Mountaineering Story #2 Failed Summit, Mt. Shasta , 14,162 ft.

Over the year after climbing Mt. Whitney, I was happy climbing around on southern California mountains. For whatever reason, though, it felt like it was time to climb another, bigger mountain, perhaps one of the Colorado 14'ers. I called my Montana son-in-law, Joe, to see if he was up for a mountain. Ricardo and Jonathan were content with their Whitney experience.

Joe was interested but no, not a Colorado mountain, Mt. Shasta should be next. Joe was a mountain climber, and had climbed Shasta in high school. What did I know? "I'm up for it." This one took a little more training. Shasta is about the same altitude as Whitney, but steeper. Whitney is 11 miles in about 6000' elevation gain, Shasta is about 7.5 miles with 7000' gain on the traditional Avalanche Gulch route. Another difference, the last five to six thousand feet of Shasta are snow and ice. Joe taught me the basics of snow and ice climbing, how to use the crampons, how to save yourself with the ice axe. No ropes were needed because we wouldn't be traveling on any of Shasta's glaciers.

Eric, Joe's friend from high school wanted to come along. I give credit to these young men - at 28 years old they were willing to have a 52 year old along. The three of us met in Shasta the day before the climb. First stop was the ranger station to check out the mountain conditions and routes was not encouraging. There was high avalanche risk on the main route; several groups were "hunkered down" at Helen Lake (10,400') waiting for conditions to clear. We had allowed two days for the climb, and didn't have time to wait out weather conditions. Next stop, the outdoor store to pick up some equipment -- I took the opportunity to read about avalanches. A little scary! Just in case we decided to go, I picked up a pair of snowshoes as the weather conditions had left deep snow.

Joe and Eric studied the maps in the evening and showed up at my room the next morning with "we're going", but instead of the usual Avalanche Gulch route we were going around to the southeast face of the mountain and up R14, Wintun Ridge. Before we left the room, Joe went through my pack and took out almost half my stuff. Thank God for that!



Another complication arose fairly quickly. When we tried to drive to the Wintun Ridge trailhead, we found a tree had fallen across the road at 5600' elevation. If we were going to climb this route we had to leave the car behind and continue on foot. It was also becoming clear no one else was using this route. In the only other vehicle parked in the area was a young man who had been waiting several days for his buddy to show up!


Even with Joe "lightening" my pack, I had a fair amount of stuff to haul up the mountain, pretty typical of snow climbing. Once we reached the snow line, climbing became harder. Joe put "skins" on his cross country skis and ascended. Eric attempted to climb with his skis but the going was too difficult and he abandoned them. The deep snow required snowshoes, but on steeper ascents we had to take off the snowshoes and simply "post hole", sometimes in snow above the knee. With steeper slopes it was postholing and pulling yourself up on all fours using the ice axe.




By late afternoon the weather was closing in, visibility was poor and about 5:00 o'clock we had to call a halt for the day. Joe had hoped to reach 10,000' to put us in good position to reach the summit the next day, but with all our effort we had only made it to 9000'. We set up camp on a little scraped off spot on the ridge. I made a mental note to watch my footing if I had to get up in the night. Among all the miseries of high altitude climbing, getting up in the night for the bathroom is the worst. It's cold, and you have to watch where you're stepping. It wouldn't be hard here to walk off the edge of the ridge. Well, maybe worse is a sloping pod scraped off for the tent and you keep rolling downhill onto your buddy during the night.


We got up early the next morning -- no time wasted with breakfast, all we had was gorp. It was too cold to get the stove started, the chocolate pudding and my bagel were frozen.

The day was beautiful and we could see Mt. Lassen just to the southwest. Soon we were into the snow fields, alternating with some rocks and some hairy places.


Joe is an extraordinarily strong climber. He was often far enough ahead of me and Eric that we would see him telemark skiing down some couloir. We climbed for several hours. The summit was clear and beautiful, it seemed to be just ahead.



