Mt Stuart — Complete North Ridge with Le Great Gendarme
15 July 2020
Beginnings.
One can scarcely tell a good story without starting at the beginning. It may be possible to start later on – at some critical or tumultuous juncture – then leap back to the beginning for rhetorical effect, the way those cliché TV shows do. But always, the beginning is the point from which everything follows, where things are set in motion, and it is there we must start. So, where is it?!
Mo and I were on the road to Tahquitz Rock, that melting pot for all true SoCal climbers and where you can witness just about anything on any given Sunday. We were on a simple mission to climb as many pitches as we could regardless of difficulty. This is called a “Nick climbing day” after our common mentor on the rock. At Tahquitz, Nick is a local’s local. He is often seen soloing all the routes in blown out Evolv approach shoes, perhaps giving some prescient advice to nearby Elvis-legged gumbies on their first outdoor trad lead. He had taken me up Open Book, Camino Real, and Whodunit in one mind-blowing nonstop push until my hands started cramping and I had to use one hand to peel open the fingers of the other just to finish the last few pitches of the day.
From inauspicious beginnings. Mo led up the first pitch of Open Book to kick things off and handled that weird bit before you wrangle the flake with poise and grace. Then it was my turn to lead the book. In the parking lot that morning, I came to a poop-inducing realization:
“You have a #4 right? That book goes a long way, think it’s nice to have two.”
“Nah I left ‘em at home dude. Which is funny because I have like four #4s for no real reason. You want me to lead it?”
“Oh jeez. Uhhhhhh…no no, I want to try it still. I remember following Nick up it last summer and it felt pretty cruiser. Just go fast and lieback the whole way. Should be a cakewalk.”
And so it was on that fine summer morning, as the sun rose round the corner and lighted up the whole valley, that I found myself pumped out of my gourd and quite runout above my last non-bumpy bump piece, a #3 way down there. My rule for bumping the lone #4 was to only move it while my left foot was jammed in the crack – a tenuous measure of security, but one that kept darker thoughts at bay. I could see the top of the book was steeper, just a move or two without good feet to reach the security of the alcove. I left the #4 in a nice placement, so solid. Even though my arms were fully jello’d, it felt like I could suck it up and get it.
Then, without any warning I was off. I usually chit chat a bit with my belayers, and a few of my partners have noticed I go silent when “things start to get real.” I think I was pretty silent before attempting these moves. Dang those slippery feet! The book was oozing with the weight of history slickening the last moves tremendously! It was a real honest fall, a good distance. No “take”-ing allowed!!
Breathe in, breathe out, in again, hold it…and out…slowly…release…A wave of psyche rushed over me. The fall had broken the apprehension of questing off on a big day.
“You OK man?”
“Yeah, I think so. Let me catch my breath for a bit. The rock is so slippery up there!”
All this of course was punishment from the mountain gods (i.e. Royal Robbins from on high) for liebacking a perfect jam crack. I got it next go. Mo faced towards the crack and reached his right hand in for some very solid looking jams. I felt like quite a goober watching from the belay, but hey, at least I got a good ride for my troubles!
The rest of the day fell into place beautifully. We used the Open Book raps in the morning, then switched over to the Friction Descent when things got breezier in the afternoon. The Open Book, Coffin Nail to Jensen’s Jaunt, Angel’s Fright, Fingertrip, and the first pitch of Dave’s went down that day. We noted our feet were the limiting factor in being able to continue on – our dogs were barking. I found myself scumming some “alpine knee” rests on Dave’s finger crack, the last pitch we did and one that places great emphasis on the toe jams. The value of dialing your systems, and learning the nature of such logistical cruxes, on purpose-oriented training days like this cannot be overstated.
We were ready for the big stuff. Now all that was needed was a good long mountain climb. We found it in the north where the glaciers lie!
Everything coalesced around my family reunion in Portland. My parents wanted to see some family who they hadn’t seen in many years, and who might not be with us a whole lot longer – despite the illusion of immortality with which most of us (myself included) wander through life – we’re all going to die. You have to make the most of your time. The whole trip was very Quality. We didn’t go out much (virus stuff) and this led to more close conversations among the family members, over dinner cooked at home, epic battles of Catan, and beachside bonfires. Not to mention the tide pools by the beach, where life begins and where it goes on long after we’re gone.
