A few weeks ago, Casey and I took a hike up Bells Canyon, which is located just lookers right of Little Cottonwood Canyon. It’s a beautiful hike, only minutes from the Salt Lake City valley. The colors in Little Cottonwood and Bells Canyons are incredible in October, and it was a perfect spot to test my new DJI Mavic Pro. Here’s some footage from it’s first flight up to the waterfall and a few close passes around some mountain goats!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8YAnefxtlyE

New Zealand is a very young country both in terms of human history and its geology.  It is part of the so-called “Pacific Ring of Fire” – a string of volcanoes and seismically active zones around the Pacific Ocean. For anyone interested in geology and volcanoes, New Zealand is a true paradise, with a long list of volcanic and mountain formations to explore. 

The Central Volcanoes of the North Island – Ruapehu, Ngauruhoe and Tongariro are easily accessible. In addition to their geological wonders, they offer terrific hiking, rock climbing in summer and skiing in winter. In this article, I’ll explore just a few of the long list of the Central Volcanoes’ attractions, along with some useful information. 

Location 

To begin with, the Central Volcanoes are located just south from the Taupo Lake (and township) and are approximately 4-5 hours’ drive south from the Auckland city. They are part of the Tongariro National Park, and more information about the recent conditions, tracks, nature and anything else you might be curious about can be found at the local Department of Conservation offices.  

There are several places to stay around Taupo and Turangi, as well as some backcountry huts in the mountains. If you are planning a winter trip, you will probably want to find indoors accommodation, or the weather conditions are likely to be poor. 

Weather 

These three magnificent volcanoes are some of the most prominent land features of the entire North Island, standing tall and unprotected from any of the storms that hit that part of New Zealand. Given their relatively high elevation and high exposure to the elements, the volcanoes are notorious for their fast weather changes that can get you in trouble. It is not uncommon for hikers and skiers to get caught in a complete white-out in a matter of minutes, which with poor preparation might be detrimental. 

Before heading out for a hike, even if it is just a short day trip, always make sure to check the mountain weather forecast on metservice, compare the car-park elevation conditions to those higher up, and prepare accordingly. It never hurts to carry a light, waterproof/windproof jacket and an emergency blanket, even in the best of conditions. 

Hiking the Central Volcanoes 

Tongariro Crossing 

The most popular and well known track of the region is called the Tongariro crossing. The popular version is a day trip across the craters of Tongariro, but a longer, multi-day circuit version is also available. The day crossing is a 20 km one-way hike across the incredible rough volcanic terrain with its unique flora, rock formations and spectacular landscapes. The first section of the trail leads you through volcanic flats and ash fields from the recent 2012 eruption. After the first hour or of two of hiking, the trail starts climbing up the crater area. If you want an extra challenge, take a side tour up the Mt Ngauruhoe– a steep scree climb that will take you several hours to get up and 15 minutes to get down. 

Continue through the flats until another climb leading to the colourful Red Crater and Emerald Lakes. Excellent photo opportunities will be plentiful at this lunar-like place. The trail passes several other craters and steaming springs until it start descending into a luscious green native forest on the other side. Well worth the day! However, make sure to arrange transport at the end of the track, as it ends on the different side of the mountain. The best is to hike with friends and have two cars, but shuttle options are also available.

Mount Ngauruhoe Climb 

We have all seen the Lord of the Rings and know of the mighty ring mission to Mount Doom. Well in fact, you can climb it yourself – the mountain actually exists and it’s called Mt Ngauruhoe. The climb up Ngauruhoe summit is a 3h hike (6 km) from summit crater or approximately 6-7 h (19km) return from Mangatepopo parking area. Most of the climb is up a steep loose rock/scree field, which is extremely exhausting to climb up and very quick and effortless to get down. The views are, needless to say, breath-taking, especially if you get a clear day. 

The surrounding landscapes are equally as spectacular, with rough and unique shapes and colours. 

Exploring Mount Ruapehu 

Mt Ruapehu is the largest of the three volcanoes with a number of distinct features. One of them, which is well worth the visit, is the Crater Lake. It is a colourful, acidic lake that serves as an indicator for the volcanic mountain activity. Colours vary based on the temperature: from green tones at around 10 degrees C to grey, at 60 degrees C.  The contrasting shades of the lake with colourful volcanic rock, ashes and residual snow makes for a really spectacular view. There are no specific defined routes on the mountain, but given its distinct shape, it is easy to navigate with a help of a map and some common sense. If you are less experienced navigating in mountain terrain, I suggest you find some people who are, or take a GPS device with you, so that you could backtrack your route. 

The Central Volcanoes in Winter 

Ruapehu is a major skiing mountain, where majority of the New Zealand North Island skiers gather. The Mountain is so massive that it contains three ski resorts – Whakapapa and Turoa being the main ones and a third smaller Tukino ski field. It is also possible to do some ski touring outside and above the ski resorts, and explore locations such as the Central Plateau – an incredibly scenic vast Ruapehu summit area with its peaks framing the white shiny fields. 

Ice and mixed climbing is also an option on the Ruapehu mountain, but are both condition-dependent You should consult the New Zealand Alpine Club for more information. 

Image Credit & Copywrite: Br3nda, https://www.flickr.com/photos/taniwha/

Rock Climbing Around the Central Volcanoes 

Where there’s rock, there’s climbing (most of the time). There are several interesting rock climbing options around the Tongariro National Park. Some really good areas include Mangatepopo valley, Whakapapa Gorge and Tukino climbing crags. Most of the climbing in these areas is traditional – requiring gear placements to protect the climb. 

Gear 

The best part about many of the Central Volcano hikes is that they are packed with sights and exciting landforms, but can be done in day, which means that even those visiting for a brief period can have a taste of what it is all about. However, hiking up the volcanoes you are entering alpine environment, and hence you should be ready for any unexpected circumstances. A light backpack for a day will fit food to fuel you for the day (including extra emergency snacks), some extra warm and waterproof layers, a first aid kit with an emergency shelter and sufficient water. Don’t forget a pair of sunnies and sun-block if it’s sunny outside. It’s easy to get severely sunburnt in New Zealand due to the Ozone-layer hole. 

Concluding remarks 

The Central Volcanoes of the North Island are an exceptional and a memorable location. The area is famous for its geology, vegetation, scenery and much more.

After you are finished exploring the volcanoes, make sure to stop at the peaceful waters of Lake Taupo. The area is also very rich in cultural heritage and history – a very special treat. 

