The Unorthodox style of Chris Bangs

Justene nearing the top of the snow headwall at the Bugaboo Snowpatch Col

I was looking to write a blog about being low-tech vs. hji-tech.  About camping low on the mountain  and not carrying heavy loads into a high camp.  About riding nearly 700 miles on a bicycle in a pair of Crocs.  There are so many things that I do and practice that are not usually the way someone would do things.  About the fact that when I head out on a big alpine day, I sleep in and totally forget about the alpine start.  The way I figure it is if I'm going to get up at 3am and walk up the approach to my climb in the dark, what's the difference then between sleeping in, waking up a casually hour and walking the end of the day back down the trail in the dark?  Either way I'm walking around in a forest in the dark, and I've never had a big problem with that anyway.
Now I'm not saying that I've got all these thing figured out.  There are obvious flaws in my systems; like during a ten hour day on a bicycle in a pair of Crocs, yes my feet do ache a little more than when I'm wearing my expensive cycling shoes.  But then there is the flip side to that one also.  Expensive cycling shoes are expensive, they look stupid when your not on your bike, and they walk only a little more comfortably than those Dutch wooden clogs.  Crocs may not be the most fashionable foot wear out there but they are about the most comfortable and light weight piece of gear I'm carrying with me.  My Crocs are also 4 years old, so for the price you can't beat that.

Our first climb together in the Bug; Eastpost Spire

Human-Powered Mountaineering (HPM) is the opposite of Mile per Hour (MPH).  This is another part of our so-called style.  HPM is the opposite of MPH; we're not in a hurry.  In fact we are the opposite of being in a hurry.  We are trying our hardest to slow things down for ourselves.  Non of this "car-to-car in ten hours" bullshit lingo here.  We take our time, because why did we come here anyway?  Just to be in hurry.  This place is super, natural British Columbia.  I'm not going to go around bragging about how I was in this super awesome beautiful place and I made it back to my car (or bike as the case may be) as fast as I could.  That's just stupid, and I'm just as guilty as anyone for having done it.  But I'm learning.  I'm learning that I really love being in the mountains.  Like last night walking back to camp by myself.  I was sore and tired and didn't have clue what time it was and everyone I met on the trail on their way in was looking at me like I was some sort of lost hiker, because who would be walking back at this time and with that small of a backpack there is no way I'm a "climber",  just look at those old inexpensive generic shoes he's wearing, definitely not a "climber",  just a lost day hiker posing for a rescue add.  "Climbers" have heavy duty shiny boots, huge packs, and often the judgement to match how much they spent on all that crap.  How do I know this?  Well again, I'm as guilty as an anyone for doing this.  When I first started climbing I was hooked.  I wanted to climb every mountain in the world.  But I was a young kid just starting my own business and I couldn't afford all that gear.  Even if I didn't know what all that gear was for, it didn't matter, I wanted it.  I wanted more than anything to be a "Climber".   It's funny how things work themselves out, because now days, it's what I do.  I'm a rock climber.  I'm making a documentary on rock climbing.  I'm living in a tent for months at a time.  Still can't afford all the fancy crap, and still don't know what some it is for, or if we really even need it for that matter.  But here I am, living in the Bugaboo Mountains for an entire summer.

