The Cleanest Line

Tortilla Español

2012-02-09T14:35:36-08:00

Here’s a recipe that every dirtbag should learn to make; it’s exotic sounding, yet relatively simple to make from basic, easy-to-find ingredients. Also, since it requires nothing much more than a fry pan, spatula, bowl, and plate, this one can be made in your van or campsite.

I first became familiar with the ubiquitous Spanish omelet (aka, Tortilla Español) on a climbing trip to Spain (surprise, surprise). This delicious, versatile, Spanish staple was offered in nearly every tapas bar we experienced. They even sell them in the grocery stores, sealed in plastic wrap. Tortilla Españols quickly became essential crag food since they pack easily, have lots of protein and can be enjoyed warm or room temperature.

I’m going to use my climber friend, Andy, as my subject for the following reasons:

1. He’s a dude, and, like our young friend Hayden from the Secret Weapon, is always looking for a way to impress the ladies with his cooking.
2. He actually has his own chickens in downtown SLC and provided the eggs for the recipe (impressive, right ladies?)
3. I love men in aprons.

[Andy subscribes to Backyard Poultry Magazine and cans his own tomatoes. Photo: Craig Armstrong]

With only FIVE ingredients, this recipe has fewer ingredients than what goes into most Portlandian’s coffee drinks.

• Potatoes (6-7 medium)
• Onions (one, medium)
• Eggs (6-8 eggs, depending on size)
• Salt
• Olive oil

[Photo: JT]

Step 1. Slice the potatoes into 1/8" thick pieces. A real Spaniard will probably tell you to peel them, but I’m kinda lazy when it comes to that, and besides, my mom always told me that the skin is where all the vitamins are (maybe she was lazy, too, come to think of it…). A knife works just fine for this, but another option is to use a mandolin. I found a cheap plastic one at the Korean grocery around the corner from my house. Be careful, though, the blade is sharp as shit and finding a fingertip in your tortilla is gross. Plus, you won’t be climbing for a few days… so it’s best to perform this part of the prep before you pop open that nice bottle of Rioja.

[Photo: JT]

Step 2. Mix about 2-3 tablespoons of salt into the sliced potatoes. Let sit for about 10 minutes then drain the extracted liquid from the potatoes.

Step 3. Heat 2-3 cups of olive oil (do not use any other oil… it is considered a sin in Spain to do so) on medium-high heat in a skillet. Ideally, you need a non-stick pan. (Yes, I know that non-stick is supposed to be bad for you, but honestly, the air quality in SLC will kill me before a non-stick pan is going to.) I have cooked a Tortilla Español in an extremely well-seasoned cast iron, but it’s a little cruxier.

Step 4. Chop the onion into 1/4" pieces and add to drained potatoes.

Step 5. Add the potato and onion mixture to the heated olive oil. The oil should almost cover the potatoes. If it doesn’t, add more oil. Don’t freak out about how much oil you are using, most of it gets drained off (I’m so frugal [thanks, mom] that I put the used oil in a glass jar and re-use it). I learned a new usage for the Spanish verb revolver while investigating this recipe: it can mean “to move”… so “move” your potatoes and onions constantly to keep them from burning, browning or forming a cake-like mass. How long do you have to revolver? At least 10 minutes (this is the time to have your glass of Rioja within reach). When you can poke a piece of potato and it easily breaks in two, the potatoes are done. Don’t rush it! Remove the potato/onion mixture from the pan with a slotted spoon or spatula, allowing excess oil to drain. Let cool a little.

Step 6. Crack the eggs into a large mixing bowl and beat by hand. Dump in the potato/onion mixture. Mix together with a large spoon. I like to then let this mixture sit for about 10 minutes.

Step 7. Pour the oil from the fry pan into a jar and save so you can reuse it later (e.g. season a cast-iron skillet, put in your bath water or rub into your tips after a big session of plastic tugging at the climbing gym – seriously). Lightly wipe out the pan with a paper towel. Reheat pan on high. This is where some cooks deviate in methods. My theory is that when the eggs are poured into a super hot pan they coagulate immediately before they have time to fill the tiny pores in the pan and stick to it (I’m not a scientist, but I play one in this blog). So I keep the heat on high for about a minute, then turn it down to medium-low. Let cook until the inside sets.

Step 8. The crux: flipping your Tortilla Español. It’s ready to flip when the outside is cooked but the very middle is still gooey. Gently release the edges with your spatula and shake. It should slide around in the pan as a whole unit. Refer to the sequence of photos below for the proper flipping technique.

[Andy flashes the sequence. Photos: JT]

In Spain, there are special plates whose sole purpose is to flip tortillas, but I just use a rimless cookie sheet. If you don’t have a cookie sheet, just try to use the flattest plate you have.

Step 9. Once flipped, put the Tortilla Español back on the burner (at the same medium-low temp), give it a few minutes to set and then press down on it with the spatula to check the doneness. It should be cooked all the way through after about five minutes.

Depending on how you want to serve it, you can cut it into pie-shaped pieces, or I have also served the Tortilla Español as an appetizer and cut it up into 2" squares. This night we made a Romesco sauce and served that on top, but it’s also delicious plain. If there are leftovers, they can be eaten for breakfast, lunch or taken to the crag.

¡Vale!

Alpine Mentors - A Unique Opportunity for Young Alpinists

2012-02-08T18:11:34-08:00

by Steve House

On March 25, 2010, nearly two years ago now, I was climbing the north face of Mount Temple when a hold broke and I fell some eighty-feet. Far enough to break my ribs in 20 places and my pelvis twice.

As I lay on the ledge near my partner, Bruce, I quickly got very very cold as my body shunted blood away from my hands and feet and into my core and brain. I felt the agonizing sensation of my own breath getting shorter and shorter as my chest cavity filled with blood due to the numerous fractures.

