Video: Palisade Mountaineering June 2012

Join me and Davi Rivas for a bit of big mountain fun in the Sierra's incomparable Palisades:

Click: I wan't to see the big mountain stuff on Vimeo

I'm making it easy to revisit the write-ups on the trip and it's peaks:

The Palisades, the Sierra Proving Ground

North Palisade, 14,242 feet, via the U-Notch

Thunderbolt Peak, 14,003 feet, via Underhill Coulior

Starlight Peak, 14,200 feet, via Underhill Coulior

Thunderbolt Peak via Underhill Couloir Class IV, 5.6 chimney var, 14,003 feet, 06/27/2012

Davi Rivas and I atop Thunderbolt Peak. 

Round two. After a day of rest and rehydration from our successful run up North Palisade we were ready for more. Enter Thunderbolt Peak. This route was all new for us and as is perhaps fitting of the "shortest" of the Palisade fourteeners, at 14,003 feet, we found it to be physical and burly, pugnacious. We'll get to all that after we relive the 3AM drug raid on an otherwise blissful night of sleep. It's just the alarm clock. Ughh. As the BBoys said, "Time to get up and go to work!".  

We put ourselves through all the indignities of our version of the "alpine start", bumped poles and were on our way by 03:45. We repeated our path around the "palisade pond" and put on crampons at the same place we had stopped two mornings ago. Then it was out onto the ice and set a course for Underhill Couloir and Thunderbolt Peak.

Willing the sun to me. Underhill is the notch above my helmet.

We made good time across the ice, though I did notice more fissures than on 2 days previous. By sunrise we were navigating through a series of disorganized horizontal crevasses which pass for a bergeschrund beneath Undehill. The ice was still firm and we avoided all obstacles with ease. Under the mouth of the couloir we shed our crampons and got our first close-up of the chute we'd soon be climbing. First impressions revealed exactly what we had anticipated, a steep and loose Class IV gully filled with sand and ice, unstable rock, and what appeared to be some challenging rockaineering midway up. We put our heads together and each of us decided to stash our poles and one of our short axes at the bottom of the couloir, which was also our descent route. 

Underhill's 'schrund is small, but potentially dangerous.

The 'schrund here is actually a series of lateral crevasses that one must carefully identify and negotiate.  

Let me start by admitting that Underhill Couloir can be done one of two ways in these conditions: the hard way or the easy way, (For those of you reading this as beta for your own ascent rest easy, I'll help you out). Naturally, we didn't know about this clause on this bright and breezy sun-kissed dawn, and we fell victim to the hard logic of ascending the thing by it's most direct line, which is, of course,  the hard way. From the bottom looking up I saw only a mob of loose granite scree and some rotten ice. We ascended straight up the middle, and the gully got consistently steeper. We did some steep scrambling which required big stemming and chimney moves to avoid hanging patches of ice. In places we were forced to climb very lightly as no single piece of rock was in any way connected to any other. Let's just say that parts of this couloir require a delicate touch.

This is the ground up view of Underhill Couloir from just off the ice.

Davi climbing into Underhill

After ascending the scree we finally encountered the large chockstone mentioned in all the guide books. This is the couloir's first of two "cruxy" sections, and Davi led it the hard way (photos below). We shook out the rope right under the bulging obstruction and he went to work climbing up and right under the boulder, pulling through a tall and awkward move to an even more awkward mantle. Davi exited this high move with a bold and inspiring flourish, the time-honored face-down belly hump. "There's gotta be a better way.", I thought, "Be damned if I'll grovel over the lip of a Class IV choss haul." Minutes later I was able to negotiate a somewhat more aesthetically pleasing solution to the chockstone problem. 

After I caught my breath we worked out a pseudo simul-climb through a pitch of more loose rock and intermittent ice.  With the top of the couloir in sight, Davi was again on point for a dicey little bit of steep scrambling up and through a narrow slot that was complicated by ice. I was belaying him from about 30 feet below this nearly vertical slot when I was struck at the base of my skull by a rock the size of a pool cue. Understand folks, that I was born lucky. I had no idea that a rock was coming down and I was looking down toward my feet when it hit. The rock missed my helmet entirely but struck and deflected somewhat off my ball cap which I was wearing backwards (lucky) under the helmet. I quickly shrugged off the impact but had a nagging headache at the left base of my skull for the next couple days. A short time later I leap-frogged Davi and continued the last bit up to the terminus of Underhill.

