per aspera ad astra.

Less ambiguous but still ambiguous. Still working the idea out in my head but some of it laid out now in Logic oddly enough a very heavy sound whereas when I first heard it in my head it was just piano and then slowly grew to have orchestrated synths but maybe this is just another version or a different version overdriven arpeggiated guitars and all and who knows what will become of it. Or maybe start with a quiet piano low in the tenor section as always rising rising rising to an enormous crescendo to what I have recorded an orchestra and a band playing furiously a voice rising higher and higher above it all to come to a crashing ending where the song is all in C♯-minor but right at the enormous end a three-note progression then ... the B major sustained held out (with perhaps an intermittent G♯-sharp minor) until a triple-forte crash of the big C♯-minor chord and a decay of them all. I will have to cull through books and such to find lyrics for what is going through my head but will get there. Will get there. Just a piece for now ~

we have held the sword of Damocles

known the fortune it perceives and now must finally repreve

we cannot translate we must proceed ad astra

we must proceed ad astra

ad astra

blisters and such and the art of needing to be uncomfortable.

17 august 2009. There was a week back end of July that it was hot. As in hot. Not humid cos this is the Northwest but it hit a hundred and seven apparently in town while the house hit ninety-one. Seemed everyone rushed out to scramble for every last window a/c unit at the local Home Depots and such. It lasted a week then it was back to more normal temps.

But it made me think I guess.

So did our vacation to California the week before where it was really hot. Yes, hot. Sacramento and Bishop. Even Yosemite Valley. Oliver of course does not have a/c cos well this is the Northwest. Our a/c was a spray bottle that we would aim at each other for some respite. Windows down didn't help much. It was still hot. But we survived of course. And I thought maybe it would wind up Julian telling his kids years from now how he would take these road trips with his dad down to California for summer vacations and bake in the car with no a/c but that was just part of the experience cos we would see such fantastic things and have such amazing adventures. Just part of the fun in a way the suffering. Besides it being nostalgic we won't remember how uncomfortable it was. We made it twenty-five hundred miles and have some incredible memories.

And that made me think I guess.

But so did a weekend spent in the North Cascades a couple weeks ago. We were headed for Hidden Lake, a destination of mine for a couple of years ever since seeing a photo of it on Flickr. Up the trail steep of course cos it was the North Cascades in which there are no gentle-graded trails. Under the sun it was hot and the biting flies were atrocious. Just don't stop to put on sunscreen or drink some water. Bushwacking despite the fact there was a hint of a trail. Just a hint, mind you. Did I mention it was steep? No worries of course I was home. And before we knew it we're above it all on granite making our way to the saddle between the Hidden Lake Peaks the lookout peeking out from the summit off to our right.

And then there were blisters from shoes too small. Blisters but no complaining. And they were big and I felt bad. Granted I was fine that time but it would be me the following week socks worn too thin time to be retired up to Cascade Pass then Sahale Glacier and over to a ridge dropping off to glaciers on three sides. And even then no complaining. Want to go climb up Mixup Arm? Sure, we're in the mountains and I don't want to leave. Not yet anyway and there's no hurry.

But the second day of that Hidden Lake weekend a go then the day after on North Twin Sister not helping her blisters any. Hobbling on the way back I guess I wasn't supposed to notice. Thirsty. As in really thirsty since there is no water on the route after maybe the second mile. And we biked another eight miles or so before hiking about three and turning around. Running out of time. Someone running out of energy. Not us. No complaining.

So what?

So what about blisters and being thirsty and swatting at bugs? ... okay, the bugs are annoying. But get high enough and they're not a problem. I've never had to swat a bug on a glacier. Julian once said to me 'Dad there are indoor people and there are outdoor people.' Good thing I thought not everyone is an outdoor person or it would be impossible to get a permit for Boston Basin in August or the Enchantments in October. It's already hard enough. But for us outdoor people I guess what's the point? It takes a lot of energy to get up into the mountains. There are no lavish accommodations. It's exciting to find a flat spot with some rocks piled up to block the prevailing wind underneath (or right on top of) a summit of some peak or other in which to toss down your nylon bivy sack and half-inch thick foam pad. We're not forced to do it of course. It would have been so much easier not driving three hours along interstates and highways and gravel roads and hiking for miles and miles straight up sometimes whipped over by wind pelted by rain basking under intense suns. So why then?

