It's the eve of the primary to potentially (but probably not) end all primaries, and Dallas is experiencing serious election fervor. My drive to work carried me past a crowd of Hillary supporters waving signs in a cold rain, and our local news is now updating polls on a daily basis. In honor of all of this, the time has come to blog about the excitement and give the official Knapp Adventure Blog endorsement (which I assume will eventually be featured on one of the campaign ads being shown with regularity rivaling the pharmaceutical industry).
Our best taste of the intensity of the election came two weeks ago when Megan and I decided we'd head down to Reunion Arena to attend a rally by Barack Obama, the candidate now Officially Endorsed by the Knapp Adventure Blog. The event was scheduled to start around noon, so we planned to arrive when doors opened at 10:30. This was just naive.
Obama has reached rock star status, and the crowd was something one would expect for the Rolling Stones. I took the DART train from the office and quickly realized that the packed train was already full of folks attending the rally. I found Megan somewhere near the stadium, and we noted the hordes before attempting to find the end of the line.
So we walked and walked. The line wrapped around the arena and then a block away to a parking garage entrance. Then the line snaked through the first level of the parking garage and up four more levels. After 20 minutes of walking we reached the end of the line.
To quote the great thinker, Eric Cartman, "Lines, lines--I hate lines!" But something was different here. First, the weather was cool, so terrible memories of sweating in line at various theme parks did not arise. Second, everyone was happy to be there. I expected grumpy faces, impatient huffing, sarcastic commentary, and a general state of agitation. The crowd seemed thrilled to be standing in a parking garage. Most of us opined that the line stretched far too long for us to possibly make it into the arena and actually hear the speech, but that didn't matter. We waited, and we waited happily. Then the third observation, this had to be the most diverse crowd I had ever joined. It was like a quintessentially American version of It's A Small World (another time I stood in lines, lines, lines!). I saw all races, ages, shapes and sizes, hipsters and punks and goths, corporate types and retired folk, hetero homo trans and metrosexuals. I could not conceive of a demographic that was not represented in that line. And that's when I knew that Obama was really onto something.
And so, one big happy family of Texans, we waited and waited. After a half hour or so the line began creeping forward ever so slowly. A few steps at time, we walked over a mile through that garage, snaking down toward the rally. But time kept passing, and, as noon arrived, we were nowhere near the entrance to the arena. The motorcade flew by the garage, and we wondered whether that would be our closest encounter with the candidate.
Megan looked up to me, "Should we go get some barbeque and go back to work?"
"No, Megan, we have to have the audacity to hope."
Eyes were rolled, eavesdroppers chuckled, and we kept on waiting. And soon enough, we were moving quickly and then more quickly. Eventually campaign volunteers were encouraging us to hurry "but not run," so we picked up the pace, passing people who had spent most of their energy just standing. We rushed toward the prize, which, in this case, turned out to be two seats in the lower earth orbit but still barely within Reunion Arena. We had made it, and the rally could continue.
We watched former Dallas Mayor Ron Kirk give a rousing introduction followed by Emmit Smith, who gave a more exciting introduction. Finally, Barack himself arrived on stage, and we were all quite impressed despite his headcold. Alas, the wait was worthwhile.
Now a number of folks have asked me why I support Obama--whether it is the result of whether I love hoping for hope to change the lack of hope and then receive more hope. I have few skeptics offer anything more tangible than these superficial criticisms, but occasionally folks come up with something more substantial.
More recently I was given an exact dollar total of what Obama's policies would cost me in immediately higher taxes. The purveyor of this information then asked me how, oh how!, could I possibly support this fellow knowing an exact and gargantuan amount of cash that would be ripped from my pockets.
Here is the way we think about it at the Knapp Adventure Blog. I think we look at the world with a drastically different notion of time and self-interest. The policies of the past decades, from both sides of the aisle, focus pretty carefully on the short term. It is short-term thinking that gave us a plan to pay everyone in the country roughly $300, an unnecessary fit of deficit spending with likely no net economic benefit. It is short-term thinking that prompted us to invade Iraq with no real prospect for stabilizing the country. It is short-term thinking that has caused widespread environmental devastation with untold future harms.
And we do pay for this type of thinking. Of course, my taxes may be lower, but I pay more in health insurance to compensate for uninsured people who are forced to eek out some semblance of health care through emergency room visits. Someday I will pay a huge sum to educate my children. I will pay throughout the years, stashing away money to care for my health and my living when I can no longer work. I will pay in unimaginable ways for our misguided environmental policies (global warming aside, I'm concerned about our water resources, especially if ethanol becomes our future).
Obama cannot solve all of these problems. Actually, he supports ethanol production (but at least he addresses CAFOs in his policy, something Hillary ignores). He does not have a plan for universal college education, and his health care plan will not create some sort of Scandinavian utopia in this country.
But his policies take us closer, even if just a little. Unlike Hillary, a divisive figure and continuation of this absurd American Aristocracy (two families ruling for 24 to 28 years?), I believe he can accomplish his goals, and, in exchange for a surrender of tax dollars, he offers to end the war, to make sure my money is headed toward the greater societal good instead of some great global futility. The mindset of the short-term assumes individuals can better manage resources than the government. For many individuals, this is certainly true, but everybody pays somehow for the rest of society's failings in various, less obvious ways. It's time we come up with a better fix that leaves us all a bit better off. Obama won't accomplish much of this, but he's the best start in that direction.
So there is the endorsement. If he loses the nomination, our backup option is Ron Paul (anti-war and delightfully anti-ethanol . . . after that it gets a bit strange). If he can't get the nomination, then we'll find ourselves facing yet another November walking toward the ballot box wondering why we're choosing between two jokers. Let's hope we'll be getting to vote for Obama. That'd definitely be worth waiting in line.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Congratulations
A loyal reader of the Knapp Adventure Blog is now engaged to an amazing gal. In a display of enviable smoothness, he took his lass to the top of a promontory overlooking a snowy mountain valley in Montana. He asked the question, she answered affirmatively, and, to quote Monty Python, there was much rejoicing.