By this time, Bruce had used our cell phone to call for a rescue, and two hours later I was plucked off the wall by a warden (and coincidentally a friend of mine) on a cable 100 feet below a Parks Canada helicopter.

Two hours is a long time to think. Long enough for the adrenaline to wash away, long enough for it to feel like a very long time. Long enough to weigh your regrets. To tell Bruce all the things you’re thankful for. The names of all the people you Love.

During the ensuing months of convalescence I remembered one particular question that had come to me during my wait: Were there climbs I’d wished I’d done, and hadn’t? As the summer rolled by in a blur of narcotics, wheelchairs, and physical therapy I kept coming up with the same answer to my question: No, it was not more climbing that was missing from my life. Chief on the list was to do more for my community, and from this intention Alpine Mentors was born.

[Above: Steve House, Barry Blanchard and Joe Josephson, from their 1996 attempt at Mount Robson’s Emperor Face. "Though unsuccessful, the trip was my rabbit hole into the world of high-end alpinism with climbers who had done it before." Photo: Steve House Collection]

Alpine Mentors is a young venture I’ve started with a group of friends and advisors. Our mission is to: Promote alpinism by encouraging, coaching and climbing with technically proficient young alpinists who aspire to climb the world’s greatest mountains in a lightweight, low-impact style. In form, it is modeled on existing programs found in most European alpine clubs that match young, motivated climbers with seasoned alpinists so they can train, climb, and carry out an expedition together.

Our Alpine Mentors will be structured in two-year cycles. During those two years various mentors (myself and others) will ascend routes in different mountain areas from Colorado to the Canadian Rockies to the Himalaya.

The current application period will close on April 1, 2012. Once the applications are reviewed we will notify the ten best to journey to southwest Colorado for a week of training, a safety review of climbing systems and self-rescue techniques, and of course, climbing. From those ten we’ll select between two and four candidates. (I hope to grow this number in the future.) Those who are selected must be solid climbers, but also must be the sort of folks who we can travel, train, and climb with for months at a time. The culmination of the two years will be a climbing expedition to a 7,000-meter peak planned and executed by the entire team from concept to summit and home again.

I would like to invite you, or your friends, or your friend’s friends who fit the bill: 21-30 years old, technically proficient in rock, ice, mixed, and mountaineering. Young. Strong. Motivated. We are open to men and women from any nation.

This is my way of giving back. Creating something that contributes to a growing communal passion for wild summits, those least attainable points across our globe, places where we learn so much about ourselves, our relationships and our environment. A passion that has given me so much in my lifetime. Please visit our website and help us spread the word: www.alpinementors.org.

Steve House is a Patagonia alpine ambassador and the author of Beyond the Mountain.

Watch the Trailer for Groundswell

2012-02-07T17:23:52-08:00

by Chris Darimont

How could we possibly give voice to marine mammals and other life threatened by one of the largest industrial projects ever conceived? After all, whales, dolphins and the like – as intelligent as they are – cannot mount their own defense against the oil industry.

[Video: Groudswell (Trailer) from the Patagonia Video Gallery]

Oil giant Enbridge Inc. and its international partners have proposed the Northern Gateway Project, a massive pipeline that would cross nearly 650 miles of Canadian wilderness, hundreds of fish-bearing streams, and dozens of First Nations territories. This oily tentacle would stretch west from the Alberta tar sands to British Columbia’s Great Bear Rainforest where the raw crude would await transport by tankers to Asia and, potentially, California.

Never before have oil tankers dared to travel along this stormy and largely unspoiled coastline. Most vessel traffic consists of modest fishing boats owned by people from remote aboriginal villages that dot the shores. These people continue to depend on the abundance their ocean provides them. Not surprisingly, their opposition to Enbridge and the Northern Gateway project is fierce.

We at Raincoast stand behind these local communities and the wildlife that has no voice. We are conservation scientists and informed advocates. Some of us are surfers, the closest we humans come to marine mammals.

We asked Patagonia and their team for help. They responded, and then some. Our adventure together will lead to an upcoming film by Chris Malloy and Woodshed Films. Watch the trailer here and add your voice to a Groundswell of support for whales, bears, salmon, and the ecosystem that supports them.

To take action, visit raincoast.org.

Chris Darimont is a research scientist for Raincoast Conservation Foundation and a frequent surfer of British Columbia's rugged west coast. For more on Chris' work in the Great Bear Rainforest, check out his previous post "Raincoast Conservation Foundation Working on Ways to Share the Wealth."

Cerro Torre: Deviations from Reason

2012-02-06T11:11:49-08:00

by Kelly Cordes

Late afternoon January 16, Hayden Kennedy and Jason Kruk sat on the summit of Cerro Torre, making a decision.

Backup. For starters, let’s be clear: None of us has an inalienable right to summit anything. If you aren’t capable of climbing a peak after a manmade path has been removed, nothing has been stolen from you.

“If there is such a thing as spiritual materialism, it is displayed in the urge to possess the mountains rather than to unravel and accept their mysteries,” wrote the great Polish climber Voytek Kurtyka.

[Cerro Torre, with the southeast ridge roughly ascending the spine, facing the camera, in the center of the frame (the route approaches around from the right, out-of-view, to reach the huge snow blob at the base of the ridge). Photo: Kelly Cordes]

I’m specifically referring to yet another raging controversy on Cerro Torre, the otherworldly Patagonian spire. In my 11 years at the American Alpine Journal (where I’m the senior editor), I’ve educated myself on Cerro Torre’s bizarre and complex history. I also have first-hand knowledge – in 2007, Colin Haley and I climbed a new link-up on the south and west aspects of Cerro Torre, before rappelling down the controversial Compressor Route (which ascends the peak’s southeast ridge).

