it was often difficult to explain it to those who were unacquainted with philosophy. Years later I came across visiting climbers from far away who did not know of my connection to the route, but they did know something about it, calling it “Aristotle’s Law.”
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Respect for reality and for mindfull control of the breath. Excelsior!
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-Zenwind.