Christchurch, NZ, about to fly to Antarctica

Hello-hello,

It's raining, spring rain, here in Christchurch, saturating the many beautiful gardens. Good day for email.

On Friday we finished our search and rescue training with our Kiwi counterparts. They were fun, though at times I really did have difficulty understanding them. For example, they might say that someone had iggs in the tint after having six. Then of course there are the many different words and phrases (which are fun, refreshing) to complicate communication.

With them we are the Joint Antarctic Search and Rescue Team, about a dozen plus total. Their base is about 2 miles from ours and quite a bit smaller.

Three days (2 overnights) of the training was held at a "skifield", one quite a bit different than what we think of in the US. Probably like what US ski areas were 40 (yeah, 40) years ago. It was cool, very rustic (rope tows for which one needs a harness and nutcracker device to hang onto the rope) and would NEVER be able to get a dime of insurance in the US! One actually needs to pay attention to avoid getting hurt (really hurt).

This is where several of us were fascinated with the concept of an alpine parrot: the kia. At this high use place they were quite habituated, like a marmot sometimes (or, based on photos, like what raccoons do when they get inside: unbelievable), and curious. We couldn't even leave the stretcher outside during lunch as the kias will make a mess even of nonfood items. Very curious, and I have to say I enjoyed their "attitude".

They are dark green, like the beech forests here, with some orange undertheir wings and tail, only seen in flight. They are the largest of the parrots and I'm told they have flown off carrying a boot, only to drop it into some inaccessible place. Hold onto your hat.

We worked on litter raises and lowers on snow and scree. On scree (mountain gravel, and in this case: steep) they drive in what are the equivalent of those green steel fence posts for stringing barbed wire. One uses a sledge hammer to drive them a couple feet into the steep scree and tie them off together to make an anchor. It looks sketchy, but it's surprisingly strong.

The last day we drove to the local hills and did a vertical litter raise and lower, overlooking a beautiful sea port (Lyttleton). We also covered crevasse rescue, a bit of first aid and patient packaging, communications, a bit of GPS, and other related stuff. This is my area of weakness for the job, but it's not exactly microbiology and I've been loving learning it.

So that fellow in our team about whom I was a bit concerned (and the others too) rose to the occasion (ie maturity) on the training and now I've decided that he too is a good guy, yea. I quite like our crew. There are 5 of us here now, and our supervisor is on the ice now with another instructor, "the sea ice guy" from whom we'll learn about sea ice (cool!) so we can then teach those who know even less than we do.

Christchurch sports the Canterbury Museum, started 1870, which houses a very nice section on Antarctica and includes many artifacts given to them as early explorations parties returned from the ice (those who did return). Quite a history, the "Heroic Age" of Antarctica exploration of which the familiar Shackleton is merely one of numerous interesting stories. A number of their huts still stand, freeze dried (including part of a dog, still in the collar) on the ice. More on these when I get to explore them. There's one near McMurdo at, you guessed it, Hut Point. Cared for by the Antarctic Heritage Trust.

The museum had a Primus Comet Scout stove from the early part of the last century. Esp. considering the almost-century of time, it was astonishingly similar to some stoves still in use (Optimus suitcase stylestoves). Amazing.

For living in Christchurch we get a stipend, one that covers more than most of us will spend on living expenses. This of course means that we can live lower on the hog (but still quite well, I might add for those who know me too well) and save up cash for our post-ice adventures.

The currency here is a real advance over ours: probably cheaper for the treasury than ours. I quite like the one and two dollar coins (easy to distinguish in the hand, by thickness too) and the bills are made of some rip-proof material. They are colorful so easy to quickly distinguish, and include a small clear window. They also have characters such as penguins, other birds, the queen in her younger years, and even Sir Edmund Hillary on them. Another real bonus is that they have elimated the silly penny. This means that change is simpler, and you don't have to be irritated by the marketing trick of "only $999,999.99". Items are sold in more straightforward units, like a buck.

Ok, that's enough blabbering for now. Tomorrow we pack and deal with some administrative stuff, then Tues we get up at 2am for our flight onto the ice. They like to arrive early for some safety reason... I hope this finds you well.

Love and the Southern Cross, Susan

Antarctic job overview, LINKS; excited to be going!

Hello friends and family, old and new, near and far,

I stand wide-eyed on the cusp of my adventure.

On Wednesday I fly to New Zealand for search and rescue training, then on the 30th we fly “onto the ice” for 4 1/2 to 5 months working in Antarctica. I am psyched.

Really psyched.

I am finding that I am more excited about this adventure than I have been about anything I can remember in my entire adult life. I’ve been fixated on this for weeks and can hardly sleep some nights.