Well done, amigo, and our best to both of you.
Congratulations!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
My Swiss Didgeridoo
Recently it has come to my attention that some folks are confused by the fact that I have a didgeridoo that I made by hand during a stay in Interlaken, Switzerland. Despite all signs pointing to complete globalization, people still expect certain products to come exclusively from certain corners of the world. My didgeridoo should have come from Australia, preferably from an aboriginal community. But, the fact is, it did not. While I suppose it originally came from Australia in some sense, it more directly came from a youth hostel in the Swiss Alps.
My introduction to Interlaken came from my grandparents who visited the charming mountain town quite frequently. They spoke of enjoying glorious views and taking trains and gondolas into quaint mountain towns. Since I was already studying in Milan, a trip up to this quiet mountain village seemed appropriate. More importantly, my roommate in Milan, inspired by a homesickness only curable by hot wings, discovered that the nearest Hooters to Milan happened to be in Interlaken--so the trip was set.
Upon arriving in town, I discovered that Interlaken was a tourist town catering to two distinct clientele. First, folks like my grandparents enjoyed beautiful, lake-front hotels with picture window views of the mountains. The second group, which included myself, shacked up in crowded youth hostels while spending the day bleeding cash toward adventure sports. During this initial stay, we crashed at Balmer's Youth Hostel, more frat house and anything else, and enjoyed local delights such as beer and rosti (essentially skillet potatoes with various delectable toppings). This first trip passed far too quickly--we ate wings with a Miss Switzerland runner-up as a waitress, we watched hang-gliders sail around town, and we scurried onto Zurich to try to see more of the country. I knew I'd be back.
Return
When I returned to Interlaken, I intended to stay a while. I also intended to ditch the frat-scene at Balmer's and unwind with a more laid back crowd at The Funny Farm. I checked into the hostel, claimed a top bunk in a room that slept sixteen, booked myself on an ice climbing trip, and surveyed my surroundings.
First, I noticed the mountains looming overhead. Then I noticed marijuana plants looming overhead as well and was soon informed that the herb had been decriminalized in Switzerland. Not one to partake, I quickly realized why the Funny Farm crowd was so relaxed. Later that night I went to shower and realized that my evening shower would have to take place under black lights and to the tunes of Widespread Panic. Fair enough.
The next days allowed me to enjoy the outdoors. I went ice climbing in a glacier with a gang from Cancun who had never seen glaciers before--they provided lots of laughs and greatly expanding my knowledge of Spanish epithets ("putissima madre," being my new favorite). The next day I discarded my mildewed sneakers and bought some Solomon hiking boots to set out on a long trek that took me from Grindewald to the foot of the Eiger and down to Lautebrunnen. The hiking was glorious, and I returned to the Funny Farm that evening with plans of hitting more trails the next day.
And then the rain came. At first I welcomed the moisture as a chance to explore the town, rest my legs, and plan new routes. The rain continued a second day. I filled this day by playing chess. Chess offered fantastic entertainment. Being the only clear-headed person in a hostel full of smokers, I absolutely dominated. I felt like a Russian grand-master doing battle against toddlers who could not decide whether to stare at the pieces and wait for them to move or just to stare at the pieces.
Dominating chess offered two days fun and then I needed something new to do as the deluge continued. Finally, I asked the New Zealander who tended the bar if he had any brilliant ideas, to which he responded, "You need to make a didgeridoo, mate." Obviously.
Didg
It turns out that the Kiwi was himself a talented player, and he happened to have stashed away a massive pile of hollowed out eucalyptus just for this purpose. For extra cash, he made some to sell at the front desk of the hostel, but he also allowed bored guys like me to select a piece of wood and get to work. With some coaching, I began shaping the raw hunk of wood into something resembling a shiny raw hunk of wood.
As the afternoon approached, all I lacked was applying varnish and crafting a beeswax mouthpiece. But, as this step rolled around, my mentor went missing. I searched the Funny Farm from the TV room where stoners had fused with the couches while watching some sort of Hungarian pornographic film to the front desk where students accepted rainchecks for cancelled bungee jumps and hang gliding trips. Alas, my Kiwi teacher was lost.
I retreated to the biergarten whether my didgeridoo awaited its chemical coating. Finally, the bartender wandered back, his eyes full of tears, the tears perhaps 9% alcohol. He was hammered. Ever the dutiful instructor, he tossed a bucket of varnish next to me along with a brush and told me to apply it evenly. He then stumbled away, and I began to grow concerned, not just about my musical project, but about the guy himself.
I asked one of the Kiwi's compatriots why the drunken tears. Turns out the guy went home for a quick sandwich while I continued to haplessly craft my didg. He realized something was amiss when he stumbled upon a pile of clothing. His concerns only grew as he realized that the pile of clothing previously housed his girlfriend and one of his best friends. To make matters worse, the duo had apparently undressed together and were now engaged in activities similar to those documented in the Hungarian film being viewed at that very moment in the TV room of the Funny Farm.
Dejected, the didg-maker retreated into a bottle of something strong and returned to work where he handed me varnish and helped me hone a mouthpiece from beeswax. Later that night, he invited me to a concert where he would be playing the didg alongside a reggae band in an underground night club (not that it was criminal in any way--given the strict noise ordinances, most clubs were literally underground). He played beautifully, I rejected the advances of a sallow Swiss teenager, and I awoke the next morning, as usual, to the sound of Cake's "The Distance," blasting from the direction of the biergarten.
So, this is how I ended up with a Swiss didgeridoo. As the rain continued and the ultimate rainy day entertainment complete, I decided to hop a train toward Belgium to work my way to my study abroad program in London. My Kiwi instructor stayed in Interlaken and just maybe learned how to get the didgeridoo to play some blues.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Rodent Invasion: Early Success
We slept restlessly The Night of the Rodent Discovery. Megan compared waiting for the snap of the mousetraps to waiting for Santa Claus . . . I did not quite agree with the analogy, but it does suggest her state of mind as we entered battle.
