.
(Part 2 of the Minus 40 Degrees Saga.)
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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."
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
[Part 3 of this saga: Chouinard's Gully]
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-Zenwind.
29 May 2007
Chouinard’s Gulley
.
Part 3 of the Minus 40 Degrees Saga
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
The first crux near the bottom went alright, with only a few scares. I felt like a real mountain climber now.
.
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.
.
The Zen of Fear.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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...."
.
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.
.
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."
.
"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!"
.
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).
.
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.
.
"I'm havin' such a good time. Don’t stop me now!"
.
-Zenwind.
Part 3 of the Minus 40 Degrees Saga
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
The first crux near the bottom went alright, with only a few scares. I felt like a real mountain climber now.
.
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.
.
The Zen of Fear.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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...."
.
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.
.
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."
.
"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!"
.
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).
.
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.
.
"I'm havin' such a good time. Don’t stop me now!"
.
-Zenwind.
Roped Solo Technique (old style)
.
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.
.
There are two types of solo climbing: Free-Solo and Roped-Solo.
.
"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.
.
(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.)
.
"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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
"Be still as a mountain,
Move like a great river."
~~Wu Yu-hsiang~~
.
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.
.
-Zenwind.
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.
.
There are two types of solo climbing: Free-Solo and Roped-Solo.
.
"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.
.
(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.)
.
"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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
"Be still as a mountain,
Move like a great river."
~~Wu Yu-hsiang~~
.
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.
.
-Zenwind.
Encounter on a Rocky Ridge
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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").
.
-Zenwind.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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").
.
-Zenwind.
The Frostbite Trip
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
[Day One.]
.
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.
.
There were many lessons learned from this painful ordeal:
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
[Day Two.]
.
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.
.
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.
.
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?
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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!
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
[Day Three.]
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.)
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
[Day Four.]
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
End of epic.
.
-Zenwind.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
[Day One.]
.
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.
.
There were many lessons learned from this painful ordeal:
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
[Day Two.]
.
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.
.
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.
.
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?
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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!
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
[Day Three.]
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.)
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
[Day Four.]
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
End of epic.
.
-Zenwind.
Breath Control and Extreme Climbing
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
I was on top. I breathed more easily for the rest of the day. This remains one of my favorite memories in rockcraft.
.
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.”
.
Respect for reality and for mindfull control of the breath. Excelsior!
.
-Zenwind.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
I was on top. I breathed more easily for the rest of the day. This remains one of my favorite memories in rockcraft.
.
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.”
.
Respect for reality and for mindfull control of the breath. Excelsior!
.
-Zenwind.
My Cousin
.
Mountaineering has been my life's great love. It can take the form of hiking forested trails in the hills, backpacking deep into the mountains to summits, bivouacking on airy perches high above the world, pure rock climbing on short walls and pure ice climbing on short frozen waterfalls, or the long desperate mixed climbing on the rock, snow and ice of high mountain walls, i.e., alpinism. It is the craft of movement through the mountains.
.
I want to honor and thank my first cousin for his influence on my mountaineering avocation. He gave me the focus to really start climbing. He introduced me to the world culture of mountaineering, and he made the dream of climbing real to me. To him I am eternally indebted.
.
I had always seen adventure and romance in mountain climbing, but it also represented some sort of unique twisted spiritual quest. The great French mountaineer, Lionel Terray, referred to himself and to all others with a similar calling to be "The Conquistadors of the Useless." If you haven't been addicted to the sport, you won't understand its allure.
.
As a young boy, I watched Lowell Thomas Adventures on TV. I remember seeing a documentary on the 1953 British Mt. Everest Expedition, the one that put Tenzing and Edmund Hillary on the top of the world. I saw men struggling under huge loads up immense mountains during horrendous storms. It was heroic in a crazy sort of way, and very fascinating.
.
But it was my cousin who introduced me to the world of real climbing. He was a world traveler - from a family of world travelers. (My uncle and aunt had traveled to many exotic and far-off places in the world, my cousins grew up in the world at large, and I learned a lot from all of them.) He had been to the Alps and the Andes. Although not a radical technical climber himself, he knew the culture and the spirit of the craft. He told me of alpine places and peoples that fired my imagination.
.
He would often stop at our farm on his way through the area, especially at the time when I returned home from Viet Nam. I was always into Dharma Bum things like hiking to hilltops and bivouacking under the Moon. He showed me the real gear for the first time: heavy European mountain boots, rucksack, down bag and jacket. He told me of Alpine culture when describing the places he had been. He was a man completely at home in cold, rocky, snowy environments.
.