My new friend Evan on top of Bugaboo Spire

That brings me to another of the things that I think that I have figured out for myself about style in the mountains.  Walking home slowly.  At the end of a big day I make sure to slow way down.  For me it's the difference between waking up totally cramped up the next morning because I ran down the trail to brag about how fast I went, or waking up the next day ready to do it again because I walked the last 6-10km at a snail's pace.  We all know or have heard that walking downhill is bad for your knees and your joints, but there is more to it than that.  Those last few kilometres of the day can be therapeutic if you walk slow or they can be damaging to your joints and muscles if your worried and hurried. By walking slowly at the end of the day I'm giving my body time to recover from what I have just done in a way that sitting and resting doesn't do.  In fact last night I was starting to get quite sore on the trail.  My feet hurt, my right leg felt a little crampy, my lower back was tight, but when I woke up this morning I felt great.  No lower back pain, no cramped muscles, no sore feet.  All because I made sure to walk back down the trail nice and slow.  The other thing that I think that helps quite a bit is the bicycle.  After my marathon day climbing Bugaboo Spire by myself, I got back to the trailhead to my bicycle and rode the 4km back to my camp on the river.  Cycling is great for the joints and muscles in the legs, but again only if your doing it right.  By right I mean spinning, and by spinning I'm referring to peddling fast.  It burns out all that lactic acid in your legs.  If you peddle slowly it builds up synovial fluid in your knees and makes them swell up as well as cause your legs to cramp up.  So I hike slow and peddle fast.  I don't have a shoe sponsor yet (hint hint Crocs) and I soloed Bugaboo Spire yesterday in a snow storm, kind of.  Actually it only snowed a little bit while I was on the crux pitch, the famous Gendarme Pitch, so I turned around at that point because I was not carrying a rope and I didn't not want to get stranded near the summit of the mountain.  Then I would have been the poster boy for the rescue add. Instead I started down until I met a party of 3 that was also debating whether or not they should retreat or if they would wait out the storm and keep going.  We decided to join forces and keep going.  In the end we all made it to the summit and it worked out well for all of us.  I trailed a rope up the crux pitch for  them and then was able join them on 3 rapples on the way off the summit. A great day in the mountains!!!  

Another beautiful day in the mountains

The best parts were the internal visuals that I had of seeing myself in a bright green jacket, clinging to the side of a vertical cliff with no rope attached to myself, thousands of feet off the ground near the summit of one of the most iconic peaks in North America with the wind blowing light snow around, slowly making the next move upward, testing the hand hold, taping my foot on the foothold, feeling solid and connected to the mountain in both a physical and spiritual sense, those were the best moment for me that day.  And when the guy in camp the day before asked me why I would do such a thing, I got lost in thought and don't even remember if I answered him, because I was dreaming about the sensations of timeless weightlessness that the Mountain can give to me once I've arrived at that moment of perfect connection  and union with the Mountain.  This is the ultimate!!!  So a better question than,  'why would I do it" is, WHY WOULDN'T I????  I mean really.  In a world were you can fret about everything.  Why not train myself to perfect some thing as grand as this?

A baby Ermin came up to us to say "Hi"

Then a Spruce Grouse and five babies hung out with us on the trail for a few minutes.

And finally this toad was in the trail waiting for us to come by.  Quite the day!!

Our animal friends are one of the things that make these adventures special and remind us why we live this life the way that we choose, in harmony and in love and fearless....

Zip ties and Duct tape

posted by Chris

Mile 450
After an early morning thunder storm from an anonymous cloud we headed towards Eureka where we are planning on visiting Ten Lakes Farm today.
Then SNAP!!!
The bolt holding my bike seat together snaps as I'm riding and luckily the seat post dosn't get deposited in the wrong spot.  OK, bust out the zip ties and the duct tape.  And thankfully not for me arse!!!

The broken bolt

Schlep has seen better days.

The ride comfort improved for the first few miles. Then a slight rocking chair effect took place.  And finally a laid back low rider look had me clenching my cheeks together to keep the seat from slipping off.
We made it the 15 miles to Eureka on a Sunday.  The hardware store is closed, possibly till Tuesday, and now I am riding standing up and I'm on the look out for a new bolt.

Lunch at Walking Bear Farm with Lyn Hendrix homemade sprouts and homemade preserves.

No this is not Woodstock, it's the Eureka Farmer's Market

Stone Hill's heat stone

For all those non-believers who think you need to eat meat; eat your heart out!!

