Athlete Reports Blog Posts

I woke up on the morning of June 14th to temperatures well below zero, with frost caked around the hood of my sleeping bag and a layer of the stuff coating the inside of the tent walls. Every move brought a shower down from the ceiling. I could hear Jaime firing up the stoves in the cook Megamid while we blearily put on layer after layer of clothing and rammed our feet into frozen boot shells. The snow squeaked underfoot as we walked around camp, strapping snowboard and skis to our packs and donning harnesses that we wouldn’t remove until well past dinnertime. Looking up, I saw with apprehension a curl of spindrift blowing off the summit plateau, but the lower half of our climbing route was clear, and though the sun was hours away from us on the other side of the mountain I had a good feeling about what we would find once we got up on the Rib.

Juiced up on coffee and oatmeal, we walked out of 14-Camp and deeper into the shadow of the upper mountain, breaking trail through 20cm of fresh snow from the last few days’ flurries. We roped up to cross some bigger crevasses and work our way across the head of the glacier, arriving at the West Rib cutoff (16,200’) just as the sun hit the Russian team that was camped there. Looking down the lower Rib, it seemed like there could be some potential for a 7000’ snowboard/ski descent down to the Northeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier, but on another day, on a different trip. (First descent, possibly?) Our objective was to climb the Upper West Rib for 4000’ to the summit and then ride/ski the Messner Couloir back down to 14-Camp, 6000’ below.
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We had been in the Alaska Range for two weeks by the time summit day rolled around, alternating days of hauling sleds like donkeys on skis with days of making turns around camp, allowing our bodies to acclimatize to the altitude. “Rest” days typically involved a few thousand feet of climbing and riding–it felt rejuvenating to travel with light loads, purely for play. We took a week getting to 14-Camp, where we installed a basecamp that would be our home for the remainder of the expedition. Chest-high snow walls protected our tents from winds, and an excavated Megamid provided a place to escape from the snow/sun for cooking, playing cards, listening to NPR in comfort. We took advantage of good weather to climb and ride routes up to 17,200’, giving our bodies as much opportunity for acclimatization as possible. (And scouting the lower reaches of our routes for summit day.) But clouds kept us pinned closed to camp for most of our time there. We got plenty of practice riding through the whiteout, trying to find good routes back down to camp. (“Is that a crevasse? Should we rope up?”) Every day, usually multiple times a day, we wandered over to the rangers’ compound to check the weather forecast, looking for a window for our summit push.

Nobody had been up the Rib for days, so we had unblemished snow and rock stretching up to the summit plateau. The climbing started with 800’ of 60-degree snow and ice to a bench, and then layed back to ~45-degrees for the remainder of the climb. Punching steps into the snow, winding our way through pink and brown granite, finding the route for ourselves and watching the Russians follow our steps a thousand feet below, all on a windless sunny day. Wow. Jaime and Alex decided to stop at the top of the Messner Couloir (19,500’) to retain some energy for the descent while Twinkie and I continued to the top. It seems ridiculous now that 800’ of climbing would take almost two hours, but at that altitude it did.

The sun was low in the sky when we reached the summit, giving a brilliant glow to everything around us as we removed crampons and buckled down our boots for the descent. Riding off the top was the realization of a dream I had entertained for almost 10 years, and looking down at the descent that awaited us was every bit as awesome as I’d hoped. That squeaky snow turned out to be remarkably sticky—I had never ridden in conditions this cold, and hadn’t anticipated it. And riding at 20,000’ is hard, much harder than I had expected. But the knife-hard nevé held an edge, and we eventually re-joined the rest of our team back at the top of the Messner.
Looking down 5000’ of continuous 45-degree snow on a perfect fall-line was as unnerving as it was sublime. The sense of exposure was terrifying, and wonderful. The consequences of an uncontrolled fall were clear as we looked down at the tiny dots of 14-Camp in the basin below. We all recognized the risk though we never spoke of it, just stayed focused on riding well. We had great turns on 20cm of windslab over firm nevé for the first 1000’, with the sun shining full on the couloir as we rode from safe zone to safe zone. Dropping further towards the narrows halfway down, the windslab turned to breakable windcrust and the riding got spicier. There is a remarkable clarity that comes in a time when every turn counts and the consequences of blowing a turn could be big, a focus that I don’t often get to experience in the rest of my life. Riding through the narrows, breaking the crust with powerful turns while looking at the continuing descent below, I felt the clarity in all its glory and had one of those rare moments when this was all I wanted to be doing, in the only place I wanted to be.

And then, just after exiting the narrows Alex made a turn through the crust and hit blue ice underneath and fear joined the clarity, threatening to replace it entirely. Every turn resulted in a short slide until our edges found full purchase and we stopped. Then another turn to a slide to a stop. Turn, slide, stop. Repeat. Alex and I had scouted the lower slopes a couple of days before and could see the point when we would reach softer snow once more, but there was a lot of wind-scoured crust over ice above that point and we were tired. Good judgment found Jaime side-stepping down while Twinkie put his crampons back on and down-climbed it. Alex and I continued making relatively controlled turns next to each other until we rode over the small crevasse at the transition to better snow, and a chance to breathe.

