I took the month of January off from climbing to rest so these entries all came from friends.

1/21/2001

The following was written by Steven Cherry

The Adirondike, NEI 3+
Avalanche Pass
21 January 2001
Bob Maurizi and Steven Cherry

I'm not much of a hiker, and I haven't been doing too well in very cold weather. So I shouldn't have been Bob's first choice for a partner this past weekend; he wanted to climb at Avalanche Lake. But the main issue for him turned out to be that I had to be home on Sunday.

No problem, he finally says, we'll go up Friday night, sleep at Adirondak Loj, get up at 4:00, hike the 4.4 miles and get there by 8:00 or so, do some routes, then hike out, presumably in the dark, and drive back home, four hours away. Right.

Despite having been in the Adirondacks a half-dozen times each year for the last half-dozen years, I have never been to Avalanche Lake. I've never even been to Adirondak Loj. (The spelling of "Loj" - and the missing 'c' in Adirondak, for that matter - come from the 19th century upstate New York utopian movement and its promotion of phonetic spelling.)

Bob and I meet in New Paltz to leave a car and drive up together. Miraculously I find my portable alarm clock so we don't have to rely on my watch alarm. We get to the loj a little after 11:00, "luckily" the caretaker or ranger or whoever was on a little patrol, so he could let us know that sleeping in the car or parking lot isn't allowed. You would think for your $7.00 parking fee you'd be entitled to. We drive ten pointless minutes away, finding a good pullout on an obscure side road. Fuck it's cold.

4:00. Why am I doing this? Oh, yeah, I wanted to do more hiking this winter anyway. Get out, stay away from the gym, do more aerobic stuff so that I don't fall apart in the Tetons this summer. Fuck it's cold.

We start hiking about 5:00. Fuck it's cold. Getting smarter about this, I start without too many layers. Fuck it's cold. Just get moving. Smarter still, Bob starts with almost no layers. After about twenty minutes we each shed one more. I have a bit more to go, but any more, and Bob's going to be naked.

The trail is beautifully groomed and mostly cross-country skied. It's packed down nicely, we were told the base was only about 12 inches anyway. We don't have much weight, just basic ice gear and a rope each, no rock gear. There's just one really steep section the whole way to Avalanche Lake, and it's short. Otherwise it's just gentle up and down, not many switchbacks. Of the 4.4 miles, it's broken up into four nice quarters, 0.9 to a lean-to and signage, 2.1 to Marcy Dam, another mile or so to a major trail junction. If I wanted to get out in the winter more, this was a textbook day.

At about 6:00, in best rec.climbing style, I experimentally turn off my headlamp. I can see well enough to keep moving, but the light really helps choose the best place to step. I turn it back on. By 6:45 I don't need it at all, though the sun really hasn't come up yet. Fuck, it's still cold.

We pass the most recent slide, a couple of years ago. Bob had told me about it, but the reality is wilder than I had pictured it. A section of the cliff next to the trail at least as wide as a football field is long, and about 500 yards high, had shed its skin of trees and topsoil. Apparently the trail was a mess but it's all cut and cleared away now. For the first time in a while, I don't begrudge a user fee, even without sleeping rights. This trail has been magnificently maintained, it's certainly worth $7.00 for us not to be postholing or bushwhacking.

There's now a medium-high wall on the left side of the trail made up of the sides and tops and bottoms of trees and dirt. Occasionally you can see a tree that looks normal and vertical, except the roots are at the top. At least one is on the far side of the trail, so it must have arced like an arrow, embedding itself head first. I look at the slide itself briefly; it might be a nice snow climb, but I don't linger, because it's fucking cold.

We get to the lake about 7:30. The sun is up, the lake is narrow left-to-right, and long in front of us. Rock walls rise up from either side. In the distance, at the other end of the lake, some of the High Peaks rise up prominently. Blue sky, dark brown granite rock walls, the white of the snow and the crystal of the ice, if Ansel Adams had spent a winter in the Adirondacks the photos would rival his Sierra ones.

I remember my friend Mike telling me that this is his favorite winter place. The hike has been worth all the work and fucking cold and already-aching calves, I don't much even care what we climb today, which is a good thing, because not much is in. There's a two-pitch climb that isn't fat enough to even contemplate. The Trap Dike looks okay, but apparently it always would at the bottom, high up on the slab section and above is where the often-thin going is. The Adirondike is in but not much else is.