All that is needed to ignite a good partner’s stoke is a touch of coincidence. When Mo caught wind I’d be in the north for this reunion, he suggested I pick him up at the airport after dropping my parents for their flight home. Ahh … yeah I like it … we’ll be Cascade climbin in no time!
Like any good out-of-town carpetbaggers, we settled pretty quickly on the most classic popular route we could find. THE COMPLETE DIRECT NORTH RIDGE OF MT STUART WITH LE GREAT GENDARMEEE! When given the choice, I always go for north-facing climbs. It just sounds so much cooler when you spray about it to literally anyone who will listen. Wow, they say, sounds pretty chilly!
To warm up, we headed to Index. My friend Cam had noted in passing that Index has the best rock he’s ever climbed. As a devoted Cali climber, I was skeptical but naturally was excited to see for myself. Cam was right. Medium-grain granite is best grain granite. Joshua Tree is very special to me but from a purely objective standpoint: the monzonite is too coarse. It rubs your skin right off. Yosemite Valley is the classical choice, but good luck trying to smear anything. The rock is glass! Index fell right between the two extremes – an undeniable Goldilocks situation. Despite it being pretty packed on a weekday (get a job ya dirtbags!) we were able to get on a pair of 5-fine classics including Princely Ambitions and Godzilla. They were really fun, the former serving up a series of airy edgy face cruxes and the latter a cornucopia of crack options culminating in a big reach over a bulge.
Then we tried to do Tatoosh. Just one more pitch for the day, then off to Leavenworth! Mo, bless his eager heart, struggled a bit on this one. The start offered a blind gear placement followed by a nice bolt – out of reach and without much of a clipping stance. After slotting a cam, Mo tried to step back down and rotated right off. Thankfully the placement was bomber. I kept him on a tight belay given the numerous ledges en route. The pitch consisted of about 17 disparate yet splitter finger cracks, each sandwiched by a big flat ledge and culminating in a pumpy run for the chains – themselves quite the difficult clip. Mo torqued his shoulder bad while going for the clip. OUCH! Suddenly a touch of uncertainty was tossed into our plans to do the big climb tomorrow. Such uncertainties were exacerbated when it took me between one to two hours to clean the pitch. I did the climbing OK, falling once at the beginning and end, but I had one hell of a time trying to clean the cams.
As a lover of Metolius, I am well familiar with my partners’ quizzical looks upon fondling my rack.
“What is this, a #0.75? #0.5?”
“No, it’s between those. Just forget about BD, Metolius are single axles, it’s not the same. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“What are these color dots?”
“You try to place it so the green is touching the rock. But you don’t want to put it fully green. If you put it fully green, it’ll get stuck for sure. Sometimes between the green and yellow is the safest.”
“Dude…..you need to get more C4s.”
“I don’t want to be like everybody else!! My mentor uses Metolius so that’s what I like!”
Long story short, many minutes were spent wriggling the green Metolius cam (it’s a thin hands cam) out of a tight placement. After much battling, I finally got the lobes moving, but my core was exhausted from hanging on the rope forever. It felt like I was big wall climbing at the crag. I hadn’t hung on the rope on an overhanging section this much since the Kor Roof!!
Mo offered to go up and battle the placement. After a while, he got it! Then, the nut he was clipped into for a directional got stuck. “This pitch is cursed!” I lamented. Regardless, the cam was in hand. We really needed this piece since I only had one #2 C4 cam. Hobo Greg noted (and I am inclined to agree) that we all have two #2 cams ready at any time. The cams are our hands. The rock the place where we put them. Totally connected. This was the actual reason I’ve neglected for so long to buy another #2 cam.
So we got the cam, but at a price. It was pretty late in the day. The next party to arrive at the base seemed a might shocked at our disheveled ambiance. Before we leave Index, I should say – the locals were so friendly! We had some nice conversation (yes it was about the granite grain size) with a couple who were climbing a few routes near us. Someone else offered me their guidebook. Sure, some yahoo was rappelling dead sideways above Tatoosh without a no-hands backup, and seemed near to rappelling off the ends before we yelled exasperatedly at him – but one can’t have an honest to goodness crag day without an ounce of shenanigans. Not much climbing would get done if every last thing ya did was to the “AMGA” standard.
By the time we got to Leavenworth and realized it was an extra hour to hour and a half of driving to reach the Lake Ingalls Trailhead on the south side of the mountain, no obstacle could stifle our mood. No sore shoulder, stuck cams, or fretful lack of sleep could derail the stoke. Things had been set in motion which could not now be stopped.