Since this is primarily a west coast blog, I like to contribute occasionally from the southeastern mountain community.  I’m currently based in Boone, NC but I recently competed at the Allegheny Highlands Triathlon in Clifton Forge, Virginia.  Hopefully this race report will be a glimpse into the hospitality of the southern racing circuit.

Race day registration for the Allegheny Highlands Triathlon started at 7:15am at the senior center in the tiny community of Sharon.  But at 7:15 in the morning, there wasn’t a soul in the parking lot.  Fog rolled off the river, and it looked like rain.  At 7:20, a pair of headlights appeared and turned into the gravel lot.  Shortly after, a second pair also swung in and parked.  The gun was scheduled for 9:00 am, and this was the crew responsible for advance registration, fashionably almost exactly sort of on time.

 I had dragged my dad along for the race, but there hadn’t been time for him to pre register, hence why we were here so early.  Susan Hutchison, the veteran race director, runs a tight ship though, and we got him signed up and received our race day goodie bags without a hitch.  Between Susan’s leadership and the incredible community support, the Allegheny Highlands Triathlon has become one of the most hospitable races that I’ve ever had the pleasure of competing in.  The race is part of a larger triple crown series sponsored by Devil’s Backbone Brewing Company in the southwestern mountains of Virginia.  This was my second time doing the Allegheny Highlands, but I somehow always miss registration for the earlier races in the series. 

This particular triathlon is unique because instead of a swimming leg, it has a five mile paddle down the Cowpasture River.  It also changes from the traditional “Swim, Bike, Run” format, and instead the order goes “Run, Paddle, Bike.”  This race was perfect for my dad and I because we are terrible swimmers.  We try pretty hard, but it’s miserable, always has been. 

 The race begins with an out and back 5k running leg, starting and finishing at the Sharon Senior Center.  Racers jog through the gravel parking lot on a 100m transition down to the boat ramp and launch onto the Cowpasture River for their paddling leg.  The Cowpasture is fairly calm, with a few ripples to keep it interesting.  Mostly it’s just hard work.  Five miles starts to feel pretty long when you’re going as hard as you can.  I felt pretty good on the run and even ended up hitting the water first, but I was almost immediately overtaken by one of the Allegheny Highland’s own, a local biking legend by the name of Jeremy (I never did get his last name).  I remembered Jeremy from the first year that I had raced.  I remembered him because he had his boat and bike loaded on his car and was slowly pulling out of the parking lot as I was puffing into the finish line.  Hey Jeremy.  So nice to see you again.  Clearly the rugged mountains of southwestern Virginia have served him well in his training and racing career.  He was a perfect gentleman throughout the race, despite winning the entire event by a sizable margin.

 The paddle section ended under a scenic railroad trestle, and members of the local high school track team were waiting to help me pull my boat out of the water.  They insisted that “we’ve got it from here” and motioned me up another short 100m gravel road transition to my bike.  I shed my lifejacket and they loaded the kayak onto a trailer to be hauled into town and deposited at the finish line for me.  The service didn’t end there.  The entire police force of this forgotten mountain valley had turned out to keep the racers safe.  Every intersection on the 13 mile route was guarded by a state trooper or a sheriff’s deputy.  Motorcycle troopers buzzed back and forth over the entire bike route, making sure that everybody knew where they were headed and nobody was harassed by motorists.  The river and bike legs both cut through the steep southern Virginia mountains and offered stunning scenery the entire time. 

The bike leg led us straight into the town of Clifton Forge, a small mountain town that gained most of its economy from the railroad that cut through on its way to bigger hubs throughout the southeastern United States.  We thundered across a highway bridge with the river far below, wound through some stop lights (motioned through by law enforcement of course),  and then whipped down a long downhill finish into the chute.  Unfortunately, we were in a hurry.  My dad had work obligations in the afternoon, so we were unable to stay for the awards ceremony or the meal that was provided for all the participants.  We checked in with Susan one more time before we left and picked up our participant medals.  She had raced the running leg as part of a relay team and was now happily directing food setup in her racing singlet and number.  She was disappointed that we couldn’t stay for the awards, but insisted that we fix a plate of food for the road.  Lasagna, salad, breadsticks, and cookies for dessert.  The town of Clifton Forge knows how to put on a spread.

By the end of the day I was convinced that this was the best race that nobody has ever heard of.  It was unique, it was well run, it was heavily supported by the community, it was won by a freaking local, and they stuffed you full of home cooked food as soon as you crossed the finish line.  What more could you want?  Clifton Forge, Virginia.  Don’t you change a thing, we’ll be back next year.   

“Hong Kong has more to offer than most people realise. Over the past couple years I’ve begun to explore more of what it has to offer and even after a lifetime in HK have only recently seen areas and views for the first time. Saturday morning was once a time to lie in with a pounding headache but is now generally a time to enjoy the outdoors and push further. That’s not to say those hangovers don’t still happen, just maybe not as frequently. Currently, I’m running to take part in ultra-marathons – after all the longer you go for the more of the outdoors you get to see. And that’s why I run.” – Ben Lee

Anyone that lives in Hong Kong knows that finding clear, un-polluted and colourful weather is hard to come by, so to find these moments, this film project took us a year to complete. But when these days do arrive, there is nowhere is the world quite like Hong Kong. It’s famous skyline is what has made Hong Kong so famous but also, one of the only things people think of when the hear of Hong Kong. What people don’t know is that 40% of HK consists of country parks and nature reserves and that you can find spectacular views and trails only 20 minutes from the city. It was our goal to showcase the other side of HK and that is not just a home to one of the worlds most famous skylines.

It’s been less than a year since I told my friend Dylan I could give it all up. I could stop climbing. I can’t stand behind that idea now, but an hour into the approach to the North Six Shooter, half way up a blood red scree field, it seemed to make sense. Yeah, whatever, I can do without this, I thought. The glossy, pocket-sized topo we bought in Moab was mostly for show at this point. We paused in the middle of the crypto-biotic field, looked at the dotted line weaving through the blank space on the map, then continued our terrible game of hopscotch from one cow hoof-print to another.

I imagined what this approach must have felt like in 1979. Thirty-some years later it still feels like a heroic quest. Climbing in the desert distinguishes itself from other styles with the feeling of inadequacy it gives you. It never really feels easy, at least for me. And sure, it feels good to surprise yourself with success sometimes, but the vast majority of days spent climbing in the desert can be summed up in the idea that everyone who came before you was bolder and stronger than you’ll ever be.

We thought the first pitch, an ever-widening finger crack, would be the crux of the route. I think that’s what the topo said, anyway. Dylan started us off in good style, climbing quickly and silently. I sat among the fallen boulders waiting for Dylan to put me on belay and obsessively adjusted my tape gloves. I need a new hobby, I thought. I should have been born a bird. I should start baking. Maybe I could go to grad school? Yeah, I could quit this sport.