Sometime in the night, while I was dreaming of being hunted and poisoned by a polygamist henchman (too much Big Love), Megan heard a snap. She was kind enough to let me sleep through the night before tip-toeing into the kitchen to observe our victim.
And then the shout, "Brad!" I sprinted into the kitchen to see a rat of prehistoric proportions dead on the counter. While Megan assured me that they have larger rats in her part of the state, I tried to avoid the mental image of a larger beast--this one was big enough.
Megan left the kitchen feeling victorious and began preparing for her day. I sat there contemplating the inevitable next steps, disposal and reconassaince. I would need to somehow transport this harbinger of Hanta virus to the alley and then figure out how it came to inhabit our most sanitary of rooms.
Quickly, I concocted a plan that would allow me to rid ourselves of the carcass without forcing me to touch the monster. I set the trashcan below the counter and found a plastic pole. I used the pole to scoot the device and creature into the trashcan. Problem solved.
Next it was James Bond time. Fortunately (fortunately?), rodents leave miniscule black deposits as they travel that allow a sleuth to track their journey. The location of the dead creature suggested that it climbed onto our counter from behind our stove. Having recently installed the stove, I knew the wall was solid behind it, but the gas line seemed to be an obvious entry point. I opened the counter with the gas line and found a gaping hole that lead into the void between the walls and presumably into the crawlspace below the house. To confirm my suspicions, I found the telltale trail of dark, little doodie all over our baking sheets. Cookies, anyone?
While I resented the vandalism, the problem can now be addressed. If a rat intends to gnosh on our grub, it'll have to find another entry.
Of course, questions remain. Was this rat the rat? Is this the cause of the rustling in our bedroom wall as well as the creature who robbed our sourdough? I'm hopeful, but we cannot be too sure. The war continues, and we will fight it on any front necessary to protect the security of our homeland. The enemy we fight is evasive and well-funded, and it has no respect for the institutions of peace, democracy, and antibiotic cleansers. Hopefully, someday, we will be able to live in peace once again. For now, we're pretty sure we need to buy bigger traps.
Sometime in the night, while I was dreaming of being hunted and poisoned by a polygamist henchman (too much Big Love), Megan heard a snap. She was kind enough to let me sleep through the night before tip-toeing into the kitchen to observe our victim.
And then the shout, "Brad!" I sprinted into the kitchen to see a rat of prehistoric proportions dead on the counter. While Megan assured me that they have larger rats in her part of the state, I tried to avoid the mental image of a larger beast--this one was big enough.
Megan left the kitchen feeling victorious and began preparing for her day. I sat there contemplating the inevitable next steps, disposal and reconassaince. I would need to somehow transport this harbinger of Hanta virus to the alley and then figure out how it came to inhabit our most sanitary of rooms.
Quickly, I concocted a plan that would allow me to rid ourselves of the carcass without forcing me to touch the monster. I set the trashcan below the counter and found a plastic pole. I used the pole to scoot the device and creature into the trashcan. Problem solved.
Next it was James Bond time. Fortunately (fortunately?), rodents leave miniscule black deposits as they travel that allow a sleuth to track their journey. The location of the dead creature suggested that it climbed onto our counter from behind our stove. Having recently installed the stove, I knew the wall was solid behind it, but the gas line seemed to be an obvious entry point. I opened the counter with the gas line and found a gaping hole that lead into the void between the walls and presumably into the crawlspace below the house. To confirm my suspicions, I found the telltale trail of dark, little doodie all over our baking sheets. Cookies, anyone?
While I resented the vandalism, the problem can now be addressed. If a rat intends to gnosh on our grub, it'll have to find another entry.
Of course, questions remain. Was this rat the rat? Is this the cause of the rustling in our bedroom wall as well as the creature who robbed our sourdough? I'm hopeful, but we cannot be too sure. The war continues, and we will fight it on any front necessary to protect the security of our homeland. The enemy we fight is evasive and well-funded, and it has no respect for the institutions of peace, democracy, and antibiotic cleansers. Hopefully, someday, we will be able to live in peace once again. For now, we're pretty sure we need to buy bigger traps.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Rodent Invasion: Home Ownership and Warfare
I had a deal worked out with the vermin that lived in the wall of our bedroom. During the first cold spell this winter, I woke to the sound of clawing and wiggling inside my bedroom wall. The nocturnal activity suggested rat or mouse, and either option was unappealing (think of bubonic plague and Splinter from the original Ninja Turtles movie). That said, I could accept that cold weather would inevitably drive rodents into warmer spaces, and I knew my odds of sealing off rodent access to our sixty-year-old house were slim. If the rodents would let me sleep and not alert Megan to their presence, then they could stay in the wall until spring. Peace treaties were signed, confetti was tossed, speeches were made, and life resumed to normal.
Today (or, I should say, sometime last night) the whole deal came crashing down. Working from the house to supervise some carpet installation, Megan decided to prepare herself a midday sandwich. She pulled the loaf of sourdough bread out of its ceramic bowl and noted an odd hole in the side of the bag. Behind the hole a strange tunnel of bread had gone missing. Her first thought, naturally, was to blame me. She wondered, "Why would Brad rip this strange little hole in the bag and then tunnel into the bread?"
Her second thought was to reflect on the strange scratching noises she had begun to hear at night and accept that rodents had invaded our kitchen. My office phone rang loudly: Megan had declared war.
I quickly realized that, had Megan commanded the US military during World War II, the Bomb would have been dropped everywhere, just for good measure. These mice were leaving us forever, period. Megan is the consummate public health professional, and rodents have been public enemy number one throughout history for all those trying to eradicate various forms of fecal and flea-borne pathogens. Megan had a professional goal, no, an obligation, to restore the healthfulness of our abode.
After the initial phone call, Megan called back with an action plan for sealing certain weaknesses in our defense against the order rodentia. With the defense plotted, it was time to prepare the offense.
