Mt Elbrus Attempt 2009

The #1 Bestseller that came from this blog!

2018-06-09T11:40:00.001-07:00

If you enjoyed this blog you should check out the book it inspired.

Link to my Carstensz Pyramid Blog

2012-05-23T12:52:00.001-07:00

Hi there. I leave June 30, 2012 for New Guinea and an attempt on Carstensz Pyramid. Follow along if you like at maurocarstenzpyramid.blogspot.com

Link to my Vinson Massif Blog

2010-08-14T20:50:00.000-07:00

Family, Friends, and Readers from far-flung lands; Hello again. I hope you have been well. I hope you eat all of your greens. And I hope you choose to join me in my adventure to Antarctica. Worry not, you may do so from the comfort of your world-wide web portal. Yes indeed, I will be Blogging my thoughts, experiences, and random musings as I prepare for, and during the doing of, my attempt to climb the high summit of Antarctica, Vinson Massif December 1-17, 2010. (Cue the bold symphonic soundtrack!)
You may follow along at http://maurovinsonmassif.blogspot.com/
Many thanks!
Dave Mauro

The Mountain wins again.

2010-08-14T19:11:00.000-07:00

I tracked Richard's signal beacon as his team made a carry and cache around Windy Corner. The signal lingered for a day back at 11,000 feet, then progressed to the big staging camp at 14,000. All was normal as they seemed to rest there for a few days. Then they made the first carry up the headwall, an unforgiving 600 foot incline of nearly vertical ice. A fixed line limits the risk to those beneath you, but nothing can diminish the animal desire required to claw pack and person upward by ice axe, toe spikes, and ascender. Richard's beacon signaled a point at the top of the wall where his team cached their loads before returning down to camp at 14. In due order they moved to high camp at 17,000 feet, the highest point his beacon would report from.
I spoke with Richard the other day after many exchanged voice messages. This is what he told me.
A classic Denali storm rolled in soon after they reached high camp. 80 mph winds combined with -25 degree F temperatures to sequester the team in their tents for 3 days. He spoke of using an ice axe to claw his way from tent to the can they used to deficate in. The desire or ability to eat were greatly curbed. Sleep was manifestly compromised.
The winds subsided a bit on the fourth morning and the now stir-crazy team decided to attempt the summit. I've been trapped at high camp under difficult circumstances, and I can tell you the decision to attempt the summit eventually has more to do with one's desire to go home than any stilted sense of conquest. The team delayed leaving high camp to allow another expedition to lead out ahead of them, breaking trail through four feet of fresh fallen snow. But winds picked up again as they ascended Denali Pass, the site of that mountain's greatest tragedies. Falls on Denali Pass have been so numerous that the Park Service installed fixed lines to offer protection to teams. Still, many groups choose not to use them, unwilling to incur the delays of clipping off and on as each member of the rope team passes the anchors securing the fixed lines.
Richard's group used the fixed lines. As a guided climb it would have been quite unusual had they not. Fortunately the group breaking trail ahead of them also used the fixed lines. As the lead team neared the crest of Denali Pass a sudden blast of wind (estimated by Richard to be approximately 90 mph) knocked them all off their feet. They hung by their harnesses from the fixed line until each member gathered himself up, then reversing direction to head back to high camp. Richards team wisely chose to also retreat back to their tents.
Another three days passed as the storm continued. By the time it subsided there was no will among team members to attempt the summit. They broke camp and started down the mountain. It is suppose to be easier to go downhill, but one often does so in a capacity greatly diminished by a factor of time spent in high altitude. In Jon Krakauer's remarkable book Into Thin Air he includes the following account of this degradation.
"Most nights I'd wake up three or four times gasping for breath, feeling like I was suffocating. Cuts and scrapes refused to heal. My appetite vanished and my digestive system, which required abundant oxygen to metabolize food, failed to make use of much of what I forced myself to eat; instead my body began consuming itself for sustenance. My arms and legs gradually began to wither to sticklike proportions. "
It is a point worth noting that Krakauer is describing the effects of surviving at an elevation of 15,000 feet. Richard and his team spent seven days at 17,000 feet. What's more, the sum total of equipment carried up in two efforts would be taken down in only one. So heavy were the loads that Richard broke through a cornice at one point, dangling from the rope that joined all as one. He spoke of dehydration and his legs turning to jelly. He told me of mutinous contempt for their lead Guide. They suffered onward for 27 hours to reach the snow landing strip on the Kahiltna Glacier, the point from which they would be extricated from an adventure that had transformed to ordeal. At three o'clock that afternoon a pair of small ski-planes lifted off with Richard and his team aboard.
I listened to Richard tell his story, sharing in the disappointment. Even now, three months after the fact, he sounded exhausted. The swagger so evident in his attitude prior to the climb had been beaten out of him. Richard told me the one consolation he took away was the vindication of his training. "I felt strong and capable as the challenge of each day was greater than the one before," he commented. This much is no doubt true. I also tend to believe, had he gotten his shot, Richard would have stood on the summit of Denali. But I wouldn't blame him if he never tried again. There is a long list of world-class climbers who have never been able to reach North Americas highest summit. Denali is a big, moody, frozen SOB. Still, I had to ask.
"Will you go back," I queried.
Richard to took a deep breath and, in what sounded like the first time he has answered that question out loud, said "yes."

Richard's redemption.