So here’s the quick and dirty on the current controversy:

In mid-January, in an incredible 13 hours, Hayden Kennedy and Jason Kruk made the long-sought first “fair means” ascent of Cerro Torre’s southeast ridge – not using the infamous bolts of the Compressor Route that are scattered about the line. Everyone lauded their awesome ascent. On their descent, they chopped about 120 of the bolts. Many also praised their bolt-removal, while many disagreed and some completely flipped-out. Since its 1970 installation by Italian climber Cesare Maestri, the Compressor Route has been globally decried as an unsporting example – even for its era – that anything can be overcome with enough hardware and scaffolding. Over a prolonged two-season siege, Maestri used a 300+ pound gas-powered compressor and thousands of feet of fixed ropes to drill some 400 bolts into the rock. He littered bolts near perfectly good cracks and used them deliberately to avoid natural features via extensive bolt ladders. For all his efforts, he retreated 100 feet below the summit, and on his descent began chopping his own bolts to spite future climbers. He wrote that he would: “take out all the bolts and leave the climb as clean as we found it. I’ll break them all.” But after about 20 bolts, he abandoned the act under pressure from his teammates and incoming weather.

[A barrage of bolts on pitch 10 of the Compressor Route. Photo: Rolando Garibotti]

Where do I stand on the latest climbing world drama? Sure, remove it. It never belonged in the first place. But honestly, the debate interests me more than whether or not the bolts remained. This issue affects so few people – seasons pass without any route on Cerro Torre seeing an ascent – and in such utterly insignificant ways, that, most of all, the reaction blows my mind. After their climb, back in town an angry mob stormed to Hayden and Jason’s rental house, the police got involved, and web forums have been full of nonsensical vitriol. Interestingly, most of the aggro reactions have come from those who have never touched Cerro Torre, and many of those who have most devoted themselves to the area, and made its history, seem to support the removal. Regardless, the degree of the reaction seems to reflect something beyond whether or not some bolts, which can’t even be seen from the base of the mountain, remain.

[Bolt Ladder on pitch 11 of the Compressor Route. Photo: Dörte Pietron]

A few things to consider:

• Although commerce is another topic, Cerro Torre has never been guided. Nobody is going to lose their livelihood because they can’t drag others up the Compressor Route.

• It bears repeating that Maestri’s tactics in 1970 were not “of the era,” or considered fair in any way. Soon after, the esteemed Mountain magazine ran a cover story, “Cerro Torre: A Mountain Desecrated.” Around the same time, Reinhold Messner wrote his seminal article, “The Murder of the Impossible,” blasting such siege tactics.

• Bolts have long been accepted, within reason, to protect or link short sections of otherwise un-protectable rock. In a world of shades of grey, where we use accepted aids like sticky rubber, ice tools and stretchy ropes, the Compressor Route was 20 standard deviations from reasonable.

• As climbers, we often regard routes as creations. But comparing permanent installments (such as bolts, anchors, etc) to original creative works, such as literature, film or art, is inaccurate. Cerro Torre was original before it was scarred by man. We all impart some impact where we venture. What separates valued history from vandalism? If one considers Maestri’s bolts and compressor (which still hangs on the side of Cerro Torre) a history worth saving, perhaps they belong in a museum, rather than littering the world’s most beautiful mountain.

[The infamous namesake of the Compressor Route. Photo: Kelly Cordes]

• Climbing has no set rules. There is no democracy, yet our system of self-regulation works surprisingly well. People bicker about minutia but, on the whole, most bolts are tastefully installed, and therefore well accepted. The installers know that if they violate this communal understanding, they’ll be subject to scorn and their bolts likely removed. Yet this rarely happens, because few people show such disrespect to such revered peaks as Maestri did to Cerro Torre.

• Does nationality matter? Maestri was Italian, not Argentine, and he acted unilaterally. No system of installation “permission” exists, and year after year climbers from around the globe come to the mountains of Patagonia and make permanent changes to the peaks on their own accord (most do so in small, reasonable ways). Something to consider if we want to hold that, as foreigners, Hayden and Jason had no right to remove the offending bolts. Logic would seemingly dictate that if we allow one, we must allow the other.

• Why should the default setting be to leave a contentious installation, rather than remove it? The latter is far closer to the original, non-controversial state.

• It’s just climbing. Actually, I hate it when people use this excuse, because it’s often used disingenuously, to justify some aberrant behavior or lack of critical thinking. Still, if you use the “greater cause” argument – there’s always a greater cause (people starving in Africa, genocide, torture, etc.) – as justification to not care, then why not throw your garbage out the window? Seriously, what’s a Big Mac wrapper when there’s genocide happening? It’s fine to care about something. The key, regardless of one’s views – and it’s fine to disagree with the removal – is to maintain some perspective. I think that the hateful, and borderline violent, reactions to Hayden and Jason’s removing some metal from an indisputably over-bolted route are insane. Some people need to get a grip.

[View to the north from high on Cerro Torre. Torre Egger is the peak in the bottom of the frame. Photo: Kelly Cordes]

Cerro Torre is still there. It’s just a shade closer to how it has been for an eternity, minus the blip of the Compressor Route. History doesn’t stop. If you want to climb Cerro Torre, don’t worry. You still can. Only now, you must climb it fairly. Nothing wrong with that.

As with great art, great climbs are not made by consensus. So in a self-regulated world where the participants broadly cite expression, anarchy and freedom as fundamental values – as they have since climbing began – who decides what to do with a controversial line of bolts?

Well, not those sitting on their asses, frothing at their keyboards about how Hayden and Jason were too young to make such a decision, insisting that they should have been consulted first, as if they’re owed something and could then grant or deny a has-been-never-was web-forum-climber stamp of approval. No, not them. And not those unable or unwilling to appreciate Cerro Torre on its own terms, or the ignorant who flew into a frenzy over a mountain, now somewhat restored, that they know nothing about. Nor those, like me, who sit from the comforts of home and agree with the removal.

