Eclip's Rock's

There was a sign in Condon, Oregon read, "Eclip's Rock's." I think there were rocks for sale and it seems they don't know how to spell eclipse and they love using apostrophes. I don't know if they thought the rocks belonged to Eclip's or the eclip's belonged to the rock's.  

There is a large cast of characters in this story and at numerous geographic locations. I am pretty sure it’s confusing. That said, this story holds more truth than some. While I was away from home religious zealots came to our house. Twice. They left cards on the door with a picture of a red haired guy that was supposed to be Jesus and I am pretty sure Jesus wasn't a Scandinavian surfer. Hashtags showed how to find God on twitter. It’s a messed up world. At least I am not under water in Houston.

Tomorrow I go back to work, 7 days AE.

Eclipse, photo Sam Reese

The eclipse was cool enough that time is now reckoned as BE and AE (Before Eclipse and After Eclipse). My brother did a good job of organizing a complex family event that focused around the solar eclipse. He picked Sydney and me up at the Portland airport and he had done grocery shopping the night before. This was two day BE. We went to his house and arranged some stuff for camping. My sister and two of her daughters flew to Portland the previous night. Things were coming together. My sister reserved a rented cargo van for the trip and we picked it up at 11AM. By noon we were headed east through the Columbia Gorge. We stopped for pizza in The Dalles and got gas even though we didn’t need it. We had heard that some things like gas might be tough to find in the smaller towns. Someone planned a rave during the eclipse in the little burg of Prineville and 40,000 people bought tickets. We didn’t go to Prineville; we went to a campground just north of Mitchell, Oregon, population 130. If you count my Portland brother, his wife and kids, my Arizona sister and her two kids, my British Columbia sister, her husband and two kids, and my Arizona brother, our group alone was 8% of the population of Mitchell. Ultimately, the campground had about 800 people. I think it was wise to get gasoline as I don’t know how big the storage tank is at the Mitchell gas station. 

Sunset Priest Hole, Oregon.

We didn’t hit any traffic going down there and I was beginning to think the predictions of mayhem might be wrong. Then we pulled into the Priest Hole campground and lo and behold folks trickled in all day and previous days BE. Some arrived Sunday, 1 BE. The crowd spread over about a mile in a campground along the John Day River. On its busiest day prior it might have had 30 people. Most days less. Waits for the one outhouse were up to an hour. If you didn’t bring your own toilet paper you were shit out of luck. Literally. It was almost impossible to find a private tree to poop behind on the campground side of the river because peoples’ camps were strewn everywhere. I swam the river to find privacy. I  dug a hole with a stick and did my business. That’s the bad part of the story.

John Day River

Priest Hole is a BLM campground in a vast expanse of wide open space. The “hole” is a fishing and swimming hole on the John Day River. It’s a Wild and Scenic River with no dams.  The landscape for hundreds of miles around Mitchell is either sagebrush of short grass prairie. There are way more cattle than people in that part of Oregon. There is something to be said for that. We got settled into camp and made some dinner. Sometime the next day my sister Paulette’s family and my brother Dean showed up. Sunday night we sat up and played music by the light of a lantern. Camp fires were restricted because it’s dry, dry out there. Dry is why we were there. Clouds mess up the view of an eclipse.

Solar telescopes set up by more serious eclipsers. 

Note the smaller telescope on left is on crutches, though it’s still serious technology.

Sam picked a great locale. It’s not too hot nor too cold this time of year. In the afternoon we swam in the river. We had inflatable kayaks and other water toys to get us through the afternoon heat. Highs were in the upper eighties and lows in the low fifties. The landscape is hilly to the point of almost mountainous but not. The most noticeable feature out there is the HUGE amount of wild space. Yet, Sunday afternoon when I climbed a mountain to get a view, there were dozens of people camped up there for the eclipse. Along the river there were cowboys, nudists, serious astronomy geeks, and all manner of folks.  Nothing like it will ever happen again in Mitchell, Oregon.

The morning of the eclipse my nephew got sick. He is a trooper and didn’t complain even though he was camped out in the dirt with no plumbing. The bathroom had an hour wait and it was an outhouse. Pablo just sat in the shade and did his best to ride it out. He vomited three times. As the eclipse time approached, my sister in law helped Pablo to a chair by the river where he sat the whole time. I think he was glad he went.

Pablo feeling pretty good.

The Reese clan when 10% of the sun was gone.

As I said, we were not remotely alone. A group near us cranked out Pink Floyd music with a big stereo as soon as the first sliver of sun slid behind the moon. At first it bugged me but by the time half the sun was gone I was liking it.

And all that is now

And all that is gone

And all that's to come

And everything under the sun is in tune

But the sun is eclipsed by the moon.