As we kept climbing, clouds covered the summit. Visibility was getting worse, but more worrisome were the dark clouds moving up from below. Eric and I called Joe for a "summit" meeting. It looked like just a couple hours to the summit. No, according to Joe we had another four hours of climbing. Summits always look closer that they really are. What to do? Possibly we could make the summit, but we had a long descent, down some steep and snowy places, and the weather below could be moving up toward the summit. Mountains make their own weather.

Joe looked up toward the summit, then down at the dark clouds. In his wise and quiet way he said, "it's been a good trip," and with that we headed back down, no regrets.

I read a week later a climber died on this route.

Mountaineering Story #1 Mt. Whitney, 14,494 ft. and 22 miles

"You need more will than skill"...Muhammed Ali

What is it about the half century mark that gives us irrational ideas and, worse still, in the delirium of denial we put all reason aside and believe we should act on them?

This was my condition in the summer of turning 50 when, needing to make some kind of statement, I decided to climb the highest mountain in the lower 48 states. Forget that my only backpacking experience was an overnight trip to the desert, flat terrain, and even then I managed to run out of water. I had to look up what was the highest mountain -- voila! Mt. Whitney, right here in California! Must be I was meant to go!

I called two buddies who also had no outdoor experience to come along. “Hey, I’m going to climb Mt. Whitney, want to go?” I heard some foot dragging. “I can go with you, or I can go without you”. So we started training on local San Diego mountains, I read up on basic mountaineering, and come August we were ready.
My buddies were Jonathan, age 43, Jewish, from the Bronx, and Ricardo, age 38, Mexican-American. Mostly we hung out eating, dancing, and going to concerts. This outdoor stuff was new to all of us. During our training climbs, Ricardo was pretty strong, like a mountain goat going uphill, but I worried about Jonathan. He seemed to lag behind sometimes.

Mt. Whitney is 11 miles uphill, 22 miles roundtrip, and not an exceptionally beautiful mountain. Its popularity comes from being the highest by a few feet in the lower 48. One of the 14'ers.

The usual game plan is drive to Lone Pine in the valley, overnight in a motel, drive up to Whitney Portal trailhead at 8,360' early the morning of the climb, ascend six miles to Trail Camp at 12,000’, overnight in tent, and start climbing early the next morning to bag the summit at 14,000’ and enough time to descend to the trailhead. The first problem here is going from San Diego sea level to 12,000’ in less than two days, and 14,000’ on the third day -- the rule of thumb for ascending is 1,000' a day for acclimatization. The second is the total mileage on the second climbing day was 16 mountain miles. Nevertheless, we were up for it.

We discovered the first problem getting on our backpacks. As novices we didn't realize how heavy these suckers could be, especially if you pack things like fresh peaches for dinner, blue jeans to change into for camp lounging, extra shoes, etc.

We had a sunny day, and about a mile up the trail we entered the John Muir Wilderness -- and the switchbacks, which came to be an s- word for us. Still everything was beautiful, forests of pine trees, mountain streams, and more switchbacks.

At about 4 miles we approached Outpost Camp, 10,360', where many hikers spend the first night, taking three days to finish the mountain instead of the two we had planned. We had two more long miles up, but Ricardo and I learned at Outpost Camp how to take a nap without taking off our backpacks.

We left the forests behind at tree line, and we were feeling the effects of altitude and our backpacks. At about 11,500, Ricardo sat down. He wasn't sure he could go on. Jonathan went ahead to set up camp. I counseled Ricardo -- "it's not much farther, camp will be ready and you can lie down, you're doing a good job...", all the while wondering what are the choices in this situation. (Click on photo to see close up of "counseling with a view"; Ricardo and I are the two figures to the right). To his credit, Ricardo did get up and made it to Trail Camp at 12,000'.