*A couple suggestions for anyone reading this for route info:

1.) Upon entering the couloir, climb high and right as soon as you can. Doing so will take you up to some small ledges that allow you to avoid a great deal of unstable talus in the gully.

2.) When addressing the chockstone obstacle, I advise backing off 15-20ft before the actual chock and climbing the easy face up and right.

3.) If you do rope up for the chockstone, stay on lead until you run out of rope. The leader will be past any Class IV climbing and very close to the top of the couloir by that point. One roped pitch should get you through to the easy finish.

There was a fair amount of ice in the couloir and several times we found it easier to just rock climb the wall than deal with the ice.

Davi leading right of the chockstone crux...

...and the exit move. On the descent we could see down and realized that climbing up and right is a lot easier if you start on the broken face about 10-15 feet below the chockstone. FYI

The couloir has two distinct 'cruxy" sections. This is the upper of the two.

Atop the couloir we took a good break while enjoying a bit of morning sun. It was immediately clear that above this point our ascent would be a rock climbing one so we deposited our extra water, crampons, and the remaining axes atop the couloir. We soon got back to work, climbing a long and wildly exposed Class III slab. The climbing was easy and quick, very enjoyable. We soon crested the slab, caught our breath and continued up and left into the shadow on the west side of Thunderbolt.

The epically exposed Class IV broken slab above Underhill. This is a wild piece of climbing.

Davi ascending the slab above Underhill.

Above the slab we climbed up and left across a narrow ledge which terminated in a disorganized corner, the main feature of which is a long and unfriendly looking chimney. I racked up while Davi flaked out the rope, staring at the first 30 feet, breathing, planning. My first moves up the chimney got me into a vertical world of scratching and scraping, huffing and cussing. The rock was clean and the holds plentiful, but the moves were strenuous, especially in a pack and mountaineering boots. I slowly ground my way up the pitch until I could see it's end, blue sky between the Lightning Rod (the secondary summit) and the summit of T-bolt. Here I was presented with a choice. The last 30 feet of this chimney bifurcate into parallel seams. The left-hand option puts one in a vertical squeeze chimney, with scarcely enough room to shimmy up. This just looked way too energetic for me so I looked over at the right-hand option. This way offered a left hand crack and a series of easy face moves up edgy pink quartz. I took the right side and later, as Davi followed me up, I got to hear his fussing and spitting struggle up the last bit below me. He had opted for the squeeze chimney and was in full combat at the moment. As he cleared the chimney and came up below me he asked if I'd taken the quartz and when I replied that I had, he issued an expression of disgust that he'd unnecessarily groveled up that last bit. Apparently I hadn't placed any gear in that last 30 feet and as I belayed Davi up, the rope must have flipped left into the chimney and he just followed the rope up into that man-eating crevice. Don't do what he did, it sucks. Do what I did, it's easy.

We just had to go and do it the hard way (5.6 chimney).

This chimney full of stout, burly moves. Aesthetic grace  went out the window. It was a fight.

Davi, about to start up the chimney.

Starlight Peak from high on T-Bolt.

After clearing the chimney we only had a short scramble up and left to the summit block. The views of the range from up here were just awesome. The entire ridge of summits were on display and it was cool to view the Palisades from this vantage. We topped out on Thunderbolt by mid-morning and sat in the sun under the summit monolith atop the peak, which, from where we stood, was nearly at eye level just a few feet away.

Thunderbolt's summit monolith. 

A word about the summit monolith. I'd like to explain what it is and why I didn't climb it. Purists will say that you've not climbed Thunderbolt until you've climbed this last block, which requires creative and somewhat ridiculous rope handling antics to be able to protect it's few 5.8 slab moves. I say let purists be purists, Davi and I climbed the mountain. We didn't haul real rock climbing shoes up with us anyway, and climbing friction slabs in mountaineering boots doesn't really work well so, climbing the summit rock wasn't ever really high our our priorities list to begin with. Now, staring at it from 5 feet away, the top almost at eye level, it just looked like a big boulder on top of a really big mountain. I could visualize all the moves up the thing and it didn't look at all hard, but I doubt if I would have done it even if I had brought the rock shoes. There's 2 manky old bolts on top, one of which doesn't even have a hanger, so that's not safe. Just throwing a rope over the thing and climbing the western side while being belayed from the opposite side of the boulder didn't seem particularly safe.  I quickly analyzed everything that would be involved in climbing and descending this rock and I decided I didn't need to do it to feel like I've climbed the mountain. I viewed it as a gimmick, and Davi felt the same way.  I am forty years old, comfortable in my own hide, and I got nuthin' to prove to nobody because I only climb for myself. I don't need to risk my life for a Kodak moment, and no one can say we didn't choose a challenging route to the summit. 

