alex chiang: web 6.0

One of the last things that Phil suggested I do was this really cool walk up Mt. Fox, near the Fox glacier. Sounded good to me, so he printed off a b&w topo for me, and bade Wendy and him adieu.

A few hours later, I arrived at the Fox glacier village, filled out an intentions form at the Department of Conservation (DOC), and drove back out to the trailhead.

My plan was to walk up Mt. Fox, bivy on the ridge leading up to Mt. Craig, tag Craig in the morning, and then return to the car. Having returned all the stuff Wendy and Phil had lent me and a desire to travel somewhat on the lighter side, I basically had my bivy sack, sleeping bag, food, and camera.

Deliberately, I decided not to bring the one man tent, since it was heavy and bulky, and as I had no stove, only had cold food like canned tuna (and chocolate :).

I quickly blasted up the trailhead and just as quickly, immediately lost the trail. Now for those people who have never walked in New Zealand, let me just say that the trails (well, called “tracks” in their parlance) are not really anything like what we have in the States, and this being a not highly trafficked trail meant that it was more overgrown than normal.

Literally two minutes after starting, I found myself faffing about and writhing around in dense undergrowth. For ten minutes, I thrashed around until I finally found a triangle marking the track.

The poison track.

You see, the Kiwis use plastic orange triangles to mark the track meant for humans, and they use both blue and pink triangles to mark the tracks where they lay out poison traps to kill off the possums and stoats so as to give the native birds a chance to live.

The poison tracks are way bushier than the human tracks, so I knew I was in a bad way. Frustated and feeling stupid,, I finally pulled out the topo, and slapped myself across the face for being so dumb. Don’t cross the river, dummy! D’oh!

Ok, that problem solved, I basically had to fight my way all the way back to the start and tried to keep a better eye on the orange triangles. Returning back to the initial point of confusion, I was … still confused. For the life of me, I really couldn’t find the next happy orange triangle, so I made another guess, and luckily, due to my finely honed mountaineering instinct (or the fact that even a blind pig finds an acorn once in a while), saw a flash of orange … after more bushwhacking.

Seriously, this track was third class jungleering, at multiple points having to climb straight up 6 and 7 foot high root formations to keep going. I estimate that the majority of this track at 60% or steeper grade.

What would make things better? A game! I started playing a game where I would give myself a point every time I got concerned about getting seriously lost and not being able to find my way either up or down. Well, the point was only scored after experiencing those feelings and then successfully finding the next blessed orange triangle.

At this point in my trip, I was actually back in hiking shape, and was able to actually make decent progress. The guidebook author suggested that it would take 2 hours of “climbing through the beech forest before gaining the ridge” and it took me about 1:45 of writhing up slippery roots, muddy rocks, huge mossy trees, and scoring points, so that’s not too shabby.

Finally, I reached the trig point (a white tower thingy used for surveying), and breathed a sigh of relief. “A ha!” I thought — no more bushwhacking! Yay!

Well, kinda. See, there were these 6 foot high tussock grasses completely growing and reaching across the trail. Normally not a problem, but when a giant cloud is sitting on top of the mountain, and further when one recalls that clouds are made of water and observes the gentle mist condensing on the huge grasses, well, simply walking through the giant grasses means one is going to end up as soaked and wet as if it were actually raining.

So much for the “fine weather” report from the DOC.

I kept at it for about another half K and maybe another 50 vertical metres, and while i found the track to be extremely easygoing, I was completely wet wet wet.

Maybe I shouldn’t have started my endeavour at 4:20 pm. Oopsie.

The astute reader will now deduct that it was 6:30 pm or thereabouts, and darkfall was going to happen at 8:45 or so. It was scheduled to be another hour or so to the Mt. Fox summit, but the huge cloud simply wasn’t lifting.

I was at a decision point — keep on trucking or retreat? The factors for consideration:

• all of the clothing I was wearing was wet
• my sleeping bag and vest (for warmth) were down
• my long pants (dry) were cotton, but I did have a polypro base layer long sleeve top
• I had no way to make a fire
• no tent, only a bivy sack, which wouldn’t have been so great in a real rain
• the descent was going to take at least another two hours, probably longer due to a sore and achy knee
• I hate retreating

Well, it seems that I have learned something in my old age. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, I made the decision to turn around.