As many of you have expressed an interest in hearing what's up down there, here’s some information to help you picture the setting. I’ll be based out of McMurdo, the main US station (there are 2 others, and a number run by other nations; all for science). A very industrial little town with a dynamic population, so I hear. It is located on a dry spot essentially on Ross Island and houses about 1100 people during their summer, about 35% which are women. I think the population is about 1/4 scientists, and the rest of us are support staff. All kinds of sciences: atmospheric, astronomical, biological (esp marine), geological, geophysical; glacial; including a lot of climate research. They also have an Artists and Writers in Residence Program.

I will be working in the Field Safety Training Program as an Instructor, one of seven (all guides). I have reason to believe my supervisor is both a good person and a good guy to work for/with; very important. We'll teach classes to prepare the scientists (and I think everyone else too to varying degrees) to stay safe on the glaciers, sea ice, and in the chilly temperatures: “Happy Camper” class and Survival School.

We also accompany scientific expeditions as guides while they conduct their research (this is the part I’m most psyched about, the science exposure as well as seeing remote parts of the continent). We also function as the search and rescue team. I look forward to gaining that experience, but hope to do so in non-gruesome or tragic situations.

We will have email access, but working 6 days a week 9 hours a day probably won’t leave me a lot of time/energy for extensive emailing. A certain amount of my free time will be getting real exercise. Rumor has it that skate skiing is the activity of choice around the flats of McMurdo so I’ve bought the gear and I will learn. I am planning to send out occasional updates on the life I experience down there, hopefully with photos attached. I am guessing I won’t write a full-on solstice letter this year.

Lots of daylight during the solstice at 77 degrees south! But not for awhile. It‘ll be cold when we arrive.

I’ve been reading about the continent, the wildlife, the landscape [would you believe there are ponds down there in the dry valleys, the saltiest water in the world, about 35 times saltier than oceans, so salty they NEVER freeze. That‘s just the tip of the-- I won‘t say it], the history, the job, the local culture to some extent (interesting, it sounds like), and trying to learn some of the language down there to reduce the clueless feeling while I figure out what's going on. There are of course many kinds of sea ice (cool!), endless acronyms for facilities and bureaucracies, types of aircraft and snowmobiles I have to learn about (no wait, I mean “get” to learn about. Insert forced smile. I love the noise and stink, really. Industrial mountaineering, yee haa.). All kinds of new realms.

My goal while down there is to get to the South Pole Station and do a yoga headstand next to the ceremonial South Pole (100m or so from the real one) with the camera held upside-down (I know, I know: just rotate the photo). I've been practicing getting up into the headstand without a wall, but don't know what it'll be like wearing 20 pounds of clothing.

I can receive mail down there; below is my address. RSPC is Raytheon (yup, I’m selling out) Polar Services Company, which has been contracted by the National Science Foundation’s US Antarctic Program, which oversees the entire scene. The NSF contracts the military to fly us around and handle that type of burly logistics. Apparently the flight to the ice is heinous: a noisy, cold, and cramped cargo plane for 6-7 hours; lovely.

If you’re curious, here are some websites that might be of interest (as if you don't have enough to do):

This is the USAP/Raytheon website with numerous links:http://www.polar.org/
“USA Today” article describing what goes on down there: http://www.usatoday.com/news/science/cold-science/life-work/mcmurdo-station.htm
Here is an article about diving under the ice, something in which I will NOT be participating. However, it does describe the Field Safety Training Program in which I will be working: .http://scilib.ucsd.edu/sio/nsf/diving/index4.html http://www.nsf.gov/od/lpa/news/media/99/fs_usap.htm

I have to say I’m bummed to be leaving now. It’s cooling down (snow in the high country!) … a nice time to be around.

I hope you've had a rewarding summer and are looking forward to a cooler fall. I also hope you're able to live the life that you find the most deeply satisfying, whatever form that may take.

Love, health, and a wonderful winter, Susan

Did I mention how excited I am?

Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, Brooks Range 2002

Peter, his friend Jon, and several other friends and I headed up to the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to hike for a few weeks and then float out across the famous and biologically rich (“North American Serengeti”) north slope plain to the Beaufort Sea.

We met up in Fairbanks, and flew to the little Inuit town called Arctic Village (arcticvillage.com, no kidding! Do check it out!) on little planes then flew on to the Refuge in 3 passenger little planes, which meant 2 trips to get our group of 6 in.

We got to fly over part of our route, which was cool. We landed on a gravel bar on the Kongakut River, which is popular among rafters. A raft party was camped by the airstrip; they went down the river and we began our hike up the river.

The landscape is very big, wide open, wet tundra vegetation, shrubs, and grasses. The peaks are big, not in elevation but in their rise above the river, and largely rounded… light green and tan spreading out for miles. The scale proved misleading, what looked like a half hour’s walk could take three!
The river bar was wide and cobbled and soon it was obvious that the travel was easier there than up on the tundra.

