Death by Ice Axe

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We woke soon after dawn to the soft din of an alpine stream spilling down through the forest. It was summit day. In the tight confines of the tent, I wriggled into my shorts and fleece as Terry stirred in her sleeping bag next to me. When she sat up, we kissed good morning.

Outside, early morning sunshine glinted through the trees; a bold blue slab of sky overhead. I got the stove going right away: hot water for coffee and oatmeal. A deer wandered into the clearing, not fifty feet away. It grazed on the meadow grass, apparently not perturbed by my presence. Before long, Terry joined me at our makeshift galley, using the bear canister as a stool. While we sat and waited for the water to boil, I leaned over to my backpack and retrieved the envelope that I had packed in for the occasion. I handed it to her with a sanguine “Happy anniversary.” After all, it was the 14th of August, our one-year wedding anniversary. She opened it and read the card. Then she got up and stepped over to her backpack, fishing around for something. Upon returning, she handed me an envelope and said “Happy anniversary to you, too.”

We had hiked into Lake Ediza the day prior, making camp in the trees above the lake. It was to be a short trip: hike in on Thursday; climb the North Face of Mt. Ritter the next day; hike out and drive home on Saturday. I had climbed this route once before, eighteen years ago. No rope or technical gear was necessary. It was third-class climbing all the way, some of the best in the Sierra range. But to get to the start of it, one had to ascend a steep snow chute to the Banner-Ritter Col—and that required an ice axe.

It was the axe that caused Terry some concern. She’d never so much as held one before. I assured her that it was no big deal. I had climbed this col three times before—once to scale Ritter and twice more for Banner Peak—and I didn’t recall any tremendous difficulties. Why, a little ice axe training on the snowfield below the col, and she’d be good to go.

After breakfast we started out, ascending along a cascading brook adorned with summer blooms. We were soon above timberline, where under the giant buttresses of Banner and Ritter, we tramped across sunny meadows and glacier-polished stone, hopping boulder to boulder. In due time, we reached the lower snowfield. It was just soft enough for our boots to gain traction, a good sign indeed. And Terry was getting right into groove of the glacier travel thing.

Progress, however, slowed on the upper snowfield. It was steeper and icier than the lower one. For the first time that day, I thought to myself: “Should’ve brought crampons.” We stopped for a quick lunch on a tongue of jagged boulders. It was already noon. My goal of summiting by two o’clock was diminishing fast. Back at it, we trudged carefully up frozen sun cups until the pitch was steep enough to warrant some ice axe training.

I first went over the parts of the axe: the pick; adze; spike. It’s a very useful tool on icy slopes, I explained. And it’s also a lethal weapon. I told her the story of Leon Trotsky, one the founders of the Soviet Union’s Communist Party, second only to Vladimir Lenin. He was deported to Mexico when he fell out of favor with Joseph Stalin. Then on August 20th, 1940—sixty-nine years ago almost to the day of our wedding anniversary—a Russian assassin killed him with an ice axe. One blow to the head.

After covering the basics on how to handle an axe, I demonstrated how to perform an arrest. I slid down the slope on my side; rolled onto my stomach; bore down on the axe, driving the pick into the snow; came quickly to a stop. Nothing to it. Terry practiced it a few times. When I felt she had the hang of it, we continued up.

Soon the snow was in the shade and much firmer. Every step had to be taken with care to keep from slipping. I kick-stepped my way up, the toe of my boot penetrating the snow a few inches. I had assured her that it wouldn’t get any steeper. But it did. The last 200 feet to the Banner-Ritter Col ascended a narrow chute that was more demanding than I remembered. Now I had to resort to chopping steps in grainy ice, chipping out toe-holds the size of a credit card. Or smaller. Terry followed me, becoming more nervous by the minute. She wanted me to stay close at hand, but I preferred to keep well above her, giving myself ample room to execute an ice axe arrest if I fell. The last thing I wanted to do was slide down and knock her off her feet.

What a relief, to gain the top of the col: back in the warm sunshine; incredible views down both sides of the saddle. I thought Terry would feel the same. But she didn’t. Instead, she was furious. No volcanic explosion per se, but behind those dark sunglasses I detected smoldering emotions as she quietly expounded her feelings: she was not at all happy; this was not fun; it was f#ing scary; I had understated the difficulty of the climb; I had sandbagged it; what was I thinking?...

At first I considered making light of it. After all, she had climbed that snow chute impeccably, and if I could get her to see the worth in that, she would laugh it off. On the other hand, as she was reading me the riot act, I took note in the way she was holding her ice axe firmly in both hands, and flashed upon the fact that it WAS a lethal weapon. So I kept my trap shut. By and large, laughing at your mistakes or predicaments can lengthen your life. But in this case, I felt it would shorten it.

It was now three o’clock and the North Face of Ritter stood before us. I pointed the route out, but she was still rattled and in no mood for climbing it—especially when it entailed kick-stepping up more snow. So I suggested we do Banner instead: it was easier than Ritter, and there would be no snow. But she didn’t believe me.

This wasn’t exactly how I had planned to spend our one-year anniversary. I apologized profusely, but I don’t think it helped much. With the summit bid dashed, we returned to the top of the snow chute for the descent. I endeavored to assure Terry that, when viewed from the top, a slope always looks steeper than it really is. She wasn’t buying it. I went first, demonstrating an ice axe arrest by sliding down fifty feet before braking to a stop. She followed and did fine. But it was clear that she was gripped and feeling out of her comfort zone. Way out. By then, I was feeling extremely guilty and rotten, knowing that she was possibly terrified…. and angry, and for all I knew, still wanting to kill me when we got off the snowfields. How could I enjoy myself?

We down-climbed the rest of the way without mishap, then stowed the axes. Terry was glad to be off the chute. I was glad that she had put her ice axe away. As we descended into the cirque below, the heavy mood lifted. We talked as we traveled across the high meadows, admiring the wildflowers and the spectacular view of the Minarets. By the time we reached camp, we were discussing what to make for dinner.

Though we were unsuccessful in bagging Ritter or Banner, we did spend three gloriously sunny days in the High Sierra. And after being tied down most of the summer with the house remodel project, a little time off in the mountains was a treat. Besides, Ritter will still be there next year (though I suspect we won’t be climbing it on our anniversary).

Back at the ranch, I was still perplexed as to why the snow chute below the Banner-Ritter Col had been more difficult than I remembered. I hadn’t meant to sandbag it when I told Terry beforehand that it was a cake walk. Yeah, it was years ago, but I honestly recalled just trucking up it, no problem. As a nut check, I rummaged through my old photo boxes and found the pics from the 1991 Ritter trip. Yep, there we were: kick-stepping up the snow chute—with crampons on.

