Is it? Can it be?

Winter gives way to spring... Life, death, rebirth.
















The king is dead. Long live the king!













Behold, the mighty snowboy!

Craig and Ray's Epic Adventure

So the ice climbing season's pretty much over and the rock climbing season is just beginning, but the whole point of all of it is for Craig and I to increase our magic bag of tricks to we can tackle anything the mountains throw at us. I'm talking about big mountains here; sure, it's fun to do dainty little climbs up waterfalls and cliffs, but we want to bag some summits.

That's why we decided to tackle 10,941 foot Mount Black in the Absoroka (pronounced, for some mysterious reason, "absorkee") Range south of Livingston. And not just the easy way up, either; no, it's still winter in the high peaks, and we wanted to go straight up the steep northwestern snow couloir. That's the lower molar root-looking thing on the upper tooth in the topo map above.

Please forgive the lack of photos. I need to get new rechargable batteries, I guess. The ones in the camera were dead, as were my backup ones. I brought along a backup spy cam, just in case, but that was dead, too. So, no photos! Suffice it to say it was quite lovely in the morning, and we wanted to give it the finger in the afternoon. There's a Google Earth image below (opposite orientation from the topo; it's looking southeast), which includes some of the approach; just imagine the whole thing covered in snow.

Give it the finger? But why? Isn't it a beautiful, snow-covered peak?

Ah, yes. Yes, indeed.

You see, the thing with mountaineering is that you have to be kind of speedy. You don't wanting to be waiting around for the snow to melt. Because it will... or, at least, it'll get soft. And that's a bad thing.

Craig and I knew this. So, when we reached the 9,000 foot Pine Creek Lake, the beginning of the de facto climb, we had to assess. It was 11:30. We had started at the 5,500 ft. trailhead at 7 a.m. We were way the hell behind schedule. Bunch of slowpokes. Any self-respecting mountaineer should summit by noon. There was no way.

We looked at our couloir. The sun had hit it, but it was already going back into the shade. It probably didn't get more than about an hour of sun all day. That's not enough to melt it and make it all mushy - which would make for an extremely dangerous descent - right?

We decided to carry on, knowing the danger and assessing as we went along. We would shoot for a 2 p.m. turn-around time, meaning if it was 2 p.m. and we weren't at the summit, we'd turn around. Two p.m., or 2:30 p.m.

Or why not even later than that? After all, the snow was fine. It was reasonably firm, and the sun had already gone behind the mountain. Plus, with daylight savings time it doesn't get dark till like 7:30 or 8 p.m. What was there to worry about?

We kicked steps up the steep approach to our couloir, and decided to go for it. The weather was nice, we were feeling good.... and when else would we get this chance? To lighten the load and speed things up, we deposited our packs - including the rope, snow pickets, and extra clothes. The altitude was starting to tire us out, so we wanted to make the going easier. And it was good - plunk in the ice axe, one step, two steps. Straight up.

At 3 p.m. we were greeted by a decidedly fierce gust of wind - we had reached the ridge. The summit was just a ten minute walk away, and we couldn't resist. Craig and I zipped up, leaned into the wind, and clambored over wind-blown rocks and alpine grass to the summit. After a high-five and about six seconds of taking in the view, we headed back.

And still, it was wonderful. I strapped on my crampons for this stretch; the snow in the couloir was firm and the descent was easy-breezy. We made it to our packs, and everything was just as we left it. After donning our snowshoes we descended to the lake, and had a nice little break. The rest of the trip would be all downhill.

Downhill, of course, has various connotations. There's the literal lowering of elevation, which is appropriate, and there's the feeling often connected with that that the hardest part is in the past. We figured that to be true as well.

But that was not the case. At all. Which is where the third meaning of downhill comes in: things good, things good no more. Situation disintegrating. Snow disintegrating. Turning to mush.

It's true that the hardest, most dangerous part of the expedition was behind us. We were now on a regular Forest Service trail; there were no 65 degree couloirs to slide down. Maybe a few snowy slopes in which you could twist an ankle or maybe break a leg, but nothing where death is a real issue.

The real issue, it turned out, was snow holes. The kind you make when you put your weight on your foot and the snow won't hold you, and you sink up to your waist. While the sun hadn't been shining for long in our couloir, it had basically been cooking the south-facing meadows of the approach. Even with snowshoes we couldn't stay up - and we had about six miles of it to deal with.

I don't really know how to explain how annoying it is to continually be falling in up to your waist in these slushy holes. And, with our heavy packs, it made pulling up and out of the holes quite a chore. Especially when you have to do it over and over and over, and then follow some schmoe's ski tracks down to a dead end and have to backtrack out of it, only to have your snowshoe come off because it's wedged in under the snow...