 Picked up Jack Skellington outside Bigfork where he was hitchhiking from.

go go granny gear

Kale trees at Peaceful Gardens

It's the morning of day four on the road.  We've covered over a 161 miles in the last three days.  Through Helena, out to Chase Family Farm, up and over McDonald Pass, and to a great camp spot on the Little Blackfoot River in the town of Avon.  Just a few miles out of town, my front shifter breaks.  The bike drops into the granny gear in the front chain ring and I can not seem to fix it.
Now I'm assuming that everyone knows what the granny gear on a bicycle is.  That little tiny chain ring in the front for climbing hills.  The one that if you shift into it at the wrong time your legs start spinning a million miles per hour.  Yep, that one, and now I'm stuck there.  In granny gear.
Justene and I have 75 miles to ride today to get Seeley Lake.  We are also hoping to meet up with my dad who's riding in from Missoula to join us for 3 day.
After playing around with the cable and the front de-railer for a while to see what my options are.  We keep going.  I could rig the cable so that I'm stuck in the middle chain ring, but then I wouldn't have a hill climbing gear.  So I settle for the granny gear as it seems to be the best option.  I'll be able to climb any of the small hills that we have ahead of us and I will be able to peddle up to about 13mph before spinning my legs out of control.
The day before this in Helena we were riding down a back street and saw three really cool metal sculptures of snails.  These snails are like us I thought.  They're slow moving creatures that are pulling around a giant shell that they call home.  Just like us.  Just like me.  Stuck in granny gear, pulling around a giant trailer that has everything in it that I will call home for the next 3 months.  We have found our power animal.  The Snail!!!
They're so cute too, and perfectly fitting for our adventure as we are in no hurry.  Often we will ride until dark to get to the next camp site.  Wherever that may be.  On the night of day two Justene and I are in Helena thinking about getting out to Chase Family Farm.  We've cycled over 50 miles that day already.  Pushing through 20 miles of headwinds and battling with sunburns, we decide that 10 more miles at this point is to much.  It's dark out and we are tired.  So we pull into an empty field right in the middle of town and pitch our tent.  This is one of the perks of bicycle camping that I really enjoy.  With the bicycle, it's like an a free pass to camp almost wherever you want.  When the neighbours finally see us in the morning they just sit there in the kitchen and watch.  No phone calls to the police, no harassment or harsh looks.  Just wonder and stares.  Like who the hell are these people on bikes???
We make it to Bigfork on day 5 and set up at the Marina Cay for our first rest day.  Bigfork is a great little place to take a day off and walk around.  It's Saturday and we hit up the Farmer's Market and right away we meet Paul.  Paul is larger than life at six foot four and he's the only one there selling fresh produce.  It's been a slow year growing food for most people, but not for Paul.  He runs Peaceful Garden  here in Bigfork and has a 51 foot geodesic dome that he grows all year round in.  Only in his 3rd year gardening, Paul already has a lot going on.  He's retired and has made a huge life style shift, and now he is a raw vegan specialist.  His stories are amazing as he begins to tell us about his life.  I haven't even mentioned to him what Justene and I doing and that we are making a documentary on the availability of local organic food.  This is just the person that we want to meet.  Finally I ask him if he will repeat some of what he has just said for the camera.  The whole time I have been just standing there listening and have forgotten to press the record button.

Peaceful Gardens .net

In Bigfork I am also able to get "Schlep" (my bicycle) fixed.  Cameron at the bike rental shop has a spare shifter that he sells me for $20 and teaches me a little about bike maintenance.  We get a lot of laughs from the guys at the bike shop when they hear that I have just ridden 150 miles in my granny gear.

Check this guy out.  Paul Renner is our hero!!!

Paul Renner with the ladies; Justene, Mela, and Jeannette (girlfriend, sister, and mom)

Now we are onto Whitefish today to visit Walking Bear Farm.  Then another farm stop in Eureka on Tuesday at Ten Lakes Farm.  We will also plan to spend at least one day rock climbing at Stone Hill before crossing the boarder in to Canada.  It's getting more exciting everyday.  The scenery is better and better and we are falling into a good daily rhythm on the road.
We've seen lots of wildlife.  Sandpipers flying over head chirping at us, two baby elk with their mothers, turtles, crawdads, hawks, pelicans, tiny lime green beetles, and ourselves, our alter egos,  Whippoorwill and Ruff Hewn alive and well.
The Road its self has also proven once again to grant us the things we need.  Justene (or Whippoorwill) has found not only her trail name for this adventure, she has also found a beacon.  A large glass prism that mounts perfectly on her handle bars.  A traveler's symbol for lighting the way.