Our energy returned fairly quickly. We hung our food out of reach of the marmots, purified some water from the lake, pitched the tent, and started dinner. Jonathan's main course contribution was an inedible gruel from Amway -- yes, believe it or not, from Amway. I thought of the Korean prisoner of war story I used to tell the children to get them to eat, but at 12,000' there's not much appetite for anything. Thank God for those peaches!




Nigthtime in the mountains is incredibly beautiful as the sky turns navy, the moon comes out, and the Milky Way is completely visible across the sky. From our tent we could see the row of Palisades and at the very end, the Whitney summit. Tomorrow we would be climbing to the top of the Palisades and crossing near the top on the backside over to the summit.







Sleep doesn't come easily at higher altitudes, not enough oxygen to the brain, and this night was no exception. Early the next morning, I set out with Jonathan, hungry, tired, and cramping from my period that started during the night. Ricardo decided to stay back at camp as he was still feeling the effects of altitude. Ahead of us lay ninety six grueling switchbacks leading up to the crest. We took a rest halfway up, and I ate some crackers to settle the nausea, and put my head between my knees. Jonathan was still going strong. My pre-trip worries about him were clearly unfounded.


We reached the palisades ridge in good time, the point where the trail enters Sequoia National Park. Now only about two and a half miles, nearly a straight shot over to the Whitney summit. The route ahead was on the crest of the palisades, narrow at some points, and on the left nearly straight down a couple thousand feet - not a place you want to lose your footing. At some points, the trail narrows to a bridge like place, and a couple thousand feet down on either side. I learned here about Jonathan's fear of heights, and he wasn't sure he could cross these little bridge like places. Again some coaxing, and he crossed on all fours. Whatever it takes, I thought.


The views were becoming more spectacular, and I realized the only people who get to see this are those who come on foot.


Finally, the summit. Those who ask why do we climb have never climbed themselves. At this point, I was not a climber. I had set a goal based on a psychological need at the time but there was no identity as a mountaineer. That would come later.

As Jonathan and I descended to Trail Camp, we could see camp and the tent was still up. Jonathan was furious, it was getting late, why hadn't Ricardo packed up to be ready to move out quickly? This was the beginning of what we called "Jonathan on the edge". We had six more rugged downhill miles and it was almost five o'clock.

I took the lead and moved quickly. We didn't want to still be on the mountain at night. Ricardo brought up the rear, asking several times how much further and each time I responded, "two miles". In reality, I had no idea, but I knew we didn't have time to stop for a rest. It was getting dusk when we reached Outpost Camp, and Ricardo asked again. Jonathan hissed back, "she said it was two miles". We knew then Jonathan was really "on the edge". Darkness came, and we had some distance to go. Jonathan had slowed considerably, he was exhausted, and his hands were very swollen. I sent Ricardo ahead to bring the car up to the trail head. We had to physically load Jonathan into the car, but we were all back safe.

I thought to myself, good trip but I don't have to ever do this again...

Together on Top of the World

Add Phil and Susan Ershler to my list of heroes (see Comments, Jorge Drexler: Dos Besos y Un Abrazo). Phil and Susan were in San Diego this week for a lecture and book signing for their new book Together on Top of the World.


Phil is a legendary mountain climber who meets a young, pretty, ambitious corporate executive who had never been on a hike and at thirty five had given up on finding Prince Charming. An unlikely match, but together they climbed the Seven Summits, the highest mountain on each of the seven continents. Along the way, Susan continues to work full time as a corporate executive, Phil has colon cancer, they get married. The book is a combination love story, adventure, climbing thriller, and has the makings of a good movie.

Phil had accomplished the seven summits himself by 1989, indeed guiding Dick Bass who first climbed the seven summits. There were other accomplishments to his credit, including first American to climb the north face of Everest in 1984, solo for the last 2000 feet as he was the "last man standing" from the American team. He has 400 summits on Mt. Rainier, a mountain most of us train rigorously to climb once.

