houseoftapley

Jack Roberts: It's Been an Honor

2012-01-17T15:55:00.000-08:00

Life has a funny way of bringing balance…just as I was beginning to question the sustainability of my recent manic behavior, the issue resolved itself. Mid-morning yesterday, I learned that a dear friend and colleague has passed away. Well, that certainly put the brakes on my mania; I’d been mid-spray, photo editing and simultaneously working out storylines on two separate projects – all centered around ice climbing, of course.

On Sunday, renowned mountain guide and prolific climber Jack Roberts died as the result of a fall on Bridalveil Falls, near Telluride, CO. It took hours for me to begin to understand these facts: Jack fell; Jack died. I spent the rest of my day navigating confused emotions, piecing together details and sorting out hear-say. I am grateful to a number of special people who have reached out, checked in and kept tabs on my well being.

Today, my heart is heavy and I mourn the loss of someone very important to me.

To term this as ironic seems cliché, but that’s all I’ve got in the bank at the moment... It seems ironic that I sit and write about Jack now, under this pretext, when only a few days ago we were having a dialogue surrounding my proposal to write a profile of Jack: The Climber, perhaps include an anecdote of Jack: My Mentor... Now I am compelled to write of Jack: One of my Favorite People Ever.

At the age of 22 I moved west, chasing dreams and making a pilgrimage to the promised land of Boulder, CO. While still somewhat skittish of climbing’s social construct and quite intimidated by my new surroundings, Jack’s warm smile and those beaming blue eyes found me dumbstruck. Knowing of Jack: The Climber (read: Epic Hero in my young eyes), I didn’t know what to make of his kindness and remember stammering slightly – I mean, didn’t he know that I was a Nobody? I began to see that this was a person of depth and character. I began to realize that he viewed the world with an open heart. Over time, I began to understand that he was observant and had recognized my passion for and connection to the act of climbing, that through this, he already knew me. I didn’t need to be an accomplished climber to be a valid person to Jack or to be considered as a partner. He didn’t keep score that way, instead, Jack paid attention to what really matters – pure motive. The man made me feel confident in my choice to pursue climbing with all of my heart. He encouraged and coached; we shared ropes; we shared beta and we enjoyed the purity of climbing for ourselves.

I left Boulder in 1994 and didn’t see Jack for a few years. Re-connecting at the first Bozeman Ice Festival was a delight. I can remember feeling so proud to work alongside this man who had become my hero, who had become my friend, who had become my mentor. Yet my pride was still only youthful zeal and trapped in my ego – I was so excited to show Jack what a great climber I had become – and the bubble burst when I came to see how this was only the first step along a path. Yet, my enthusiasm kindled again when I realized that instructing with Jack is perhaps one of the greatest honors anyone who guides or teaches can enjoy. The man was a Master when it came to teaching climbing – and my apprenticeship entered its next phase.

I remember too, the honor I felt, once again, when Jack asked if I wanted to sit down for a scotch and talk in more detail about the finer points of the guiding life. Always humble, he delivered one pearl of wisdom after another, gleamed from his many years of dedication to the craft…and he always listened intently to my own recollections or queries.

As the years slipped by, we had our annual to semi-annual reunions…ice festivals, tradeshows, the usual haunts. Each time we connected, I grew a little as a person. Though we didn’t climb together day in and day out, we always remained connected and he was always a few steps ahead, like a kind father-figure, seemingly knowing where I was headed next at any given time, offering wisdom and insights that would help me execute technical moves with daft skill or, far from the myopia of our climbing obsession, sage advice on larger life-matters. I believe Jack had a gift that allowed him to strip away the superficial and understand the true human qualities at work in any situation. Perhaps this is his last lesson for me; I will strive.

Now, as I struggle to close this piece with some semblance of coherency, my mind drifts to the larger spiritual scope and I consider the energy of Jack’s life – such a generous outpouring. What is to become of it now? What shall we do with this glowing ember that is Jack’s memory, his gift to us all? I know I’m not alone in this one, but where do I put the enthusiasm I had for our plans to visit South America? What to do with the inspiration and spinning ideas of all the unfinished projects? How daunting, to consider the task of picking up this torch and carrying forth the good will of Jack’s heart that is left in us all…

Be well.

Special Thanks to Caudia Lopez

www.claudialopezphotography.com

flashback.

2011-10-13T12:20:00.000-07:00

No, not the Ministry classic...though, I guess these events took place around the same time. I'm talking about a story from back in the day, before crows feet and back hair; and, at the risk of crossing genres: "In the days of my youth, I was told what it means to be a man." This is a tale that tells of youthful exuberance and lessons in humility.

So, thanks to David Crothers and Climberism Magazine for the inspiration to share my story of the old days, back home, where it all began.

