Torres del Paine and the Ironic Dichotomy

The Unattended Bowl Of Candy

Poudre Canyon

A Walk In The Park

August 2015


     "I think finally I believe," would probably have been the sum total of my conscious and subconscious pensive meditations while making the dark drive up road 34, the Big Thompson canyon, west of Loveland to Estes Park. Deep excitement for that which gives depth to our lives, and has an equally apt capability for taking it away. After about a year of training which included an unforeseen foray into the world of trail running, I finally think this is possible. This had been in the works for some time, the origins aren't super clear, maybe coming across a random FKT website for RMNP. But the idea of doing the glacier gorge traverse had been in the back of my mind for a long while, mostly in the form of a pipe dream.


I was on my way to the Estes Mountain Shop parking lot to meet my friend Sam, we had been planning for months, training separately, always asking each other about the traverse. We were intent on doing a version called "A Walk In The Park," dubbed so by Richard Rossiter. It has also gone by "The Great Wheel" and I'm sure it was done a few times by people who didn't write blog posts about it, before the route had a name. Such a thing attracts people with a big love and respect for the mountains, not attention. This particular traverse follows the entire rim of glacier gorge, a forebodingly steep cirque two miles wide which includes Thatchtop, Powell, Mchenry's, Chief's Head, Pagoda, Long's Peak, Storm Peak, and Half Mountain. The "Full" traverse adds the rest of the high points all the way to Flattop. We set out at about one in the AM from the glacier gorge trailhead with Thatchtop as the first summit in mind. The full glacier gorge traverse avoids the knife edge, and in my opinion one of the highlight ridges of the cirque, between Thatchtop and Powell.


After hitting that sweet spot of caffeination, in the parking lot we donned tiny packs and set off. Doubts started dropping as quickly as landmarks were ticked off on the two miles of trail leading up to the north slope of that big lovable hulking mass that is Thatchtop. Once you start moving, things become more clear.


"25 minutes."


"25 minutes? Since we started?"


"Yeah, we're doin good"


It was still pitch black outside and we had not scouted the gully we needed to gain, it seemed obvious enough looking at it from across the valley, and we had been to the Loch Vale gorge area many times to scratch around on the ice and mixed lines there. However, there was still some apprehension concerning where to go, as we had just left the trail and started up the last bit of the route below tree line. A bad route finding mistake here could set us back by precious minutes, and we would need as an auspicious start as possible. After skirting around the cliff that holds blade runner and mixed emotions, we wrestled a few trees and found our path through the scree between two large buttresses which we could barely make out in the starlight, our headlamps were insufficient to light up something so large and far off.


The slope leading up to the summit of Thatchtop seems like it will not end, and is so broad that with headlamp light you can really only guess where to go by going wherever is up. It was the perfect warmup for what was to come, physically as well as mentally. The wind was blowing and we were dressed for success, so we didn't even bother with a summit photo, stopping only for a gu packet.


     The first of the challenges came in the form of the ridge between Thatchtop and Powell. For those of you reading this for research purposes, this is an excellent ridge. One side sweeps down like a great granite shield past the Vanquished buttress down to Sky Pond, the other drops vertically down into the Solitude Lake cirque. Our movements mirrored the solid quality of the rock, and as we passed over the high point on the ridge, twilight began giving us a helping hand with route finding as well as casting a glow over the towers of the cathedral wall, the large face of Taylor peak, and our excitement.






Diving boards along the Solitude Lake side of the Powell-Thatchtop ridge. Taken during a solo mission up McHenry's via the notch couloir.






Sam on the final slopes of the Powell-Thatchtop ridge. The broad pyramidal summit of Thatchtop is silhouetted on the left.


     A few parts of the ridge set our minds right, and got the focus going. The traverse is technical, not at a high level by any standard, but it is sometimes loose, licheny, alpine rock with portions of great exposure. While we slowed to climbing pace frictioning across slabs in approach shoes, bearing down on edges with the care that comes with an increased awareness, it became difficult to imagine completing the task ahead. As the sun began to hover nearer to the horizon, it revealed the immensity of the cirque and how much ground we had left to cover. Lucky for us, it also revealed the intense beauty of the place. When you are high up and the sun is rising, there is a time where it seems like everything is glowing. Like the light is sticky and tacky in the dawn, and refuses to let go of that which it comes into contact. Lichen and granite become neon, and outlook becomes a little warmer. We made the last few moves off of the ridge, and by the time we set foot on the summit of Powell, the sun had broken through. As if our psyche was solar powered, we couldn't help but run around and take pictures. Unable to contain our excitement about our surroundings and intensity of the sunrise from our position. 