Besides, I realized that the more energy I directed at this rock, the less I was simply enjoying being on the summit of this beautiful peak. I turned my back on the summit monolith and thought of it no more. Instead, I gazed outward toward Mt Sill and her sister peaks. We located a plastic bottle with some summit scribblings, mostly dating from 2011. We did not find a register.

Just easing into the idea of having to descend this peak. I remember the moment,  I had stopped for a second to sort of take in the view and empty my head before the dangerous work of heading down.

Staring down at chutes and ladders on the descent.

The weather up high was, in terms of the wind we had dealt with 48 hours before on North Palisade, a bit better, though still cold and still breezy. After a bit we were starting feeling the chill and it was time to put the summit behind us. I was not looking forward to the descent, which is pretty much how I always feel about descents from any big climb. I popped some caffeine and advil, stalled for a few seconds to clear my head and Davi and I quietly started down the mountain.We traversed back to the 5.6 chimney. Standing atop and looking down I was again impressed with the verticality of this burly chimney, which I expanded to include the entire route. This entire side of the mountain is really steep. Really. There were a few slings tied around a block at the lip of the drop and we soon tossed a rope out and it just cleanly sailed down. Vertical drop. Off I went.

Permit me to say that I wasn't born with an innate fear of heights, but I do have a very healthy respect for gravity and it's various effects on a falling me. Despite numerous orthopedic injuries I enjoy the hell out of gravity, but I do not enjoy rappelling. I used to work a ropes course at a scout camp, have rappelled many, many miles of rope in my life, and I just don't get much of a kick out of it anymore. Furthermore, it's more dangerous than most people realize and it's one of those time that the average rock climber is 100% dependent on the gear he or she is relying on to stay alive. There is no backup for a failed anchor when on rappel. No plan B. Game over. Every time I clip in I am aware of that fact.

We reversed our tip-toe under the Lightning Rod and by then we were feeling solid on the Class III down-climb to Underhill. On the saddle (or notch, or whatever you want to call it) we enjoyed a nice break in the sun and found, to our pleasure, that we were now out of the icy breeze. A short time later we descended the couloir in two quick rappels before stowing the rope and down-climbing the rest. We decided to do a last, low-angle rappel over the latitudinal cravasses of the 'schrund. It was a good choice to do so as the surface snow was pretty soft and we had no idea how many cracks in the ice waited under foot. I did put a foot through in one spot, feeling only air. Below, on the ice, we stowed the rope for the last time that day and began the long and blinding trek "home". 

Davi, rappelling down T-bolt's steep-as-hell 5.6 chimney. 

The first of two rappels down Underhill.

Both Davi and I were blown away by this climb, this route. This line has everything a High Sierra ought to have. We really enjoyed the steep and airy nature of the rock climbing, quality. As for Underhill, I'll say it's direct and gets the job done. It ain't pretty, but it's straight forward. I'm glad we'd rested the day before 'cause this was a very physical peak. I really enjoyed this climb.

This shot was taken 2 days later on the 29th from Starlight Peak.  Thunderbolt Peak. Gnar.

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The Palisades, the Sierra's proving grounds

This photo refers to these peaks as part of a traverse, and of course they can be done that way, but with the exception of Polemonium Peak which we did with Mt Sill, we've climbed these as individual peaks from the ground up. Click any image to enlarge.

Last Saturday I bid adieu to the Palisades, a region of glaciers and cirques and towering peaks of upthrust granite. I, and my best brother Davi Rivas, have spent nearly five weeks of our life under and on these peaks. We have endured bitter spring storms, lashing winds, sub-zero temps, and scalding UV to climb these peaks. On our first trip up, Davi and I got stuck in a freak snowstorm on the U-Notch at fourteen thousand feet for 16 hours. We have experienced all four seasons in a day here, probably because we've always gone in June. The place builds character. 

Well, we've won and we're done with the big guys in the Palisades, except maybe Norman Clyde Peak, or the Mendenhall Couloir on Temple, or... but those aren't fourteeners. I still have to knock off three more fourteeners elsewhere before that chase is concluded. Next spring we'll be rock climbing on Russel and Whitney and Muir, which would leave only Shasta.

This photo is from our successful summit of Middle Palisade in June 2010.