What an ordeal. Then it got dark. I always bring a headlamp when I do anything outdoorsy, just because you never know. I actually brought two that morning, one for Craig... but when I offered it to him before we set out, he said he didn't need it. I suppose it made sense - who would have thought we'd be hiking for more than twelve hours? He didn't want it, so I left the extra headlamp in the car.

Bad move! I wasn't long before Craig was apologizing, pleading, vowing to change his ways. "I swear, I'll never leave home without a headlamp again!" He wanted me to illuminate the trail - which at the lower elevation was covered in ice, not snow - so he could follow behind. I think the combination of altitude, exhaustion, dehydration (we kept running out of water, by the way), and walking on mud and rocks with snowshoes at the lower elevations was getting to him. We were at Pine Creek Falls, less than two miles from the trailhead, and he suggested abandoning our packs and coming back for them the following day. He was going a little loopy.

I ended up giving my headlamp to Craig and following him. He switched into his crampons for a better grip on the ice, and we slowly plodded along.

We made it to the trailhead at 10:15 p.m., a little over 15 hours from when we began. I was pretty impressed with myself for my stamina, especially carrying the unused rope the entire way. Craig, meanwhile, was ready to pass out. At some point I think he vowed never to climb another mountain again.

I think he's over it now, though. After all, it was a success. We reached the summit!

Sno more

But wait! There's snow in the forecast!

That's right, we're badass

Here's Craig leading on the standard route of Practice Rock in Hyalite Canyon. While this route was only rated 5.6 in the book, it seemed to me to be way harder... or maybe it was the fact that it was cold and miserable out, and - as usual - Craig made me get up way too early. The rock is like touching ice cubes! Anyway, I was pretty impressed by Craig's lead up it. It doesn't look it from this photo, but he's at least 60 feet above the ground. I was adequately scared, and happy to have him lead the whole thing. I was right behind him the whole time, though.

We had planned to climb a few other routes on the rock, but instead we decided to declare success and call it a day. We had lunch at the Pita Pit instead.

Behold, the Mighty Lump

Looks like spring is here.

March Ray Procrastination Update

Yes, it's that time again -- the time when I'm actually supposed to be writing an article, but will do absolutely anything to put it off. It's Ray Update time!

Hmm. What have I been up to? Well, clearly there's the rail bike; the deadline for my rail bike article isn't until May 1, but I need to have actually ridden it somewhere successfully by then, and, I don't know, I just don't have that much faith in my skills. I'll probably need to rebuild it three times by then. Wish me luck.

Ski season is still happening, sort of. As you can tell by what's left of the snowman (below), it's been kinda warm in these parts lately. Fortunately it snowed gangbusters right through the first of March, but since then it's been inordinately lame. Temps in the 60s, for pete's sake!


The flip side to that is it means rock climbing season has started early this year. Yep, Craig and I have turned in our ice picks and screws for chalk bags and camming devices, and we've been heading to the cliffs. We had a remarkably inauspicious start at the Allenspur area south of Livingston. We attempted to climb something called "Look Ma, No Hands," a "sport" route (with bolts that can be clipped into on the rock face) rated at 5.8, which sounded pretty easy. It looked pretty easy, too, like something you could almost walk straight up. Doesn't it? "Almost" is the operative word here. A short way up we understood the meaning of the route's name: there are no hand holds at all. Plus, it's just steep enough to make it impossible to walk up. It had us stumped. Craig and I both attempted to lead the route, but we both gave up. We scampered down with our tails between our legs (well, ropes, anyway). Humiliating. We have a plan for a future assault, however -- usa da knees. That's the plan.

The next day fared a bit better -- we headed to Neat Rock, which is on the Madison River about 30 miles west of Bozeman. It was raining in the morning, so we chose this route because of its reputation for dryness -- not to mention rattlesnakes. We figured that rattlesnakes wouldn't want to live in a wet place, and it turned out to be a good assumption. Though damp at first, the sun soon came out and dried the rock off completely. We didn't see any rattlesnakes, either, although the unpleasant factor was more than compensated for by copious amounts of pigeon crap on the route. I put my hand right in a big, stinky pile of it - yuk!

This route was rated 5.7 for the first pitch, and we made it up without any major incidents. Minor ones, yes -- the aforementioned pigeon poop, plus general scaredy-pantsedness. You could, like, fall and hurt yourself! Also, Craig was trying out some weird aid climbing technique in the lower section, in which he was using slings to stand in... I don't want to get into that. We should maybe be thinking about that stuff for the 5.12s, but not for the 5.7s. I think I got him straightened out. On a positive note, this was a trad route, which entailed placing nuts and camming devices into the rock rather than utilizing fixed bolts, and I think we performed with panache in that regard.