No, the ones who got to decide were the ones with the courage and the skill to unravel and accept the mysteries of Cerro Torre’s spectacular southeast ridge.

One afternoon three weeks ago, those two sat talking on Cerro Torre’s summit, and Hayden said to Jason, “All of our heroes have been talking about this for 40 years. Let’s do it.”

That’s who.

Same as it ever was, really.

For more information:

Kennedy and Kruk's official statement.

"A Mountain Unveiled" - Rolando Garibotti's definitive piece on the controversy of Cerro Torre's first ascent, from the 2004 AAJ.

"Patagonia's Cerro Torre Gets the Chop: Maestri Unbolted (Photos)" - A well-balanced article on the recent events by climbing author and historian David Roberts, and Kathryn Sall.

The Ptarmigan Traverse

2012-02-02T10:56:50-08:00

by Steve Graepel

Scott scrambles up to Cache Col and drops his pack besides mine. We've been moving just over two hours since the trailhead and have stopped to get our first glimpse at the route before us. Our goal is the Ptarmigan Traverse – a 35-mile off-piste, haute route traversing the southern upheaval of the North Cascades.

This terra incognita was first explored in July of 1938 over a period of 13 days. The Ptarmigan Climbing Club made numerous first ascents along the route – an effort that is still recognized as one of the greatest feats in the North Cascades… ever. Their report was never published, and due to tumultuous world events, the traverse wasn't repeated for 15 years. In September of 1953, Dale Cole, Bob Grant, Mike Hane, Erick Karlsson and Tom Miller reversed the route and published their report in The Mountaineer. It was this second traverse that turned the Ptarmigan Traverse into the classic it is known as today. Miller’s photos were published as a book, The North Cascades (1964), and later submitted as supporting documents in a bill sent to Congress that established the North Cascades as a National Park (1968).

[Above: The author jogs up to Cache Col from Cascade Pass. All photos courtesy of Steve Graepel]

But we are here under a different guise; our goal is to forego the climbing and make a single push of the classic traverse. Success requires we go virtually naked – as minimal as possible. The 10 essentials have been cropped to six. Rope, ice axe, rain jackets... stowed down at the car. No tent, no sleeping bag, no room for error.

Just then Scott coolly asks if I have the key.

"Don't dine on my dignity… what key, the car key?"

We've travelled five miles into our project without the one piece of gear we cannot omit: the key to our shuttle car left at the route's terminus… it’s safely below locked at the start.

I take a deep breath and consider the options. We started late for such an ambitious goal so I’m somewhat worried that we could be spending a memorable night inside a wind-swept cirque. The decision is easy. We need the key, but tomorrow will require an earlier start, so I take advantage of our foiled attempt and reconnoiter what lies ahead.

"Its much more compact than I thought it would be," I share with Scott. "I bet we can move between passes in 2-3 hours time."

We jog down the five-miles to the trailhead, passing Seattleites up for a Sunday stroll.

Take 2

The alarm sounds at a head-pounding 2 a.m. We brew up a quick cup of coffee, grab our packs and eat breakfast on our way back up towards Cascade Pass. The prior day's ‘training run’ tempered our pace, so we walk most of the now familiar trail.

To save weight, we’ve purposely filled our reservoirs with minimal water, just enough to quench between watering holes. We stop to rehydrate at Kool-Aid Lake (more of an alpine tarn) under the lunar shadows of Magic Mountain. The morning wind claws at our gossamer shells, so we quickly shoulder our packs and round the cirque towards the Red Ledge, an ambiguous rib that deflects an obvious line. After fumbling 30 minutes up a crack, an overhanging chock stone thwarts our effort, forcing us back down to reassess. I notice a ramp to our left that appears to skirt the wall. Just when the goat trail seems to cliff out, the wall eases onto heather-covered hummocks and boulder gardens and we run down towards the Middle Cascade Glacier.

[Mount Formidable’s awe-inspiring North Face.]

[Scott soaking up the early light on Formidable’s North Face.]

[Scott traversing solid ground before we step onto the bulletproof Middle Cascade Glacier.]

The early morning ice is impervious to our underwhelming crampons. To strike a balance between effective and lightweight, we brought running crampons that strap over our trail runners. But the reality is they are probably better suited for Pebble Beach than the Middle Cascade; as we step onto the ice they nearly skitter across the glacier's bulletproof surface. Using trekking poles to self-belay, we gingerly pick a line through the icefall's broken surface. Below the Spider-Formidable Col, we scramble up the yawning gap between rock and ice then boot-ski down the softer, southern-exposed slopes towards Yang Yang Lakes.

I take a look at the map while Scott refills our reservoirs. My notes share that the route should skirt below the rocky buttress to our right, but the map seems to yield a weakness in its fortress-like wall. We climb around talus slopes and up what appears to be a dead-ending couloir, forcing us to step onto the buttress.

We eventually ease out onto a bench and deduce that our detour likely cut an hour off our time and positions us favorably on the Le Conte Glacier. Below, a labyrinth of crevasses folds over the glacier's surface. Shirking exposure, we quickly skirt under Le Conte's ridgeline towards Sentinel Peak. As the sun warms the glacier, the once firm surface has turned to granulated sugar smeared atop lacquered ice – once again reminding us of our poor choice of crampons. We trade leads kicking steps in our running shoes until bruised toes force the swap.

[A close up view of Le Conte, Sentinel and Old Guard peaks.]

[Scott scurries across the Le Conte Glacier under Le Conte Peak.]

[The author traverses the Le Conte Glacier.]

[The author climbs up Le Conte Glacier between Old Guard and Sentinel peaks.]