You’re probably about ready to knock me over the head. Just get to the climb already! Too bad. I’m building it up for dramatic effect. Trust me, this is leading somewhere, I think…
After I dropped my parents off at SeaTac, and before Mo arrived, I spent a day in Seattle indulging my consumer instincts. “This is a big climb,” I thought. “Best to have the right equipment for the job.” While my well-loved rigid shank, steel crampons had served me so well on Sierra couloir climbs of days gone by, they were known to fall off any type of approach footwear with alarming frequency – and compounding this concern, were worn down to nubs from too much scrabbling on the rocks. Then there was the rope situation. I was currently looking at humping a 10.1 mm x 70-meter rope to the mountain. “Let’s see, how much gain tomorrow? 9,000 feet. Not bad… WAIT… 9,000 feet, jeezus! Gotta be a typo.”
First I went to REI and got a 24 L pack. It had loops for the ice axe, and side straps so I could drape the rope over the pack and secure it to the sides. It also had wide hip belts to work with my manly curves.
Then I walked across the street to Feathered Friends, and bought one Petzl Gully axe and a 9.0 mm x 50‑meter rope on the advice of the shop workers. They noted the tougher pitches were short and it would be insanity to lug a 70-meter rope up there. I didn’t really need the axe but last summer I had borrowed Cam’s Gullys for the Thunderbolt to Sill traverse and got spoiled rotten from the sheer lightness of the things. Finally, to spread the capitalist love as far as I could, with a distinct limitation imparted by the state of my grad-student-researcher-resupplied bank account, I went to Ascent Outdoors for a new pair of crampons. They hooked me up with the Petzl Leopards with the assurance they wouldn’t fall off my approach boots. I was starting to feel like a pro climber sponsored by Petzl, just without the sweet expedition money or the ability to actually climb hard.
Now there is something important that needs telling here. It is one thing to read all the multitude of beta available online and we all know trip report authors often have strong opinions as to the correct methods of doing things. It is for this reason you should completely disregard (or at least regard skeptically) any hard and fast advice I give you here. And the north ridge of Mt Stuart is an especially complex logistical challenge, as I’m sure readers are well aware. BUT, it is quite another thing for a fellow climber to look you in the eyes, and size you up, with the very tangible realization that this person standing in front of them, is going to ACTUALLY GO OUT and do this climb in the way you recommend. It gives an urgency to the encounter. I could just tell the shop worker was carefully contemplating the advice to give this sunny Cali-boy climber. He recommended that, for a car to car push, we start from the south side and descend the Cascadian Couloir. The Couloir is without a doubt the easiest way off the mountain. Any north side descent, be it the Sherpa Glacier or an alternative scramble around Sherpa Peak, coming near the end of the day, would potentially force some real decision-making. This was liable to be a non-ideal proposition if we were fatigued after topping out the climb.
Although Mo and I had initially planned to approach from the north, and scramble around Sherpa Peak, the shop worker further noted this would “make for a much longer day.” Now I don’t know about you, but as a mortal climber, I was not looking to have an even longer day on this particular climb. These few words were all we needed to start from the south side. To his credit, Mo readily agreed. I really appreciated the trust he put in me to so substantially change our plans. Yet another characteristic of a good partnership – trust!
Now it comes to it. This is our great embarkation point, and leading to the final encounter with THE (metaphorical) WHALE. Yeah, we’re gonna make a stream-of-consciousness push the same way Mo and I did the ridge climb, that’s jazz baby!
The Climb.
The climb started – as all good ones do – in the dark. Mo had coffee and was buzzing up the trail like a bumblebee high on pollens. Which was funny because he almost got stung by one of the buzzy boys. BZZZZ! Meanwhile I was attempting to sleepwalk the trail, albeit unsuccessfully. Soon enough we came to Ingalls Lake, and, mountain goats! A mama with little kid. They were so cuutteeee! Although they seemed quite docile, munching lazily in the subalpine meadow, I knew in my heart of hearts they were much more capable of completing the climb than we were. The icy lake presented quite a contrast to this idyllic scene. We were both a touch nervous at how close the footpath got to the iceberg-laden shoreline. A touch of rock scrambling provided some assurance the day would not be stunted by a plunge into the inky blackness.
