Snowbowl issues...

My reasons for opposition to Snowbowl expansion and the use of reclaimed wastewater on the Peaks are many:

1) the continued Federal subsidy of private corporations and businesses on public land for the purposes of extraction (of which recreation is a form) is unsustainable and unfair.
2) the ski resort is in Arizona. inconstant precipitation patterns should be expected and accepted.
3) the ski resort is incised into an otherwise regular wilderness boundary.
4) the proposed expansion of the ski area (to the south facing aspects of the bowl area, which has got to be one of the stupidest ideas out there) will continue to degrade the wilderness characteristics of the mountain.
5) the proposed "tubing area" downslope from the Hart Prairie lifts will unreasonably expand the resort's footprint, all in an adolescent effort to compete with Wing Mountain concessionaires.
6) the use of reclaimed water for recreation is a waste of valuable resources, energy, and public monies.
7) the proposed mixture of reclaimed water and groundwater is an even more gross waste of valuable resources and public monies.
8) the proposed pipeline to pump water up to the ski area is an additional impact on, and concession of, wilderness to industry.
9) the proposed expansion of the ski area is an example of the latest chapter (recreation) in the West's cycle of boom and bust (the housing industry's another good one).
10) the proposed concessions to the tribes (the museum and "interpretive center") are jaundiced and offensive attempts at political correctness and pacification.
11) the tribes' own inconsistencies (ie. wastewater treatment facility on Hopi, casino on Navajo, helicopters and jetboats in Havasupai, etc.) are not an excuse.
12) the Peaks should be recognized and respected as sacred and life-sustaining not just by natives... Anglos drink water, depend on the rains the mountains make, and go there for (spiritual) refreshment too.
13) the current size of the ski area seems more sustainable (through both droughts and el nino years) than a larger version.
14) and if it closes, what's wrong with that? why shouldn't you have to work a little bit (ie. go uphill, too) if you want to slide back down

Sedona

Rooted somewhere in the mind of nearly every American climber is an image of Sedona.

It blossoms from distant rumors of whole climbs falling down, of crystals and pink jeeps, brutal, old-school off-widths, and squeeze chimneys through towers. A place of hours’ long approaches for a handful of pitches. Of agaves through the chest. Resorts and sweatlodges for Californians and UFO tours for 70 bucks a night. Where bags of sand pour from decades’ old climbs. A place where face holds exfoliate in front of your eyes, hand-jams explode, and twenty-foot runouts above half-driven drilled pins can be mandatory.

This is all true, and why most climbers don’t visit and fewer still stay.

This says something salient about the continued sanity and prudence of most American climbers. But for the better part of 50 years, hard climbers and desert rats have been going quietly crazy in Sedona:

Bob Kamps, TM Herbert, and Dave Rearick realizing the Mace in ’57 while Yvon went to Mass. Geoff Parker in the early 70’s, slaying spires and naming them dragons. The Syndicato Granitica and the Banditos, blowing up the 80’s. Baxter, Mish, Rink, Coats and Coats. Hardwick, Davidson, Grossman, and Zaiser, making .11X almost common. Hovering near your own apparition trying to repeat their climbs. Toula, Mattson, and Middendorf laughing quietly as you try to free old aid lines, as you scream “Rock,” to your partner, a block on your chest. The new breed, laughing alongside you.

Because each climb here excites all the fear and euphoria, the feelings of exploration and risk – and the pleasure rising from the able negotiation of that risk – common to climbs in the bigger mountains. It is a place where boldness is necessary and adventure, the rule; where a good partner is still more than someone who climbs hard.

This is a place where the blood rises in strange tempos inside your knee in the offwidth. Where your heart fills your fingertips as the patina breaks and the breath falls from your body. Faster, even, than the sand from the formations, or the wind, which picks up those grains like a paintbrush leaves a canvas.

It is a place that always exceeds the imagination and one’s comprehension. Where you stop, mid-pitch, to consider the shadow beneath the falling block and think, for a moment, that you get it. And then you move again, slowly upward, and again, know nothing. Blue sky, red stone, fear, movement.

Rapping off each time, you spy improbable new lines on remote, slender towers or 600 foot walls. You know it’s ludicrous, but they’re made suddenly imaginable by your recent success and the relenting angle of the sun toward evening. Your partner, on the ground, laughs off the rockfall and the offwidths, relives the splitter fingers to the squeeze chimney to the hand crack, the Cooper’s Hawk that came by on the thermal, the miraculous overhanging jugs, the thrutch through the sugary rock and agaves near the top…. He takes a big swig of water and beats the sand from his hair.