Two and a half miserable hours later, I was back at the car and reading the LP for hostel recommendations.

Now realize that I like to spin a good yarn, and I like to make myself look and sound kinda bumbly because let’s face it, that kind of writing is much more interesting, but for those of you who might be wondering about my decision making skills, here was how I decided to attempt this walk in the first place:

• The DOC projected “fine weather” for several days, and there was a huge high pressure system parked off the west coast; at no time did it actually ever precipitate on the ground
• I was actually quite dry in the forest, even though it was somewhat wet and muddy. It wasn’t until walking through the tussock grass clumps near the ridgeline that I got soaked (and the description didn’t really mention anything about the grass)
• the cloud buildup on the mountain was actually a common afternoon occurrence and normally lifts in the evenings; this particular cloud sat there for another 36 hours
• I was fit (knee notwithstanding), so I knew timewise, I could do it in less than the projected time (total time projected at 8-12 hours for just Mt. Fox; at my pace, it would have been 6 hrs total), and starting off at 4pm or so wasn’t actually that unreasonable

So you see, I’m not 100% stupid, let’s call it just 80% or so, and leave it at that. In any case, I ran away so that I can blog about a successful trip in the future. :)

cheers.

The Deej and Jalex Storm, before climbing Cotopaxi.

From a climbing forum I frequent:

Who in the club has done Epinephrine in Red Rocks, NV?

My reply:

Grade IV scares many.
Start early. Fear not. Climb strong.
Success tastes so sweet.

Jimmy was one of the coolest guys I’ve ever had the privilege to climb with. He was one of the regulars at Stoneworks Silos, the climbing gym in Carrollton, TX where I’ve whiled away too many sweltering, sultry summer nights to count.

In fact, that gym was my formative gym, and the guys who climbed there my formative idols, grizzled old guys who’d been around as long as the rocks they were climbing on. Always humble and perpetually grinning in their easy ways as climbers sweated and huffed in the stifiling Dallas air, their drawled comments laconic and chock full of cowboy wisdom, they was good people.

Everyone had a nickname — Big Steve, Skinny Richard, Bearded Steve, Linda Lee, Stone Face Laura, Jazz (the human, not to be confused with Jazz the dog), Chuck Kwon Sherpa, and Dane (ok, Dane didn’t have a nickname; you could climb anywhere in the southwest and someone would know Dane).

We called Jimmy “the Jedi”. He’d climbed the hardest, survived the scariest, seen the most, and was the calmest, humblest person in the entire place. To me, he had more climbing knowledge in his pinky than I’d ever be able to claim. And he was willing to share it with me, the complete gumby n00b, and even belay me on piddling gym routes, always with the zen-master-like advice that unlocked techniques and routes that should have been beyond me.

On real rock, it was no secret that if you had a project and wanted guaranteed success, you would invite Jimmy. We didn’t call him “cheater stick” for nothing.

I’m having a hard time believing that I’m writing about him in the past tense. In my mind, he’ll always be part of the bedrock of Southern climbing.

We’ll miss you Jimmy. RIP.

Friends of Forester

An old college buddy of mine is on his annual summer climbing road trip, for the purpose of staying sane between semesters of grad school. He went out to Yosemite for a few weeks and managed to tick Steck-Salathe, Freeblast, Astroman, Serenity Crack, and maybe a few others.

He’s climbing hard. I’m not.

We got on Syke’s Sickle last weekend (after unsuccessfully trying to convince him to do some of the more remote climbs Larry Hamilton opened up).

I wasn’t even going to write a TR, since the day went so perfectly, but here’s a mini…

In bed by 10pm, up at 2am, on the road and driving from Ft. Collins to Estes while fearfully avoiding the nocturnal grazing mule deer. In the Glacier Gorge parking lot by 3:30 to minor dismay at seeing 15 cars in
the lot already!