Sam atop Powell, summit number two of eight.





Chief's Head, still a long way off.





     The next technical step was the aptly named notch between Powell and McHenry's peaks. I had previously soloed the notch couloir which is entered via the valley that hangs above the exit of Black lake. From there I continued to the summit of McHenry's, but we had no previous experience concerning how to get down into the notch from the opposite side. We were ready to face a harrowing down-climb on crappy rock, but encountered a straight forward gully to a ledge which took us right around into the notch, sweet. Out of the notch it is no big deal following the path of least resistance, stay right and you end up on a sidewalk in the sky, one of those unlikely features that usually define classic routes. This takes you towards the summit with a huge drop on the right, and the spiky terminus of McHenrys north face to your left. The view down into the seldom visited drainage below the north face of Mt. Alice is incredible, which piqued my curiosity about that area and would prompt further exploration.




Looking down into the North Inlet basin below the scary north face of Mt. Alice.


Summit of McHenry's Peak


     We reached the summit of McHenry's Peak without much drama, and started feeling tired just looking at the mile and vertical drop between us and the next summit; Chief's Head. We knew it would be a big mental crux of the day. I still maintain that McHenry's has one of the best summits in the park; it is less "Scottish" than most others which means it is not a plateau on one side with a cliff on the other. With all surrounding sides scooped out, the summit is more of a pedestal in the sky. Consequently, the way down to stone man pass from the the summit of McHenrys is long and knee pounding, and as it goes right past the main bail point of the traverse, it would require committing once again. We cruised down the long slope down, down, about 1000ft down to the snow at the mouth of the loose scree gully which would give us access to the broad sloping shoulder of Chiefs Head. It never crossed our minds that bailing was an option, the needle on the fun meter was still firmly planted in the type I zone. Going down was much easier than going up the bastard gully, however, so let the panting begin. We went from casual conversation to grunting at each other as fast as the topography changed. The gully gives way to the long, gentle, but ever-narrowing slope leading all the way to the summit. At the very back of glacier gorge, Chief's Head takes the head of the table, split right down the middle by the spine connected to Spearhead, the centerpiece. The south face of Chief's Head gives way sharply to Wild Basin, allowing views of the Lion lakes and further into the more remote areas of the park which connect to the northern portion of Indian Peak Wilderness. It gives the sensation of walking across the back of the chair at the head of that table.




Sam at the exit of the loose gully, the descent route from the summit of McHenry's peak is lit up by the sun at the top left. McHenry's notch can be seen silhouetted at the far left.


A friendly critter (the second we saw that day) below stone man pass.






Fatigue sets in on the summit of Chief's Head.






     By the time we reached the summit of Chief's Head, the 1000ft. drop, and 1200ft gain between the previous summit could not be shaken off easily. We refueled as best we could in the small wind shelter a few feet from the high point, avoiding the stiff, cool breeze. The creeping fatigue was worsened by the looming prospect of the west ridge of Pagoda, the technical crux of the day. The next step was to descend again, and decide which option was most viable to take to the summit of Pagoda: We could take the south face, involving a long, down-trending traverse, then ascend a steep, seeping gully. Not an attractive option. The center option, the direct west ridge, goes at about 5.7 if you are able to suss out which way to thread the needle. With only approach shoes and tired legs this seemed foolhardy without knowing the way. Option three was to venture out onto the north face and hope for the best. Generally wet, slabby and grassy, soloing blindly out onto the shaded north face was only slightly less intimidating than the saw-blade ridge above. Neither of us had any previous experience with this portion of the traverse and it had been weighing down our optimism thus far, once we made the descent to the small col between Chief's Head and Pagoda, it was decision time. We had kept a good pace until this point, but we both knew that any route finding mistake could put an end to our attempt. The alpine start has a very serious purpose; to over-stay your welcome up high could mean getting caught in a storm. Besides the obvious dangers of lightening, we had already been relying on hard work to stay warm. With a garbage bag weight shell apiece, it was fast and light or bail.