2010-05-30T18:35:00.001-07:00

It has been ten months since Elbrus.
Richard called me last December to offer his best wishes for my upcoming attempt on Aconcagua, a climb for which I had been training and blogging. He said he too was preparing for another climb. This surprised me so soon on the heals of his meltdown on Elbrus. I could still remember how wiped out and nauseous he looked as we set out for the summit from our final hydration stop at 18,000 feet. "OK," he conceded wearily, "let's get this thing over with." There is no joy on his face in our summit photo. Instead his expression belies the conflicted emotions of a man who has suffered far past the point and price he ever estimated to have wagered.
"I'm going to climb Denali this spring," he announced. Denali, also known as Mt McKinley, is North Americas highest summit. At an elevation of 20,320, Denali stands almost 2,000 feet taller than Elbrus. More importantly, its location just outside the Arctic Circle invites bitter cold, typically dropping to -30 F at night in June. Massive storms from the Bering Sea pound Denali with such regularity that any given expedition should plan on digging in for a period of days or weeks. And the oxygen; that far from the equator the barometric pressure is low enough to create the physiologic experience of being still 2,000 feet higher than any given elevation. In short, Richard would be climbing a mile higher than Elbrus under much more severe conditions for a period three times as long while also carrying loads of 60-80 pounds. By way of analogy, he was the Guy who gets sick on a carnival ride then decides to become an Astronaut.
I was both astonished and concerned. Yet I did not attempt to dissuade him. I asked Richard several questions to test how thoroughly he had investigated the venture. I recommended several excellent books on Denali, including "Surviving Denali" , a study of accidents and fatalities. But I suspected I knew at least part of what was motivating him. Richard had learned of my summitting Denali early in our friendship. He was impressed and brought it up often in the company of other Climbers. I always appreciated the response this garnered, this minor celebrity, and wondered if I was as good a friend to him in return. One such time we were drinking beer in Russia with a Guide who had realized climbing fame the prior year by soloing K-2, arguably the most daunting summit on the planet. He said he planned to attempt Denali the following spring. "Dave has climbed it," Richard offered with a slap to my back. "You," the Russian Climber questioned, "You have climbed Denali?!" "Yes," I answered with a contrived aloofness suggesting more modesty than I felt. The Guide gathered me up in one arm. "Ohhhhh! Respect," he proclaimed.
I have spoken with Richard several times in the last few weeks. We debated equipment, psychological preparation, and conditioning. Richard had gone to the extraordinary length of purchasing a hyperbaric chamber to sleep in. This, at the obvious expense of his love life, would increase his VO2 count by tricking his body into thinking he was at high altitude. Much credit has been given to this approach by Lance Armstrong in the preparation for his superhuman cycling performances. Indeed, Richards account of his present fitness after eight months of intensive training paints a picture of superlative physical preparation. "Do you have any concerns," I asked the day before he left for Alaska. "No. I don't have the foreboding I felt on Elbrus," he answered, adding "I just feel a mixture of excitement and nervousness." I offered one of the big lessons I had taken away from my Denali climb, the same advice I give when speaking to groups, "Don't think about the summit until the day before you leave high camp. And try to find a little joy in each day.". Soon after the call it occurred to me that I had forgotten to ask Richard the single most important question. I left a voice message on his cell asking him to call me back, but no call came. I was consumed with self-loathing. Then, this morning, Richard called me during his layover in Seattle. "Why are you climbing this mountain," I asked. "To see if I can," he responded in a playfully flippant manner. I prodded further and he thought better of the question. "Let's just say I was disappointed in my performance on Elbrus. Its a bit of an experiment to see if all the things I have done to train and prepare can make the difference." "You could learn that by climbing a less daunting mountain," I challenged. "Yes, but it wouldn't be Denali," he concluded. Richard is climbing with the Guided Alpine Ascents group. I would imagine there will be periodic updates posted on their site. As well, Richards exact location will be tracked by signal beacon and posted via satellite to the following site; http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0WnrfN2NGSyS6EVkrlgRULoiEB4QAVzN3

Link to my Aconcagua Blog

2009-12-20T14:25:00.000-08:00

Hi Ho. Thanks again for following along with my Elbrus Blog. I leave for Argentina to climb Aconcagua on January 9, 2010. If you care to follow along you can find me at http://mauroaconcagua.blogspot.com/
All the best,
Dave

The next Mountain, the next Blog

2009-08-24T16:19:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,
Thank you so much for following along with my Mt Elbrus adventure. I have appreciated the feedback you have offered along the way and hope we can do it again sometime soon ...very soon ...starting in December of this year. I am securing arrangements now to make an attempt, in January of 2010, on Aconcagua in Argentina. Climbing with me will be my Brother in-law, Ty Hardt of Anchorage, and John "Johnnie Two-times" Harris of Kenai, Alaska. A few years ago I climbed Denali with them while filming a documentary that was never made. This time I will write a story that will never be published. We try.

So search for me at Blogspot.com under the title "Aconcagua Attempt 2010" starting in December 2009. See you then!
-Dave Mauro

Taxi Driver Kindness

2009-08-11T12:10:00.003-07:00

I hired a taxi, while still in Azau, to take me to the neighboring villages. I promised to mail some letters for Dick back home, and I also needed cash & toothpaste. The Driver and I communicated largely through diagrams sketched on a pad of paper handed back and forth. It was challenging for both of us, which I think created a shared sense of accomplishment when we had returned to Azau. I was closing the cab door when he made an urgent sound and held up a hand signaling I should wait. The cab driver opened a chest pocket on his shirt and dug out a halloween-size individually wrapped coconut candy. He handed it to me, then pulled another halfway out of the pocket to show he too will be eating one. Then he smiled. Back in Moscow, a group of us hired a taxi to take us to a dance club one night. About ten minutes into the ride the Driver turned to Mike Crowley, riding front passenger, and handed him some kind of large baked good. It was flat and round like a danish, but had no topping. Not sure what to do, Mike admired the bread respectfully, saying "Hey that's quite a nice bread," and handed it back. The Driver insisted Mike keep the bread. He seemed quite excited that we should all try it. Mike took a bite and handed it back to me. I held it for a moment. "Hey, it's still warm." I commented. "How do suppose he managed that?" I took a bite. It tasted like a pancake. "Now that's some fine taxi bread." I commented as I passed it on. We all took turns biting chunks out of the bread. It's not that we were hungry or that it tasted particularly good. It was just fun in a way that felt wholly random. We had come to embrace random, trust in it's place in our world, celebrate the color it brings to the party. Soon the bread was gone and we thanked the Driver as he dropped us at the club. I've thought about that experience since then, realized the Taxi Driver probably gave us his dinner, wondered why. It's not like he handed it to us when we first got in the car. Ten minutes had clicked by while he thought to himself "should I give them the bread or shouldn't I?" Then all of the sudden out comes the bread! I wonder what made the difference in a car load of people he couldn't understand. I just don't know.

