The Million Dollar Highway

Looking up at an untracked piece of snow, I can see myself carving tracks through it like a Chinese calligrapher making brush strokes on paper. Snow begs to be skied as much as mountains beg to be climbed. The reality is that mountains beg for absolutely nothing, they simply exist. Something about leaving one's mark on the earth, in a positive and transitory way, appeals to us skiers and climbers. And this drive, to be the first to grip a hold of rock on a mountain face, or the first to make a track in snow after a storm, is part of what drives us to do this. It is the impermanence of the action, the absolute fact that it means nothing, and changes nothing, that gives our turns and our efforts significance to us. We live in these beautiful moments in which sun sparkles off snow crystals though cold air and we move through the terrain.

Anytime I see a mountain face I start to see the small undulations and the large scale features; to put a picture together of the character of the mountain. Each is different and has its own personality. Each mountain range is unique. Like people, they possess characteristics that become clear and known only through direct experience. A photo, or long-distance glance is only that; like sighting a stranger through a crowd at a train station. There is no end to the fascination that the earth's landscapes inspire, and the exploration we do to bring real images and knowledge to the ideas and pictures in our imaginations.



There is a stretch of road that connects Ouray to Silverton. They call it the Million Dollar Highway, or HWY 550, and it is about 100 yards from my house. The road was built in the 1880s to connect Ouray and Silverton to the productive mines that were working in the San Juan Mountains. Nowadays there is no gold left, or not enough to mine anyways. Despite the beauty of the San Juans, which some consider to be Colorado's most rugged mountains, and were also in consideration for becoming Rocky Mountain National Park, the mountains are marred by the remains of the mining industry. Nearly every basin has a road up it, used in the mining operations of the 19th and 20th centuries, and there are innumerable remains of mining infrasctructure, including shafts, huge buildings, and debris piles.

If nothing else, mining's unfortunate mark on the SW Colorado landscape can be a lesson for our current and future generations of citizens. David Brower, former president of the Sierra Club, said something to the effect of...once an environmental or conservation battle has been lost, it has been lost forever. And the innumerable road cuts, and detritus that remains here in place is a direct affirmation of that comment. Right now is a golden moment for the conservation movement because land all over the country is being offered up to conservation groups; land previously destined for real estate development and other irreversible projects. The problem is that the same financial crash that has driven land owners to sell their land conservation groups and interests is the same financial drying up that is making it difficult of impossible for these well-intentioned groups to purchase this land. So get out and donate your money! It will keep giving for generations and generations to come. It is the best investment you can make.

Okay, enough proselytizing. Nowadays, the resources that the Million Dollar Highway connects are the world-class skiing and ice climbing that stretches between Ouray and Silverton. Luckily, work has been slim, and I've been able to enjoy a lot of this recently.

I work as a ski guide and ski patroller this winter at Silverton Mountain. Its a unique blend of backcountry terrain, explosive-controlled, which allows us to ski steep powder mid-winter when all the other backcountry skiers are making squiggles down flat, boring powder when the avalanche hazard is high. All the terrain is steep, there is nothing groomed, and rumor has it that the lift we currently use was actually condemned before it got bought from Mammoth Mountain and moved here. I've gotten to realize my childhood dream, which is to ski powder all the time and blow up stuff. And both are legal here.



On the way to the mountain is an ice climb called Niagara Falls (or sometimes referred to as Santa Claus Pillar). It shines in the sun like an ice chalice, and has been calling me to climb it for weeks. Last week my friend Gary Falk and I had the chance to climb it in sunshine and warm weather.

Gary Falk skiing up to the climb, which is one 130 foot pitch.


The lower bit looks like the foot of a giant ice-monster stomping onto the earth below. The climb itself was phenomenal to lead, was dripping wet and easy to sink my ice axes. Near the bottom of the pillar the rock wall behind was overhung, which meant that the pillar was totally free-standing!



