The Climber's Ranch
I could tell pretty quickly upon my arrival in the Tetons that for alpine climbing in the lower 48, this is the motherlode. Snow, ice, rock, long approaches, wilderness, exposure, this place has it all. There is a lifetime's worth of climbing here.
My initial intention was to hang around at the American Alpine Club Climber's Ranch for a day or two, see if I could meet up with a trustworthy partner to climb the Grand Teton, and in the meantime, do some hiking. I arrived at the ranch on Thursday morning, picked out a bunk, and wrote a note on the board: "Traveling New England climber seeks partner to climb the Grand Teton!"
First of all, the Climber's Ranch is a pretty sweet place. At 16 bucks a night for a bunk in a cabin (only 8 bucks for AAC members), it's already the best deal around for accommodations. And though it's open to the public, it's almost exclusively climbers or former climbers who stay there. There's a small bouldering wall, a pullup bar, laundry, showers, a library of climbing and mountaineering literature, and a big outdoor eating/lounging area where people cook their meals and hang out. People talk about what climbs they've done, what they're planning to do, swap beta, tell climbing stories, and partner up to do climbs together. You know, like any good climbing scene.
So I arrive, and right away I start chatting with Rob from Chicago, who's climbing with a friend for a few days but as of Tuesday will be partnerless and indicates that we might be able to climb together. Hmm, Tuesday's a long way off. But, he said, there's plenty of great 3rd and 4th class "scrambles" that can be soloed, which is what he says he has always done when he finds himself out here without a partner. He recommends a few--in particular, he recommends the East Face of Teewinot--and we discuss snow conditions, etc. I open up my newly-purchased guidebook, which has a few climbs starred as the uber-classics at each grade; at 3rd class, there's the Southwest Couloir of Middle Teton, and at 4th class, there's the East Face of Teewinot. I'm feeling a little out of my element beneath these giant jagged peaks so I figure I'll start with Middle Teton and see how it goes. Both routes are partly snow climbs, and the range received record snowfall this winter, but I'm told that the snow should be reasonably soft and well-tracked and I should be fine with my approach shoes and an ice axe for self-belay and self-arrest. Good thing I brought it--I had stuffed it in my bag thinking "There's no way I''m going to end up using this, but why not..."
Middle Teton
The next morning I get up at 3:30 and head for the trailhead. As a newcomer to bear country, the spiciest part of the day was actually the approach through the lowland meadows, which is the most bear-friendly part of the route. Of the 5 or 6 rules of hiking in bear country, number 1 is "Don't hike alone." Number 2 is "Don't hike at night, or at dawn or dusk." Well, getting an alpine start for a solo climb necessitates breaking rules 1 and 2, so perhaps I can compensate by strictly following rule 3, "Make lots of noise"...? I walk nervously down the trail in the dark by headlamp, singing "Rocky Raccoon" and whistling and yelling "Hey Bear" and generally sounding like an idiot (the idea is that bears, while benign in most circumstances, are more aggressive when surprised, so you make noise so that they know that you are coming and can get out of the way). About twenty minutes into the hike I see a brief glint of light that looks like it could be an eye. Did I see it? Yes, there it is again, but maybe it was a firefly? Then all of a sudden not one, but two blue-white, illuminated eyes swivel directly towards me and lock on unmistakably. They look close together, predatorial.
Terror. I turn out my headlamp (maybe the light would irritate the bear?) but now I can't see where or what the thing is, I shuffle clumsily backward down the trail as slowly as I can muster, trying not to break rule 4 ("Don't run away") and when I'm a few hundred yards down the trail, I turn my headlamp back on and re-assess. I'm scared shitless, alone in the dark in the woods with a bear, and don't know what to do, it's dark so I wouldn't even be able to see if the bear was coming towards me, but I'd better keep making noise, so I end up shouting my internal monologue into the darkness: "OK, so I'm just waiting here, not sure what to do, maybe if I wait, and keep making lots of noise, when I go back up, the bear will be gone, so here I am, making lots of noise, hoping that the bear, will let me pass, just making lots and lots of noise..." Finally after standing in the dark for about twenty minutes, I head back up and have no further encounters.
About a half an hour later, as it starts to get light out, I look down in the valley and see three elk lounging around. So maybe it wasn't a bear after all.
The trail continues through the canyon, winding its way up through forests and waterfalls, and finally into a talus field with some extended stretches of snow. The snow is for the most part soft and isn't super-steep, but I am glad to have my ice axe as I plunge-kick-kick my way up the snowfield in my sneakers.