The wind comes up, and you stop moving the rope through your device. Spinning out from the wall, you see a landscape native to your dreams: canyons of unclimbed lines, beautiful spires against the dying blue sky. Miles of red rock. Hectares of choss.

to do

Comanche ridge

parenting/Denali/Becker/Sam

Mt. Maude

Comanche Ridge, Second Ascent, New Variation, Grand Canyon, AZ 3/09

Sunday, I got up early to play with Rowan and then packed for the Canyon after I put him down for a nap at 1230. I then headed to the S. Rim to meet up with my partner for Comanche. After doing a vehicle shuttle, we ate a bunch of corned beef and vegetables, then headed down Tanner Trail at 6:00 pm, to the river. Here, we drank a couple of liters of water each and then curled up for a rest around 10:00 pm. With only a bivy sack and a foam pad, it was a bit chilly down there, even with my legs in my pack.

The alarm went off at 4:00 am and, sitting up, we each drank another liter of water, had some GU, an Odwalla protein bar, and half a banana each. Then we started the approach up Comanche wash, arriving at the base of the technical climbing at 6:30, just as it was getting light enough to climb efficiently. I climbed the first short 5.10 pitch with my pack on, brought my partner up, halved the rope, switched the rack over and he took off. We simul-climbed the subsequent wandering 500'. The pitch finished up a fun, but rotten, 5.8 dihedral. On the next pitch, I gained the ridgeline and after a few gendarmes and downclimbs the rope drag was so unsavory I stopped and belayed beneath the next tower in the Redwall. The Redwall limestone in particular has a fearsome reputation among Canyon climbing aficionados: eight hundred feet tall in places, it is notoriously rotten. When it isn't rotten, it can be bomber, but sharp and void of protection. But the good sections don't last long, anyway.

However the next pitch was novel: the gaping chimney provided a tunnel exit onto the ridge again, and we began to simul-climb the 5.9 terrain which followed, making great time. The sun eventually found us and we stopped to eat and drink and routefind through the last bit of the Redwall before entering the Supai. Wandering left, off the ridge crest, we finished the Redwall, relieved to leave the removable holds behind and enter the soft, short cliff bands that the Supai forms, soloing short steps of 5.9 for a few hundred feet then traversing left on ledges again to the base of the Coconino.

In contrast to the Redwall, we were looking forward to the Coconino layer because it typically provides steep terrain on high quality sandstone. Desirous of some technically engaging climbing we chose an interesting looking line which I led with my pack on at 5.11 A0 in 63 meters. It was necessary for me to pull once on a cam in order to send the final offwidth through a seven foot roof; my pack kept wanting to push me off. It was a little gratifying to me that my partner had me haul his pack.

As my partner began the next pitch, a foothold broke and he fell ten feet with no gear in between us, into an agave. The agave kept him, and us, from dropping into the Supai and probably down through the Redwall. It left him a bit shaken. He finished the pitch with a spine in his and and in a pain-inspired fury.

So I led the remainder of the route, a long pitch (600'+) of simul-climbing through the Kaibab limestone: a kind, mostly dependable layer of rock with copious amounts of face holds and soft cracks, patinaed faces and sometimes ledgy terrain. We finished up a small gully and walked the short distance to the high point of the Desert Palisades wall.

The geographical position of the summit, Comanche Point, is unparalleled in my experience of this part of the world. The Grand Canyon opens up 5000' of air beneath you; you can see into the Little Colorado River gorge, the Kaibab Plateau, the Paria Plateau, the Echo Cliffs, Navajo Mountain, the Hopi Mesas, and, of course, that place I always long for when I am not there: the Sacred Peaks on the southern horizon. Home.

It was 5:45 pm. We had significantly improved on the style of the first ascensionists, completing the route rim to rim in under 24 hours (in contrast to their 3 days), via a more difficult variation (Grade V/VI Comanche Ridge, Agave Variation, 5.11 A0, 1000m), but we were far from finished.

My truck waited at the end of the road five miles distant. A maze of pinyon and juniper trees, darkness and steep drainages lay between us and the vehicle. Dehydrated, we began our hike out. My partner kept stopping to take photos, and, since he had bought and brought the quad, he navigated while daylight rapidly waned. Eventually, darkness fell on us and I realized that my partner was not navigating rationally. Impatiently, he kept changing course, trying to find a shorter, more direct route, growing increasingly agitated, worried, and then he turned his ankle.

Over the years, I have learned many things about feet. You must have patience with them. You must have faith that they will carry you where you point them. It sometimes takes longer than you want it to. But if you are calm, and respect your feet, they will help you go anywhere. They are like two beautiful horses. Some men beat their horses to get them to go faster. The horses strain and spit, race, and finally stumble in their fear and flying lather. But horses hardly ever fall when you whisper to them; they'll take you gracefully where you're going.

This is what I tell myself as I take the map from my partner and we hike to the road which circumnavigates Cedar Mountain, to the east of our topout. My partner graciously shares the last of his water with me, then we walk the road back to the truck, and I listen to the coyotes' yelping calls and my partner's ranting, waiting for the moon to rise.

At the truck we open water and whiskey, then I drive us back to the S. Rim, where I sleep a few hours before driving back to Flag in time to greet Rowan as he woke, allowing Celia to sleep in, as she had to work that coming evening.

I suppose we walked between 10 and 12 miles on our way out Monday night. Oh well.

Volunteer Spire