The art of being Russian

2009-08-11T12:10:00.001-07:00

I took a night train from Moscow to St Petersburg. This was a money-saving suggestion from the Russian agent organizing our logistics. I shared the four bunks of my tiny birth with three Russian travelers. There was a twenty-something couple returning from holiday in Moscow, and an early thirties-aged man coming back from business. It was quiet at first as we tried to pretend we weren't knee to knee. The husband brought back tea for he and his wife, then poured a dash of Jamesons into each. He asked, in broken english, if I would like some. I accepted and set out to get a cup of tea. A uniformed woman working out of a space the size of a small closet, assembled the hot drink for me a few moments later. Unable to make change for my 1,000 Ruble note (about $30) she waved me off as the lucky recipient of free tea. Soon my new friend had fortified the beverage and we were all underway getting to know each other. They asked me about mountain climbing. I asked them about life in St Petersburg. They suggested restaurants. They suggested attractions. They suggested I not look like a tourist. "How," asked. "No backpack," they demanded. I said I could manage that. "And don't look up with your mouth open," the wife counseled. "Like this, I asked in feigned amazement. "YES," she confirmed, laughing giddily. "And something else," she added, "try to make your face like Russian." Recognizing the improv game New Choice, I set about swinging between vast extreme's of facial expressions, each illicitting both horror and laughter. "No. NO! no. NO!!!!!!" I finally settled on a sort of tired-sunday-in-the-park look. "Yes," they applauded. Then we made up our bunks and said good night.

Post Script: Ankita gets her shot.

2009-08-07T00:36:00.001-07:00

Ankita's condition improved quickly in the oxygen-rich lower elevation of Azau. As there had been a spare summit day built in for bad weather, Ankita reasoned it was still possible for her to make a summit attempt. She would need to leave for high camp the day after the rest of us had arrived back at Oz. That same day she would need to make the acclimatization climb from high camp to 15,000 feet, and then leave for the summit that night, skipping the day of rest that would normally separate the two. Ankita approached Mike with this idea. He would guide her, and in the process summit Elbrus for the second time in three days. This was an ambitious plan for both of them. After careful consideration, and verifying Ankita's improved health, Mike agreed. They left immediately, joined by Paul who came along as moral support. Word spread among the other climbing teams around Azau. A well-liked person, there was great empathy for Ankita and her lost summit attempt. But now a slow drum beat of possibility began as climbers sought out updates on the status of Mike and Ankita high up on Elbrus. We passed the time in the eager hours that followed speculating on how things were going. Some of us saw Ankita's troubled foot as being the principle concern. Others questioned how completely her strength may have returned. Still others fretted over her abbreviated acclamation. Ankita and Mike started for the summit at 2:50 a.m. We were at breakfast when Mike called Alex on the satellite phone. He and Ankita were standing on the summit! Even more impressive, they had gotten there in only six and a half hours, a full two hours faster than our first team. Later, I asked Ankita what made her think she could do it with all the strikes against her. Her answer spoke first to the confidence she felt in Mike, and secondly to the desire that had set all these wheels in motion so many months ago. "I had to try."

The dark side of Elbrus.