It takes longer to reach the saddle between South and Middle Teton than I expected, but once I get there I can see the route clearly. And yet still I manage to go off-route: where the couloir splits I opt to scramble up some clean rock to the ridge instead of following the loose, chossy gully--whereupon I realize the chossy gully is the real route, so I traverse back over to it. Once done, reaching the summit is a fairly simple matter, where I am rewarded with spectacular views of the Grand Teton and down into Idaho. Having undertaken the climb as just something to do while partner-less, I am somewhat surprised to find myself on the summit of the third highest peak in the range, and realize I'd actually just done one of the classic routes in the Tetons. Sweet! I snap a picture with my iPhone and send it out (great phone reception up there).
When alpine climbing, even easy alpine climbing, goes well, it is a seamless and satisfying application of many techniques to pass fluidly through obstacles in the mountains--like parcour at altitude. Power up the trail like a distance runner, hit the snow, pull out the axe, plunge-kick-kick, hit some rock, tuck the axe behind your back like a katana, do some scrambling, tag the summit, pull the axe back out, glissade, dance back down through the talus field. At certain points on this day the climbing feels, as Joe Kinder might say, "flowy." I imagine how a well-dialed rope-team could achieve this kind of fluency in technical terrain. Something to aspire to.
Though the climb was satisfying, the 6,000-foot descent was long and painful on the knees, as descents always are, and when I returned to the ranch I got into the shower and then crawled into my bunk for a nap. When I awoke, I realized I had to plan the next day. Should I up the ante, and try Teewinot?
Teewinot
Teewinot (rhymes with "Mark Synnott"), though I'd never heard of it before, is one of the most visibly prominent peaks in the Teton range, often mistaken for the Grand Teton by visitors. The East face is the side that faces the highway, full-frontal, so you can look up at it and see the route and its conditions and be scared. The route is ridiculously steep, gaining 5,600 feet over only 2.5 miles. As I researched it, I had mixed info. First there was Rob, who had told me it was a great solo and I should definitely do it. Then there was another climber, Alan, who said Teewinot was easy and that if I was able to do Middle Teton in 9 hours I'd have no problem, and, well, maybe it was even easier than Middle Teton. There was another guy who said he'd heard from an old guy in his 60s who'd done it that it was casual. (In retrospect that should have been a warning sign).
Then, on the other hand, there was the guidebook description, which advised the reader to stay out of the middle of the couloir to avoid rockfall; the page on summitpost, which warned of early-season avalanches (it wasn't early season anymore, but perhaps there had been so much snow this year that the usual timescales were off?). The summitpost article said that the moves on the crux pitch were 4th or maybe easy 5th class and exposed; that some people rope up for it; that it's more difficult to downclimb than to climb, and some people rappel it; and that accidents and fatalities had occurred when people fell downclimbing the crux, or slipped while descending the snowfield, or when solo climbers fell into holes in the snow that they couldn't climb out of ("holes in the snow"? WTF is that? This isn't a glacier, I'd never heard of such a thing.) In one trip report a guy describes his terror in doing the crux moves, and his even greater terror in downclimbing them. Then, finally, there was Drew, the college student working at the ranch, whose friend, a 16 year-old girl, had only three weeks before fallen 300 feet while descending the snowfield, broken ankles, ribs, but was choppered out and survived. I found the accident report online.
And yet even as all of this is stewing around, I find myself driving into Jackson to rent lightweight mountaineering boots and crampons (I mean, there's a lot more snow on Teewinot than on Middle Teton, so if I'm going to do it, I want to be able to kick real steps, right?). Even as I set my alarm for 4:30 I still felt unsure. But there was no harm in going up there to check it out, right? I reassured myself that it was one of the most popular routes in the range, and it was a Saturday, so there would be a good boot track and people around in case of an emergency. And if I got sketched I could always just turn back.
My alarm goes off at 4:30 and I take my time so that I start up the trail just as it's getting fairly light out (this time I figured if I encountered any bears I at least wanted to be able to see them). I again employed my strategy of "Make Lots of Noise," smacking my trekking poles together while chanting "Hey Bear" and other stupid things. Despite a rustle in the bushes that got me momentarily spooked, the bears allow me to pass through the meadows to the steep climb above. Thirty-one switchbacks later, I emerge above treeline and see the face close up. It seems both doable and improbable at the same time.
A bit of steep trail leads to the snowfield. There is a half-decent track and the snow is fairly soft, so I decide to leave the crampons in the pack--I don't want to deal with taking them on and off for the rock sections on the steep terrain.
The first thing I notice: plick, plock, plock, I look over and see a rock (somewhere between grapefruit and basketball-sized) pinging down the couloir maybe 100 yards from me. The sound reverberates. Sigh. Well, like the guidebook said, stay out of the middle of the snowfield.