I think it's like anything. We humans have a way of not remembering the negative. Be it a bad relationship or a bad vacation. We weed out the bad stuff and just remember the good. There's always something good. Or so I think. Walking down after nearly reaching the base of the west ridge on North Twin hot and thirsty and dying for some real food (and it had only been two days–it'll be something to do the John Muir Trail with Julian after he graduates and we're out for twenty-one days along that dusty trail) I remember thinking about blisters and such and the need to be uncomfortable. Because these days we're all too comfortable too much of the time it seems. Not that I'm complaining necessarily mind you. I enjoy an espresso in the morning on the way to work. My couch. My bed. My covered porch. Etc. But I digress. Hopefully you get the point and I'm not being too preachy.

So ask a climber why he climbs. Betcha one of the most-cited reasons would be to get away from it all. To get back to basics so to speak. To be hot. To be thirsty. To be in pain at least a little from something maybe a sore back maybe a scraped knee hopefully nothing much worse but just generally not the same as in sitting on a couch back home. It's all about the elemental. We won't remember the pain anyway. When Matthew and I climbed Stuart–a climb we naîvely thought we'd do car-to-car in a day but which ended up being probably our biggest epic except for possibly the blizzard on Eldorado–I swore after two days of up and down more than I had ever done or probably could have imagined exposure out of this world exhausting but elation at sleeping out under the stars slightly cold and uncomfortable but on Stuart's summit the Milky Way arching over us then the next day getting lost dehydrated trying to find the trail back up to Longs Pass for hours going crazy me thinking damn I would never climb Stuart again.

Heh. Of course I would. Didn't take more than a week and I wished I was back there standing on a ledge with about six thousand feet of air beneath me watching the sun set shouting to Matthew to yell when he reached the summit one pitch above us cos it was well getting dark and I was well standing on a ledge six thousand feet above real solid ground. We're going to climb it again in a couple of weeks. Hell we're going to traverse the whole range or at least as far as Dragontail or Little Annapurna.

But still ... why? After all this rambling on and on maybe I don't even know how to explain. Maybe I can explain better with a snapshot (ah, the venerable snapshot–candid and personal–love 'em for what they're worth) totally relaxed in the moment.



You can't get this view from a car. Definitely not from anywhere with a/c. But that's really not the point I don't think. I think the point is more along the lines of that's the whole point. That you can't get it without working for it. It wouldn't be the same if it were any other way. Blisters and all. Cos you won't remember the blisters.

You'll just remember the view.

You'll remember waking up out of a seemingly-dead sleep something like four in the morning to a perfectly clear sky streams of the Milky Way overhead like some fantastic dream ten thousand stars above cold air against your face not even a tent for protection but perfectly calm and silent surrounded by mountains silhouetted in the dark just able to be made out horizons closed in the walls of mountains or open to infinity high above. Oh yes, you'll remember the silence. The quiet. You'll remember watching clouds spill over ridges onto glaciers without making a sound. Who you spent it with. A good friend. Good times. You'll remember that moment in the snapshot of being in that place somewhere between reality and a dream. And it will last. Much, much longer than any blister or bug bite or frustration of sore limbs or bleeding cuts.

So I can't really say why I climb or why I am so in love with mountains in any meaningful way. But I look at photos that I took. Of snapshots from summits and along ridges and across glaciers and that helps. Cos it brings back all the memories. Just not of hobbling down thirty-six switchbacks aching to be back to the car to eat real food to sleep in a real bed to crash on a couch windows open or a heater and a blanket sore feet maybe a good espresso definitely a shower only to turn around and die to do it all over again.

Blisters and all.

the way it used to be.

OK, another music post but this is the new song on repeat + repeat + repeat. Smooth. Pet Shop Boys do melancholy best.

love etc.

OK, so something a little less heavy might be called for after the past week–provided by Kathy (thank you). Love this song–but this coming from a guy with over fifty PSB CDs, singles etc. and at least a dozen pieces of vinyl. Love the line ~

Don't have to live a life of power and wealth

Don't have to be beautiful but it helps

Beautiful but it helps

Beautiful but it helps

pale horses.