2009-08-05T21:17:00.001-07:00

There was bad news for the Team when we woke at 1:00 A.M. Ankita would not be joining us for the summit attempt. But it would not be her troubled foot that tethered her to high camp. Ankita had been up most of the night with the ill effects of what appeared to be some kind of intestinal bug. This left her dehydrated and weak. A high altitude summit bid requires the very best of health. Anything short of that can transform a discomfort at sea level into a potentially dangerous situation up high. Ankita had done all the right things; put in the training, bought the expensive gear, hired the best Guides, suffered through her foot problem, and endured the chronic discomforts of altitude acclimatization. But in the end this would not be her day. Ankita had drawn the short straw. It's a hard thing to see someone's dream shatter. We all felt very bad for Ankita. Paul offered to give up his own summit dream to stay behind and care for her, but Ankita insisted he press on with the climb. Mike and Richard provided medications. Arrangements were made to have Ankita taken down to Azau where the comforts of Oz would provide some relief. Then we geared up and boarded the snow cat for the ride that would take us back to where our climb had left off two days prior at 15,000 feet. Clear skies delivered on the promise of our weather forecast with a brilliant display of stars. The moon was nearly full. There was very little wind. Conditions were ideal. By 2:30 A.M. we were stepping off the snow cat, crampons on, and starting the first pitch, a grueling steep incline 1,200 feet up the west flank of Elbrus. We made decent progress for the first hour, but then our pace started falling off. I asked Mike if we could move faster. The wind had picked up and it was difficult to stay warm. He said that our pace was presently being set by Richard. Hearing this, Richard increased his effort and, for ten minutes or so, our pace improved. But from my place at the back of the Team I was watching Richard. He seemed to be working much harder than the rest of us. His efficiency of movement seemed to be slipping away. Something was wrong. The temperature was down to. - 5 degrees, not extraordinarily cold, but with only 12 percent of the oxygen available at sea level the physiological effect was much colder. Richard would later comment that he felt cold dressed in layers that typically kept him warm plowing snow at 40 below back home in Alberta. Now Paul asked if we could move faster. He was getting cold. Mike called for a break and, explaining that we have to dress for the pace, suggested we put on our heavy summit parkas, over pants, balaclavas, and mittens. I dug each from my pack and put them on, feeling immediately better. Ankita put on his parka. Richard added his parka, heavy gloves, and balaclava. He already had his over pants on. Mike and Alex put on their warmest clothing as well. We continued on, our bodies warmer, our pace still slow. After 30 minutes I noticed Richard was duck-footing his right foot outward and pushing off of it to step forward and uphill with the left. I called for the Team to stop and walked up to Richard. Pointing out what I had noticed, I urged him to not squander his energy with such an inefficient practice. He was breathing hard, and complained that his boots were too stiff, making a normal gate impossible. Mike came back to where we were. I think he thought I was riding Richard about the pace again. He said the pace might not be what Paul and I wanted, but it was "acceptable" and we were making progress. It's important to know there were no flared tempers. All of these discussions occurred in very clear and rational tones. We finished that first pitch and began the second, a long steep traverse winding northward toward the saddle dividing the twin summits of Elbrus. Dawn broke, but we were still on the dark side of Elbrus. It occurred to me that our problems with cold would be solved if we could traverse out of the shadow. Then Richard suddenly stopped. He, Mike, and Alex had a discussion. By the time I walked up to them it had been decided that Richard would take a dose of Diamox to stabilize the altitude effects. He had been talking about turning back. "We are trying to persuade him to continue on," Mike said, having seen climbers work through such conditions many times, believing Richard might do the same. It would be hard to say how much of Richards problem were altitude, hypothermia, or general fitness. On some level each appeared to be contributing. But there was something else. "I have a bad feeling about this," Richard said. Back in Moscow he had shared with me a grim premonition that had come to him as he said goodbye to one of his daughters. This for boding was now consuming his thoughts and still more precious energy. Hearing this, Mike asked if Richard would feel better continuing on if they were roped together, a technique called "short roping." Richard said he would so Mike started rigging the line. At some point he looked at Paul and didn't like what he saw. "Paul," he said," You,ve just been standing there and you still don't have your over pants on. I'm starting to question your judgment. Don't fade on me, Buddy. Put those over pants on now." Then Mike turned back to Richard, who had a new problem. With all of the standing around his left foot had gone numb. Mike handled each of these challenges decisively, quite thoroughly validating his reputation as one of the foremost high altitude Guides in the world. "Right, we will remove the boot and warm the foot," he said, instructing Richard to lay on his back and place the afflicted foot under Mikes upper layers, against the bare flesh of his stomach. I asked what I could do to help and was handed the inner liner of Richard's boot. "Keep this somewhere warm," Mike said. I stuffed it under my parka. Then I looked at Paul and noticed he was impossibly tangled up in the process of putting on his over pants, the crampons of his right foot piercing them in three places. I backed his foot out and open the leg zippers completely. Then I carefully guided each foot through. As I started to zip the legs closed Paul said he could take it from there, and did just fine. About then Mike had finished warming Richard's foot and was calling for the boot liner. As we prepared to get back underway Richard said he would give it thirty minutes more and turn around if things were not going better. The Team plodded on, chasing the edge of the shadow and the hope that our climb would emerge stronger in the light of day. We passed into the sun forty minutes later on a section of the traverse that flattens out. The combination of warmer conditions and a rest for our legs turned everything around. As we paused to hydrate I turned to Paul, "We will stand on top of this #*%! before the day is out!" "Yeah," he agreed, "I think we will.". The heat of the sun reflecting off the snow can very quickly change the game from hypothermia to heat management and dehydration. By the time we reached the east side of the saddle we were all removing layers and applying sunscreen. Richard shed his pack at the base of our next pitch, a steep climb rising 1,600 feet from the saddle to the summit plateau. Our pace was still slow and several other Teams passed us. Richard was still struggling but seemed to have reached down deep and found what it takes to carry on when most of you wants to cash in. "And now, Dear Friends," Alex called out, "the final forty meters! Most difficult part of climb." Not only the steepest grade we had seen, this section also menaced climbers with a sheer 2,000 foot drop off on one side. There could be no mistakes. For the next forty minutes we methodically scratched our way up the narrow catwalk at the top of the pitch and onto the summit plateau. Again we rested, hydrated, opened the zipper vents on our clothing, and applied more sunscreen. Exhausted, Richard asked how much further. "You gotta walk the plateau, Man" Mike answered in a playful tone. "I have to have a number," Richard insisted,"how much time. "Thirty or forty minutes," Mike answered. We had been climbing for eight hours and gained almost 3,500 vertical feet. Now, from where we sat drinking gatorade, we could see the final rise of fifty feet to the summit on the far side of the plateau. While we put our packs on I started singing "They can't take that away from me." As we took those final steps the realization of what we had accomplished settled on me and I felt tears leeking out the bottom of my glacier glasses. There were hugs and photos. We all said how much we wished Ankita were there. I called my Mother and my love, Lin, on the satellite phone. Then I released my brothers ashes to the Russian wind.

Go time.

2009-08-04T03:35:00.005-07:00

After breakfast this morning we spent some time on "snow craft." While this description might conjure images of a summer camp activity, it in fact involves some pretty essential mountaineering skills. We found a nearby hill with ample incline. Then we practiced traversing techniques, ice ax placement, and self arrest. It was fun. So much so that I completely forgot about the stiff back I woke with. Now we are killing time until lunch. Some of us are reading. Some of us are blogging. It is quiet in our hut. The climb to 15,000 yesterday took a pretty good bite out of us, so the rest today is welcome. But the unspoken concern on most of our minds is the fact our summit attempt will be even bigger and with thinner air. Mike told the Team that climbers pretty typically hit a wall in the saddle, from there it will be about each individuals determination. I remember a similar point on the Denali climb. We were still 1,000 feet below the summit. I was breathing three times for every two steps. I called ahead to Ty at the lead of our rope. "Sam needs a rest." Then I turned back to Sam at the rope anchor. "Ty needs a rest," I said. They were both delighted to have broken the other man. I was delighted to gather myself up. I reached inside my parka for a Gu, a sort of liquid energy gel. What I pulled out was a collection of laminated photos I had placed there a few days before. My Brother, my Sons, my Best Friend, and several other loved ones each spoke to me. From that moment until I reached the summit I imagined one or the other of them walking next to me. I will be carrying a similar collection of photos tomorrow for when I hit "the wall." I will also be carrying a small quantity of my Brother's ashes, which I will leave at the summit, should I succeed in getting there. Now it is evening. Mike just finished his talk on Hypothermia and Frost Bite. Richard and I are burning nervous energy by examining each piece of gear and packing them for the likely order they will be needed. Ankita and Paul are laughing about something in the bunk above me. We will eat dinner at seven, gather what sleep we can after that, then leave for the summit at 2:00 A.M. The snow cat will take us up to the Pashtukhova rocks, picking up where we left off yesterday. The weather forecast calls for clouds and sun. Most importantly, the wind should be a harmless 3 - 5 mph. It will take the Team seven to nine hours to reach the summit, depending how our members hold up. Then it's several hours back down. It will be a very long day, but hopefully a very gratifying one as well. So this will be my final entry until we return. Many thanks to my Family, Friends, Colleagues, and Clients who have given me so much encouragement and positive energy over the months leading up to this. At some point, I suspect, each of you will walk beside me. -Dave

That moment of doubt.