The second day we hiked on aufeis (“off-ice”) which is overflow ice up to 6 or 7 feet thick, remaining from winter when the river dammed it itself up. It’s really cool: a huge sheet of ice, the top of which is needle ice: vertical ice in needle like forms and packed densely together. It usually supports compression force, like stepping on it, but collapses under shear force, like if you kick it.

The ice came up to the edge of the river, and we saw a couple big chucks fall off and be carried away. There were all sorts of interesting surface features to examine as well.

Our days were sunny and pretty warm, really beautiful weather.

As we continued up the Kongakut, we found ourselves wading across the river dozens of times (no kidding, I counted one day and got over 50) so that we could stay in the river bed where the hiking was easier. We noticed limestone outcrops on the peaks, and the river was getting quite small, a creek really.

The only sign of people were a pair of tracks that we saw off and on. Each day we saw lots of animal tracks: caribou, moose, bear, wolf, squirrels, porcupine… quite cool!

At each break, esp. early on, folks scanned for wildlife with binoculars. One day Dave noticed a distant blonde grizzly and yearling cub. They were headed down a creek on the other side, and Jon predicted correctly that they would catch our scent when they got to the river, and head the opposite direction. Truly wild bears, esp. a mom with offspring, don’t want to have anything to do with us. None of us were broken hearted about that!

Another day Jon spotted a bull caribou in the creekbed. He was very handsome: nice coat, large antler rack, and big.

That night we heard wolves howl, and Dave spotted one on the hill across from camp. We watched this individual for awhile, lamenting that s/he was too far for a good photo. It was moving up and down the slope, sitting to howl now and then.

Later we were told that it’s very unusual to see a wolf… cool!

As we got up high into the boggy tundra zone, we encountered MOSQUITOS. I wore a bug shirt (lent to me by a friend who I deemed more wonderful each day), tho’ the others seemed ok with generous dousings of Deet. Fortunately it was only a day, really, that we were escorted by a swarm of flying itch-needles. That was also the day when sometimes we practically waded through bogs on top of permafrost. It was when we went up over the pass into the Sheenjek River basin.

We dropped down into there and found our second sign of humans (and I really do have an eye for such signs), a bit of leftover camp trash from a previous summer. The next day we came across an old Inuit hunting camp, though Jon thought it was only 50 or 60 years old, which was still cool to me.

On the way to one of our Sheenjek camps we saw another blonde bear. This one was closer, above us both up the river and up the side of the slope, and slowly ambled past us while we emphasized our presence with our voices. We watched to make sure our camp wasn’t going to be too close for comfort. That evening we saw a young caribou appear out of nowhere and run down into the river bar and disappear.

Such quick random sightings make me wonder how many similar potential sightings we miss. Our camp as also visited by a porcupine that evening. The next morning, after our usual first-thing-river-crossing, we enjoyed amazing light as a low fog intermittently lifted and slowly dissipated, a beautiful orange all around us, then on the glaciated craggy summits.

A year ago Peter and I had chosen a route, from the map, from the Sheenjek drainage into the Hulahula drainage that looked more interesting than the main one. It turned out to be super cool: a narrow gorge with waterfalls, that took some scouting and scrambling. It was very beautiful and Jon said that most likely no one had ever been in there (though given the human history in the area, I had my doubts). It topped out into a wide open upper valley with glaciers coming down from each side esp. up near the pass. We found ourselves walking on more recent and chaotic glacial debris, and made our camp up by the pass.

Nights were just getting dark enough to require a camera flash.

We had plans to climb some of the peaks near the pass the next day, and had reason to believe that no one had ever been on them. We visually scouted routes that avoided the steeper ice/snow, and were looking forward to some bigpack-free exploration.

The next morning was foggy and threatened to snow. We knew the other side of the pass could be challenging: that finding our way down it under a foot of snow (possible) would be difficult and unpleasant, so we dropped the peak climbing in order to get over the pass before the snow.

This was a drag, but turned out to be the right call. The glacier on the north (far) side of the pass went all the way up to the pass, so we went up higher, climbed some snow, and soon, one at a time, downclimbed a loose gully. Later we walked along the edge of the glacier where the slurry of fully-saturated debris demanded careful footwork. It was actually pretty cool.

We had crossed the Continental (?) Divide (yup, the same one that goes through the Rockies!) again, and found that this part of the north side was drier. And now with the chilly weather, the nature of the trip changed. Mosquitoes of course were non-existent, and we enjoyed the snow frosting above us on the peaks (and a bit in camp a time or two!). It was as if we’d come over the pass and into fall/winter suddenly.

We had crossed the Divide again, and found that this part of the north side was drier. And now with the chilly weather, the nature of the trip changed.