When the traveler is ready, the light will appear.

300 Miles down

Long distance cycling feels like we got novocaine shots in each butt cheek.  It's kinda numb, it kinda hurts.

Welcome to our gear room.

The packing begins.

Have lunch will travel

Bob Trailers are like loyal dogs.  They'll follow you anywhere.

Thanks Jo, Brad, Stacy, Mackenzie, Zack, and Kyle for the fashion show/send off ride.

This web footed blue ninja-duck-man wanted to go for a ride 

Our power animal, the snail.

Our camp on day 2.  An empty field in Helena, next to a trap shooting club (think shotguns).

Nice legs!!!

This turtle tried to cross the road...

This little turtle wears spandex.

 My dad Collin "Porter" Bangs joined us for 76 miles from Clearwater Jct. to Bigfork.  76 miles may not sound very long if your not 67 years old.  Good job dad!!!  Thanks for buying lunch.

Sometime the road is as long at it seems.

The Journey continues.  Enjoy the ride...

Expedition #3, eighteen months in California (part 2)

Standing on the summit of El Capitan in Yosemite.  Where dreams come true and rocks are as big as the imagination of men.

October 2006.  Expedition #3.
I don't hesitate when I say that the Sierra Nevada Mountains  in California have the best rock climbing in the world.  Of course I don't know that for sure because I have not climbed everywhere on the planet, but I'm going on my own personal experience and the consensus of other climbers as well.  This would be the second time I've spent 2 months in the Bishop area.  This time though I was planning on using Bishop as a base camp to get into the mountains instead of just a training ground in the boulder fields.  I had just read Steve Ropers book "Camp 4" and was super psyched to be in California.  "Climbing, more so than any other sport is defined by it's literature" (which I think is quote by John Long), and I had just read the history of big wall climbing in North America in Roper's book.  I chose the East Face of Mount Whitney partially because of it's history and partially because of the meandering type of route it is.  The East Face was first climbed in 1931 by Jules Eichorn, Norman Clyde, Robert L.M. Underhill, and Glen Dawson.  These were the best climbers in North America at that time and this was the first big wall  to be climbed on this continent.
I also chose this route because as a mountaineer I love the challenge of route finding.  I knew that this route would be technically quiet easy by today's standards but that the real challenge would be not getting lost on the immense East Face while climbing solo.  So after a couple weeks in Bishop, bouldering, lounging at cafes, and a quick jaunt up Mount Darwin in the Evolution Range of the Sierra's, I rode down to Lone Pine and up the wicked steep road to Whitney Portal.  This turned out to be one of the steepest and hardest hill climbs I have ever done on a bicycle.   Which turned out to be a comic interlude for me the whole time I spent on Mount Whitney.  Every time I tried I tried to impress somebody, usually a non climber, with the fact that I was here to make a solo ascent of the East Face, they shrugged it off casually and then looked at me quizzically and asked, "did you ride your bicycle up that road?" with the sound of shock and disbelief in their voice.

Enjoying the beautiful California sunshine on the summit of Mount Whitney

The route proved to be no less of a challenge than I had anticipated.  Staying on route was not all that difficult for me, and "the fresh air  traverse" turned out to be one of the best sections of rock I have ever climbed.  The pitch is easily identified by two old pitons protruding from the rock, and it gets its name from the fact that your climbing down and to the left 2000 feet off the ground.  Now usually when your climbing up something and you look down at your feet to find the foot holds, all you really see is your feet and a little bit of the rock.  But now when your climbing sideways and at a downward angle, your looking out into the space below you on every move.  The feeling is exhilarating.  For me, I feel like I have transformed into a spider and that the world around me has shrunk into this small plane of glass that I'm climbing on.  Move by move, making the long reaches between solid hand holds, I savoured every minute of this pitch.  Knowing that this was exactly the reason that I had come here.  This was it.  The mind boggling exposure that came into my view every time I looked down at my feet to find the next step.  "What could be better?"  I thought.  I've trained for years for this exact moment, and now I was doing it.  Climbing one of the most famous routes in the country with no ropes, all by myself, and no fear.  Just the pure exhilaration and sheer joy that climbing does for me.
Now if John Long says that climbing is defined more so than any other sport by it's literature.  I would like to add that climbing is still one of the most extreme sports in the world, if not (still) the most extreme sport in the world.  While people will always find new ways to test  their fears and new sports will keep pushing limits of what we think is possible, climbing has kept up with the times.  All it takes to realize this is one quick look at this months National Geographic.  Those people are pushing the limits for sure.  And while my climb may have only pushed the limits inside myself, those guys in that magazine are pushing a limit most of us will never understand.  It's beyond my imagination, and to me it's way more impressive than landing on the moon.  NASA, "ptff", who even believes that happened anyways.