2009-08-04T03:35:00.003-07:00

Regardless of capability or commitment many climbers will suffer a moment of doubt at some point on a major climb. That moment is perhaps best described by the words "what am I doing here?" I heard Paul say this while we descended a steep narrow canyon a few days ago. Richard commented same as we labored up steep snowy grades in the stifling heat of a clear blue day. My own moment came last night. I stepped outside to relieve myself at 2 A.M. It was cold but there was no wind so I reasoned, in the fashion of the half-awake, that I could get by with a minimum of apparel. I would be quick about it and back in my warm down sleeping bag in short order. After all, the only persons awake were the snow cat drivers warming their machines for the three o'clock run to the Pashtukhova rocks. It had not occurred to me this warm up process would include turning on their flood lights. But it did. Suddenly I was awash with light, standing there in only my underwear and hiking boots. I paused just long enough, still facing all those lights, to say "what am I doing here?"

Preparation complete.

2009-08-04T03:35:00.001-07:00

Today we climbed up to the Pastukhova rocks at 15,000 feet. We lingered there for about an hour before heading back down to high camp at 11,800. The whole purpose of this was to acclimatize our bodies to the high altitude. This was our last such conditioning climb. Tomorrow we will rest, then leave for the summit at about 3:00 A.M. the next day(Tuesday, August 3rd). Since we are 11 hours ahead of Bellingham time that means we will leave for the summit at 4 P.M. Monday PST. Ankita's foot problem flared up again today, preventing her from completing the last 600 feet of the climb. Alex suggested a Doctor look at Ankita's foot. When we pointed out that Richard is a Doctor, Alex shook his head "No No No. PROFESSIONAL Doctor," he said. Richard was a good sport allowing the group a laugh at his expense. Richard and Mike have worked out a treatment plan that will still give Ankita a chance at the summit. The rest of the team is in good shape. Kudos to Ed for turning in a solid performance thus far on his first climb! At this point the weather forecast for our summit day looks very workable. By the by, our Team Guide Mike Roberts is posting his own updates on the group daily. You can follow these at adventureconsultants.com go to "dispatches" , then "current expeditions", then "Elbrus". All for now from this tiny steel box in the sky we call home.

The rest of the Team.

2009-08-01T06:48:00.001-07:00

Mike Roberts is our leader. We are the trolls to his Snow White, the rats to his Pied Piper, the Lemmings to his Ocean sounds. We like him. We trust him. We would follow him anywhere. So then, it is extraordinarily convenient that he comes highly qualified. Mike has been guiding mountain climbers for 24 years. In that time he has summited Everest three times. As well he has enjoyed multiple visits to the high summits of South America, Antarctica, North America, and Europe. He has climbed a lot of other notable peaks but his sense of humility would divert the listing of them to what the weather is doing now or how the Team will move tomorrow. One suspects that any pride Mike feels about standing on these peaks is more attributable to the satisfaction that comes with having helped the climbers standing next to him achieve their dream. Mike has the greatest laugh. It is sincere, big, and contagious. If it's possible to laugh with an accent I think Mikes native Kiwi rings through with endearing effect. Alex is our Russian Guide. He is gregarious by magnitudes which suggest all the misplaced mirth of Russia rides in his pockets. This morning he told me he had a dream about a slow motion movie. In this dream a man was falling into a stream, "in, in, in, he goes under," Alex says with a look of astonishment. "YOU are star of this movie," he says with a flashing smile. Then he hugs me and I feel like his little brother. Alex achieved climbing fame last year by solo summitting K2 in a 27 hour round trip from base camp. Combining he and Mike, it would be hard to imagine better care for this little band of dreamers.

Creature from the Glacial Lagoon

2009-07-31T18:06:00.003-07:00

We set out this morning on foot. Walking a pleasant trail through groves of birch trees, we made our way down the valley to Terskol. From there we turned up a side valley and began climbing alongside a glacial stream. It was sunny and warm, ideal treking weather. About an hour up the valley Ankita pulled up lame. An old running injury had resurfaced in the form of progressively worse pain in the arch of one foot. It was decided Mike would see her back to the hotel while the rest of us pressed on under the leadership of our Russian Guide, Alex. Though we never reached the glacier itself, we did make it up to 9,400 feet for some acclimatization and spectacular views. On the way back we crossed the runoff stream again, hopping from rock to rock. Unfortunately, I slipped as I attempted to hard stick the landing on one rock and fell in on the downstream side. The good news is the pool I fell into was deep enough to break my fall. The bad news is that it was deep enough for me to go completely under, pack and all. Dear Friends (as Alex is prone to saying), I hope to tell you that water was cold. Really really cold. I emerged uttering the most primal of word choices. But it was a warm day and my companions were jovial. So, not wishing to be a kill-joy, I laid my clothes out to dry on the rocks and we enjoyed hot tea. Then I changed into a spare outfit Alex had in his pack. Now we are back in Azau. We will meet for dinner soon, then pack for the move tomorrow up to the barrel huts at 12,000 feet. It's getting close!

The Team

2009-07-31T18:06:00.001-07:00

I am enjoying getting to know the team members better. At lunch yesterday I had a chance to ask Ankita about her own history and how she finds herself here. Ankita is the daughter of Indian parents who met while pursuing advanced degrees in the United States. They remained in the U.S.A. And enjoyed successful careers as an Engineer and Biochemist. Having grown up in the States, Ankita, in contrast to her exotic name, is as American as anyone you may meet. She was introduced to mountaineering by her father five years ago. He and Ankita made a Nepal trek to Everest Base Camp. Unfortunately her father suffered from a medical condition and the two had to be extracted by helicopter. I asked Ankita why that did not dissuade her from further climbing, as she subsequently summited Kilimanjaro and, of course, is here now attempting Europe's highest summit. Her answer balanced the fact that her father recovered completely and her own awakening to the individual rewards of going to the mountains. Paul is the son of a Ugandan and American. He is new to mountain climbing, having been persuaded to go on this adventure by a volunteer in a technology class he teaches. That student is Ankita, who makes a point of stating that Paul accepted this invitation before the two were technically dating. "I'm in," he texted her one afternoon. Courage calls in moments of its own choosing. They are a twenty-something couple with quick smiles and a smart sense of humor. They loyally join myself and Guide Mike Roberts as we together catalog Richard's countless tales of speed and self-inflicted injury. Dr. Richard Birkill is no doubt respected for his medical accumen, but famous for the distinction of having arrived to an emergency room call as a patient in the next ambulance. He is all about speed and can rattle off the accelleration stats for everything from his snow mobile to his coffee grinder. If there is an extreme sport Richard is not engaged in it's probably because there just isn't enough opportunity to injure himself. Richard was born and raised in South. Africa, relocating with his family to Alberta eight years ago. He has three children (a boy and two girls), and an extraordinarily patient wife. Richard is here on this climb because I taunted him with repeated text messages which called into question his courage and masculinity, quite often featuring the chicken tagline "Bocka bocka bocka." He is a fun guy to hang out with and an able climber. We climbed Kili together and I wanted him along for this hill, though I suspect he is often bored as this is quite tame in comparison to his flying, kiting, racing, and full-contact Bridge tournaments.