Gary looking suspicious


After Niagara Falls we cruised up to Eureka! and climbed the area classic "Whorehouse Hose" (no joke, thats the name). The first pitch is over 60 meters, and is followed by a swerving snow couloir to a final pitch of WI 4-5. We finished at our car in the dusk.

Gary leading pitch 1 of the Whorehouse


The last few days we've been exploring the backcountry terrain in Red Mountain Pass, which is the 11,070 ft pass that the Million Dollar Highway runs through.

A beautifully engineered curve on the Million Dollar Highway, Commodore Basin in the Background.


Sheldon, Matt Wade, and I skied the Grandaddy Couloir into Commodore Basin. There hasn't been any new snow in a few weeks, which means there is a lot of beat out snow here. The terrain is still amazing though. Matt and Sheldon are both amazing skiers to watch, and with snow conditions tricky like they are now, a skiers true ability will shine.

Sheldon cruising the entrance to Grandaddy's


Matt at the entrance to the middle couloir


Matt looking stylish is the middle couloir


A few weeks ago we skied the Battleship on a really windy day. But is made for nice photos.


Kendall Mountain, which defines the southern border of the town of Silverton. This is the view out my kitchen window, and I often enjoy it while sipping coffee in the morning. The slide path on the left side which comes strait toward the viewer is known as the "Naked Lady" slide path, you can use your imagination as to why.


Today a friend and I skied the West Face (A.K.A. the Hollywood shot) of Red Mountain 3. It is a line that calls to each and every skier who drives the million dollar highway, a big, open, glory-run that begs for airplane-sized turns and speed.

The West Face, with tracks evident down the middle.


Skiing the upper couloir of the West Face


Video of Skiing in Red Mountain Pass.


Looking back on the last few weeks reminds me of some lyrics by my late friend Chris Starz:

"Living high, high on life,
Just about as high as those northern lights.
Living fast, man, and I'm dying young,
If I'm gonna get through this world I gotta have a little fun."

June on the Campground Couloir


Ascending in Red Mountain Pass


Dawn mixed climbing in the Skylight Area, Ouray


Looking out from Skylight


Looking up at the last pitch of Skylight


Gary descending from Hoser's Highway


Gary on Hoser's Highway


Approaching Hoser's Highway





Erik climbing the second pitch of the Direct North Face in South Mineral Basin



Outside my window snow is falling onto red mountains. Another long day in the mountains and I feel a deep satisfying tired. Weeks of climbing the frozen waterfalls of ice which drape the valleys and faces that surround Silverton, has left me ravenous for more. I can't remember the last day when there wasn't work or some other adventure requiring coffee and Nutella sandwiches.

Leading a nice waterfall with the San Juans for company

Where'd the time go?

Andrew on the last pitch of Cloud Tower in Red Rock


Paul taping up for Cardinal Pinnicle.


Dana peak and the Dana Couloir in the Sierras. Diccon and I did roughly 10 pitches of ice to get up that thing.


The Sierra


North Couloir on North Peak, Sierra



North Peak in the Sierras. Ice climbing is great here in the fall.


Layla, on the "Silent Line." Best Chimney I've ever climbed, well, not quite as good as the Narrows in the Steck-Salathe


Chantel and I at the base of Half Dome the night before the climb. We were visited by a Ringtail that night.


Base of half dome.


Chantel on the "Death Slab" approach to Half Dome

Darkstar: the longest alpine climb in California. Car to car 15 hours. Like the Complete North Ridge of Stuart but easier approach.


Aidan and I on the summit, only halfway there.


Another crazy sunrise


June on "Cryin' Time Again." Her first multi-pitch. Woo-hoo!


Brian and Cece and me. My Antarctica friends. Brian is down there now.

Two months ago my truck, the Red Rocket, lumbered out of Boise headed to California. The sky was clear and hot as Nevada disappeared at 75 mph in the rear view mirror. I arrived to Touloumne Meadows under bright stars and a dark sky, my friends were already asleep I'd been so late on the drive.