A flurry of research took place. I read a 12-page manual on how to make a spaceship-like "humane" mouse trap out of a 3-liter coke bottle. I learned that glue traps are illegal in Ireland. I learned that, while I could hope I was dealing with mice, there was a darn good chance that rats were involved (and, unlike Splinter, I learned that they lack the thorough knowledge of Renaissance art and Zen philosophy). I learned that mice can enter a home through an opening the size of a dime. I learned that mice do not like to eat cheese (though, Megan was quick to point out that she once woke in the wee hours of the morning in a youth hostel in Amsterdam to witness a rat devouring a massive block of cheese . . . . right . . . ).
Research complete, the traps have been set. The war has begun.
Today (or, I should say, sometime last night) the whole deal came crashing down. Working from the house to supervise some carpet installation, Megan decided to prepare herself a midday sandwich. She pulled the loaf of sourdough bread out of its ceramic bowl and noted an odd hole in the side of the bag. Behind the hole a strange tunnel of bread had gone missing. Her first thought, naturally, was to blame me. She wondered, "Why would Brad rip this strange little hole in the bag and then tunnel into the bread?"
Her second thought was to reflect on the strange scratching noises she had begun to hear at night and accept that rodents had invaded our kitchen. My office phone rang loudly: Megan had declared war.
I quickly realized that, had Megan commanded the US military during World War II, the Bomb would have been dropped everywhere, just for good measure. These mice were leaving us forever, period. Megan is the consummate public health professional, and rodents have been public enemy number one throughout history for all those trying to eradicate various forms of fecal and flea-borne pathogens. Megan had a professional goal, no, an obligation, to restore the healthfulness of our abode.
After the initial phone call, Megan called back with an action plan for sealing certain weaknesses in our defense against the order rodentia. With the defense plotted, it was time to prepare the offense.
A flurry of research took place. I read a 12-page manual on how to make a spaceship-like "humane" mouse trap out of a 3-liter coke bottle. I learned that glue traps are illegal in Ireland. I learned that, while I could hope I was dealing with mice, there was a darn good chance that rats were involved (and, unlike Splinter, I learned that they lack the thorough knowledge of Renaissance art and Zen philosophy). I learned that mice can enter a home through an opening the size of a dime. I learned that mice do not like to eat cheese (though, Megan was quick to point out that she once woke in the wee hours of the morning in a youth hostel in Amsterdam to witness a rat devouring a massive block of cheese . . . . right . . . ).
Research complete, the traps have been set. The war has begun.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Rainier Climb: Summit Day
The wake up call came around midnight. I had expected waking up to be a shocking experience at that altitude and at that time of night (morning?), but, at this point, I was happy to get permission to abandon my pathetic attempts at sleep.
I scarfed down as much oatmeal as my belly would tolerate and unpacked and repacked again. Our load for the summit would be as light as possible--a few outer layers, some food and water, climbing harness and rope. I laced, unlaced and relaced my boots and finally walked out onto the glacier to join my rope team.
Anticipating the intense physical challenge, we were advised to dress in pretty light layers. While this eventually proved to be great advice, at the moment the frigid air was bathing me in icy regret . . . somewhere in Texas I had a warm bed with a soft pillow . . . here I had total darkness and air so cold that I was ready to measure it in Kelvin.
But, after powering the headlamps, stepping into our harnesses, and roping ourselves to our team, we were ready to set up and up. The first part of the climb took us through the "bowling alley," a fairly flat glacier below some steep cliffs. The name stemmed from the fact that the cliffs sought amusement by spewing hunks of rock at the climbers below. By climbing at midnight, we would minimize the risk, we were told, because the rocks were safely frozen in place. Despite this reassuring theory, our first movements of the day were quickly interrupted by a shout, "Rock!" My training taught me that this was not something I wanted to hear. Following instructions, I thrusted my pack uphill and hoped that the rock was hurtling toward the gap in a split-7, leaving us all alone. The crunching sound of the falling rock grew louder and then suddenly vanished into the darkness. We resumed the hike, just a bit faster this time.
The next five or six hours passed in a blur. My world existed of a tiny patch of snow illuminated by my headlamp, a rope trailing up to Gabriel and another rope trailing behind to the guy who had previously climbed Shasta. We stopped for an occasional break to guzzle water, try to eat some food, and bury ourselves in down jackets to keep our core temperatures somewhere near those of the living. Ceasing motion meant intense cold, so I finally decided I'd rather move than sit still.
The routine continued, and just as light crept over the world, we made the summit. We staggered out to the center of the crater, dropped our packs, and continued across to sign the guestbook and pose for the obligatory victory photo. For that moment, we were lords of the ice ax, masters of the mountains, heroes of the high country.
And then a funny notion crept into my mind . . . we had to go down. Not only did we need to get down, we needed to get down soon before the warmth of the day opened huge crevasses and before the bowling alley became a death zone. This notion was a huge disappointment. It would be like running a marathon and then being told to turn around and do it one more time. I imagine Tiger Woods knocking in a birdie on the 18th green at the Masters. The announcer then approaches him and says, "Good job, Tiger, you won the tournament. But, you now need to play the same 18 holes backwards or you will inevitably perish." In this sense, mountaineering offers a unique psychological challenge--the summit has the illusion of success, but the true victory comes through survival.
I don't think we were ready for this challenge.
Going Down
While the climb had been a beautiful experience, the descent proved to be harrowing. First, since I was not even close to Gabriel's physical condition, my legs felt as if the bones had been removed and replaced with jello. Second, we had climbed in total darkness--on descent, we learned how scary this terrain was. The slopes of the volcano were terrifyingly precipitous. A good tumble would have meant thousands of feet sliding down ice, bouncing off boulders and eventually plunging into what appeared to be an abyss of apocalyptic proportions.
To make matters worse, we were struggling. The altitude affected Gabriel mentally. His speech became somewhat nonsensical, and he had lost all motivation--asking me from time to time why exactly we needed to go down the mountain after all. I was just exhausted enough that the question seemed fine by me. While intellectually I realized that getting off the crag would be in our long-term interests, it did seem like a sweet spot to plop down and enjoy an epic view. After all, we'd pay some big cash for the opportunity to enjoy the view. What was the hurry?
