Saturday, August 28, 2021

Irene's Arete

In August, the Tetons weigh heavy on my mind. 

My fixation probably began some time around early 2017, when I was finishing up my undergraduate degree in Florida. I discovered the instagram of a fellow named Jimmy Chin (who had only tens of thousands of followers at the time). One of my buddies would go to Jackson regularly, and he talked my ear off about the time his friend took him and his dad up a climb in the Park. I saw a photo of him bearing ropes with the Grand behind him. I thought it looked and sounded so cool. When I moved to Bozeman in 2018, I met Nick, who became my go-to climbing partner that summer. He and I cut our teeth at Practice Rock and in Gallatin Canyon, dialing our multipitch systems and getting into the groove of climbing with eachother. One morning we met for coffee and decided that we wanted to climb something in the Tetons; something fairly straightforward and easy, as both of us had yet to climb anything technical in the Park (I hadn't even visited). We decided on the East Ridge of Disappointment. I remember feeling so anxious in the Lupine Meadows parking lot as I went to sleep that night, waiting for my 4 AM alarm. As the day progressed, it was clear that Nick and I had sufficiently prepared for this climb and we both cruised it. Personally, I felt as though we could've gotten away with something harder, but I've since grown accustomed to the practice of going into mountains, like the Tetons, feeling over-prepared and in control, rather than under-prepared and swimming. 

Belaying Nick up the last pitch of our first technical Teton climb (E Ridge, Disappointment Pk)

Over the past couple of years, law school duties and some long-for-me Wind River backpacking trips have kept me out of the Tetons during prime climbing season. I had finished up the WURL in July and, while passing through the Lone Peak Cirque on the egress, I was reminded that there's beautiful rock everywhere in the high country; 'tis the season. 

Evidently, Teton adventures demand lots of respect and I didn't want to go on a climbing mission cold, so I got on rock for the first time of the summer in the lovely City of Rocks, where I felt really good on 5.8 off the couch (Carol's Crack felt way more casual than it did last summer) and managed to one-hang a pretty burly 5.9+ (Z Cracks). Game on.

Carol Cracks, CoR



Z Cracks, CoR

I hit Vitor up a few weeks before and he was stoked to climb Irene's. I was happy to have him as a partner—it's been great to live near and climb with Vitor, who is probably the first person to ever tell me what trad climbing is, way back in 2016 at Tallahassee Rock Gym.

Anyhow, we left Ogden at around 4:30 PM to some of the gnarliest smoke I've seen this summer. The drive felt apocalyptic, especially as night fell over the Star Valley. I hoped that the smoke wouldn't be as bad in Jackson Hole...

The Malad rest stop, with ugly, thick smoke filling the sky

We arrived at the Lupine Meadows trailhead shortly before midnight and found Nick in his rat-mobile with his headlamp on, probably pawing through the guidebook. That's another thing: Nick and our buddy Jake had planned to climb the same route that Saturday morning. It would be all the fun of a party of four, without the rope faff and logistics associated with climbing a route with a party of that size.

The Lupine Meadows overnight scene is turning into a bit of a zoo, as cars and climbers file in through all hours of the night. Luckily I had brought some earplugs and a buff to cover my eyes...

The alarm sounded at 4:30 AM. I sucked down some cold brew, ate some Aussie bites, and we were off to the races, making good time to the Meadows in 2:00, where we filled our bladders before heading up to the base of Irene's. There's a lot of attractive spires shooting out of Garnet Canyon's north side, so make sure you've got good photos of Irene's before you pick the one to amble towards. 

The Middle Teton from the Meadows, with some dreamy clouds obscuring its summit

After gaining the Meadows, we stayed on the left side of the creek which required some trivial bushwhacking to put us back on track for Irene's. After some deliberation, we decided to stay low below the treed ledges leading up to Irene's. A faint climbers trail came into sights, and we followed that onto mellow 4th-class terrain with the occasional 4th-classs+ down climb. 

To our delight, Nick and Jake had only just started up Irene's, as Nick was belaying Jake up the first pitch. This was going to be a really fun day sharing this Teton classic with several friends.

I was feeling good and took the first lead. It was cold, and smoke obscured much of the valley below. The first few moves to gain the face felt thin and insecure, and I took more time than I would've liked to commit to the face and start moving. Teton rock is pretty unusual, and the first pitches flaring grooves with cryptic protection took some getting used to. Once I had a few pieces of gear in, I felt better and moved quickly to the belay station. The sun broke through the smoke and clouds, I removed a layer, and belayed Vitor up to me.

Vitor following P1

It was a blast to share the comfy belay ledges with Nick, Vitor, and Jake, as we all bantered and talked a bunch of crap about whomever was leading. 