We scurry across angled scree fields and over the snout of the South Cascade Glacier, after which a quick climb up the ramp below Lizard Mountain reveals the jaw-dropping Dana-Chickaman Glaciers. Wispy, silver waterfalls pour off the hanging glaciers, clinging to the granite spires of Dome Peak and Spire Point. Below us, White Rock Lakes shimmer like Cascadian jewels, reflecting the Valhalla-like cirque. We boot ski a 100-foot black diamond down to the lakes and take a much-needed rest, rehydrate and binge on the ambrosial landscape.

Scott hints that the day's effort is taking its toll and suggests bivvying at the lakes. While beautiful beyond words, the high, exposed, and windswept area would make for a miserable bivy with our limited supplies. I supportively suggest that two more hours will bring us to the end of the glaciers and another two hours will drop us below tree line, where we can find a more suitable spot.

[The view from just below Lizard Mountain into the impressive Dana-Chickaman cirque.]

[The majestic Dome Peak.]

[Binging on the view from White Rock Lakes.]

[The hills are alive.]

We round Dana Glacier and make our last snow climb towards Spire Point. Nearly to the minute, two hours later, we find ourselves at the col looking down to Itswoot and Cub Lakes and the verdant forest below. Exhausted, we consciously resist the urge to follow the fall line down the snowfield to our right, which cliff out according to our maps. Instead, we painfully down-climb loose scree along Itswoot's rocky ridge, cautiously descending into the valley.

As the sun drops behind the shouldering ridge, we walk into Cub Lake's protected cove. With water, shield from wind and a picture-framed view of Glacier Peak, we decide to call it and walk out at first light. We pull on our extra clothing – cycling sleeves, lightweight tights, wind jackets, wool caps, gloves, and a down vest each – and crawl into our mylar sacks for a fitful night of restless legs and awkward spooning.

[Scott descends down Itswoot Ridge to safer ground.]

[The author hops over fresh glacial runoff before Cub Lake.]

[Scott picks a line over a life-size Jenga jungle.]

[The author navigates through a rats nest of debris covering the Bachelor Creek Trail.]

Wet, clammy, and shivering, I make the first move to worm out of my bivi sack; Scott quickly follows suit. We shove our wet gear into the packs and make the last hump upwards over the ridge then its down, down, down into the lush Bachelor Creek drainage. Thick with devils club, salmonberry and alder slide, the descent constantly pulls at our attention. Recent avalanches have piled forest wreckage over the creek forcing us to climb over, in and out of downed timber. Eventually the debris abates and a trail trickles out from under. We parallel to the creek until it joins Downey Creek, which eventually drains into the Suiattle River. A washout and a bridge out, we walk the 8.5 miles from the trailhead to our car, mumbling nonsensical gibberish about seasonal blueberry milkshakes.

Boise resident, Steve Graepel, wedges his endurance training around family and a full-time job. For more from Steve, check out his previous post, “Backyard Adventures: The Sawtooth Traverse,” and his recent piece on the National Geographic Adventure blog, “What's Your Adventure Personality Type? Artisan, Rational, Guardian, or Idealist?”

Time On His Feet – A Former Runner Looks Back

2012-01-31T17:45:30-08:00

by Craig Holloway

I ran my last ultra on a warm, spring day in Wisconsin five years ago. The course was surprisingly tough – small roller coaster hills come at you like black flies. Crossing the finish line I didn’t feel the exhilaration that I normally do after a race. I chalked it up to burnout and decided to take the rest of the year off. I didn’t run the following year either and eventually packed all my running gear in a box and put it in the garage.

[The serene one, Craig Holloway, trots the Timberline Trail toward Mount Hood, Oregon. From his 2005 field report "Lost on Adrenaline." Photo: Scott Jurek]

Two years went by and I still hadn’t laced up my running shoes. I knew it wasn’t going to happen and decided to stop running – after twenty-six years. It felt like the right thing to do. Now I crew for friends and it’s satisfying to be a part of their race day experience. But I do miss pacing and the responsibilities that come with that role. I’d like to share a few stories about the experiences I had with runners on their 100-mile journeys.

Pacer For Hire

Katie looks tired as she walks into the Fish Hatchery aid station during the Leadville 100. I’m with Katie’s crew – her brother and a few friends. I’m there to pace her to mile 90. Katie sits down and is given a sandwich. She stares at it with bloodshot eyes, takes a bite and hands the rest of it to me.

“I feel worked after running 69 miles. God, I just want to end it here.”

“You want to drop out now,” her brother asks.

“I’d love a hot shower.”

I interrupt to tell Katie she can shower at the finish. She replies with a long groan. Twenty minutes go by and she finally stands up and stretches her low back. We collect our gear, turn on our headlamps and say goodbye to everyone.

Crickets sing in a nearby field as we walk to the trailhead. Things seem to be going pretty well until Katie stops in mid-stride.

“I don’t think I can finish. I feel beat up. Let’s head back to the aid station.”

“We’re not going back, Katie. I’m going to get you to your brother, and he will pace you to the finish. You can do that…. right?”

“Yea…. I’ll give it my best.”

“Let’s go,” I reply.

We start to hike up the trail, a big power-line climb. Glow sticks hang from the trees, marking the course to guide our way. Suddenly, Katie stops, doubles over and throws up. She pauses, dry heaves and finally straightens herself. I hand her a few ginger chews to help settle her stomach.

“I am never going to make the 30-hour cutoff time.”

“You’ll make the cutoff time, you’ll finish, Katie.”

After an unforgiving switchback we reach an aid station. The volunteers feed us chicken noodle soup, crack jokes, and send us on our way.

“My stomach feels a lot better,” Katie says.

I tell her that she can break thirty hours, no problem. Katie gives me a big smile and we begin to fast hike. Gradually, we increase our pace through the night.