While Gabriel struggled mentally, I struggled physically. My legs were not pleased with the situation, and they began plotting a massive rebellion. Their tactics included highly unusual pain followed by the occasional spasm. They distracted me to such a degree that I lost track of my main task on this rope team--to keep the rope out of Gabriel's boots. Instead, I managed to dangle the nylon cord in and around his crampons causing him to stumble.
In all fairness, Mr. "I Climbed Shasta" sent the rope hurtling beneath my boots on several occasions. This replaced my feelings of exhaustion with pure rage, which then caused a psychological downturn sapping my motivation.
We were descending in every way possible.
The Funk
Miraculously, we were shocked out of this funk by a terrifying event. To give some background for the uninitiated, glaciers are essentially rivers that happen to consist of ice. They constantly move, albeit really really slowly. In the process of moving, they occasionally pull apart opening chasms called "crevasses." Like people, crevasses come in all shapes and sizes ranging from pretty deep, wide, and scary to extremely deep, wide, and scary. Crossing crevasses is a tricky endeavor. Occasionally they are hidden by thin crusts of snow leaving the unsuspecting traveler to find herself in a freefall (hence the rope team: theoretically the other three climbers would be able to stop the fall). Sometimes, crevasses are so wide that climbers have to wind around them until they can find a safe place to cross. In our case, the season was young enough that many crevasses still had strong snow bridges that could be used to cross.
Of course, there was a catch. Washington had baked under record heat for a few days, and sun-up meant the temperature was quickly soaring. As heat is the enemy of all things frozen, the snow bridges were getting softer and softer, soon to become trapdoors into infinity. To avoid this pitfall, a massive metal beam had been hammered into the glacier at the sketchier crevasse crossings. Before going across the snow bridge, we were told to attach our rope to the beam via carabiner and enjoy the comfort of some extra anchoring.
No problem. Except it became a big problem. Gabriel, as I mentioned, had gone a bit loopy at the altitude. As Gabriel approached the crossing, he inadvertently neglected to hook himself up to the new carabiner. Instead, he managed to detach himself from our rope team entirely, stand up, and march toward the abyss. At this point, his only safety equipment was the ice ax at his side and the helmet atop his head.
Not sure how to respond to this shocking turn of events, I started screaming at him. The words shouted are lost to history and hypoxia, but I'm sure I articulated a brilliant motivational speech because Gabriel quickly snapped out of the funk, tied himself in properly, and began to march down the mountain like a championship athlete (while I credit my speech, Gabriel later attributed his newfound vitality to a sudden awareness of wanting very badly to be home with his wife . . . I'd like to think it was some combination of our efforts, but the reader is free to judge). The funk had lifted, Gabriel was moving in top form, and the adrenaline gave me a needed, if short-lived, boost.
As I approached the Muir Snowfield and the shack that had housed us just nine hours before, I felt slower than ever. My feet felt uncoordinated, my legs felt heavy, and I wondered how I would make it all the way back down to the Paradise Lodge and back to my own special lady in Texas. As we reached the cabin, I removed my crampons only to find that a massive rock had lodged in one of them, which might have accounted for some of my sluggishness. I used the ice ax to jimmy the hunk of stone out of its spiky trap, tossed the rest of my junk in my pack, and began putting an end to this glorious experience with nature.
Freed from my crampons, I tapped into my long experience shredding the nar and used my mountaineering boots as snow skis. This allowed a fairly fast and enjoyable trip off the volcano, even if my ankles would swell to the size of softballs as a result of the strain. In those moments, I no longer felt pain.
Heading Home
We reached the bus which took us to the lodge which allowed us to consume pizza, burgers, chips and beer: all calories desperately needed to replenish our weary bodies. After stuffing our faces, we cruised back to Seattle where Gabriel began his second Herculean effort by boarding an overnight flight to Atlanta in order to be at work at nine the next morning. I collapsed in an airport motel with a fairly good view of Rainier out the window. As I stared at the mountain, I reflected on a high-speed blur of weariness and pain, my mind barely able to remember the scenery, so cataclysmic and sublime.
Fortunately memory is a strange creature, and as time has passed, my thoughts have changed. I mainly remember the joys of the summit (captured in a photograph sitting next to my desk) and minimize the trials of descent. Now, I look at our climb as an ultimate tour de force and one of the greater tests of my life, and I am pretty sure I'm ready to climb again.
I scarfed down as much oatmeal as my belly would tolerate and unpacked and repacked again. Our load for the summit would be as light as possible--a few outer layers, some food and water, climbing harness and rope. I laced, unlaced and relaced my boots and finally walked out onto the glacier to join my rope team.
Anticipating the intense physical challenge, we were advised to dress in pretty light layers. While this eventually proved to be great advice, at the moment the frigid air was bathing me in icy regret . . . somewhere in Texas I had a warm bed with a soft pillow . . . here I had total darkness and air so cold that I was ready to measure it in Kelvin.
But, after powering the headlamps, stepping into our harnesses, and roping ourselves to our team, we were ready to set up and up. The first part of the climb took us through the "bowling alley," a fairly flat glacier below some steep cliffs. The name stemmed from the fact that the cliffs sought amusement by spewing hunks of rock at the climbers below. By climbing at midnight, we would minimize the risk, we were told, because the rocks were safely frozen in place. Despite this reassuring theory, our first movements of the day were quickly interrupted by a shout, "Rock!" My training taught me that this was not something I wanted to hear. Following instructions, I thrusted my pack uphill and hoped that the rock was hurtling toward the gap in a split-7, leaving us all alone. The crunching sound of the falling rock grew louder and then suddenly vanished into the darkness. We resumed the hike, just a bit faster this time.
The next five or six hours passed in a blur. My world existed of a tiny patch of snow illuminated by my headlamp, a rope trailing up to Gabriel and another rope trailing behind to the guy who had previously climbed Shasta. We stopped for an occasional break to guzzle water, try to eat some food, and bury ourselves in down jackets to keep our core temperatures somewhere near those of the living. Ceasing motion meant intense cold, so I finally decided I'd rather move than sit still.