Bob is greviously disappointed. I'm just happy to be there. Happy and fucking cold.

We walk across the lake, though there aren't any other footprints, everyone seems to be walking on the edges. We find out why as our boots push down into slush. The lake must be frozen and we figure out it must have rained this week and then snowed, the snow cover trapping and insulating the rainwater from freezing. It's only about six inches deep and we trudge across.

We talk about the Trap Dike. Bob has done it twice, I obviously haven't, and it's what I most wanted to do, but I'm worried about the top section and also climbing with our packs, snowshoes and all. The dike is about 2000 feet of climbing. It has little protection in its hardest spots, which aren't hard (the book rates it NEI 2-3), so it's usually soloed. Climbing at that level doesn't bother me but I'm worried about potentially soloing verglass on rock, the deductive evidence of frozen rain and thinness high on the route is impossible to ignore.

We put further discussion on hold and posthole up to the Adirondike. The route is supposed to be one long pitch of NEI 3+. Bob's never done it. Short vertical sections back off, not to ledges, but angled stances. The ice is mostly yellow. There's an overhanging rock wall on the right side, and the right edge of the dike has rock showing through, but the left side looks fat. The ice in the middle seems okay though a bit chandeliered. I stand as far to the right as I can while keeping Bob's line good, and he heads up on double 9s.

I had brought my new belay coat, which I had never used before, and for the first time all morning I wasn't fucking cold. But it couldn't help my hands except indirectly, and despite chemical warmers at my wrists they would eventually get cold. Fucking cold. Note to self: Maybe some big warm mittens for belaying.

Bob's lead takes a long time. He's taken up about eight screws, a lot for one pitch, but the ice clearly sucks for pro and he's going to make up in quantity what the gear will lack in quality. Constantly, dinnerplates and other ice falls off to my left. As I'll find out when I follow, for much of the pitch, off to the left there's a thin crust above an aerated icy-snow mix, then bullet-hard ice below. To the right is just the bullet-hard ice. When you punch through the crust you're pretty securely placed, but it's hard to trust such a tool placement. I did, but I wasn't leading.

With about 20 feet left I warn Bob, it isn't clear he can really make out the words though. He takes a long time getting set up,and my hands have been cold for a while now, despite alternating them on the rope and windmilling them one at a time. I wonder if he's had to stop before the anchor and whether I'll have to lead through to it. I wonder how good the belay anchor is, I have no plans on falling but as the question goes: Did you plan to solo this when you headed out today? Mostly though I wonder how long it will take for my hands to warm up.

Bob finally calls off belay. I exchange coat for shell and head up. At about 50 feet, I cop a crummy stance and let my left hand warm up. Fuuuuccccck, that burns! It takes a couple of minutes for the pain to subside. My calves are aching from the mediocre stance; the left hand is okay, now for the right. I climb up a short ways to another so-so stance. F Fuuuuccccck fuuuuccccck FUUUUCCCCK, that burns so much. I climb up some more, now I can see Bob belaying. Between us is steep snow. I know below the snow is that crust, then ice choss. It's an easy thing with a rope above me to punch down into the snow and climb up, after a bit I'm holding the tools by the head and slogging up, the snow is that deep.

"Helluva lead, Bob."

"Wait till you see what the anchor is." I get up to him and see a screw equalized to a cordalette, the cordalette is v-threaded, in fact, two equalized v-threads on the single cordalette, in the best ice we've seen all pitch. It's beautifully done, actually. Could be photographed for Luebben's next book. The cordalette isn't Bob's. Apparently it was left last week. Bob thinks it was done by his friend George, though if so, it's odd that George didn't mention it when Bob talked to him this week about conditions.

I ask Bob to place a second screw and equalize them as our backup, all the weight is on the cordalette and he raps. I look at the v-threads for any sign of weakness. I don't have too much confidence in the screws if the anchor blows. The v-threads look totally solid. I can't hear Bob yell off rappel, but I feel the rope come slack and I clean the screws and rap down, setting a new personal-best in rappelling off an insecure-looking anchor.