The second pitch was rated 5.9 and scared us. There were two alternatives, a 5.6 and a 5.7. We either couldn't figure them out or they looked scary or we decided we needed to get back right away (take your pick), so we ended up rappelling back down to the bottom.

Success!

So I'm really psyched for climbing now. I bought a chalk bag, some more carabiners, and a bunch of quick-draws. I'm ready for anything. I've been hanging out most days at the fake boulder on the linear trail a few blocks from the house, trying to get in shape and figure this whole climbing business out. Hand holds, foot holds, smearing, edging, nasty little crimpers, dynos... everything. Yesterday I met a guy there named Tony; he and I may climb something together next week. He's kind of new at it, too, although he's clearly a stronger climber than I am already. But he doesn't even have a harness yet, so maybe we can teach each other some stuff. A Mormon dude, just moved here from Twin Falls, Idaho. Youngish guy. I think he's a gutterman for now, till he figures his life out. Come to think of it, he's a guitar player; he said he's interested in getting a music degree. I should probably introduce him to Craig (oh, Craig will be jealous if I have a new climbing buddy!).

In other news, there's a possibility that I will take over for Tim Omarzu in the Managing Editor's desk at the Sonoma Valley Sun for six weeks while he hikes the Pacific Crest Trail sometime this summer. It's really just in the idea stages now, so it's far from a sure thing. But the ski season, aka my day job, ends April 8, and I'm going to have to figure something else out. I have to wonder if I've burned my bridges with the Sun at all. My father always advised me to not burn my bridges, but in my own acquired wisdom I've decided that sometimes it's really kind of fun to burn bridges. Smoke! Fire! Flames! What could be more satisfying? Then there's my friend Tailor, who famously said he's burned so many bridges he needs a boat. I think somewhere in between there's a happy medium.

Let's not forget that I still have a girlfriend in Santa Rosa, so it'd be nice to spend some time out there with her. I'll probably be heading out that way either way at the end of April or May for a visit. I promised the Sonoma Press Club that I would take part in the Wingo Regatta, which is supposed to be sometime in May. Does anyone know when?

Craig and I have a whole bunch of mountains on our summer agenda, so I'd like to be back here by early July.























Uh, oh. I'm running out of things to update you on. I may have to do some actual work. No, no! Let's see... oh, Sam and I went on our mancation to Manaconda (that's Anaconda) a week or two ago, where we skied at the very steep Discovery Basin and visited the illustrious Butte. That's Sam at Butte's Pekin Noodle Parlor, below. It was once a brothel, so note the curiously private booths.



While we're still more or less on the subject, I miss editing. Keeping all the writers in line and interested, letting them know what's what... I think I was pretty good at it. It would be nice to be doing some of that sort of thing again.

The snowman, it's melting!

I'm melting!

I've been working on the rail bike...

...all the live-long day. And night. And then the next day and night. It's taking forever, but it's coming along. As you can see, the front-end assembly is nearly complete. I now have the added element of deadline pressure, as I'm going to be writing about my rail bike exploits for a magazine article. Please, please, make it work! This Bentley guy I bought the plans from is a piece of work -- I'm doing things like drilling straight into a solid steel rod, and then trying to screw a bolt into the threadless hole. ??? The whole thing is hardwood and steel and even raw iron. It'll be the approximate weight of a 1956 Buick, which I imagine is Mr. Bentley's transport of choice when he's not out riding the rails.


If the work doesn't look too pristine, please note that I was fired from the Flatiron mandolin factory after two days for total incompetence. Try as I might, building things is just something I'm not that talented at. My father would have had this thing whipped out in no time, but, alas, I'm not my father. It's been a challenge. Please, please, make it work!

Behold, the Snowman

Home, Part II

After leaving Colorado, I made a beeline back to Montana determined to make things work. My first stop, however, was not Bozeman. It was Cooke City, Montana, a one-horse, many dog, hard-drinking, snow-buried National Park entrance station town, 2 hours from the nearest supermarket. I landed a job there at the All Seasons Inn in mid-November... except nothing happens in Cooke City in mid-November. The summer tourists are long gone, and the winter snowmobilers and skiers haven't arrived yet. Most of the 60-or-so year-round residents had split for the off-season. The All Seasons was about the only thing open; I couldn't even buy a loaf of bread. Well, after a week the store opened, and I could buy a frozen loaf of bread. But it was pretty spartan there for a while.

