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The plan was to camp at Horseshoe Meadows Friday night to start acclimatizing, drive to Whitney Portal Saturday, and summit Russell / hike out Sunday. As we drove out we saw rain clouds but experienced no rain. However, the trip started to not go to plan as we drove up the road to Horseshoe Meadows at sunset, as Ben S’s miata started to overheat. We discovered the coolant tank was completely empty, unable to go higher we turned around. However even coasting down the road still caused the engine to overheat. We then added my nalgene of water to the coolant tank, and drove to Lone Pine with a successfully cooled engine. After being cooked spending the night camping in Alabama Hills (where the high was over 100F that day), we drove to Whitney Portal early Saturday morning.

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The day was already hot and sunny when we started backpacking up the Whitney Trail at 7:30AM, but as we reached Clyde Meadow at 10AM a heavy downpour started plus thunder. We continued hiking up as the slabs we were on turned into waterfalls, and set up camp by Upper Boyscout Lake an hour later. We spent much of the day hunkering down in the tent, trying to dry off and listening to heavy rain plus thunder, considering our life choices. The rain eased with a few sunny spells, which allowed us to dry most of our soaked gear plus make dinner.

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With more rain forecast Sunday, we decided to start early. In a light drizzle, we started slogging up the endless sand and choss gully that leads to Russell at 2:30AM. The drizzle soon stopped, and we reached the base of the East Arete in complete darkness. As we started scrambling up the arete, which was thankfully dry, we watched eerie lighting flashes on the other side of the Owens River valley from us. For Ben S, scrambling in the dark using a headlamp was a new experience.

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The scrambling was high quality, and at times very exposed, but we made it to the true summit just as the sun rose. We briefly eyed the beautiful view, then noticed a large storm cloud moving towards us from Mt Whitney.

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As we started to downclimb the arete, the storm rolled overhead, dumping heavy rain on us plus some snow. Downclimbing the soaking wet, cold arete with 1000ft exposure was slow going and mentally draining, but we reached the base of the route safely. We both agreed this was an experience neither of us would want to repeat.

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When we reached camp, it was still dry there, so we packed up camp and quickly started hiking out, before any more storms could roll in. Just after we reached the trailhead at 11AM, it started raining yet again.

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On the long drive back to San Diego we discussed how the sierras really can have crazy weather and heavy rain. The following weekend I again did Mt Russell but via Fishhook Arete, but this time the weather was as it usually is in the summer: sunny and clear.

Most of my climbing happens in California, either around San Diego or at high altitude, so these links are just stuff that I was most interested in.

Articles, blogs, and forums
If you value any of these, please consider chipping in to the Internet Archive – they ensure that we can preserve old sites as they were made!

Twark Might – Funny, in case Mark Twight wasn’t extreme enough (archive)
Cragsters – Funny, collect ‘em all (archive)
UCSD Alpine Club – Love these guys. Some bias here
The history of cams – Only good article on the topic I could find (archive)
Lost Souls – Tales of a youth misspent ice climbing. (archive)
Pullharder – San Diego-based alpine badasses. Highlight is their Evolution Traverse in winter, and their moderately crazy solos (not recommended if you want to live). (archive)
The Golden Age of Sierra Climbing – The most inspired active Sierra climber. NOT historical; in the 2010s, very recommended! Recommend the Climbing Gold podcast on him too. (archive)
Goliath Traverse – Longest technical rock ridge traverse in the world… in California! Also recommend the personal article. (archive, archive)
History of the Palisades – Kind of dry, for serious Sierra history nerds. (archive)
Premium Miniatures – Really nice article on the history of climbing in Mt Woodson.
Poway Mountain Boys, Mt Woodson Classics – Some Mt Woodson forum gossip.
Climbing in North Deerhorn – Climbing in SD county.
Kaufman Crag – Answers the age old question: why doesn’t anyone climb under the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway (copy-paste below)
Philipp’s Mega Mt Woodson Map – Guide. The best resource for getting around Woodson.
Ben Crowell’s Tahquitz Guide – Guide.
Williamson Rock and the MYLFs – Why the best sport crag in SoCal has been closed.

YT Videos
Mediocre Amateur – Fun mountain vids. The older ones are better.
Everest, 1984 Australian Ascent – Everest, sans oxygen, new route, by a team of four ozzies…
Whistler, Wizard and the Racoon – In case you’re sick of watching the Dodo’s Delight on loop.
Mad in Madagascar – In case you’re sick of watching Whistler, Wizard and the Racoon on loop.
Asgard Jamming – In case you’re sick of watching Mad in Madagascar on loop.
The Fifty – Cody Townsend’s ski mountaineering series. Shasta, Spearhead, Sphinx are faves.
The Fifty Classics – Mark and Janelle Smiley climb the 50 classic climbs of North America.
Mountain of Storms – Surfing meets Patagonia. Essential!
FA of the Sentinel West Face – Old, but really good! Chouinard and Robbins climb!
Three on a Rope – Absurdly, comically old… and filmed at Tahquitz?!
Jonathan Siegrist, Close Encounters – The only sport climbing video I’ve watched multiple times.
Fabi Buhl, a new way up – Paragliding to arrive at a Karakoram first ascent.
Colin Haley’s Solo Winter attempt of Cerro Torre – some of the montages are haunting.
Dave McLeod soloing ice – just nice to watch.
Le Drus en solo – Crazy alpine rock solo; short movie.
Eiger – Wall of Death – In case you haven’t already read White Spider.
Ice cream vitamins – Peter Croft on nutrition
Incredible Hulk with Peter Croft and Lisa Rands – Sierra love.
World’s first 5.15 (Sharma) – Iconic.
Rampage (Sharma) – Iconic bouldering montage. Very funny to watch for ten minutes.
Wide Boyz – Iconic. Here’s the actual full version if you’re an enthusiast of the wide
Silence (World’s Hardest Route) – Iconic, but almost unwatchable imo.
Trailside: Touring in California’s High Sierra – Slow and chill.
Outdoor boys – Slow and chill.
Outdoor Fireplaces 1, 2 – Got me through horizontality. Climbers like when they’re on in the background.
BoulderingGems – SBG ‘Strong Bald Guy’. Incredibly bold/strong Woodson climber.

Why doesn’t anyone climb under the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway?
Kristian Slolem (stolen from supertaco, since archive doesn’t work) Back when these routes were developed and became locally popular there was an incident which, shall we say, alienated the rangers.

One of the regulars up there lived in Palm Springs. He got the idea that he could set up a beacon, a light, which he would be able to see from his house. He got his hands on one of those battery powered blinking yellow lights CalTrans used to mark out road work areas. He affixed this light to the end of a 5’ long pvc pipe about 4” in diameter, such that the light shined down through the tube. He then set this beacon up in the gully a ways down the side of Kaufman Crag, aimed it best he could at his house, and turned it on.

So that night this blinking yellow light high up in the rocks near the crest was visible all over town. Naturally it was presumed to be a distress signal, and the search and rescue boys were called out. They searched high and low for the signal but since it was directed through a tube pointing away from them they could not see it. Yet they were assured from down in town that it blinked on. Eventually, after many hours, one of the SAR guys got in a position where he could see the light.