Oh well. Next time.
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MORE PHOTOS
The entire photo set of this trip can be viewed here…
http://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/sets/72157622189107838/

Riding with the Buffalo

. The afternoon sun bears down relentlessly as Terry and I pedal up the steep, dusty grade from Little Harbor. The coastline of Santa Catalina Island may be balmy, but here in the rugged hills of the interior, it is hot. There is no sea breeze. Sweat rolls pervasively down my temples, and I draw another swig from my Camelback’s water tube. Cool, life-giving water. I estimate I’ve got less than a liter remaining. When the dirt road levels out at Little Buffalo Reservoir—nothing more than a muddy pond—we shift up through the gears and pedal along at a brisk, steady clip. Terry rides three lengths ahead of me, setting the pace. We have covered fifteen miles since leaving Two Harbors this morning. All that remains is a one-mile grind up to West Summit, 900 feet above the sea, and then an exhilarating, two-mile dash down to Two Harbors, where we will subsequently return to our room at the Banning House; get cleaned up; relax on the veranda with a bottle of wine; enjoy the sea breeze and watch the sun set… I’m lost in my daydream when Terry suddenly says: “Whoa!” and slams on the brakes. I nearly plow into her rear derailleur, but somehow avoid it. However, any attempt to complain about her erratic maneuver is quickly extinguished, for she is pointing up ahead and I immediately see what the fuss is about. A herd of bison, maybe 40 head, is standing in the road, blocking our way. * * * * It has been estimated that 60 million bison roamed North America’s prairies in the 18th century. But ultimately their reign was doomed by America’s westward expansion, for their migratory roaming on the Great Plains was an impediment to new settlers that were anxious to build farms and cattle ranches. Another impediment was the Native Americans who were already living on the Great Plains. And it wasn’t long after Custer’s Last Stupid Blunder (known as “Custer’s Last Stand” in revisionist American history) that the conventional wisdom became: “If you get rid of the buffalo problem, you’ll get rid of the Indian problem.” And so the slaughter began. Buffalo Bill Cody once bragged that he personally killed 4,200 bison in seventeen months to feed railroad construction crews (I did the math: Assuming he took Sundays off for church, Mr. Bill shot 9/day for 17 mo’s). And once the railroads were operational, engineers would slow their locomotives so that passengers could shoot at them from the train windows, just for the sport of it. The carcasses were left to rot where they fell. By 1900, only 800 remained.

Fortunately sane minds prevailed and rescued the bison from extinction. Over 200,000 now reside on preserves and private ranches throughout the country. Their history on Santa Catalina began in 1924, when a movie production company shipped fourteen of them to the island to be used in a film adaption of Zane Grey’s “The Vanishing American.” But for some long-lost reason, the animals never made it into the final cut. Instead, they were released into the hilly interior of the island, where the herd proceeded to grow. And grow. And grow... My fascination with the American bison is an ancestral affair. My great grandfather, Oscar Starbuck, was a master horseman, learning to ride before he was weaned from the breast. He spent his childhood years in South Dakota where his father worked as a maintenance foreman for the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad. According to family lore, when Oscar was 10-11 years old, he would get into horse races with the Sioux kids. Sometimes for kicks, they would all chase after a herd of bison, whooping and hollering, driving the thundering beasts across the prairie. Now, 118 years later, I would have a chance to relive that experience of riding with the bison—though not on a horse, but a Specialized Stumpjumper. * * * * Slowly we ride up the road, contemplating our next move, while the herd stands firm 100 yards ahead of us. Terry is not a happy camper. “Don’t worry,” I assure her. “They’ll move out of our way.” “Hmmm. They’ll gore us, more likely.” But before we can test whose theory is correct, up ahead, a tour bus rambles around the corner in an eddy of dust and the herd parts like the Red Sea. The vehicle slows to a crawl. Tourists snap photos from the windows. Then the driver guns the engine, lumbers past us in another eddy of diesel fumes and dust and fades away behind us. For the most part, the bison remain divided along each side of the road, and as we approach, I formulate a plan: Close-up shots first, and then we ride through the herd. I brake to stop, just fifty feet from the nearest animal; dismount; lay my bike on the side of the road. All the while, Terry is trying to talk me out of it. But I assure her not to fear, because Renaldo has an exit strategy. Bison may have good senses of smell and hearing, but they can’t see worth squat. “Hmm. Well you certainly picked the right shirt for today, Gramps.” Looking down, I suddenly remember that my riding jersey is bright crimson red. “Okay, I knew that," I explain. "But my strategy is to pull my shirt off if he charges. I’ll wave and toss it to one side, and he’ll aim for that instead of me. Like a matador. Ole!” “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” “Well then, just cover me. If you see one of those fellas starting to get aggressive, let me know and I’ll jump on my bike and bail.” “You can’t out-ride them.” She had a point. A pissed-off bison can reach speeds of 30-35 mph. Nevertheless, I accuse her of being a pessimist. By now I have the camera out, and ever so slowly I approach a magnificent specimen. He watches me warily as he grazes on parched grass. Behind me, on the other side of the road, a large bull begins to snort and growl. He stands almost six feet tall; thick, shaggy beard and mane; piercing eyes; probably weighs close to a ton. He also looks to be the largest of the herd, which means he’s probably Head Honcho and might feel compelled to challenge me. “Watch that big guy over there,” I tell my loving spouse. “If he so much as takes one step in this direction, give a shout.” Terry objects, proclaiming that if buffalo chips start hitting the fan, the only butt she’s saving is her own. “And I don’t have to out-ride him,” she points out. “I only have to out-ride YOU.” You gotta love her. Raising the camera to my eye, I snap the first shot. Sweet! I take more. Somewhere behind me, Head Honcho is snorting in an inhospitable manner. Again, I reiterate to Terry to keep an eye on him, and then creep closer to a group of cows and calves; snap more shots. I can hear Head Honcho snorting again. “Is that big guy staying put?” I call out as I take another shot. The only response I get is more snorts and growls from Honcho. “Terry?” Finally I turn around to see what’s going on. My wife is nowhere to be found. Honcho is across the road, staring me down, tail swishing back and forth. What the heck? Where’s my back-up? I look up and down the road... Oh, there she is—two hundred yards up the way, safe on the far side of the herd. She is standing there with her bike, waving hello to me. It’s funny how my shirt now seems to be a brighter shade of red. With that in mind, and under Honcho’s vigilant eye, I carefully tip-toe back to my bike. Upon reaching it, and feeling brave again, I raise my camera to take a picture of him. But before I can snap the shot, he turns and struts away. Damn! My only photo of the omnipotent Head Honcho and it’s a butt shot. By now the herd has wandered onto the road again. I clip into my pedals and start up the road. Their heads turn; they see me coming, bright red shirt and all. YEEHAW! In a surprising burst of power, they charge across the road and into a grassy field to get away from me. I accelerate, closing in on a couple of stragglers until they are no more than ten feet away. Then they, too, suddenly leap and surge ahead, escaping into the field. But for that brief moment in time, I am Oscar Starbuck, riding with the last bison herd on the planet. When I ride up to Terry, grinning like a Cheshire Cat, she just shakes her head and says: “I worry about you.” * * * * The next day we ride out to Parson’s Landing on the West End, a scenic ride along the coast, past emerald coves, cherry orchards and Boy Scout summer camps. Late afternoon, we kick it in Two Harbors’ town square, eating ice cream while we wait for the ferry. It has been a nice romantic getaway for our one-year anniversary. There was “down time” to relax, and still we managed to log 35 miles on the bikes. But most memorable of all—behind spending a weekend on an island with my sweetie, of course—was our ride with the bison. Not everyone shares my ardor of these creatures (Terry comes to mind). Many biologists and conservationists want them deported yesterday, contending—and rightly so—that the non-indigenous bovinae have overwhelmed the island's ecosystem by devouring the slow-growing grasses that cover the steep hillsides. The soil in over-grazed areas then becomes crumbly and exposed, leading to serious erosion problems. Even worse, as the grass becomes scarce due to the erosion problems, the bison then turn to eating prickly pear cactus and other native plants. The Catalina Island Conservancy, the non-profit organization in charge of protecting and administrating the island, has been dragging its feet for decades on the issue. This is because merchants enjoy tourists who come to the island to spend money, and tourists enjoy coming to the island to see the “buffalo”. In short, the bison problem has been a political third rail. As a compromise, the Conservancy removed over half the herd in 2004, shipping them off to a preserve in South Dakota (near where my great-grandpa harassed their ancestors over a century ago). Around 250 head remain on the island. This seems to keep the tourists happy, and consequently the merchants as well. When the ferry puts in, we roll our bikes down the gangway and stow them aft. We secure two seats on the main deck, up forward near the bar, and then settle in for the 90-minute cruise back to San Pedro. Halfway across the channel, the sun goes down. I drift off for a short nap. And for a brief moment in time, I’m back on the prairie, riding with the buffalo.