The routine continued, and just as light crept over the world, we made the summit. We staggered out to the center of the crater, dropped our packs, and continued across to sign the guestbook and pose for the obligatory victory photo. For that moment, we were lords of the ice ax, masters of the mountains, heroes of the high country.
And then a funny notion crept into my mind . . . we had to go down. Not only did we need to get down, we needed to get down soon before the warmth of the day opened huge crevasses and before the bowling alley became a death zone. This notion was a huge disappointment. It would be like running a marathon and then being told to turn around and do it one more time. I imagine Tiger Woods knocking in a birdie on the 18th green at the Masters. The announcer then approaches him and says, "Good job, Tiger, you won the tournament. But, you now need to play the same 18 holes backwards or you will inevitably perish." In this sense, mountaineering offers a unique psychological challenge--the summit has the illusion of success, but the true victory comes through survival.
I don't think we were ready for this challenge.
Going Down
While the climb had been a beautiful experience, the descent proved to be harrowing. First, since I was not even close to Gabriel's physical condition, my legs felt as if the bones had been removed and replaced with jello. Second, we had climbed in total darkness--on descent, we learned how scary this terrain was. The slopes of the volcano were terrifyingly precipitous. A good tumble would have meant thousands of feet sliding down ice, bouncing off boulders and eventually plunging into what appeared to be an abyss of apocalyptic proportions.
To make matters worse, we were struggling. The altitude affected Gabriel mentally. His speech became somewhat nonsensical, and he had lost all motivation--asking me from time to time why exactly we needed to go down the mountain after all. I was just exhausted enough that the question seemed fine by me. While intellectually I realized that getting off the crag would be in our long-term interests, it did seem like a sweet spot to plop down and enjoy an epic view. After all, we'd pay some big cash for the opportunity to enjoy the view. What was the hurry?
While Gabriel struggled mentally, I struggled physically. My legs were not pleased with the situation, and they began plotting a massive rebellion. Their tactics included highly unusual pain followed by the occasional spasm. They distracted me to such a degree that I lost track of my main task on this rope team--to keep the rope out of Gabriel's boots. Instead, I managed to dangle the nylon cord in and around his crampons causing him to stumble.
In all fairness, Mr. "I Climbed Shasta" sent the rope hurtling beneath my boots on several occasions. This replaced my feelings of exhaustion with pure rage, which then caused a psychological downturn sapping my motivation.
We were descending in every way possible.
The Funk
Miraculously, we were shocked out of this funk by a terrifying event. To give some background for the uninitiated, glaciers are essentially rivers that happen to consist of ice. They constantly move, albeit really really slowly. In the process of moving, they occasionally pull apart opening chasms called "crevasses." Like people, crevasses come in all shapes and sizes ranging from pretty deep, wide, and scary to extremely deep, wide, and scary. Crossing crevasses is a tricky endeavor. Occasionally they are hidden by thin crusts of snow leaving the unsuspecting traveler to find herself in a freefall (hence the rope team: theoretically the other three climbers would be able to stop the fall). Sometimes, crevasses are so wide that climbers have to wind around them until they can find a safe place to cross. In our case, the season was young enough that many crevasses still had strong snow bridges that could be used to cross.
Of course, there was a catch. Washington had baked under record heat for a few days, and sun-up meant the temperature was quickly soaring. As heat is the enemy of all things frozen, the snow bridges were getting softer and softer, soon to become trapdoors into infinity. To avoid this pitfall, a massive metal beam had been hammered into the glacier at the sketchier crevasse crossings. Before going across the snow bridge, we were told to attach our rope to the beam via carabiner and enjoy the comfort of some extra anchoring.
No problem. Except it became a big problem. Gabriel, as I mentioned, had gone a bit loopy at the altitude. As Gabriel approached the crossing, he inadvertently neglected to hook himself up to the new carabiner. Instead, he managed to detach himself from our rope team entirely, stand up, and march toward the abyss. At this point, his only safety equipment was the ice ax at his side and the helmet atop his head.
Not sure how to respond to this shocking turn of events, I started screaming at him. The words shouted are lost to history and hypoxia, but I'm sure I articulated a brilliant motivational speech because Gabriel quickly snapped out of the funk, tied himself in properly, and began to march down the mountain like a championship athlete (while I credit my speech, Gabriel later attributed his newfound vitality to a sudden awareness of wanting very badly to be home with his wife . . . I'd like to think it was some combination of our efforts, but the reader is free to judge). The funk had lifted, Gabriel was moving in top form, and the adrenaline gave me a needed, if short-lived, boost.
As I approached the Muir Snowfield and the shack that had housed us just nine hours before, I felt slower than ever. My feet felt uncoordinated, my legs felt heavy, and I wondered how I would make it all the way back down to the Paradise Lodge and back to my own special lady in Texas. As we reached the cabin, I removed my crampons only to find that a massive rock had lodged in one of them, which might have accounted for some of my sluggishness. I used the ice ax to jimmy the hunk of stone out of its spiky trap, tossed the rest of my junk in my pack, and began putting an end to this glorious experience with nature.
Freed from my crampons, I tapped into my long experience shredding the nar and used my mountaineering boots as snow skis. This allowed a fairly fast and enjoyable trip off the volcano, even if my ankles would swell to the size of softballs as a result of the strain. In those moments, I no longer felt pain.
Heading Home
We reached the bus which took us to the lodge which allowed us to consume pizza, burgers, chips and beer: all calories desperately needed to replenish our weary bodies. After stuffing our faces, we cruised back to Seattle where Gabriel began his second Herculean effort by boarding an overnight flight to Atlanta in order to be at work at nine the next morning. I collapsed in an airport motel with a fairly good view of Rainier out the window. As I stared at the mountain, I reflected on a high-speed blur of weariness and pain, my mind barely able to remember the scenery, so cataclysmic and sublime.