Head over to Climberism, subscibe (it's a free, ad-supported online mag - and I promise, spam-free as well), then check out issue 8 for my feature article. I'd also love some feedback, good, bad or indiffernt, so please - fire away!

gettin' down and dirty

2011-07-18T13:17:00.000-07:00

...hit The Great One (bridger range) with Chris Ebeling the other day and found super-awesome, amazing-sweet turns in the upper couloir; the lower, not so much. It looks like the wet spring and lower elevation cleaned things out considerably and devastated some of the forest below - pretty gnar. Regardless, the upper stretch alone is well worth the trip right now.

Here's a quick shot of the bottom feeding:
oh, and remember, head to vimeo if you're down with the hd...

Summer Skiing (some are not)

2011-07-12T09:07:00.000-07:00

July 9, 2011...We missed the classic 4th of July mark for die-hard, celebratory backcountry skiing, but perhaps with the record snowpack this year, that benchmark should be pushed back; August 4 would likely be a more accurate test of the hardcore's resolve to chase an endless season this time around.

As noted in my previous post, I didn't exactly get around to skiing this past winter season -- like, zero, nadda, nil, zilch days on the boards since wrapping up ten months of consecutive turns in July of 2010. This has left me not only a little confused, but also pretty hungry for the sensations of glide and exposure (not to mention, a fiendish Need For Speed). And so it goes...after riding out far too many rainy weeks on the couch and having once more tasted the sweetness of spring corn as the clouds have parted, I've been a solar-powered, Red Bull-fueled, early-rising, creek-crossing, farmer-tanned (red-necked-whitey is more like it) aspect-chasing machine. I simply can't get enough and my quads are ready to explode.

Here's a quick vid from the other day (watch on Vimeo in HD and full-screen, with volume cranked for maximum viewing enjoyment):

Great Weather for Ducks

2011-06-21T16:21:00.000-07:00

Not much to report, unless you're interested in my rantings of pent-up emotion as a result of staring at the same four walls, watching incessant rain course over window panes and the spring climbing opportunities wash away... wwmftd?

Despite this being the rainiest season I can remember, I did manage a high-quality outing with good friend and partner Drew Ruderman - damning the rain and Positive Mental Attitude intact, we made a honest effort to bag one of the ephemeral mixed lines on the south face of Beehive Peak, near Big Sky. The routes can be amazing, but given their elevation and aspect, require pretty specific weather conditions.

This season, the melt/freeze cycle needed to form ice on the typically sunny face became more and more of a melt/melt cycle, so we opted for Plan B and enjoyed record snow on the east ridge of the peak. Classic and moderate terrain was tempered with copious snow and firm, frozen conditions on the north aspect eased the challenge of 5th class mixed climbing in ski boots, while to the contrary, the boards strapped to my back behaved like the sails of a great ship in strong, shifting, erratic winds, tossing me off balance when least expected.

After simul-climbing from the east col, adrenaline began to pump hard and fast as I clicked into my skis on the summit and felt the enormous exposure circling, spinning 360 degrees of extreme consequence and threatening to pull me into an apprehension-fueled vertigo. Not having been on skis since July of 2010, these would be my first turns of the year. I opted for a belay.

Once in motion, I felt at home and suddenly the summit descent seemed a little anticlimactic. Off belay and a body length of down-climbing put me at the top of a 300cm-wide gully that ran out to a pocket of snow perched over yet more exposure - a quick hipcheck on my last turn in the pocket, only a few feet from the edge of the world, reminded me that this was indeed still very real terrain. A billy goat traverse linked to the top of a much larger gully and beautiful turns above one last pinch. A short hike up and over the west col brought us to the top of the Fourth of July Couloir and a cruiser descent on down to the tall boys we'd stashed in the snowbank back at the trailhead.

Now let the sun shine...

Drew Ruderman amplifying his power and will high on the east ridge - PMA Bob, PMA...

Alpinist TV

2011-04-06T21:01:00.000-07:00

Like most of us, I love a good ego stroking -- even if I have to do it myself sometimes (yes, by all means, feel free to read into the innuendo, that's part of the fun in this self-deprecating shtick). I love the validation I feel when complimented on my abilities as an instructor or when sponsors keep me on year after year...there's some sense of relief I feel (along with the lightness of being that my ballooning ego provides); a sense of relief that perhaps this climbing gig isn't a total farce, a waste of an otherwise (potentially) useful member of the working class.

Imagine my ecstasy when I received email, out of the blue from the crew at Alpinist.com, expressing interest in one of my nascent video shorts. From my first reaction to now, I've run through a gamut of feelings that I can only imagine closely follows suit to those experienced by monkeys you might have seen at the zoo, as they first discover the simplicity and apparant joy found in their public display of pleasuring themselves in the most imaginative of ways.