Eclipse, Photo Sam Reese

My sister in law didn’t share my love for listening to Waters and Gilmore during a spectacular natural event. I can see her point of view. She asked them to turn it off during totality and in a human act of spectacular, they did.  So we all sat there, the Reeses, the Pink Floyders, the cowboys, and the nudists and watched the whole world change hew. When the sun went black the temperature dropped about ten degrees almost immediately. I was shocked at the difference between totality and 98%. With a thin sliver of sun it looked mostly like day and then it wasn’t. I have never seen Venus so bright. The moon looked like the sun was a black hole. The sun was a black and the landscape looked like nothing I had ever seen. I have seen a solar eclipse before but it was annular so the sun was a ring, not covered. This was amazing. I couldn’t contain hoots and hollers, nor could anyone else. That part was weird.

Sydney with the Pink Floyd Camp in background. 

Our camp was just uphill.

There is a lot of buzz in the media these days about a group of people called the Flat Earthers. You know the folks. They amuse us. Most of the time I don’t give much thought to global curvature denialist but when the sun covers the moon it’s hard to mentally shake the fact that the universe is bigger than we can ever grasp. Global curvature is not a hoax and neither is global warming. That celestial bodies are round isn’t even the most important part. We are spinning on a ball in space circling the sun and the sun itself is a bit player in the Milky Way.  The Milky Way shone like a rock star in the Oregon sky every night. From a calculus perspective the human race is nothing at all. When you count up the number of stars the significance of one planet asymptotes toward zero and the significance of one species of apes wearing clothes even less.  Does it really matter what shirt I wear tomorrow or what religion folks belong to? The sky is way too large to care how many wives Joseph Smith had or that ten of them were married to somebody else or whether people think the earth is flat. The human race isn’t quite as important as we think it is.

Syd and Fern

I could have done without the other people at the campground. I know some experience an eclipse as a social event and I can see that point but not entirely. The sun and the moon didn’t do a dance for us or even for themselves. The sun and moon don’t even like each other and we are completely insignificant. I think part of the allure to many people is that you can’t put an eclipse on TV or any other media with any success. That media fails is part of what’s cool about it. The eclipse was viscerally real and uncopiable. There are things I don’t want to only read about or hear about. You can read about a moist wet kiss but it never stacks up to experience. Even lousy experiences exceed vicarious ones. In this case I felt I had to see the total eclipse, not just watch it in film or read about it. Totality lasted about two minutes and it ended in a white flash and all of sudden it was hot again. Over the next hour or so the sun returned to being a full sun. The moon and the sun finished dancing. Indifferent to us as they always are.

Pablo said it was the coolest thing he had ever seen even though he blew chunks again before the eclipse was completely over. After that we sort of hung out for the rest of the day and hit the road the following morning. Dean went back to the Grand Canyon, taking a couple days to get there. Sam and his family, including Pablo headed to the Medford area to my sister in laws family’s home. Pablo got feeling better and they went on a raft trip. Paulette and family went back to Canada. Janette, her two daughters, Sydney and I went back to Portland. We ate Thai food that night and slept at Sam’s house.

Wednesday morning, 2 days AE, my sister flew home and Syd and I were in Portland solo.  Sam was still on the river in southern Oregon.We rented a car and drove to Leavenworth, WA. It’s a strange and cool place. We went to Leavenworth because we wanted a road trip. It’s a four and a half hour drive from Portland.  Juneau folks don’t have a road and you gotta drive when you get the chance. Leavenworth has at least two attractions, climbing and it’s a cheesy mock Bavarian village. The latter is so cheesy that it’s fun. We ordered bratwurst and beer in big mugs. The rock climbing is phenomenal though we didn’t do as much as we wanted. Both of us were feeling ugg. I think we may have had I smidgeon of Pablo’s nausea. We sat in the shade. We had hammocks. We swam briefly in the Icicle River, no surprise that it’s cold.  That said, we climbed about two hours each day on a rock called Eight Mile Rock, which had all the elements we needed. It had climbs that were difficult for us but eventually within reach and we were camped nearby. Before we left Leavenworth, I finally climbed the route I was working on.  

I bought a guide book to climbs in Leavenworth and would like to come back. This trip was a scouting trip. We got back to Portland Friday night, 4 days AE. 

Leavenworth, Washington 

Saturday, 5 days AE, we flew back to Juneau.

It’s good to be home.

Solva Buttress and Nick Drake

Nick Drake had a way with words and guitar. 

From The Morning.

A day once dawned

And it was beautiful

A day once dawned

From the ground

Then the night she fell

And the air was beautiful

The night she fell

All around

So look see the days

The endless colored ways

And go play the game

That you learned

From the morning 

Mount Stroller White as seen from base camp Friday morning. Summit of Mt McGinnis is a nubbin to the left of Stroller.