Vitor putting on his game face for the next lead, with the Cloudveil and Nez Perce in the background

Soon enough, Vitor headed up the 2nd pitch, which I thought had one distinct section of full-value 5.8. Get ready for a steep finger crack with some awkward bear hugging. 

It was becoming clear to me that my 45+L Cilogear pack was just too big a pack for the job. I kept adjusting the shoulder straps—they either felt too tight, restricting motion, or too loose, throwing my pack weight all over the place as I pulled some delicate moves. Plus, I think it was one of those situations where my larger volume pack allowed me to pack more than I needed. Oh well. 

Jake following Nick's lead, on the tricky section of P2

I led P3, which required starting off on the left side of the arete with marginal gear, and then pulling somewhat of a delicate and committing step onto the right side of the arete. I plugged some mental pro, did a little do-si-do onto the face, and got a nice .75 a little bit higher. Ahh. The rest of the climbing on P3 was super fun 5.7 climbing up a left-facing with dihedral with several cracks to choose from. This was probably my favorite section of the climb: easy and well-protected, but interesting enough to feel engaging.

Pulling the corner on P3. Don't blow it here. A great pitch. The left-facing dihedral seen above me (black rock) was a blast.

About 3/4 of the way up P3, rope drag became quite bad (in hindsight, I should've continued up the right side of the arete rather than sneaking around to the left), so I set up and intermediate belay station and belayed Vitor up. He finished on the short section of rock to the base of P4, where we waited for quite a while due to some route finding issues. Good on Nick for putting down that harder P4 variation though! Don't go too far right on this pitch, apparently. 

From here, Vitor led up to a committing and thin move off of the deck on the left. Apparently, he also got off route (went too far left) and ended up on some pretty hard mid-5.10 climbing, so it took him a while too. We couldn't communicate with eachother once he pulled around the left side of the arete and this was a bit frustrating. I'll probably bring a pair of walkies on a climb like this next time. I followed his lead, which was pumpy hands/thin hands on slightly overhanging terrain with terrible feet. Nice work, Vitor!

Following some steep and pumpy moves on Vitor's P4 alternate

I had planned to climb the original P5 (5.7), but the 5.9 stem variation was calling Vitor's name, so I gave it to him. This is a sweet section of rock, with great protection and slightly polished rock. It's not very sustained and feels more like a boulder problem because you top out of the 5.9 section with a mantel on a large ledge.

The P5 5.9 stem variation is a must-do for the leader feeling comfortable at the grade

Vitor gained the knife edge and belayed me up. The sustained climbing was over (so we thought), and it looked like some weather was coming in, so we were glad to have most of the climb behind us.  

P5's knife-edge section offered very casual climbing with perhaps one of the best positions on the entire climb

I solo'd down P6 to the large, grassy notch in the ridge and saw Jake belaying Nick up a pitch that looked quite hard. Uh oh. Wasn't this supposed to be easy 5.5–5.7?

The easier climbing on P7 was really hard to find (at least it was for us), so our options were the 5.10 finish or the greasy "5.8+" Vedauwoo-style fist crack. I wasn't up for leading 5.10 in the Tetons, so I reluctantly started up the fist crack. After plugging a few cams and climbing like a garbageman, I down climbed and told Vitor that either we would have to find some easier terrain, or he would have to take this lead. Vitor was apparently feeling strong, so he took the lead once again and thrutched up the fist-crack. Thanks, Vitor! I felt this was properly strenuous climbing (probably the hardest on the route), and I'm curious to know where the easier climbing is located. 

In any event, Vitor arrived at the top of P7, belayed me up, and I passed him and remained tied in, but solo'd the rest of the climb to where it levels out with the Disappointment plateau. We'd completed the climb, with two of our homies to boot! Summit bubbles to celebrate. 




Vitor Chies, the MVP of the day

I remember this descent...

We opted against topping out on Disappointment Peak proper because of some thick clouds that looked like they were about 1,500-2,000ft overhead and approaching from the west. 

Not sure what the official name of our descent was, but we headed SE off of the summit plateau (it was called the Disappointment Peak Trail on Gaia), and did some 4th-class down climbing to a hole in the slope that required some goofy squeeze moves.

Nick in the dignity crux of the day

We saw a few black bears on the trail and I really wished I had brought bear spray. Luckily, Nick dates a forest service ranger who specializes in telling people to be smarter in bear country (sorry, Casey!), so he typically has a can (sorry, Nick!). 