I reached the Mt. Rainier summit once in 1996 and was resting before the requisite summit photo when a cup of hot tea was offered. Looking up I recognized the face, I knew the reputation. Hot blackberry tea from Phil Ershler at the top of a damn grueling climb... and my thought was how did that man manage to carry a pack twice as heavy along with all the rescue equipment and still have the sensitivity to pack up thermoses of hot tea for the summiters?

The next Ershler sighting was 2001 at Everest Base Camp with Susan on their first attempt to summit -- Phil's eyes froze over just below the summit and they had to turn back. We had met Babu Chiri on our way up to Kalapathar and Island Peak. He and our guide, Phursumba Sherpa, were friends and Babu suggested we "stop by" Everest Base Camp while we were in the area. Let me say now, "stopping by" in the Everest region is not quite the same as in the States.



Mountain climbers have that hard-as-nails attitude. My ex-son-in-law and climbing buddy would say they are the "aristocracy of athletes". Just before the lecture, Susan said privately, "Phil thinks this book could ruin his reputation, what with the relationship part and all." Phil, the reputation was gone with the blackberry tea.

Corrected, with egg on face

Regarding La vida es mas compleja de lo que parace, Anonymous commented

"Stumbled upon your blog and noticed you've misidentified the power plant in the background of one of your renuncula field pictures. San Onofre nuclear power plant is actually located about 15-20 miles north of the flower fields, and are actually two domes that bear a slight resemblance to Dolly Parton. The power plant in your photo is not nuclear, it's just an electrical power plant that uses coal, i believe."

Anonymous is absolutely correct. I have biked past Dolly Parton and the electric plant enough to know better than make this idiotic mistake. What can I say? It must have been intoxication from the flower fields.

La vida es mas compleja de lo que parace

Another week over and the worm is dead,
My friend said.
Yes, enough of the sordidness and world sorrow
I need some beauty tomorrow.
So out to the fields I fled.












Camera in hand, Chayanne in the ear, what better place to flee for beauty but our Carlsbad Flower Fields, 50 acres of giant ranunculus overlooking the ocean and historic Highway 101 in North County San Diego, flowers farther than the eye can see.






Beautiful, delicate flowers with paper thin petals...







Twelve million flowers, but any San Diego fifth grader will tell you there are no bees and no butterflies. The flower has no nectar, no pollen, no fragrance for attraction.






Thousands come to the fields, especially on the weekend, most like myself with cameras hoping to "capture the moment".

It's not long, however, before reminders of the real world intrude.





San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant, about a half mile from the fields... radiation levels 16 times higher than allowed in drinking water in the groundwater, security breaches, news the plant can withstand a small plane but not commercial jet - what would happen with a tsunami?



And, silently, seemingly invisible to the tourists, our Mexican brothers working the fields... life is more complicated than it appears.

Good help's hard to find...

What is there about cats that makes them get all frisky and friendly when I'm in the middle of rearranging the furniture in my bedroom?

Not to be outdone by Frogger, Seci crawled under the chest-of-drawers too, as if on cue.

Rock on

Kelly walks into my room after coming home from dance class.

"You rock, Mom."

"What'd I do?"

Her mouth full of yogurt, she points with her spoon at the yogurt cup that I had just brought home from the grocery store.

It doesn't take much to make some people happy, does it?

(Or was she implying that I don't grocery shop often enough?)

One of the reasons I've not been blogging lately, Kath...

Kathie and the kids know I'm into making stuff - weird stuff, that is. Here is a blurry photo of my latest creation. (How do Pam and Heather get those beautiful photos?) It's a bunch of lampwork beads and Swarovski crystals strung on four strands of memory wire and hung around a recessed light over my dining table. Kind of a shabby chic chandelier, but much prettier than any chandeliers I've ever seen. You'll have to come on over and view it in person to see what I mean. Sparkly.

I guess it's no weirder than Craw...

Why Didn't I Think of That?

Serving jail time can be trying, particularly if it's a third, fourth, or more time around. In my jail it is not unusual to hear an inmate reflecting on their tribulations with "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger". I've used that line on complaining grandchildren.