On August 4, 2017, we rolled out of Alex Burkhart’s four-person tent at 4AM and started getting out gear together to climb the Solva Buttress. Rumor has it the buttress got its name from Norwegian climbers in the fifties who named it the Sunshine Buttress in Norwegian. I always thought sunshine might be a Norwegian inside joke given how much it rains in Juneau but now I think not. When it’s sunny up there, it’s really sunny, many square miles of whitish wall facing south reflecting and absorbing light like a solar oven. After a summer of rain, it felt good to be in that "oven." 

The Solva Buttress (Fifth Tower) as seen on our approach to base camp from the helicopter. Photo Dylan Stuart (Stewie)

We woke above a marine layer about 4,000 feet thick,a bed of clouds with mountain tops poking their peaks and we were above the clouds. A day once dawned and it was beautiful. The previous night we were dropped off by helicopter on the glacier at the base of the south side of the Mendenhall Towers. The Solva is the Fifth Mendenhall Tower from the left as counted from the west. 

This was my third attempt at the Solva Buttress and my third post about it. The first two attempts I didn’t reach the top. It wasn’t failure but turning around before the summit was not the goal. My first two attempts are here (LINK 2015) and here (LINK 2016).  Everything went smoothly this time and there are summit photos if you read on.

Base camp before the climb. 

We got rolling by 5AM. There were two teams: Alex and Stewie and Kevin and me. I am probably the weakest in the group.  We stayed about a pitch apart with Stewie and Alex above us most of the time. We met up for a short lunch. The Solva Buttress has ten pitches, more or less. The starts and endings of pitches aren’t demarcated by fixed anchors or any means other than descriptions on summitpost LINK. That and some pitches have obvious useful ledges that are clearly good places to end a pitch and start the next.

Alex Burkhart front, Kevin Walsh, Stewie, Carl Reese (me)

It was starting to warm up by the top of pitch one, one of the trickier climbs of the day though it is well protected. There was a lot of rope drag on some of these pitches and the first one was bad.  None of the day’s climbing was that tough taken singly but it was a challenge for me taken all in one day. The Buttress is 1,600 feet or vertical rock with very little space for un-roped climbing, at least for climbers like our team. That is part of the beauty of the climb that it’s tall, consistently technical rock, and yet not overwhelmingly so. The exposure is huge in some places and the location is shockingly beautiful.

Pitch one and Kevin at the start of pitch one. 
I didn't get any photos of Kevin climbing as I was his belayer.

Pitches two and three went smoothly. I led two and Kevin led the first part of 3. I led the last part of 3 and continued leading about halfway up pitch four. Pitch four is about a 5.6, long and fun. The ratings are understated for sure. 5.6 feels real and 5.7 and 5.8 even more so.  I set an anchor at mid point of pitch four and Kevin took over on lead as he is faster than me and we were worried about having to rappel in the dark. As it turns out, we were right to be concerned because that is exactly what happened. It wasn’t a huge problem. 

This is the place! I don't know what was over 

there but it wasn't the Salt Lake Valley. 

I think it was near the top of pitch seven. 

Photo Kevin Walsh.

A leader takes the larger risk in an alpine climb. I figured I’d say that since not everyone reading this is a climber. The lead climber climbs first, with the belayer feeding him/her rope, and placing cams or nuts into cracks in the rock every 10-15 feet. This is ideal but sometimes an appropriate crack doesn't exist for a stretch of rock and this is called a run-out. You have to turn back or change direction if you come to a large run-out that you don't feel 100% confident climbing, sans fall.  If the leader falls, the gear catches the fall when the rope comes taut. If you are 25 feet above your last pro, your fall is 50 feet.The fall is called a whipper and people have survived whippers up to 80 feet because the rope stretches. Often whippers up to 20 feet have little to no injury but there are exceptions if you hit something on the way down. 

Kevin led most of the trip this time. The follower climbs second and cleans the protection as he/she climbs.  At the anchor there is an exchange of cams before the next pitch.  Our exchanges got quicker throughout the day but were clunky at first. The follower is belayed from above so falls are comparatively short, say 10 feet at most, though falls on traverse (moving laterally) can be longer because there is more slack in the rope and the follower can swing.  Large swings can be a problem. Whippers and swings are WAY better than ground falls, scrapes and bruises verses busting apart like a water balloon.

We were able to link the upper part of pitch four and five and make it back to what summitpost described. It wasn’t our intent to follow summitpost but it worked out that way. Pitch five is the one pitch I didn’t like that much as there was a short section with some wet rock and it was run-out. Last time I was there I didn’t think much of it but it was likely dry that day. There was very little wet rock this trip though. The top of pitch five had some snow and that helped with my water supply. We ate lunch at the Palacio del Cinco, the large ledge at the top of pitch five. Another climbing team slept up there that night.