The design and set-up of the light source convinced them, quite logically, that it was a hoax meant to lure them on a wild goose chase. While this assumption was incorrect - it was stupidity not malice - their second conclusion was spot on: it had to be those climbers who did it. It only took one idiot to do this, but we all were suspects. I decided to lay low, I think most of us did. Sometime during that period of inattention the bolt chopping/hanger removal occurred.

I’m sure that by now any memories of this calamity are gone. Last summer Levy, Keesee and I went there with no one giving a glance at our climbing packs.

This was written as a reference for California folks looking to buy a tent for backpacking specifically, in particular those looking to upgrade… I lay out my decision-making process in pain-staking detail below. Please keep in mind that this calculus is highly regional! I don’t pretend to know what is good for the Bavarian Alps, that would be dumb. Adapt this to your ranges of interest.

For the sake of completeness, if you’re buying your first-ever tent, I would recommend a cheap, backpacking oriented, free-standing tent for 2-3 people, something like this one – in 2025, with a little sleuthing, these’ll cost you anywhere from 100-200 dollars and weigh 4-6 pounds.

For everyone else, read on.

Prelude: What I was looking for in a backpacking tent

I’m of the opinion that Sierra climbers could often learn from the PCT’ers and thru-hikers – our altitudes are basically the same, and our basecamps are often not far off from the trail itself. I’m not going to miss this opportunity to plug Andrew Skurka and Backpacking Light – these sites are excellent resources, and can help answer almost any question you may have.

My activity of choice is a 2-5 day backpacking trip deep into the Sierra, with a large, traditional cliff face or ridge for me to climb (read: I’m carrying plenty of rock climbing gear). From an outsider’s perspective, I’m a strapped-for-time backpacker with an extra 15 lbs on my back.

The basic attributes of such a trip are:

• A long approach (frequently >5 miles, less frequently >10 miles) and having to carry trad gear mean I care about weight and packability

• Basically decent weather, but a rogue thunderstorm is often looming. The long duration stays mean that being able to wait out a half-day in camp is a desirable attribute.

• I am almost always climbing with a friend, or even two – being able to fit 2 (comfortably) or 3 people (uncomfortably) would be a huge benefit.

• Mosquitos suck, and there can be plenty in the Sierra, so a net of some kind would be nice

• It should be relatively easy to set up. I frequently travel with less experienced people and would like them to be able to help around camp.

• Finally, I would like some versatility: the ability to use it in shoulder season would be a huge plus! Things like guylines, or at the least guyline attachment points, were a must.

Having laid out the problem before us, let’s take a look at the available solutions!

Kinds of tents

Before we talk about specific models, we should consider the available sleep shelter types. I’ve ordered these from least-tent to most-tent.

• None: For short trips, our weather is absolutely stable enough for cowboy camping! If you do this, make sure you have a backup plan in case of an unforecasted squall. The plan can be a local mineshaft, a bivvy sack, you get the idea. BTW, protip: If you sleep under tree cover, you won’t lose as much heat to radiative cooling, either. You really can feel the difference!

• Bivvy sack: An alright backup if you’re cowboy camping. Also appropriate for multi-day ridge adventures (inspo: Vitaliy’s set-up for his Goliath traverse). Personally I have only had the pleasure of using one of the cheap space-blankets once before. The +: it’s light and will protect you from wind and some rain, depending on the sack. The -: a lack of… well, everything. Condensation can be a bitch.

• Square Tarp: Finicky as hell, best leave this for the thru-hikers. Do not recommend it as a permanent tent solution. You’ve got better things to do.

• Hammocks: Frequently hard or impossible to use above treeline, single person, and you will need to consider a tarp in case of inclement weather. Not a great one-stop option, but can be fun! png

• Mids: A popular choice for a mess or even for sleep in a winter setting, and I reckon an underrated choice in the summer. The major minuses are a potential for draftiness, and lack of bug-proofing. The presence of snow makes reducing drafts possible. Another caveat is that the footprint can be large, making them difficult or impossible to set up in tight quarters.

• Trekking pole tents: There is a whole zoo of these, from the one your grandpa owned (not recommended), to basically normal tents that use trekking poles… in a sense, mids are also trekking pole tents! Since this is my preferred option, I will elaborate on it below.

• Free-standing tents: The default! Many excellent options, though the convenience of poles can carry a weight penalty. I would say it’s hard to go wrong here – just make sure to look for long-term reviews to assess durability. In my view, a cheap, backpacking oriented-tent is a great first tent to start with because you can use it for literally everything, and you will keep using it as a beater ad-infinitum. However, the more expensive lightweight ones are not worth it unless you’re doing some crazy stuff.

For all but the most extra of outings, I find myself with some kind of tent in my backpack. Moreover, in the hot and buggy summer months, I consider some kind of net to be basically essential if I’m going to backpack into Kings Canyon. In any case, even among trekking pole tents and free standing tents, there are many options to consider, which we discuss below.

Single and Double Wall Tents

The basic function of a tent is to protect you from bugs, wind, moisture, and cold. Bugs and wind are easy: they work exactly how you would expect. Bugs especially – you really just need a net.

Wind is also relatively straightforward – if there is too much wind, a tent will collapse, or maybe just make annoying flapping noises at night and leave you sleep deprived (the more common outcome). If there is a real possibility of any winds over 50MPH or so, you will likely want a 4 season tent so that the thing doesn’t collapse. These kinds of conditions can and do happen in California in the winter – food for thought! It is also worth noting that this is, obviously, a real drawback of mids; it’s very easy to end up with a gap that will cause a draft.

Temperature-wise, I have found that there is not a serious difference between various 3-season tents. This is reasonably well supported by more serious evidence (sadly a subscriber-only article) – only in very specific conditions do they observe a difference of more than a few degrees. As a consequence, other considerations should take priority. Even in shoulder season, the temperature benefit from a double-wall tent is not much.

Moisture is the truly challenging one. The problem is simple: if your tent is even marginally warmer than the surrounding environment, moisture will condense on the inside. You’ve likely already seen this happen in the mornings, in the form of dew or frost! There are practical solutions to this issue that you can implement to manage it in the first place. One of the solutions is simply to purchase a double-wall tent. This is exactly what it sounds like – there’s an inner tent (typically lighter material, maybe some window nets) and the outer tent (heavier, more waterproof material). This causes condensation to form on the outer wall of the tent, and not on the inside. By contrast, a single-wall has exactly one layer between you and the outside, which may cause moisture to form on the inside.

How hard is getting a consistent pitch?

Perhaps the greatest argument against a trekking pole tent is that in order for it to work, you need to be able to actually stake it out! Thus far, I have never had a real problem, but there are some tricks you need to learn.

For flat, rocky expanses the trick here is called ‘big rock little rock’ – take a big rock, loop a guyline around it, pull it taut. Take a big rock and place it in front – tada, you are done! I’ve included a video below, though I prefer to use bigger big rocks.

For very loose ground, occasionally I can fill a bag with sand and use that as a ‘stake’. Placing something firm under the trekking pole (like a rock, or a stuff-sack filled with hard stuff) can help.

As for snow – well, there are tons of resources out there. Anything from an ice axe to a deadman stick to a bag of snow to a snow stake to a picket can work!