Within minutes, I was hanging next to Dylan, reluctantly taking the gear off his harness for the next pitch. After an eternity of hesitating, chalking up and complaining, I relented to pull on some gear. Should have stayed at the Philly rock gym. I climbed through the crux section in a hybrid style climbers call “french free”, a term used to describe the moment when you’ve given up on good style.

Upon arrival at the belay, Dylan was quick to tell me he was scared for the next pitch. I nodded. Fuckingofcourse you are, I thought.

“It’s all good, dude. You can do, like, a bunch of pull-ups.”

At least there were no other parties behind us. We’d surely be holding them up. Afternoon thunderheads swelled above the Abajo Mountains. The third pitch followed a left-trending arch to a sheltered alcove overlooking the previous 300 feet. After a few moments of futzing around, Dylan climbed up to the alcove. From this spot, he called out to me to watch closely. His feet left the perch, swung out towards the canyon, and with a hurried sort of grace, Dylan pulled over the lip toward the last belay.

The relative security of the final squeeze chimney gave me a rekindled confidence. I stormed toward the summit, pausing before I pulled over the edge to howl down at Dylan in utter ecstasy.

I used to think about the immensity of outer space. When I passed people on the sidewalk, I’d wonder how often they consider the boundless universe above their heads. It would frustrate me that no one bothered to acknowledge this mystery. But here, in the desert, taking time to worry about the universe feels unnecessary. Around each bend of the canyon, yet another red canyon, each with it’s own vertical sandstone walls. And each cliff presents a new human-sized crack, purpose-built to test your composure. From our perspective atop the North Six Shooter, the desert stretched on endlessly. We were sitting in the middle of a sandstone fractal.

While the thunderheads ballooned upward, I told Dylan it was true: I could quit climbing, because that’s not the part of this that keeps me coming back. I’m not one to try to wrap the spectrum of emotion we were feeling into one trite summary, but what matters to me is having a sense of scale in this world. It’s easy to narrow your field of vision in every day life, to shrink what matters until it fits onto your hard drive. It’s not as easy to feel small. I’ll keep coming back to climbing because I need the balance of perspective.

Back in the day my friends and I could plan canyoneering trips spur of the moment whenever we noticed a weekend with 0% chance of rain, but since kids came into the picture, we needed to plan a bit more in advance. This trip was planned months in advance in order for our parents to fly out to watch over the household as my husband and I disappeared into the middle of nowhere. Ultimately, the dates that we had chosen happened to coincide with a TON of nonstop rainfall.

We got to experience flash floods first hand and swim through remote slot canyons that in normal conditions barely kept water for more than a couple days out of the year. We had to make nearly all of our anchors since pretty much every one had been washed away in the previous day’s flash flood. Listening to the weather reports on the walkie talkies were a regular occurrence to make sure that we didn’t find ourselves in a dangerous situation. Even though things didn’t go according to plans due to the weather, it was a remarkable experience.

It’s sometimes better to be lucky than good, and that’s how I feel about being lucky enough to meet the outgoing, inspirational, amazing Maggie Odette while bouldering at The Front in Ogden. An accomplished 5.14 climber and yoga instructor in her own right, my family and I were blown away with her grace and technique as she made impossible routes look easy.  I was even more amazed by her kindness as she was gave us subtle, positive instructions as we floundered on the wall.  I didn’t know anything about her background, but I knew she was an exceptional person and would be perfect to feature in a short video.

We got together at the climbing gym one gray day in February, and Maggie was generous and patient as I filmed her climbing the same route over and over in order to get the shots I needed.  We agreed to meet again soon to shoot the interview narrative, but weeks, then months passed as other jobs kept me distracted and busy.

Then one day in late May I got a message from Maggie.  She politely explained that I may want to shoot the interview soon, since she and her husband were leaving town.  When I asked when they were coming back, she told me, “Never.”  They had an adventure to go on and it was going to take them away from Utah for good.

I rearranged my schedule, shot the interview, Maggie left town, I put the video together, and “voila!” here it is.  Thanks for ZEAL Optics for their support.

Enjoy!

Chris

If you’ve climbed for 10 years or 10 minutes, you’re familiar with Yosemite’s towering, granite walls. It is literally the mecca for climbing. By that, I mean that people make pilgrimages there. They train for it. They dream about it. And like any proper holy place, it feels like heaven the first time you drop into the valley and see El Capitan thousands of feet above you.

It makes you feel small and insignificant, but somehow, it is also rejuvenating and empowering. You start to look up those slabs of granite and think, “Maybe I actually could sleep on the edge of a cliff for a week.”

There’s something about the place that just draws you to it. You have to touch it and feel it. You have to run your hands over the bumpy surface. You have to imagine yourself getting above the valley and seeing a view that so few people will ever experience.

If you’ve read ‘My First Summer in the Sierras’ by John Muir, you’ll probably remember the paragraph where he describes climbing down over the cliff’s edge to get a better view. A different view.

“The slope beside [Yosemite Falls] looked dangerously smooth and steep, and the swift roaring flood beneath, overhead, and beside me was very nerve-trying. I therefore concluded not to venture farther, but did nevertheless…While perched on that narrow niche I was not distinctly conscious of danger. The tremendous grandeur of the fall in form and sound and motion, acting at close range, smothered the sense of fear.”

He was compelled to explore these massive walls in the nineteenth century and that same magnetism is still working its magic 200 years later.

People are still searching for a different view of these iconic places.

Before I passed through the gates to the park and before I drove down into ‘the valley,’ I was skeptical. I knew that it would be beautiful, but I was doubtful that it would live up to the hype and the climbing lore. But it was all true.

There are places in this world that will take your breath away. Places that stop you in your tracks. Places that make your heart race. These are the types of places that awaken a desire…no, not desire. A necessity to explore more.

The colossal granite domes, meandering Merced River and deafening waterfalls of Yosemite evoke that necessity to seek more adventure.

I’ve always said, “I would never sleep on a portaledge.” I never saw the need for it and never felt any desire to put myself through the fear and anxiety. Maybe the real problem was that I was never really inspired.