It seems pointless now to retell the stories of late nights and early mornings; late mornings and early nights. Campfires, long rock climbs, dreams of the future, and dreams of the past. Stars, the full moon on top of Half Dome guiding Chantel and I down after twenty pitches. The moonlight so bright I turned my lamp out. Passing out in middle of trail because we couldn't find our way down. Another dark top-out. Rappelling off of bushes. Playing Shady Grove on the Mandolin for the thousandth time at the campfire. Hearing OId Crow Medicine Show sing, "My baby plays the guitar, I pick the banjo now" at a free show in San Francisco and busting dance moves in the aisle. Two degrees of separation at most. Las Vegas, city of sin, city of amazing rock climbing. Accomplishing goals. Getting shut down. Bob Dylan at dusk. Bob Dylan in the morning. Four rounds of coffee as a minimun, every day. A mouse started living in my truck. Climbing every day. Being dirty. Rivers down main street in Bishop. The first snow in the Sierra. The search for motivation. Constant travel. Where to sleep? What to eat tonight? Burritos again! Eggs in the morning. No knowledge of the date or time. Has the sun hit the tent yet? Okay, its time to get up. Oh, again? Why can't we just take a rest day? No rest days, life is too short!

I can't possibly capture the last two months in words. I'm simply grateful, supremely grateful, for the opportunity to live a beautiful life surrounded by amazing people. So thanks to everyone I've traveled with and met on the way, safe travels!

Finding the right way

Seven of us just finished out alpine guides exam which took place in the North Cascades in Washington. Here are some photos from the 10 days. I'm too mentally tired from it to say much more at the moment. I learned a lot, and I can't wait to find out if I passed!

We climbed the ridge that is split by shade and sun, and then descended the left hand ridge. This is Mt. Forbidden.


Tom on the Quien Sabe glacier with Boston Basin in the background.


Me on the summit of Sharkfin Tower


Dawn guiding us up Sharkfin


One of the examiners having a good time



Dawn sending


Forbidden from the slabs where the glacier used to be.


Tom following on the East ridge of Forbidden



Tom on the East ridge of Forbidden


The North Ridge of Forbidden.


Forest

Head in the clouds

Mt. Baker


Its been a crazy summer for a lot of people in the climbing community this summer. I'd like to send out my best wishes and respects to the memory of Craig Luebben, who died in a climbing accident this week, and his wife and daughter who are left behind. He was training for AMGA alpine exam in the North Cascades when a chunk of ice he was climbing over collapsed on the bergshrund underneath Mt. Torment. I've never met Craig, but he was a beloved person in the climbing community and he will be missed dearly. He was supposed to be my instructor on an upcoming guide's course in Colorado and even through the brief email I received from him describing the course, I could tell how much passion he had for climbing.

Lily and George on our two day crevasse rescue course on Mt. Baker.


I've just returned from an alpine ice course I taught for the American Alpine Institute on the north side of Mt. Baker. The two guys on my trip were especially awesome and despite the torrential downpour managed to keep spirits high and we climbed the Roman Moustache route which consisted of a number of pitches of alpine ice. I'd driven strait from the Phish show at the Gorge to make it for the 7 am rendezvous last Saturday, where I saw my brother (congrats Matthew for your first Phish show!) and some of my best friends on earth. In addition to seeing an incredible show I left the venue and received a message from my best childhood friend telling me he just got engaged to his long standing girlfriend, so woo-hoo to Jeff and Ruby!

Chandler painting Andy before the Phish show


Darren getting pumped for the best rock and roll on earth


Russ, Chandler and Andy hanging at the Gorge. Russ had the flag dress custom made for the Phish show and other places I'm. Sure. You have no idea how many comments he got. Apparently patriotism is still in style.