The hike in is quick and uneventful, and the brisk mountain air is a welcome relief from the summer doldrums. We’re treated to a lovely alpenglow lightshow bouncing off Arrowhead (I think) as we switch our headlamps from bright to dim to dimmest to off.

Rounding the trail and laying eyes upon Spearhead, we’re amazed to be the first non-elk megafauna out and about (although arguably we’re not so charismatic this time of morn). The route is free and clear and we’re climbing in short time.

The weather is perfect — a rarity in the park — and we’re 4 pitches up by the time we see brightly colored, polypro-and-Patagonia-clad ants industriously milling about at the base.

Out of shape am I as it’s been a while since I’ve done anything more than cragging. Michael gets the crux 5.9 roof pitch in two tries, and the “exciting” 5.7R final traversing slab pitch is mine. The lone bolt
in the middle of the slab looks to be forever and a day away. I’m mentally weak, and 10 feet out from the belay, I want to come back to the safety of aluminum and spectra bits that are rated up to 16 kN of
pity and relief.

I’m so out of practice though, that as I attempt to come back to the belay, I step down and right instead of left, and now I’m pretty much committed to the bolt. Michael laughs at my predicament, and I dredge up memories of being a somewhat respectable journeyman climber, and make a few moves to clip the bolt. Only a 5.7, eh?

The summit is a bit of scrambling away, and we converse with the magical ants who’ve blown up to person-sized people. Too soon, we’re off and on the loose descent. The 5.5 mile hike back to the car seems endless, but we can derive our proximity to the trailhead by the density of unhappy looking Texan and Nebraskan children being drug up the trail by their parental units.

Back at the car by 6:30pm, nary a cloud all day, and the Mickey D’s in Estes even has a real dollar menu, made legit by the presence of the double-cheeseburger and hot fudge sundae. Cheap calories by way of
deliciousness. Yum.

Syke’s Sickle, 5.9, 7 pitches. Not a bad weekend for a desk jockey.

Way too much drinking and rocking out to Hell’s Bells (an all girl AC/DC cover band) on Saturday meant that we didn’t get started until 11:30 on Sunday, and even then with wickedly debilitating hangovers.

Guessing that most Front Range crags were going to be crawling with people, Tim and I went north to Vedauwoo. Lots of hikers and RVers and BBQers out and about, but no climbers. Excellent.

We got on Edward’s Crack (5.7) at Walt’s Wall, and had the entire place to ourselves. Turns out Tim forgot to bring his harness, so we rigged one out of two sewn runners. He also forgot his belay device, so we decided that the leader got a belay from my ATC while the second would get a Munter hitch. Cool beans.

Tim fires the first pitch; I take the second, and Tim follows as fast as he can so we can get off the top and avoid the ugly-misshapen-lightning-filled clouds oozing rain and electric death on us from on high. After the scramble down, we wave “hi” to the tourists and marvel that the displacement of a few hundred yards can so hugely effect one’s experience and sphincter.

Just in time, we’re back at the car, and the heavens unleash hell. Rain gushes forth. The drive back to Ft. Collins via Laramie is surreal with maniacal 18-wheelers bent on making time, but only succeeding in making mayhem. One fishtails wildly across 2 lanes not 50 feet in front of us before regaining control, unlike his brethren on the shoulder, that
ended up jack-knifed and smashed and smoking into the granite walls on the side of the highway.

A sobering way to end the day but the alternative is to sit on your couch and avoid atheriosclerosis or maybe getting hit by a meteorite. The games we play.

A few pics here:

http://flickr.com/photos/chizang/156169506/in/set-72157594149157205/

Spent Turkey Day in Las Vegas again this year, driving out there with Stephen, Whit, and the two dogs. It’s much more pleasant to split the 12 hour drive amongst three people.