     We decided to traverse around onto the north face until we could see where to go, the direct ridge as our backup. This way we wouldn't waste much time if it became obvious we were nowhere near where we needed to be. It had taken a little over six hours to get to where we were, we had worked up a time surplus which took enough pressure off to really take time to find the best route. In all likelihood this saved time in the end. We traversed around on loose blocks until we could see more of the face, where Sam pointed to a small ledge 8-12" wide, which looked like it would take us to some easier slabs. This miraculous ledge is probably part of one of the 5.easy routes that traverses the face, but to us it was heaven sent. We crossed our feet over and over on the ledge, pulling off a couple pieces of bail tat left by others. It still amazes me when one comes across the features that seem to be put there specifically for the passage of climbers, but have been there for longer than people have been on this earth. The flowery ledge allowed us to walk across blank slabs to more fractured rock, where we frictioned over to the hanging mouth of the main gully on the west part of the north face. The exposure looking down to Green lake was just the right amount to keep us sharp. Despite the common sense path we were on, it was still difficult to see where we would ascend up to the ridge, as we were simply moving sideways, not up. This provided some trepidation, but once again route fining prevailed as we spotted a gully which would take us back up to the ridge, just shy of the summit, and just past the west ridge crux, perfect. The gully was wet, loose, and in spots pretty steep, but to us, absolutely welcome. We had found the way and knew it. With the psych refreshed by a little reassurance, we scrambled up to the ridge in little time and enjoyed the feet-wide and highly exposed walk to the summit, amazing.








Oh shit.


     Despite its proximity to the most well-trodden summits in the park, Long's Peak, Pagoda doesn't see much traffic. After having traversed it, the reason why is unclear, it is one of the best summits in the park and a good challenge. But, as we gained the high point and looked at the watch, our high spirits turned into nervous laughter at the sight of the monster staring us in the face. It was beginning to take more willpower to keep our pace up, and our food and water supply was not disappearing at a proportional rate. We had already begun to drink out of puddles left by recent thunderstorms on the heavily weathered granite boulders in an attempt to delay the inevitable emptying of our camelbaks. The cold, mineral laden water was surprisingly good, but in rather short supply due to the altitude empowered sunlight which had quickly gone from a welcome source of warmth to a scathing source of discomfort. The immense south-west face of Long's peak which backs the keyboard of the winds was to involve one last technical step, spotting the path of least resistance was our distraction from the anticipation of pain. It was time to rally, we had gas left in our tanks and all we had to do was get to the summit of Long's. We started down the ominous, broken black and orange ochre colored rock towards the saddle. The lack of lichen on the slope comprised of sharp-edged rock was our first warning that this deceptively steep aspect was also loose. Although realistically not in any way a danger, the vertical amphitheater below came to mind. Once again the descent had provided something of a recovery opportunity, and we reluctantly started up the talus toward the narrows.


     Our movements become more and more laborious, however we still had an obstacle to surmount before making up the last of the vertical to the homestretch. In the cliff band behind the keyboard of the winds we were able to spot a weakness, although anything but a sure thing we headed straight for it and despite being wet, it was little more than a scramble. The cliff band was probably a blessing in disguise, allowing us to mentally break down the lung busting slope to the homestretch into smaller parts. We didn't know at the time but surmounting this insignificant cliff band would be equivalent to breaking down the barrier between our "alpine" experience and diving into the cacophony of people on and around Long's Peak. Until this point we had seen and heard no one else with the exception of a party of three which included a friend and coworker of Sam's who was attempting the same traverse in the opposite direction. They had gained the summit of Pagoda just as we made the call to venture out onto its north face. We had been fully immersed in the enormity of the mountains, our hands were raw from scrambling over the rough granite, a metaphor for our mental state. It is impossible to describe traversing nearly ten miles of ridges, surrounded at all times by heartbreaking beauty in a place that pulls at you with a forceful gravity towards those forbidden places. At times you can almost feel the moods of the peaks, possible only because you have been coerced into feeling your own humanity and place in the world. It is impossible to describe, perhaps, except by the sudden and harsh discord in juxtaposition to the crowd we encountered on Colorado's northern-most 14er. Feeling like we were being pulled kicking and screaming out of a warm bed in the morning, it was all we could do to ignore the zip-off wearing zombies clomping up the homestretch, possibly made easier by a sense of elitism with which to remove ourselves. An undeserved sense of elitism pervasive in the outdoor industry (no way is there a better oxymoron), maybe made easier to understand in this context. Do those people have any less right to be there? Absolutely not. Might it do the environment good to have more people realize the need to care, and subsequently take action? Absolutely. But, take an ever farther step back, and the perspective changes that much more. That which matters most becomes clear, it is no accident that the people who understand this almost always end up together, the crowd ends up being a yank of the leash, reminding us of the reality of the human condition and the irony of escape.