Last week I came home from Damascus, VA where I was given the opportunity of a lifetime – to section hike the Appalachian Trail in Virginia. I had never backpacked or camped for 5 straight days before this, but I didn’t feel nervous. I felt ready to push my comfort zone farther and test all the outdoor skills I had gained from my recent ex-boyfriend. Damascus was a consistent 85 degrees with a bit of humidity, but as soon as I got off the plane something was wrong – Delta had left my pack in Atlanta where I had connected. I was in a panic and I nearly missed my ride back to the hostel I planned on staying in Damascus. Dave, my personal driver, is the town artist, and he assured me there was another woman being picked up that afternoon and that I could hitch another ride and see if my bag was on that flight. So we left the airport empty handed. As we drove, my worried look quickly faded as I was in was in awe of the rolling hills of green. In that moment, I knew that whatever was to happen would happen, pack or no pack. I had the walk through those woods.

When we got to Mt. Rogers Outfitters, Dave informed the guys of the issue and they agreed to take me with them when they picked up Gina (my tent mate, which I didn’t know it at the time). Bill was the driver. He had a lazy eye from a stroke a few years back and a big blonde/white beard. After losing his home and job elsewhere, Bill moved to Damascus in 2000 and now lives with his dog, D.O.G, in a hammock along the Creeper Rail Trail. Bill was my first encounter with trail magic. Bill drove through the hills along the back roads to the Tri-Cities Airport and showed me some beautiful homes, landmarks and lakes. We talked about everything; why I came on this trip, where I was from, things to do in Damascus, and we concluded with how I could move here. At one point Bill tapped my leg, leaned over, and said, “Welcome home.” This moment I will never forget because he was right, I was home. The intimate feel of Damascus, the community surrounding the AT happily welcomed me as a new citizen.

After five enlightening days on the AT where I lived a temporary life covered in sweat, dirt, and deet, I felt like I belonged here. Our guide, Jan, had educated us on all things backpacking and she left nothing out, which seemed daunting at the time but I couldn’t be more appreciative. On The evening of Day 2, Jan told me I was a very strong hiker, and I took that to heart. Jan is a seasoned hiker, mountaineer, and snowboarder, so a compliment from her is quite valuable. From there on, I viewed our trip differently. Rather than being annoyed with our glacial hiking pace, I became more present and viewed this trip as a trail run for my next adventure on the AT.

By Day 5 it hurt to leave and I knew I had to return. The canopies, the ridge lines, the smell of Jefferson National Forest, and the kind encouragement to take a walk through the woods was nothing like I had ever experienced. I was welcomed whole heartedly; I had found my untainted little town that revolved around the love of the surrounding forest, and I was home.By Sunday afternoon, before I flew home, I had lunch with Jan and she helped me map out my next AT trip in October 2015. We mapped out the state of Georgia, but then moved on to central VA because of its beauty in the fall months. Jan showed me a hostel that she had stayed at and where to find a shuttle from the airport on the ATC website. I was so grateful that Jan was sharing her wealth of knowledge with me and belief in me; in that moment I felt more confident and capable than I ever had in the last couple months.

I couldn’t be more ready to leave this life behind and continue to walk through the woods.

This trip was a sobering one for both me and my climbing partner, Jason. Both of us have rather gung-ho attitudes about most of the things we do, and this was not the correct approach for Mount Larrabee. Described as a Class 3 Scramble, it’s supposed to be a moderate to low danger trek up a small vein of quartz in a ravine to the top. Unfortunately for us, we began our approach on a much different route. We began clambering up the South East Ridge, seeings as there was a fairly worn trail headed that way from our camp.

After about a half hour of climbing, we realized that we may have made a bad decision on our choice of route. Around an hour and a half in, we found ourselves on a very near-vertical face, with about a 200 meter traverse to our left to where we could see the correct route up the ravine and a rather sizable (200-300 foot) drop beneath us. Slowly but surely, we edged across the face and finally were able to drop into our correct route.

The iron-rich rock of Larrabee has a very pretty red color, but makes for incredibly brittle and treacherous chunks of rock that pull loose without warning; many such chunks fell towards us from above without even being touched. Throughout the entire climb, all it would have taken for one of us to fall (and probably die) would have been a foot hold popping loose. Luckily no such incident happened, and Jason and I had a very rewarding view at the top with a more surefire route to get down. The North Cascades have never looked so beautiful as they did from 7,868 feet with a pretty lucrative ascent in our back pockets; nothing makes you realize how small you are like a mountain.

From where I was stood, balanced on top of a huge pile of dead trees stretching for 200 meters across the front of an old damn, I could see no good way forward.  My two year old, Eli, rested his hands on top of my head, and solemnly surveyed the scene from his perch on my shoulders.  We were searching for a new swimming hole, and had spent the past half hour thrashing through weeds, unsuccessfully attempting to avoid the poison ivy lurking in the underbrush, climbing over boulders, and balancing on logs.  We found an old damn which funneled water into a disused/crumbling hydroelectric plant, and the original thought was that if we walked out this damn towards the middle of the river, we might find a good spot in front of the damn where the water backed up.  The massive log jam in front of us, the product of decades of floods and storms, proved my intuition was wrong.

It was at that moment that I realized that the word “explore” really just means “to make lots of mistakes.”

I said as much to Eli, who really just wanted to swim.  He digested the information philosophically, then informed me we were “esplorering.”  I took that as his blessing to continue.

We backtracked (back down the damn, over the huge logs), then crossed from the damn to an island on a fallen tree.  A short walk and a short wade later, we found a beautiful, isolated gravel bar next to a section of river that was the perfect depth with a sandy bottom, and enough movement in the water to keep it fresh and not stagnant.  Freshwater mussels littered the river bottom, and small fish flitted from eddy to eddy.  We splashed and swam until it was time to head home for dinner.  Eli fell asleep on the way home, which is as good a measure of an expedition’s success as any.

The whole experience caused me to reflect a bit on exploration.  At the time I was only half serious when I said exploration really just means making lots of mistakes.  Yet as I thought about it more, I realized that making mistakes is a huge part of exploration. In order to make my musings more formal, I looked up the actual meaning of explore in the dictionary.  This is what I found:

EXPLORE:   A transitive verb. 1)  To investigate, study, or analyze. 2)  To become familiar with by testing or experimenting. 3)  To travel over (new territory) for adventure or discovery. 4)  To examine, especially for diagnostic purposes. -Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Definition #3 is a no-brainer, especially for my purposes.  But I think I like #2 best; in a nutshell, its exactly what we were doing. We figured there would be a good waterhole somewhere in the area we were exploring, and set off to test our hypothesis. Failure and mistakes are inherent to the process of exploration.  As famously pointed out by The Princess Bride, ”Anyone who says differently is selling something.”  A brief glance at history is enough to prove that exploratory expeditions seldom go completely as planned.  Look at my favorite explorer, Ernest Shackleton, who was well aware of this fact.  He famously recruited men for his expedition to Antarctica with a newspaper advertisement that read “Men wanted for hazardous journey.  Low wages, bitter cold, long hours of complete darkness.  Safe return doubtful.  Honor and recognition in event of success.”  He lost his ship to the ice, and his crew had to survive on whatever they could until rescued.  Hardly auspicious, yet we view Shackleton as a successful explorer.  Why?  Because of how he responded. Since making mistakes is an inherent part of exploration, fearing those mistakes shouldn’t hold you back.  Instead, the best explorers focus on responding to mistakes and challenges in positive and well-considered ways.