Mosquitoes of course were non-existent, and we enjoyed the snow frosting above us on the peaks (and a bit in camp a time or two!). It was as if we'd come over the pass and abruptly into late fall. We meandered down the Hulahula, enjoying the feeling of Alaskan wildness, and watching the river get larger. Each day we saw a lot of Dall sheep up on the hill sides. They are essentially arctic white bighorn, and the kids were cute! We continued to see wolf and bear tracks, and kept our eyes open for another sighting. We arrived at the airstrip where Lisa and Dave were to fly out (they didn't have time for the river section) and the raft was to be flown in. The low ceiling delayed the arrival of the plane.

In fact when it left with Dave and Lisa, it circled back and landed again, having just missed the weather window. Another pilot had also landed after realizing he wasn't going to make it home after a drop-off somewhere else, so we had a little party, sort of. We were running low on food by this time (ever had reconstituted powdered egg fried with spices? Kind of rubbery). The pilots had their own food and tents for just such occasions.

The river was low, lower than the pilots and sheep hunting guides had seen it in umpteen years, and, unfortunately, too low to paddle. Eventually we were able to fly out, at least to Arctic Village, where we spent a night in a shack next to the airstrip. We cooked on the back of a shot-up pick-up, and lived the white trash lifestyle for a day until we could get back to Fairbanks.

It was really amazing terrain, especially with the truly wild feeling. There were no trails (other than from the caribou), no people on our route, none to very minimal signs of people period, and tons of un- or marginally explored land. It felt like we really were in the land of the animals, that our presence was truly an aberration. I sure hope this area continues to be fully protected as it deserves to be. With the new Congressional balance, there are rumblings again. never ending threats... keep your ears open.

Cheers, Susan

Kilimanjaro and Mt Kenya, summer 2000

Jambo, everyone!

I am in Seattle at my aunt’s, having arrived last night from Nairobi and starting work tomorrow. I dare not complain as this is the schedule I somehow chose.

In some ways I don't feel like I visited East Africa, more that I saw it through a window (like driving an RV through a national park) rather than immersing myself like on my other trips.

Kilimanjaro was organized by a friend who runs super high end (other types of) trips, so we stayed in ritzy places and hired private transportation rather than taking public buses.

On the drive to the mountain we saw two species of gazelles, zebra, and a couple magically graceful giraffes. Plus of course the Maasai herdsman and their settlements. My only real interaction occurred while waiting at the border for a vehicle switch. I had a grand time laughing with the Maasai women there selling handmade souvenirs, and was able to talk with them about their lives a bit (English is widely spoken. Kenya became independent from Britain only in 1963). As in most places I visit, I trust the looks and friendliness of the women more than that of the men.

However we had the required porters and local guide, so did get to interact with them a lot, esp. Chombo our guide.

It was work. The seven folks I had were not fit, and it was a real job to get them to the summit starting from the first day hiking in. They were, however, really great people and fun to be with. I was inspired by them, especially Ana, so really bent over backwards to help them summit and have a good time.

Part of the challenge was the delicate act of diplomacy working with Chombo, who is used to wasungu who unjustifiably claim mountain competence. Not until summit day did he really get a (very thin) glimpse of my experience; then everything changed in our dynamic. He relaxed. We would happily work together again.

Except for the two who left early due to pre-existing physical conditions, all summited and enjoyed a beautiful sunrise from the crater rim. It was a great group.

Peter met us, a partial surprise, at the vehicle when we came down from the mountain. Funny how my brain went to mush in terms of being "on" for working once he joined us for the ride back to Moshi and Nairobi; I was so psyched and relieved to be pretty much done working so hard.

After the Kili folks left, Peter and I quickly packed for Mt. Kenya, expecting similar conditions there, but a bit warmer as it's 2000 feet lower (17k).

We were surprised to find that it was cooler and wetter (slimy trail) than Kili. Carrying our own gear slowed us down and we spent most of three days hiking in from the Sirimon Gate to the Kami camp below the main summit of Batian (17k).

There are multiple summits of Mt. Kenya, each specifically named. Point Lenana is the normal trekking summit. The easiest route to the true summit requires about 1700' of steep climbing on wonderful quality granite-like rock (which is KEY). Peter and I expected to solo more of the route than we were able to, underestimating the seriousness of technically easy climbing (5.6, just five-SIX!!) on this mountain.

In fact, it was SUPER difficult. Wearing multiple layers of bulky clothing top and bottom didn't help, nor did boots, carrying packs didn't help either, nor did the poor visibility, and occasional blowing snow. (The previous night it had snowed: we weren't sure whether we'd be able to climb at all as we approached).

Being close to 17,000' was hard to forget: there were times in the crux pitches that I would grunt a few moves up the lovely offwidth, and then stop to hyperventilate for awhile before I could move again. It was unbelievable. For the climbers among you, a historical (cultural?) note of interest to me was the pieces of crusty old goldline strung seemingly all over the mountain, (complete with knots dangling down in the back of the offwidth to which I gingerly but desperately clipped).