The job there was terrible. Along with there being no customers, it naturally followed that I made no tips. Every now and then some snowmobilers from North Dakota would show up, and I would still make no tips. I may have developed a prejudice against North Dakotans at this time. It snowed non-stop while I was there, and every now and then they'd close the road through Yellowstone, the only way in or out of the place. That often impeded deliveries, so I'd sometimes have to tell the customers we were out of things, such as eggs and produce. I lived in a decrepit room off the side of the hotel with a floor that glittered. I couldn't figure it out at first -- little glowing dots, that showed up when I turned out the lights at night. I finally realized that there were nail holes in the floor, and the lights were on in the basement. I worked with a one-armed cook who liked to say things like, "Can you give me a hand? I can sure use one." Yuk, yuk, yuk. That place was non-stop laughs.

On top of that, I couldn't seem to make any kind of connection with the locals... until I gave my notice, that is. I mean, I wasn't making any money (not that I had much to spend it on), the job sucked, the customers sucked, and everyone in town sucked. But once word got around that I was leaving -- which took about five minutes -- the townsfolk seemed genuinely distraught. One new drinking buddy, gone! Apparently they had just been breaking me in slowly. Oh, well. It was an interesting two weeks, if nothing else. Character building.

So, clearly, Cooke City was not home. Nor was Big Sky, to which I returned for the winter ski season. I got into an argument with my manager in the Huntley Dining Room and transferred to the cafeteria. Which I suppose was great for the principle of it all, but it was a lousy job. It was made worse by one of my co-workers, Aaron, who always needed to take command of every situation, even though he was kind of a dullard. I still see him around town in Bozeman from time to time, and it gives me the creeps.

Mercifully, the ski season ended, and I was finally off to where I now really, really wanted to be. I guess I believe that a town, much like a person, can embrace you in some way when it's just right. I stayed with Chick and Aleece for a week, scanning the classifieds for a roommate situation that might seem right. I remember looking at a few of these places: milk cartons loudly labelled with heavy black magic marker, demarcated shelving, lists of chores... But, really, there wasn't much reason to look beyond the very first place I checked out: 612 West Main St.



It's pictured at right in its current form. Apparently it's now a real estate office. It's also blue. It used to be brick red. And what a deal it was! As you can plainly see, it was a very nice house, with wood floors, leaded glass windows, washer/dryer, dishwasher, backyard, large rooms, and plenty of storage space in the basement and garage. Plus, it was right on Main Street, so we could sit on the front porch and watch teenagers cruise the drag in their pickup trucks on weekend nights. Sometimes they'd yell at us. My share of the rent was $219 a month, and I shared it with two guys: the high school math teacher/neat freak Al Schondelmeyer, and jazz guitarist Craig Hall.

Does the name Craig Hall sound familiar? Seeing as that he's my ice climbing buddy (see below) and housemate to this day, it should. That was my first big embracing by Bozeman: having great housing. Which is really a nice thing. It's also nice to have great housemates, as well as some great friends, like Chick and Aleece, with whom I continued do stuff.

It would also have been nice to have a great job, too. However, that was not to be... at least not at first.

Stayed tuned for Part III! (I may have to post another snowman photo to keep you entertained for a while.)

The ice is sweet, but the future may be bitter

By Ray Sikorski

(This article originally appeared in the March 2007 issue of the Tributary magazine.)

The 2006-2007 ice climbing season was akin to the movie Deliverance: One hell of a wilderness outing, marred somewhat by the prospect of banjo-wielding psycho hillbillies doing unspeakable things to your friends.

The season was one of the best in recent memory. “There was ice in places that some people have never seen ice before,” said Joe Josephson, author of Winter Dance, the seminal guide to ice climbing in Southwest Montana. Routes like Narcolepsy, Airborne Ranger, and even the aptly named Smear Today Gone Tomorrow made appearances, as well as routes that had never been seen before. On top of that, an inordinately lame early snow season made the normally treacherous drive to Hyalite Canyon’s frozen waterfalls a relative breeze right into February. Those unwilling to sacrifice their boards to the rocks on the ski hills took to Hyalite instead, with the Grotto Falls parking area filling up right up through Super Bowl Sunday.

But then, of course, was the specter of the banjo-wielding psycho hillbillies — in the form of the U.S. Forest Service — ruining all the fun. Area ice climbers had grown accustomed to negotiating the unplowed, rutted road from the Hyalite Dam to the Grotto Falls trailhead till their trucks and Subys just couldn’t take it anymore, which some years could be as late as March. The Gallatin National Forest Travel Plan, released in December, threatened to change all that. The plan, currently under appeal, proposed gating the road at the southernmost point of plowing on the first on each year, requiring climbers to ski, snowmobile, or walk a minimum of three-and-a-half miles to the ice.