As everyone knows, there are sometimes too many things to possible describe in words, and as writers have known since the beginning of time, words can never replace experience. How can I describe the way the clouds whipped the summint of Baker, the cumulous clouds seemed like a magic surfboard could just ride them into the white yonder. They morphed from shape to shape and the sun came and went like a flitting spotlight. At times we were enveloped like the inside of a ping-pong ball, sometimes we were in this giant clear fishbowl looking out on the world from up high. The Coleman glacier's crevasses could've fit average houses inside of them, and despite my years of climbing I still get a mighty pit in my stomach when I step over those great dark holes in the ground.

I've spent a lot of time in the mountains at this point and I take many things for granted that used to make me so excited. It was exciting seeing the guys on the trip being so enamored by simple things like camping out up high on a big mountain, and smelling the flowers on the hike out. The high alpine environment is devoid of plant life and when you eventually descend the smells of the mountain flowers are overwhelming. It feels like I've never been able to smell until that moment, and then it becomes normal again.

Ice cragging on the Coleman Glacier


We walked out the long road from Mt. Baker in a downpour. It gave example to why we call this area the Pacific Northwet. I ran ahead to get the car and shorten the trip for the guys. Running through the rain and green forest all alone I felt incredibly grateful to be alive and to have the simple ability to feel the mist and smell the thick woods. In light of the recent deaths of friends this summer, life is feeling even more precious now. When people pass away all of the things that seem like problems become inconsequential in comparison to the big picture: just being alive and living well each day. I think that each of us strives to be as good as we can be; to ourselves, our families and friends, and the world. I'm no closer to the answer of what a good life consists of, than I was when I became aware of my desire to live one. I do know that to act from the good intentions of the heart seems to be the best gesture I can make.



I wonder if my pondering really mean much. Whether or not, its nice to spend a little time reflecting. Life seems to be going at its usual crazy pace, with only a few rest days between now and my trip to Pakistan where I'm going this fall to teach climbing to porters in the Karakoram, a few AMGA courses sprinkled in between and hopefully some quality time with the friends and family. Maybe even some time to stick my head in the clouds and feel the wind on my face.

What else is there, really? The seasons come and go, time goes on and life continues despite us. It feels good to just appreciate the basic things now and again; the laugh of good company, the crisp air of morning, and the summits that I am lucky enough to visit. Sometimes the sun shines bright and then there is the hard rain. May it rain where you want it to, thats what a read on a sticker one time, and how true those words are....

May the rain fall where you want

I saw a sticker that said, "May the rain fall where you want." There's some wisdom in that. The rain could be a metaphor for some other difficulty in life, but in the case of my last trip to the mountains, rain was no metaphor at a all. Neither was lightning or thunder.

Ben psyched about being soaked and headed home


Ben Mitchell and I went to climb Eldorado Peak to prepare for our AMGA alpine exam. There is a lot of time, experience, opportunity, and money at stake in the exam so we thought we'd train a lot in order to do well. Of course, that training paid off greatly when the two of us were packing for the trip in the parking lot and I casually tossed the neon yellow rain tarp in the "stay at home" pile. And what did Mother Nature do? She pissed on us, and shook her thunder and lightning stick relentlessly. So what did we learn? Always take something for the rain in the Cascades, even if the forecast is for 100 degrees in Seattle.

Columns of rain over the North Cascades National Park


On the positive side, we did learn the approach to Eldorado quite well and saw a beautiful storm roll through the mountains. Our little bivy site on the shoulder of the peak was somehow protected from lightning strikes, which seemed to be happening all around us. Only once did I feel the buzz of electricity.


Here is a time lapse of lightning during the night. Its a bunch of photographs put together and played at high-speed, which means there was three times as many strikes as what the camera captured.


We woke up the next morning cursing the fact that between us, we had zero waterproof items, and our sleeping bags and all our clothes were soaked. I slept mainly underneath my sleeping pad, and not on it, to protect from the downpour.

The lesson for me is that things will happen that don't fit with the plan. Maybe we didn't climb the mountain, but we did see an amazing show and had a good hike none-the-less.