The Land of Oz

2009-07-30T09:24:00.001-07:00

Azau is a village being built around the gondola house at the base of Mt Elbrus. If there is a master plan for its development no has bothered looking at it. Structures have been started then abandoned, their concrete and dangling rebar telling the sad tale of a dream greater than the fortunes of the dreamer. Other buildings are done and have rolled out a plywood carpet to beckon customers across the unpaved street, over rivlets of muddy runoff.Work continues on a few structures. Men hoist buckets of gritty stucco up pulleys as others apply the face of an odd narrow hotel. This might be a boom if it did not appear so interrupted, and it might be a town if there was any order to it. But the placement of these structures suggests a "ready , shoot, aim" process where men and materials somehow arrived at the worksite before it had been chosen. Our own hotel sits apart from all of this on a table of land a short distance below the gondola house. It is a modern looking structure featuring emerald green glass set into its white three story facade. Daylight is transformed into an eery hugh that falls heavy upon the simple furnishings within, a space left otherwise dark but for the proprietors efforts to conserve electricty. We are living in Oz. Today we hiked up Chegett mountain. Though we had prepared for rain, the weather was quite nice. We climbed from 9,000 to 12,000 feet. All team members performed well and we enjoyed a relaxing lunch with magnificent views of the rugged snowy giants rising up all around us. We will take another acclimatization hike tomorrow, returning afterwards to Oz. By the way: I mentioned the name Vern Tejas in an earlier Blog about training. He is here. We met in the hallway and chatted for awhile. Small world. He sends his regards to my mountain-climbing brother in-law in Anchorage, Ty Hardt.

Simple Pleasures

2009-07-29T09:55:00.001-07:00

We have noted in the brief time we have been in Russia that the people of this country tend to be somewhat stoic. This is perhaps the consequence of being the children of a generation that had little to smile about. So it was notable when the passengers of our flight to Mineralyne Vody.spontaneously errupted in applause. The occasion of their joy was a safe landing. It is said that low expectations are the gateway to simple pleasures. We are traveling now past modest towns, through fields of Sunflowers, down a two lane road that is often improvised into three. There are lean dogs and motionless burros. Shoeless children play with a kitten near a sad-faced old woman selling watermellons. Incomplete walls protect incomplete homes. There are chickens and hay trucks and cinderbocks and ruins. These towns all have stories we will never know. We are only passing through, Westerners here for some other purpose. There are fewer homes now. Our van is climbing up a rainy green valley along a river none us knows the name of. We would try to ask our driver, but his limited english requires supplemental hand gestures so it is agreed that on such a winding narrow road it is proper to respect the water's anonymity. We sleep. We snack. Richard fiddles with another feature on his I-phone. It is a four hour drive. We arrive.

The Red Square mystery

2009-07-28T11:40:00.000-07:00

Richard and I met our Guide, Mike Roberts, at breakfast this morning. A friendly, knowlegable, and very patient man, he endured our many questions about what lay ahead. We came away from this discussion reassured, especially after his firm refuttal of the Man Eating Yeti rumor I had read about somewhere on the internet.

Afterwards, Richard and I took the Metro (subway) to Red Square, which by the way isn't red at all. The bricks are black. There is a tall red wall that runs the length of one side. It keeps the tourists off the Kremlin lawn. But if that is where the "Red" reference comes from they should call it "Red Line." Not as snappy, I know, but infinitely more accurate. I'm going to leave a note in the suggestion box. Todd Williams would be proud.

We walked around Moscow, through Gorky Park, and down Old Arbut St. We bought a few souvenirs for the people back home, had some lunch, then rode the Metro back to our hotel. It was quite an adventure in a beautiful city. Just ordering lunch is an adventure here. Since the Russians write in the Cyrllic alphabet there is no guessing even what a word means. I just open the menu and point at an item and hope for the best. I ended up having a sort of pork cutlet stuffed with tomatoes, bacon, cheese, and vinegar. I like it!

This evening we met the other two members of team, Paul and Ankita from New York. Ankita has climbed Kilimanjaro and trekked to the Everest Base camp. This will be Paul's first mountain climb. They are a fun couple.

Tomorow morning we will fly to Mineral Vody, then shuttle for 4 hours to the village we will base out of. More on that later.

2009-07-27T04:04:00.001-07:00

Richard and I just landed in Moscow. Tired but glad to be here. My internal clock is lost somewhere between the 11 hours difference and the tiny snatches of sleep I managed. Waiting to see our luggage with all important climbing gear.

Why I Climb

2009-07-24T17:08:00.001-07:00

People ask me "Why do you do this?"
I have asked this question of many high-altitude climbers and generally found they are no better at answering it than non-climbers. They will start off talking about having a goal, then wander away from that notion sensing it's much more than that. What seems tangible and clear at first becomes sand passing through their fingers. As there are numerous excellent reasons to not participate in this type of activity, it would seem one should at least know what over-riding consideration shifts the balance of rationale.

I've often told my boys that it is more important to know when you are on your path, than to know where it is going. It's like a gravel trail winding through a meadow. If you were blindfolded you would have to trust your senses, listen to the sound beneath your feet. This is part of my answer. I believe I am suppose to do this. It is on my path. It will make perfect sense somewhere down the trail. In the mean time I am committed to my path. The other part of my answer deals with how that gravel sounds beneath my feet.