It takes some practice, but it is absolutely doable. In my experience, the first couple pitches take a while (make sure to read the instructions!) but eventually you’ll get the hang of it.

Final Tent Choice

In the end, I ended up choosing between the Lanshan 2 and the X-Mid 2P Solid, finally going for the latter. Knowing what I know now, I would’ve gone for the non-solid variant of the latter, as having a nice view when I wake up can be nice, and it wouldn’t impact temps very much. If you do purchase this tent, there are some very helpful videos on Dan Durston’s youtube (also see).

My biggest concern purchasing this tent was the size of the footprint – I was worried it simply would not fit in most of the high-sierra bivvy sites made out of rocks. Thankfully, it has almost always been just barely small enough – I’m sure eventually it won’t fit into one, but in practice it hasn’t been an issue yet.

Approximately 2 years on, with easily 15 nights or more on it, it is holding up about how I’d expect. I do have a moderate durability concern at some of the seams of the inner, as they seem to be piling a little. A major unexpected benefit has been the outer-first pitch. This enables vastly more comfortable pitching in adverse conditions (seriously…), allows three people to sleep under just the rain-fly, and acts as an excellent party zone.

I’m happy to say this is an excellent backpacking tent, and I would highly recommend it.

The plan was simple: drive up to Whitney portal Saturday morning (6ish hours), hike up to Meysan Lake (5-6mi, 3,000’ gain), put our packs down, summit Mt. Irvine (13,780’), and return to the lake to set up camp and eat dinner by dark before hiking out first thing the next morning. Ok, maybe not so simple. But these guys didn’t really think things through at the beginning. This will be a recurring theme.

The trail up to Meysan was well marked and maintained, but this didn’t make the vert any less challenging. Shreyas struggled a bit more than Ben and Chesson. Partway, during a short rest, some more experienced Sierra hikers (including a “failed” therapy dog <3) crossed paths with the crew. They shared that, much to everyone’s dismay, that there was actually still quite a bit of hiking left, and the hardest was yet to come. This made the boys reevaluate their initial plan a bit.

At another resting point (pictured with Gromit), Ben proposed an alternative plan: hike to Meysan, set up camp/eat dinner early, and go to bed at sunset. That way, they could wake up before dawn and try to summit before sunrise. This piqued everyone’s interest, so it became the new plan.

Within the next hour or so, they had made it to Meysan Lake. Camp was set up quickly, and someone (Shreyas? Ben?) had the genius idea to set up their sleeping bags outside, sitting up against a smoothed rock, and eat their hot dinners inside of them. After a day of sitting in the car and walking, it was heavenly. Ben feasted on grilled dogs with fresh peppers (who needs to be ultralight??), which he graciously shared with Shreyas and Chesson. Shreyas also had a surprisingly tasty/nutritious bagged meal. Chesson insisted on finishing as many of his Knorr pasta sides as possible, which are famously calorie-low and sodium-rich (1 gram of sodium per pack, no joke). Twice in a row, he used too much water and was left with soup. He also insisted on sumping the remaining liquid each time (ask him yourself if you don’t already know what this means).

Once the sun set, Ben moved into the tent while Shreyas and Chesson stayed outside to stargaze. The moon rose early in the night and was astonishingly bright.

At 3:45am, our soldiers awoke to even more stars than before. The moon had set, so they’d have to face their summit with even less natural light than when they had fallen asleep. Ben seemed to have a plan: follow the ridgeline clockwise from below, then cut directly up to their left to reach the ridge once feasible. Finally, stay on the ridgeline, now moving counterclockwise, to make the final ascent. Apparently, he had noticed a place to cut in towards the ridgeline the day before. Finding that place in the dark was now almost impossible.

Shreyas and Chesson trusted in Ben and followed his lead, but they kept getting stuck just below the ridgeline. In hindsight, the plan wasn’t really all that fleshed out. It’s not like they could’ve done any better, though.

By around 5:45 am, they had made a tough decision: to abandon Irvine and try to find another spot to watch the sunrise. They eyed a good-looking spot in the distance, and given the amount of climbing they’d already done, there really wasn’t much vert left to cover to reach it. They also had a very finite amount of time until sunrise (~6:30 am), so their pace quickened dramatically.

As the lowest bit of sky began to glow, they realized there was a pole sticking out of the spot they’d made a beeline for. It was a bonafide summit! According to Ben’s map, it was Candlelight peak (12,077’).

When the sun finally did dip over the horizon, it was a deep, blood red. Dark enough that you could look right at it with no health repercussions (they hoped). They all agreed the view was well worth the struggle.

After plenty of nice pictures, they headed back to their camp. This, unsurprisingly, was way easier in the daylight. Enough so that they felt very silly knowing the route they’d taken to get to Candlelight. They knew they wanted to make it home before nightfall, so they packed up quickly, took a dip in the lake (you couldn’t call them elite if they didn’t do the polar plunge), and sped down the mountain. Because the trail was so smooth, they raced down in just over 1hr 45min, including breaks. Much to Chesson’s delight, they even ran part of the way.

This time, instead of stopping for grub at the portal, they went to Mt. Whitney restaurant in the town of Lone Pine to get their burgers. They were somehow even less tasty and more overpriced than at the portal. The milkshakes had the consistency of shaved ice.

Let’s take a moment to ponder how these things happen. Often when 3 approx. 25 year old males are gathered for a trip in a foreign place, ideas start flowing. We had not exited the plane in Portland before someone (cough cough Shreyas) had started hinting that we might need to do more than a lil ol’ 24 mile loop, beautiful terrain or not. We were fresh and clean and feelings of grandeur began to stir within our chests. Would we stoop to the level of a chill 24 mile overnight? The answer was quickly determined (with much egging from Chesson [who would not stop blabbing about his ultramarathon ambitions btw]) to be a resounding “NO!”… Indeed, it was decided that we must either climb Mt. Hood or walk all the way around it. How these emerged as our only two options, I don’t quite remember.

What I do remember is that by the time we reached REI (20 minutes later) we had decided to walk around Mt. Hood in 48 hours. The trip sounded amazing: 10,000ft of gain and 43 miles circumnavigating the beautiful and glaciated Mt. Hood. A big trip for some big boys – yippee! But with only 2 days of time, this was a relatively ambitious task. Consider the following: (1) Shreyas has permanent ankle damage and is going to break in brand new trail shoes on a 43 miler overnight; (2) RAIN, RAIN, SNOW, MORE RAIN; (3) none of us have previously backpacked over 20 miles (with 40lb packs) in a day, much less twice back-to-back. Regardless, I must reiterate that we knew ourselves to be the biggest, most grown of boys, so the only real option was to go on a big boy trip (Chesson being an especially big boy). That night we camped near the trailhead and enjoyed a fire and some brews, staying up a bit later than ideal and sleeping in through our alarms (not a very optimal decision).