* * * * Soon following our return, I happened to read online that a Canadian man was gored and killed by a bison in Alberta, just three days before we departed for Santa Catalina Island. It goes without saying that I probably won’t be able to persuade Terry to ride with the herd anytime soon. For more photos from our Santa Catalina Island trip… http://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/sets/72157622059497034/

Climbing in the Shadow of Giants

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THE HISTORY ---

In August of 1931, four intrepid mountaineers bushwhacked up the North Fork of Lone Pine Creek in the Sierra Nevada to attempt an ascent of the sheer, east ramparts of Mt. Whitney, at 14,496 feet, America’s highest peak outside of Alaska. Co-leading the team was Dr. Robert Underhill, a Harvard mathematician and expert mountaineer. His associate was the legendary Norman Clyde, the man credited with more first-ascents in the Sierra Nevada than anyone then or now. Rounding out the party was Glen Dawson and Jules Eichorn, two energetic 19-year-old lads who had already proven their mettle on prior Sierra Club climbing outings.

From the vantage of Iceberg Lake, Underhill and Clyde scoped out weaknesses in Whitney’s imposing face: Scramble up to that notch; then up that ramp; traverse over to there… Yes, it looked like they could make it go. So without further ado, they tied into the ropes—Clyde and Eichorn on one, Underhill and Dawson on the other—and started climbing. Four hours later, they were on the summit.

This first ascent was monumental, for it blew wide open what was possible in the High Sierra when it came to technical rock climbing. At the time, Sierra Nevada climbers were still primarily “peak baggers”, traversing snow fields and scrambling up slabs and ledges. Sometimes they roped up, but that was more for mental security than anything else. God forbid they take a nasty fall. Nobody knew how to build a good anchor or execute a proper belay. In fact, as far as I know, none of them had ever hammered a piton into stone. But Robert Underhill changed all of that in 1931. He had spent several years climbing in the Swiss Alps, where modern rock climbing was in a Renaissance. When he returned to the States, he used those new skills to put up impressive routes in the Grand Tetons. Then he came to California and introduced those concepts to the elite Sierra Club climbers: building anchors; the use of pitons; proper belay techniques. In that August of 1931, Underhill, Clyde, Dawson and Eichorn made history, putting up three new technical ascents in the High Sierra, the Mt. Whitney route being the star on the Christmas tree. A new era had begun.

For this reason, the East Face of Whitney stands as one of the “50 Greatest Climbs in North America.” A classic, steeped in history. I had done the route twice already, but it was worth doing again if Terry was game—which didn’t take much convincing. And as soon as Doug discovered what we were up to, he was on board. Doug would turn out to be a valuable asset on the trip, for to him, humping a 55-pound backpack up the mountain was a stroll in the park, a task he could fit in before breakfast. I took advantage of that wonderful talent.


THE CLIMB ---

We arrived at Whitney Portal on the afternoon of July 13th, a fierce sun burning down on us. Lone Pine had been pushing 103 degrees; Death Valley was a sizzling 118. Who was going to complain about 86 degrees at the Portal? Later in the day, we stopped by Doug Thompson’s store for beer and burgers. It had been six years since I’d seen him last and it was good to catch up on things. He showed me the framed, 8x10 photograph of a Peninsular bighorn sheep that our mutual amigo, Bernie McIlvoy, had given him. How Bernie captured this incredible shot is a story in itself. It had its own special place on the wall, between the kitchen pick-up window and an array of postcards depicting Mt. Whitney and black bears breaking into automobiles.

We bivouacked at the Portal campground and rose with the sun. The trudge up the North Fork was dreadfully hot, though as we gained elevation, a cool breeze commenced to make life more tolerable. Upper Boy Scout Lake sparkled like a jewel. Since we had plenty of food and time to spare, we decided to camp here and move on up to Iceberg Lake in the morning. An elderly gentleman and his granddaughter were fishing near the outlet of the lake, and they appeared to be having good luck. The man stopped by our camp after supper. He gave us a nice-sized trout, a perfect treat for breakfast. Russ Anderson was his name, and he was celebrating his 77th birthday. Interesting fellow. We swapped mountaineering stories while alpenglow filled the sky and then the stars came out. Day’s end is a magical time in the High Sierra.

In the morning we broke camp and started up to Iceberg Lake. Above 12,000 feet, Terry and I began to feel the effects of altitude. Compounding the misery, my pack weighed 59 pounds—we had brought way too much food—and my back was giving me problems. I just can’t carry the heavy loads like I used to. As for Doug, he just kept going, and going…

We arrived at Iceberg Lake to find it partially frozen. Three tents were pitched in separate campsites among the boulders. We snagged an empty site enhanced with stone windbreaks, enough room to pitch two tents and a primo view onto the lake. Close at hand, Mt. Whitney rose majestically into the sky, and from where we were situated, I could easily point out the East Face route to Terry and Doug. Suffice to say that Doug appeared a little pensive: he’d never climbed anything higher than a two-pitch crag at Joshua Tree.