The second thing I notice are the holes in the snow. It's the middle of the season in an unusually big snow year and rocks are poking up out of the snow all over the place. As the sun heats them up, the snow melts back away from them, compromising the snow all around the rock. As I make my way up, I can see down into some of these holes. Some of the rocks are big, and steep, making for pretty deep holes in pretty deep snow. I imagine the scenarios--solo climber falls into the moat, gets wedged in, or gets injured, or falls into a stream of meltwater and gets hypothermia, etc. Some of these moats, however, are benign, just a few feet deep around a small or relatively flat rock. But you can't always tell which are safe and which are not, and you certainly can't go to the edge and look in. And the path unavoidably passes between these some of these moats at points. Sigh. Fortunately the snow feels pretty solid, and careful routefinding and probing should take care of this one. And yet even so, in a few places I get a bit close to one of the moats, and the plunge of my plunge-kick-kick suddenly buries the axe to the pick, and I have to take a few steps to the side and try again.
The third thing I notice is that just like on Middle Teton, the routefinding is complex. Do I go up the snowfield, or the rocks to the right, or the rocks to the left? There are tracks literally EVERYWHERE attesting to mass confusion.
As I'm puzzling this one out, I hear voices above me. Nice, other climbers! Wait, it looks like they're going down, not up. Crap. We pass each other and chat about the route a bit. They are both soloing, but bumped into each other and have been descending together. I probe them for information on the crux. One guy says "Well, if it's what I tried, it sucked. The rock was wet and icy, I bailed." The other guy offers "Stay to the right of the snow couloir, the rock is good, maybe some easy 5th class moves," ...before telling me that he ended up summiting a false summit by mistake. NOT reassuring.
And then they are gone down the trail, and as I look down towards treeline and see that there is no one else coming up, I start to feel the fullness of my exposure and commitment. I am all alone on this mountain.
And yet step-by-step I keep making progress, and I'm actually still making good time--there's no reason to turn back yet. I arrive at what must be the crux, a slab with some cracks and some rounded edges. It doesn't look so bad. Without really thinking about it too hard, I finding myself climbing it, my clunky rented boots poised on the slopey footholds, laybacking the crack slightly, I grunt for a moment and get a burst of adrenalin, and then I am past it. You could call it 4th class, or easy 5th class, and I would agree with either. Well, I think I can downclimb that...at least I'd better be able to.
The routefinding above the crux is confusing and difficult and I hesitate often. I zig and zag and find myself alternating between more snow, what seems to be a dirt trail, and short sections of 3rd class scrambling to get back to the trail. I am never sure if I am going the right way, which adds to my feelings of doubt. But gradually the mountain unfolds itself, and I step up onto the summit ridge.
The exposure is massive. The west face plunges down for thousands of feet into Idaho. There are jagged pinnacles everywhere. Which one is the true summit? A track weaves along the knife-edge ridge to my left. I follow it, slightly gripped, towards what appears to be the true summit, a white-quartz flake overhanging the void.
It takes me a moment to realize that I am at the summit, and that I am supposed to be enjoying this. I force a whoop to psyche myself up. I take summit photos, plastering what I hope is a convincing smile over my fear for the self-portrait. I straddle the small summit block for officialdom. I stop trying to absorb the summit views, the exposure isn't helping, and besides, I'm already thinking about the downclimb. I start heading down.
As I begin, I take a few deep breaths to regain my composure. "Just take it one step at a time," I tell myself, "and downclimb like your fucking life depends on it, because it probably does." I correct myself: "...no, it definitely does."
I pick my way back along the summit ridge and down the 3rd class ledges and trails, choosing each step carefully, making sure I don't trip and catch a pant leg or do something else stupid. The routefinding is easier when you are looking down on the route and can see the tracks. I reach the crux. Actually, it doesn't look too bad--from above, I can see all the good footholds, and I pause to plan my moves, talking them out. A few steps down to a good ledge, where I re-assess; then a move out right and down to another good ledge; then I'm back on the trail. Sweet.
The last obstacle is that snowfield. Glissading is out because of those moats, unfortunately. I try to plunge-step, with mixed success, as I catch myself with my plunged axe when my feet slip occasionally. I'm confident I could self-arrest on this soft snow, but it's not an experience I would look forward to.
Finally the snowfield is done, and I am back on the trail. As I pound my way down the thirty-one switchbacks, I feel mentally and emotionally used-up. Ironically, I didn't epic--in fact, I did everything right, I summited and descended in good time, and there weren't really any close calls even--but the commitment factor of being up there by myself for hours, one mistake away from possible-end-of-life, really got to me. I decide that I've gotten my full dose of adventure from the Tetons, that I don't need to sit around and wait to climb the Grand. If anything, climbing the standard route, a scrambly 5.4, with a mob of people and a borrowed partner might feel casual compared to this.