We got through the crux and were getting close to the summit ridge when we made the call, the very difficult call, to descend. We figured we still had three maybe four hours to the summit, and weren't sure how long the descent would take. Days are only 12 hours long on the equator, and dusk is short-lived. We were thrashed. This was my first climbing at this level at this altitude, and I was wasted, an unusual feeling to that degree.

On the descent I saw the spectacular Spectre of the Brocken phenomenon for the first time. It's when your shadow is cast upon the nearby fog/clouds from the sun (you have to be on a ridge or summit) and rainbow halos appear around you, around your head. Very striking, peculiar, amazing.

We finished the last rappel just as darkness engulfed us. The approach and return to camp were both under the beautiful starry night sky over Kenya.

The next day we traversed around the mountain moving south along the west side. Through the mistiness we were occasionally treated to glimpses up and down this surprisingly dramatic mountain. To the North American eye, odd and interesting vegetation in East Africa. Very cool. Also enjoyed the rock hydrax (small mammal similar in ecological niche to marmots).

One more rainy night, then we descended through the famous(?!) "vertical bog" and found our way to the NOLS East Africa Branch, where we showered and hung out talking at length with the folks there. A wonderful way to end a great adventure.

Of course it was disappointing to have turned around, but I am fully at peace with it: I really did give it my best shot, and I feel that we climbed in good style (communication, movement, efficiency, route-finding, safety, etc) so am pleased. Peter hiked Lenana years ago and wishes that we had gone a bit further to where the west ridge comes in.

It would be worth returning because the rock quality is so high, and now we understand why most people climb part of the route, make a little camp along the way, and summit and descend the next day! Maybe that's a good idea after all.

Karibu, Susan

Impromptu Aconcagua climb, Feb 2000

Hola, otra vez, amigas, amigos, y familia!

So I'm back with more bloody details from my Jan-Feb 2000 southern adventure. As Aconcagua is a volcano, the rock is, surprisingly enough: volcanic. This is the kind of rock that makes one desperately seek snow and ice, and painfully laugh at the phrase "solid as a rock". It was a desert on this side of the range, very dry and few plants. Didn't see much in the way of wildlife, unlike the many bird voices we heard down low in Chile.

I had absolutely no plans to climb Aconcagua and knew little about it when the Chile expedition wrapped up. A couple days before flying home, I decided that I wasn’t ready to head home yet, and it would be fun to check out this peak.

The grand total of my knowledge about Aconcagua was that it was in neighboring Argentina, and that it was very nearly 23,000' (7000m) high, and largely a walk-up. I hadn't been that high ( just 20k several times). I am interested in some more aesthetic and technical peaks of similar heights elsewhere, and knew I should get that high first on an 'easy' peak to check out how the altitude feels before adding technical difficulty.

This means that not only was I unprepared in terms of knowing anything about the mountain, but I also didn't have the gear I needed. My contribution to Chile group gear was very minimal because I was late in accepting the invitation and they had already worked out the group gear. My decision to try Aconcagua was made after we all separated so couldn't borrow gear.

I lacked a tent, stove, warm sleeping bag, parka, warm mitts, and other warm clothes.

Of as much concern was that I had eaten all my nice US food. No fancy energy bars, no nicely flavored quick dinners, no instant refried beans, no ramen,... I bought things like lentils, polenta (cornmeal), plain pasta, "texturized vegetable protein", local cookies, crackers, some nuts, and lots of soups. For those of you who are familiar with my obsession with feeding my backcountry

"tapeworm" (which the guys on the Chile team named. I tried to use that as an excuse to get an extra serving at meals. Didn't work.) and my desire to get enough vegetarian protein, you will know that I was "out of my comfort zone". The food issue was especially acute as I was long-term tired from Chile, that I'd burned my adipose reserves... not exactly the condition I'd like to be in to attempt a big peak.

I didn't even know where the mountain was, just that I had to go to Mendoza to get a permit ($120!). As the bus lumbered over the mountains between Santiago and Mendoza, I was surprised to see "Aconcagua Provincial Parque", and a big (BIG) mountain in the distance. "Wow, I guess that's it", I astutely deduced.

Two days and much money-access stress later, I arrived in the small town I had been told to go to for the side of the mountain (east) I wanted to ascend. I still didn't have that gear, and was hoping I could rent it at the company whose mules I intended to use. No gear for rent in the town.

The wind was blowing like hell. Peter had emailed me notes from his trip years ago, and warned me about the horrendous winds on the mountain. I was fully intimidated by the thought of winds up high based on what they were in town. What was I thinking?! So pathetic, it would be an absolute miracle if I got even NEAR the summit.

I certainly looked like an idiot, showing up alone, lacking critical gear, not knowing where to go, or what the route was like on the mountain. The route I hoped to climb would necessitate a partner or 2, which, needless to say...
In a pathetic attempt to grasp a shred of credibility, I name dropped: the well-known outdoor ed school I taught for. This did seem to help.