Come morning, we didn’t get out of camp as early as I’d hoped. Doug led the scramble up to the rocky notch at the base of First Tower. Upon reaching it, however, the expression that swept across his face was priceless.

“Now where?” he asked nervously, peering down at the abrupt, 1,000-foot drop on the other side of the notch.

“We go that way,” I answered, pointing to the right, where a trace of narrow, sloping ledges traversed across the side of the First Tower.

Doug gave the traverse a dubious study. Both he and his mom had that “what am I getting myself into” look. And they are not the first. The opening pitch of the East Face is a duzy. Wakes you right up.

We flaked out the ropes and I started across the Tower Traverse around 9:00, deep blue sky overhead, a colossal abyss below. Doug came across next, then Terry. Both were in a jolly mood when they reached my belay station. Next came the Washboard, and we made quick work of it. The infamous Fresh Air Traverse was exciting as always—Doug was really stoked, emitting a resounding “Whoohoo!” as he stemmed across the void. After that, however, our momentum languished. Terry spent considerable time cleaning a stopper in the chimney pitch after the Fresh Air Traverse (when I set ‘em, I set ‘em good). I wasted more time conquering the final 5.7 off-width at the top of the Grand Staircase. Then finding the correct route up through the summit blocks became an issue.

Terry: “So where’s the summit, Gramps?”

Ron: “It’s gotta be up here somewhere.”

Terry: “Hmmmm.”

In the end, it was Trailblazer Doug who found the way, and he was grinning ear to ear to be the first to stand on top.

Happily, we all summited in time to witness a spectacular sunset. There wasn’t another soul on the peak, only blissful silence. We coiled the ropes; took summit photos; watched the last of the day being cast upon Mt. Russell in golden hues. And then it was time to go.

We located the new rappel slings that had been installed the day before by another party (our neighbors at Iceberg Lake). This allowed us to avoid the steep, snow-covered descent slabs. In fact the rappel went so smooth, I sacrificed some slings and we did two more raps down ledges along the right side of the gully, the last one putting us directly into the notch at the top of the Mountaineer’s Route. From there it was a headlamp descent down snow and rock, arriving at our encampment around 11:00. We crawled into our tents directly. It had been a long day.

The next morning we packed up and started down, running into SCMA mates Ben Chapman, Alex Smirnoff, Cory Harelson and Nick Foster at Clyde Meadows. Small world. They were heading up to climb routes on Whitney and Russell. Ominous clouds, though, were spilling over the Whitney Crest, and upon reaching the Ebersbacher Ledges, it began to rain. Wet rocks with full packs: That was interesting.

Weather impediments aside, we reached the Portal safe and sound. We drove down to Lone Pine, giving a lift to a backpacker who had just finished the John Muir Trail, and took dinner at the Totem Café. Then it was the long trail home.

THE INTERVIEW ---

Back at the ranch, one question kept coming back to nag me. I had researched the first ascent of the East Face, reading Norman Clyde’s personal account, studying old photographs. Throughout all of this material, there was never any mention, nor evidence in summit photos, that the first-ascent party used any pitons whatsoever. I tried to envision Underhill and Clyde, with their clunky boots and old static ropes, climbing up to 5.7 with no protection... That would be bold, cutting-edge climbing for the day.

I called RJ Secor, Mr. High Sierra himself, to see what he knew.

“No, I don’t think they used any pitons,” said RJ. “You should call Glen and ask him.”

That would be Glen, as in Glen Dawson, one of the four to make the first ascent. Now 97, he lives a quiet life in Pasadena. He is also an honorary member of the SCMA, and lo and behold, there was his phone number on the club roster! So I called him.

“Mr. Dawson? Good evening, sir…”

How else would you address a living legend? We spoke for some time. His mind was lucid, as keen as a forged knifeblade. He spoke of that day 78 years ago like it was yesterday: an adventurous 19-year-old kid climbing with Dr. Underhill, the accomplished mountain climber.

“Underhill had climbed extensively in the Alps,” Glen told me. “He taught me how to belay like they were doing it in Europe.”

Finally I got around to asking him about the pitons. Did they use any on the first ascent of the East Face?

“I don’t believe so. No, we didn’t use any pitons.”

So there I had it. The first ascentionisits did not use pitons to protect their lead climber. In a substantial fall, he would’ve met with serious injury or death. Today, the daunting traverses at First Tower and Fresh Air are protected with fixed pitons, and I tried to envision myself passing those pins without clipping them. Nope. Not a chance. One could say that when I do these old classic routes, I’m merely climbing in the shadow of giants.

THE RECORD ---

This was my sixth ascent of Mt. Whitney, but by no means does it set any record. Listed below are the other five occasions and the routes taken…

East Buttress, 2003. Climbed it with Dan Kipper. Though the ascent was gorgeous and sunny, we were chased off the summit by an ominous thunderstorm, which caught us halfway down the descent in the form of a hailstorm. Nine months after our trip, Dan was killed in a climbing accident in the High Sierra. Rest in peace, my good friend.

East Face, 1996. Climbed it with Bernie McIlvoy. We camped down low at Upper Boy Scout Lake so my brother TJ could fish while we climbed. This made for a much longer approach and return, but it also meant savory trout for breakfast and dinners. (Thanks, bro!)

East Face, 1981. Again with Bernie. Drove up Friday night; hiked up to Iceberg Lake on Saturday. On Sunday, we knocked the route off in four hours; returned to camp; hiked out; drove home that night. We were in pretty good shape that summer.

Mountaineer's Route, 1980. Climbed it with Randy Willson. This is the descent route for the technical climbs along the Whitney Crest, but it is also ascended by mountaineers without need of ropes. We did it in late spring when there was ample snow, making it possible to kick-step all the way up and glacade all the way down. Whoohoo!

John Muir Trail, 1976. Spent our last night camping on the summit after a 7-day trek on the John Muir Trail, accompanied by a motley crew consisting of Bernie, Mary & Eugene McIlvoy; Beverly & Bill Warren; John Muratet; Joe Erickson; and Jean Barry (Heather’s mama).

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MORE PHOTOS---
You can view the complete photo set from the ‘09 Whitney trip here…. http://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/sets/72157621775778201/

Journey to Zion

Saturday, April 11th. It was the beginning of Terry’s spring break. We had packed the car the night before to assure an early start—frequently a difficult achievement for us—and we were rolling out of town with our mugs of java by 7 a.m. No traffic. We drove over Cajon Pass and across the desert under cloudy skies. Unstable weather was the forecast for the next few days. Our destination: Zion National Park. The plan: Rendezvous with Terry’s brother and sister-in-law, Dan and Becky, to climb Lady Mountain.