Eighteen months in California, Expedition # three

Little did I know that I'd be packing for an 18 month adventure.

The last 3 years of Rio's life where some or our best years together.  It was also the longest I've lived in any one place as a adult.  Rio was my best friend for fourteen years.  Half airedale terrier, part black lab, part bear, and one hundred percent ready for anything.  My dog Rio was a living legend.  Hitching rides by himself in Santa Cruz, fighting bears in Alaska, fording frozen rivers, climbing mountains, fending off robbers.  For more than ten years we adventured together up and down the west coast and through the Rocky Mountains.  Wyoming, Colorado, Alaska, Montana, California, British Columbia.  Yeah we had some good times together out there on the road, but those last 3 years in Missoula, giving him a proper retirement.  Those where some of our best years together.  He deserved it.  He'd saved my life in more ways than one, and probably more times than I knew also.

But those last 3 years where also hard for me.  I could feel myself wanting pick up and go.  To travel to new places and meet new people and climb new mountains.  Yeah I got the itch.  I got it bad.  And I'm good at it too.  Some people say that if they could do it all over again that they'd be able the do it that much better.  I say, just keep doing it, whatever that is.  Whatever you love and whatever keeps you young.  Keep doing it.  You will get better at it.  Because life is a challenge and to be really good at living is the whole point.  Right?

As soon as Rio died I left.  Well first I buried him down by the river and then I took his favourite toy pig to the top of Mountaineer Peak in the Mission Mountains.  There I set him free.  We had one last talk together and I wept for the last time.  I brought his spirit with me to the most sacred place I know.  Where I've experienced the closed form of communion on this planet, and I let him run.  Now when I see those mountains from the Mission Valley.  When I look up and see the Garden Wall and Mission Falls, I see him up there running across the mountain tops, playing with his favourite squeaky rubber pig.  The Great Rio.  My greatest friend and teacher.  Living where he belongs with the spirits of the mountains.

That was the end and the beginning.  The end of one life and the beginning of another.  I know that to some people all this might sound a little strange.  It's just my way.  I've always been like this.  I've always chosen to live a simple life.  So when I left Missoula in September of 2006 I didn't have much of a plan.  I'd been working as a house painter and saving money, knowing that some day the time would come when I would pick up and leave.  I decided to go to California to go rock climbing.   That seemed simple enough.  I knew that in California I'd meet lots of people to climb with.   The few objectives that I did have where to climb the East Face of Mount Whitney, boulder in the Buttermilks, and learn to big wall climb in Yosemite Valley.

Other climbers on Borah Peak in Idaho.  My only "rest" day on the way to California.

I carried a minimal amount of gear with me on my bicycle.  Still the bike and the trailer where quit heavy.  Bishop would be my first stop.  The place is a mecca for climbers and I knew that I would be able to find plenty of climbing partners and do a lot of bouldering there as well.  It's 1100 miles from Missoula to Bishop.  As usual I didn't spend much time researching my route.  In fact I spent about one minute looking at a map before I left.  It was that easy.  Route 93 out of Missoula all the way into Nevada.  Then onto Route 6 straight into Bishop.  Two highways.  First south, then west.  How hard could it be?  I was even going by Borah Peak in Idaho, the state's highest point.  Figured I stop there and climb it on the way.  What the hell, why not?

