Category Archives: Climbing

Cerro El Plomo

El Plomo
Up until six weeks ago I had never killed an Ostrich and I had never been skiing above 14,000’.Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, only one of these goals came to fruition during this expedition to South America. Apparently the former, despite the rumors we heard from other gringos, is not exactly a tourist attraction. In fact, going on an ostrich hunting safari is pretty sketchy/illegal/weird, even by South American standards. The latter, however, is fairly achievable for those with the ambition, time, or energy, but preferably all three.

With this in mind, Drew Tabke and I set out to ski 17,795’ Cerro El Plomo, the massive glaciated peak east of La Parva Ski Area. Plomo is typically climbed during the summer months over 2-4 days, including the approach. While Drew and I had no shortage of energy and blind ambition, time, however, was one thing we were lacking. We made the call for a one day push, hoping that by saving weight we’d be able to travel a little quicker. We announced our plans to the director of ski patrol and, while he thought that we were crazy and would either fail or die, he happily agreed to let us stay at the refugio at the top of La Parva.

Andes Sunrise
Equipped with eight sandwiches, four Red Bulls, two snickers, and a chocolate bar for the next 24 hours, we started hitch hiking from the small town of Farellones early in the afternoon. As we were waiting for a ride I suggested to Drew that if we hitch hiked up and then bummed a cat ride to the refugio, we should be able to consider the climb from our current elevation, which was around 7,000’. He informed me that, “Although we may be ‘keeping it real,’ that’s not really what mountaineers consider ‘pure.’” I had to agree. By 6:00pm we’d made it to therefugio. After a quick meal of PB&Js and a jam session to some Chilean hits that were being transmitted by an old radio left in the shelter, we went to bed, ready for a 2:30am start.
Pre-Dawn Plomo
The lights of Santiago shined brightly as we left the safety of the refugio and headed into the crisp winter night. Over the next several hours we worked our way around the peaks of Falsa Parva and Cerro Parva, guided by moonlight. By the time the alpenglow was hitting the highest peaks in the Andes we were positioned atop a cliff band that would give us access to the valley that leads to Plomo. After a quick stop for breakfast we found a line through the cliffs that lead to the valley 2,000’ below. This “good morning” line was by no means straightforward: a chute that funneled into a 20’ section that was tip-to-tail wide, followed by a must make left turn over exposure. I slid in, had a very questionable hip check, and then skied out to the left. Drew cleaned the line no problem and we both skied down to the valley.
The Approach
Once in the valley, the route up Plomo is fairly straightforward: a gradual skin to the base of the massive 3,000’ face, a long boot-pack up the face, and then another gradual skin 1,000’ up to the summit. We made quick work of the skin, and, as the mid day sun began to shine overhead, we threw on our crampons and began the long trek up the face. While I wish I could say Drew and I tag teamed the face, taking turns leading up the monster, truth be told Drew single handedly put in one of the more impressive boot packs I’ve seen. He charged the upper two-thirds of the pitch without a break- that’s 2,000’ at high elevation, with 5,000’ of climbing already in the bag that day. But then again the kid claims Mt. Rainier as his home resort.
Drew’s Super Gnar Bootpack
With the face behind us, sitting at roughly 17,000’, we began the final push to the summit as the effects of altitude and exhaustion really began to set in. It became a game of taking steps until our hearts and lungs redlined, resting, regrouping, and then doing it again. Finally, just after 3pm, we took the final rocky steps to the summit. Our scene at the summit was anything but celebratory. It mostly consisted of snapping a few photos, mumbling half-coherent sentences at one another, and then getting to lower elevation as quickly as we could.
View From the Summit Ridge
We retreated to the top of the face, at which point we were able to get ourselves together a little more. I’ve always climbed with strictly the descent in mind- never sacrificing performance in my equipment for weight and comfort. The extra effort has always paid off on the way down, except, as I found out, when I’m too exhausted to do anything but survival ski. While the 8,000’+ descent back to Valle Nevado could be all time, it was all we could do to survive it. To make matters worse, due to some miscalculations with directions and time on our part, we had a 1,500’ climb up to Valley Nevado.

