Memo from Doctor Brown
This week we have an alternative perspective. It's a missive to SkiSickness from our good friend Doctor Brown. Thanks for the pearls, Doc!
Evening Wake-Up Call
I had two days free before heading to Texas for a week. In my usual fashion I had waited until the very last minute to decide what to do. I flirted briefly with the idea of scaling Rainier via Emmons solo, but with a 24 hour shift looming the following day, I needed to avoid sleep deprivation; I set my sights instead on the attainable one-day objective of Little Tahoma, provided the weather cleared.
At dusk on Friday the mountain remained obscured. When my alarm went off at 5, the skies in Seattle looked gray from my vantage point. I rolled over and went back to sleep. Hours later I awoke to perfect weather. In spite of the late hour I decided that the day was still sufficiently young for an outing, and set my course for Fryingpan Creek.
Processing my permit didn’t take long, and though I did not depart until after noon, I had over nine hours of daylight left. Conditions seemed favorable for fast travel. The east facing Whitman Glacier would be in the shade by the time I reached it, therefore probably not suitable for skiing. But even if I turned back at that point, I felt I would be unlikely to deem the day wasted.
In an hour I was across the new footlog and onto snow. A fresh boot pack took the direct line up to Meany Crest and onto the Fryingpan Glacier. I was able to make good time across its broad apron, enjoying the alpine environment, counting myself blessed to experience such a place. A thin, brittle ice layer gave easily to several inches of soft beneath. As I passed beneath Whitman Crest, one portion of its northern aspect captured my interest. A descent line just west of the bergschrund offered an enticingly steep drop of 150 feet or so before easing. This slope would remain in the sun until it set at 9 PM. At this point a certain Mal du Ski possessed me and I formed a plan for my return.
Hailing a large party of climbers, I crossed the saddle onto the Whitman Glacier. At 5 PM, its slopes were touched by lengthening shadows. 2000 feet below the summit and already the surface was firming. A pleasant, carefree descent it would not be. However, I could always downclimb. Five hours of daylight remained. Mal du Ski urged me upward.
I decided that if I had to don crampons this would indicate a need not to descend on skis. Conversely, if I could ascend without poons, a ski descent could at least still be considered. It took a zigzag line among small snow deposits, plus much vigorous step kicking that had my toes bruised, but I topped out without crampons. By this time the slope was completely in the shade. I doffed my pack and began scrambling over loose volcanic rock. This exercise in plastic boots was especially trying. My summit motivation flagged severely, vanishing at last about 15 vertical meters shy of the top, just when a silently falling rock cracked down hard by me. At this moment I reached the inflection point where again the voice of reason began to be heard.
One of the odd paradoxes of alpine pursuits is the fact that to carry on in good style, by which I mean with an eye to both safety and success, one must maintain one’s reasoning faculties at all times; yet pure reason will never carry one to the heights. The reasoning faculties, governing alone, would rule that one should never set out at all. With experience I seem to reach a more harmonious balance between reason and force of will, where each pays proper respect to the other.
Near the Whitman Glacier’s southern tip was a flat spot where I could safely don skis and test the slope. The surface was icy, to be sure; but it held an edge. With my eyes I traced a sinuous line of refrozen powder down. This line I followed, keeping my speed in check as the slope steepened. Over the roll; over the incipient bergschrund; skis chattering and scraping, but holding; a period of sustained steepness in the heart of the cirque; slope easing; then I was coasting across to the saddle. Reason and experience, applied rigorously, had prevailed within an unreasonable situation. My heart sang with the thrill of it.
I stopped briefly at the climbers’ tents to advise them of the best way up. Next stop was the sick line off the crest. I descended further east on the Whitman and cut north to the next col. At its edge the late sun again met my eyes. The time was 8:15 PM. Snow was feathery soft, firnspiegel glittering below, the sickly steep line inviting.
The first turn was perfect. The second was strangely icy. I skidded a ways, found I could not check my speed. Must regain control. Third turn hard ice, no edge, aware I was going way too fast, then down, streaking with unbelievable speed, feet caught flipped tumbling in air then impact head feet head feet crash crash once twice, still gaining speed helpless-- then sliding again, no longer tumbling, fast but slowing, prone and digging in, slowing, stopped.
Head spinning but still here. Standing, taking stock. Head, neck, limbs—all fine. Unhurt. But rattled, very rattled.
Sun-bathed or not, the slope had crusted into ice. The knowledge that three hours earlier it had taken an edge was worthless. I had rushed in where I should have feared to tread. In this place, reason had failed utterly to resist gravity. To be sure, reason had not failed completely; I took this line only because of its safe runout. Yet the powers of reason had not perceived the risk.
I remained troubled in the mind as I cruised down easier slopes. Two insights interrupted my concentration, flickering in my consciousness. The limited powers of the mind; and the overwhelming chaos applied to the frail human body when gravity, that elemental presence, takes over.
Though reason took a beating, it has not been defeated. Here are a few pearls of wisdom: eight PM is the wrong time to test a slope. Climb what you ski, even short slopes-- especially the steep ones. Consider the consequences of error on solo outings. Gravity keeps order among the stars but may be harsh on the human body. Pay respect to reason: may it guide you in places that make your heart sing.
Very glad that you're all right, my friend. I definitely know that rattled feeling.
Evening Wake-Up Call
I had two days free before heading to Texas for a week. In my usual fashion I had waited until the very last minute to decide what to do. I flirted briefly with the idea of scaling Rainier via Emmons solo, but with a 24 hour shift looming the following day, I needed to avoid sleep deprivation; I set my sights instead on the attainable one-day objective of Little Tahoma, provided the weather cleared.
