By Headlamp & Hammer

DARKNESS SWEPT THE RANCH, thickened snowflakes, stumbling downward over each other, fell like a frozen winter stew as I hobbled wearily from the cabin to the outhouse. My mesh shoes sank a few inches into the unbroken path and my muscles, frightened & fragile, felt for flat steps as my socks became wet. I look up- squinting in the snowfall as I lean against a spruce, still ten meters to go. I was alone in the Knik River Valley of Alaska in the dead of night, and had been here in solitude for several weeks. I reached the outhouse and struggled to step upward into it, an even greater struggle to sit down inside. In sweatpants & a sweatshirt, I wore my pessimism. Back to the cabin. One delicate step at a time. I ease myself down onto the couch and use both arms to lay my leg back on the pillow that has become it’s temporary home. Unfortunately, the couch doubles as my bed. The lush bed above me is unattainable as I can’t climb the ladder to the loft. The couch it is. 

A month ago I tore my meniscus at altitude during a winter attempt of an unclimbed peak in far Western Nepal. The journey back with a hurt knee had taken its toll on me. Now in the confines of my resting cabin, surrounded by the beautiful snow-clad forests and mountains of Knik, I spent each day reading & writing, trying to stay motivated. But that night, like many others, the pull-up bar was no match for the pain of my knee and the accompanying self-doubt. So instead I stare out the window timid and tamed, at the snowflakes falling on the Chugach. Six weeks from now I am set to hop in a bush plane and go on a remote expedition in Alaska’s Hayes Range. However at the moment, I am full of questions and of a frustrating desire to be climbing. 

We circled twice and Jesse eased us in lower until I finally felt the wheel-skis touch the wind-blown & barren surface of an Alaska Range valley glacier- an unmistakable & remarkable landscape. A few bumps & a 180 later, the shoulder-wide two-seater supercub, in which I sat directly behind the pilot, came to a stop and the clamshell door flipped open. Jesse hopped out and then it was my turn. I moved slowly as my mostly-healed knee extended towards the ground. It was now mid-April and I’d been fortunate to see drastic improvement in my knee. I was feeling pretty good, albeit a bit slow. Jesse and I stood together under towering mountainsides, a pilot & a climber. No- perhaps more than that, a reuniting of teammates and the deeply kindred friendship that is forged in remote wilderness. 

Then Jesse flew off to get Cameron and suddenly I was alone with the silence of this great range. In light, in appreciation & in joy- I relished in my solitude. I gazed upward at sharp corniced ridges, at sagging snow mushrooms & hanging ice shelves. Steep snow flutings, buttresses, mixed gulleys & avalanche chutes characterized the faces. It was good to be back in the range. 

By the time Alex arrived, we had basecamp mostly built and shortly after we settled in for the night. Our basecamp was stout with a table, 3 chairs, a double-burner stove, and a large battery all inside a dome tent. Around 11PM Alex called to us from outside the tent where he was taking some photos, “Guys! Come out here!” We dawned parkas & camp shoes and stepped out of the tent to see the sky blooming green. The Northern Lights were out and waving to us from nearly every direction. We all stood in awe as greens & pinks danced overhead, illuminating the summits & projecting reflections on our eyes. What a moment! 

Over the next couple weeks we had excellent weather and made several attempts at new routes that we’ve been eyeing the last year. Climbing in remote Alaska is challenging and staying on your toes is vital. Many things must go the team’s way to stand on top of a new route. Heading upward in unknown terrain presents exciting movement as well as questions to be answered. We enjoyed long days out and garnered up needed knowledge to keep progressing these projects. 

As I continue to pursue expedition alpine climbing, I continue to learn more about this complicated craft. When we are new to big-mountain travel, we imagine the beautiful climbing and standing on high summits. But over time we learn the real depth of this experience. It involves much more than those moments. It is built on things like a healthy basecamp life, a dialed kit, proper knowledge on navigation in both easy & technical terrain, the ability to strategize, and knowing how to get down. There will be no bootpack from others to follow & no existing anchors to utilize. Having a realistic understanding of the severity of the terrain you’re heading into & the rack to back it is important to your well-being. 

Writing this now, from the cabin in Knik where this trip began, I most notably recall descending through the night. This is the most sacred part of our craft and one we learn more about each time. Rappelling and down-climbing long distances of technical terrain in Alaska is a serious undertaking and everyone is a technician in the darkness. Fifty to sixty meters at a time, fishing for opportunities for the next anchor with headlamp leading the way. Harness full of tools & trinkets, of iron & steel. On the back of our ice tools, our hammers appear worn and bashed. No matter, they are our ticket to basecamp. With nuts & pins, cord & slings, we move downward as exhaustion settles in. The stakes are high & these are the memories that add definition to my life. 

Again the Northern Lights pour across the great sky. I look up cold & tired at the vibrant waves, impermanent & unattainable. To the North, the horizon glows as an orange beacon. Below, a great black shadow covers us and spreads halfway across the glacier. Its silhouette a jagged reflection of the mountain we are on. All together- the northern lights, the Alaskan midnight sun, and the bright full moon illuminate the range. A strange feeling that light is here to guard us gives strength to make more progress. 

Again by headlamp & hammer, we work our way down. In the early morning light we ski back to basecamp, the range blue & pink, gratitude for life & alpinism abound…