Supercrack of the Desert
May started out with a delightful desert crack-climbing trip, but after two weeks in Indian Creek, I had a hard hankering for some alpine climbing. Back in Jackson, a warm spell precluded safe climbing in the Tetons, so sunny bolt-clipping replaced more meaningful activity. As soon as overnight temps dropped below freezing, I raced up Glacier Gulch towards the North Face of the Grand, my eyes set on the Hossack-McGowan.
Looking down Glacier Gluch into a snowy, spring Jackson Hole
After losing the route in the dark and having my confidence shaken on an airy snow traverse, I bailed and spent the next few days in the valley sport climbing, lifting weights and skiing. The skiing was amazing this spring, with good snow off Teton Pass well into June. In late May, I attempted the Run-Don't-Walk with Travis McAlpine only to bail after witnessing cloud-to-cloud lightning before sunrise. We stopped to top-rope some moderate ice on the walk out. I was not psyched: two more works and I would start working and be unable to climb until August. I felt the constraints of my schedule and prayed for cold overnight temps. I wanted another go at the Grand. A week later, Bojan Mitkovski and I attempted No Name Gully, an everyman's ephemeral mixed route to the left of the Hossack-McGowan.
Bojan making important phone calls en route to our camp below Delta Lake
That night, we bivied in a Firstlight. I was going light and had only my puff pants, down parka and an emergency blanket. I arranged the backpack and the ropes to make a one-half-star sleeping pad. It kept me warm enough for light sleep, and when the cold woke me, it was time to start the stove anyways. This system fits along with my climbing gear in a medium pack and although an ounce equals a pound equals pain, the ultimate anguish to weight ratio beat the displeasure of a midnight start over lukewarm NesCafe.
Bojan at the Teton Glacier's terminal moraine
Having a partner to share the weight of a sleeping system and break trail, and getting some actual sleep made a huge difference in my psyche, and before long, we tied into the ropes and I started up a fun mixed step with decent protection. The climbing was spectacular: relatively well-bonded ice over a blocky rock step.
Looking up towards the bergschrund on No Name Gully
Bojan drew the next pitch which looked quite intimidating. He traversed right onto poorly protected, snow-covered slab climbing in a corner. Following the pitch, I was impressed by his tolerance for slabby and insecure mixed climbing above marginal protection.
Bojan on the second roped pitch.
Bojan following our third roped pitch.
When Bojan reached my stance, we made the decision to bail. Rappelling, I felt happy to have done some fun climbing, yet bummed we couldn't finish the route. I rationalized that the crux pitch didn't look to be formed, but then again maybe I was strong enough.
Bojan at the base of No Name Gully.
We walked out that night through a light drizzle. Snowshoes make the ascent more straightforward than delicate kick-turning on randonee gear, but on the way down I longed for a pair of short approach skis to modernize the descent. Maybe next spring.
Bojan descending from the Teton Glacier with Mt. Owen in the background.
As a last hoorah, I returned to the Hossack-McGowan on one of the first nights in June. After melting snow and making coffee in the evening twilight, I plugged into some dubstep and started climbing. As the sky darkened around me, the moutain sucked me in. I put my mp3 player on repeat, listening to the same tune again and again. Cat Power, Flux Pavillion and Mt. Eden sheparded me into another world. I could see only as far as the blue-white LED in my headlamp shone. The interminable step-kicking dissolved into infinity as I inched my way upward, living a lifetime in each moment.
Self-portrait at the base of the Hossack-McGowan.
I rope-soloed two short pitches in the rock band getting over to the base of the Second Tower Gully. The first was moderate mixed ledges and grooves, which would have been manageable without a rope in daylight. The second pitch featured a delicate mantel right off the belay. I fought the urge to tumble backwards as my crampons grated against the obstinate stone. Below the Second Tower, where the Hossack-McGowan intersects the East Ridge, I carved out a little ledge, fired up the Jetboil and changed into dry socks. As the stove haltingly delivered water, I watched the clouds swirl in the darkness. A couple hours later, just as the first hints of alpenglow were shining on my face, I left the hovel having consumed a half-liter of coffee, another of electrolytes and carrying two litres of lukewarm water to see me to the summit. On top, wind rocked me and fog shrouded my view. The water swirled and beckoned to me from the infinite. It was too cold to linger and after five minutes, I was finding my way to the Owen-Spaulding rappels by intuition. After twenty hours on the go and a stressful night of blind soloing, I was worked. I fought hard to be attentive, to not fall. I stumbled on the bolted anchor and rigged my rappel. The wind was blowing hard from the West, and shadowed from the morning sun the bleak West Face of the Grand sucked the life from my hands. I rapped, pulled the rope in a hypothermic stupor, and worked my way down the South Couloir of the Enclosure slowly, too cold and scared to move confidently. At the Lower Saddle, I sat on some rocks in the sun and breathed a sigh of relief.
The North Face of Temple Peak. Wonder when those water streaks turn into ice.
A few days later, I left Jackson to start five months of work in the Wind River Mountains, feeling very much like I was missing the best part of the climbing season. On the way down Garnet Canyon, I spied a number of ice lines that looked to be just then shaping up. I hope fall brings good things :).