Saturday morning began very well if a bit late. By lunch on the first day we had covered 13 miles and, although it was beginning to rain, felt quite up to the task. We stopped at the day’s high point, having climbed from ~6000’ to ~9000’, where one could literally lean 20 degrees into the wind coming down a valley adjacent to the mountain (figure 1, including Chesson in his underwear because he didn’t bring the right pants). The views were spectacular across the entire western side of Mt. Hood. In fact, most of the day was gorgeous and relatively uneventful. Some of our latter mileage was passed in good spirits by belting the entirety of “99 Bottle of Beer on the Wall”. Other events of the day include accidently ditching Shreyas when he experienced quad cramps (sorry buddy). By the end of the day we had managed to cover 20 miles and 5600’ of gain, not bad with pack weight (I packed relatively heavy). We began around 9am and finished around 6pm, with a 30 minute lunch break.. The next day we planned on finishing her off (we had no choice…), which would mean a similar elevation change, but 4 more miles. Shreyas and I had quite tired feet at that point, and I think even Chesson had his fill of mileage for the day. It was enjoyable but hard, certainly. Or at least we thought it was hard. We were about to learn more about what “hard” really meant.

That night it poured. The wind blasted down Mt. Hood and rattled our stakes, which were daintily buried in the soft and porous earth (read: the stakes didn’t do much). A smattering of condensation from our warm bodies coated the tent interior, although that mattered not, as about 50mL of water sprinkled through my old rainfly every hour (whoops - sorry guys). Having grown up in a place where rain is rare in fall, I was especially unnerved by so much of the stuff. Vestibule checks every hour or so proved Shreyas and I’s packs were mostly dry. But having stuck most of my clothing for the next day in my sleeping bag, I neglected to check the mountain of gear at the base of the tent…
Around 6am the next morning we began to stir, and soon Chesson and Shreyas discovered that the majority of their gear was sopping wet. The chronically cold-handed Chesson wept tears that no amount of mileage could ever elicit (did I tell you yet that he is a marathoner??). Thankfully, the hard rain had stopped.
Day two began much like day one had ended. It was cold, sprinkling, and our feet hurt. The lads trekked on that morning, each of us more or less entering our own mind palaces and walking the time by. Having completed 30 miles in 36 hours, the last 10 in sprinkling rain, we were now all fully damp (if not already from the start of the day). Additionally, my dainty and thin feet had begun to hurt quite a bit on the bottoms, where certain areas of sole had experienced severe pummeling from the La Sportiva waterproof boots I was wearing (Europeans don’t believe in cushioning). Hard days in these boots had been comfortable, but the mileage was catching up to me.
Unfortunately, Shreyas was in a bit poorer of a state. Although always a glass-half-full hiker, he had developed a limp by mile 30. Having damaged his ankle in years past, it appeared his ligaments were not fond of the unending plod. We had reached the point in a trek where one is wet and calorie-deprived enough that stopping longer than 10 minutes becomes cold, quickly. In this way, neither continuing or breaking is very satisfying. Lunch was a beautiful (but again, chilly) respite. See the waterfall in figure 2.

The first 7 of the final 10 miles of our second day went by well. As it had begun to snow, the small amounts of accumulating snow cushioned our feet, relieving some of the sole-bludgeoning, and the landscape soon transformed from a spooky, autumnal forest perfect for halloween, to a true PNW winter wonderland. The old man’s beard in the pines was first to saturate with snow, before the entirety of the trees and ground became laden; only the red and orange shrubbery around our many low elevation water crossings remained uncovered. Please enjoy figures 3 and 4.

The last 3 miles were hard. By 5:30pm in the snowstorm it was dark, by 6:15 it was black, and the snow was now 3+ inches deep. Temperatures were relatively warm, perhaps insulated by cloud cover, but we were all wet and generally tired at this point. Throw in the increasingly heavy snowfall, and the 2000’ of gain in this last stretch of mileage, and you have our slowest pace of the trip: a little less than 2 mph. We were all very ready to be done, and discussions of the food we would eat after completion had now gone on for over an hour. Finally, at around 8:00pm, one could observe a soft orange glow on the other side of the trees in an apparent opening. Ten minutes later the ski lodge was in sight, and in another ten the trip was complete. Celebration ensued in the form of gyros and a long shnooze in a fancy hotel bed.

• Plan: Deliberate and thoughtful planning, of both the trip and your training, goes a long way to ensure success.
• Train: Be consistent, and make it goal-specific
• Recover: Get lots of sleep and keep overall stress levels low

Now, knowing all this, it’s a damn shame Phil and I did absolutely none of these things to prepare for Steck-Salathe. To be clear, the reason for this error was the fact that we simply underestimated the route. It’s a common story – and we hope others may learn from our mistakes. This is the story of how we proudly achieved the blazing time of 27 hours car-to-car on a 16-pitch route.

We arrived in the valley around 7PM on Monday, aiming to climb the 16-pitch 5.10, with most pitches containing a thrutchy wide section. We loaded up our backpack with two extra large nalgenes and a half bottle of gatorade, as well as probably the largest medkit I’ve ever taken on a multipitch. Those familiar with the route are likely already giggling. The discussion about what kit to bring roughly amounted to ‘hey these bottles are kinda big’ ‘yea, but I think it’ll be fine’ ‘ok sounds good’.

A promising 5AM start and a genuinely quick 1hr approach made us feel pretty optimistic. The first pitch was uneventful, and the Wilson overhang was way chiller than advertised. A party of three joined up behind us, moving impressively fast using a fix-and-follow strategy. Their first comment was to the effect of ‘I guess we’re all in this adventure together!’

By the third pitch, we started noticing that we were kind of behind schedule. A little more beat, a little slower – no big deal, right? Our friends seemed less confident: ‘so, you guys planning to bivvy?’ ‘nah, we’ll be done in time to get pizza!’ (lol)

We arrived at the halfway rap station fully behind schedule. It was now 1PM. To add to our woes, a rogue and unforecasted storm cloud brought some light rain. It seems that the wind picked up on top at this point too. ‘Hey is it hailing?’ ‘no those are small pebbles’ ‘I think I might want to chill on a piece until the rock rain subsides…’

After letting the other party pass us (big mistake, easily added two hours to our time), we get to the narrows. Phil is so fucked up at this point that he hasn’t felt up to leading the last 3 pitches. Mike swears a lot throughout the pitch, but the real fun was yet to come. It was now fully the middle of the night.

You see, the narrows are not actually that hard. They’re just kind of narrow. Mike even remarked that it was ‘just as annoying as every other pitch’. Unless, of course, you’re the follower. Then you might be, say, trailing a backpack (with a couple large water bottles). And maybe a couple helmets. And perhaps some approach shoes. In this scenario, you get to have a lot of fun. Phil’s hour of joyous climbing sounded something like this:

‘AHHHHHHH’ ‘GAHHHHHH’ ‘AHHHH FUCK GAHHHH’ ‘AHHHH’ ‘MICHAEL PUT ME ON A 3:1’ ‘AHHHHHHHH’ ‘I FELL OUT’ ‘GAHHHHHH’ ‘FUCK THIS PACK’ ‘FUCK THESE HELMETS @#@##!!$”

But seriously, how did this happen? We thought we loved the wide! Well, sometime in early June we had the following discussion, and then a fascinating training plan:

Phil: Hey, I’ve got my defense coming up in September, but would you be down for Steck-Salathe in early October?
Mike: Sounds awesome! I love the wide almost as much as you!