Now actually I do not recommend travelling like this to other people.  And when I travel with other people I save them the trouble that a lack of planning brings.  But I like it.  I don't mind making so called mistakes.  Like riding across Nevada on Route 6 with no water, streams, lakes, rivers, or convenience stores for 160 miles.  When I got to Elko and realized what I was about to encounter I found it was kinda funny.  What was I supposed to do?  Turn around and not keep going?  There's no way for that.  At this point I was only a few days ride from Bishop and I could smell the California air.  So I mailed some stuff in front of me self to make room in me trailer and bought 40 pounds of water.  That's right, 5 gallons of it.  Then I loaded it all into the trailer and split town.  I covered the distance in a day and half.  It was the fastest I've ever ridden on any trip.  Even surprised me self in the making.

On me second to last day cycling through Nevada I was hit by a wind storm.  At one point I was blown off the road and crashed in loose gravel next to a busy highway full of big semi rigs.  Cursing and bleeding I got up and kept riding.  My speed on the little bike computer strapped to me handle bars read 5 mph.  That's just as slow as climbing a steep mountain pass, but it's a lot worse.  Climbing up a mountain pass can be fun.  There's the scenery to enjoy and the thoughts of making it to the top and coasting back down the other side to look forward to also.  But riding in a wind storm is pure hell.  Your head's down, your getting blown around, either off the road or into traffic.  There's nothing to enjoy.  It's a mental and physical nightmare.  A psychological beating.  And if your lucky, you won't start hating yourself and cursing your bike and other meaningless things like the barren state of Nevada.  At one point I wanted to give up.  I wanted to let it out, start crying, and hitch a ride the rest of the way.  I got off me bike as the tears started to swell.  The dust and the wind whipped me in the face.  I had a hard time just standing still holding me bike up.  I wanted to yell and to scream, to throw me bike down and give up.  But there I was.  Looking at myself in this total chaos.  Seeing myself in this situation, I couldn't give up.  I realized that at that moment.  I knew I had to keep riding at least till the end of the day.  Then maybe I could give up, or maybe the wind would die first.  I had to keep going.   Up ahead there was a road junction, maybe there'd be a little store I would be able to go into or a diner to sit at.  That would have been nice, but no.  Not that day.  That day was not finished with me yet.  When I got to the road junction the reality of my situation really hit home.  The gas station had been burned up some years ago by the looks of it and all the other buildings had been looted and vandalized pretty badly.  I started to look around for Mel Gibson hiding in the shadows because at that point I was fairly certain that Nevada was definitely home to some post apocalyptic scene from the Road Warrior.

There was broken glass everywhere, and I mean everywhere.  Bottles, windows, freezer cases, anything that had glass and could be smashed into pieces was there busted up on the ground.  I parked me bike next to the first building and went to look around.  The place was a wreck and on top of that the wind had a creepy and eire feeling to it.  I've never felt so on the edge.  So certain that some Mad Max looking zombie was just around the next building.

As I looked inside the half burnt up old gas station I read some spray painted graffiti on the wall.  It was a quote by Nietzsche.  "He who has a why to live can bear almost any how."  I read the quote over and over as it seemed to fit perfectly for me here in this fucked-up waste land.  Who wrote this I wondered? Who ever it was is a genius I thought.  How could they have known to write this here?  I kept wondering if it was written just for me, or if other people had experienced a day like this?   To find themselves at the crossroads of chaos and self discovery.  I started to feel a little better about myself and the day.  About the choices that I've made in me life, and where I was at that moment.  In a burnt up old gas station, in the middle of a terrible wind storm, in the barrens of Nevada.  Nothing left to do now except cook some dinner and go to sleep.  If this wind will let me.

Getting ready for me first big wall in Yosemite Valley baby!!!

to be continued...