I had learned of the Lady Mountain Trail a few years back while surfing the internet for things to do in Zion. First of all, the term “Trail” is stretching the definition, for it climbs the sheer walls of Zion Canyon, from floor to rim, gaining 2,600 feet in elevation. Native Americans, dating back centuries to the Anasazi, utilized the route as a shortcut in and out of the canyon. In the steeper sections, they carved small footholds in the rock, called Moki steps. Most likely a few Mormon settlers made use of it in the 1800s, and surely there were adventurous people at the turn of the century that had made ascents. But the route pretty much remained in this primitive state until 1923. That is when the National Park Service installed steel railings and cables at the more dangerous sections. A ladder was even constructed at a vertical cleft called The Chimney. From the start, the Lady Mountain Trail became the premier adventure outing in Zion—albeit a daring one—and would remain so for decades. Unfortunately, maintaining it was a royal pain in the butt, and expensive. In addition, tourists frequently became stranded, gripped in terror by their lofty predicament, and had to be rescued. A few of them (at least two, probably more) even fell to their deaths. So by the late 1960s, the Park Service had had enough and shut it down. They removed all the hardware and cables, uprooted the signs, erased the trail from Park maps and pretended that it never existed.

But it does exist, and we were going to find it.

Our first stop, though, was the hospital in Las Vegas, where my step-dad, Darrell, was being held hostage. He’s kinda like me in that respect: We don’t do hospitals. Nevertheless, his doctor insisted that he needed heart surgery right away, so off they whisked him, code red, for a 100-mile ambulance ride. He was supposed to have had the operation on Friday. But due to a scheduling mix-up, they had to postpone it for a few days. We found him sitting in his hospital bed, clicking through mindless channels on the TV. For someone who needed heart surgery, he certainly looked healthy. His only ailment appeared to be cabin fever. Still, he gave us a recap of the cardiogram that piqued his doctor’s concern, and then the wild ride to Vegas.

“You know how much that ambulance cost? Seventeen thousand dollars!”

Thank God for Medicare.

It was mid-afternoon when we jumped back onto I-15 and headed into Utah. Rain pummeled us at the state border, a dusting of snow in the high country above Toquerville. We drove past a stately ranch: brick house in a grove of cottonwoods, an American flag waving in the front yard, verdant pastures full of ostriches. Yes, ostriches. Cattle ranches are so passé.

We met Dan and Becky at Watchman Campground in Zion. They had driven down from Provo that morning and had already made camp. Joining them were their friends, Heather and Scott. Becky and Heather were into a lively hacky-sack rally when we pulled up. Dan handed me a beer. We were off to a good start.

One thing to know about Professor Dan: He is an awesome chef. His camp stove is a portable 4-burner apparatus that unfolds to the size of your range at home. It’s like having a five-star gourmet restaurant in your site. (Note to self: Invite Dan & Becky to all future campouts.)

While Terry and I pitched our tent, Dan cooked up a delectable supper of grilled fajitas. Then we gathered close around the campfire with food and wine, discussing tomorrow’s plans. Though it was cold and a bit drizzly, stars were beginning to peek through the cloud cover—good news, for sure. When the wine bottles were empty, we crawled into our tents and fell fast asleep. Then it began to rain.

Easter Sunday, April 12th. Surprisingly, clear azure skies greeted us in the morning. After breakfast, I divided up the gear: a 30-meter rope; harnesses; five Camalots; a handful of slings and carabiners. Getting out of camp took longer than I had anticipated, and it was nine o’clock by the time we started hiking to the Park visitor’s center to catch the tram shuttle up Zion Canyon (public vehicles are banned). Then I had to find the start of the un-marked Lady Mountain Trail. This consumed valuable time, for I initially led us down the Emerald Pools Trail in the wrong direction. Oops. But alas, we found it: a barely discernible path winding up a steep, brushy slope.

The old trail zig-zagged up through pinyon pines, gaining several hundred feet before encountering the first cliff band. Now the climbing began, up cracks and ledges to a 30-foot slab called the Moki Steps, where the Ancient Ones carved oval toe-holds into the sandstone to make the ascent easier. Still, the slab was seriously exposed: If you slipped here, it’s a nasty fall. For this reason, I pulled out the rope and harnesses. I led it easy enough, and gaining the top, plugged in a cam and belayed the others up.

Above the Moki Steps, the route meandered up steep terrain via blocks and ledges. Arrows, painted on rocks here and there, ushered the way. We were a thousand feet above the canyon floor when we faced the next obstacle: The Chimney, rated 5.4. I uncoiled the rope again. Terry led the pitch, making quick work of it.

After the Chimney, the route traversed a cliff band for several hundred yards, following narrow ledges and shelves. A few remnants of the old route could be found along the way: Steps carved into the stone, and the occasional rusted-out expansion bolt that, years ago, had anchored railing and cable to the rock. This brought us to the last roped section, called The Corner. It was only fifteen feet high, but it was a tricky 5.6 off-width crack: too wide to jam, and too narrow to get inside and chimney up. Again, Terry took the lead. She didn’t bother to place any protection at the crux, just pulled on through.

Now the route followed a steep ramp system called the Endless Staircase, with spectacular drop-offs on the downhill side. We had been ascending steadily for hours, and the summit of Lady Mountain was still several hundred feet above us. We stopped for lunch on a sunny ledge, two thousand feet above the Virgin River. That’s when Dan pointed out that it was three o’clock, and that Scott had to be at work Monday morning. He and Heather had to drive back to Provo that night.

Summit Fever: It can get you to the top, or it can get you into trouble. Lord knows I opposed turning back when so close to the top, and after all that hard work. I knew we could summit by 4:30, if we kept moving. And Terry and I had brought headlamps in case we were caught out after dark. It was doable. We should go for it.

But then my sensible side overruled: If we went for the summit, nightfall would catch us halfway down the mountain. And even with two headlamps, it would be next to impossible to follow the circuitous route down in utter darkness, with treacherous drop-offs everywhere. Therefore we would end up huddled together on a frozen ledge until dawn. And Scott unquestionably would not be at work in the morning.

So we turned and headed back down.

It was late in the day when we reached the canyon floor. The east-facing walls of the gorge were immersed in deep shadow, while the west-facing ramparts were ablaze in color. We caught the shuttle back to camp, where Heather and Scott bade us farewell and started back to Provo. I drove into Springdale to fetch firewood. Dan got dinner going: sautéed vegetables and grilled steak (yep, Dan must accompany all future campouts). And then we enjoyed another campfire evening under the stars.