Alex on pitch 4. 

Pitch six was an exercise in mindfulness. Breath slowly and focus.  There is a run-out section where you have to climb right, back left, do a belly slide down-climb, and then finish the climb.  The route felt like a 5.9 but was rated at 5.7.

I don’t believe any of the ratings.

Pitch seven is long and ends with a twenty-foot traverse that hangs over perhaps 1,200 feet of air. A whipper on lead would be thirty feet and a fall following would be a twenty-foot swing. There aren’t any cracks to place gear on the traverse for a while.

None of us fell on this trip. 

Part of Pitch Eight with the step out marked lower left. 

I got to the top of pitch seven thinking about turning around. I kept going partly because Kevin was confident leading and after looking at the traverse, rather than the 1,200 feet. I am not afraid of heights but I do get jitters when I am above major exposure. the jitters are actually counter productive and I knew the only way I was going slip on that traverse was to trip over my own head.I noted the step out into open air was simple climbing and falling was highly unlikely with minor consequences. The consequences were perceived because of the exposure though a fall would not have been fun.  I would have shit myself for sure. 

I also kept going because I am beginning to be known as the guy with multiple flailed attempts at the Solva Buttress and flailing this time might have meant three strikes. Climbing isn’t baseball, however.

Pitch eight is the crux and it starts with a few simple ledge and then there is a thirty foot sheer face with a single crack. I gotta thank that guide I paid for in Indian Creek a few years back for crack climbing lessons. I did just fine and I shouldn't make fun of people that hire guides. The next crux wasn’t physically tough but mentally stressing, much like the traverse at the top of seven.  

The walk to the summit of Solva Buttress

The traverse move is to step right off a small ledge at the top of the crack and step out for about 8 feet on some medium sized foot holds. It sounds easy enough, and it is easy enough except that the leader is twenty feet above the last cam and there is twelve hundred feet of air below your feet. Kevin did wonderful as leader. I don’t think I could have led that part. The crack crux I could have done because you can place as many cams are you want. I felt nervous and I was on a top rope. If I ever get up there again, I could lead it because I know what it’s like. It’s a couple steps to the right, a step up, and then you find another spot for a cam. If you fall you will drop about fifteen feet before the rope catches you.  You will have to prussic up the rope.  Once he got his first cam in the wall, Kevin started climbing with hoots, “This stuff is fucking dope!”

Dylan Miller on the skyline of Fourth Tower. 
I zoomed in as it's 1/4 mile away.

Indeed it was dope. Following the traverse, we climbed about fifty feet of magnificent rock with spectacular exposure, excellent protection and exchanged the rack. Throughout the day we got much faster at exchanging the rack and I think that is key to not getting stuck rappelling in the dark. Get up earlier than the sun, make quick exchanges, and don’t dilly dally. That and drink a ton of water because the sunshine saps it out of you.

As I was getting ready to start climbing pitch nine, Gabe Hayden climbed past me without a rope. A minute or so later, Dylan Miller past me too. Both of these guys are amazing climbers with incredible control. I stand in awe of free soloists.  I spoke for a minute to each of them and continued up. Pitch nine is easy stuff and so was pitch ten. Both could be considered class IV scrambles. If I go up there again I might just pack the rope away at the top of pitch eight and climb ropeless. The last approach before the summit is a casual walk along a wide ledge that abuts nothing but sky. The view is knockout and walking to the summit feels like my version of an honorary red carpet with honors bestowed by the Goddess Solva upon the whole climbing team. I am guessing the Solva Buttress was no big deal to Dylan and Gabe.

Looking north from summit.

Kevin and I and Stewie and Alex got to the summit about 5:30. We sat up there for twenty minutes and figured we needed to get moving. Dylan and Gabe climbed across the saddle between the Solva Buttress and the Fourth Tower and up the Fourth.  They rappelled the Fourth Tower starting about the same time we started our rap. They got down around 9PM and we got down at 1AM

Kevin and I on summit

Our first rap started a 6PM. Even though we had two ropes we opted for 30 meter raps; one sixty meter doubled. The potential for getting a rope stuck is huge on the Mendenhall Towers and it seemed faster to go that way. I think it worked too. One of us rappelled pitch ten, the next rapped to meet him with the second rope, one of them would rappel pitch nine while the third and fourth climber took turns rapping pitch ten. We leap frogged the whole way like that and only got the rope stuck once, on pitch nine. Stewie climbed back up. Thank you Stewie.

Stewie and Alex on the summit. 