I want to first differentiate between visual and experiential beauty. People talk about how beautiful child birth is. But anyone who has ever been there knows they aren't talking about visual beauty. There's a screaming sweaty woman, body fluids... You get the idea. So, clearly we are talking about experiential beauty here, which I believe is on a higher order than visual beauty. The memory of one Hawaiian beach eventually fades into the next. But ask a woman about when she gave birth and she has no difficulty taking herself back to that moment and even seems, in the retelling, to relive some measure of the joy that came with it.

There is little question the mountains can be visually beautiful, but the beauty of a snow-covered slope tends to fade after ten or more days of living on it. Under the trying conditions of mountain climbing such a place becomes a cold and featureless landscape devoid of smell and stingy of comfort. Yet we still find ourselves talking about the "beauty" of it. We may trek through vast landscapes of dusty lava rock and camp in winds that claw at our tents all night. In the morning we will still find ourselves using the word beauty. At some point, it seems, visual beauty may evolve into the higher order of experiential beauty.

The man-made world is designed to make beauty available at no risk. We have guardrails, nets, and walls of one fashion or another which allow us to take without risking. But it's not that way in the natural world. I believe nature rewards us with experiential beauty on a scale commensurate with the risk taken, the offering made. It is the tender received in a fair transaction. It is abundant and accessible, and, I believe, in its highest state takes the form of Love. I believe that love comes from the source of your spiritual faith.

You don't have to climb high mountains to experience this. And you don't have to put your life on the line either. When I say "risk", I mean that in many different forms. For some it might be confronting your fear of public speaking.

To me this is the sound of gravel beneath my feet. It is how I choose to live.
It is why I climb.

Ready

2009-07-24T14:58:00.000-07:00

I went to U-tube the other day to freshen up on some of the knots I will need for the climb but haven't tied in awhile. At some point I realized I had wondered into videos on how to bait a dead-fall trap (a stick holding up a big flat rock that falls on whatever knibbles on the bait). My mind is elsewhere.

It reminds me of the time during college I became preoccupied with a theory I knew I would be tested on in a final exam the next day. I was standing in front of the stove in the kitchen of the boardinghouse I lived in when someone asked what I was doing. "I'm not sure," I answered honestly, "I started off making tacos, but now I'm just cooking meat."

I am packed, vaccinated, trained, equiped, visa-ed, and ticketed. I have said my "see you later"'s to most of the people in my life. I leave for Russia Sunday morning, but in many respects my mind has already boarded an earlier flight.

I am ready.

There are two Dentists I know named Dick and Mike. They just got back from doing this very climb. It was their second attempt, having been turned away just 800 feet below the summit on their first try last year. They are both world-class climbers who used wise judgement in not challenging bad weather up high. Though the weather was far from friendly this time, it was at least workable. They both summited.

I had lunch with Dick yesterday and bought his remaining Rubles. He is so alive from the experience you can feel the energy spinnng off of him. It's like one of those static electricity generators they had in science class where your hair stands on end if you place a hand on it. He shared many pointers, and eagerly answered the list of my questions. Today he called to offer the use of any of his equipment if I should find I'm short a piece. I can tell part of him would like to go along an do it all over again. As consolation, that part will know satisfaction in seeing me realize the same experience. He wants me to have what he has. But what exactly is that?

I've been in the place Dick is now and know it's almost impossible to articulate what you are feeling and why. So I didn't bother asking such questions. But it remains an issue worthy of exploring.

A client of mine greets me with the word "Why." On the phone or in person, our conversations always start with him asking "Why?" There's no context and there doesn't need to be any. We both know what he is talking about. I usually offer some short response, a pop fly in a tied ball game, then say the real answer is just too long. But it seems suitable that I should answer that question here, before my body catches up with my mind and I find myself far too busy. So my next entry will take a serious swing at this. I will title it "Why I Climb."

About thin air; Redux

2009-07-23T17:31:00.001-07:00

Earlier in this Blog I published a piece about Thin Air. One of the cool things about writing in a public forum is that some really smart people end up reading your work and they help you to get it right when a concept seems off center. My earlier piece suggested O2 is the same wherever it's found, even at 20,000 feet. There is no such thing as "thin air." I know, I know. I've already used this term many times in my Blog and there has even been a best selling book entitled Into Thin Air. How is it possible such a basic and intuitive notion could be as manufactured as Jack Lord's hair piece? (see Into Thin Hair).

A reader named Rick commented; Dear David,
I beg to differ on your concept that "Thin Air" doesn't exist. I went to Webster's New Riverside University Dictionary (1988) which defined "thin" as {3. a. Not dense or concentrated: sparse (thin vegitation) b. More rarified than normal (thin air)}. I believe in Naoh Webster.

What you are really trying to explain is how the partial pressure of oxygen inside a fixed volume of air between low and high altitude affects people. When you inhale, your lungs create a fixed volume (about the size of a party balloon). Whether you inhale deep underwater (SCUBA divers), at sea level or at elevation (Mt. Elbrus), the lungs create this same fixed volume. The differential pressure between the air inside your lungs and the air outside your lungs must be equalized. Therefore the air is literally pushed into you from the outside pressure. What changes between altitudes is the pressure of the gas flowing in and out of you. Since pressure is determined by the number of gas molecules occupying the same physical space (Boyle's Law)there are fewer oxygen molecules occupying the same inhaled volume at higher elevations. The "partial pressure" of the oxygen in the air drops as you ascend, and it is the partial pressure of the oxygen that keeps us alive. Too much of it (deep underwater) and you can get CNSO2 (central nevrous system oxygen) toxicity. You pass out. Too little and you get anoxia. You pass out. As the altitude increases and the partial pressure of oxygen decreases we can do one of three things to survive: grow larger lungs, breathe faster, or "thicken the soup" by adding more oxygen to the mix.

What I was trying to say is that in the absence of differing pressure all oxygen would be the same. Oxygen itself is neither thin nor thick on it's own account. So one is well advised to focus on the illness (low barometric pressure) and not the symptom (thin oxygen volume).

Thanks, Rick. Great contribution, and thank you for taking the time!

This was just a sidebar to the piece. The bigger discussion focused on how that air (thick, thin, or otherwise) gets into your lungs and the importance of barometric pressure in forcing it in. Here is the rest of the article.

It is common understanding that we "draw a breath" in when inhaling. But the fact of the matter is that we draw in almost nothing. When we inhale we create an open space. It is the barometric pressure of our immediate environment which fills that space, forcing oxygen into our lungs. Less barometric pressure means less oxygen.