Monday, April 13th. More sunny weather. Dan and Becky broke camp and headed back to Provo directly after breakfast. They’re both professors at Brigham Young University and Becky had a biology class to teach that afternoon. After seeing them off, Terry and I packed a lunch and took the shuttle tram up-canyon to the Narrows.

At the Narrows, the canyon pinches down to only a few hundred feet across—and most of that real estate is claimed by the Virgin River. For this reason, it’s the end of the road. If you wish to explore further, a trail leads along the river bank for about a half mile, and then it TOO comes to an abrupt end, for the gorge narrows even further until the course of the river runs wall-to-wall. In the summer and fall, it’s possible to hike/wade upstream for another two miles, to where the giant walls close to just eight feet apart—this is the true “Narrows” of Zion Canyon and it’s quite sublime (though you don’t want to be here during a flash flood).

We hiked up the trail, to where it terminates on a sandy river bank. Several people milled at the water’s edge. Nobody ventured into the frigid river. We settled onto a sunny boulder and snacked on tuna and crackers, watching the local squirrels con food from the tourists. These furry critters are very effective beggars. One of them approached us and stood on his back haunches, as cute as can be, and within reach of Terry’s food bag. She flicked him with her bandana and off he scampered. I don’t get it: If Wall Street is entitled to hand-outs, why not squirrels? (In fact, one could even argue that rodents have higher values than Wall Street vermin, but don’t get me started.)

In the afternoon we hiked to the summit of Angel’s Landing. Rising 1,500 feet straight up from the canyon floor, this remains Zion’s premier tourist hike—though not for the lighthearted. Most of the elevation is gained via two miles of paved trail. But the final push to the summit entails scrambling up a knife-edge ridge with sheer drop-offs on both sides. Railings and chains have been installed at the most daunting sections of the route. Even so, seven people have plunged to their death over the years: six accidents and one homicide (a man was convicted of pushing his wife over the edge).

We checked into the humble Canyon Ranch Motel in Springdale at the end of the day, reeking of sweat and campfire smoke. A hot shower was first on the agenda. Mark, the motel proprietor, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail, recommended the Whiptail Grill for dinner. We gave it try. It was a funky little establishment, located in a renovated 1940s-era gas station. Strange, I know. But the food was top notch.

Also that evening, I spoke with my sister Therese, who gave me an update on Darrell and his surgery. Everything was good. He was recovering in ICU, and if all went to plan, he’d be able to go home on Friday. This was definitely good news. Our original plan had been to stay in Springdale another night, but now it made more sense to head back to Vegas tomorrow. But first: A recon of Aires Butte…

Tuesday, April 14th. We checked out of our room, ate breakfast at a local coffee shop (Utah coffee blows), dropped by the Springdale post office to mail our income tax returns—doing our part to “stimulate” the economy—and then drove into the Park. The sun was gone. In its place were dark clouds and the threat of rain. Actually it wasn’t a “threat”—on the drive up Highway 9 to the tunnels, it started to sprinkle. Climbing was out of the question now. But hiking into Aires Butte to check out a route was feasible.

I had first learned of Aires Butte from a Climbing magazine article a while back. There are no published guidebooks that list it, so what little I do know about the route was culled from internet sources. It is rated 5.6, four pitches of runout slab in a backcountry setting. All you supposedly need are four quick-draws and two ropes to rappel the route when you’re done. It sounded enticing.

We parked in a turnout where I suspected the approach would start. The rain had stopped. In the gully across the road, I found boot tracks leading up the wash. We followed them. Our objective, Aires Butte, came into view a few hundred yards upstream, a cream-colored crag against charcoal skies. Leaving the drainage, we scrambled up slick-rock ledges and slabs, the terrain becoming steeper and steeper… Terry waited as I climbed carefully up another hundred feet to check it out. It was as dicey as it looked—but doable, so long as the rock remained dry. Then the wind kicked up and it began to rain.

Abandoning the Aires Butte recon, we returned to the wash, where we stumbled upon petroglyphs along one of the canyon walls. There were bighorn sheep, deer, rattlesnakes and hunters, etched into the rock centuries ago. The overhanging wall made for a natural shelter, but once the rain had passed, we hiked back to the car and left for Las Vegas.

Wednesday, April 15th. Terry and I met Mom and Therese first thing in the morning in the motel lobby. We climbed into Mom’s van and drove to the hospital, which was practically across the street from the motel, but with the cold, gusty winds, nobody was keen on walking there. Once inside the hospital, Therese did a superb job of navigating the maze of halls to ICCU.

We found Darrell in his room, sitting up in bed and looking mighty good for someone who had gone through heart surgery 48 hours ago. Yesterday the nurses had him up walking around the ICCU ward, and they told him the sooner he could gain his strength, the sooner he could go home. So he did several more laps around the ward. Terry had purchased several magazines for him to read between laps: PC World, Popular Mechanics, Popular Science and others.

We stayed for most of the morning. But in due course, it was time to start home. The storm was moving east, a slash of blue sky ahead on the desert horizon. Mother Nature had thrown an assortment of weather our way the past few days. And as we motored down I-15, the plans for our return to Zion began to take shape. We had unfinished business: Lady Mountain and Aires Butte (maybe this fall?).

To guarantee a successful summit of Lady Mountain, we fleshed out a better strategy… 1) Be on the route no later than 8:00—we lost three precious hours of daylight due to a late start; 2) Cut the thirty-meter rope down to twenty, which saves weight and still gives us enough cord (barely) to rappel the Chimney on the descent; 3) Bring just two Camalots (#.75 and #2) to save even more weight; 4) Leave the climbing gear at the top of the Corner—this is the last technical section, so there’s no need to lug it up any further. In fact, Terry proposed ditching the climbing paraphernalia altogether, just leave it in the car. This has its merits, for the technical parts are short and easy. However the 5.4 Chimney is slightly overhanging, and while rappelling it is a snap, down-climbing it is tricky because you can’t readily see your foothold at the crux move. Screw up here without a rope and you’re looking at a very bad fall.

Leave the rope... Take the rope... Decisions, decisions. Nevertheless, we were happy for the adventure and good company. We were also elated for Darrell’s good fortune: a seventeen-thousand-dollar ambulance ride with a happy ending. All journeys should end this way.

To view the entire Zion slide show, go to…
http://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/3581865219/in/set-72157618881380215/

(As of this posting, Darrell is back home, walking the dog, tinkering in the garage, playing with his new MacBook Pro, surfing the internet for the best jokes and political cartoons, and driving Mom crazy.)