Even though our raps went mostly smooth, it takes time. Darkness fell around 10:30 and we were still 500 feet above base camp. The northern lights came out. Fortunately, it was a full moon and we all had good head lamps so we trudged downward. It’s not possible to rappel a wall like this in the dark if you don’t have enough light to make out the major features in the distance. On a moonless night, we would have been benighted (waiting it out for sunrise.) It also helps that I had rapped this section twice before, once in the dark. Failure has benefits.  With the moon, we could easily see our target on the ice and route quite well. I placed a bright red tarp on the snow away from the wall so we could see it the whole time and aim for it as we descended. The headlamps helped us see details close up like our knots and such. Kevin had never seen the aurora before. Despite our fatigue, it was an inspiring few hours.

Meanwhile in a more civilized world about fourteen physical miles and four hundred philosophical miles away, a photographer named Ron Giles had his tripod setup to photograph the northern lights at the north Douglas Boat Ramp. I don’t know Ron but he posted a photo on Facebook showing headlamps on the Solva Buttress and somebody forwarded it to Stewie asking if this was our group. Indeed it was.

Me on pitch nine. 

We got back to base camp at 1AM and I gobbled some food, brushed my teeth, and collapsed in the tent. We woke up around 7:30 because the wind howled like a rabid wolf all night and finally we had to get up and secure the tent so it didn’t fly back to Juneau without us. We flew home at 11AM.  Before the trip, we thought we might climb some single pitches in the morning before the heli showed up but our feet were sore so we sat in the sunshine for a few hours eating and drinking coffee. There was even some whisky in the morning which we drank like rock stars.

Ron Giles photo of lights on the Mendenhall Towers. 

There is something surreal and magical about the Mendenhall Towers and indeed the whole Juneau Icefield. It’s an area stuck in the Pleistocene. The towers themselves are a nunataq, a large chunk of solid granite jutting out of one of the largest glacial systems in North America. But it isn’t just the geologic history that draws me to the place. 

Sunset in the lower part of our rap.

Maybe the lure is that humans don’t belong up there for long.  The icefield invites me in and allows me to stay until the weather or some other harsh reality brings me home. Though the rock is spectacular and the climbing challenges my every nerve, it’s the beauty and magic that draws me back, not the rock.

So look see the days

The endless colored ways

And go play the game

That you learned

From the morning

Youtube LINK, From the Morning by Nick Drake.

Selfie taken at the top of pitch seven. I will have to return and smile next time.

Marathon of Hypnotized Chickens

Out running a marathon about mile 14 or 15 or 16, ole Iggy Pop came into my headphones by way of my iPod. Iggy was singing about heroin they say, that concoction of chemicals that creates an imbalance of neurotransmitters, like you might get from extreme physical stress. Endorphins and dopamine are addictive ya know?

Lust For Life, Iggy Pop

Here comes Johnny Yen again

With the liquor and drugs

And the flesh machine

He's gonna do another striptease

Hey man where'd you get

That lotion? I been hurting

Since I bought the gimmick

About something called love

Yeah something called love

That's like hypnotizing chickens

Well I am just a modern guy

Of course I've had it in the ear before

Cause of a lust for life

I couldn't help but giggle inside, because I was too tired to giggle outside, that all these people were in almost pain as me. Some less but some more so. That's like hypnotizing chickens. Cause of a lust for life.  

The basic stats for this sucka are that it starts at Sandy Beach in Douglas and goes to Outer Point Trailhead in North Douglas, whips a U-ey, and goes back to Sandy Beach. It’s 26.2 miles but you knew that. It’s Juneau’s only marathon and it was my fourth time running it. I ran with my daughter Sydney or at least we stayed together most of the run. We didn’t die or break down or even suck that badly. I finished in four hours and 28 minutes and Sydney finished in four hours and 41 minutes. All day I could see my breath. It was July 29th. I don't like climate change. Most places get hotter but more heat in Juneau brings  more evaporation and more rain. We don't need it.

The beginning of the run.   Yes, that is as far as my leg will bend. I need to work on that.

 

At mile 1 in front of the elementary school Sydney attended.

Mile 12, near the Douglas boat ramp. Mendenhall Towers in the background

Syd mile 11. 

A marathon is a head game. It doesn’t seem so as it seems almost exclusively like a leg game. Either your legs hold up and you finish or your legs don't hold up and you don’t. The stronger the legs the stronger the finish. All of that is true but your head tells your legs what to do. Furthermore, the brain in these conditions sends an array of thoughts and sensations that eclipse reality as we know it any other time.

Sydney and I may run another. marathon, Just like hypnotizing chickens.