The rest of the descent was pretty straightforward, with fast turns on 20cm of light powder to finish it. Riding back into camp 16 hours after our departure, the sense of what we had done was subdued, dulled by fatigue and hunger and thirst. We sat in the cook ‘mid laughing about the day while I cooked ramen and quesadillas and melted pot after pot of water until the wee hours of the morning. It wasn’t until I woke up late and made coffee on a lovely, warm, sunny morning and looked back up at the route that I was able to appreciate our accomplishment, and feel the glow of a long-lived dream realized. As we made our exit down the Kahiltna toward the case of ale cached at basecamp, I felt content, tired, and a few pounds light. Ready to call it a successful expedition and go home.

On June 26th my bud Grayson and I decided to go search for some snow and landed on climbing the main chute in Gold King Basin. The main “problem” we ran into actually accrued the night before when at around 1:00 in the morning we decided to go the next day. We were going to try and start walking at about 8:00am so we would have some time to chill out and take it in at the top. Needless to say we ended up getting a late start and didn’t arrive there until around 9:00. Although we had our doubts about how the snow would be once we got to the top, the conditions turned out to be ideal. It managed to stay cold enough to provide us with a nice thin layer of corn atop the firm under layer. I was stoked on the conditions and got to ski the chute switch top to bottom on my new Wagner Custom sticks. Grayson also tore it up after not being on skis for several months. The only low point to the entire expedition was my realization of how out of shape my vacation has made me, other than that we had a bright sunny day with some sick turns. Looking back we got incredibly lucky with the conditions and weather, which made for an epic day. The next trip we have planned at the moment is the Lunar Cup up in Savage Basin. It should be sick with all the snow we got this year! -Woody

So I’m just back from guiding a successful Denali climb with a great friend of mine, recuperating and trying to regain some of the weight that I lost while we were stuck in a storm at high camp for a week. (17,200′) Hanging around in Palmer at the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS) base has been wonderful, eating five or six meals a day and catching up with old friends, but it took only about 15 minutes of being here for me to start getting excited about my next “project”. I’m prepping another Denali climb right now, with the intention of heading into the Range with a few friends and trying to ride some lines off of both summits. (Denali has two summits, the Southern being the actual summit and the Northern being a bit lower.) The riding potential in there is mind-blowing, with HUGE couloirs and hanging faces all around, including some first- and second-descents. I get blown away just thinking that I have the opportunity to make this trip happen, and that I have three close friends who can do it with me.
Having made our unavoidable trip to Anchorage yesterday, we spent today packing, repairing worn gear, re-sizing crampons to our ski boots, insulating our ice axes, consuming lots of calories, and generally doing all of the stuff one has to do before a 3-week trip at altitude. In some ways it feels like any other trip that we’ve worked together. Except that this time I get to bring my board, and they get to bring skis, and we get to do it our way. No clients, no students. Mmmm… I’m looking forward so much to traveling on my Wagner Custom approach skis after using snowshoes with my clients last month. And getting to ride lines that I’ve only dreamed about on past trips?! Holy crap!!! I will admit to being a bit disheartened after watching much of the snow on the upper mountain blow away during our high-camp storm, but it’s gotta snow before we arrive up there again, right? And if not, the Messner Couloir and the lines off the North Summit still had snow in them when we left. Just not powder. Any way you slice it, we’re going to have an amazing time, and I’m going to get the opportunity to put my board and approach skis from Wagner Custom through the wringer in the ultimate testing ground. Wahoo.

Cheers,
AJ

Skinning away from the truck at 4:30 in the morning can be rough. It’s dark. It’s cold. And it’s 4:30 for god’s sake. Doubts creep in, and I find it easy to invent reasons we should turn around, get back in the truck, and make the hour drive back to my warm bed where my wife lies sleeping. But then I look up at the massive starry sky and at the craggy shapes of the Tetons I love, snowfields subtly lit up by the half moon, and I find it easy to anticipate magnificent things to come. So I keep moving forward, away from the truck and the warmth it could offer, and choose the unsure experience ahead. Embracing the cold and dark I skin up towards the days objective, today’s being the Southeast Face of the South Teton, and I enjoy the work and sweat and mild discomfort of it all. At least until the coffee wears off.

Yesterday brought a break in the storm of the past week, but Alex and I knew that the cold temps up high had maintained the snow quality while the sun had started the stabilization process. The sun rose as we passed the Platforms in Garnet Canyon, and a biting cold wind blew in our faces for the last three hours of our climb. We walked the summit ridge under bluebird skies 7 hours after leaving the parking lot, with a stiff breeze blowing us along and unobstructed views in every direction. Amazing.

The view down the Southeast Face was surprisingly frightening, at least initially. An initial 300′ of 60-degree turns led down to a more moderate, wide open 45-degree face that ran 1200′ before ending abruptly in an 800′ cliff. Traversing left would bring us into the cirque below the South and Matternaught Peak, and down through the narrows into Avalanche Canyon. Hand shears showed 15cm of warming powder over a firm base–we couldn’t have asked for better conditions! I led down the first pitch, making controlled, confident turns on my new Wagner board. (I’ve been astonished at how fun this board is, and was further impressed at its stability and power in steep terrain.) The surface sluffed behind me with every turn, causing a bit of vertigo as I rode down a face that seemed to be moving with me. I stopped near our intended traverse and called for Alex to join me. He whooped as he carved through the firm pow, and after meeting up we swapped leads down through the narrows and to a sunny picnic spot on the edge of Lake Taminah.

The snow got wetter and stickier as we finished our descent out of the canyon, and we stripped down to t-shirts for the glide across Taggart Lake and through the moraines to the parking lot. Today was a phenomenal day in the mountains, successfully making a big descent of a big peak with a great friend. Awesome.