Putting the skins back on; i love this pic
By the time we made it to the parking lot the sun had set, and we were fairly delirious after a 10,000’ day of climbing. We lacked the energy for an enthusiastic return to Farellones and were greeted with shock as we told people of our success. Drew would later note that every conversation with the locals would go the same, “ First they’re surprised we’re alive, then they assume we failed, next they accuse us of lying and demand to see pictures.” Although I woke up in the middle of the night to puke violently and I swear that I wasn’t normal for several days after, I’d like to think the effort was worth it if only for the look on the locals’ faces when the two gringos came back alive and successful.

The Line

We skied Horstman Peak, via the Sickle Couloir a couple weeks ago and I got my first real good look at “The Shield,” the face of Horstman Peak. It’s gnarly, to say the least. It’s been skied once, with a rappel. I think, under the right conditioins, you could ski it without the rappel. I’d guess its about a 60-80 foot mandatory at the bottom. While that’s big, it’s steep, and the Sawtooths get a lot of snow. If you pulled it off, i’d venture to say that it’d be one of the burlier, if not the burliest lines skied in the ‘tooths. Have a look for yourself:

Chalkstone Shredding

With spring temperatures and fresh snow into June and for those willing to slog a little further, summer is merely an option in the Sawtooths. While most of the Custer County population was content drinking PBRs on the lake, we had our eyes set on the remaining snow in the Chockstone Couloir at the northwest end of Redfish Lake.

The Chockstone Couloir, or the Boy Scout Couloir as it is known locally, prominently divides the Grand Mogul, which overshadows Redfish Lake and serves as the backdrop for countless family photos throughout the summer. Besides the roughly 1,000 vertical feet and 40-50-degree pitch of the couloir, it is distinguished by a large piece of granite lodged in the middle of the route. This chockstone is the crux of the route on the way up, offering a 5.5 pitch of rock and ice depending on the time of year. On the way down, it’s either a sizable, must-land mandatory, or a section of rapelling depending on how ambitious one’s feeling. Either way, the route offers a challenging snow climb and rewarding ski descent well into summer.
Up at first light, we began the approach as our campmates-other skiers from the Sun Valley area-were considering calling it a night. The hour and a half bushwhack and scramble across scree fields to get to the snow and loaded down with ski and climbing gear, served as an appropriate warm up for the climb. Gearing up at the bottom of the snowfield, a big-block engine size piece of rock released from the top of the couloir and cartwheeled to our position at the bottom sending us running. The incident provided the necessary motivation to gain the protection of the chockstone as quickly as we could. As the lower half of the climb is particularly walled-in, one can’t help but feel somewhat vulnerable. From the chockstone, Bryce led and set several pieces of protection through the zone of loose rock, rotten snow, and generally untrustworthy conditions. Feeling exposed while climbing the crux, we both scrambled through as quickly as we could to the general safety of the snow above. With a somewhat faded sense of urgency after the crux, we completed the roughly five pitches to the top at a more leisurely pace, summiting just as the snow was beginning to turn.

The sense of accomplishment that could be expected was somewhat absent at the summit. Instead it was replaced by an unspoken anxiety about dropping into a no-fall zone for our first turns in several months, hoping the gnar switch still worked. Luckily it did, and the steep turns at the top of the couloir lent themselves to April skiing rather than July skiing. While there was big talk-mostly by me-at the campfire the previous evening about sending the mandatory chockstone section, on the way up we deemed that it would be reckless, stupid, and virtually impossible to stick Confident with my rapelling abilities, I chose not to put my crampons back on. I can now attest to the fact that in ski boots, on smooth, wet granite, one has little control over the direction that he or she rappels, and is mostly at the mercy of gravity. After I had clumsily reached the bottom of the pitch and Bryce rapelled, we continued down the lower, more sun-baked, section of the route. Skiing as far as we could on what was quickly becoming less and less skiable snow, we reluctantly swapped our gear when we realized we’d exhausted the snow. Within two hours of reaching the summit we were back at our camp to greet our awakening campmates. While sitting on the lake and drinking PBRs may have not sounded too good to them at that particular hour, it sure sounded great to us.