First day was at the Gallery. Warmed up on a 10d (oops, a bit hard for a warmup), then knocked off the 8 and the 9 next to it. I felt strong so I tried climbing the 11b coming out of the right side of the pod. I wanted to redpoint that fucker, but was a bit pumped, so I had to hang. Too bad I only got one shot at it, as we decided to leave for the Sandstone Quarry. (maybe next year…) Over at the Sandstone Quarry, Stephen and I attempted a route called Red Man (10+), but backed off since the sun was setting fast, the route was poorly bolted, and it was chossy as hell.

(Foreshadowing #1: I woke up that morning and it hurt to swallow. Didn’t think much of it at the time, since the air out there is so dry (it’s a desert, duh), and that sort of thing usually happens to me the first night camping.)

Second day, Whit, Julie Haas, and I headed over to Birdland (5.7, 5 pitches) on the Brass Wall. I was expecting a nice quiet day since the route supposedly isn’t in any guidebooks, but there was a conga line of literally 8 people in front of us. I should have suspected — by the time that I would get to hear about a “secret” route, the cat would have been let out of the bag long ago.

Regardless, we decided to wait and ended up having a pretty nice day. A guided party of 3 bailed after p2 because the guide didn’t want to deal with the expected clusterfuck, and the super slow party of 2 bailed left onto an alternate route. That left another party of 3 who put a lot of space between us when they let their ropegun take all the pitches while we just took our time.

All in all, it turned out to be a pretty nice day and some aesthetic climbing.

(Foreshadowing #2: woke up that morning with a continued sore throat, and now a mysterious pain in the back of my neck/base of my skull. I figured I just slept on it funny and didn’t think much of it. Also, despite it being a pretty nice day, I just couldn’t get warm while climbing.)

Day three saw me feeling like complete and utter ass. Suck = flu. There was no way I was climbing, so I laid in the tent all day sleeping while Stephen, Julie, and Whit ostensibly went to climb Johnny Vegas (5.7). When they got back, I learned that it too was crowded, and they only managed two pitches before deciding to bail and find something with fewer people.

That night (Saturday by now), a wicked wind storm kicked up as they are wont to do out there, and we skedaddled out of town, trying to get a head start back to our respective climes. After “eating” dinner (Stephen, Julie, and Whit ate; I tried not to puke), we bade Julie farewell and headed up I-15, making it to Mesquite, NV before crashing at the beautiful Oasis hotel (I call it… “sarcasm”).

Another night of suck. The shower was nice, but laying in bed and sweating all night was not. Ugh. Up at the next morning bright and early, I was a quivering mass of sweaty jello in the backseat while Stephen and Whit negotiated the lovely storm that had decided to blanket Utah, and later Wyoming. What should have been a 10.5 hour drive dilated into 16 — black ice sucks.

In any case, we made it home ok, and a good time was had by all — even me, even though I had the flu. I love the desert and I *love* Vegas, so I’ll never say that I had a bad time there.

I’ve got a few pics up. Check them out here:

http://www.chizang.net/alex/gallery/redrocks-2004

Climbed at Shelf Road a few weekends ago, roundabouts the first of November or so. The weather was amazing — temps felt like they were in the mid 70s or so, and at one point, we were actually chasing the sun.

Climbing at Shelf always makes you feel like a hero, since the ratings are a bit soft. I got what was ostensibly my hardest onsight to date: some 10d whose name I can’t remember. Who knows if that grade would hold up at other locations.

In any case, the climbing was fab, the weather beautiful, and the company was about as solid as it gets. Now that old man winter is upon us, we can only dream of the halcyon days of the first of November.

Pics are here.

Good couple of weekends. Last weekend, I went and climbed the Pear Buttress (5.8) with Stephen. A fantastic line with clean aesthetic climbing, and we saw nary a soul all day. The aspens were lovely. Got some pics here.

Yesterday, I went up to Vedauwoo and climbed Kitchen’s Delight (5.7) with Mandy. The weather was perfect, the day crisp, and the climbing was enjoyable. Check the pics here.

God I love the fall.

Damn, I go away on vacation for a single day and my inboxes are flooded. Catching up sucks.

Finally, for those who don’t know what gmail is, take a gander at gmail.google.com. Basically, it kicks the crap out of yahoo/hotmail/etc.

I still have 6 invites left.