Disregarding my drivel... I'm sincerely flattered and utterly stoked to be associated with Alpinist TV. Many thanks to Daniel Starr and Keese Lane for taking note and their continued encouragement. You guys are awesome.

You can follow the links to check out the featuring of these vids on Alpinist.

http://www.alpinist.com/doc/web11w/video_deadfall

http://www.alpinist.com/doc/web11w/video_bourbon_tan

Cody

2011-03-30T22:03:00.000-07:00

I, uhh....sorta fell behind the curve once more. All the same, happy to report that the Cody Ice Fest was a blast again this year. Don Foote does an amazing job of putting it all together and really pulls off a great event. New Belgium Brewing definitely does their part as well (bottomless Ranger IPA's -- dear lord...). And of course a huge thanks goes out to Black Diamond and Sterling Ropes for their support also.

Confession time: by mid-February I'm usually pretty well sated in terms of my appetite for ice climbing so, while Cody is renowned for it's long, continuous ice lines, word is slipping out on the high-quality bouldering to be had just on the edge of town (shirtless in the winter sun no less), I was quite happy to sneak in an afternoon of pure, sandstone-pullin' joy in good company.

Marko: getting full-value from his Five-Tenies.

LoLo: saving the day with a delicious beverage.

Doug Shepard did a great job of warming the stage for Jack Tackle as team BD provided the entertainment for Friday evening and the beer flowed freely as we all mingled and laid plans for the following morning.

Doug and Jack: covering the finer points, err, pints.

Saturday was a fantastic clinic day for me with a few familiar faces and a couple of new friends, covering lots of material on the super-classic Broken Hearts. At the end of the day, my best "teachable moment" was backing off the very top of pitch three... I tried left; I tried right; center was missing and replaced with a surging cascade of ice water that revealed just how little of the entire pitch was actually attached to the wall. So, I stuck to my plan and backed off exactly where I told my students I would. In discussing the matter and how to decide when to back off in general, I stressd the point (to my group of six dudes) that "I've backed off way easier stuff in front of way hotter chics than you guys."

Broken Hearts, Pitch 1: everybody up!

More Rangers; Majka Burhardt on Ice Climbing and Africa, not in Africa; a massive dinner; the "Tough-Axe Awards" (I took first for easiest pitch backed off) and a drunken pull-up contest rounded out the evening. Well, that and a few more Rangers...

Given the hangovers and the fallen temps, my partner Marko and I opted for a recovery day before presenting Sunday evening. I filled in for Jim Shimberg on short notice, which was nice, since I had much less time to stress over getting my show together. A quick assemblage of still shots with a soundtrack by The Melvins got things going and, much to my relief, everyone seemed to enjoy the collection of climbing vids that I put together. Needless to say, I was pretty stoked to sit back and see the audience actually watching the show...

Home Field Advantage (talk about milage...)

2011-02-27T13:37:00.000-08:00

I've been fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time on a few occasion. Sometimes luck plays a greater role; other times it's more a matter of stubbornness...er, I mean dedication, will and embodiment of pure spirit or some crap like that. More often than not, nabbing a quality first ascent, particularly on ice or mixed terrain, has everything to do with the timing.

I often used to think that the more prolific first ascentionists had some sort of a deal with the devil thing going on...how else could they keep nabbing all of these fine and ephemeral lines? I wondered... With the passage of time, and my own occasional good fortune, I've begun to realize that it is more likely a matter of wisdom or "mountain-sense" that leads to this serendipitous timing.

Scoring the F.A. on Home Field Advantage was the result of more than 10 years of diligent, patient waiting and watching. It's a line that had caught my eye long ago, yet never really came into condition and more or less fell off my radar, outside of serious consideration. I never really said much about it to anyone, nor did I hear of it mentioned by others. All along, Joe Josephson was right there as well, also quietly watching...stalking from the sidelines.

Somewhere in the social network, I caught wind that John Frieh and Bryan Schmidtz would be in town and JoJo's "vague" description of where he thought they should go tipped me off. I was like a fly to shit...there was no way I would miss the opportunity to catch this line I'd been spying on for an embarrassingly large portion of my adult life.

We ironed out plans and braved sub-zero temps -- our commitment to the project, despite the cold was rewarded with a fantastic day of climbing in the company of good friends; a memorable experience and the satisfaction of perseverance leading to success.

For the last few seasons, since our first ascent, the route has begun to form regularly and fatter than ever. With this, the popularity of the line has surged and it's now considered a modern classic. I recently visited Home Field with compatriots Marko Pujic and Craig Pope. Below is a short video from that day; click away, go to full-screen and crank the volume.

Enjoy -

Also, check out ColdThistle.blogspot.com for a little more route history.

