• SKIING THE ANTARCTIC PENINSULA PART 1
• GETTING INTO WINTER CLIMBING SHAPE WITH FA GUIDE CHAD PEELE
• CARSTENSZ PYRAMID THE HEROES PROJECT EXPEDITION IN THREE ACTS
• KYLE MILLER ON FIRST FILM PREMIERE AND TRANSITIONING FROM SKI BUM TO PRO ATHLETE
• BE FIRST RECIPIENT JON TURK RECAPS HIS EPIC, FIRST CIRCUMNAVIGATION OF ELLESMERE ISLAND
• TAHOE GUIDE MEETING DAY 2 THE GUIDE BUILT PROCESS

First Ascent Ski Guide Kent McBride wraps up a recent ski-guide trip in Antarctica.

Story and video by Kent McBride

There were a lot of firsts on this trip, like climbing with an ice axe and crampons with skis on my back, being belayed while skiing icy steeps and lots of other minor things we’ve come accustomed to not paying any attention to. But the one thing that wasn’t a first and that we all should remember, is to get out of our everyday routine for adventure, the kind where we find new firsts, big or small, for ourselves. That’s the beauty of it all: You get to decide what your first is and what you think it will mean to you. Adventure!

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By Chad Peele

As the Colorado ice has been quickly forming, I made one last-ditch effort to deny the approaching winter and headed to Nevada…and what better place to go than to Las Vegas?

I know I don’t exactly look like the Casino Royal or Elvis type, but I do love climbing at the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation area just minutes outside of Vegas. Red Rocks is composed of Aztec Sandstone, which is quite strong and makes for excellent climbing. Ease of access, cheap flights and the Nevada weather make this a world-class rock-climbing destination. Throw in a little bit of diverse climbing—bolted sport routes, high-quality crack climbing and your pick of single pitch routes to grade-V 14 pitch classics—makes this a great climbing area for all levels and abilities.

In fact, this area is so diverse that the American Mountain Guides Association (AMGA) chose this location out of all U.S. destinations in which to run their Rock Guide courses and exams. Basically, Red Rocks is big, diverse and offers insanely fun climbing!

On my last trip, I unfortunately had very little time, as I had business back in Colorado, but I did manage to squeeze in some fun climbing. And, yes, I allotted one night for a little Vegas strip gambling chaos (which, if you have luck like me, is usually short lived)! But when in Rome, right?

So, I wanted to offer a couple of recommendations and a little perspective for any climbers out there that might want to check out this awesome spot.

Lodging:
For those on a budget, there is a campground just outside the park entrance. It doesn’t offer much, but you can pitch a tent or camp in your truck, get water, sit by the fire and avoid the noise of Vegas. Some climbers opt for kicking down a few more dollars and getting a hotel room, which are quite plentiful in Vegas. Surprisingly, you can find some really good deals, as everybody knows—especially the casinos—that most people that go to Vegas leave a lot of money behind! By booking in advance and looking for online specials, you can find some sweet gems. We stayed at the 4-star Rio for $30 a night and I’ve got to say that a shower and cotton sheets after a full day of climbing hits the spot! Personally, my preference is to start out close to the climbing and camp, combined with a couple of nights of hotel stays to enjoy the rest days and a little bit of nightlife.

Routes:
There are so many high-quality routes here it’s hard to know where to begin! A one-way loop road inside the park accesses the primary climbing zone. The first and second pull-offs offer a plethora of single-pitch climbing that are mostly bolted sport routes. Access is easy, routes are sunny and the quality is superb.

If you want to get away from the bolt clippers and check out some crack climbing, you can continue on the loop road to White Rock Springs and Willow Springs for some excellent moderate Trad/Crack climbing routes. Most of the routes here are shorter in length, usually in the 1-to-4 pitch range.

For those wanting to get out and sample the longer routes, the rest of the park is for you. Still along the loop road, Ice Box, Pine Creek and Juniper canyons offer numerous classics with many routes in the 8-12 pitch range.

Just outside the loop road off of Highway 159 are Oak Creek, First Creek and Black Velvet canyons. All of these canyons offer long and superb climbing!

Chad’s Select Picks:

Black Velvet:
Frog Land 5.8 6 pitches
Refried Brains 5.9 8 pitches
Epinephrine 5.9 16 pitches
Dream of Wild Turkeys 5.10 10 pitches
Prince of Darkness 5.10c 6 pitches

First Creek:
Lotta Balls Wall. Numerous high-quality routes all under 4 pitches

Oak Creek:
Jonny Vegas to Solar Slabs 5.7 13 pitches
Black Orpheus 5.10 11 pitches
Levitation 29 5.11c 10 pitches

Juniper Canyon:
Crimson Chrysalis 5.8+ 9 pitches
Ginger cracks 5.9 7 pitches

Pine Creek:
Cookie Monster to Cat in the Hat 5.7 7 pitches
Dark Shadows 5.8 10 pitches

Obviously, quality and route preference are extremely subjective, but all of these routes get good reviews and make for good climbing, in my opinion. So, if your jonesing for some sunshine and need to get away from winter, Red Rocks is a sweet spot!