It was so damn windy. Gale force winds pummeled us as we left the trail and cross-countried to Stuart Pass. Then it was calm again, “Maybe the winds will die down once the temps. stabilize as the sun comes up.” Wishful thinking indeed. Atop Goat Pass, the wind train roared again. “KSSHSHFHESHSFHSEH!!!!!!” the winds yelled. “Would you just take it easy, wind?” I thought crazily to myself. “How many passes does this mountain have?!” “Too many!!”
Now the shiny crampons would undergo a full field test. Thank goodness I had practiced lacing them in the tent last night, never mind a couple extra holes punched through the battered nylon. A little preparation goes a long way. They performed not just adequately, but admirably. Donning a stiffer, heavier approach boot, I was more comfortable than my partner on the snowy stuff. The tradeoff of course being that I’d have the heavy things hanging off my harness all through the climb. Mo slid down the sandy moraine while I space-walked my way down the steep snowfield feeling very much like an astronaut.
As an expert in the ill-advised technique of running out of water, I pushed for us to fill up sooner rather than later. This turned out to be a good choice. The base of the climb didn’t have any obvious running water. I think we each had about 3 L worth of some nice silty glacier water by the time we began climbing, about 6 hours out from the trailhead. It’s got the minerals that climbers need.
Mo wanted to warm up his sore shoulder as much as possible so I was drafted to lead the first pitch. I immediately blew the free ascent when I yarded on some cams while wriggling through the 5.8 thrutch. Oh well, all is fair in love and mountain climbing. By the time I hauled our packs up to the belay, we had been on the first pitch for, gosh what was it, an hour?! My arms were kinda tired from the hauling too. Better pick up the pace! Mo dispatched the next short pitch very quickly, which helped. Then I got the thin hands crack in the corner. Glorious. Just like good ol’ Robbins Crack. Mo did a fourth wandery pitch up to a giant series of ledges and we re-grouped.
One rather consequential irony of approaching from the south side in the dark, is that you never get a visceral appreciation of the scale of this climb, the way north side approachers do. So things were a little casual.
“I gotta take these socks off, I think my feet swelled at altitude and my toes are killing me already.”
“I kinda have to poop.”
“How much water do we have? Still got about half left, we should be good.”
“Oooh, I almost forgot, I brought this sweet Middle Eastern dessert. It’s called halva. We’ll send for sure now.”
Perfectly innocent of the magnitude and distance of climbing which still awaited us, we set off on the simulclimbing block of the ridge. I don’t have much experience with such techniques – the only apt comparison I can think of, experientally, was a climb of the West Ridge of Mt Conness last summer with Ting and Justin. We pitched out the beginning and solo’d the rest. A missed opportunity to practice for sure. How hard could it [the simulclimbing] be? You just put some pieces here and there, and keep the rope spaced evenly between you.
Well I don’t know about you readers, but I may be the only climber to achieve boat-anchor rope drag with just one or two pieces in the rock. I think this is basically what happens when you change your mind which way you want to go after placing a piece. The climbing was a little ho-hum, and lichen-y through this stretch – not exactly the cleaned up highway of white granite we expected. So we (read: I) got off route a few times. More than once I found myself cliffed out on top of the ridge, a perfect walkway just out of reach below. “We gotta backtrack, Mo, I see the way down there! Sorryyyyy!”
We persevered. Even as the sun began to fall from the sky. Soon Mo called down, “I see the gendarme!” “Yayyy!” I replied happily. “IT’S LIKE 50 MILES AWAY DAWG!”
While we both still felt strong, LE GREAT GENDARME was indeed, very far away.
“We’re gonna have to skip the gendarme, JT. Not enough time.”
“F*CK the gendarme!!” I yelled while scrambling the next block. It wasn’t exactly an expression of anger, but an unadulterated acknowledgement of the nature of our reality. We took to verbalizing a strong French accent whenever referring to the gendarme – a futile attempt to reduce the seriousness and scale of the thing with a dash of humourous madness.
“No way I’m bivying up here. It’s gonna be cold. It’s pretty simple. As long as we keep moving, we won’t bivy. Just take it slow and be safe.”
“Just look at all these half-finished bivy sites. It’s like a freakin graveyard of shattered dreams up here man.”
Borne from these dire straits were some of the finest moments of my young climbing life.
The climbing soon picked up to “50 Classic” status. The ridge went knife edge and the rope flossed the divide, arcing geometrically across the breezy notches. I could already feel it coming on. The incredible urge to climb higher, higher, higher! We began to feed off each other’s intense energy. Here comes the zen state! No fear, no routefinding, no light nor dark, only climb. FOCUS!