A festivous for the rest of us...

2011-02-17T08:11:00.000-08:00

Within the week following Jay Beyer's visit, the Bozeman Ice Festival was underway and I was in full swing for the ice season with clinics stacked up for three out of the four festival days (alas, I'm still not instructing for the women's clinic). This year's rig was super-fun to work, with great student to intructor ratios, a co-starring role next to Will Gadd (or is that supporting actor?) and a beautiful day at the Unnamed Wall with a small group of students for the "Full Value Deal" clinic, racking up sweet pitches and covering super-fun material while teaching on traditionally protected mixed routes.

You can view a series of reports on the festival at alpinist.com.

Anchor clinic at G1, aka, "Here are a few quick and easy ways to not kill yourself."

Not a lot of protective system instruction happening on The Thrill is Gone.

With no rest for the wicked, festivous spilled over into the following days with more modeling for Black Diamond (read: posing) and a hilariously good time re-connecting with Gadd and Jonathan Thesenga, while getting to know new friends Ben Woodworth and Andrew Burr, who were on assignment from BD to capture action shots of the latest gear being put to the test, just in time to pimp it out at the Winter Outdoor Retailer tradeshow.

While I wasn't there to see it, I'm told that the image below was used in some sort of large-format display for the ice catagory at the BD booth. Thanks Burr!

Be sure to check out his sites as well: andrewburr.blogspot.com and andrewburr.com.

Deadfall Gully

2011-02-16T09:16:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago Craig Pope and I were on our way to poke around in Hyalite for the afternoon when this fine little line caught our eyes. It's short, sweet, and most notable for it's proximity to the Genesis 1 area, only minutes from the car. I love the fact that you can still find new routes so easily around here...

Keeping with the theme of nearby routes, Willow Gully and Clump Tree Gull, we dubbed it Deadfall Gully, as the line is immediately adjacent to a large fallen tree that hangs from the top of the cliff.

The video is a bit rough, but considering the budget point-and-shoot source (which yeilds seriously blown out white values with little to no image stabilization {read into this as: I'm developing video nerd tendancies}), I see it as good editting practice if nothing else.

Enjoy.

Deadfall Gully from Pete Tapley on Vimeo.

then along came winter...

2011-02-14T22:04:00.000-08:00

Fresh on the heels of our new route on the north face of Mount Helen, I had two days to do some laundry, load the truck and shift gears back into sport mode. Well, actually, before sport mode came road mode and three days of driving to reach the Red River Gorge, then two weeks of the best sport climbing I have ever seen - just pure fun.

Returning west was no easy task; leaving warm sandstone and easy living in trade for cold air and short days just didn't seem like a winning proposal, especially since I'd already gotten a fix for my mixed climbing jones in the Wind River Range just a few weeks prior.

Inevitably, I found my way back to Montana and started gearing up for the ice season. Shortly thereafter, I got an email from my good friend and ace photog Jay Beyer -- he too was gearing up for the season and laying plans for a weekend in Hyalite to do some shooting for Black Diamond and Patagonia.

Below are a couple of samples from our pose-fest on Home Field Advantage. Be sure to check out his work and follow his blog at jaybeyer.com.

More slack than spray...

2011-02-01T14:45:00.001-08:00

I have a confession to make -- of late, I have begun to question my resolve to spray. It seems that each post begins apologetically with regard to the infrequency of my blogging. Perhaps I am not quite the spraylord that I want to be...perhaps renewed dedication is required...perhaps the sidetrack of Facebooking my spray has stolen away from the blog before it even had a chance to pick up momentum. In the end, it's hard sayin' not knowin'...

For the moment, I will adopt a shotgun-style approach to catch up on some back-spray.

The summer season wrapped up nicely after a couple months of touch-and-go weather. I finally made my way back to a favorite hideaway, quasi-secret crag and put an unfinished project to bed. Sticking with the all-things-spooky theme, the latest addition to the Bat Cave is Morticia, checking in at 5.13. It's a short, bouldery affair that's all about power-thrutching and pain management with a climax of fantastic footloose swinging from one side of the cave's apex to the other -- love it.

So what better way to followup a fine, extended sport climbing season then with a shift to some alpine climbing and an early jump on winter conditions? The second week of October found me heading south to the Wind River Range with Craig Pope and gunning for a long-sought after line on the north face of Mount Helen.

The trip was a grand success and the beginning of an excellent partnership. You see, Craig and I had never actually roped up together before tying in half-way up the face. We had crossed paths many times over at the crags in Hyalite Canyon the winter before and had a couple of beers together at various festivals and backyard barbecues, but had never actually gone out as a team prior to this. Needless to say, there's some shared excitement for climbing new routes.