We prayed to sweet baby Jesus that an eatery in Jackson would be open by the time we arrived back in town. Luckily, Snake River Brewing was open, so we gorged on fried food, drank a lot of beer, and watched a woefully unsatisfied Jake dip his fries into the brewery's version of fry sauce (some fancy Jackson-like aioli with sage or something).

All in all, the adventure took us something like 14.5 hours. We moved at a steady pace, and if any of us go back to Irene's, we definitely would shave off the time we spent figuring out the approach and some of the variations. 

Stats:
- 15.6 mi
- 4,110 ft
- Climbing difficulty: 5.10 C0 (w/ hard P4 alternate)
- Way too much food
- 1.5L of water (only drank about .5 on the climb
- Elapsed time: 14.5 hrs

Thoughts:
- 5.8 in the Tetons definitely feels harder than 5.8 cragging. Not sure if it's the uniqueness of Teton rock, the austere setting, or the fact that I'm miles away from the trailhead. Probably a combination of those things. It could also be the heavier-than-necessary pack I carried. It's not the easiest thing to execute polished 5.9 moves while also trying to adjust your pack straps. 
- The window for high-elevation climbing in the Tetons is pretty small—though this year a very hot and dry summer opened that window well into July... As such, any climb I get to complete in the Tetons is one to be cherished. I probably have only so many of them in my lifetime... 
- I'm satisfied that I was able to get up this route while having only one weekend of cragging behind me. I think my scrambling throughout the early summer increased my confidence moving quickly over easier terrain. With these bigger routes in the alpine, it seems that confidence begets a lot of advantages, the main one being comfort on harder-to-protect rock (of which there is plenty on this route). I'm not sure if I'll ever muster the necessary enthusiasm or motivation to climb harder/more sustained routes in the Tetons, but I feel good knowing that I can get a classic moderate such as Irene’s and feel comfortable. When I got into trad climbing a few years ago, I said that I would automatically position myself into the "moderate trad-dad" stereotype, and I feel like I am there. Indeed, I am most fulfilled when climbing long, moderate routes in stellar settings such as Garnet Canyon.

Wednesday, August 18, 2021

July 2021 Meditations

Why do I keep this blog? The tagline is that it's my account for high country travel. Sure, but I could do that all the same in a notebook that lives in my nightstand. 

And for whom do I keep these reports? Is it for me? For the anonymous beta-seekers? For family?

I don't really know. What I do know is that I like to write, and sometimes I need to write. And I don't care if anyone reads any of this, as much as I imagine (and even hope) people do. 

And here's another thing: I think things happening in my life outside of the high country are important to and worth writing about. But they're probably less fun to read. Fine. 

Anyhow, July was fucking awesome because I did a hard thing and then did a not so hard thing when I traveled back East and relaxed, no, melted, melted hard. Like, really hard. Like, drink expensive beers on a beach with my brothers and my girlfriend and watch big weather move over the Cape Cod bay while admiring the incoming tide, how it's controlled by the moon and how it inched toward our feet and made everything feel cool and wet and distinctly North Atlantic. In Utah, I can't keep a shirt wet if I want to and the opposite is true in the Cape—even if that shirt is hanging on a clothesline in the sun for an entire day.

There's a place in Dennis Port near my granny's cottage that we would walk to, a jetty, past the private beaches and to the fisherman (whom I've never seen catch a fish, ever) balancing on the weathered rocks and throwing chum into the sea. My Pops liked it there and fished there, too, and I never did see him catch a fish either, but one time when the tide was low and the sky dark with cumulonimbus clouds we walked along the jetty in ankle deep water into which he sunk his hand and picked out a fat brown crab, which pinched him and made him bleed. The blood was deep red and dripped into the water and I thought my Pops was brave and stoic as he held onto the crab and made me look at it. It moved and wriggled and I looked at its beady black eyes and wanted nothing to do with it. My Pops died some time in 2020 but never had a funeral nor a memorial service due in part to the pandemic, but that summer my brothers and I brought his ashes to Dennis Port and to the jetty and, as my granny and parents watched, threw handfuls of them into the cracks of the slippery rocks and some of mine picked up with the wind and blew into Eddie's thick black hair, as he was downwind of me and having his little goodbye Pops moment. 

This summer Libby, Mick and I returned to the jetty at high tide and watched those fat brown crabs float in the current close to the jetty walls. It was hard to tell whether they were fishing or simply getting sucked up and carried in the current out of control. They floated like ghosts below the surface and disappeared in and out of the murky water. We dove in with them and floated on our backs like otters, letting the tide carry us inland until we reached the only flat rock far inside the jetty that lacked scores of skin-thrashing barnacles.