     Like a punch in the stomach I hit the wall about 100ft. from the cairn that marks the end of the homestretch and the edge of the obtuse summit of Long's Peak. Sam was flying, I could tell he was annoyed as I was, taking a line to the right of the conga line. I was barely keeping up as the bonk hit hard, the heat of the sun was pounding me and as if someone placed a magnifying glass above, I suddenly burst into flames. I was still in denial when we topped out, touched the high rock and took obligatory pictures hoping the descent would provide some reprieve, which it did. But not for long. I was selfishly relieved to see Sam had started suffering as well by the time we skirted around the narrows and into the trough. We used gravity to our advantage as much as possible, bouncing down the wide couloir. Our fatigue was betrayed by the rocks we set loose with other people around, something we usually view as a cardinal sin. I was surprised, and I think Sam was as well, with the way we flew around all the other people just short of running across the ledges section of the keyhole route on Long's. I tried not to take too much notice of how hard I was breathing on the descent because we didn't dare stop until we started gaining ground once again on Storm Peak.


     Mentally, it sunk in that the hard part was over, and now all we had to do is descend the long ridge with a couple blips along the way in the form of Storm Peak, and Half Mountain. We would also hit an unnamed high point of the ridge between the two, just as we had done between Thatchtop and Powell. But, this mental lowering of the guard would turn out to be a mistake. We were both feeling drained, the rock pile of Storm Peak took a big effort, and on the opposite side our camelbaks made the familiar gurgling sound as they went empty. Sam donated the last of his water to me, we ate a little bit, and with a fire lit under our asses by the dark clouds above the Mummy Range we set off down the longest descent. We found more puddles, but so many were large and full of bugs. Sam downed a few bugs with his water, I fruitlessly tried to be more patient. Should have drank the damn bugs. We cursed and complained while our knees screamed down the slope past astro tower to the base of Half Mountain. Here we were met with trees that grabbed at us, and one last climb to one last summit. I don't think I have ever gasped for breath so hard while moving so slow. 




The summit of Half Mountain, number eight of eight, but no where near the end.


     We didn't talk much on the summit, unable to feel anything other than discomfort, we ate a bit more and started down. The way down from Half Mountain involves finding a gully, which somehow found us, then falling your way down the loose gully, somehow without falling too far. The loose rock, combined with our inability to catch ourselves any more, made for a frightening descent. Every slip was an emergency, every raw palm crammed into the slope was a miserable form of torture. I can't remember the last time Sam and I had gotten grumpy with each other while climbing, but after the gully we were finally back into the trees on our way to Mills lake when we stopped for one last break and got a bit snippy with each other. We had wanted to beat 12hrs, and were already past that point before Half Mountain. I had expected to run out of water and suffer through the pain on the last leg of the traverse, but I had not expected it to hit this hard. It felt like the onset of flu, and I started caring less and less about our time goal. Luckily, with Sam as a huge motivator, we were able to just hit the trail and keep a decent pace down to the car over familiar trail without stopping. We hadn't quite finished in impressive form, but 13 hours and 40 minutes after we left the trailhead we were back. Approximately 10,000ft. of elevation gain, and something like 15 miles. We sat in the car and panted for about fifteen minutes before heading down to burritos and celebratory drinks at Ed's.


     When we finally stepped back onto the trailhead parking lot we were too fried to really take it in, it was hard to imagine being back up there. But it didn't take long for the type II fun effect to kick in, the Ed's burritos didn't hurt. Pretty soon we were psyched about what had happened, and imagining the possibilities for large routes in the future. This is exactly that moment that makes climbing addictive; when you accomplish what you didn't think you could, what you thought was a far off goal, and suddenly you are left without it and searching for another. It has become more and more obvious that this can be found in many types of adventure, a word that sort of makes me cringe these days as its meaning is diluted. Maybe misadventure would be be a better descriptor, either way the unknown is really the attractive part. 

The Voo

Bloody hands, bruised egos, we all know how it goes...