“There’s not many people with the ability, gear, or gumption to ski or walk or whatever it takes from the dam,” Josephson said. “It’s basically gonna eliminate most of the climbing that goes on in Hyalite.”

Which would truly be a shame. According to Josephson, with over 140 established ice climbs within a three square mile radius, Hyalite is one of the top ice climbing venues in the world. “It’s the most concentrated area of consistently formed ice in the country.”

That’s what attracted my housemate Craig Hall and I to ice climbing in the first place. Craig had taken part in expeditions up Rainier, Denali, and other high peaks, and I had done my share of scrambling in the Tetons as a founding member of the Creampuff-Pantywaist Climbing Association (Motto: “If it’s big we can’t climb it, if it’s small we can’t find it”). But there was something about the serene gurgle of a waterfall in winter — and bashing it to smithereens with ice tools and crampons — that drew us to the cliffs.

We attended Barrel Mountaineering’s Ice Festival in November, where top ropes dangled from the cliffs of Genesis I, one of Hyalite’s most accessible routes. The festival was great: Along with trying out first-rate gear and getting instruction from ice pros like local legend Jack Tackle, we gained enough confidence in our abilities to venture out on our own.
Scary! Right? The thing about ice is that it has a tendency to break off when you whack at it, and ice climbing is all about whacking. Constant, repetitive whacking. The key is to have a sort of elegance and precision to your whacking, so that you surmount the frozen waterfall with grace and efficiency. And hopefully you don’t take the whole shooting match down with you.

Despite Craig’s enthusiasm, I was a bit skeptical. Jack Tackle had an icy stare and a determined, no-nonsense way about him. Did we have that? Did we need that? After all, Craig is a jazz guitarist and I’m a sort of silly writer. There’s no doubt we’re climbers, but, really, we’re artists. I sensed that maybe we were just a little too loopy to do this.
Case in point: Our gear, or lack thereof. Ice climbing equipment is not cheap, and we weren’t going to sink hundreds of dollars into a new sport right off the bat. But we each already had mountaineering boots and crampons, ropes, harnesses, and carabiners. Add to that a handful of antique ice screws purchased at a garage sale and a mismatched pair of decade-old straight shaft ice tools we planned to share, and we were raring to go.

Barrel Mountaineering owner Chris Naumann said: “As long as you use good judgment and common sense, there’s nothing really wrong with figuring it out on your own. There’s something to be said for doing it that way – just discovering it yourself, versus being told how to do this or that.”

And figure it out we did. In repeated forays to the Genesis area, we learned all sorts of things. For example, while in other sports helmets are only used in emergencies, in ice climbing that’s not the case at all. The top climber regularly sends down chunks of ice ranging in size from pebble-ish to volleyball-ish (though not nearly as bouncy), and one quickly learns to lower one’s head at the call of “Ice!” for maximum brain-bucket effectiveness. Kicking a crampon too close to your other leg can turn your snow pants into tatters, and you end up looking like you just Hulked out — clearly an ice climbing “Don’t.” Stepping on the rope with crampons is a bit of a faux pas. Tossing the top rope into a bunch of bushes can really delay things. As can leaving the ice screws in the car and having to trudge back for them. If the climber at the top of the climb sends ice tools flying down the rope, which you have wrapped around a tree, it can be really scary. Not recommended.
Ice is weird. On super cold days it becomes hard and brittle, and it’s difficult for a pick to find purchase. In a rare display of temper, Craig hurled an incorrigible ice screw into the snow… but it wasn’t the screw that was at fault, it was the ice. On warm days, the tools slide in with ease, and we find the grace we were hoping for. On a really warm day — like, next summer — we hope to find the ice screw we’re still looking for.

After one great King Midas mood Craig bought more ice screws and brand new ice tools of his own. I inherited the old mismatched straight-shaft ones, which I’ve gained a certain awkward fondness for. Now we’re both lead climbing like crazy: Genesis, Greensleeves, Hangover… and that’s just in the Genesis area of Hyalite. There’s tons more. We just did Pine Creek Falls in the Absarokas, and I experienced my first leader fall. The rope saved me inches from the deck. I was shaking after that, but I carried on.



And there’s always next year, right? Ah, but the plan. In Deliverance, the brave canoers were among the last to paddle the Chattooga River, which was being inundated by a new dam. If I recall correctly, that movie ended with one guy dead, one seriously wounded, and another…

Well, I’m just hoping for a happier ending.

For information about ice conditions, Hyalite road conditions, and finding climbing partners visit MontanaIce.com

Behold, the Mighty Snowman!