Moby. Pale Horses. Wait For Me. 2009.

This is the official video which I'm not super fond of, but the song is beautiful. Imagine driving down small highways through the Sierra foothills a warm summer evening long shadows and oak trees this song on repeat windows open.

cheers

in memoriam.

To Craig Luebben on behalf of all of us who find strength and solace and comfort and fear and peace among mountains.

i am haunted by mountains.

11 august 2009. So I am sitting here on my couch next to windows looking out to grey skies trying to sum up a climb into the North Cascades that a few hours ago would have seemed easy and I was wholly intending to get to but now has taken on a whole different meaning. I am listening to some song by Bruce Springsteen called The Nothing Man on repeat not sure why. Not sure why. We were trying for the north face of Mount Buckner in the Cascade Pass region of North Cascades National Park. Second only to the Enchantments a little south and east. Or equal, just different. The Enchantments, particularly when I visit them in early Autumn when the larches have turned golden and despite even weather that can turn inhospitable in an instant (as I experienced on my first trip) seems still warm and inviting compared to maybe this heavily-glaciated and impressive and at times imposing place such as we found this trip.

We quickly made it up the thirty-six switchbacks to Cascade Pass in an hour-fifteen under cloudy skies and on top of that from there and above we fought against a wind that would continue to knock me over. Visibility was maybe fifty feet at best but we were promised sun just below the high camp at seventy-six hundred feet. We made it up the four thousand feet and nearly seven miles from the car in three hours to the promised sun and beautiful skies all the while clouds clung to the myriad of valleys below us. The Stehekin. The north and middle forks of the Cascade River. Johannesburg peaked out above then swallowed whole. A quick stop and then continued up the glacier on our way to our intended camp on the Sahale-Boston Col. It was easy-going but I knew I was getting blisters. Whatever. Half an hour later we dumped our packs at the edge of the ridge that dropped off to the Davenport glacier with an impressive view to Ripsaw Ridge and Buckner and headed up to tag the summit of Sahale while checking out the route to the Col and beyond around and past Boston. The clouds threatened to engulf Sahale. Our view was limited to a few peaks thrusting out to the west but mostly of clouds below rising quickly and the light fading so we did not linger on the summit before heading back down to our packs having easily decided not to make a go over the ridge to the Col or the Boston Glacier that evening as clouds raked over Ripsaw Ridge and poured themselves onto the Davenport. There were perfect bivy spots carved into the ridge under the summit so that is where we set up our small camp to await the morning though it was already clear in the obscured and vanishing views we had gotten of Buckner that there was very little snow on the north face and we were already fairly convinced a snow-and-ice face climb was not going to happen this year. Weeks of unseasonably hot weather coupled with record non-existent summer precipitation had left the mountains mostly bare. The wind picked up and a chill came across us as the sun set me staring out across a sea of clouds set to a fading pale light as I zipped myself into my bivy, happy that I chose to at least carry my forty-degree down bag as opposed to the other option I had considered in the name of weight of just a bag liner.

It was a perfectly clear night and then the moon rose washing out our chance for stars and meteors and the Milky Way and I fell asleep as the wind died down and a peace only found high above ridges and clouds and trees and perceived safety among mountains piled on top of mountains on top of mountains settled in.

I woke early with the light even before the sun a pale glow washing over Horseshoe Basin far below, the Sahale Glacier and west to the Hidden Lake peaks where I was exactly a week before. Eventually the sun rose. Six-thirty came and went I had no idea. We had stayed above the clouds at over eight thousand feet. Slowly we rose, easing out of our warm bags to greet the sun and sit on rocks slowly warming shielding our eyes to peer east towards Buckner and a south face that seemed just as steep as the north face and then out and across Horseshoe Basin to try and pick out how we would get back to Sahale Arm in the event we would attempt our climb. Which we more or less knew we were not doing this time but for maybe next year. Earlier.