June
Phil averages 10 hr/day work days, 7 days a week, with 6 hrs of sleep. Perhaps an average of two days of climbing a week.
Mike is better, but not by that much. Mike also trains for a marathon.

July
Mike continues training for a marathon. Work is still stressful.
Phil works even more. Phil goes to Mesa Rim twice, and Woodson twice.

August
Mike’s marathon training continues and work stress ramps up.
Phil works even more. His only exercise is the occasional 5k row and one single day at Mesa Rim where we climb 150 pitches each of 5.7

September: Mike runs a marathon. Phil is no longer exercising.

October: We’re ready for Steck Salathe, right?

Having successfully gotten our backpack through the narrows, Phil seemed completely devastated. However, he had committed to leading the subsequent pitch (5.8 grovel) to give Mike’s lead head a little bit of a break. Mike also suspected that it would be nice for him to climb a bit without a pack. After a 10-40 minute nap (no idea – time flies when you’re having fun) minute nap, he ventured off into the chimney.

Mike led the final hard pitch, and Phil the easy fifth, and the route was finally complete. Given that we were totally dehydrated and sleepy, we decided that we should sleep on top, to at least fix one of our problems. Our sleeping systems were a rope mat and a mat made out of a disassembled backpack, random items as pillows, and emergency bivvy sacks as sleeping bags. With the relatively warm nighttime temps, it was almost luxurious – to our own surprise, we actually managed to get some real sleep that night!

We awoke at sunrise feeling shockingly refreshed. Our party-of-three compatriots were extremely jealous of our bivvy sacks, and reported absolutely horrible sleep in comparison. I guess despite the condensation, the space blankets really are pretty great! In any case, at this point we collectively meandered down the descent, drank some water from the spring, and finally made it back to the valley.

In the following hours, we probably chugged two liters of various fluids, ate many calories, and took a much deserved nap. We only brought ourselves to climb a little the following day, cruising up munginella before packing up to leave the following day. What a fucking trip. Did I mention we saw an Aurora?

Shreyas had a bit of a rough time this trip.

We begin our journey at the ass-crack of dawn (like 5:30am) with everyone crammed into Chesson’s car before beginning the 5 1/2hr drive to Whitney portal. It should be noted that Shreyas, after barely sleeping the night prior, spent 90+% of the drive out cold.

Shreyas awakening from his slumber upon arrival:

After parking, our planned campground at Upper Boy Scout Lake was only 2.9 mi away. Buuuuut it also was 3,000’ above us (around 8,500’ at the portal to 11,500’ at Upper Boy Scout). On top of that, those 3mi were not all well-paved switchbacks; much of the time, our intrepid heroes were struggling up boulders, doing weighted pistol squats to climb a few feet at a time (ok not really but you get the idea). This meant that our sad lungs boys were struggling. Honestly, Chesson was challenged more than he’d like others to realize. Payton was basically a mountain goat (in more ways than one).

Admiring views while waiting for Shreyas:

Beautiful view of some peaks during the approach to Upper Boy Scout (Mt Russell might be in here…):

Critical snack break (yes, summer sausage is the greatest hiking food of all time):

Eventually, the boys did make it to the lake. Thanks to Payton’s abundant supply of backup summit packs, a huge weight would be lifted off everyone’s backs during the summit of Russell the next morning.

Alpine glow (feat. Upper Boy Scout Lake)!

At sunrise, everyone left camp and began the last push to the peak. As expected, Payton led, taking them through a mild scramble up to an alleyway where things got kicked up a notch. Lots of scree, much steeper, and with a big class 3 (or 4?) move near the end. Everyone spread out a bit to minimize the risk of falling rocks catching someone further down the alley off-guard (Payton -> Chesson -> Jay -> Shreyas).

In Shreyas’s case, this extra time didn’t seem to help much.

About halfway up the climb, it happened. Someone’s footfall onto a shaky rock caused a boulder below to shift and then fall. We’re talking a multiple-feet-in-diameter rock. And it was heading straight towards Shreyas.

The rock made contact with his leg after a few seconds of tumbling, and he let out a cry from below. Everyone turned to see if he was alright.

Miraculously, the rock didn’t seriously hurt Shreyas. In fact, it didn’t even affect his ability to continue the ascent. Somehow, it managed to hit his phone in his pocket, shattering the screen but saving his leg. At least, that’s what he claims. The physics of this situation don’t exactly make sense to me.

After climbing up through the alley, they made a break for the ridgeline. There, everyone paused to admire Lake Tulainyo (at 12,829’, it’s one of the highest permanent alpine lakes in the US!) before starting the last bit of climbing.

Above Lake Tulainyo:

The last bit was challenging for everyone but Payton. Now at above 13,000’, Jay and Shreyas were really feeling the altitude. Chesson and Shreyas almost peed their pants many times when confronted with class 3 moves in which failure was not an option (unless you wanted to quickly reduce your altitude by 1000’). But these fine gentlemen did eventually make it to the summit.

They spent a nice half hour at the top admiring the view and eating their lunches. Payton saw a nearby summit in the distance, bounded over to it, and was back in 7 minutes flat (Chesson timed it).

Gromit at the summit of Russell, with Whitney in the background:

The descent, while still fraught with dangerous ridgeline exposure for the “hikers”, flew by pretty quickly. The boys took an alternate route down, opting for scree switchbacks in lieu of the steep alleyway.

Before heading back to the car from Upper Boy Scout, a polar plunge was obviously required:

It must be noted here that Shreyas wagged at the campsite but did not find said wag before departing. A thorough search did nothing but delay the gang’s departure by 10-15 minutes. We can only hope that a friendly climber picked it up while our team was summiting.

The descent to the portal was still tough (due to all the boulders), but a strong desire for burgers at the portal carried our warriors back to the car. They were both overpriced and incredibly worth it.

On the way back, Payton insisted we stop at Black Bear diner, something he wanted to make an Alpine Club tradition. It’s an all-day breakfast place with greasy food, hearty portion sizes, and an undeniably outdoorsy vibe. Unfortunately for Payton, it was also mid af.

It’s amazing how alive the valley is at night in the summer. Thousands upon thousands of little critters emerge from every crack and crevice as soon as the sun goes down. The flow of ants and silverfish is endless, only punctuated by the occasional scorpion, toad, spider, rodent, or ring-tailed cat. Up on the western shoulder of El Capitan, the bustle of the valley is another world. Here the insects outnumber the people at least a million to one.

We settled down onto our sleeping pads in the least buggy clearing near the base of our route, too exhausted to mind the silverfish beneath us or the clouds of mosquitoes nipping at our faces. Had it been four or five trips up the approach trail to carry up our ten gallons of water, quadruple rack, aid gear, portaledge, sleeping bags, ropes, and pounds of food? We had lost count. By the time we started fixing the first pitches, we were already exhausted from shuttling loads up the slope in the 90 degree summer heat.

Despite the heat, the first pitches went smoothly enough. Pitch one goes free at a (sandbagged) 11b, but for us mere mortals it’s C2 hooking. I gave it to Chad, having climbed it once before (story for another day), but after 20 minutes of deliberation, he couldn’t get himself to stand up on the crux bat hook. I get it. It’s far from confidence inspiring. I took over the lead and made it up to the crux, a half-pad crimp at a 30 degree angle with just enough of an indent in one spot to get a bat hook to stay. I held my breath, unclipped my daisy from the bolt below, and stood up. It held. Two more steps up my aider and I was safely clipped to the next bolt where I could breathe again. The rest of the pitch went by without note.