Our new line on Helen gains a little over 3,000' in total with the top 1,200' taking a fairly direct path up the center of the peak's north face. We simul-climbed most of the terrain through 55-60 degree black ice, snow and several m4-5 steps, then belayed a couple of cruxes that stretched the rope out and checked in at m6 and 5.9R.

To both of us, the real beauty in our ascent was relishing how casually we managed to pull it off: leaving camp around noon time and ambling slowly on the approach to shoot video clips, we set off with the intent to acclimate, scout and establish a bootpack on the initial slopes, taking an active rest day in preparation for an early start the following morning. With perfect weather and a fire inside, momentum built...before long we were soloing high on the face and quickly approaching the steep ground above. The excitement continued to grow, as did our speed, and we road a slingshot of enthusiasm all the way to the top, just in time to catch the sun setting behind the Grand Tetons, as a perfect crescent moon rose in the southeast.

Wrapping up our time in Wyoming with a visit to the Wind River Brewery in Pinedale (highly recommended btw) for some well-earned burgers and beers, we suffered the classic postpartum effect of leaving the experience in the past. While there was much to revel in, our success came too easily and left a bittersweet taste of both joy and disappointment. Fortunately, the two of us are easily excited and the lubricating effects of strong microbrews only aided our stoke as a solution became clear -- this would be our first annual Wind River micro-expedition. Rest assured, we filed away many, many new route possibilities for the future.

Look for the short film La Mirada del la Gitana at bdel.com/journal in the near future for a full and entertaining account of the adventure.

BD Journal

2010-07-08T09:46:00.000-07:00

I know that it's just barely past the 4th of July and all, but here's more ice climbing...

Shot by Chris Hamillton, this is my first real attempt at video editting and has really turned me on to the idea of working in visual media. The goal was to produce a 2-8 minute clip for BD's online athlete journal. Chris didn't miss a moment of the action from his fixed line and handed me something like 48 minutes of raw footage - enter the learning curve.

Being a total nerd when it comes to climbing, I found it exceptionally challenging to eliminate footage. The words of my friend and colleague CJ Carter echoed strongly throughout the process, "try to use only the bare minimum needed to tell the story." Not so easy as it may sound, at least not for me - given my druthers, you'd be forced to sit through tight shots of every protection placement, complete with voice-over and slow-mo, just to be sure that the experience was thoroughly beat to death. So, anyhow, this is my attempt at a video snapshot of one of the finest, wildest, steepest pure-ice lines that I've had the pleasure to engage.

Enjoy.

BD athlete Pete Tapley ice climbing in Hyalite Canyon, Montana from Black Diamond Equipment on Vimeo.

looks like ticking off july skiing will be a piece of cake

2010-07-04T10:00:00.000-07:00

and yet, another perspective...

2010-07-03T13:42:00.000-07:00

Seasons Change...

2010-06-01T11:00:00.000-07:00

Semi-annual blogging? Perhaps it's all of the pep in my step as the seasons turn and my enthusiasm for change wells strong and fast - I get excited and can't sit still. I have to find an outlet for the stoke and amplify to the point where the winds of spray fill my sails and I'm out the door, into the fray and on the fly, riding the flow of action. Or, on the other hand, it could just be slack...

Regardless, spring fills me with renewed excitement for alpine climbing and I spend bad-weather days hunched over doppler radar images and live webcams, waiting for the perfect storm to conjure last-rounds of ice climbing for the season. By this time, I'm typically tired of ice climbing. I can't count the number of days or pitches climbed this winter, but it was certainly enough for me to be keen on some nice, sunny rock pitches, so it's not necessarily a matter of needing to get in more days on the ice, or a matter of preference for the medium. I think it's the thrill of the hunt that gets me jacked as much as anything.

Not unlike the fall season, with early snowfall melting on the still-warm crags, re-freezing overnight and clinging to the shadows, spring brings its own unique conditions and occasionally the variables align to the the climber's favor. These occasions are rare however and you have to be keen (and flexible with your time) to catch them. I got lucky recently - with the feeling in my bones that things were setting up just right and a fantastic new partner who had some time on his hands, I struck out for Beehive Buttress near Big Sky.

We slept way too little, almost ran out of gas, got pulled over for speeding (and a busted headlight), then found the first warming rays of sun beaming onto the south face to reveal the best-looking conditions that I've ever seen on the wall - too good to be true. While the routes were fat with recent cover, they were still pre-mature and far from thunker ice. All the same, we had a very high-quality experience, complete with stone that fought tooth and nail when we tried to protect it and blunted our picks when we were duped by optimism and the illusion of ice in the cracks.