One of the employees did have an old, sun faded, over-(sleeping) bag that he'd found and would lend me. Combined with mine, it was hopefully enough (denial has its place). Then I met a guided group and ended up borrowing a stove from them.

With this gear plus my bivy sack (sleeping bag cover that can be used in lieu of a tent in easy conditions), I was willing to start heading up the mountain, trusting that a tent and warmer clothes would appear. I had to bring my town cotton(!) shirt as an extra layer, yeehaa. (Cotton is considered “death cloth” in the mountains.”)

So off I go. During the first day's hike, I realized, in my deep exhaustion, that it didn't even matter if I summited, just getting this far on this adventure had been enough of a challenge, sort of my own Outward Bound experience. I was lucky to be there at all, psyched for whatever. What a kick!

The first evening I met up with a group of three Canadians and an American. They only had tent space for the four of them, so I could hang out with them, but I wouldn't go above basecamp until I found a tent or a team to join.

On the third day we arrived at basecamp (13k'), and it began to blow and snow. I pulled out my bivy sack and cowered behind a rock wall, trying to decide which side to hide behind as the wind kept changing directions. Dave, the American helped me find a better bivy site. We ended up using the tarp wall of a collapsed outhouse to make "The Hovel", a piece of strong plastic held up over rock walls by the pole structure still attached. That was where I slept at basecamp, and it held up fine under snow. It was still intact when we returned 10+ days later!

Over the couple days acclimitizing and carrying a load up to the next camp, I looked around for a party to join. Would you take on someone in that situation? How does one advertise oneself to compensate for the ridiculous shelter and gear situation that might reflect an overall lack of experience, not just a lack of gear? Plus, I need to be sure I think the group has enough experience; I won't climb with just anyone! Argh, not a productive search.

I began to consider going up with just the bivy sack, and started to put together a little A-frame of poles and more plastic tarp so that I could have a shelter to stick my head in and to cook under.

As it turned out I was able to rent a tent from the basecamp doctor. I realized how bummed I'd been over my housing situation by how excited, giddy even, I was after getting this tent.

Dave had an extra top and pair of pants that I could borrow, so now I was (marginally) ready to continue.

My friend Luis showed up! I knew he was on the way as he was working for the same company of the group whose stove I had. Great to see him and talk, a connection with my normal life!

I moved up the next day, a day ahead of the group I was hanging out with, but they caught up and I moved up over the next days with them to the high camp.

Days later, Dave and I set out very early to climb the easier route, the False Polish after much thought about our lack of preparation and gear for our preferred route. Having changed our plan late in the afternoon, deciding to go for the summit the next day, we were up late packing and melting water for a long day on the mountain.

We enjoyed a whopping two hours of sleep, so felt great. Not having expected to climb this route, we hadn't looked to see where the trail started. Big mistake. We spent an extra hour or two, plus loads of energy, clambering up the talus in the dark at over 19,000’. I was warm enough early on, but began cooling down while waiting for Dave to join me on the trail.

We soon stopped twice for crampons to cross the ice, but by then I was getting quite cold. My crampons come off faster than his and he didn't mind my moving ahead to avoid hypothermia.

For the next 6 or 7 hours, I was cold. I was really cold in fact. Deeply cold. I walked backwards because of the wind along the traverse, which was not a problem because I was moving so slow anyway (altitude and exhaustion). I was too cold to stop to eat and drink (which would make me less cold), I kept checking in with myself: was I in hypothermic denial? Was my brain swelling from altitude and not noticing that I was truly too cold? How were my toes REALLY? I was entirely alone, so doubly knew I couldn't make a mistake.

I kept alternating hands with my ski pole so I could ball up a hand to keep my fingers from freezing off. Having not obtained better hand protection, I had to make it work with wearing only thin liner-gloves under $2.50 hardware-store yellow sticky work-gloves. This is considered less than optimal for these conditions. I worked at not shivering. Definitely not summit dress terrain, bummer.

It was grim. The only reason I continued was seeing the sun ahead of me: I knew I would be warm. It was just a matter of getting there. Of course at my slow pace (really slow) it was many hours before I was in the sun.

When I eventually arrived in the sun, I was disappointed how long it took to warm up. As I slowly thawed, my breathing rate went from six breaths per step to three (despite this being the steep section, and over 22k' by now). I wondered how much energy I had burned just trying to stay warm. No doubt my being ill-prepared had cost me a lot of energy! Argh.

There was only one other party high on the mountain that day, a group of people in red coming from the other (main) side. I guessed that they were Asian. This was not reassuring as Asian climbers are known for not compromising their summits to help people who are unprepared (a sentiment I can understand), but to the point of stepping over people dying along the route on their way to the summit.

They were far behind me for quite a few hours, all of us moving along in super slow motion. Eventually they split into fast and slow groups, the former passing me five minutes from the summit as I sat on yet another rock sucking wind.

