text maybe never coming

After scouting out stewardship work for the upcoming Rock Project event, Joe S. (Access Fund) and I racked up for a quick climb up Godzilla and P2 of City Park. We were setting up our rappel from the top when we heard screaming and yelling coming from around the corner followed by a sound no climber ever wants to hear—thud.

“Shit…”

It was 8:23 pm and all climbers but Joe and myself had vacated the Lower Town Wall, a popular cliff at Index. While Joe rapped to the top of Godzilla, I called 911 and told dispatch everything I could without seeing the scene (luckily there was service). When I got to the last rappel I had to temporarily block out everything that was happening around the corner—I didn’t want to make an injurious mistake. In Wilderness First Responder, one of the first things you learn is not to create another patient—take care of yourself, you are your #1.

Response time was quick—by the time I was on the ground, Index Fire and Rescue were on scene with a paramedic and although Joe had to chase down a vehicle on it’s way beyond the incident site, they were there about the time I made it over to the scene. The first person on scene was a climbing guide from Colorado who was camping out of her Sprinter in the nearby lot. She heard the thud and screaming through van walls and headphones about 100 yards away. When she described what the climber’s body looked like when she got there, she used the word “crumpled,” so as you can imagine, things did not look good—“crumpled” should be used to describe a piece of scrap paper, not a human body.

The accident occurred as a result of miscommunication. The belayer took the climber off of belay, likely expecting the climber to rappel. The climber, expecting to be lowered, leaned back and fell 100 feet from the top of Thin Fingers as the belayer desperately tried to hold onto the rope as it raced through her hand burning through skin down to muscle and tendon. Her body helped “cushion” his fall and potentially lent support to his survival. They were both conscious, although it was apparent that he needed to get airlifted to Harborview Medical Center ASAP. Within an hour, he was driven to the nearby town of Gold Bar where he and the responders were met by a helicopter. His belayer was also backboarded out and had her own list of injuries.
He did not die and he was damn lucky.

Thoughts and Take-aways
Communication Communication Communication—many climbing accidents are the result of poor communication and a failure to complete critical safety checks—do this every climb, every pitch, every rappel. Both climbers involved had enough experience to know how to safely manage the situation. But as we know, even experienced climbers make mistakes. Just look at Lynn Hill and Phil Powers.

Do yourself and your friends a favor and get some first aid training. If you can’t afford it, there are other resources like books and Google. When you rope up with someone, you are accepting a large degree of responsibility for their safety. If something were to go wrong, an immediate rescue is not guaranteed (even if you are close to a road system). If you are on the scene of an emergency, provide support if necessary, be available, and stay out of the way (if there are responders with a higher level of training/ confidence).

Respect closures– As climbers, this isn’t always the first thing we think about. I’ll use the current situation at Index as an example. The Washington State Department of Natural Resources (DNR) put a closure on climbing/ hiking/ access to specific cliffs due to a recent fire in the area. Climbers have been ignoring the closures despite visible signage due to a perceived lack of danger. But, if DNR were to be unable to drop water on a fire area because of climbers in the vicinity, it would create a direct conflict with the land managers (in this case DNR) and climbers. Likewise, if an accident were to occur in an area temporarily closed to climbing, DNR has the ultimate say—if they see problems occuring, they are liable to close the area entirely. So, respect closures—we don’t want to jeopardize access to climbing.

Good trails=safe and efficient rescues– If this climber had fallen in the area where Joe and I were scouting out project work, it would have been a monumentally challenging task to safely evacuate the patients. The trail we used to evacuate this climber was about 1/10th of a mile from the road and was in good shape and was still a challenge. Imagine what a litter carry would look like on uneven steep terrain further in. Well maintained trails provide safe exits for efficient rescues. Volunteer—get involved in local stewardship projects. Look to the Access Fund and local climbers coalitions for support and information. Bolts don’t replace themselves and trails don’t magically appear!

Educate yourself and others– find mentors, devour climbing literature, respect the
terrain

Wear a helmet– The climbers in this incident didn’t. At the moment, it is not clear whether or not this climber will walk away with permanent brain injury. Why wear one? It may not be clear if there are climbing parties above the route you are on; you may accidentally get your leg caught behind the rope, fall, and flip upside down while leading; why not? I don’t think there was ever a climber who walked away from an accident saying, “damn I wish I hadn’t had that helmet on.”

Don’t stop climbing, Do double check everything—your knots, your lowering plan, climbing commands, etc.

I don’t want any of you to ever have to experience what happened last night on any level,so please, take these things seriously and go get out there and have some fun.