Last Turn

The top is a good place, be it ideological or physical. In our case, as we sat on top of the chute that ran across Cobb Peak’s north face, it was particularly good, for several reasons. First off, we are skiers and as such are permitted to celebrate the achievement of a goal, regardless of it only being halfway accomplished. Like a hockey team celebrating in the second intermission or a baseball team celebrating during the seventh inning stretch, we sat there grinning, snacking, and congratulating one another on a job well done. To us however, this was more of a celebration of the entire season. After a couple of tough weeks in the freeskier world, it was safe to say that we were both simply happy to be there, about to embrace some of the last turns of the season. I’m a firm believer that it’s crucial to have that one last good day toward the end of the year, as this ultimately dictates the enthusiasm someone brings to the next season.

Reflecting on our approach that took an impressively inefficient five hours, we gazed around and took in winter one last time. Snow was absent from many of the surrounding hills, with entire drainages looking brown- abandoned by winter but not yet embraced by spring. As a skier I hate moments like this. I can’t help but feel a combination of loss and nostalgia. Turning my attention back to the chute, these feelings were replaced by excitement and anxiety as I began to examine what we were about to ski, and thought about how much I love moments like this. At 11,650’ Cobb sits at the South end of the Pioneer Mountains and, because of its southern location, is one of the most prominent peaks in the range. The North face is largely unskiable except for a steep, narrow chute that runs slightly east to west. While the snow was by no means exceptional, it would serve as a means to an end. It provided an unforgettable last day- making the inevitable arrival of summer a little easier to handle.
The descent quickly became more intense than we had planned for. The geography of the chute and the chalky snow made sluff management a serious issue. However, the safe zones that we had inspected on the way up were well-spaced and provided easy relief. We straight-lined a bit out the bottom into the massive basin and began the trek back to the trailhead. Dropping nearly 4,000’ on the way back to trailhead, the signs of summer were ubiquitous. Although still somewhat filled with a sense of loss, it is difficult to be disappointed with the approach of summer after a day like that. Every skier needs such an adventure toward the end of the season, if for no other reason then to ensure that the proverbial stoke fire stays lit through the summer

Skiing the Smoky’s

After a month and a half of intense competition, empty miles on the road, and countless Coronas it was time to, well, ski some more. As the hangover from Crested Butte ebbed, we loaded up the sleds and headed north, home to Idaho to tap into zones in the Sawtooth National Forrest that had been beckoning for years. Although conditions were by no means ideal, we were willing to sacrifice powder for snow stability and the accessibility that the hardpacked conditions granted. Fittingly, and in the spirit of competition, we were once again faced with making the best of the conditions in the time that was allotted.

After several days of scouting we had a zone lined up that would deliver the goods- long, steep, and exposed lines that had a rather simple shuttle up the back side. With a bluebird forecast for the next day we avoided the highly anticipated Sun Valley Suns- Jackson Hole Moose hockey game and prepared to catch the sunrise. We pulled out at 5:30am, stoked and geared up, when we heard the sound that will spoil any day- the “thump, thump, thump, thump” of a flat tire on the trailer. After cursing and undoubtedly waking up several neighbors, we were attacking the situation with ruthless efficiency that would make pit crews jealous. After all, the sunrise doesn’t wait. Staging as fast as we could, we began racing out to the zone as the pink alpenglow was brilliantly lighting up the peaks we were supposed to already be on top of- we were officially blowing it.


We arrived at the zone and quickly went to work organizing shuttles and taking advantage of the light that, although fleeting, was still amazing. Over the next several hours we skied all the lines the zone had to offer and left content, at least for the day. We’d try several other times before we had to leave, getting skunked each time by snow, light, or whatever else could go wrong. Much like competing, conditions were not necessarily ideal and nothing went as planned, however, after years of competing we’d likely be lost if anything did go as we’d imagined.