Back to Shackleton.  After he lost his ship, he undertook a daring voyage in an open boat to an isolated whaling village to get help for his men.  He ended up rescuing all of them. We’re not all Shackleton, or J. Michael Fay, or David Livingstone, or Ed Viesters.  But we can explore nonetheless. Because explore is just a big word that means to make lots of mistakes.

Sometimes stoke arrives unexpectedly.  I found Teton Dam almost by accident, after browsing around Mountain Project to see if we could climb anything between our planned stops of the Mountain Brewers Festival in Idaho Falls and a weekend of biking in the Big Hole range near Driggs.  Ever since we stumbled upon Teton Dam on that trip, we’ve been back every year. Not so much because the climbing is world class, as it’s a fact that I can’t seem to say no to an unloved piece of rock, no matter how chossy it may be. Rather, the Teton Dam presents a high quality fun factor that makes the sheer experience of climbing, where few other areas do, even more satisfying.

If you’ve never heard of it, Teton Dam is a really interesting breakdown of human ingenuity that failed catastrophically in 1976, leaving 11 people and 13,000 head of cattle dead. Despite the tragedy, it also rolled some super interesting boulder problems into the Snake River Plain.  The fact that these rocks were blasted into a mostly flat canyon also means the landings are universally great.

This area is a bit unique as it is almost invisible until you are standing at the lip of the lower Teton River Canyon.  You will wonder aloud as you approach how you’re going to boulder in a cornfield, but have faith.  Arriving at the Dam, you’ll need a stout 4WD vehicle to access the river bed.  If that isn’t an option, you’ll just need to hike down about a mile from the top of the Dam.  The camping options are plentiful once you’re down, but keep an eye out for locals who mostly make the trip to shoot things at the opposing canyon wall.

Unlike our local super classics in Little Cottonwood, Utah, the welded tuff rock actually presents holds!  This means that Teton Dam can be a satisfying bouldering destination for groups of mixed ability.  The concentration is definitely in the moderate grades of v2-5, but if you’re looking for stout problems they exist both in the form of established and yet-to-be-sent climbs.

I’ve also appreciated this spot as my life has changed from roving mountain bum to semi-responsible parent.  We have found climbs perfect for a 3 year old and plenty of shaded spots for a brand new kiddo as well.  One word of caution for those considering a family trip: the canyon gets chilly at night.  On our last trip the forecasted low was 52, but the mercury fell to 28 overnight rather unexpectedly.  The result was a double sleeping bag filled with four people and a Coonhound, but we survived.

Despite the feeling that you get when climbing at Teton Dam – that you discovered the whole place – it’s worth mentioning the massive effort by locals Dean and Heather Lords, who have probably spent more time brushing than climbing since they began to explore the area in 2004.

The Teton Dam Checklist:

• A stout 4WD vehicle
• Standard car camping setup and a 20 degree or warmer sleeping bag
• Firewood – driftwood is hit or miss, don’t risk it
• Multiple Pads – Highball opportunities abound and are worth it!
• Tape – unpolished rock is good for finger slicing
• Rod & reel – depending on the time of year, we’ve found decent trout at the dam

A few months ago, I headed out to the Northern Cascades with a few great friends, Lizzie and Sylvan, to lead some 15 and 16 year old kids through a backpacking adventure. We had a few bumps along the way, but I ended up so extremely blessed with one of the most beautiful hikes I have ever been on.

Sauk Mountain starts off as a winding road that you take up to the trail head–seemingly endless turns and twists! But, eventually, you hit the car park and see a stunning view of the valley. Unfortunately, this particular day didn’t start off as we had planned–one of our kids got sick and had to stay back at camp with Sylvan–so Lizzie and I took the rest of the group on a morning hike up Sauk. With fingers crossed, the hike began. I could already tell that it would be a good one.

A thick fog dragged along the mountain side, drifting in and out of the granite slabs sticking out of the hills, floating over hundreds upon thousands of fresh wildflowers. It felt like a dream. The morning dew still sat gently on the flower beds and as we trudged up and up the mountain. The fog got thicker, only leaving momentary glimpses of the valley below us. It felt like infinity! There were small parts of the hike that took you under giant redwoods, and back out into fields of flowers. It was straight out of a fairy tale. How did we get here!? As we reached the tree line, snow started to appear towards the peak. Still in a thick fog, still in complete disbelief. We sat at the top by the cairn, took out our bags of trail mix, and reflected.

The climb back down was just as surreal as before. Finally, we reached the van, fog almost cleared as we glared down the valley and back up the mountainside where we had just came. We discussed the surreal feelings we all shared, the blessing that the hike was, and the gratefulness we all felt. Sometimes all you need is a little bit of mother nature’s touch.

We slipped back into the van, put on some Ben Howard, and followed the twists and turns back down to the main road.

I follow the footsteps ahead of me, wandering up the rock garden of an approach to Bear Canyon, my legs whining as we walk all of a half mile uphill to the crag. I curse my present lack of athleticism, and continue wheezing my way up the trail.

God I need to go for a freaking run once and a while. 

The slab is beautiful, half-lit by the sun that wanders up the canyon as it sets. My muscles and my mind reawaken, moving fluidly from pocket to pocket up the sandstone. Up and over, above the anchors, I grab a seat and take in my first climb in fresh air in far too long.

Soooooooo here’s some phoots from my recent trip to the mountainous Everest base camp in Nepal.

Stunning photography from a trek into the Everest base camp in Nepal.

I became the first person to climb the route over my shoulder in a single day by myself. It is called the Triple Direct. It goes up the dead middle of El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. The name comes from it combining three routes. You start on The Salathe, go to The Muir, and end on The Nose.

I reached the end of the Salathe portion which they call The Free Blast in 3 hours and 18 minutes.  At this point the route starts getting a little steeper and more difficult.