Fortunately memory is a strange creature, and as time has passed, my thoughts have changed. I mainly remember the joys of the summit (captured in a photograph sitting next to my desk) and minimize the trials of descent. Now, I look at our climb as an ultimate tour de force and one of the greater tests of my life, and I am pretty sure I'm ready to climb again.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Rainier Climb: Onwards and Upwards
The morning of the climb arrived. We woke, scarfed some food, downed some coffee, and packed and unpacked and repacked, just for good measure. Our packs were transporting the lightest load that would allow our continued survival, so we stashed the excess gear in the rental car and headed to meet our guides. Below is an image of us in those precious naive moments before the climb:
Our lead guide frequently guided trips up Kilimanjaro and was pursuing his 132nd summit of Rainier. I realized immediately we were in good hands. I reaffirmed this opinion by glancing at the guide's pack, visually weighing it in at a solid 90 pounds.
Our fellow climbers were of all ages. Many had lived in the area and looked up at Rainier for most of their lives just wondering about the summit. Others had placed Rainier as the goal of a personal fitness revolution. Others of us weren't quite sure why we were there except for a general desire for adventure. I am pretty sure Gabriel and I fit in this last category.
The bus ride to the Paradise Lodge seemed interminable. I felt thankful for every small gain in elevation along the way, each foot up was one less I would need to surmount. The bus parked at Paradise Lodge, and my altimeter watch (I know, gearhead) indicated an elevation of roughly 5,000 feet. Only 9,000 feet up along 20 miles round trip awaited me. I refilled water bottles, grabbed my trekking poles, and got in line. From the parking lot, I looked up the mountain to see the view captured in this photo. The summit did not seem so far away, but I had to remind myself about the intense foreshortening that occurs in these settings. Distances are wildly deceiving to the eye. The summit seemed close, but it was very, very far away.
The hike began gradually and quickly became more vertical. We had been clearly instructed that we could only stop when the guides allowed a break, so complaining was no option. We were headed up through nature's greatest solar reflector, cooking in an icy oven. The sweat began gushing as it had the day before, and I was feeling fantastic.
A break arrived, and I munched on another Cliff bar. Each bar is dense and flavorful--three or four swallows offered over 300 calories, and I was thankful for the fuel. Each rest stop came after such a long march that the views became substantially more spectacular at each break. The rest stops allowed us to continue our education. For example, we learned an important mountaineering rule of wisdom: don't walk if you can stand still, don't stand if you can sit, don't sit if you can lay down, don't lay down awake if you can lay down and sleep, don't lay down and sleep alone if you can lay down and sleep next to a woman, . . . and it goes downhill from there. Anyway, here is a photo from one of our breaks:
The march continued at a fast pace. Gabriel and I made a point to be near the front of the line. The group generally stayed together, but as the march continued, some folks began to drag behind. By being near the front, Gabriel and I knew we would get the longer breaks, getting to enjoy a few precious extra minutes while the stragglers finally made it our way. The disadvantage of being near the front was the need to keep up with the grueling pace set by our lead guide. I kept thinking of Gabriel's label for the climb: a "tour de force." I let willpower triumph and demanded that my body follow suit. Upwards and upwards we struggled. At each break, I'd down some more calories, but I absolutely could not keep up with my body's consumption. I downed a sandwich, Cliff bars and other candies. I tried, but I felt continually behind.
When I get hungry, I tend to get really grumpy, and I found myself approaching camp in a rather foul mood. I wondered what compelled me to climb, why I didn't just enjoy a long weekend in less glaciated locations. I sat on my pack and consumed a sandwich. I wondered if I had what it took to make it the rest of the way--knowing that the five mile lug of that morning was nothing compared to the fifteen-mile task facing me the next day.
Muir Snowfield
With each bite, my mood improved. Pretty soon, I realized that I was sitting at the most beautiful place I had ever visited. I knew I could do it, but I also knew I would have to do a better job scarfing the food during the summit bid.
The stopping point for the night was the Muir Snowfield, 10,100 feet according to my altimeter watch. Climbers using the RMI guides get to stay in a cabin on bunks:
Other independent climbers choose tents. The bunkhouse was nice, but, I had to capture the cliche, outdoor magazine image of a tent perched on a rocky escarpment overlooking an abyss:
Rest
We arrived at our rest spot in mid-afternoon. We would eat a quick dinner and face lights out at 6 PM. We had to go to sleep at 6 PM, naturally, so that we could wake at midnight and then climb up and down over the next 15 to 18 hours.
I ate some sort of freeze-dried nastiness and realized my mistake. Many of my fellow climbers had simplified the food situation by ordering a pizza the night before and wrapping that to eat cold the next evening. That allowed them a very tasty, calorie-laden meal. In my effort to recreate my old backpacking days, I had purchased a freeze-dried meal that I had fondly remembered in hikes of my past. These fond memories excluded how truly salty and disgusting most of those meals are. And, for a short trip like this, how unnecessary. Remembering my utter grumpiness earlier in the day, I opted to eat the whole meal.
After dinner, we had a group meeting. We had climbed the first part of the mountain unroped, without ice axes and crampons. Tomorrow morning, the climb became much more serious. They reminded us of the basic safety measure: if someone screams "falling," you should drop to the mountain and dig in with all of your strength. If someone shouts "rock," turn your pack toward the mountain, hope your helmet is on tight, and pray that the missile either misses you or is small enough that it does not kill you. Awesome.
Then they announced rope teams. Apparently they had evaluated us on the climb up to assess our strength. They wanted to match teams evenly and then send the teams out according to ability. Despite our utter lack of training, Gabriel and I were selected for the lead rope team. The lead team can be tough since that group would potentially have to break trail for the other teams. I also knew that being on the lead meant greatest chance for success. Most importantly, I felt that I had duped the mountain. From the time I signed up for the climb to the time of the climb itself, I had exercised very little and assumed my willpower would allow success. Apparently it was working wonderfully (little did I know that the mountain would soon have its revenge).