Paging through an old issue of Rolling Stone at the hair salon this evening an ad for Old Spice caught my eye (hm-m-m, wonder why?). Small print caption at the bottom: "What doesn't kill you makes you better looking."

I like this one.

Zen for Kappa No He

In commenting about last weekend’s Walking this Way in San Diego Patty wondered “about the Zen stuff” and I had to explain to her the peace and harmony of the two rocks in sand on the beach. Turns out she didn’t recognize the photo as sand and rocks but in the process I explained

“The peace and harmony of this pair of rocks, can't you see it? There is a famous Zen garden in Kyoto, a rectangle with sand and 13 rocks. No matter how you locate yourself, only 12 rocks can be seen at any one time. Everyone convinced they are the one who will see thirteen rocks spends hours looking at the garden from different angles. By that time, their arrogance has become peace and harmony.”

Kappa No He from Japan came back with

“Wow, I didn't know that about the Kyoto temple. Although I can totally see a bunch of monks from ancient times trying to make that. "Hey, Masuyuki! Stand over there, how many do you see now?!" I'll have to look that up.”

The garden is at the Ryoanji Temple, a World Heritage site, and I was wrong about the rocks. There are 15 rocks arranged such that only 14 can be seen at any one time, regardless of the angle viewed. Only with enlightenment can you see the last invisible stone in the mind's eye. The garden was created in the 15th century, and remains in its original simplicity. There have been interpretations the rocks represent islands in the ocean or tiger cubs crossing the ocean among others, but it is up to the viewer to find out for himself what the garden means. It is an experience much like watching the sun change angles at the Taj Mahal.

Walking This Way in San Diego

Used to be I could just put on my running shoes and go out the back door, through Torrey Pines Reserve and down to the beach. Life was simple. Nowadays, I take the iPod, cell phone, pager, and digital camera. Is that an age thing or have I unknowingly become part of Ted Kaczinski's runaway technology?

The usual San Diego trail workout begins with the requisite warning. Charleston has its copperheads and alligators (yes, ask Patty about the snake that was living under her sofa), San Diego has rattlesnakes and mountain lions. Torrey Pines Reserve just behind my house has the rattlers and coyotes but no lions. Mountain lion places are to be avoided since the big fire of 2003 wiped out much of their habitat. They're hungry guys these days.

Ellen Browning Scripps had the foresight to establish this preserve, one of only two locations in the world where the Torrey pine grows. The other is Catalina Island. Any first grader here can tell you a Torrey pine is identified by its five needle cluster. We are proud of our Torrey pines, until one blocks our view of the ocean.



Today the agave are blooming and, not to be outdone by Patty's wisteria, I have to take lots of pictures. Anyone who says San Diego doesn't have seasons is out of touch with the bloomings.






Patty says I'm the only person who can get lost in her own back yard. Today is no exception, what with all the talking on the phone and taking pictures while trying to run. Where did this trail come from? Never seen it before. Turn back? Keep going? Is there a life lesson here? Before long a bridge appears; unfortunately it looks as though the recent rains washed out about four feet between the cliff and the bridge. Keep going anyway with a running jump. Patty stays on the phone because she thinks I'm going to get myself done in back here.



Finally, the end of this trail - where was this sign when I needed it?








Coming to the beach. Patty says I'm on my own now - she's getting off the phone because she has better things to do than save me from myself. Change to the iPod. Nothing like Mana's Amar es Combatir (To Love is To Fight) to keep the pace up...



I take in some Zen...

Pass some other ladies in their outdoor gym...

Climb the trail to the other part of the Reserve...

I'm feeling ...


So home to make some 2" high biscuits... a very Charlestonian thing to do.

Wisteria on Melrose

On Thursday evening, Kelly and I were driving home from shopping - what else? - when we passed this sight. Kelly asked incredulously, "Is that a wisteria tree?"