I am told it was 106 degrees in Yosemite Valley on Sunday; not ideal for climbing El Capitan. I choose The TD because I could climb for the first part of the day in the shade. Then the route goes slightly right around the corner into upper dihedrals so you get late in the day shade too. If I timed it right, I’d only be in the sun for a few hours. Predominately this worked out for me. It’s tough for me to get time to do something big and also climb the days before to get “tuned in,” so I really wanted to use this day, hot or not. Thursday and Friday I climbed with my friend Derrick Lindsey on Tuolumne granite, so that was a great time to get re-familiarized with the rock.

I started at 5:48 am in the morning and topped out at 11:17 pm. I made it back to my family van at 2:09 am. And back to my bed at 3 am. I woke up at 4:15 am to start on Sunday so I did my “BTB” (Bed-to-Bed) time in under 23 hours! I hope your Sunday was equally adventuresome, or maybe you took a rest day since your Saturday was full of fun.

I will be sharing stories next Tuesday, July 22nd, 2014 in Concord at Brenden Theaters.  http://bit.ly/1nEsaxh

I don’t know when I am going to die.

I intend to make the most of my limited time by doing the things I love. It is my life goal to have as much damn fun as I can before I go. I want to experience everything our awesome planet has to offer: from climbing the bulletproof granite of Yosemite, to exploring the frozen tundra of Antarctica.

#82 Snowboard 20 days in a season

Four years ago on a sailing trip, my friends and I started talking about Jimmy Buffet and how great it would be to have a cheeseburger and margarita with him in paradise. We came up with other things that we wanted to do before we died and jotted them down on the back of a notepad. My bucket list was born.

Sailing trip in Florida 4 years ago

Over the years, my bucket list has grown from 1 to 261 (and growing) things that I want to do before I die. It acts as a compass to keep my life exciting. I am constantly stoked by knowing that there is always a new adventure waiting for me on the horizon, I make sure of it. Whether it is outrunning a swarm of bees, or being a ski bum for a season, I always have a new adventure to be excited about.

#222 Ice Climb

I started a blog for my list in August 2012 so I would not have to keep re-reading my atrocious handwriting. My bucket list covers a wide variety of challenges and personal goals. It consists mostly of adventurous items, but there are also a few inside jokes, like hiding bouillon cubes in my friend’s showerhead. I now document all my accomplishments with a short post so I will be able to look back and reflect on all the cool things I have done. Along the way I have also been able to connect with people around the world who share the same interests.

#209 Indian Creek

So far, my bucket list has actually had a pretty big impact on my life. Now I always say yes to new things, and to any adventure (even if my grades will suffer). If it weren’t for my bucket list I would never have started climbing, I can’t imagine how empty my life would be without it. Feel free to check out my bucket list at http://jakesbucketlist.wordpress.com/. I know I will never do everything on the list, but I am making progress and having a blast while doing it. I’m always looking for new adventures, so please let me know if you have any rad ideas.

 Stay Stoked!

-Jake Dickerson

Sand in my palms, rubbing against the wetness of my shirt, I brushed myself off and attempted to shake my mind back into calmness.

I always believed that the world becomes more acute and clear when in the face of fear.  Fear is always a relative term.  Some people are afraid of flying. Some are afraid of falling.  At this moment, I was afraid of both.

“Lam! Get in the corner.”  Hopefully he heard me.

I braced my hand up against the microwave size chunk of stone, perched and ready to fly.  I had made the mistake of touching the hold on this block.  It shifted it loose.  And now the only thing between this 60 pound hunk of calcium carbonate and my partner’s head was my outstretched arm holding it in place.

The drainage leading to the north face of Notch Peak

Two days earlier we were busting down the old highways through the West Desert of Utah on our way out of the incoming rainstorm that was soaking the Salt Lake Valley.  It was Memorial Day Weekend and we were on the search for solitary confinement and to rid ourselves of the urban grind. We thought we would find no one in the House Range – a north to south mountain range located 3 hours south/southwest of the Utah Wasatch Front.  The main climbing objective was to do a route on the North Face of Notch Peak – a towering 2,200 foot limestone wall, as well as a few of the granite routes located in West Sawtooth Canyon.  As we turned down the last dirt road headed to the camp, the sun had descended, and we could see the flickering of campfires.

“Well … at least whoever is out here is of the same breed” – the wandering climber who thought they had the scoop on everyone else.

As we pulled up, we discovered it was primarily a group of friends of ours along with a few other climbers we would come to be quite familiar with. With Lam’s truck we were able to camp higher up the drainage as we could manage the section of road the clan of Subarus couldn’t.  We tried out the Black Diamond Mega-light Mid tent and were super psyched at the amount of interior space.  We laid our heads down, psyched for the early morning start and the immensity of the route before us.

I awoke to the sound of another party of climbers passing our tent and making their way up into the drainage headed to Notch Peak.  The skies were a dark grey, it had rained some that night, but the forecast was for clearer skies.  We threw back some water and cookies, and started up the trail.

The upper amphitheater on the approach to Notch Peak

2 miles in and 2,000 vertical feet gained along the trail – the rain began to set in.  The sky opened up, and the seemingly harmless drizzle became a downpour.  I wouldn’t be surprised if this region got less than a dozen storms all year – and yet we found ourselves hiding beneath a massive juniper, waiting.  We saw the party ahead of us, they had opted for a route on the lower tier “Western Hardman” – they sat huddled at the base of the route. 

We called it for the day.  Often, we are bested by the unpredictable powers of Mother Nature, and we must submit our resignation in the face of its unrelenting onslaught.  Besides, granite dries much quicker than the porous and seeping limestone.

Back at camp, we slept.  We let the soft rapping of rain on the tight tent whisk us back into our mid-morning slumber.  Awoken to the silence and the rising heat, I stepped out and ran my hand against the nearby boulders to find them quite dry.

We took the short hike into Sawtooth Canyon and simul-climbed an amazing 5.6 – 3 pitch classic – “Candyland”. This protruding and prominent dike runs for 250 feet across a dome of pink colored stone.  We launched up a few other bolted dike routes, a classic 5.9 and a deceptive 5.11+ with wicked layaways and lunges. The day was late, we cooked up some BLT’s, drank beer, and readied ourselves for another try at Notch Peak in the morning.

Classic 5.0 dike route in West Sawtooth Canyon

Again, I awoke to the sound of a party passing our tent, an hour earlier this time, before the sun had graced us with its presence.  We high tailed it up the trail, making better time than the morning prior.  We passed a party headed to the north face about half way up the trail, they seemed discouraged – we wanted to be cordial and stay behind them, but they were moving quite slowly and we wanted to be up on top by a decent hour.