Matthew headed down to the glacier camp. I took my time. Strapped on crampons. Hell, I had dragged them all this way. Gained Sahale's west ridge to peer down to the Quien Sabe and over to Torment, Forbidden and Eldorado above the clouds. I could see into Boston Basin. Still had no idea. It seemed so peaceful me standing in the sun peering over a ridge to mountains and glaciers some that I have climbed some that I wish to climb. I took a few photos, then joined Matthew below at the high camp where we stayed awhile watching the clouds pour over Cascade Pass a couple thousand feet below. Maybe an hour. Maybe more we sat up there chatting. We talked about being in the mountains. We tossed out climbing up Mixup Arm to Cache Col just for fun to peer over into the middle fork of the Cascade River valley and peaks like Formidable and Spider and Dome and Snowking. More and more glaciers. Everywhere.

I taped my heels and eventually we headed down onto Sahale Arm the views impressive over to Torment and Forbidden mostly lost in the clouds. Eldorado completely hidden. Then quietly at first but able to pick out the speck set against rock and ice a helicopter circling over the Taboo Glacier below Torment. Not good we said watching it circle. It must have landed and we continued on down the Arm stopping every so often to look back and not long after first spotting it we saw it again coming towards us but still below up and over Cascade Pass. I was taking photographs cos the mood the clouds were giving where we were was incredible. And then we were immersed in them all the way back to Cascade Pass where the sun broke out as we dumped our packs and headed up Mixup Arm for a quick peek to Cache Col.

It is a steep and crazy trail up Mixup and in thirty minutes we wound up on the glacier leading up to the Col. Matthew took off as the wind whipped up and we were surrounded on three sides by imposing rock walls and clouds spilling over the ridge to the west onto the glacier above. With nothing but an ice ax and not even my trusty three-ounce windbreaker I opted to head back to a bivy spot seemingly carved out directly under Mixup to wait for Matthew to do the same.

We sat there in the sun awhile just enjoying the moment in the mountains. No reason to hurry, at least not yet. But eventually it was time to go. Head back to the Pass. Head back down the thirty-six switchbacks. Head back west for some food. Head back home. Warm sunny skies. Evening light and long shadows. A beer over pizza and a burger and conversations. Slightly sunburned. Tired. Fucking tired but in a good way. Sore feet for sure. Some photographs. Of course memories of another trip to the mountains. And eventually I made my way home to crash in my bed. To write this. To still be here.

Two days later. In passing as he was leaving–a coworker to me 'did you hear about the climber who died in the Cascades this past weekend?' Shit, no. 'Where?' I said, knowing where cos we were there and knew something had gone wrong. We just knew it. My heart sank. I read Mt. Torment. I read twenty-five years of experience. I read a wife and a five-year-old daughter. I read falling into the bergschrund. I knew getting over the bergschrund on Buckner's north face–the crack between the steep ice above and the expanse of the Boston Glacier–was at times the most difficult part of the climb and something could have happened. I showed him a picture I took where we had seen the helicopter Torment and Forbidden obscured by now-seemingly menacing clouds the glacier and ice and rock forbidding and downright terrifying. We were warming ourselves on a rock a couple of thousand feet higher but only a mile or so away while a guy fell into a crack in ice ten thousand years old. Pulled out by his climbing partner. SAR called but too late. Too fucking late. He died before they could take him away.

Could have been me. Could have been Matthew. I could have been scrambling back up rocks to go for help. Under the north face of Buckner. Along Ripsaw Ridge. The glacier would not have cared. Nor would the mountain. My son probably would. Maybe a few others I don't know. All of a sudden the photograph I snapped of Torment and Forbidden there obscured by clouds. The one of Matthew contemplating something while clouds ravaged below and imposing and dark rock outlined the horizon. They both fit. Fit perfectly for maybe how I felt about the mountains and the time we spent in them at least that day. These mountains–the North Cascades–are supposed to be benign because they are my backyard and where I consider myself home when I find myself surrounded by them. They are not supposed to act this way. But of course they do. I know this fully and appreciate it as best I can. Doesn't help sometimes I guess.

I love the mountains. I could not live without them. I will return of course. I will be careful of course. I will use my intuition and ten years of experience to guide me hopefully safely through and back home again. My thoughts go out to that climber's family. My thoughts are messed up at the moment. It's still cloudy. Thankfully. It fits. Going to make something to eat. Going to lay down. Listen to music. Going to think.

I am haunted by mountains.