Enjoys long walks

"...Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference." Robert Frost obviously never tried to climb mountains in the North Cascades, or he wouldn't have said this. The past three days Ben Mitchell and I have been training for our AMGA alpine guide's exam. Basically we are trying to "guide" each other up long and complex alpine routes. In the North Cascades to get to most of these kind of routes involves a fair amount of off-trail travel just to get out of treeline, then hours of plugging up boulder fields, talus slopes, morianes, snow slopes, glaciers, ect, until the "good" piece of climbing is reached.

An old-fashioned camp out. Notice the hood on to protect from mosquitoes. Ben Mitchell Photo.


Mountain flowers were blooming all over the route. If anyone knows what these are, please tell me!


Trying as hard as we could to get into the north ridge of Mt Stuart up mountaineers creek, we still managed to lose the vaguely marked trail, both on the way up and down. We lost the route on multiple other occasions and in total ended up adding a number of hours to the trip on account of it. There was moderate dehydration, mosquitoes, bushwacking, complaining, laughing, sore feet, tired legs, and empty stomachs. But these were the tough parts of Mt Stuart. The good parts were beautiful endless pitches of granite rock climbing, thousands of feet above the closest flat ground, miles from the nearest other human, sleeping on a tiny ledge and being woken by the sunrise at 4:45 am, frigid glacial meltwater rejuvenating dry mouths, alpine flowers that put the best of gardens to shame, hummingbirds doing fly-bys all day long, and feasting on salmon back in Leavenworth.

Ben on the lower ridge


Where's Waldo (or Ben in this case). Midway up the North Ridge.


There is something quite twisted about this kind of pursuit, and something a little contradictory about training to be a guide as well. We all begin down this path because we love climbing and we either want to get paid to do more of it, or we want to help other people have similarly rewarding experiences as our own. After a year or two of guiding, that original feeling I had (insert inner monologue voice here: "oh my god, they're paying me for this?!") turns into something different, and like all jobs, it starts to feel like a job. That is okay, because I love the job, and don't get me wrong, I am so utterly grateful for the opportunity. But to be a professional mountain guide, you have to treat guiding like work. It is not the same as climbing for myself. So what Ben and I are trying to perfect now, are all the skills and techniques that go into creating a safe a rewarding climbing experience for others.

Me leading the off-width pitch. Ben Mitchell photo.




Mr. Ben Mitchell guiding me up the ridge.


Ben


Our alpine exam is next month and there are 8 candidates including us. Most of us are now in the Cascades doing similarly arcane alpine routes to get ready for a 10-day stretch of long climbs, high stress, and hopefully success!
For now though my legs are tired and I'm ready for another day of training tomorrow in Snowqualmie Pass where we're doing some route, the name of which I can't remember, and we'll probably do laps up and down, up and down....

Stuart though was amazing. Despite getting a little off on the walk in, we managed a reasonable time of 4 hours to the base of the North Ridge, which is a 3 thousand foot climb that is considered one of classics of the PNW (Pacific NorthWet), and one of the classics of the US. As is often the case with alpine climbs, getting to the top is just half the climb. Getting down from Stuart in any direction involves descent and then more climbing to get out of the basin in which it sits. In this way it is quite a demoralizing climb. Being east of the hydrologic crest of the Cascades, Stuart is a dry mountain. I took 2 liters of water which lasted from 4 am, when we started from the car, until about 10 am the next morning when we found some more water. Thats about 21 hours of moving and what would have been six hours of sleep if the buzzing of mosquitoes hadn't kept me awake all night.

Negotiating some unknown terrain on the descent.


Just before we arrived at our bivy (sleeping) spot, we climbed the most famous and beautiful section of the route, the great gendarme. A gendarme is basically a tower, or turret, that protrudes from a ridge. This one was so beautiful and the climbing so perfect...I wish it weren't so hard to get to!

Ben on the top of pitch one on the gendarme, a 5.9 layback that he styled with his pack on.


Ben following the second, 5.9 offwidth pitch on the gendarme.


Summit! Ben Mitchell photo.