Now we’re running through a grove of slender pines near Turquoise Lake. The cool air smells good in the early dawn light. Looking at my watch, I tell Katie she’s capable of breaking 28 hours. We pick it up and eventually arrive at the aid station where her brother is waiting to pace her to the finish. I wish them luck, hop into my rental car and drive to Leadville.

Standing at the crowded finish line, I anxiously await Katie’s arrival. I scan the hilly street and notice a petite blonde, running by excited cheers. It’s Katie. She pushes harder, sprinting across the finish, glancing up at her time.

The florescent numbers on the digital clock read: 27:28.

Grant Swamp Tango

“Jesus…Look at that, Keith.”

A man and his dog are scrambling down a very steep section of Grant Swamp Pass. Keith and I stare wide-eyed as they make their way to the bottom without a scratch. The man walks over and introduces himself, “I’m Ace”, and says he’s shooting photos of the race. Then he offers advice on how to ascend the treacherous climb.

“Guys, don’t zigzag. It’ll be faster to go straight up. You’ll save time.”

Ace wishes us luck and begins a slow jog down the trail with his golden retriever. We look up-mountain to see if there is any trail to follow. There is none, not one carved by wildlife.

Keith says, “I did this section of the course a few years ago, pacing a friend and it’s tough. And another friend broke his hand from a falling rock and still finished.”

“Sounds brutal.”

“It really is an ass kicker, Craig.”

We reach into our packs and grab a couple of energy gels – eat them, and wash the sweet paste down with water.

“Ready to head up?”

“Yep,” I reply.

Keith goes first. He climbs ten feet up and slides back down. He collects himself, exhales loudly, and starts again. I wait for him to climb up a ways then start. I lift my body upward and forward like an inchworm, slowly moving up the mountain. Looking up, I see Keith struggle with his footing. He steps on the edge of a cantaloupe-sized rock, breaking it loose. The rock falls, missing my right shoulder by a few feet. My heart is pounding.

Keith stops and looks down.

“Are you ok, Craig?”

“Yeah, I’m ok!”

He readjusts his footing and resumes climbing. I wait a few minutes for my breathing to relax then continue onward in the bright sun.

Two hours later we reach the top. Tired and filthy we sit down and pull off our running shoes, knocking out the dirt. Far below us is Island Lake, its dark navy water clearly visible in the grey and sandy brown earth.

“That was brutal. What’s the elevation?”

“Just under 13,000 feet.” Keith replies.

Putting our shoes back on, he talks about what the last part of the course will be like.

“There are rivers to cross – the upper and lower South Mineral. There will be a fixed rope going across the lower South Mineral. It’s colder and deeper than the upper.”

We get up from our rocky perch adjust our packs and begin to head down the mountain for the last fourteen miles.

There is a large boulder from an old mine at the finish line in Silverton. It’s a tradition for all Hardrock finishers to kiss that boulder. At dusk we arrive at the finish. Keith makes a beeline for the rock, leans forward and plants a big one.

Craig Holloway is a Patagonia editor, yoga and QiGong instructor, and devoted Pittsburgh Pirates fan.

[Update 2/1/12: Apologies to Craig for posting the wrong version of his stories. Everything has now been fixed. -Ed]

Confessions Of A Yoga Non-Believer

2012-01-27T16:25:44-08:00

by Brittany Griffith

It started off benign enough: Walker sent out an email to all the ambassadors inquiring who did yoga and would be willing to test out Patagonia’s new yoga line. Of course, I bristled at this. Yoga? That’s for girlfriends. I’m a climber, have a black belt, and have raced on the professional downhill mountain bike circuit. But, that noted, I’d be damned if one of the other ambassadors was going to get to test out the newest bra top before for me just because they “yoga’d” and I didn’t.

So I responded to Walker’s email that yes, I “yoga” and in fact hold bi-weekly yoga classes at my house – which wasn’t a total lie. My neighbor, Porter, who had attempted to espouse the benefits of yoga to me countless times and try to get me to go to a class with her, would come over to my house a couple of times a week for living-room sessions of grammar school PE-style sit-ups and push-ups, and loosely follow a late '90s Rodney Lee “Yoga for Athletes” DVD (fast-forwarding through the parts I didn’t like). No “Oms” or “Namastes” with Porter and I – just general rants about life in SLC (like the local hoodlums’ uncreative tagging of garbage cans, fences and the nearby Mormon church’s dumpster). This was my yoga. No need to pay someone to show you how to stretch, breathe, and recite poetry while you lay on the floor. [Above photo: Porter Teegarden]

But alas, after 17 years of climbing four times a week without any significant rest, stretching or prehab, my 42-year-old body finally communicated with my 19-year-old mind that we needed a restart. A climber PT I know gave my body a quick once-over while lying on a boulder in Hidden Valley Campground and said, “You are a soft-tissue mess and have one of the most immobile spines I’ve seen. Have you ever tried yoga?” I looked at him unimpressed and irritated; if one more person said to me, “Ooh, have you ever tried yoga? You—should—really—do yoh-gaa,” I’d tear up their smelly yoga mat bit by bit and shove the pieces up their Pranayama-breathing nostrils.

But I had to admit defeat. I was desperate. My body needed help; the aches, pains and injuries were lasting longer and occurring more frequently. And so, like an addict finally caving in to “finding God” to save themselves, I walked over to the neighborhood yoga studio and self-consciously went to a class.

[Photo: John Cottrell]

The first thing the yoga teacher asked us to do was to put our hand in a position that my gnarled fingers, from years of crack climbing, couldn’t do. Well, this sucks, I thought, I can’t even do the first thing! But then I became even more dubious when she instructed us to plug one nostril at a time and preform what sounded too complicated for something as simple as breathing. What?! This isn’t going to fix my rotator cuff! Besides, one of my nostrils doesn’t really work from a line drive I took to the face when I was a kid, so I struggled with that, too.