Then, he gave me a book, which I still have: "The Sierra Club Guide to Ski Mountaineering," ca. 1950s. (This was when the Sierra Club actually still climbed mountains.) This gave me the technical knowledge to navigate safely in the winter environments of America. It also had a good explanation of the rope techniques of rock climbing and rappelling, and it was the first technical manual I ever had. This lit the fuse for me: I became a climbing fanatic.
.
Climbing was the greatest medicine I ever took. For sure, it is risky, but it was the healthiest activity I have ever done. Many personal demons were exorcized after I aggressively pursued my passion for mountaineering. It is a clean and pure craft, and it makes one really know oneself.
.
Thanks, Rex. You really lit a fire that has enriched my life.
.
-Zenwind.
Mountaineering has been my life's great love. It can take the form of hiking forested trails in the hills, backpacking deep into the mountains to summits, bivouacking on airy perches high above the world, pure rock climbing on short walls and pure ice climbing on short frozen waterfalls, or the long desperate mixed climbing on the rock, snow and ice of high mountain walls, i.e., alpinism. It is the craft of movement through the mountains.
.
I want to honor and thank my first cousin for his influence on my mountaineering avocation. He gave me the focus to really start climbing. He introduced me to the world culture of mountaineering, and he made the dream of climbing real to me. To him I am eternally indebted.
.
I had always seen adventure and romance in mountain climbing, but it also represented some sort of unique twisted spiritual quest. The great French mountaineer, Lionel Terray, referred to himself and to all others with a similar calling to be "The Conquistadors of the Useless." If you haven't been addicted to the sport, you won't understand its allure.
.
As a young boy, I watched Lowell Thomas Adventures on TV. I remember seeing a documentary on the 1953 British Mt. Everest Expedition, the one that put Tenzing and Edmund Hillary on the top of the world. I saw men struggling under huge loads up immense mountains during horrendous storms. It was heroic in a crazy sort of way, and very fascinating.
.
But it was my cousin who introduced me to the world of real climbing. He was a world traveler - from a family of world travelers. (My uncle and aunt had traveled to many exotic and far-off places in the world, my cousins grew up in the world at large, and I learned a lot from all of them.) He had been to the Alps and the Andes. Although not a radical technical climber himself, he knew the culture and the spirit of the craft. He told me of alpine places and peoples that fired my imagination.
.
He would often stop at our farm on his way through the area, especially at the time when I returned home from Viet Nam. I was always into Dharma Bum things like hiking to hilltops and bivouacking under the Moon. He showed me the real gear for the first time: heavy European mountain boots, rucksack, down bag and jacket. He told me of Alpine culture when describing the places he had been. He was a man completely at home in cold, rocky, snowy environments.
.
Then, he gave me a book, which I still have: "The Sierra Club Guide to Ski Mountaineering," ca. 1950s. (This was when the Sierra Club actually still climbed mountains.) This gave me the technical knowledge to navigate safely in the winter environments of America. It also had a good explanation of the rope techniques of rock climbing and rappelling, and it was the first technical manual I ever had. This lit the fuse for me: I became a climbing fanatic.
.
Climbing was the greatest medicine I ever took. For sure, it is risky, but it was the healthiest activity I have ever done. Many personal demons were exorcized after I aggressively pursued my passion for mountaineering. It is a clean and pure craft, and it makes one really know oneself.
.
Thanks, Rex. You really lit a fire that has enriched my life.
.
-Zenwind.
Purpose of my Climbing Log
.
I am using this Climbing section of my blog to record memories of my experiences in mountaineering. It has a strong relevance to my practice of Buddhism.
.
My earliest introduction to Buddhism (in the late 1960s) was through Jack Kerouac and Gary Snyder, the Beat Zen mountain climbers. They wrote about the ancient Chinese Ch'an/Zen hermit and mountain man, Han Shan, who had written the Cold Mountain Poems.
.
When I returned from the Viet Nam war, I trekked through my own loneliness, seeking healing through climbing, bivouacking, watching the Moon. Some of these memories are seared into my psyche. They define my practice. They define me.
.
-Zenwind.
I am using this Climbing section of my blog to record memories of my experiences in mountaineering. It has a strong relevance to my practice of Buddhism.
.
My earliest introduction to Buddhism (in the late 1960s) was through Jack Kerouac and Gary Snyder, the Beat Zen mountain climbers. They wrote about the ancient Chinese Ch'an/Zen hermit and mountain man, Han Shan, who had written the Cold Mountain Poems.
.
When I returned from the Viet Nam war, I trekked through my own loneliness, seeking healing through climbing, bivouacking, watching the Moon. Some of these memories are seared into my psyche. They define my practice. They define me.
.
-Zenwind.
17 January 2007
Fibromyalgia Syndrome (FMS)
.