I don't actually know how to write about the head game that plays out because I think you have to experience the sensation of neurotransmitters gone haywire to understand it. Thoughts entered my chemical injected head that I thought were profound to the point of changing the world important only to later determine they were either mundane and/or total bullshit. Other thoughts entered my head that were only deep because neurotransmitters raging through my veins branded them to neurons in my cerebral cortex.

I kept thinking, “People can do so much more than they think do.” I didn’t think this solely or even primarily in the context of running. Even then I knew that my marathon was a meaningless act to anyone than me. I started at Sandy Beach and ended at Sandy Beach, effectively going nowhere. But I can do more than I think I can do in lots of ways that don’t have diddly squat to do with running or climbing or playing the guitar. 

Every few miles there was an aid station handing out Gatorade and goo. 

About mile 16 Sydney's boyfriend David showed up and started running with her. At that point I  left Syd to run with David. As it turns out, David was wearing flip flops and hadn't planned on running. Syd finished the race alone and so did I. I think she preferred it that way.  Sometimes it's better to go solo into dark spaces.

About mile 18. Sydney later said she didn't know where she was and that she just thought, "I'll keep doing this."  Apparently, she kept going.  Mount Stroller White in the background

I finished  

I wasn't wrong, the human species can be better than we are. It’s not an unusual thought but the degree that it was branded in my neurons was unusual. At mile 15, I thought I could finish this marathon and tell people that the human species can be better and they would listen to me. I started to cry it was such beautiful thought. I was that deluded. I only believed myself for two miles. By mile 17, the thought occurred that people can do better but we aren't going to. We are going to kill each other and treat each badly long after every person running this marathon is dead. We are going build walls to keep out Mexicans or whoever we deem as “other” because we will always need somebody to scapegoat our mistakes or punching bags for our frustrations.  We are going to have wars and more wars until some numb-nut president or emperor drops the nukes and ends life on planet earth. I started to cry and if anyone saw me they surely thought it was pain in my legs. It was too. My legs were killing me. 

Syd finished 

Evonne tracked us the whole run giving us water, a concoction of lemonade and chia seeds, and whatever else we might need. It was nice knowing there would be somebody to pick me up off the highway if I were to collapse. I mean that a lot.  Evonne took all these photos and Aubrey showed up with flowers that she grew in her yard. I almost cried. We ate a burger, potato salad, barbecued salmon, drank a beer, and then we got a pizza and another beer. I went home and took a bath and took a nap. I slept 10 hours that night.

The Sandy Beach picnic area. 

It was really, really hard. While running a marathon you can cry in public and nobody thinks you’re a baby. You can become overwhelmed by the sheer stupidity and callous cruelty of the human species and people will think it’s the weight of your legs. In a way it is.  You can shit your pants in public while running and get a pass on etiquette. I haven't done that. Yet. Alternatively, you can have the thought that maybe the human species has made better art and shown more love than any one person can wrap their mind around. We have the capacity to bomb a neighborhood or lift it out of poverty and we have done both.  The choice is ours but mostly we do some cool stuff as a species.  We can even make great music, even punk songs that compare heroin addicts to hypnotized chickens.  Cause of a lust of life.

Skagway

Ya know the names of mountains don’t matter one whit to the mountains themselves. The Matterhorn could be call Silly Mountain or nothing at all and it wouldn’t give two shits about it. That said, we as climbers and mountain lovers would suffer some from the loss of understanding. How does one frame his/her thoughts about the Alps without words like Eiger and Matterhorn? The sentence, “That rocky protuberance adjacent to that other rock protuberance” means very little. The names of mountains matter, though often they are misnamed. There actually is a Silly Mountain in Arizona and it a bland looking hill with about 100 feet of prominence which means it’s neither silly nor a mountain. The naming of Southeast Alaska’s mountains befuddles the head sometimes. Some mountains simultaneously have no name at all and too many names. Let me unravel that riddle.

Basically, the United States Geologic Survey never got around to naming many Alaskan mountains and there is little money for revamping the maps now. Thus, many mountains are points or x’s on maps but that doesn’t mean people don’t call them something. For example, most of the peaks east of Skagway don’t have USGS names but you can see them from town and from the boats in inlet. Literally a million people a year come to Skagway on cruise ships and they all look at Pyramid Peak or Mount Triangle or Mount 5212 or Mount Fillintheblank. It has no official name and thus new names can pop up any time. 

Peak 5212 or Pyramid Peak 

I climbed Pyramid Peak Memorial Day weekend with my friends Mike and Brian. When descending “Pyramid Peak” I said that I thought it would be good if the USGS revamped their maps and added some names to the maps.  Mike thought for a second and suggested maybe it was for the best to leave the maps alone because they would probably just name all the mountains after greasy politicians and corporate overlords. Pyramid Peak could end up named Trump Tower or George Foreman Mountain. George Foreman named all ten of his children George Foreman. Some people have an ingrained need to name stuff after themselves.  I am glad Ali knocked him out. It’s too bad Ali isn’t around to knock Trump.