Every summer I have to visit Provincetown, which is an unabashedly queer place and I love that, and I really wanted Libby to love it, too (and I think she did). Maybe some time in 2015 I was there with friends and it was Bear Week and I thought, "Wow, there are a lot of big, hairy gay men all around me and I don't know if I'm supposed to feel uncomfortable," really feeling mostly comfortable but only slightly discomforted by the fact that I was a supposedly straight man surrounded by my supposedly straight friends who probably thought that I felt uncomfortable, because that was what they felt in that moment too. One night, we were deliberating whether to visit this basement bar and had some heteronormative conversation about whether it was actually a gay bar, and whether it would be alright for us supposedly straight men to enter. Somebody overheard our conversation and remarked, coolly, "It's a fuckin' gay bar," and walked right in. We went elsewhere, probably because we didn't want to come across as gay. 

But this time around, Libby and I visited a queer gallery right when we got into town, and there was a blown up image of a big, hairy bear butt. It was right there on the main level directly across from the entrance, greeting me like a welcome mat. It wasn't what I'd call Great Art, but at least it conveyed to me a message. What was it? Get comfortable or get over it. 

We continued throughout the gallery, past other large pictures of bear butts, and then walked down Commercial Street, seeing mostly men. I suppose it's still a man's world, even when you're queer. 

And then there's Commercial Street with all of its quiet side streets and cute Victorian townhomes with inviting porches and steel spiral staircases and window tchotchkes that make me feel this powerful, forward-looking form of nostalgia—I believe it's referred to as "saudade" in Portuguese. There's only a few places that make me feel such a way; Provincetown being one of them, Greenwich Village being another, and El Carmen in Valencia the last that comes to mind.


One day on a whim Mick and I bought fancy bodyboards and took them to Marconi Beach, where we dodged surf schoolers and other foam-bearing tourists. We were kids again in small waves, thrilled at what the ocean could do. The seals came closer to the shore than I'd ever seen them, giving off an old-can-of-tuna-in-the-sink-type odor. For some reason we always found ourselves on the Atlantic side of the Cape during the late afternoon, when the ranger station closes and most of the beachgoers leave. I thought about how dreamy it would be to visit this seashore in the dead of the winter, when opaque slushy waves peak overhead and the air stings your cheeks. We swam over to a clean-looking spot in the beach break, where knee high sets peeled for fifty or so meters before mushing out above deeper water. We sponged around among a couple of longboarders and one shortboarder with an earring who wasn't really good but somehow rode every wave that came to him. He stood up on his board with a certain rigid grace, his back stiff and erect, his legs locked and angular like a digitized trapezoid, but hey, the kid was catching fucking everything, and I wanted some, too. Days later we'd rent a monstrous plastic longboard and Mick would stand up on the first waves of his life, and I don't know whether I've hooted harder at anything Mick's ever done. 

I'm convinced that you could put me anywhere in the country and I'd find something fun to do. If you were to put me back within an hour's drive from the coast, I assuredly would become a waterman. Breathing underwater seems like the greatest super power to have. 


One morning when the sun was hot, the wind still, and the water textureless, I had coffee and just started out over the Nantucket Sound. I didn’t feel like there was anything in particular to think about, nor anywhere else I needed to be. It might have been the closest I’ve come to pure contentedness in a long time—perhaps even ever.


And then we returned back to the house where I grew up, and I snuck out to to go climbing at one of my favorite spots that overlooks the Naugatuck Valley: the Whitestone Cliffs. I rope solo’d the high quality Dreadlock (5.8) and immediately reinvigorated my excitement for rock climbing.

I had a conversation with my brother one time about the Naugatuck River. He's lived in the post-industrial northeast his whole life, and perhaps hasn't developed an appreciation for the idea of a river as the lifeblood of a community.  To him, the Naugatuck seems like an afterthought. But I know it could be so much more (it was once host to the southernmost Atlantic salmon migration), and it breaks my heart that people in the area quickly dismiss it as another polluted river with little to offer. 


The last day in Connecticut, my dad’s side of the family visited. We all played lots of chess, drank some great New England beers, and hopped around to bluegrass.

And before I was even ready, I found myself back in Utah, land of snow, rock, dust, and dry, dry heat. 

People ask me whether I'll ever return to New England. I usually tell them no, and that there's just too many places to explore here out West to justify returning back to scrappy ol' New England. But then I think of the Naugatuck, the Atlantic,  Nonnewaug Falls, and the fifty foot cliffs that I used to amble under when I knew very little about what I could accomplish on ones ten times their size. It's all important and exciting. It's all very, very beautiful. 

Baja Chronicles Pt. 4

 May 28-29 "Welp, we decided to punch it up north and hopefully find one last good Mexican wave before crossing the border.  Along the ...