Chad took the blank slab bolt ladder pitch 2, which by some miracle was freed by Tommy Caldwell at 5.13c. This pitch must have been bolted by someone the height of Hagrid because almost every bolt requires both top stepping and a cheater stick. Having climbed this one before too, I was happy to hand the lead over. It’s not hard, but damn is it annoying. I told him to skip the first anchor and go to the second anchor, but I also told him he only needed one piece of gear, a red camelot in a pod ⅔ of the way up. Turns out I was wrong, you need a couple more finger size pieces to get to the second anchors. With too little rope in the haul line left to shuttle up the gear, he had to downclimb back to the first anchors. Sorry buddy.

I paid the price for that mistake though. Pitch three is the famous window pane flake. From the first anchor you angle up and right until you’re in a steep left-facing flake. 30 feet up from the start of the flake, it cuts sharply back left another 30 feet. You aid by placing pieces deep in the flake above your head. As I climbed through, placing number one cams high above my head, silverfish showered down out of the crack above me. Literally hundreds of speckled gray critters flying out every time I stuck my hand in. An awkward position in the best of conditions, I tried to avoid getting these bugs in my mouth and eyes as I powered through.

The real punishment came at the end of the pitch though. After cutting right from the anchors to the flake and then sharply back left through the flake, you head straight up until you come to a bolt, which is your pendulum point across a wide section of blank rock. From the pendulum point, you swing another 30 feet to your left to access another crack system. At this point, I have two near 90-degree angles in my rope and it’s taking nearly all my energy just to pull rope out to aid up this crack. This part of the pitch goes free at a reasonable 5.9, but my attempts to free climb it were in vain. Resorting to more aid, I fought my way up to the belay.

We fixed our ropes to the anchors and with two 60 meter single line rappels, we were back on the ground. At this point, we have been baking in the sun for hours with little water after multiple trips up the slope on the western side of el cap. We were not so much exhausted as we are delirious. We set up “camp” as the last trickles of sunlight slip away.

Chad and I started climbing together in Washington DC. Well sort of together, we ran in the same circle, but never really roped up together. Once I gave him a belay up Montezuma’s Tower in the middle of a thunderstorm, but that was about it for our climbing partnership until he flew out to California to climb the Prow with me. It’s hard to find good big wall partners. Not only do they need to be competent enough to handle the fuckery that comes with big wall climbing, but also they need to be a decent enough person and easy enough to get along with that you can handle multiple days of hanging in a harness in deeply uncomfortable positions with them. Chad is that kind of climbing partner, the kind of person that you can have Blink-182 sing a longs with when things get extra fucked up.

The morning came and we picked silverfish and ants out of our beards, while chugging down cans of shitty iced coffee. We left our food and our real coffee sealed inside a canvas bag at the top of pitch three to keep it from the bears. Two 60 meter jugs and hauls and we were back at our high point. Quick but tiring when you haven’t ascended a fixed line in a couple years.

Back to our bag on the pitch three belay ledge, we noticed something was off. Our canvas food bag was unzipped and much of its contents were strewn around on the ledge. Fucking crows. We had noticed them hanging around the bag as we jugged up, but paid them little mind. The bag was thick enough to be peck resistant and the zipper was nice and hefty. Our bag was little match for the crows though who seemed to have no issue fully unzipping the bag. A quick inventory suggested that they only made it off with a few bars, a couple poptarts, and a bag of trail mix. We would later realize this was a grave miscalculation.

Pitch 4 past the hooking section

Pitch 4 was my lead. It starts on a beautiful face full of small edges taking you up to a series of C1 and C2 cracks. The first part is only supposed to go at 5.10, but it’s thin, requiring delicate edging. I opted for the hooking route, not wanting to slab climb with a haul line and aid rack hanging off me. One hook move was quite memorable. After standing up tall on the second from the top step, the next hook placement was still a ways out of reach. I down stepped one and bumped my left foot into the top step. The placement was still out of reach. I placed my other foot on the rock next to the hook and stood up tall when my daisy chain tugged the hook up and off the rock. All of a sudden, I was balancing on a single foot hold edging with my loosely tied approach shoe with nothing else keeping me on the wall. With the tips of my fingers, I got the next hook placed blindly and weighted it, holding my breath, my last piece of protection well below my feet. It held. I let out of a sigh of relief and kept climbing.

The biggest challenge of big wall climbing isn’t climbing. It isn’t pooping in a bag either. Hell it isn’t even hauling. It’s managing the damn belays. The ideal big wall anchor is three (or more) bolts, well spaced, with one higher than the other two. That way you can set up a couple slings or quads between the bolts with multiple attachment points for your two ropes, your haul point, your haul bag, your 700 cams, whatever else you dragged up with you, and your two climbers. Being able to spread out across three, four, or five master points lets you keep everything organized at your generally terrible hanging belay.

For some reason, the belays on Lurking Fear are only two bolts (fine, bolts are expensive and a pain to place) and are spaced not 6 inches from each other (why? God, why?). I am known for many things, but keeping a tidy and organized belay is not one of them. I can manage well enough and have improved over the years, but I am far from an expert, and these belays took me completely off guard. It was a comedy of dunces, a game of whack a mole. Every time I managed to un-fuck one part of the belay, another part would be a mess. Haul line wrapped around the haul bag? Lower down and un-fuck. Wait, now the lead line is somehow running through the straps of portaledge? Go in direct, untie, untangle, retie in. Wait now the haul line is tangled in the lead line. What the fuck am I doing? Can we just climb?

By the time I made it to the pitch 6 belay (two pitches shy of our modest goal of fixing pitch 8 and bivying on top of 7), the sun was already setting. Dehydrated, sore, and nearly delirious, I rejoiced. The anchor was three bolts. Three bolts! We could hang our ledge, our haul bag, and our gear with relative ease. It was a sign from the gods. We were meant to sleep here. I fixed the line for Chad and started the work of hauling our shit up. Chad got to the belay around the same time the bag did and we went about setting up camp. Finally we could relax, drink some much needed water, and dig into our dinners.

One problem though. Half of our dinner food was not in the haul bag. You see we planned one pack of pre-cooked rice and a couple of handfuls of dried beef sticks every night for dinner. We brought two pounds of dried beef for 4 days on the wall. That meant ¼ pound of beef each every night or 440 calories, 1.5 grams of sodium, and 48 grams of protein, everything we needed to recover enough to climb the next day. When the crow incident happened earlier that day, we didn’t even think to check if the 2 pound bag of beef sticks was still in the bag. Not only was it directly at the bottom, since we knew it would be dinner food, but it’s 2 pounds. How does a crow fly off with 2 pounds of food? Well google tells me crows have been seen carrying up to 2.4 pounds short distances, so I guess it managed to at least toss it off the ledge. So not only did the crows steal half our breakfasts and a chunk of our snacks, they stole the staple food of all our dinners. That and we were behind schedule.