The only comparable experience I have for this was soloing the Prow. In retrospect, I think I pulled off the Prow with greater focus and less fear. But at the same time, on the Prow, I had already done the route, parts of it I had done twice, I was always tied into something, tied into multiple things, there were other people one route over from me all day, and when it got dark, the lights in the houses below reminded me that I was not alone and all I would have to do is blow a whistle or yell--or make a cell phone call!--to get some attention. On Teewinot, I was acutely aware that if I made one slip, it would probably be 24 hours before anyone even noticed that I was gone, and that's assuming that people I'd just met would notice my absence. So even though from the outside it looked like a successful climb of a classic route in good style, from the inside I guess I experienced it as...a tightrope walk for survival. Perhaps with more alpine soloing one could acclimate to, and even learn and grow from, those prolonged feelings of extreme vulnerability. Soloing the Prow had been one such positive experience. But as I came down off Teewinot, I was pretty sure that I would bring a partner along for the next one.
Epilogue
After getting back to the Ranch and taking a nap, I started to mentally prepare myself to take off and head to Utah. And yet there seemed to be some new possibilities opening up for partners: I overheard one guy, Stefan, talking about how he was looking for a partner to climb the Grand. But I got a really bad vibe from him, I didn't trust him and I frankly wouldn't have enjoyed his company. Then I met a pretty cool guy, Matt, a dude from Massachusetts who had been doing ecology fieldwork in the West for a few years, and he suggested doing the Lower Exum Ridge, the classic moderate route, which goes at 5.7 and is one of the 50 Classic Climbs of North America. But, he said, he's mostly a sport climber and I would have to lead all the pitches. His offer actually piqued my interest, but I was still leaning towards taking off. Didn't I just tell myself that I had had my full dose of adventure? In any case, it wouldn't go tomorrow, it would have to wait until the following day if it went at all.
The next day I sleep in, to 8:30, and look out. It's raining. People are coming back glum from their foiled alpine starts. I notice that my cabin-mates, a father and son team from Bozeman that had shared their venison meatloaf with me at dinner one night, didn't return from their climb of Irene's Arete the day before. Their sleeping bags are still in the cabin. Should I mention to someone that they're overdue? I decide to talk to the Ranch manager. He gets on the phone to the climbing rangers. As he's talking to them, I hear him offering his condolences, apparently for someone who died. When he gets off the phone, I ask him what happened. Was there an accident?
It turned out that a senior Exum Guide, George Gardner, had gone off to solo the Lower Exum Ridge, the classic moderate route, the 5.7, one that he had probably guided dozens of times...and this morning his body had been found at the base. A chopper motored around the peaks for the body recovery.
Though I had already pretty much decided to get out of the Tetons, this inexplicable accident, the rain, and my missing cabin-mates cemented my resolve. I packed up my car and headed for the Utah desert, saying goodbye to the acquaintances I had made in my three days at the Ranch.
This morning I called back to the Ranch--my cabin-mates from Montana were fine, they came back a day late but didn't need to be rescued. I asked the woman at the Ranch for the story, but she didn't know, so that's that.
The view of the Tetons on the drive in from Yellowstone
The Grand Teton
The Volvo at the Climber's Ranch
Alpine start for Middle Teton, 4:40am
Sunrise from the trail to Middle Teton
Approach through Garnet Canyon
Looking up towards the saddle between Middle and South
Looking towards South Teton from the saddle
Looking down at Idaho and Icefloe Lake from the saddle. There's a still a lot of snow for this time of year
Looking up towards the route
A chimney I scrambled through on Middle Teton--too bad I was off route and had to downclimb it to get to the real route
Summit of Middle Teton!
Yays
Awesome views of the Grand
Posing with the Grand
Looking back up at the route on the descent. The route follows the obvious right-trending couloir above the snowfield
A snowfield lower down that I got some nice glissading on
The valley below
Teewinot East Face from the road
Slightly later start for Teewinot, visible directly above me
Looking up at the East Face from the "Apex"
A close-up of the route. The route picks up the snowfield about halfway up on the left, then wanders around on both sides of the couloir (towards the V-notch) before passing the narrowest part of the couloir on the rock to its right (the crux). After that, the line trends right to the summit ridge
View of the route from the snowfield. Note the rocks poking up in the snow, all of them had moats compromising the snow around them
On the exposed summit ridge, looking down the precipitous West Face
Summit pinnacle of Teewinot in the foreground, Grand Teton in the background
Pinnacles on the summit ridge
Straddling the summit block--looks like the USGS marker is gone
Masking the fear for posterity
The summit ridge--the trail leads along the ridge to the chimney on the right-hand side of the picture, then continues on the other side
The rock formations known as the "Idol and Worshipper." Note holes in the snow
Back at the Apex, chance of disaster significantly reduced--unless there are bears