The video clip was assembled from the shots on my camera; Peter told me that it was "just a little too much all me, especially since you made the ascent happen" and passed forward the stills from his camera for me to incorporate in another edit. Of course, I've already either mis-placed or deleted the original files, so this is what we have...

ps - Being tech-challenged has it's moments...this time it has to do with the embedded video formatting. I suggest opening in another window in order to view full-scale. Just double-click the image below.

2009-11-11T20:27:00.000-08:00

here's a quick compilation of kevin's clips from the belay...

Funeral For a Friend

2009-10-30T22:02:00.000-07:00

October: low stoke; a wasted body and a troubled mind. Beartooth Mountains, Montana: cold stone and high winds. Climbing has been on the back burner for a while; I’ve been pre-occupied and jaded to boot, yet like any junky, there’s really no leaving the monkey behind – that bugger clings tight to my back and calls to me as a siren of the deep from the dusty corners of old ambition.

Spray-gun: locked and loaded…

I swear it off, wish for new-found passion, woo myself convincingly that personal satisfaction in climbing now only comes from teaching and inspiring others – that I have moved past my proving days and I’m thankful for it, happy to be off the hook. Then, I hear the monkey shriek and feel its bite in my neck…a change of season, a hint of something ethereal on the wind, long shadows and dark mornings conspire to pull me back in, a la Pacino – just when I thought I was out.

And so goes the narrative of a dark and introverted alpinist, the story we know well of how personal suffering can be channeled into a proper meditative mindset, useful to aid in concentration while facing dire circumstances and often resulting in a fine catharsis. At 4:30 in the morning however, such talk is minimal. With a carload of smelly guys, smelly gear and a lot of coffee, the talk is more peripheral: “what’s the latest forecast? I had no idea what to pack for ice climbing last night…red sky in morning, sailors take warning” etc. Five guys in a little Subaru wagon that’s stuffed to the gills with skis, snowshoes and garbage from McDonalds tend to experience a paradoxical discomfort: on the one hand you have a ski binding melding with your shoulder as your back slowly goes out of alignment and your ankle becomes numb in an effort to leave enough room for the guy in the middle seat; while on the other hand people you really only know casually suddenly become quite close and trusted counterparts through the shared enduring of said discomfort and gradually the talk does begin to drift closer to personal experience and expectations of the day.

We laughed and joked at our own absurdity, seeing the red dawn as we drove eastward and noting the black sky to the south where we would turn and gain elevation soon. “Hey – if you’re about to start your ice climbing season, you might as well do it right, huh?” Still on the periphery though; still below the surface laid the truth to our motives and hidden behind the goal of our chosen climb was our actual ambition. A gesture was made to the south and to that deep, dark cloud that engulfed the entire range, lifted slightly over the valley then showed a massive collapse in pressure with stacks of lenticular clouds bearing down as the land mass rose again, “look, it’s the wall of hate.” A one-word response was elicited – “Dukkha.”

The Buddha himself on Dukkha:
“Birth is dukkha, aging is dukkha, death is dukkha; sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief, & despair are dukkha; association with the unbeloved is dukkha; separation from the loved is dukkha; not getting what is wanted is dukkha. In short, the five clinging-aggregates are dukkha.”

And so it was that the word of the day was set and adopted, it would be Dukkha, the oft-translated as “life is suffering” first noble truth. That’s what we were after; that’s what we wanted – a big fat dose of suffering by choice. I know I’d been craving it, that sweet cleansing that only the cold pain of alpine climbing in foul conditions has ever given me. Oh for those moments far and away from the world, safe in my microcosm of running grey and varying shades of cold white; for the clarity of mind found in pure action and intimate awareness of the immediate and the real; for those times of letting go, relaxing and focusing determination simultaneously. Just give me a fix, just one fix.

No sooner was it spoken than it was accepted, embraced: we wanted discomfort, we wanted adversity and the floodgates were now open – coffee onboard, harsh weather inbound, the season upon us and we could not wait a moment longer. The monkey eased its bite, climbed off my back and into my lap – we were on our way…

The Suby was low on clearance and heavily burdened, barely scraping over the rocks as it weaved through a maze of cobbles: “how far is it to the trailhead?” its rightfully-concerned driver queried, only to be egged on by our enthusiasm and the soothing sounds of Rasta beats in the background…when approaching a massive and ice-filled low-point in the road: “just punch it straight through, it’ll be fine.” And it was fine. There was a moment or two when we needed to unload in order to regain some suspension and provide a bit of guidance through some of the bigger rocks, but all in all it was a fine welcome to Montana driving experience for our new friend and we all enjoyed the un-intentional sandbagging. At the trailhead, senses heightened and the wind cut through layers – the wall of hate was close.