Ah, the Palisades. Home of the gods of Sierra alpinism: Clyde, Le Conte, Dawson, and Starr.  This range boasts six fourteen thousand foot peaks, and an additional fourteener nearby. The Palisades are a pair of mountain cirques, each sitting above a glacier whose run-off meet at the confluence of the North and South Forks of Big Pine Creek. Take the south fork and one climbs to Finger Lake lying under Middle Palisade and it's not-quite-a-fourteener sister, Norman Clyde Peak. Take the north fork and one climbs endless miles past 1st, 2nd, & 3rd Lakes, under the jagged mass of Temple Crag, and eventually one surmounts a complex stair of rocky ledges and talus moraine which terminates on the Palisade Glacier under the uncaring gaze of five giants: Mt Sill, Polemonium Peak, North Palisade, Starlight Peak and Thunderbolt Peak. 

We begin our trip, as always, with gear thrown about. This time we'd gotten lucky and managed to hang on to a site that was reserved for someone else, which incidentally is the best site in all of Glacier Lodge for throwing one's gear about. See, the campsite is actually the well constructed foundation of a large creekside cabin that burned down in the remote past. Your gear makes a more satisfying sound when thrown about on a concrete slab than it does on the dirt of an ordinary campsite. This site has all the convenience of a shop floor without the hassle of a roof. 

Davi, sorting gear.

The winter and spring were unusually warm and dry which meant that we could save some pounds on clothing and calories, and I was able to find ways to pare down to the most essential essentials. The net result, with all the climbing gear, a weeks worth of short rations, and all the gear needed to stay alive and not uncomfortable in a truly alpine environment: an 80 pound pack. Ughhh. Davi came in around the same. He said "Ughhh" as well.  A quiet and restful night was passed and we were at the trail and struggling into our packs at sunrise.

First Day Blues. The flesh is soft, the lungs unaccustomed, the trail only goes up, and the packs are are ridiculously heavy. First Day Blues. 

The north fork trail of Big Pine Creek is steep, direct, and scenic. For most of it's mileage one either hears the roar of the rushing creek, or enjoys views of the three lakes passing to the left. The massive hulk of Temple Crag rose into view as we ascended, climbing above the aspens and willow, then into piney forests with lush undergrowth speckled by alpine lupen, daisys, lilys and iris. We hauled our packs past 1st, 2nd, and 3rd lakes, each uniquely beautiful, each reflecting a milky, mineral rich turquoise (see photo below).  

Obscure M. Python reference, "-the many lovely lakes. A moose once bit my sister."

Temple Crag.

By afternoon we had climbed well above third lake and decided to take a long break before humping the packs, which by now had become a locus of misery, up the last step to a small, idyllic bench which lies at the tree line below the massive moraines of the Palisade Glacier, called Sam Mack Meadow. This last grassy refuge is the starting point for many attempts at the Palisade Peaks. It is also a wind tunnel. The day had started out windy and the wind had only intensified as we'd gained elevation. Now at the end of day one, we were obliged to find a low and sheltered bivy where we could manage an evening meal and a decent night's sleep. At sunrise we were back at it, climbing the last miles to the glacier where we would establish our base camp.

Sam Mack Meadow. Until this trip we had, quite literally, never laid eyes on the place. On prior trips this way we'd only viewed the meadow as a snow bowl.

The downstream view of Sam Mack Meadow.

Davi, high on the talus moraine, ascending from Sam Mack Meadow to the Palisade Glacier.

Davi and I ascended a winding, rocky, and steep trail up ledges and through talus of all size. Similar to the meadow below, we'd never seen more than bits and pieces of the glacier trail, as it has always been under snow when we've been up here. We were very pleased to actually have a reasonable path through the moraine. As we crested the moraine under Mt Gayley I was completely shocked by the appearance of the Palisade Glacier. Never before had we seen anything other than a broad and rolling sheet of ice and snow.  In front of me now was a vast, but rocky and dirty field of snow with it's own pond. Of course we immediately noted snow and ice conditions on the peaks and their various chutes, but it was the glacier which really grabbed me. We descended into this glacial bowl at 12,000 feet, found a workable place to establish a base camp, dropped pack and went to work creating our home for the next seven days. 

Our base camp. The tibetan prayer flags have blown their prayers our way for many years now. We wouldn't consider going without them. And yes, mountaineers are a superstitious lot.