We sat cross-legged and she instructed us to close our eyes and breathe. This lasted an uncomfortably long time, about 15 seconds. After which I surreptitiously opened my eyes and saw that everyone was following directions but me, and that there was dog hair on my black yoga tights. I thought: Does anyone ever fart in yoga class? Will I be the only one who listens to Eminem on my iPhone on the walk home? Is there beer in the fridge? I picked at the scraps of nail polish left on my toes from a summer’s pedicure.

At the end of the class as we laid there in Corpse Pose (which, unbelievably, hurt my back) our teacher told us to roll over and “leave everything you want to leave behind on the mat.” Again, I was skeptical. I imagined what other people were “leaving on the mat”… stressful jobs, unfulfilling relationships, financial woes? I have none of that. So I thought harder. Why was I here? I imagined my elbow tendonitis, like a black smoker’s lung on the tobacco packages in Europe, and left that there on the mat.

[Just one of my awesome instructors. John cracks jokes in yoga but I’m usually the only one who laughs. I have little school-girl crushes on all of them (even the girls and the gay guys) and when I attempt to talk to them, I usually say really stupid things, like if they want to come over to my house for tea and scones. Photo: BAG]

It’s been a month now since I started regularly doing yoga. I don’t do the “rad” yoga, hot yoga or the yoga that hurts my wrists. I go to the classes that are usually filled with sweet grandmothers and dudes in Carhartts. I’m getting better at the breathing and keeping my eyes closed (but still can’t stretch my teeth). And although I’m not bashful about singing the Star Spangled Banner out loud at a baseball game, I still can’t do the “Om” or “Namaste” for fear that I will uncontrollably start laughing.

Baby steps.

[Photo: Porter Teegarden]

Copp-Dash Inspire Award Accepting Applications for 2012

2012-01-26T16:05:58-08:00

The Copp-Dash Inspire Award is currently accepting applications from January 1, 2012 through February 29, 2012 for small climbing teams attempting fast and light alpine climbing objectives with a desire to creatively document and share their experience. The award was established in memory of American climbers Jonny Copp and Micah Dash, who were killed in an avalanche in China in May 2009 along with filmmaker Wade Johnson.

Sponsored by Black Diamond Equipment, La Sportiva, Mountain Hardwear, and Patagonia, with support from the Jonny Copp Foundation, American Alpine Club, Alpinist magazine and Sender Films, the Copp-Dash Inspire Award will distribute $20,000 this year to North American applicants.

In honoring Jonny and Micah, the award supports climbers who choose to follow a similar path, both in life and in the mountains. The fund’s goal is to assist climbers before, during and after expeditions with financial grants and multimedia instruction to help empower them to share their current and future adventures with a wider audience.

“This November, we plan to highlight the 2011 Inspire Award winners at the Adventure Film Festival and showcase the creative work that comes out of these expeditions which inspire us all, says Jonathan Lantz, President of La Sportiva North America. “As more climbers become familiar with this grant, we are confident that the Copp-Dash Inspire Award will continue to be a tradition for years to come.”

For more information on the Copp-Dash Inspire Award and application downloads, go to www.CoppDashInspireAward.com or the Copp-Dash Inspire Award Facebook page. Only teams/individuals from North America are eligible for expeditions occurring between April 1, 2012 and March 31, 2013. Award winners will be announced by March 30, 2012.   

About the Copp-Dash Inspire Award:
The Copp-Dash Inspire Award will help support small teams tackling difficult climbs in the great mountains of the world who plan to personally document and share their ascents through a multimedia blend of storytelling elements. Proposed trips should be focused on unclimbed objectives in distant ranges and regions, requiring a high level of skill and commitment. Climbs should be done in a fast, light and clean style that stays true to the progression of expedition climbing. Proposed documentation styles can include any mix of photos, video or writing that will vividly capture the essence of the trip or climb. Proposed sharing of these storytelling elements could involve slideshows, viral film clips, magazine articles, multimedia presentations, etc. The Copp-Dash Inspire Award is sponsored by Black Diamond Equipment, La Sportiva, Mountain Hardwear, and Patagonia, and is supported by Alpinist magazine, American Alpine Club, the Jonny Copp Foundation, Sender Films, and photographers John Dickey and Mikey Schaefer.

The Underwear Story

2012-01-25T16:32:34-08:00

by Luke Mehall

My dream job would be being an underwear model. A friend helped me figure this out one day after I’d just purchased some new undies, and we were looking at the models on the packaging.

“What a job that would be, wearing underwear for a living,” I said.

“You could do it,” Amber answered. “And since you’re a climber you could model for Patagonia.”

A quick check of the Patagonia catalog showed that they didn’t use the same advertising technique that we imagined; my visual image was Victoria Secret style for the female models. Still the dream was planted.

[Above: The author sent us this photo from his modeling portfolio. Color us impressed. Joshua Tree, California. Photo: Dave Marcinowski]

Winter, Salt Lake City, Utah, and I’m on a date with a girl I met at the local raw food restaurant. Her house: throwback, psychedelic, complete with record player, Polaroid camera, and a little fireplace we sat down and talked beside. She’s the intuitive type, the kind of girl who references her dreams often, and talks of love and living in harmony with the planet.

In her room later she’s showing me energy stones, and waxing poetic. For some reason I mention that I’m going to the Patagonia outlet store in the morning for a sale. Then she begins to tell me about a dream she had. The focus of the dream: me just wearing a fire-red pair of underwear. We kiss and then she sends me out into the cold night.

The next morning my friend Sara and I are up at the crack of dawn, waiting in line behind a hundred or so shoppers as the line pours out, winding around the store. Sara is a good friend, one I consider a sister, and to top that off she’s letting me couch surf at her house for the month.