There’s nothing quite like having a group of testosterone-filled 20-somethings to combat the stoke-depleting effects of steady 70 mile an hour winds and further the determination of my aging self. The wind knocked us sideways, backwards, forwards and unexpectedly every which way but down. We leaned into it, turned our backs to it, put on goggles and pressed onward, further into the black wall, full-well knowing that what we wanted was there to be had. We took five in a tiny shack on top of a small dam near the base of our route and laughed heartily at the wind and it’s shaking effects on the scrappy little shelter. Concern finally showed in the face and voice of one: “do you guys always ice climb when it’s like this?” The answer came quickly and confidently: “only when it’s like this.”

And then there were four…

The Beartooths are spectacular. Alex Lowe referred to them as “the best un-discovered range in the states.” The mountains around here certainly do provide an amazing return on your investment: while the approaches may be a bit more challenging than some of the better-know regions in the Rockies, the adventure quotient is remarkably high. There are certainly no lines and in fact, rarely any evidence of traffic on the climbing routes. Despite recent publications, there’s also very little in the way of information – a benefit to those wanting an honest experience. Closing my eyes, I can easily visualize the basin above the lake and feel the freezing spray of water being whipped airborne by gale-force winds: immaculate granite soaring in all directions, limitless possibilities for alpine endeavors left to the creative mind. Stepping out of the shack on the dam, my head spun with sensory overload – the wind, the stinging spray, the contrast of earth to sky and water to storm; the world outside was raging. Visibility was low and there were massive buttresses all around, but where was our intended line? I’d taken it for granted that we would walk up, see the line and amble toward it, but that was not the case, instead conditions were overwhelming and we were trying to steal glances from beneath hoods drawn tight and narrow down the selection – it had to be one of the two largest formations. We moved as quickly as possible to find the sheltered lee of a massive rock wall and escape the wind.

More wind and slip-sliding across a small lake brought us to the line of sight we needed in order to confirm where we were going. From there, it was simply head-down slogging upslope to reach the start of the climbing – a perfect chimney with a massive and unmistakable chockstone verifying its authenticity as our intended line; beautiful pink and tan granite running deep and high up the mountainside, choked with dreamy ice deep-grey in color and running periodically with modest spindrift. Ah, the Dukkha.

This was one of those routes that had been on my radar for ages, but I’d never gotten around to it (with a litany of excuses, it comes down to being lazy and not wanting to make the drive and hike for something “not really all that hard”). Now that I was at the base, I was set on sending. It was beautiful, it was perfect; we made analogies to routes in Alaska, ohh’d and ahh’d over this and that aspect of the climbing ahead, then lost a little enthusiasm as the spindrift continued with regularity.

There was little to no talk of what our rope teams would be but the implication became apparent that both Loren and I were planning to lead; Scott and Kevin then partnered with us respectively and by default as a result of where we stood at the base. Time began to slip by without action and I became anxious…I was wanting to give Loren the lead, to pass the torch to this energetic and inspired youth (or perhaps to have him poodle out there and prep the route for me), but he wasn’t taking the bait and I could wait no longer. Every time a slough ran through the slot above I tingled with excitement – it would be cold; it would be dark; it would be frightful and soothing at once; it might be heavy, and if it was, it could be dangerous. The wind howled near constantly and the sloughs coincided. There was nothing above to load and release, only miles of high, frozen plateau for the wind to rake hard and fast, scouring clean of any and all snow which may have accumulated, then funnel down our chosen line above – perfect. I was confident that there was little safety concern with these avalanches, only added Dukkha, free of cost.

We swapped banter, brief tales and quips of our dark motivations to get out and into the face of Mother Nature, shared the reasons for our need to be terrified and consequently cleansed by its passing waves. We were telling ourselves that the route just needed a few minutes to flush clean and that after that, we’d be in the clear. With one of the better lulls I seized the opportunity and launched upward under the pretense that I would race to a sheltered point midway, protect myself with gear in the rock, wait out a slide then punch through to the top – I’d time it perfectly. Kevin’s response: “Tapley’s always got a plan.” I’m still unsure if I heard sarcasm or not…

Plan A: Phase 1: Check! I reached the midway point without incident, protected and waited…come baby, let loose. And it did, lightly. It wasn’t much of anything, but all I needed to justify upward progression: I had a vein and was plunging, but still needed that fix, needed it to hit me and hit me hard. This was my first day of ice climbing for the year and I had a deep, quiet jones going that needed fixing – there was no stopping now.