Some Days Are Better Than Others

Age is a high price to pay for maturity—which is why I refuse to invest in it heavily: the rate of return is questionable. Never mind that I have a grandson now and Terry calls me “Gramps” and it won’t be long before I can order from the Denny’s senior citizen menu. Never mind that for over three decades my mother continues to ask: “When are you going to get this ‘climbing thing’ out of your system?”

Probably never. And with the MLK weekend at Joshua Tree marking the first SCMA trip of the new year, I was going to get out there and immerse myself in that inexplicable “climbing thing.” Accompanying me were Terry and Doug, and Sunday morning found the three of us playing at Playhouse Rock, basking in January sunshine. It was all good. I was sitting atop Curtain Call, taking in the scenery as I belayed Terry and Doug up the route. Winter days at Josh don’t get any nicer. Once I had them topside, we coiled the ropes and scrambled down the back, conversing and contemplating our next route.

Then the oddest thing happened. We had almost reached the desert floor when suddenly the rock where I had planned to step disappeared. Vanished. Terry would later accuse me of sight-seeing and chattering; not paying attention to where I was going. But that rock was there, I tell you. Nevertheless, the end result was me pitching head first into boulders. My left thigh took the brunt of the fall, impacting with such a force that it knocked the wind out of me. I lay there with my head spinning, stars bursting, convinced I must’ve broken something: a rib, pelvis or maybe a femur. Somewhere, far far away, I could hear Terry asking “Are you okay?”

As the pain slowly receded, I shifted my legs to see if they still functioned. Miraculously, they did. Terry assisted me to a sitting position and said: “Oh gosh, you hit your head!”

I touched my forehead and felt the knot forming. No big deal. I slowly rose to my feet, feeling as if I had been kicked by a mule. Limping back to the packs, I was concerned that I’d have to call it a day. Terry even suggested as much.

“No way,” I insisted. And gathering our things, we hiked back to the car for lunch and—at least for me—a liberal dose of ibuprofen.

I was determined to keep climbing. No pain, no gain—or something like that. I suggested the sunny walls of Watts Tower and off we tromped. However by the time we arrived at the base of the formation, my left leg was throbbing. After checking the guidebook, I pointed to the leftmost and easiest route, called Watt, Me Worry.

“Your lead,” I told Terry. “I’m done for the day.”

She scrutinized the vertical hand crack with a wary eye.

“It’s only 5.5,” I assured her, pointing to the route in the guidebook.

She took the gear rack and tied into the sharp end. She started up the route, hesitating again and again while Doug and I imparted loads of encouragement and unsolicited beta. Finally she found the gumption to go for it. She jammed up the crack a ways and plugged in a second Camalot, panting and cursing as she struggled to clip it.

“Relax,” I called up to her.

Onward she forged, but without much headway. Twice the right-leaning crack spit her out, and each time she would attack it again. But it was to no avail: She was spent. I suggested she take a break and she grudgingly retreated.

“See, this is why we need to get out and climb more often,” I pontificated as I lowered her.

Now Doug wanted to take a stab at it. He grabbed his helmet and took the rack. Mind you, I can count the times on my fingers that Doug has climbed outdoors. But he has proven to be a quick learner. He scampered up to his mom’s high point, checked out the terrain above and went to work.

But just as with Terry, the crack spit him out. Again he tried. No luck. Finally he pulled out all the stops and gave it his all, slowly moving up the crack one jam at a time, moving a little higher… higher… and then he fell, taking a nice little whipper.

“Dude, don’t do that: You’re scaring your mother.”

He attempted it again. But it was clear that he had already given it his best shot.

“Don’t make me have to come up there,” I warned.

But after a while, he asked to be lowered.

Now, bum leg or not, I had no choice in the matter. I tied in; Doug belayed. The opening moves were spicy and it was an effort to get to their highpoint, leaving me to think: Man, this is stout for the grade. I jammed up further and plugged in a third cam, a task that I found extremely taxing. I peered upwards. It wasn’t getting any easier anytime soon. I processed all of this information and came up with the only plausible conclusion: This was WAY harder than 5.5.

By the time Doug had lowered me to the deck, Terry had the guidebook in her mitts and was studying it closely. Finally she emitted a “Hmmmm” in that sing-song lilt that cannot be expressed into words here, but rest assured I know her well enough to know the translation in this case would be: “Well it figures: I should’ve known better than to listen to you.”

“What?” I challenged her.

“The way I read this... We’ve been trying to climb Sole Food, not Watt, Me Worry. And it’s rated 5.10.”

“Impossible.”

“Did you read the route description Gramps?”

“No, I looked at the picture.”

“Really. The picture?”

“Look at it. Watt, Me Worry is the furthest route to the left.”

We all looked at the photo, then gazed up at Watts Tower. Then Doug scrambled around to the left end of the wall and pointed to a hand crack hidden behind the corner. It looked to be somewhere about… maybe 5.5?

“Hmmmm.”

So there we were: Less than an hour of daylight remaining and I had $250 worth of gear dangling from a crack that nobody wanted to go up and revisit. Without further ado, Terry put me on belay and I led the real Watt, Me Worry. Doug followed, cleaning the route. I then tossed the rope down to Terry and she climbed Sole Food, retrieving my gear in the process.

“That wasn’t so bad on a top rope,” she commented when she reached me. It’s funny how that works.

The sun was setting as we rapped off. We bagged our gear and hiked back to the car under a crimson sky, where beer awaited to quench our thirst (at least for Terry and me: Doug had to settle for an Arizona iced tea).

Later that night at Sheep Pass, we relaxed around the campfire with a bottle of wine. My leg was hurting again but the booze helped. Others were gathered around: Don, Kashmira, Yvonne, Suzanne, Laurie and Thom. I listened to their yarns from the day and the climbs they had done. Everyone was in a fine mood. And in due course, Don turned to me and asked: “So what did you guys do today?”

Where do I start?

Terry couldn’t resist.

“Hmmmm.”

A Year in the Life: 2008

Actually, the year 2008 didn’t start off so well. Terry’s grandmother, Margaret Mulcahy, suffered a stroke in January, and while the stroke itself was not life-threatening, her health continued to decline. Clearly she wouldn’t be living on her own again, so Terry moved her into her house. Caring for her was a major undertaking. Fortunately Terry has seven siblings and they helped out tremendously.

Margaret passed away at Terry’s home on April 2nd. I didn’t know her for very long. But I’ll always remember that night ride down from Truckee in a blizzard, merely weeks before she had her stroke. It was just the two of us. We talked and shared stories while rumbling along on chains, the defroster cranked full bore and wipers struggling to keep the snow off the windshield. She didn’t complain, not once. Even in her 90s, she was still quite the adventurer.