     The ice season is just about toast, maybe a couple more spring routes until the summer is in full swing. Although I didn't accomplish my perhaps too lofty goals, once again due to a trip to Ouray, some progress has been made. While I never had a go at Brain Freeze, which would have made my year, I feel like I managed to get on some challenging stuff. This one corner in particular, on the third consecutive day climbing farmed ice, I feel like I made more strides than any other day out. I had a similar experience with BMX in the not so distant past; there is no gradual increase of level of ability, it comes in spikes between long plateaus. Some days, it just clicks, and you hurry to make the muscle memories before it is too late. The thin hanging icicle and the slightly overhanging rock behind were like a miniaturized version of what I imagine when I think of ice-climbing. The pillar was a bit fragile, and the rock had just enough pick holds, it felt like climbing overhanging 5.10, but it was with picks and crampons. Absolutely my heaven. Somehow, Brittany tolerated belaying me on this little cloud nine over and over again, and even managed to snap a few pictures while doing so. When it was all said and done, she only had one good go, and by the time she could drag me away the park was almost closed. We ended up going to the middle area of whatever the hell part of the canyon we were at, and while I scrambled to make an anchor somewhere, she convinced someone to share ropes till closing. Even though I would have a very hard time turning down a rope to a woman like Brittany, I was absolutely blown away by the camaraderie between the climbers in the park. You could share a rope anywhere, and I had very few doubts about using most of the peoples anchors, especially the people peeing out in the open. Of course without fail there will be a certain group or duo of people that are not being good climbers, and making their best attempt at ruining the day of all those around them. But, this year those people were either too few or too spread out, and we hardly saw any. 

     I was glad to have three days in park, but it is on my list to go back and do some of the classic routes in the Ouray area. Brit and I were considering climbing Kennedy's gully, which I will definitely be climbing at some point in the future, but for this most recent trip, it would have been irresponsible of me to take Brittany. Actually it would have been really selfish. Sometimes I need to step back and think about how and why I got into climbing, not everyone shares the same affection for risk. 

     It is good to reflect on the evolution of your own dreams, why do some die, and why do others persist? There is no other feeling for me quite like being high above treeline, it is the same today as it was when I first set foot on Isabelle glacier with Alex Mahlum as a CU Sophomore. I was in awe of the mountains, we were on our way to summit Navajo peak in the Indian Peaks Wilderness west of Boulder, and I was on a mission despite gross inexperience. In true spring conditions, June 9th, we went up without any of the tools of survival I would bring today, mental or otherwise. We had ridiculous boots, Alex wore his father's snow boots, the kind you might use to shovel the driveway in up-state New York. I had no sunscreen, no sunglasses, wouldn't have known how to use an ice axe had it been in my possession, too little food, no way to track time, no way to weather a storm, and no plan if we became injured or benighted. You know, the type of people who get rescued and show up in the newspaper. We slogged through endless snow, the gate at the entrance to IPW was closed, so it was an extra two miles, still up there with my longer summit days. The only snow travel aid we brought were hiking (skiing) poles, I think I was the only one with gaiters.   I think the word gaper is derived from the word gaiter.   Once we finally arrived at the Niwot ridge below the cone of Navajo peak, we had no idea where to go. So fundamentally were we challenged that even the most basic route finding escaped us. We took the wrong gully, somewhere to skier's right of airplane gully, our intended route. The climbing we encountered on our chosen route required heroism beyond anything I had yet encountered in myself. The snow slope to the summit block, and the corkscrew scramble to the top were icing on the cake. My Nebraskan roots produced a perception of the mountains as insurmountable, I felt like I had just done the first ascent of everest. This transcendent experience carried us the same seven miles we came, back to the car, absolutely spent. 

      Of course the reality was that I had not climbed everest, and no heroic efforts actually took place that day. What it was, was a taste of real adventure. Shortly after, I had a straight shaft ice-axe and crampons. I bought a pair of Mad Rock mountaineering boots for $100, which were basically boards with foot grinding mechanisms glued on top. And I went for it. I summited all the highest peaks of the Indian Peaks Wilderness, minus Audubon of course because it was round on top. Some of the most character building experiences, almost all of them alone. Solo backpacking trips to alpine cirques, solo couloir scrambles. Still some of the most vivid memories I have. The time a watermelon sized rock rocketed past me while climbing Queen's way on Apache peak. The time I traversed the ridge between South and North Arapahoe peaks, in genuine spring conditions. I had found something that took hold of me, the profound connection to the wild, the addictive power of risk. I thought I had stumbled on to some big secret; I had found out how to truly live, and everyone else was a robotic sheep. 

     In order to come full circle, this would be where the beginning meets the end; these experiences and ideas still live on in the climbing I do. But, the dream has evolved since the initial inception. Our dreams grow and evolve as we do, and just as in a relationship with another person, the ones that persist will have been the ones that bring us meaning and perspective. I don't think I will ever be able to fully give up the mountains for this reason. 