I have suffered from FMS since 1982, and understanding what this malady is all about is important for understanding me. It is a syndrome that cycles between sometimes long-lasting remission (e.g., 1991-1994, years when I felt great and was climbing in my forties at the same level as I did in my twenties) to debilitating flare-ups that put me down in bed. FMS mainly involves intense bodily pains, incapacitating headaches, overall fatigue, sleep disturbances, and a frustrating temporary “brain-fog” or cognitive deficit.
.
The first spot of intense pain (and the most painful when it reoccurs) was between my shoulder blades around vertebrae T7, an old farm-work injury. Since then I have accumulated over a dozen sore spots all over my body that knot up in incredible pain.
.
The physical and mental fatigue and cognitive deficit (the “fibro-fog”) are the hardest to accept. When hit with this fog, I feel like my IQ has dropped 20 points in a minute. It is probably connected to the severe sleep disturbances during a bad cycle.
.
Causes of FMS in my experience include: Stress; lack of adequate rest; and lack of regular exercise. Any one of these factors can trigger a flare-up, and then they all kick into combination as I spiral down into pain.
.
To avoid FMS flare-ups, I need a regular exercise program, a lot of sleep, and a radical reduction of stress. Meditation to reduce stress is very helpful.
.
Dukkha: the First Noble Truth.
.
-Zenwind.
I have suffered from FMS since 1982, and understanding what this malady is all about is important for understanding me. It is a syndrome that cycles between sometimes long-lasting remission (e.g., 1991-1994, years when I felt great and was climbing in my forties at the same level as I did in my twenties) to debilitating flare-ups that put me down in bed. FMS mainly involves intense bodily pains, incapacitating headaches, overall fatigue, sleep disturbances, and a frustrating temporary “brain-fog” or cognitive deficit.
.
The first spot of intense pain (and the most painful when it reoccurs) was between my shoulder blades around vertebrae T7, an old farm-work injury. Since then I have accumulated over a dozen sore spots all over my body that knot up in incredible pain.
.
The physical and mental fatigue and cognitive deficit (the “fibro-fog”) are the hardest to accept. When hit with this fog, I feel like my IQ has dropped 20 points in a minute. It is probably connected to the severe sleep disturbances during a bad cycle.
.
Causes of FMS in my experience include: Stress; lack of adequate rest; and lack of regular exercise. Any one of these factors can trigger a flare-up, and then they all kick into combination as I spiral down into pain.
.
To avoid FMS flare-ups, I need a regular exercise program, a lot of sleep, and a radical reduction of stress. Meditation to reduce stress is very helpful.
.
Dukkha: the First Noble Truth.
.
-Zenwind.
19 December 2006
The Road
.
“The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.”
.
~Bilbo Baggins~
~J.R.R. Tolkien~
“The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.”
.
~Bilbo Baggins~
~J.R.R. Tolkien~
07 October 2005
Song Upon the Northwind
.
I am that Spirit of the Mountains – that one in the wind.
I race over remote summits, careen around craggy ridges,
and leap into a laughing, breakneck glide
down the snowy slopes.
.
The climbing can turn heavy, arduous, fearful, and slow.
The weather becomes hostile, and night devours the light.
Sir Alpinist will master himself, slay the dragons of dark,
and traverse whole ranges ... yet still covet the Grail.
‘Tis now the time to break out of this cold bivouac, to defy
the Spirit of Gravity, and move on up to a higher realm.
.
Upon the boldest heights, achieving a universe of dawn;
alone and wholly conscious, I am the breath of free motion.
Light in being, ecstatic, dancing, taking to wing and soaring;
I pause – as even winds sometimes do –
on this mountain’s very top;
and I turn my gaze, across the distances, to your summit,
which I’ve always wanted to ascend.
.
-Ross Barlow. (1980s).
I am that Spirit of the Mountains – that one in the wind.
I race over remote summits, careen around craggy ridges,
and leap into a laughing, breakneck glide
down the snowy slopes.
.
The climbing can turn heavy, arduous, fearful, and slow.
The weather becomes hostile, and night devours the light.
Sir Alpinist will master himself, slay the dragons of dark,
and traverse whole ranges ... yet still covet the Grail.
‘Tis now the time to break out of this cold bivouac, to defy
the Spirit of Gravity, and move on up to a higher realm.
.
Upon the boldest heights, achieving a universe of dawn;
alone and wholly conscious, I am the breath of free motion.
Light in being, ecstatic, dancing, taking to wing and soaring;
I pause – as even winds sometimes do –
on this mountain’s very top;
and I turn my gaze, across the distances, to your summit,
which I’ve always wanted to ascend.
.
-Ross Barlow. (1980s).
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