Later, waiting in line to check out, we’re behind 150 or so people and there’s a box of underwear next to me. I tell Sara about the potential ladyfriend’s dream. She looks in and sees a fire-red pair, tosses it into my bag, and says, “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

The following night, I’m taking off my clothes. Clear sky, the stars above and mountains blanketed in snow. Sara and I are at the Midway hot springs. The scene is strange; Lynyrd Skynyrd blasts out of a trailer truck. A fellow, who appears to be on some sort of crack, is doing flips in the 110-degree water. A fog emits from the spring and I can’t identify my surroundings other than the Skynyrd and the people in the water. It feels like the beginning of a horror movie.

The idea of kicking back in the hot springs doesn’t seem relaxing anymore. Still, there are hot springs to be soaked in. I strip down, almost all the way down to what else, my new red underwear. Was this the scene that my ladyfriend imagined? With the cover of my new underwear I then slipped into the heat and the weirdness of the hot springs.

I never got to hang out with the young psychedelic woman again, but I think of her every time I wear my red underwear. I feel like I would feel comfortable in them in many different situations, and after the odd hot springs experience being in front of a camera would be pretty chill. So Patagonia, if you have an opening for an underwear model, give me a call.

Luke Mehall searches for his American Dream on the rocks and the roads of the West. His car, The Freedom Mobile, is probably better known than he is, and his mountain bike is certainly worth more than his car. He loves rock climbing and running, and pretends not to like mountain biking as much as he does to avoid long, punishing rides with his mutant friends. He lives in Colorado and splits his time between Crested Butte and Durango. His work has been published in Stokelab.com, Crested Butte Magazine, Durango Telegraph, Mountain Gazette, Rock and Ice, Climbing and foxsports.com. He also publishes The Climbing Zine.

[The Climbing Zine reader, Dave, gets pumped on Volume 3. Details for getting your own copy of Luke's self-published mag are on the sidebar of his blog. Photo: Luke Mehall]

Update 2/9/12: The Climbing Zine is now available for Kindle through Amazon.com.

Up for a little sale adventure of your own? Patagonia.com and Patagonia Retail Stores are having a 30% Off Sale for U.S. residents, now through January 30, 2012.

Les Landes

2012-01-23T17:30:13-08:00

by Patch Wilson

A friend of mine, Nick Pumphrey, who I grew up with surfing, skating and generally causing mayhem, now lives in South West France. He has called Hossegor home for about six or seven years now. Now turned semi-professional photographer he still works the summers in bars and restaurants and sleeps in his van to save money so that he can head on missions throughout the winter. His van holds this amazing quiver of longboards, single fins, alaias, bodyboards and swim fins. All the wave-riding equipment you could need for whatever one of the best stretches of beachbreak in the world could throw at you.

[Me cruising on my Fark Quad. Photo: Nick Pumphrey]

For me, it has meant that every autumn, for those last six or seven years, I have been able to come down and hang out with my friend and sample some fine French beachies in their best conditions when it is still warm and the days still long. During those early years of coming down here and hanging out for a month or so and searching out the best banks and watching the conditions I can definitely say I had some of the funnest waves of my life. It was always good to escape the English autumn which was rapidly growing colder and to be able to get down here for some final warmth in some French sunshine and turquoise green water.

[Coffee and pain au chocolate do not come much better than in France. Photo: Nick Pumphrey]

In recent years, coming down in September and October, the crowds have grown and the vibe in the water is not so friendly anymore. Locals jaded from a long summer and having to fight for their own waves coming into autumn, plus travelers passing through on the well-trodden route through Europe, mean that the few rideable banks on the beach at any tide can be super busy and not so much fun. This has made me skip coming down here for the last couple of years, opting for other colder less-crowded options in Europe.

So when Nick stared emailing me this January, telling me of an amazing right bank out the front of the house he was looking after, it got me thinking again. A quick look at the charts showed super-light winds, a good swell and perfect direction for the upcoming week. With a slow week of work ahead, I managed to get the time off and so, without hesitation, I booked my ticket to get down there for the day after next -- with thoughts of small crowds and some perfect French sandbar barrels running through my mind.

[Home for the week. Photo: Patch Wilson]

[The right bank showing its potential. Photo: Patch Wilson]

[Capbreton pier by night. Photo: Nick Pumphrey]

But France is a fickle beast and what started off looking like a perfect chart for the week ahead seemed to turn around within a couple days of being down there. Too much swell and a jump of a couple of seconds in the swell period can turn the whole coast into a giant closeout. So I got a couple of fun surfs in shifty heavy closeouts where you get the odd one but not what I came down for. Then, on the best day, they held an enduro motocross race on the beach so you could not get to the best bank. So I waited a couple days for that swell to drop a little. The period looked good plus the winds light so I should’ve had a couple of good days surfing then. But the swell period and size dropped a little too much so the power in the swell has gone and I was left with two-foot peelers on a fat high-tide bank.

Still though, things are not all that bad. I am not at work, the sun is shining, the crowds are non-existent and it looks like that right bank might still be fun when the tide drops. Plus, Nick has enough boards in his van to keep any surfer happy.

[Floating. Photo: Nick Pumhrey]

[The day they held the enduro motocross race and you could not get to this bank to surf. Gutted. Photo: Patch Wilson]

[Early morning mist on the old war bunkers. Photo: Patch Wilson]

[France definitely has rubbish problems too. One morning we awoke to this, strewn up the beach for a good half mile. Photo: Patch Wilson]

[From a few years ago. Photo: Patch Wilson]

Patrick "Patch" Wilson is a Patagonia surf ambassador from southwest Cornwall. For more from Patch, check out his previoius post, Éire.