Rapping down the via-ferrata portion of the approach, in the waning morning light

Near the end of the approach, the trail narrowed into a wash and a series of boulder hops, fixed rope lines, and a via-ferrata – essentially a rebar ladder – led to the traverse that dropped us at the base of the route.  We had gone from camp to the base in a seemingly brisk 1.5 hours.  The guidebook gives the expectation at 2.5 hours.  We were stoked.  We flipped a coin to see who would lead first.  Lamwise the Brave got the honors.

And then the nightmarish journey began.  Lam made fair work of the pitch but had to climb slower than usual due to chossy and loose rock.  The bolts are also quite spaced and it took effort to move through sections of climbing in order to safely move on.  As I followed the pitch, I ripped off a toaster size block of stone. I was concerned, but unwearied.  I made it to the belay, gave Lam solid props on the lead and we both knew what we were in for.

Lam on the first pitch of “Book of Saturdays” – north face of Notch Peak

I managed up the next crux pitch in poor style, but the rock quality, odd bolt placements, and sandy holds made this pitch quite more serious than it would have otherwise been.  I brought Lam up and he swung up the next pitch, quite easily, but, as before, wrought with piss rock and poor climbing.  Adventure limestone at its finest.

I made it to the belay, we swapped gear, and I took off on the sharp end.

The fourth pitch and first pitch of decent climbing

This next pitch inspired in me that not all of this climbing was going to be trash.  I delicately climbed the clean gear protected dihedral, it felt good to pull on sound-ish rock, and not have to expect such heinous looseness.  But I suppose I let my mind believe this too quickly.

At the terminus of the dihedral, more loose rock and choss.  I placed my feet precisely and chose my holds with much discretion.  I clipped on of the few bolts on this pitch, pulled up into a massive hold and reached up.

The loose block that subsequently shifted from its perch was massive in the relative sense.  The same shape and size of a microwave, sharp edged, and weighing close to 60 lbs – it was what I would refer to as a death block.  I pushed back at the stone, held it in place.  I yelled to Lam to hide in the corner at the belay.  I instinctually and as manageable as I could muster, let the block loose with a hard shove to my right.

It sailed for a moment.  Crashed into a ledge a few meters below me, exploded into two large pieces and went flying.  It ricocheted down the wall and vaporized as it hit the base.

I paused. Waiting for something.

Lam finally yelled and laughed “Woooooooo!”

I’d had it.  I down climbed a few meters to the bolt, placed a bail carabiner and told Lam to lower.

I reached the belay.

“It’s good to see your face!” Lam said.

“It’s good to see my face too.”

We both took a second to reconcile the moment.  He claimed one of the two pieces had come within a few feet of him on its gravity flight to oblivion.

I set up the rope to rap.  We made the hard choice of knowing when enough is enough.  There were new days to see and greater adventures to prospect.

At the base of the wall, we drank our water with a stiff fervor. As we headed down the “trail” we kept recalling the incident and our prosperity. We made it back to camp before noon.

After an event like that, it seems that the world becomes a bit more acute to the senses and the reality of each situation sits more heavy on the mind.  The sensibility in our actions, the choice to bail and climb another day  – as rational and correct as it was – sat with a bit of disdain in our heads.  It’s not an ego bash, but no one wants to effectively choose to fail.  But is it failure in the traditional sense? No. And here with hindsight, I find myself in the same reality.

Lam crushing the classic “Anti-Crack” 11c West Sawtooth Canyon, Utah

We climbed a mega classic line that afternoon with friends.  The rout – “Anti-Crack” 5.11 – is a phenomenal quarts dike, protruding out, the width of a handcrack and featured to the point of passage.  We all took laps; I whipped off of the increasingly warming holds and respectfully enjoyed the flight.  We drank our fill of cold beer and appreciated the small stuff. 

The sunset was quite cliché that night, setting out over the vast west desert, cascading gold and scarlet through the vacant spaces.

I slept calm and fair.

It seems that it often necessary for me to reproduce a sensation in order to finally cleanse myself of the emotion.  After the previous day’s challenge, we wanted to find ourselves on a clean slate.

The route we had simul-climbed earlier that weekend, “Candyland” seemed like a perfect retribution.  We decided it was easy enough and having now scoped it out, we could solo.  Our friend Derek joined us as we slowly, like ants on a log, climbed up the projection.  In the silence, only broken by the soft sound of our breaths and the whip of the wind, the tranquility of the environment overwhelmed.

Solo send train on “Candyland” 5.6 West Sawtooth Canyon

We said goodbye to our friends, we packed up, got back into the workhorse of Lam’s Tacoma and barreled down the dirt roads back to civilization. 

By the end of it all, we had increased our mental repertoire, found the limits of our rationality, and perpetuated our drive for the challenge.  I remembered somewhere along the trip, in a moment of distinct clarity, I had reminded myself of who I am – and who I would like to be.  Tomorrow -  I forever beckon its welcome.

Me taking the whip on “Anti-Crack”

The Roulette Dealer decided that my money was no longer needed in my wallet.  Or at least it seemed that way by the veracity of which he kept hitting Red while my bets sat lonely on Black.  If it weren’t for the bottomless Mimosas, the shittiest all-you-can-eat buffet imaginable, and the deprecating way the dealer kept taking my chips – I wouldn’t feel nearly as welcome.

Welcome to the desert. I’ll let myself in.

As all worthwhile trips appropriately start – with psych as a fuel and full strength beer for lubricant – we wandered our way in search of sunshine and warm stone.  I’ve decided now that these midwinter trips are the cure for “Gym Climbing Fever” – and as for all trips with seemingly dynamic objectives they prove to always be beneficial for the psych.

Moes Valley, UT – one of the prestigious bouldering destinations in the west, a crater like field of featured blocs, is an endless playground limited only by the durability of the skin on your fingertips.  Andrew Lam, Anthony Hedberg, Martine Nichols, Marley Nelson, Jade Martinsen, our puppy Luna and I comprised our clan to tackle some well-earned pebble wrestling.   After warming our limbs, removing our shirts (briefly) Hedberg, Lam, and Marley gave a good showing on Linder’s Roof – a classic V9 that followings a series of decent holds to a heinous cross.

Lam making the crux move on Linders Roof

Hedberg repeated Israil direct (V8) – with much ease.  Beyond being too strong for his own good, he has the beastliest shoulders of anyone I know.

We made our rounds, repeated some easier classics and joined a crew mobbing Dead Rabbit (V10).   This problem is amazing with small but positive holds through an overhanging face.  With decent beta spray, some kneebarring trickery, and vocal support, Lam made a good showing climbing all the moves but unable to link from start to end.