A weird thing about climbing in Yosemite is that you have cell service. You can be having a mini epic high up on the wall and post about it on twitter if you really want to. Of course that also means you can get the weather report. When we left the ground, we had temps in the 80s on the valley floor and 20% chance of rain on one of our four projected wall days. With such balmy weather, we opted not to bother dragging up the rain fly, since its bulky and extra unnecessary weight. Given that, what we saw on weather.gov shocked us. 80-90% chance rain for two days straight, complete with thunderstorms and high winds.

So now, not only were we down half our food, but we were looking at two full days of soaking through our emergency bivy sacks and not climbing. Success was looking like little more than a pipe dream. As we were discussing our bail options though, we were surprised to see a headlamp rapidly approaching us on the pitch below. Nobody had been on the route beneath us all day. While I was leading up pitch 6, I noticed some people near the base, but assumed they were merely hauling up water and maybe fixing lines for the following day. As such, we were quite surprised when minutes later a head popped up and asked if he could clip our anchor.

“Wait did you start climbing tonight?”

“Yeah, we are short fixing and doing it in a single push.”

“How long ago did you start?”

“Maybe an hour and a half ago.”

They did in less than two hours what took us the better part of two days to complete, granted they weren’t hauling.

Our new friends lingered at our hanging camp just long enough to exchange some gear and share some beta for the pitches we had ahead of us. We were too ashamed to admit that we were already talking about bailing and the weather hadn’t even turned yet.

Once they were gone, we hatched our plan. Chad wanted to rap first thing in the morning, but I convinced him to take advantage of the weather window we still had to get a little higher up on the route. Pitch 10 and pitch 14 both had good bivy ledges that would allow us to gasp get out of our portaledge and walk around a tiny bit. The rain wasn’t due for another 36 hours, so we could climb another day, spend another night on the wall with a good camp, and then bail early the following morning before the rain hit us. Plus we still had a big bag of peanut butter M and Ms to work through.

We were up at dawn the following day. It’s hard to get a good night’s sleep on a portaledge. The middle sags ever so slightly, which means your lower back pain is waking you up every few hours. God forbid you need to pee in the middle of the night, then you’re trying to get out of the ledge without flipping it over on your partner who is sleeping next to you. Then you have to lower yourself down below the ledge with a grigri and pee away from the route. Add those things together and you’re pretty much awake once the sun hits you.

The best part of big wall climbing though is drinking coffee on a portaledge, half your body still inside your sleeping bag, feet hanging over the edge, watching first light hit the sheer cliff faces across the valley. Down below the road is so far away. The tourists are just starting to trickle in at dawn, but their presence is as insignificant as a dust mite crawling beneath your feet. The whistle of the wind overpowers any sounds you might hear from the ground beneath you. Up on the wall, 1000 feet above the valley floor, no one is around but you. It’s such a simple and beautiful feeling to be small, a speck on the walls of ancient stone.

Ledge camp

We savored the moment for as long as we could, but knew we had to start climbing before the heat of the afternoon if we were going to make any progress. Still dehydrated from the day before, struggling with our haul bags in the 80+ degree weather on the lower pitches, we were starting with a serious handicap. The pitch off our camp though is one of the best pitches of the route and I got to lead it. A 40 foot straight horizontal traverse on hooks and bolts with 1000 feet of air beneath you. I made my way out making sure to take the time to bask in the wild exposure. For the first time since we left the ground, the climbing felt like type one fun. It felt like exactly what I came up there for.

It didn’t last long though. Once I was through the traverse, I was groveling up a beautiful 5.9 splitter crack, fighting rope drag from the 90 degree turn in my rope, and lamenting my need to aid such a nice line.

Chad jugged up to the belay ledge looking as ragged as I had ever seen him.

“I can’t lead this next one. I’m wrecked.”

We had barely started climbing for the day and Chad already looked we had been at it for hours.

“I can lead it, but I need a breather after that haul.”

“I think we should go down. We are bailing anyway and I’m not sure I can climb much more today.”

The recommended amount of water on a big wall is a gallon per person per day. Maybe you can get away with 2 liters per person on a cool day. On a hot summer day, you probably want closer to 5 liters. Chad and I maybe drank 1.5 liters each the previous day, combined we drank less than a gallon. We were having such a nightmare at our belays, we didn’t want to dig into our haul bag for our water, so instead we just went without, a decision that we were now paying for.

The decision was made. Pitch 7 was going to be our high point. I couldn’t bring myself to rap just yet though, so we set up the portaledge and broke out our candy bag. For the next hour, we sat shirtless and shoeless on the portaledge, drinking water and stuffing our faces with as much candy as we could fit into our mouths (less weight for the descent). The sun had just hit us and we enjoyed the combination of the warm sun and the cool breeze reflected off the rock around us. While we weren’t going to summit, we could at least enjoy a little more of the best part of walling.

Around noon, we decided to pack it up and make the long trek down. The light breeze had turned to a heavy breeze and seven rappels with a haul bag is a solid day’s work in and of itself. Just as we stepped off the portaledge and into our aiders, the first heavy gust blew. The portaledge flew up in the air above our heads and then crashed down on us. We tried to grab hold of it and get it under control, but the wind would rip it out of our grasp, like trying to stop a sail boat from moving with your bare hands. Over and over again, the portaledge was ripped from our grasp. One person would manage to get a grip on one side, just for the other to lose it, and the ledge to twist around and fly away once more. We must have spent the better part of an hour wrestling with the portaledge before we could get it broken down and back in its bag.

You see the problem with rappelling down a traversing route is that you need to find a way to get back across the wall. You have two options: either you climb the pitch in reverse or you take a big swing and hope you catch the next set of anchors, a pendulum rappel. The preferred method generally is to go for the pendulum. Chad made the decision to bail, so he was stuck managing the haul bag, which is generally just a huge pain in the ass. As such though, it was my responsibility to manage the penji.

I lowered myself down about 50 meters from our anchor and tried to run against the wall towards the next anchor, some 40 feet to my left. To my dismay, the 40 mph gusts that were now blowing at a near constant frequency were pushing me back in the opposite direction. Dangling there, almost a thousand feet above the ground, the wind whipped me back and forth, into the wall, away from the wall, but always further away from my destination. 30 minutes went by, maybe longer. My legs were screaming at me from hanging in my harness in space. My feet were getting pins and needles from the circulation being cut off. No matter what I did, it seemed like the pendulum was impossible. I couldn’t get even 20 feet from the next rappel anchor. I resigned to my fate. I’d need to re-ascend the rope and then re-climb pitch 7 backwards.

Just as I fixed my prussick to my rappel strands though, a miracle happened. The wind stopped completely. Knowing my window was going to be slim, I ripped the prussick off and started running against the wall. First away from the anchor, then towards the anchor, then away from the anchor, and then towards the anchor, and then bam! The tips of my fingers just barely grazed the crack next to the anchor. I held on for dear life. With my other hand, I grabbed the crack and pulled myself in, then looped a finger through the bolt hanger, and used my other hand to clip my daisy chain. A wave of ecstatic relief, of elation crashed over me. The last crux was done. I pulled out my radio.

“I’m in. Finally. We are getting off this thing.”