Alex is opening his box of ritz crackers, I don't remember, but I'm sure I ate more than my fair share of those crackers.

The Isabelle glacier basin, with Navajo peak standing like an Incan temple on top of Niwot Ridge to the left. Apache, and Queen's way are visible on the right. When I later came here with Brittany, the lake in the foreground was much more of a lake.

Too tired to even take pictures on the summit, this was on the way down, our paths in the snow behind me are the proudest contribution to the world I had made in this moment. 

A snap of Shoshone peak on the way down, I couldn't stop looking at these walls and spires the entire time they were in view that day.

 A couple years ago I took Brittany up to the little lake below Isabelle glacier. Forced to turn around by bad weather, I had hoped to go all the way to the heart of the basin. Nonetheless, I witnessed a similar experience in Brittany that I had with Alex in the same area. Like a light switch was flipped on and we were suddenly on the same page. She had a similar experience base that I did when Alex and I set off up the Brainard lake road, and what was a nice hike for me was a real adventure for her. Our plans to travel the world together will most assuredly beget a similar experience I had when I fell in love with the mountains.

      I chose an easy solo of ptarmigan finger #3 on the north face of Flattop as my birthday present to myself. The half smile in the picture below pretty much sums up my feelings for the day. I don't know if it wasn't challenging enough, or if I was looking for a different experience entirely. It seems like it is really hard to hit that sweet spot of challenging and rewarding yet not mind bendingly terrifying, especially when soloing. The climbing was pretty gross, granulated sugar snow on top of loose rock. The kind of climbing that is fun because of where you are, not because the moves are classic. I guess that attribute makes it hard to really stay in the moment, exactly the headspace we seek. Maybe that is the cause for the half smile.

Where I really should have been... with a partner.

Motivation

     Sometimes it seems like we can choose our fundamental calling, other times it seems that we are the whim of the universe. As pointless as it is philosophically to argue for or against the existence of free will, we are at a time in history where it is profoundly important to question the necessity of our seemingly inherent desire for societal progress. Will we ever be able to break the pattern of more? It would mean breaking our evolutionarily ingrained behavior in favor something else. I do not think we can be trusted with our current technological prowess, the 'something else' will never be as attractive as forging on, business as usual. Generally speaking, our children are raised to be as useful as possible within the ideological boundaries of modern civilization. At what point in the cycle is it possible to break? I cannot be alone in thinking that going along with the endeavor to perpetuate our society as it exists now is as empty as being on the outside and wanting in. What, then, is there to hope for? Our instincts force us to want to belong, to belong by being needed and wanted by other people. Ancient civilizations thrived because people started working together in an organized way, the people who became part of the group survived in greater numbers and as a result we are left with a burning desire to belong. What if we begin turning this desire to the natural world? Our long term survival depends on it, why do we not feel the need to belong on the earth? The evolutionarily derived traits necessary for this behavior have not had enough time to develop, nor will they. We will wipe ourselves out, the process will start over again, genetic diversity will bottleneck, and if there is a next time around the same mistake will more than likely not be made. 

     

     The nascent ideas growing and festering in the minds of people with a sapient connection to the natural world are only the beginning, and the only real hope. The future of our current societal model is guaranteed doom. We will keep burning it all down until there is nothing left. 

     

     Perhaps it would be best to encourage the practice of destroying the hand that feeds us, so the mass extinction comes more quickly, like peeling off a band-aid, or shooting a dying animal. Too gruesome? We could continue to believe and invest in sustainable energy in the hopes a miracle will happen along. All in the face of the fact that there is simply not enough earth to go around. 

Sam and I had a great day climbing Dreamweaver on Meeker. We chose to simul-solo, but despite this it felt like we were tied in together. Weather that was just bad enough, snow that was just consolidated enough, the steep and narrow couloir got my attention just like it did when I soloed it alone. We took a really really long time, some 13 hours car to car. But we were able to talk, take pictures, hang out and actually enjoy the experience. Our original plan was to link up Dreamweaver with Eighth Route on Longs, I have no doubts that we are capable of the link-up, just didn't happen. With experience I have realized that there are times to push and times to simply enjoy and accept what is happening around you. We had such a good thing, there was no point in ruining it by pushing too far. There will be another time for that, with a different kind of reward. 

A Nile Fedewa picture from a day at Lincoln falls. Remind me to go back and run up the ridge above this area to the top of Mt. Lincoln. The accessibility and crowds in the area is belied by the position.