At dusk on Friday the mountain remained obscured. When my alarm went off at 5, the skies in Seattle looked gray from my vantage point. I rolled over and went back to sleep. Hours later I awoke to perfect weather. In spite of the late hour I decided that the day was still sufficiently young for an outing, and set my course for Fryingpan Creek.
Processing my permit didn’t take long, and though I did not depart until after noon, I had over nine hours of daylight left. Conditions seemed favorable for fast travel. The east facing Whitman Glacier would be in the shade by the time I reached it, therefore probably not suitable for skiing. But even if I turned back at that point, I felt I would be unlikely to deem the day wasted.
In an hour I was across the new footlog and onto snow. A fresh boot pack took the direct line up to Meany Crest and onto the Fryingpan Glacier. I was able to make good time across its broad apron, enjoying the alpine environment, counting myself blessed to experience such a place. A thin, brittle ice layer gave easily to several inches of soft beneath. As I passed beneath Whitman Crest, one portion of its northern aspect captured my interest. A descent line just west of the bergschrund offered an enticingly steep drop of 150 feet or so before easing. This slope would remain in the sun until it set at 9 PM. At this point a certain Mal du Ski possessed me and I formed a plan for my return.
Hailing a large party of climbers, I crossed the saddle onto the Whitman Glacier. At 5 PM, its slopes were touched by lengthening shadows. 2000 feet below the summit and already the surface was firming. A pleasant, carefree descent it would not be. However, I could always downclimb. Five hours of daylight remained. Mal du Ski urged me upward.
I decided that if I had to don crampons this would indicate a need not to descend on skis. Conversely, if I could ascend without poons, a ski descent could at least still be considered. It took a zigzag line among small snow deposits, plus much vigorous step kicking that had my toes bruised, but I topped out without crampons. By this time the slope was completely in the shade. I doffed my pack and began scrambling over loose volcanic rock. This exercise in plastic boots was especially trying. My summit motivation flagged severely, vanishing at last about 15 vertical meters shy of the top, just when a silently falling rock cracked down hard by me. At this moment I reached the inflection point where again the voice of reason began to be heard.
One of the odd paradoxes of alpine pursuits is the fact that to carry on in good style, by which I mean with an eye to both safety and success, one must maintain one’s reasoning faculties at all times; yet pure reason will never carry one to the heights. The reasoning faculties, governing alone, would rule that one should never set out at all. With experience I seem to reach a more harmonious balance between reason and force of will, where each pays proper respect to the other.
Near the Whitman Glacier’s southern tip was a flat spot where I could safely don skis and test the slope. The surface was icy, to be sure; but it held an edge. With my eyes I traced a sinuous line of refrozen powder down. This line I followed, keeping my speed in check as the slope steepened. Over the roll; over the incipient bergschrund; skis chattering and scraping, but holding; a period of sustained steepness in the heart of the cirque; slope easing; then I was coasting across to the saddle. Reason and experience, applied rigorously, had prevailed within an unreasonable situation. My heart sang with the thrill of it.
I stopped briefly at the climbers’ tents to advise them of the best way up. Next stop was the sick line off the crest. I descended further east on the Whitman and cut north to the next col. At its edge the late sun again met my eyes. The time was 8:15 PM. Snow was feathery soft, firnspiegel glittering below, the sickly steep line inviting.
The first turn was perfect. The second was strangely icy. I skidded a ways, found I could not check my speed. Must regain control. Third turn hard ice, no edge, aware I was going way too fast, then down, streaking with unbelievable speed, feet caught flipped tumbling in air then impact head feet head feet crash crash once twice, still gaining speed helpless-- then sliding again, no longer tumbling, fast but slowing, prone and digging in, slowing, stopped.
Head spinning but still here. Standing, taking stock. Head, neck, limbs—all fine. Unhurt. But rattled, very rattled.
Sun-bathed or not, the slope had crusted into ice. The knowledge that three hours earlier it had taken an edge was worthless. I had rushed in where I should have feared to tread. In this place, reason had failed utterly to resist gravity. To be sure, reason had not failed completely; I took this line only because of its safe runout. Yet the powers of reason had not perceived the risk.
I remained troubled in the mind as I cruised down easier slopes. Two insights interrupted my concentration, flickering in my consciousness. The limited powers of the mind; and the overwhelming chaos applied to the frail human body when gravity, that elemental presence, takes over.
Though reason took a beating, it has not been defeated. Here are a few pearls of wisdom: eight PM is the wrong time to test a slope. Climb what you ski, even short slopes-- especially the steep ones. Consider the consequences of error on solo outings. Gravity keeps order among the stars but may be harsh on the human body. Pay respect to reason: may it guide you in places that make your heart sing.
“A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.”
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Very glad that you're all right, my friend. I definitely know that rattled feeling.
posted by SkiSickness at 12:42 PM
3 Comments:
Way to make it out Barry. Be safe out there!!! I put myself in a tenuous situation on Adams myself. It offered reflection and time to reasses the consequences of my own decisions.
I just read your TR of the Adams trip. Outstanding experience, amazing photos. I can sure imagine the commitment of Adams in July sans crampons.
Big solo outings are to group trips as poetry is to prose, or maybe as haiku is to poetry: the experience distilled into its most immediate and intense. Sometimes the distillation doesn't go down as smoothly as the mellower brew enjoyed with friends. But each is to my taste at different times.
Uh yeah....way to not get killed....LUCKY!!!
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