"No, Sweetie," I said, "take a closer look." But I just had to bring my camera back to get a photo for my "album"...and, inspired by Pam (a far better plant photographer than I), a macro shot.

Anointed by Joan

I've been anointed by the famous Joan! Well, actually she only spilled her cup of tea on me yesterday at lunch, but I've been milking it. I too was so glad it wasn't iced or boiling hot...as it was, I was walking bowlegged for an hour. Heheh.

Whenever I try to leave a comment on her blog, I always get an error message that tells me if I want to try re-posting my comment, I should simply cut and paste the message as it shows below the error message. This morning, this was the message I was told to cut and paste.

http://c711.com/?oafV manga sex [url=http://c711.com/?oafV]manga sex[/url]
http://c711.com/?S73L hentai porn [url=http://c711.com/?S73L]hentai porn[/url]
http://c711.com/?zOiL ebony porn [url=http://c711.com/?zOiL]ebony porn[/url]

Hey Joan, what kind of outfit are you running here? Girl, I am going to tease you about this one today! :)

Culture of Fear: Red, Orange....

My daughter brought to my attention an excellent article by Zbigniew Brzezinski, National Security Advisor for President Carter, in Sunday’s Washington Post, “Terrorized by 'War on Terror': How a Three-Word Mantra Has Undermined America”.

Mr. Brzezinski says "...fear-mongering, reinforced by security entrepreneurs, the mass media and the entertainment industry, generates its own momentum. The terror entrepreneurs, usually described as experts on terrorism, are necessarily engaged in competition to justify their existence. Hence their task is to convince the public that it faces new threats. That puts a premium on the presentation of credible scenarios of ever-more-horrifying acts of violence, sometimes even with blueprints for their implementation."

An article well worth the reading time, asking the question, ”Where is the U.S. leader ready to say, ‘Enough of this hysteria, stop this paranoia’?”.

Lauren the Birthday Girl and the Little Weasel

Yesterday was the party for LaLa's 7th birthday. As usual, there were lots of kids running around and having a great time. My favorite part was having Patrick sit on my lap with his bankie and B at the end of the evening, sucking his thumb and watching Parent Trap - oblivious to the rest of the world.

(This photo doesn't do LaLa's eyelashes justice. They are to die for!)

Poor barn is dead .... or is it?

On Thursday Jennie wrote:

“The barn is down.

The ranch that witnessed history through the eyes of one of Missoula's oldest families is now ready for 104 homes. But, like my mother taught me--don't ever give up. I still have hope that it will go back up; if not on it's original 1865 spot, then at the very least, next door on the 40-acre conservation easement parcel where the original brick home sits.”

"Bloggers are Thinkers"

So I found this link for xkcd over at Pam's blog, and just had to copy the current comic for Kathie. You see, Kathie told me about a month ago that bloggers are thinkers. (I was so flattered!) And right now I'm thinking that in fifty years when Kelly is 70 and Jessie is 78, they'll both be talking about how their mother and AK were blogging fools!

You'll probably have to go to the source to be able to read the writing in the comic strip. It's worth the trip. (Uh oh - that rhymed. Wonder if I'm having a relapse of limerick-itis...)

Thanks, Pam!

Through the Happy Glass(es)

Kelly speeding by on her Trikke, and

Sam My Man looking weirded out...

as usual.

Happy Glasses

My kids think I'm a kibble or two short of a full bowl, but I just love my happy glasses. I got them at WalMart for ten bucks. They don't make me look like Jackie O or Sophia Loren, but no sunglasses are going to do that for me anyway. What I like about them is that they're polarized in such a way that when I turn my head a certain angle in the springtime, I see bright pink azaleas and intensely yellow forsythias under trees laden with pale yellow-green baby leaves against a deep, deep blue sky. Just driving down the street makes me smile. The coating's starting to peel off the frames, but I can't give them up.

I wonder if there's a lens like that for my camera...