Indeed, there is a history of greasy misnaming in the world of mountains. Mount Denali was called Denali for about 10,000 years until somebody named it after a dead president that never set foot in Alaska. It took Alaska a century to get our mountain’s name back.  Mike has a point. If there ever is a Mount Don Young I will climb it just to shit on the summit.

Couloir on No-Name Peak, that is what they call in Skagway.

Memorial Day weekend the plan was to kayak south from the Skagway ferry terminal to the mouth of Kasidaya Creek starting on Thursday afternoon. I met Mike and Brian before work on Thursday at the Juneau ferry terminal and gave them my kayak to carry.  We I took Friday off work and I flew Thursday afternoon to Skagway and met them there. Our plans changed throughout the weekend. Our initial plan was to kayak south from the Skagway ferry terminal to the mouth of Kasidaya Creek and head inland to climb an unnamed mountain that is 5,883 feet tall.  We called it Peak 5,883 and this mountain doesn’t have any unofficial names that we are aware.  Lots of Alaskan mountains are rarely seen by anyone except for the occasional mountain climber and people in planes. This is one of those. We didn’t make it and hope to climb it later this summer.

Once we were all in Skagway, we staged our gear and kayaks by a clump of alders about 50 yards from the public boat ramp. Mike and Brian had a double sea kayak and I have a whitewater kayak. As I tossed my mountaineering boots into dry bag, I experienced that “oh fuck” feeling that comes from realizing I forgot something critical. I left my crampons at home. My crampons are old and almost too small for me. I needed crampons, or so I thought, and my team needed me to have crampons so I ran to the store in Skagway and bought a new pair. This delayed the trip thirty minutes. In the meantime, the harbor master approached us and told us we couldn’t launch kayaks from the harbor unless we used the official ramp and we had to pay ten clams each to the harbor. That all seems silly because the shore we were staging was good for kayaks and the ramps can become busy with people loading fishing boats. Why slow up the fishing boat ramp unnecessarily? We followed the instructions of the The Man! and unloaded the kayaks and shuttled 400 pounds of stuff to the boat ramp and this delayed our departure even longer. We hadn’t paid our ten clams yet when we noticed nobody was using the boat ramp. We looked south and the whitecaps were getting bigger and whiter and it kept getting worse. Soon the wind was lifting mist off the whitecaps and creating what sailors call “smoke on the water.” If you aren’t thinking about the song now, I am surprised. Smoke on the water is a white mist hovering over the white caps, moving quickly in the wind.  We decided kayaking was a no-go.

By this time, it was 6PM. We bought a pizza at a restaurant, a map from the outdoor store, and figured to hike up to Upper Dewey Lake area that evening. In Alaska, it’s light until 11 this time of year, we had spent all day sitting, and the two-hour hike seemed good. There are some very nice mountains right out of Skagway and there is an old log cabin at about 3,000 feet we could stay for free.

Once again we changed plans. Brian has a friend that keeps his gillnetter on dry storage in Skagway and he told us we could sleep on his boat. Mostly we opted to stay on the boat because we had cold beer and there are lawn chairs on the back deck. It was sunny out and Skagway is a beautiful place even in the middle of a boat storage lot. Note, that this boat was not in the water; it was sitting on blocks in an industrial park waiting for fishing season. The boat was about 40 feet long and a nice working gillnetter. We drank a few beers on the back deck and went to sleep by 8:30.

Upper Dewey Lake is frozen near the lower end of the cirque. 

This is the view from near the Gunsight.

We got hiking to Upper Dewey Lake by 8AM and got to the cabin by 10. Upper Dewey Lake is a kettle lake in a large cirque surrounded by tall granite mountains. Skagway has a bunch of things named after George Dewey, a hero in the Spanish American War who probably never thought twice about Alaska. I would guess Dewey was a good guy but I am guessing the Tlingkit name was lost from modern vocabulary because some surveyor wanted to brownnose the folks in DC. Dewey was popular in Washington DC for killing Spaniards in the Philippines.   Our plan B was to climb Unicorn Peak (one of its names) and Pyramid Peak in two consecutive days. We left kayaks and other non climbing gear in the gillnetter. We left overnight gear in the Upper Dewey Lake free use cabin and continued up to try and climb “Unicorn Peak” with light packs. Mike’s friend told him you go through a notch in a pass called the Gunsight, drop to the icefield behind the pass, climb up the back of the Unicorn. He was also told that ropes and cams weren’t needed. Mike’s friend went up there under different conditions than we encountered I think. I can imagine that with lots of solid snow or no snow at all, that you could pass the Gunsight without a rope.  As we pressed to the Gunsight, it became clear that snowshoes would have helped a lot. We punched through a surface crust every minute of so, sinking to our knees and sometimes deeper. The snow rising to the Gunsight was deep and soft. It’s what skiers call corn and it would have been great skiing. Corn sucks without skis or snowshoes.