We each led a block through the finest knife edge sections and came to the gendarme. The rappel was totally bogus. The gully it led to was dumping ice everywhere. Another moment of levity was obtained when we realized we had no choice but to climb the gendarme even as we had already decided there wasn’t possibly enough daylight left to climb it. It looked so good. I gazed toward the sun and wilfully pushed it sideways across the northern summer sky.
“Okay, I get the lieback pitch, and you do the fist crack. I suck at wide cracks.”
Off I went. I can do this! I didn’t need to lieback much at all really. The crack accepted good jams. Feeling some pump near the top, I reached for a cam. “Ack, screw it. I don’t need this. The last cam isn’t too far away. If I can top out Rockwork Orange, I can top out this beast.” The rock offered a perfect rail to mount the pedestal. As I built the belay, the wind said, “KERERLERKSLKSFLKEKWLSKFLL!!!!” even louder than before. I giggled maniacally. “Now this is alpine climbing!!”
Mo followed up the pitch and arrived at the belay with bloody mitts. The wind didn’t help to calm the nerves and he expressed uncertainty about being able to lead the next pitch. However, I knew without any hint of doubt that he could do it. After all, he had recently completed a coveted 7-lap marathon of The Crucible off width.
[Footnote: In case you’re wondering, all these climbs I’m referencing are situated in a remote and little known alpine nirvana known to us locals as “The Hill”… but as far as you’re concerned…maps in this region are notoriously inaccurate…but you may be able to get within sighting distance, depending on who you ask…by breathlessly whispering of a “WOODSON MOUNTAIN”.]
“Just catch your breath. You got this!”
Very quickly I saw a switch flip on within my climbing partner. Mo climbed the pitch flawlessly despite the gale force winds and extreme exposure. [Full disclosure: I grabbed the fixed #4 cam. Excuse: I wanted to follow the pitch as quickly as possible.] However, the pitch took everything he had. After the climb, he noted that, at this time, he was “seeing stars”, you know those black spots in your corneas you get from standing up too fast? We had been pushing nonstop for a long time but now was not the time to stop. The sun had acquiesced to my demands, and indeed it was sliding sideways now, but seemed a bit impatient with us, ready to take the plunge and make its journey round the Pacific.
We knew from our small basis of prior research on the climb, that only one short 5.7/8 hand crack stood between us and the summit. Well that, and our now familiar nemesis, acres of 4th and low 5th class climbing. Mo held on as long as he could and we simul’d higher and higher, at some point transitioning to leading a few traditional pitches for extra safety. The hand crack went down so easy since we were in the zone. Finally, we took a rest and checked our altitude.
“We’re really close to the summit!!”
“No way. You’re foolin.”
“No really, it’s only like 100 feet away!”
As we had now entered the final phase of deep blue, trending black twilight, this realization was, I think I can say without an excess of drama, a wave of relief. It felt so good. Morale was high with the promise of flat, summit-like ground. We sipped water and broke out the headlamps for the celebratory final pitch. Fittingly, it was broken in two when I got lost and initiated horrendous rope drag just for old times sake. I pulled a few steep, yet positive moves on some stacked blocks onto the plateau and let out my now standard-repertoire coyote howl of jubilation.
“AAAAOOOOoooOOOooOOO!”
Mo came on up and we huddled in a small leeward alcove (for those not versed in the nautical arts, that means shaded from the wind). It was done. We had been climbing for a solid 12 hours; perhaps a new fastest time although official records need to be consulted to confirm this.
By now, if you’re like me, you’re reading pretty fast with anticipation of the big payoff – the summit. Well now it’s here. I offer you an oversized ellipsis to take a break, and reflect, at this critical or tumultuous juncture (no, it is not the end).
. . .
I see mountain climbing as less and less about this payoff. I mean, the meaning and orientation of the climb as centered around the summit. Whatever those storytelling modes they teach you in English class: man vs. man, man vs. nature, man vs. himself. First of all, there are no women involved in these modes which is inherently sexist. And I fundamentally disagree that a story needs a basis in conflict. After all, the concept of zen focus was invoked earlier and despite my complete ignorance on this topic, I’m pretty sure this focus is not attained by vanquishing some poorly-conceived enemy. I dwell on this only because the nature of our descent off the mountain would now confirm or deny my commitment to the climb as just another step in our long journey to lead a Quality life, a thoughtful life. If we descended recklessly, it would confirm the conflict-based story was over – we had already conquered the summit anyway. If we descended joyously, it would confirm we were still following the noble path.