The site we chose rested several hundreds yards above what we started referring to as the "Palisade Pond". Nothing, literally nothing on a glacial moraine is truly flat, and creating such a site would require and army of ancient egyptian slaves. We located the best existing bivouac site near water and set about upgrading the stone walls. Over the years we have taken a page from Ray Gardine and we've gotten good at using an ultra-light tarp (Integral Designs Sil-Wing) to augment a yurt style shelter (Sierra Designs Origami 2). This method is easily adaptable and perfect for this environment. We soon had a snug shelter with far more room than a standard tent provides, and on the "porch"  we'd created a nicely shaded kitchen area with a raised stove platform and an adjacent captain's chair, meaning the cook never had to move from his seat. Convenience is a must in an environment where everything requires effort. 

Speaking of conveniences, we've gotten good at being parked in an alpine environment. I'll give some examples. We use a collapsable 5 gallon water bladder, heavily reinforced with duct tape. This means we only have to go for water every other day or so, and we are free to drink as much as we like without the concern for having to go down and refill, which is a chore. We bring a solar charger for various electronics and amusements, such as the base-camp boom-box and i-phones. Long ago I learned that nothing can make a base camp more bearable than having a decent seat.  I owe serious loyalty to my Crazy Creek, which unclips and can be slid under my sleeping pad to cushion those bumps and dips. This year, because nylon does an inadequate job of deflecting solar radiation (Ever been in a tent at high noon on a hot day? It ain't exactly relaxing.), we used a mylar reflective drop cloth, shiny side out, to protect the interior from the lancing sun of a thin atmosphere. It worked quite well, extraordinarily well. Rookie innovation of the year.

Palisade Pond and the Palisade Glacier. V-Notch at center, U-Notch at center right.

As I say, we were both surprised by the condition of the glacier. Thanks to conditions that more resembled the height of summer than mid spring, we were able to experience the glacier in a new light. And it sort of made me sad. During the week we were there, the glacier changed in numerous ways large and small. During our ensuing days travelling the glacier we saw more and more glacial fissures, seemingly evolving overnight. These fissures would likely enlarge as crevasses on a more mobile ice sheet. All week we were serenaded by constant rockfall along the receding edge of the ice. The most dramatic changes to the glacier occurred on it's leading edge. Twice in our week the glacier shed large sheets of ice. We'd come down from a mountain and find a host of new mini-bergs breaking up, melting, and migrating with the wind.

Above and below, various iterations of the Palisade Glacier.

I took a quick recon up to the glacier, a 25 minute walk around the "pond" to get a better look at snow and ice conditions on the U-Notch.

The glacier, and the rocks around it, became our back yard and we observed passing parties of climbers, the rising moon, and rockfall with equal interest. Base camp life, and specifically rest days, require the ability to slow down and watch the hours go by without doing much. This is harder than it sounds, and any break in the monotony is a diversion from the seemingly endless task of just letting the day go by. We spent our rest days tending to gear, laying around, taking in endless fluids, drying clothes, and up-grading our command center. As for the climbing, I'll have to adress those peaks as individual posts.

Yard Sale!, The shedding, drying, and stowing of gear became an every other day thing, which of course means that we'd been climbing. This week, every mission was a crowning success.

As the week passed, and we started chalking up successes, our food supplies dwindled and we got tougher. We developed a far away stare to accompany our long silences. We drank coffee and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes while gazing at the next peak on our list with the lean and hungry stares of the single-minded. We each played out route scenarios in our heads during these quiet hours, trying to quell worries, anticipate unknowns, and pysche up for the next peak. Our 3am starts on climbing days started cold and huddled, battery lantern lit, the sounds of metal gear and the scrape of crampons over the low roar of the stove. Zippers and straps, the creak of leather boots being stretched over cold feet. The steam from the coffee cup mingling with the odor of sweat and nylon and smoke. An alpine start is almost always, awkward, shaky and fumbling, it is an exciting moment between partners, the embarkation of something grand.

Moon rise over Mt Sill.

Our week on the glacier, though always a necessary side-note to the actual climbing for which we were there, was pretty easy as far as living at altitude goes, certainly the best base we've arranged in this neck of the woods. The weather, after a few initial days of high winds, settled down in the later half of the week and we were able to spend much of that time in shorts and a tee.  Not to say we weren't 100% ready to depart when the time came. On our exit day we were literally out of food. I ate one of my two remaining gels and groused that I was out of coffee. We saddled up and got out of Dodge. We celebrated our week in the mountains with a bath at the Keohe Hot Springs, chow at the Bishop Denny's, and a quick drive home. A fantastic week, and the real meat of this story is coming in the following days

Davi, takin' us out thee mountains. Above 3rd Lake.

Middle Palisade, 14,040',. From the North Fork Trail.

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