We made the base of the Gunsight by noon. The snow rising the ramp to the Gunsight was three to six feet deep, close to 50° angle, soft, and pocked like Swiss Cheese. From what I could discern, the ground underneath the snow is a jumble of bowling balls to house sized boulders. Gaps between the boulders created air pockets. I punched through the snow to my neck once. It sucked to climb out because there wasn’t anything solid to pull up on and I needed to calculate every move to ensure I didn’t slip down the ramp. It took us 70 minutes to ascend 100 yards up that ramp to the Gunsight because each step had to be planned so we could get an ice axe into something solid in case we slipped. Once in the Gunsight we noted that back side was a rock ramp dropping off four hundred feet down the Juneau icefield. It’s the same icefield we have in Juneau. I am oft impressed by the sheer size of the Juneau Icefield. In the Gunsight there was webbing on a rock to rappel from but we didn’t have a rope.

Juneau Icefield, north end as seen from the Gunsight.

We decided the Gunsight was a great destination and turned around. It took us an hour to descend the snow ramp. Then we plodded our way back to the free use cabin and got there around 6. We were asleep by nine. Late night partying is not our forte I suppose.

The following morning, we headed up to climb “Pyramid Peak.” It froze at elevation over night and we found we could walk on top the snow at first. Soon it melted out and we started punching through again. By afternoon it was 65° F and that was comfy but it made walking across the snow suck. We should have woken up really early in the morning to avoid the soft snow.  The path to Pyramid was much more melted out and much of the path is bare rock which made for much faster traveling. The route from the cabin to the base of Pyramid follows a bench with fantastic boulders that have otherworldly look. Finding this bench was a pleasant surprise. We spent a lot of time sitting in the sunshine. We could see Taiya Inlet below and noted that the whitecaps had finally died down, our kayaks sitting on the gravel next to the gillnetter. We followed the bench south and approached Pyramid Peak from the back side where it is steep but not technical.

Boulder on the bench. 

The summit stands above the icefield. You could count mountains all day and never count all the peaks you can see from up there. From the top of Pyramid we could see Peak 5883 which the one we had planned to climb up Kasidaya Creek. From our vantage point we determined that it would have been a struggle to try and ascend Kasidaya Creek and the best way to get to Peak 5883 is to follow the same ridge to Pyramid but traverse round the south to the valley east of Pyramid. Lower Kasidaya watershed is a jumble of thick alders.

Selfie from the top of Mount 5212 or Pyramid Peak. 

I forgot my crampons, that are never called clampons, and it was a good thing I did even though in the end I never took them out of my pack. Had I brought crampons, we would have pushed out to sea before the waves kicked us off the water. Had we made it to Kasidaya Creek we would had a fighting day trying to muscle our way uphill through a colander made of alders and Devil’s Club. Devil’s Club is the jumping cactus of Alaska. Most likely we would have made it a little way offshore and simply got wet and very cold and returned to Skagway to dry and warm back up.

After climbing Pyramid Peak we made our way slowly back to camp climbing boulders along the way. Once again I wished I had brought my climbing shoes because they are light and bouldering in mountaineering boots is less than optimum.  I have never brought climbing shoes and wished I hadn’t but I often leave my climbing shoes and home and wish I had them. We had a lot of time in the day and it was nice out, regardless of footwear. We got back to the cabin by six and found some people camped nearby. We shared a fire for an hour or so with seven young people that were in Skagway working for the summer.

One of them was the Aleut kid about 20 years old that wants to longboard across North America. Many Aleuts live in Juneau and Angoon. During WWII the military evacuated them from the Aleutian Islands in western Alaska and dropped them at Funter Bay near Juneau to fend for themselves without food or shelter. A third of them died. When the war was over many of the refugees never made it back to the Aleutians. The Aleut I met at the fire spoke Tlingkit but not Aleut. He grew up in the Tlingkit village of Angoon and in Juneau. He told me the Tlingkit word Skagway means "Birthplace of the north wind." No wonder there was smoke on the water.  He didn’t know any of the mountain names in Tlingkit. I wonder if anyone does.

Mount 5,883 is the peak in center. Next time.

We might return to Skagway when the snow is melted out and try again to go through the Gunsight with a rope and gear. The ferry ride was beautiful.  On the way home I thought about the years I lived in Arizona and that I am living in place where snow exists in late May and it isn’t 5,000°F.

Eldred Rock Lighthouse, seen from the ferry.