All in all, I was pretty happy with the way things turned out. We were so very tired. To our credit, we found the start of the Cascadian Couloir after scrambling back UP to reach it, instead of blindly plunging down the wrong chute. We crampon’d up one last time for the snow high in the Couloir, and Mo even front-point-kicked steps with a double set of tools – one axe and one nut tool!
Soon I looked at the map to see how far we had to go. “Only 4,000 feet down to the creek, nice. WAIT, did I just say 4,000 feet? It’s gotta be a mistake! I think my peakbagger app lost a lock on our position.” This set Mo off on an uncontrollable burst of laughter. Soon I was laughing too. It really was absurd. “Just one step at a time! Looks like the track is off to our left.” I had a GPS track of the descent. I learned from past experience that tired descents in the dark are best accomplished with more than just a map and compass lest things become truly…well…you probably know what I mean.
Down down down we went. I seemed to struggle more than Mo to stay upright. Perhaps it was my higher center of gravity, or the fact my knees had completely locked up about 2,000 feet of descent ago. We fixated on the creek as the source of our salvation. By the time we reached it, Mo was feeling pretty nauseous, likely due to dehydration and possibly hunger pangs. I magnanimously offered the tastiest fruit bar left in my pack (it was one of the Old Orchard fruit bars – these things are so good but hard to find in the store!). We took a short nap on the trail. It was very cold. Think I only made it about 15 minutes before the shivers came on. Unsure of how long a nap you can take before it’s considered a bivy, and philosophically opposed to the entire practice (bivouac. noun. the art of completely giving up.) – we rallied and continued on.
My memory is spotty from here. Vague impressions are all that’s left, in contrast to one searing image of Mt Rainier in alpenglow, as we crested the final pass between us and the trailhead. It was utterly inconceivable to my exhausted, pre-Copernican state of consciousness, that the sun had already spun fully round the Earth since last we saw its dying rays on the summit. I do recall some discussions about other climbs we wanted to do that summer. Testament to the eternal stoke of any real soul climber, something I aspire to be someday. After all was done, we were about 27 hours from car to car.
Now we’ve reached the end of this little story. No one climber can more than scratch the surface of all the great climbs of the world but together we are capable of great things. I hope this story reflects how, with some preparations and a good partner, genuine high adventure may be found. I hope you find the same kind of adventure we did on Mt Stuart. Thanks Mo for being a great partner on this one!
Postscript.
The whole milieu of this trip was so satisfying. I hope every climber can find the time and resources to do a summer road trip. It doesn’t even have to be all about climbing. As you can tell from mine, it was tied together with some real life stuff – that is, seeing family and friends. I even got some work done and during one comical episode, found myself on the golf course with my dad and uncle and talking my advisor through a report I wrote last Christmas. The deadline (of course) – tomorrow – the day before being the only day my advisor does work, although one can hardly blame him so multitudinous are the demands placed on academicians these days. Everyone knows that to become a business big whig and make a lot of money, you need to talk shop on the golf course. It’s what big whigs do.
Rolling down the car windows, with 10 hours straight of Moby Dick audiobook, tromping through the mud, laying in the hot tent, then bathing in the river, laying in the tent again, and cooling in the river again, and finally, making the 21-hour push back to sweet home San Diego, and breathing in the ocean aire in the gray dawn of morning – well, it was all very Quality. You may have noticed that Quality has been confoundingly capitalized throughout this “trip report”. I’ve been reading this book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I will quote it here because I don’t have the writing chops to finish this little story with the dramatic flourish a TRUE writer can pull off. In Zen, the author Mr. Pirsig describes Quality as central to our sensory experience of the world – and that the cold-hearted, subject-object dualist way of seeing and relating to things is as dead and gone as Aristotle himself. Better he says, to emotionally involve yourself in what you’re doing, and REALLY CARE ABOUT IT. To embrace stuckness as the origin point of all real personal growth. To see each step as a deliberate act rather than some meaningless cog in an endless slog to some faraway summit. It was pretty easy to apply a lot of the philosophy in the book to mountain climbing – in fact he does it himself! He says individual acts of Quality are the surest way to making our world a better place to stay. I hope that I can be a good partner to all my friends on climbs yet to be made. I hope there’s many more climbs in my future but know it can all be taken away very suddenly. So until that day comes … I’m dreaming of all those good climbs we as a collective tribe have made … and chasing the next one … You must climb!