With the remaining tingling feeling in our hands, we switch gears and headed to Snow Canyon State Park.  Without a guidebook, my vague glance at a topo a few days earlier was all we had to go on as we searched for the classic route, Living on the Edge.  Located immediately off of the road that runs through the park, it wasn’t hard to find. The route trends on the edge of a large alcove following amazing patina plates and jugs.  Being so close to the road, we attracted a large crowd of sightseers who jeered us on and took photos.

At 5.10, this route has moved its way up the charts in my book to the status of ultra-classic.  We made quick work of the 3 pitches, laughed at the hollowness on some of the holds on the upper pitches, and rappelled.  Multi pitch sport climbing at its best and I highly recommend it.

Thanks to the generosity of Jade’s grandparents, we were put up in their vacation home in Mesquite, NV.  We cruised down through the Virgin River Gorge, and after a hefty meal of Mexican food, we threw down for a night of light “grand larceny”.  After a short hour of straight brutality by a humorless dealer with the first name “Lino” – we settled in back at the house and correctly decided another round of the “Martini Chugging Contest” WASN’T in order.

Warming up at the Cathedral

In the morning we slammed back homemade breakfast burritos, bloody marys, and racked our quickdraws.  We ventured out to Welcome Springs in search of the infamous Cathedral and desert limestone.  It’s in the moments on the dirt road heading out to a new area when the imagination burns and the diminutive sense of adventure and potential begin to manifest.  Followed by the moment when the beauty of the stone reveals itself and these emotions culminate.  Photos only share a fraction of the experience.  It’s the realness of being there, this portion that is left in the heart.

The Infamous Cathedral

We clambered up into the cave of stone, covered on all sides by paths of most-resistant and fixed draws.  We traced the lines with our fingers and imagined the strength expressed during each climbers effort to triumph on the routes.

We warmed up. Lam set his sights on flashing the project we came for, Spring Loaded, an inspiring 13a that climbs to the edge of the cave’s left flank.  He floated through the lower 12b section of the route, only stymied by a few in-obvious movements, and rested at the mid anchor.  He loaded up and got dynamic clipping the remaining 3 bolts to the upper anchor.  First 5.13!! Psyched!

Lam hucking it on his way to the anchor on Spring Loaded, 13a

As we drifted back on the freeway headed to Salt Lake, another amazing trip with great friends logging its way into my memory,  I could only bask in the stoke for the future. The mantra stands true: on wards and upwards into the great unknown, with good company close at hand, and new experiences to share.

Ever since laying my hands on Chris Davenport’s Fifty Classic Ski Descents in North America, I have been dying to ski-mountaineer in the La Sals. With the Wasatch snowpack being a sugary heap of facets, my dad and I decided it was the perfect time to chase down some 12k peaks in the La Sals and get in some climbing at the same time.

Winter in Moab is the greatest kept state secret. Rather than dodging RVs full of big-bellied heartland-ers and heavily-accented Euros in 100+ degree weather, we found ourselves utterly alone at Wall Street, Moab’s most popular climbing crag. Classic trad-cracks and inventive sport climbs that usually have teams queued up at the bottom, were empty and eager to take my gear. While it was far from balmy, sandstone retains heat well and with the sun on the rock, my hands felt good in-between red blocks of stone. Looking out, the La Sals beckoned and my heart traipsed about, happy at the prospect of skin-assisted exploration.

On our first morning, I woke up to an extremely ill-timed and nasty bout of Strep but was determined to head into the La Sals even if it was just for a short tour. While the weather was clear in Moab proper, as we began our ascent to Geyser Pass, the sky overhead became blanketed with shifting cumulous clouds. We watched in astonishment as the car thermostat dropped to 0 degrees. At the well-used parking lot, we layered-up aggressively against the sharp cold and vicious wind. Despite the less-than-bluebird conditions and my rapidly diminishing health, we toured up to some promising looking open trees on the North-west banks of Mt. Mellenthin. At the end of our ascent, we looked down upon the red bluffs below. The juxtaposition of the harsh mountain environment and the dessert landscape below was shocking. On the descent we were gratified with some surprisingly good snow and playful tree turns.

While I had only been in the range for a few hours, already I was impressed by the wildness and dramatic setting of the la Sals. While Backcountry Skiing in Utah and a few other sources (including moutainman extraordinaire, Alex Quitiquit) had provided decent beta, we hadn’t expected to meet such challenging conditions in this odd-ball grouping of outcast peaks. I couldn’t believe the potential of the place. I spent the rest of the day urging my immune system to pick up the fight while hiking about an eerily empty Arches National Park.

The next morning, I felt quite a bit stronger and my dad and I decided to head in the direction of Mellenthin and Laurel Peaks on the off-chance that the weather and snowpack would support a summit attempt. While the skies were clear and the wind seemed to have died down significantly, it was much colder than the previous day.

The local avalanche report gave the current temperature on the top of Pre-Laurel Peak (which was on our route) at a balmy -9 degrees. We were not deterred. Heck, I go ice climbing which is always MISERABLY cold. So, we packed like yetis and began the steady ascent up the “Laurel Highway” climbing trail. While the climb was forgiving and gradual, the temperature in shaded tree areas dropped to around -20. Frozen in the extremities, we continued to climb until we broke tree line.

On the unprotected ridgeline, gusts of powerfully pissed-off cold air tried their best to push us off the mountain. Determined to at least get on top of something before the clouds blew in again, we pushed on to the summit of Laurel (12,271 ft). We debated continuing but upon looking down the connecting ridgeline to Mellenthin, we determined that the peaks had been blown bare to the point where boot-packing would be our only mode of travel…for the next several miles.

Yeah, we left that experience for the spring and more stable avalanche conditions.

After reaching our lack-luster peak, we quickly pulled skin and enjoyed excellent snow down through the “North Woods.” With white noses and foggy heads, we bundled into the car feeling sobered. The La Sals were no joke! The skiing was straightforward but the conditions were truly alpine. Naturally, I was psyched! Who knew?! Southern Utah!

In the spring, this place will be paradise.

The next day, we had a good breakfast and headed back to Arches, keen on wandering around an momentarily empty park. After an excellent hike to Tower Arch combined with some stellar bouldering en route (Note: if dancing up inflated pebbles is your thing-check this place out! Huge potential), we headed to Baker slabs for some techy friction climbing at the back end of the park.

Tired and still coughing, I spent the drive back to Park City going over maps trying to piece together a route that would allow for a traverse of all of the major La Sal summits. Come spring-It’s happening. For now, keep praying for more snow.