Expeditions 1 and 2

I started cycling as a means to get somewhere.  In the spring of 2002 I really wanted to go climbing in the Grand Teton Mountains in Wyoming.  It's only 500 miles from Missoula, MT.  So my dad gave me his old mountain bike and told me that I'd be there in a little over a week.
"Stop whining about what you can't do or don't have," he said, "and you just might enjoy it."  Little did I know at the time that I would become hooked on the absolute freedom that I felt out there on the open road.  Long distance cycling has a similar feeling to backpacking for me.  Where everyday I'm traveling out in the open, seeing the lakes and rivers and mountains.  Communicating with the birds and the insects and the animals.  Setting up camp in a new spot every night, and breaking camp early every morning in anticipation of an exciting day ahead.
On my first big trip I did very little training.  Only a couple weeks worth of cycling to get ready.  I was working for myself at the time as a house painter.  Which I've done on and off for nearly 20 years now.  I started commuting to work with all my equipment on my bike by towing a trailer to haul all the stuff.  The plan worked and I was in pretty good shape by the time I left Missoula.  The only thing that gave me trouble was my arse.  It wasn't until 2004 when I rode to Mount Rainier in Washington that I learned I  could buy happiness for about $35.  That's when I bought a comfy saddle for my myself.  It made all the difference in the world.
While I was in the Tetons I had a great hook up at the American Alpine Club Climber's Ranch where I stayed for almost a month.  Plush digs for someone like myself that is usually hiding from the camp ranger in a ripped up old tent.
The Tetons are phenomenal in so many ways.  The size of the mountains, the quality of the rock, the perfect snow couloirs.  I was blown away by the experience.  Skiing the Skillet Glacier route on Mount Moran was a goal that I had had five years earlier when I lived in Jackson Hole.  Coming there and climbing and skiing it by myself was a milestone for me.  Then climbing the Grand Teton, the Middle Teton, and Baxter's Pinnacle drove it all home for me.  I mean it.  Except for the 'drove' part.  It 'rode' it all home for  me.  The entire way back to Missoula on that trip I was beaming with new found glory.  I kept talking to myself.  Over and over I'd repeat "I just rode here on this bike and climbed 3 of the 5 highest peaks and skied one the most sought after lines in North America."  And I did all this for less than what I usually pay for a months rent somewhere.  Wow!  This has got to be the ticket.  Everyone's going to be doing this next year.

Looking down the Skillet at dawn.

In 2004 I rode to MT. Rainier.  In my pocket I had a permit that said I had qualified for a solo climb and ski descent of Liberty Ridge route on the north face.   Climbing solo on Rainier is very dangerous and it is illegal with out a permit.  This trip did not go over as planned.  I didn't even set foot on the Liberty Ridge.  The weather was tremendous, and much stronger than myself.  After a week of waiting there was finally a break in the weather.  I jumped out of my tent and went over the edge of the glacier to get my first view of the route.  In about ten seconds, the time it took me to look at the route from the bottom to the top, my dream of skiing that route that season washed away.  It looked horrible.  There were brown stains from wet avalanches everywhere.  Ice showing where I'd hoped to see clean snow.
How could this be?  I'd trained for 6 months.  I was ready to do this thing.  I'd ridden my bicycle all the way here.  Spent a lot of money.  I was psyched.  And in no more than ten seconds it was over.  I was going home.  Or maybe not?  Maybe the conditions would improve?  Maybe it's not as bad as it looks?  I wanted a reason to ignore what I was seeing, and just go for it anyway.  But I couldn't.  Then I saw one avalanche, then another.  There was no denying it.  The route was a total death trap.  Go home.  It's a long way, but don't worry you have a comfy seat.  Nobody will heckle you for not even stepping foot on the route.  They'll believe you.  They'll trust you when you tell them it was pure suicide.
I tried to comfort myself, but it was useless.  My dreams where crushed.  It took years to get over.  I'm sorry, but it did.
By the time I got back to Missoula, four people had died on that route.  Why?  Why couldn't they see what I saw?  This didn't help at all.  I didn't need four people to die on that route to make me feel that I had made the right decision.  Two of them where from Missoula.  That definitely didn't help.  I didn't know them, but that didn't matter.  It sucked all the same.  Nobody talked about Rainier all that summer without grief.  I kept asking myself why.  Why do we do it?  I didn't have an answer.  Not then at least.

Ice climbing!  A great way to train for the madness.