The last week of April found me in Mississippi. Yep. After a decade of dawdling and yearning I finally booked that flight to Jackson and immersed myself in the Delta: Vicksburg, Rolling Fork, Steele’s Bayou, Panther Burn, Leland, Greenville, all for the sake of continuing my research for a book that will some day go to print. I hiked along Deer Creek, past long-abandoned plantation houses, following the same path General William Sherman had followed 145 years before me (only I wasn’t wading in waist-high water!). I stood upon the deck of the Cairo, the Union gunboat that had been painstakingly recovered from the muddy bottom of the Yazoo River. I also met some terrific people along the way. Meg, Charles, Mr. Ben and Michele: thank you so much for your assistance and warm hospitality. For more photos, click here… http://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/sets/72157605204467593/


Allie graduated from high school in June. WOOHOO! It seems like just yesterday that she was walking into her kindergarten class on the first day of school. How the years roll by. Now she is pursuing a degree in Interior Design at Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising in Irvine. You could say I am one proud dad.


This is Heather, six months pregnant and still in command of the kitchen (and a stupendous cook, undeniably a big plus). She and C.J. lived with me in 2007 and half of 2008. But last spring they started house-hunting in earnest. In due course, they bought a home and moved into it in July.

As for me, I spent the weekends of spring and early summer fixing up my house to sell. Terry said “Make it turn-key,” and as fast as I could complete one home project, she was adding another to the list. (She’s a slave driver, I tell you.) But it was vastly worth the effort: my house went on the market the first of August, and I had a good bid on it six days later. By mid-August, it was in escrow. While all this was going on—as if it wasn’t enough to keep me busy—I was also packing my things and moving into Terry’s place in Yorba Linda. It felt odd at first, leaving Redlands after calling it home for twenty-four years. But there comes a time when you must turn the page and start a new chapter.


Once my house was on the market, Terry and I hopped on a plane to the Pacific Northwest. First stop: Orcas Island in Puget Sound, where the Barry clan was rendezvousing for my sister Pam’s wedding. Some of us stayed in rustic cabins, others camped. My brother Jeff towed his boat up from Portland; sister Maggi brought kayaks. We made campfires on a wooded beach and watched spectacular sunsets every evening. It was fun times in the enchanted San Juan Islands.

This is a “photo first” indeed: Bob posing with his four children: me and Jeff on the left, Pam and Maggi on the right. Pam and Dallas were married outdoors, overlooking beautiful East Bay. The weather was picture perfect. They couldn’t have asked for a finer day.

Next stop after Orcas Island was Seattle to visit Terry’s brother and sister-in-law, Mike and Hazel. From there, we all drove down to Rowena, a quaint little hamlet on the Columbia River. Terry’s sister and brother-in-law, Maureen and Harv, have a piece of property on the river, and we called it home for the next few days. Pictured above are Terry and Maureen, giving Maureen’s daughter, Ahna, a bath.

The routine in Rowena was coffee and breakfast on the outdoor deck, and later a bike ride or a run along the river. Maureen and Harv would go board-sailing (this is the windsurf Mecca of the nation). Terry would fuss over her baby nieces, both as cute as a button. Then we enjoyed the long evenings watching the river roll by, partaking in barbeques and a plethora of good wine.

Two days after returning from the Northwest, we re-packed our bags and drove up to Mammoth Lakes to get married. (Like I said, it was a busy summer.) It was an intimate ceremony in a clearing in the woods, overlooking the High Sierra. Allie was there, and so were Terry’s kids, Randi and Doug, plus Allie’s friend, Lexi, and Randi’s boyfriend Nick, who also served as our official wedding photographer. Alas, Heather couldn’t join us: She was two weeks from her due date and was staying close to home.

Terry booked a condo for our little entourage at the base of Mammoth Mountain. After the wedding, we got in a few days of downhill biking and rock climbing with the kids. My sister and bro-in-law, Therese and Randy, also stopped by one evening for dinner. By coincidence, they were enroute to their vacation in Tahoe and we just happened to cross paths. For more photos from the wedding trip, click here… http://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/sets/72157607184816806/


Heather turned 30 on August 25th. The next day she gave birth to Logan Blake Morris. (How’s that for a birthday present?) He’s a handsome little guy. Now Terry calls me Gramps—and I’m not sure I’m ready for that classification. Therefore I’ve decided to have Logan call me “Commander”. For more photos of him, click here… http://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/sets/72157609016442491/


Last summer, Terry announced that she was going to start training for a triathlon. She worked out faithfully six days a week: running; cycling; swimming. After a month of that regimen, I found it daunting to keep up when we rode or ran together. And after two months, I couldn’t even come close to her: She left me in her dust every time. By the time of the Bonelli Triathlon in October, she was in killer shape. She placed second in her gender/age class. This year, she will be gunning for the gold.


Autumn arrived, and the holiday season was upon us before we knew it. On the weekend before Thanksgiving, we threw a dinner party for my side of the family, our first entertaining gig since we’d been married. Pictured here are my cousin Dan (left) and brother T.J., neither of whom I had seen in months. Dan plays guitar for the Dynotones, an Orange County surf band that has been making waves (no pun intended). They spent the first part of December touring Japan.

Thanksgiving weekend was spent with Terry’s family in Truckee, where her sister and brother-in-law, Beth and Tom, have a home in the woods. Terry’s siblings, Mike, Pat and Kathy, also made it up—plus her mom, Mary Ann, and four nephews and a niece… Yep, we had more than a full house: In addition to Beth and Tom’s place, we also made use of a rental cabin down the road. In the photo above is Kathy with nephews Liam, Colby and Nic.

Donner Pass is only twenty minutes from Beth and Tom’s place, so we took advantage of the immaculate fall weather to do some climbing. At left is Doug on the south face of Grouse Rock. His cross-country stamina and mountain-biking fortitude serve him well in the vertical world.


The Christmas holidays were a flurry of dinner engagements. Christmas Eve was celebrated at our house; Christmas dinner in Los Angeles at Terry’s brother Mark’s place; after-Christmas dinner at C.J. and Heather’s new abode… It was one feast after another.

Heather and Allie on Christmas Day.






...and then there was little Logan, enthralled with his very first Christmas.







Randi turned 21 on Christmas Day. To celebrate, we took her and Nick to a swanky restaurant: hanging out in the bar; ordering cocktails—all those things you can do at 21 that you’ve taken for granted over the years. When I first started dating Terry, Randi was a senior in high school. Now she’s in her third year at Cal State Long Beach, working on a BFA.


Terry and I wrapped up the year with a weekend at Joshua Tree. The weather was sunny but brisk, with snow on the high ridges. But it felt good to be in the desert and climbing. You can clear your mind in the desert. And reflect. It had truly been an eventful year: the birth of a grandson; the loss of a loved one; getting married; leaving Redlands; my youngest daughter off to college; chapters were closed and new ones started.

The adventure continues...





To see all the photo sets from 2008, click here… http://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/sets/