I crawled into my bag, and tried to sleep. Unfortunately all of my fellow climbers also struggled to sleep, and the cabin filled with the sound of tossing, turning and frustrated breathing. Except, of course, for the one guy who managed to snore at epic volumes. The snowpack seemed stable, but I was certain that this snore would trigger cataclysmic avalanches. Alas, the shack survived, and after six hours of lying in a down bag terrified and wide awake, I donned my garb to climb this beast. It was "tour de force" time.
Our lead guide frequently guided trips up Kilimanjaro and was pursuing his 132nd summit of Rainier. I realized immediately we were in good hands. I reaffirmed this opinion by glancing at the guide's pack, visually weighing it in at a solid 90 pounds.
Our fellow climbers were of all ages. Many had lived in the area and looked up at Rainier for most of their lives just wondering about the summit. Others had placed Rainier as the goal of a personal fitness revolution. Others of us weren't quite sure why we were there except for a general desire for adventure. I am pretty sure Gabriel and I fit in this last category.
The bus ride to the Paradise Lodge seemed interminable. I felt thankful for every small gain in elevation along the way, each foot up was one less I would need to surmount. The bus parked at Paradise Lodge, and my altimeter watch (I know, gearhead) indicated an elevation of roughly 5,000 feet. Only 9,000 feet up along 20 miles round trip awaited me. I refilled water bottles, grabbed my trekking poles, and got in line. From the parking lot, I looked up the mountain to see the view captured in this photo. The summit did not seem so far away, but I had to remind myself about the intense foreshortening that occurs in these settings. Distances are wildly deceiving to the eye. The summit seemed close, but it was very, very far away.
The hike began gradually and quickly became more vertical. We had been clearly instructed that we could only stop when the guides allowed a break, so complaining was no option. We were headed up through nature's greatest solar reflector, cooking in an icy oven. The sweat began gushing as it had the day before, and I was feeling fantastic.
A break arrived, and I munched on another Cliff bar. Each bar is dense and flavorful--three or four swallows offered over 300 calories, and I was thankful for the fuel. Each rest stop came after such a long march that the views became substantially more spectacular at each break. The rest stops allowed us to continue our education. For example, we learned an important mountaineering rule of wisdom: don't walk if you can stand still, don't stand if you can sit, don't sit if you can lay down, don't lay down awake if you can lay down and sleep, don't lay down and sleep alone if you can lay down and sleep next to a woman, . . . and it goes downhill from there. Anyway, here is a photo from one of our breaks:
The march continued at a fast pace. Gabriel and I made a point to be near the front of the line. The group generally stayed together, but as the march continued, some folks began to drag behind. By being near the front, Gabriel and I knew we would get the longer breaks, getting to enjoy a few precious extra minutes while the stragglers finally made it our way. The disadvantage of being near the front was the need to keep up with the grueling pace set by our lead guide. I kept thinking of Gabriel's label for the climb: a "tour de force." I let willpower triumph and demanded that my body follow suit. Upwards and upwards we struggled. At each break, I'd down some more calories, but I absolutely could not keep up with my body's consumption. I downed a sandwich, Cliff bars and other candies. I tried, but I felt continually behind.
When I get hungry, I tend to get really grumpy, and I found myself approaching camp in a rather foul mood. I wondered what compelled me to climb, why I didn't just enjoy a long weekend in less glaciated locations. I sat on my pack and consumed a sandwich. I wondered if I had what it took to make it the rest of the way--knowing that the five mile lug of that morning was nothing compared to the fifteen-mile task facing me the next day.
Muir Snowfield
With each bite, my mood improved. Pretty soon, I realized that I was sitting at the most beautiful place I had ever visited. I knew I could do it, but I also knew I would have to do a better job scarfing the food during the summit bid.
The stopping point for the night was the Muir Snowfield, 10,100 feet according to my altimeter watch. Climbers using the RMI guides get to stay in a cabin on bunks:
Other independent climbers choose tents. The bunkhouse was nice, but, I had to capture the cliche, outdoor magazine image of a tent perched on a rocky escarpment overlooking an abyss:
Rest
We arrived at our rest spot in mid-afternoon. We would eat a quick dinner and face lights out at 6 PM. We had to go to sleep at 6 PM, naturally, so that we could wake at midnight and then climb up and down over the next 15 to 18 hours.
I ate some sort of freeze-dried nastiness and realized my mistake. Many of my fellow climbers had simplified the food situation by ordering a pizza the night before and wrapping that to eat cold the next evening. That allowed them a very tasty, calorie-laden meal. In my effort to recreate my old backpacking days, I had purchased a freeze-dried meal that I had fondly remembered in hikes of my past. These fond memories excluded how truly salty and disgusting most of those meals are. And, for a short trip like this, how unnecessary. Remembering my utter grumpiness earlier in the day, I opted to eat the whole meal.
After dinner, we had a group meeting. We had climbed the first part of the mountain unroped, without ice axes and crampons. Tomorrow morning, the climb became much more serious. They reminded us of the basic safety measure: if someone screams "falling," you should drop to the mountain and dig in with all of your strength. If someone shouts "rock," turn your pack toward the mountain, hope your helmet is on tight, and pray that the missile either misses you or is small enough that it does not kill you. Awesome.
Then they announced rope teams. Apparently they had evaluated us on the climb up to assess our strength. They wanted to match teams evenly and then send the teams out according to ability. Despite our utter lack of training, Gabriel and I were selected for the lead rope team. The lead team can be tough since that group would potentially have to break trail for the other teams. I also knew that being on the lead meant greatest chance for success. Most importantly, I felt that I had duped the mountain. From the time I signed up for the climb to the time of the climb itself, I had exercised very little and assumed my willpower would allow success. Apparently it was working wonderfully (little did I know that the mountain would soon have its revenge).
I crawled into my bag, and tried to sleep. Unfortunately all of my fellow climbers also struggled to sleep, and the cabin filled with the sound of tossing, turning and frustrated breathing. Except, of course, for the one guy who managed to snore at epic volumes. The snowpack seemed stable, but I was certain that this snore would trigger cataclysmic avalanches. Alas, the shack survived, and after six hours of lying in a down bag terrified and wide awake, I donned my garb to climb this beast. It was "tour de force" time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