Getting to the ground without summitting was bittersweet. We were happy to be safe and to be out of that windstorm that pounded us the entire descent, but so much work goes into walling. We spent three days hauling water and gear and fixing lines, for only one night on the wall. It was a shame, but still we were safe, out of the wind, with lessons learned, and about to eat a shit ton of pizza at Curry Village.

The next morning the rain started at 9am, 5 hours earlier than expected. It started nasty and continued on that way for two days. While we drove out of the valley, we knew that despite our misgivings, we made the right call. The big stone isn’t going anywhere and there are always more rocks to climb.

It really felt promising; as shit as life felt, at least it seemed that every week I was setting a new personal climbing best in one sense or another. As the troubles finally came to a close, I breathed a sigh of relief, demanded a week off from my advisor, got into my Camry, and drove off into the sunrise. Destination? Utah!

Day 0, I’m driving and see these… dunes? Didn’t know we had these near San Diego, but turns out Imperial County has plenty. I had skis in my car, so the next decision seemed obvious: I decided to ski off some sand dunes! Turns out, not that fun; I don’t think I’d recommend it. As I’m wandering up my final dune, the wind suddenly picked up and I got caught in a full blown sandstorm. I got close to the ground (that helps… right?) and waited out the worst of the gusts. Channeling my inner fremen, I walked backwards, with my eyes closed, occasionally dropping down and turning around to check I was still going the right direction. I eventually made it over to my car. It sounds intense, but mostly it was just kind of funny, and I was laughing for a good portion of it. In any case, point taken: don’t head out into the sand dunes without sunglasses or maybe even goggles if there’s any chance of inclement weather.

The rest of the drive went largely without incident. I slept on my newly built out sleeping platform, which is literally some plywood I glued together. After taking out a backseat and inserting this platform, I felt like sleeping in my Camry became seriously comfortable — not something I ever thought I’d say.

I got to Utah that evening, and drove up to Indian Creek in the mid-morning. As I approached, I saw what no sandstone climber wants to see: a pretty massive rainstorm cloud between myself and my destination. But I was committed, and so I drove through some mild rain and snow only to discover that the storm ended just short of the climbing! I met up with Chase, Koe, Zephi, and John in Moab, and we climbed on Wall Street for the remainder of the day.

Normally, I’d talk about how absolutely unreal the views were, how wonderful the climbing was, and how great all the people I met were, and of course, I will do a bit of that. But to be honest, for me, this trip was some kind of punctuated equilibrium thing – I shattered any expectations I had for myself. I went way, way fucking harder than I ever thought I could, for way more pitches than I thought I would.

Prior to this trip, I’d climbed perhaps a few 5.11s outside, with only one on gear a couple weeks previously. But this week, I onsighted a bunch of them, including a creek offwidth that I didn’t even have technique for and just burled through! And as my last route in the creek, onsight led a route that’s borderline 5.11/5.12 (on my phone it’s a 12-, on desktop it’s 11+)…

But that’s enough number porn. The people were indeed all amazing (a particular shoutout to Zephi and John!) who absolutely made the week. Creek pitches can take a bit out of you, and good people will spot on you stoke when your own wanes. We camped at the ritzy Hamburger campground — a spot I would recommend for those interested in camping with a large party. It’s mildly sheltered, the pit toilets aren’t smelly, and there’s lots of room. The climbing was great, too — while normally climbing halfway up up a buttress would make me a little annoyed, I came to appreciate the sheer quantity of climbing I could cram in a day.

And the adventure factor was not lacking either – a nasty windstorm hit on our last creek day, there was an awesome adventure up castleton tower (I mean, how could it not be awesome?). Castleton was really cool, but I’ll be the first to admit that the North Chimney route was absolutely covered in giant, spooky blocks — I was pretty surprised that none of them moved. I kind of suspect that the harder routes are probably a fair bit safer.

To conclude the Utah adventures, there was another storm a thousand feet from the summit of Mt Tuk.

On my way back, I took a tiny detour to climb ‘Only the Good Die Young’ at Red Rocks with Vishal, an excellent little route that was way chiller than I expected.

In any case, it was an absolutely incredible week that I will remember fondly. Coming back to reality was harder than ever (always true). But I suppose the cheesy upshot is that I was capable of so much more than I ever thought. For me, 4 years after my first all-nut lead, the gateway of hard trad is finally open, and I can’t wait to see what’s on the other side. The coals are hot, all we need now is some wood.

But I had a dilemma here, even though I hate the cold, I love being outdoors even more! I am the kind of person that watches trekking, camping, climbing, surfing, and snorkeling videos on YouTube all day. I grew up watching Man Vs Wild, which defined my love for the wild and exploration. Wilderness in California consists of two parts: the oceans and the mountains. I made quick work of the ocean: since I regularly go snorkeling and surfing, I adore the moments that I spent out in the ocean. The mountains were more elusive, given my fear of the cold, and its inaccessibility (since I didn’t have a car).

This is where Michael Sandler comes in. He is a die-hard climber/alpinist, whose love for the mountains extends to not just him doing it but making spreads the gospel of mountaineering to the kafirs. I met him on the way back from the office just before Thanksgiving weekend, and as usual, we were discussing climbing/extreme sports while we walked with me to my place. Having a long weekend ahead of us, he suggested I try climbing mount Baldy. My roommate (Raghav) was also totally stoked about the idea and we decided to go at it together. Having no prior experience with the cold or the mountains, we sat down with Michael to sort out all the tiniest details of the plan. We borrowed his car for the trip, and all the clothing + equipment came from either Michael (for me) or Raghav’s friends for him.

We set about very early around 4:00 am from our home. I drove up to Baldy trailhead, from which the hike is a total of 11 miles with a 4k ft elevation gain. We started our hike up at 6:30 am, and we got to see pretty nice views of the mountain glistening in the morning sun and LA. There is a road that goes up for a couple of miles leading to San Antonio falls after which we turn to a gravel road beside the road which is pretty easy to miss. This takes you up to a trail to the baldy ski hut till which there was no snow (Some snow towards the top of the trail in shaded areas, but did not require micro-spikes just yet).

We rested a bit at the ski hut. The volunteer running the place was a very sweet guy! (He offered us donuts!). We chatted a bit with him and decided to make our way up to the summit. As soon as we started climbing we hit snow and needed those micro spikes for our shoes. The landscape was just so incredible! We took our time going up, making snowballs on the way, shaking down snow from the trees and just soaking in the beauty of the place. The final 1000ft was pretty hard for us, a bit of nausea plus general tiredness started creeping over.

We made it through to the summit and it was totally worth it! The views of the desert on one side and of LA on the other are separated by the contours of the LA mountain ranges. There were a lot of people who were hiking up with their dogs and we stayed put at the summit for some time talking to them, eating our sandwiches, reading a book and taking photos. We decided to head down along the same route as the one we came up, since the other route through devils backbone was supposed to be gnarly. We made it down it down way faster and we went to the San Antonio falls on our way back. We made it back to our car by 4 pm all tired and hungry and we went off into LA to get some food, after which we drove back home.

I would totally recommend that people do this, as their first alpine experience. A goldilocks hike, neither too easy nor too hard. Just be sure to bring enough layers and some kind of traction if you are climbing during winter, as well as enough water and snacks/food as it will be a long hike.