Climb on,
Joe

Like many city to country adventures, we drove through the sleepy drive-by towns (as they prefer) of the Cascades, along wide empty streets where you’re just as likely to find life as you would on the moon. Seattle’s adjoining countryside has lost much of its relevance to the city as the tech industry replaced the timber industry. For some time now, it can seem like the city’s only interaction with the country is through out-of-doors backwoods recreation. They leave the city to escape its entrapments, its crowded streets, the work thoughts, and the traffic—oh, the traffic. We are no different. We are heading into the Glacier Peak Wilderness because it is just that, an escape into the mountains, away from the traffic, work, sleep continuum. And like others, we don’t like feeling claustrophobic, and despite our best intentions, we don’t like sharing. So we try to go farther and higher, but still we are not alone.

I often have little trouble finding wilderness respite to calm my city weary mind, but the same can’t be expected for the Fourth of July weekend regardless of effort—and there is no problem with that. It is nice to have some time to be alone in my thoughts, but sharing the trail with a new friend or stranger is often just what’s needed.

We began in the small hours, trudging off trail by moonlight up and over some pass and down to the upper Glacier basin. It stayed dark until we made it to glaciated terrain. Pastel hues of blue, purple, and red colored the horizon. We slogged and slogged for several hot dawn hours until we made it to the last couple hundred feet to the summit where we ditched our climbing gear and some extra weight—the rest was off glacier and on easy dirt and boot-packed snow.

I took a summit nap, took an inventory of the peaks in view—Shuksan, Baker, Rainier, Stuart, Daniel, Sloan, Whitehorse, etc, and made conversation with several of the forty or so people sharing the summit. After a night at Glacier Gap, Sue made her way up the mountain cramponless and partnerless in the late morning sun—her husband wasn’t up for the climb this time around—I guess after 72 years things didn’t work like they did before. Sue’s axe seemed older than my partner and I combined and heavier than our lightweight packs. Sue was fit and ridiculously youthful for her age. She spoke fast and with her hands and talked about how us “real climbers” impressed her with our fitness. She talked like she hadn’t also just climbed a big mountain—she never lost her breath or exuberance. Us young “real climbers” looked at each other with a reluctance to believe we were or would ever be as hardcore as Sue. After talking, I was ready for another nap.

On our way out the day following our summit, we stopped for a brief rest and refill. Sue quickly passed us and was gone into the proud hemlock and cedar forest.

Before I made it to the car, I realized that I am only really annoyed at the idea of sharing the outdoors when I’m not there. Instead, I take home fond memories of the people I’ve met along the way. For me, it is often easier to remember a smile or a conversation than it is to remember the geography of a landscape.

Glacier Peak

Summit

The climb had adventure written all over it. Guye Peak via the West Face/ Improbable Traverse route. Unroped 4^th class, low 5^th scrambling on notoriously terrible rock. Route finding. Traversing 50 meters with 130 meters of steep cliff above and below. Snow. Pitons, rusty ones.

We made it to the summit in good time, but as any climber knows, the climb is only half over then. We snapped some photos and began our adventure back to the car. We had trouble finding an alleged boot-path, so we committed to descending into an unknown gully. We would see tat slung for rappels, a sign to us that we were on the right path, not our intended path, but a path nonetheless. We used ‘em when we thought necessary and scrambled and down-climbed the rest. After one of our rappels, our ropes got a bit hung up as I pulled them through—so, I gave it my best yank.

I dislodged a microwave sized boulder as I pulled the double rope rappel through a soggy moss-carpeted gully. I stood out of balance on tenuous rock as the boulder rocketed down-gully. It came into view faster than I could get out of the way. It was like an action movie when the frame slows and stops before the action happens—just before the bomb goes off and the car barrels off the cliff—the boulder was suspended mid-air long enough that I could map its depressions, edges, and colorations. They were shallow, sharp, dark. I had time to envision myself on the ground out cold. I pulled in close to the rock, held onto whatever and the boulder ripped past in real time. I was safe by close margin.

I watched the rock continue until it was out of sight. The strangely unique smell of freshly smashed rock is unsettling and intriguing at the same time. We were still within cell range, so, instinctively, I looked at my phone and opened a text from Mom: “be safe!” I let out a sigh of relief, turned to Andy, and got a thumbs up.

We made quick work setting up our final rappel before some bushwhacking into a snowy Commonwealth Basin. We crossed a small stream and then another, ping-ponged everything we were happy about, and found the Pacific Crest Trail towards the road where we had parked.

Despite setbacks and unexpected challenges (the stuff of type-2 fun is made of) the three of us had gotten what we wanted out of the day. On the western face of Guye and the summit, we could see Rainier (always an indicator of a good day in Western Washington/ Greater Seattle area), we pushed through some mental and physical challenges, enjoyed the solitude of the Alpine Lakes Wilderness in good company (really, we saw no one), and learned some good lessons. Be safe out there!

Guye Peak

Improbable Traverse

I-90

The Mountains to Sound Greenway

Looking back at the South Summit of Guye

rapping through some deep snow

Andy on the middle summit

Red Mountain