Plan A: Phase 2: Houston, we have a problem. “Whaaaa-hoooo!!! Dukkha baby!!” I hooted; I hollered; I reveled in the absurdity and the cold. The slough was coming again, early, but this is just what I wanted – an internal battle between fear and confidence, irrational stress response versus rational thought and problem solving. I was run-out, well above protection and the possibility of a “safe fall.” Consequences were real, not theoretical and I was alive. Another round of hooting as the spindrift continued far longer than expected and seemingly heavier than before. Keep the stoke alive, do not let the fear win or the cold wear you down and further back in my mind, yet louder this time around: it’s a Tackle route – get some. Midway through it became apparent that the hood rolled into a tight collar approach to weather protection was not going to cut it. There was a light, powerstretch piece under my jacket and I had been wearing its hood over the top of my helmet to seal things up, but it had been pulled away and began slapping the side of my face as it filled with snow, stretched, sagged then snapped back, emptying its icy contents onto the lower-right side of my jaw each time. I relaxed, shivered, then smiled. Dropping my hands from the tools overhead, one at a time, I shook them below my waist and forced warm blood back to the wooden extremities. I became comfortable and found my place in the world. I found my way to my jacket’s hood, unrolled and deployed – it was like a new lease on life and I was re-energized, ready for more.

The slide continued for what seemed like and age. I placed an ice screw at my waist, fascinated by the view: all was dark and grey, my visual world shrank to a hemisphere of perhaps only 18-24” and beyond that was nothing. I saw nothing more than the edges of my hood, my arms to hands and the upper portion of my thighs. My feet were gone; the rock walls, less than a foot away and massive, were gone. I was quiet and there was no sound other than rushing snow. It was perfect. I was safely protected, feeling strong and confident that the slough would remain soft. All I needed to do was relax and enjoy the madness.

Finally – a break in the spindrift and I motored, covering near-vertical ground quickly, efficiently and feeling confident. “Heads up!” echoed from below and a new wave raged down from above. My smile broadened, it got dark, the world went away and my view closed down again.

Eternity. That’s what came to mind as I tried to grasp the duration of this slough: it just didn’t seem to end and was very consistent. I repeated the routine and relaxed. Shaking out to keep my hands warm I would find the tool again by sense of touch, and then wiggle my fingers lightly in order to rid the snow that was building between my glove and the grip of the tool.

Heavier now and darker than before…eternal my mind repeated, it just doesn’t end and with that I was fascinated. These moments are rarely so extensive and the harder it became to hold on, the colder I felt, the more water that ran down the nape of my neck and soaked through the crook of my elbow the happier I was. Sweet, sweet, blessed Dukkha, give it to me baby. A lull, and a cold, now-nervous attempt to punch to the belay, to end this suffering, cut short by an increase in flow, heightened force from above pushing me down and strong pull from below as my ropes took weight with the slough’s new intensity. Down climbing: blind movement over the cusp of a bulge and back to the safety of protection at my waist; waiting: repeat the cycle, add another ice screw to the system and relax. Dropping my hands below the waist wouldn’t work any longer with this new level of intensity – the gloves began to fill with cold, granular snow. Instead I figured out how to adopt a position that would allow my hand to reach below my heart and still orient the gloves with the fingertips up. Wiggling the fingers and swinging my feet, burning pain welled and brought confidence-destroying doubt along with it.

Focus. Too cold now and getting stiff – time to dispatch.

Another seemingly-eternal passage of time and the eventual lull finally brought me to the place I’d wanted to go, not the belay, but that place in the spirit where action and thought are one, that place which hovers just outside and above the body. I turned the exit bulge as light spindrift turned to heavy slough, wavered slightly, then re-entered my body as I clipped the belay…and then it was gone, then zen-state became un-essential once the secure safety of the belay had been reached and washed away as if with the spindrift, down the mountain, into the lake below and eventually the sea beyond.

But the Dukkha, that hung strong, especially on the ride back…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=so0jBeiu9sE

Winning the lemming race?

2009-10-24T14:20:00.000-07:00

Yes, another "gosh-golly, even I've started blogging" opening post...

First off, I'm way too anal to work within these pre-fab layout options and now dread the idea of needing to learn code in order to put everything exactly where I want it; where it belongs.

Right Where it Belongs could be an appropriate title as well...approaching the blog project has been somewhat of an accidental concession. I initially intended to do a little something in an effort to boost the local guiding numbers (curse you politics, economy & all things rooted in abstract math that are far beyond my understanding), but the next thing I knew, I was gulping the sweet Kool-Aid of self-promotion, justifying as I go...for you see, I suffer the vanity of the all-too self-aware and shoulder guilt like an old-school Catholic.

I don't want to get up and jump up and down about how awesome I am or wear a thin guise labeled "for the love of the game." I've been there and done that; thankfully before the blog era, leaving the evidence of my over-zealous youth scarce. I've been up and down a few things and figuratively, a few times. Recent events have kicked the pendulum into motion and my inner voices say "get up, move yer ass boy."

So, off I go, off my ass and into the swirling, heaving mass of pr that my pessimism calls selling out, my frail (yet lofty) ego views as following the masses and my inner voices nod silently toward with approval.