I always laugh during the pre-flight demonstrations of commercial airlines. What gets me is the part where they say "This airplane's cabin is pressurized for your comfort." This is true in as much as dying is uncomfortable. At the typical cruising altitude of 30,000 feet, having just come from sea level, a non-pressurized cabin would see most of its passengers expiring within fourty minutes.

Barometric pressure is greatest at sea level along the equator, diminishing as we move higher or further away from the equator. Thus any high altitude summit is going to have considerably less barometric pressure than what would be experienced at sea level in that region. As well, a given altitude 2,000 miles from the equator will have less barometric pressure than that same altitude only 1,000 miles from the equator. This becomes particularly important when we consider summits like Denali, 20,320ft high and far enough north to be next to the Arctic Circle. In terms of barometric pressure, Denali's summit is the rough equivalent of 23,000 ft on Mt Everest (much closer to the equator).

Barometric pressure will also fluctuate as weather conditions shift. The result is a change in the amount of oxygen we take in. Next time you hear the weather forecast talk about rising barometric pressure take note and see if you don't "just feel better" that day. Most people do. You are getting more oxygen.

Bottled oxygen is typically used by climbers above 23,000 feet on Everest. The pressure provided by the compression in the tank essentially imitates the barometric pressure of a lower altitude. But once they start using supplemental oxygen they must continue until descending below 23,000 feet. That adds up to a lot of bottled oxygen, which means a fair bit of extra weight to carry up hill. I am often asked why we don't take bottled oxygen along as a precaution on these climbs. It's a practical choice. A person can only pack so much weight. When you are already counting ounces for the gear you must have, there just isn't the spare load capacity for something very heavy that you probably won't need. Teams of Sherpas pack these bottles up hill on Everest. A suitable stockpile of oxygen is accumulated for each climber and ferried up to increasingly higher camps. As you might guess, the support logistics for an Everest attempt are truly monumental.

On Elbrus we will be well below the elevation that might typically require supplemental oxygen.

Bolts and Blood

2009-07-18T18:35:00.000-07:00

I have a boat that I like to take out fishing on the salty waters of Puget Sound. While it is short enough to trailer, it is heavy enough to cut tire grooves in the hot asphalt. So it goes that the unfortunate trailer which carries this beast started breaking down soon after I bought it. There was one bolt in particular that kept shearing off where the frame attaches to the axle. With the boat riding on the fenders I would limp to the nearest hardware store and buy a replacement bolt, then set about making repairs there in the parking lot with a complicated network of jacks, oars, and scavenged cinderblocks. What I lacked in knowledge of metallurgy I made up for with a dillusionary sense of engineering.

A few weeks would go by where I was only fighting electrical problems with the taillights, then the same bolt would break again. I sought out the counsel of a neighbor who runs a machine shop. He listened respectfully as I described my hardship, nodding with a hand to his chin. “You need to get a better bolt, or a bigger bolt,” he said.

It’s kind of like that with blood too. With high altitude climbing there just isn’t the same amount of oxygen getting to your blood as would be the case at sea level. At 14,000 ft on Denali a breath takes in only 50% of the oxygen you are breathing now. At the 20,320 ft summit its down to about 18%. So that same old blood just won’t due. You need better blood, or bigger (concentrated) blood.

The process of acclimation tries to give you both.

Better blood, in terms of high alt climbing, means more red blood cells. These are the guys that carry oxygen in your blood and a “more is better” philosophy definitely works as oxygen becomes harder to come by. Red blood cells are produced in the marrow of your bones. Given a chance, a healthy body will respond to lower oxygen levels by producing more red blood cells. But you have to give it a chance. By that, I mean you can’t rush into high altitudes.

But first your body will temporarily throw off some of the important fluids in your blood to make room for those extra red cells. This is part of making bigger blood. It’s also part of edema, a medical term referring to the gathered fluids spun off by this process. They have to go somewhere. The problem is where? A person’s blood pressure typically increases as they ascend; this begins the process of forcing the fluids out of the blood. With a measured and reasonable rate of ascent the body may manage these fluids in a variety of ways. But if it doesn’t, the result may take the form of either HAPE or HACE.

HAPE, high altitude pulmonary edema, is the gathering of fluids in the lungs. It kills. If an afflicted person doesn’t die from HAPE, it is probably because the early signs were recognized and that person descended immediately. If you are going to go into the high altitudes you should know the signs of HAPE. Take this stuff seriously.

HACE, high altitude cerebral edema, occurs when fluids gather in the brain. I think you get the idea. Bad stuff here again. It is important to know the early indications and descend immediately at the first signs of HACE.

There are a number of drugs which may prove helpful in buying time while getting a climber stricken with HAPE or HACE down. Collectively they form the small but high octane pharmacy no high alt climber should be without.

Studies show that most people can go to 12,000 feet without difficulty. Between 12,000 and 22,000 some of us can acclimate. Above 22,0000 feet elevation your clock starts running down. It may run down quickly, or it may run down slowly. But to be certain it is running down. We are not meant to be at these altitudes and our bodies go to great lengths to communicate this to us. Light-headedness, nausea, sleep disorders, and a ferocious caloric burn rate all become commonplace. You probably can’t eat as many calories as your body burns at high altitude, so it starts feeding on itself. Substantial weight loss, and loss of muscle mass are typical.
As a result, most high altitude attempts incorporate a strategy designed to spend as little time as possible in the thin air. A climber will acclimate with hikes or load carries in the 12,000 to 17,000 ft elevations for many days, all the while beefing up his physiology. Then he will move into position at high camp and hope for that "Blue Bird Day," clear skies and no wind. Thats when he takes his shot and gets down. Success or no, he gets down. It is a very bad idea to linger, and being weathered in at high camp is among the least favorable outcomes one may encounter.

Our strategy on Elbrus features a series of acclimatization hikes. Each one taking us higher, then descending to sleep low that night. Two of these hikes will have us returning at days end to the comfort of a high mountain ski lodge. Nice. A great deal of thought has gone into how we will acclimatize in the most measured and sensible ways. We will also know the reassurance of having highly trained and experienced Guides leading us ...and I'm not just saying this because I know my Mom will be reading this Blog.