Turns out they were the Argentine military! A bunch of army boys with their commander out for a spin. They were quite friendly and I knew that had I croaked they'd helped carry my carcass down! I had a good time on the summit yakking and taking pictures with them. Took a photo of them and the Malvinas (Falklands) memorial after they stood around it and recited a prayer. Fun cultural experience. Plus, I actually felt pretty good now that I wasn't having to move much! The weather was closing in, light snow blowing around so soon it was time to move along.

I took 11 hours to summit, but less than 2 to get down. By the time I returned to camp I was thoroughly trashed. Short term hammering on top of my long term pounding. I was beat. Plus, back down at our camp at 19,000', I had a significant headache, ugh. Dave, who had turned back early on, kindly fed me hot soup before I crashed in my bag.

I barely moved for the next two days.

This was a funny camp in terms of food. We both had the major lack of appetite typical of altitude (not even dark chocolate was appetizing!), plus my guts made it clear that any bean product was not welcome. Dave ran out of his benign food too, so we fed ourselves out of abandoned caches: lots of local ramen and instant potatoes, the only food we could get down. One of the guides from that other group burned a bunch of trash and old caches; we didn't tell him that we had been sustaining ourselves out of that trash pile. But we had another source near our camp.

The rest of Dave's group had split up due to having to leave at different times, deciding to go out the other way. Up high, we didn't see much of them and became our own little team.

Then on the third day after I summited, Dave took off again for the summit, but was turned back by the dreaded Viento Blanco, a storm. We quickly packed up our camp and dropped back to camp one at 16k', where the storm was much less severe.

Another group reported that the temp was -10F that morning.

We had one of the horrendous nights trying to keep "my" three season tent both intact and on the mountain as the winds raged and snow piled up against it in the lee of the rock wall. Grim, and all too familiar to many of you!

The next morning we headed down to basecamp, passing the remains of several tents en route; sobering.

'Twas a really good trip for me. Good to find that I can do fine without my fancy food, without my full gear, and without being rested... good for my head. And definitely an adventure, a lesson in trusting, being able to move ahead without knowing if what I needed would materialize. Trusting the Universe.

Well, you've just wasted a perfectly good hour reading this, so you'd better go do something useful!

Love and wild wind, Susan

Mountaineering in Chile, Jan 2000

!Hola amigas, amigos, y familia!

I‘m recently home, having been in Chile and Argentina for eight weeks. Some of you have expressed curiosity about what my trip was like. I hope this isn't too much information!

I went with a guy I barely knew and some of his friends. He had seen the area and peaks from a distance a few years ago.

We had been NOLS students together in 1986, which comprised 99% of our contact until this trip. In the interim he had become an Outward Bound course director (for a different OB school), so I was counting on shared OB values to make this trip work.

It did.

We went in to a national park few people have heard of because it is new (12 years). For those who have not traveled in such places, "national park" is merely 12 letter on a map. That's it. The people living just outside of it did not know what we were talking about, much less where the boundary lies. Hornopiren NP is at the northern end of the chain of islands along Chile's (west and only) coast in northern Patagonia, the Lake District. The peaks were low, 7500', but glaciated and including steep rock. We planned for Cascades-like conditions and terrain.

The map we had was 1:250,000 (one tenth the detail of most USGS maps) with contour intervals of 50 meters (not 40 feet, which gives intimate detail on the shape of the land), so we just knew in a general sense that there were some mountains. The map also included some question marks.

We spent a lot of time throughout the trip reconning routes of travel as well as climbing. Out of basecamp on the river was a bushwhack up 3300' in less than a mile and a half (steep), including bamboo (a nightmare), burned logs from a slash-and-burn-agriculture fire that had gone out of control, the resulting steep eroded soft dirt, steep rock, and dense shrub trees. Yeowza. We broke our loads into two trips (2 days) for this.

I was surprised how much I enjoyed, once up high, having so little information on the terrain. I loved that we had to spend a day figuring out how to get to the next camp, how to get down from the steep rocky pass that led to the glacier. It was great having to scramble around and look, to figure it out, to get to use route finding skills and mountain intuition, to get different view angles to determine just how steep a slope or cliff actually was. Cool.

On the other hand, I was at times intensely frustrated with the skill and experience level of (most of) my partners. Gary had assured me that everyone was an experienced solid climber. My desire for that to be true led me to overlook clues to the contrary before we even left the US. That alone is a valuable lesson.

The leader and another turned out to be, in my estimation, peak baggers (easier summits) and casual rock climbers, another was a rock climber with minimal alpine experience, and thank the godz the fourth was a serious climber. Rich had difficult technical experience in the mountains, and was adept at camp skills (so critical for expeditioning). AND he was physically strong despite being 20 years older than most of the rest of us. Somehow the rest of the guys were not as... "efficient" traveling.