The Adirondike has given us new evidence that ice conditions just plain suck today and though Bob was willing to try it, I back off from doing the Trap Dike. My calves are aching now from the accumulation of the hike and those hand-recovering stances. The day is magnificently blue and clear now, it's probably finally up to the promised high of 10 F or so. There are more people about, climbers and skiers and a few backpackers. Wistfully we slowly head out. We cross many people on the trail, mostly skiers who have chosen a late morning start and the sun's warmth, which I would gladly trade for the solitude we had at 5 a.m., even with its fucking cold.

1/27/2001

The following was written by Geoff Jennings. It's not about climbing, but you can tell he's an aid climber from his relentless pursuit of suffering.

Death Valley Marathon

There were certain things I expected to a problem during this marathon. My IT band has been sore. I haven't run much the last couple weeks. Etc., Etc. There were other things I never expected to be problematic.

a) Rain - Death Valley gets 2" a year
b) Snow - It's Death Valley, it's H_O_T there.
c) Mud - See "a"
d) Altitude - Death Valley is the lowest point in the western hemisphere, at 282 ft below sea level.

Turns out I was right about d. Plenty of air. No problems breathing. a-c turned out to be a different story.

Friday afternoon found me, bags packed, heading over to Michelle's house. Michelle has been my "partner in crime" for each of my long trail runs, and this time, was my ride over to Death Valley. We'd be meeting Diane, Kim, Barbara and Doug there. As we crossed the Sierra's snow was coming down. North on 395, more snow, as we turned east, towards Death Valley, the snow quit. Michelle and I stopped for dinner, not suspecting road conditions would be worse ahead. As we left our way over-priced meal, conditions on the road got worse. Snow, fog and poor visibility made for a slow drive into Death Valley. We bunked on the floor of Diane and Kim's room, waking to a crisp, cool, WET morning.

As the runners accumulated and began signing in, rumors about the course began to circulate. The course was supposed to have us starting at 3,000 feet, climbing over 5,000 feet, then dropping into the Valley for a finish at Badwater (-282). Tiptoes Canyon is apparently gorgeous, but I won't know for a while, as the park service had closed the course. 400 runners milling around, but luckily there was a backup plan. We soon learned that our run would take place on the Valley floor.

We herded onto buses, and drove to the start. 13.1 miles out. 13.1 miles back. I was disappointed. I like running hilly trails. This was a flat, flat dirt road. Several runners expressed disappointment, but I was trying to put a positive spin on it. I was interested to see how fast I could run a flat course like this.

We unloaded from the bus, and shortly after, started the race. It was overcast and a bit chilly. I was running in shorts and a thin long sleeve top. The first twelve miles went pretty well. I was cruising along at a pretty good clip (for me, slow for the rest of the world). The two ranges of mountains, draped in snow, provided a stunning backdrop. The course was flat, flat, flat. Did I mention flat? Alkaline beds and the occasional scrub bush provided little scenery. I found myself having no sense of distance or speed traveled with nothing to provide reference. Strange, disconcerting, and disheartening. I stared at rocks, convinced I'd seen the same rock minutes before.

I've been plenty tired on runs before, but found the flat, repetitive pounding hurt like no race I've done before. The normal variety of running hilly trails stresses lot's of muscles, but works them differently. This road hurt me. It was even muddy in spots, and at one point began to rain. In Death Valley! At the 12 mile aid station I stopped to drink some water. My IT band (Iliotibal Band ) was sore, and changing pace, even briefly, always seems to aggravate it. I hit the turn around mark at 2:20, well faster than my normal pace, but my knee was really starting to get to me. For the next five miles or so, my pace slowed to crawl. I was getting passed left and right, and found the now monotonous scenery disheartening. The quote I'd read earlier reverberated in my brain:

"the most deadly and dangerous spot in the US. It is a pit of horrors - the haunt of all that is grim and ghoulish. Such animal and reptile life as infests this pest-hole is of ghastly shape, rancorous nature and diabolically ugly. It breeds only noxious and venemous things. Its dead do not decompose, but are baked, blistered and embalmed by the scorching heat through countless ages. It is surely the nearest to a little hell on earth that the whole wicked world can produce." (from a newspaper report, circa 1894)