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!

Ice Climbing in Hyalite Canyon

(I'm in yellow helmet, Craig's in white helmet)

While shimmying up a frozen waterfall might not be everyone’s idea of a day well spent, for my housemate Craig and I it’s been a longtime goal. Well, a month-and-a-half long goal, anyway.

Craig and I started immersing ourselves into rock climbing in October, and as winter’s chill descends on Montana, ice climbing is the next logical step. We both see it as step in the larger process of becoming proficient all-around mountaineers, in which we’re able to take on any peak. Craig outlined goals for the next year and a half that include increasingly harder routes in the Tetons, the Gallatins, and the Absarokas.

So we better figure this stuff out! On Sunday we participated in Barrel Mountaineering’s Ice Festival, in which we were given top-quality gear and taught by world-class ice climbers, including Bozeman’s Jack Tackle. It was kind of a trial by fire for us; we had both dabbled in ice climbing a little bit, but really are beginners. The guys set up top-ropes and sent us up some pretty crazy stuff right off the bat, trying to teach us good technique… which was great, but what we really needed were the fundamentals. I mean, we were dangling 50 feet above the ground, with the only things holding us up being the tips of two metal picks and the front-points of our crampons. That takes a little getting used to!

We got better as the day went on, and as the guides tossed the ropes down we knew we wanted more. So Craig and I ventured back out to Hyalite today to get back on the ice. This time we weren’t carrying brand new, state-of-the-art demo gear; just our own boots and our own mountaineering crampons and Craig’s two old-school, straight shaft ice climbing picks, which we agreed to trade off. Plus, we had to figure out how to anchor the top-rope on our own — something we’d been studying in books and magazines, but hadn’t had much hands-on practice with. Plus, Craig had to get back to a music rehearsal at one, so we didn’t have much time.

But, boy, did we make the most of it. We left the house at about 7:15 a.m., and of course there was the obligatory stop at the bagel shop… by the time we got all the way down Hyalite, dropped the gear off at the Greensleeves ice route — next to Genesis I — hiked up to the top to set up the anchor, and rappelled down to the foot of the climb, it was 10:30. Wow! Some folks like sports in which they just have to lace up a pair of shoes and go. Climbing, as a sport, is 80 percent lacing up of shoes and 20 percent actually on the rock.

Once we got going there was no stopping us. Greensleeves is a relatively easy climb, starting off steep and then easing out to a lower angle. Short and sweet, which was perfect for getting our fundamentals down. We were both a little concerned about our equipment, but everything worked great, including my strap-on crampons and Craig’s ice tools. In fact, we seemed to have better luck swinging Craig’s heavy tools than the lighter-weight ones we were lent on Sunday — one nice solid swing was all it took to get good purchase. And I felt more at ease hanging off the tips of my crampons.

We each took three turns on the ice, slightly varying the route each time. The last one took me right over the main stream of the cold, dribbling water; it was warmer today, and the water sprayed over my ski pants as I climbed.

Back when I worked in the Tetons I had done a lot of mountaineering, but I had stopped for a while. A friend had slid on the soft snow of Diappointment Peak’s Spoon Couloir, and all I could do was watch helplessly as she flew past, unable to stop herself. Miraculously, she survived with only scrapes and a concussion, but it made me overly cautious in my outdoor adventures. Now, climbing with Craig, using ropes, being careful about our protection, I feel little I’m getting back into it at last.