Ok, what I really mean is that they were damn slow, especially with packs over steep rocky terrain. This about drove me nuts, especially when tied together crossing the glacier, and I struggled hard to behave like the mature, patient, compassionate person that I wasn't. I managed to keep from erupting, but it of course squeaked out in other ways (comments).

Over time we did talk about it, which in itself helped a lot. There is hope for me.
My situation was a bit different than theirs. Yes we all love the mountains, but not everyone does enough to structure their lives around it. I love my work, it's easy for me to be patient, walk slow, teach, all of it. I love it.

But when I'm on my own (paying, not getting paid), I want to do my thing. I want to move, to flow through the high country, to get exhausted, to climb hard enough to really get my attention, to be relieved when the difficulty eases, to be free...!

I did remind myself how great it was that they were not a 'boys club' group. In fact they really were great guys: super nice and emotionally mature (probably more than me). I am lucky they put up with me. I quite liked each for who they were. It was just of matter of my expectations of climbing/camping skills, not any of their characters. I sure could have dramatically worse, and in my better moments I remembered how lucky I was to be here at all, the risk Gary was taking on inviting me in the first place. It worked out and I am grateful to have been invited and so included and welcomed in the group.

The first peak we all did as a group, which was fun for that day. A military plane buzzed over us and made a circle to check us out (no bombing). I was wearing my summit dress and jumped around in a bit of a dance on the snow to show it off.

I've long been talking about and looking for a summit dress. Recently I found one (second hand of course) that works great so was psyched to finally wear it. It's a cocktail dress, dark green velour (really, looks better than it sounds), short, form fitting upper, perfect for first ascents, and other ascents too. While I'm actually climbing, the wind catches the skirt so it does the Marilyn Monroe bit blocking my view of footholds, but it's easily tucked into my long underwear until easier ground. I wore it on every peak we climbed (4 to 7, depending on how tight a definition one uses for separate summits). I loved wearing it and it doesn't seem to look any different having been wadded up in the bottom of my pack.

Fortunately I got to climb with Rich for most of the rest of the trip. He and I (hours ahead of the rest) found our way up a couple more fourth class summits, exposed and loose, of course. We were the only ones to get to the real summit of the biggest peak in the range, which required some tricky climbing in a narrow coulior (snow gully), as well as a couple easy peaks later on. Fun terrain for sure: light and fast.

We named the peaks (whatever that means) (well, Gary does plan to submit this trip/summits to various relevant places) in Spanish and tried to avoid stupid names related to us, instead choosing names related to the peaks themselves or the land. I was glad these guys were into such names too.

Towards the end we discovered that we were meteorlogically closer to the famous hideous weather of Patagonia than we thought. We were hammered by slashing rain and winds in very exposed locations; several long nights trying to keep our shelters on the mountain. It was unbelievable just how hard it could blow and rain for how many days.

Somehow we ended up with a mid up high, a lightweight floorless tent not made for such weather. I was an inhabitant of this shelter and have a lot of experience with them including in high alpine winters at treeline. For my first time, the pole folded in the wind. We splinted it with ski poles and a cordelette, and spent the rest of the night trying to keep sheltered and dry (limited campable terrain, drainage not always an option).

There were multiple days and nights like this, and some of the guys discovered that bivy sacks are not as dry as the manufacturers seem to believe: saturated sleeping bags. At one point, all five of us cowered in the 3 person tent, cooking with the hanging stove... you get the picture. It was ugly, significantly more severe than the Cascadian conditions we'd planned for.

But really, it was a cool trip. This is the first big personal trip I've been on since 1993, before the Earthship era. Now that that is wrapped up, my climbing life resumes!

I was supposed to return home after a month in Chile, but days before, while we were still in Puerto Montt in the south, I found out that another trip I hoped would work out was had fallen through. I didn't want to return home so soon. What to do?

I knew that Aconcagua was in neighboring Argentina, and that it was very nearly 23,000' (7000m) high, and largely a walk-up. This is all I knew about it. I hadn't been that high (just 20k several times). I am interested in some more aesthetic and technical peaks of similar heights elsewhere, and knew I should get that high first on an 'easy' peak to check out how the altitude feels before adding technical difficulty.

I hope all is well for you... keep in touch!

Love and wild winds, Susan

Addendum: My slides just came back, yea. I forgot just how gorgeous Chile was (ecosystem variety), and especially how incredible the GRANITE was. Gary expected that we'd be on volcanic rock, which is notoriously rotten and awful for climbing, but I went on the trip anyway.

Along the Puelo River we saw granite cobbles, and the whole way up, up the Rio Triador, and up that huge bushwhack, I kept my fingers crossed. And yes, the beautiful, crisp, clean granite-and-related rock continued. That's when I knew for sure that there is a god. I love rock, especially such stellar rock, and it made all our climbs and even that traverse a lot of fun.