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By Caroline George

Early on in my pregnancy, I decided that I would use this time to open my horizons to activities I would otherwise not necessarily do. I can’t remember when I last didn’t travel to climb rock or ice or to ski. Now was the time. After biking in California and kayaking in the Bahamas, ticking off one of my bucket list wishes was next on the list: seeing the Northern Lights and cross-country skiing in Lapland.

I hadn’t taken a trip with my mom in many years, and with our little girl on the way, I was excited to have some motherly time with her. My parents have lived for traveling and I don’t know that I would have the bug this badly if it wasn’t for them. My mother is always game for an adventure. We decided to head way north in Lapland, close to Santa’s home turf, to get the best chance of getting hypnotized by the wild, greenish northern lights. With only two hours of daylight this time of year around the Arctic Circle, we felt like we had put all the chances on our side to make this dream come true.

Yet, a week before leaving, I felt like author Bill Bryson in Neither Here Nor There when he journeyed north for the same quest: The forecast was for clouds and snow, which were less than ideal conditions to see the mysterious glow. On top of it all, the Levi, Finland, tourist office website was advertising for 9 kms of maintained cross-country ski trails (out of the 240 kms usually open by this time of year). Well, it didn’t look like we were going to amount to much—a much dreaded fact for type-A people like my mother and I. We were nevertheless committed and flew to Helsinki and northward to Kittila and finally Levi.

Levi is a tiny ski resort that runs 24/7 in the winter months, with all the pistes lit up by electric lights. On our first day cross-country skiing, we realized that the advertised 9 kms were really just 4.5 kms one way and the same 4.5 kms the way back. We resorted to doing the loops a few times to get our daily fix of exercise. Although I really have no idea how cross-country ski well, I thoroughly enjoy the intense workout it provides—it is after all the most calorie-burning sport you can do! But I also love the terrain it takes me through and felt it was really good for me at this stage of the pregnancy.

You can, however, only cross-country ski for so many hours in a day—especially when doing the same loop over and over again—so we spent the rest of the day visiting EVERYTHING there was to visit in Levi: Lappish souvenir shops which offered reindeer everything, from skin to hooves to glasses with reindeer drawings on them to bottle openers with reindeer antlers for decoration, etc. We booked a husky sled ride trip on a nearby frozen lake: nothing spells winter and Christmas like riding a sled Santa-style. We visited hotels (yup, that’s when you know you’ve visited everyhing else the town has to offer!) and eventually made our way south to visit Rovaniemi, home to Santa Claus’s headquarters, post office and museum, located right on the Arctic Circle, and to the Arktikum, a resourceful museum on Arctic life. The museum offered a show and thorough explanation of the Northern Lights, because when you can’t see the real thing, you might as well resort to the alternative, right?

For the adventure seekers that my mom and I are, this was a pretty low-key trip and we were a little frustrated with how little we got to do. It was a good learning experience in that having high expectations prevents you from enjoying what could be seen as the trip of a lifetime for some. We had come to ski miles and miles of cross-country ski tracks and watch the breathtaking glow of the northern lights. We got to experience neither. But as always, perspective is everything and making that shift is what makes or breaks your time anywhere. Looking back on the trip, I was grateful to be forced to rest more than I know how to and spend time being pregnant with my mom, hearing her stories on giving birth and motherhood. And I now realize that this connection—more than cross-country skiing or northern lights—is what I had come to find throughout this journey to the deep north. I will remember these shared moments of intimacy with my mother more than anything else.

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First Ascent Ski Guide Kent McBride checks in from a recent ski-guide trip in Antarctica.

Story and video by Kent McBride

“Everyone needs to be back to the ship at 5:30 p.m. so we can sailing home,” the crew informed us at the morning guides meeting. We had sailed and skied our way north to the chain of islands that lie on the outside of the Drake Passage. The weather forecast was so-so but after a day of sailing, it changed for the worse.

At around midnight, the waves increased and the ship started to rock and roll. By morning we were in the thick of it as a refrigerator ripped out of the wall, a water jug that is suppose to withstand the rocking from the sea went crashing to the floor and the entire continental breakfast station tipped over. We were asked to stay in our rooms and secure all items. People stuck on patches, others threw back some Dramamine and some just threw it up. We’d maxed out the Beaufort Wind Scale. (Click on the thumbnail to read the levels of wind scale at sea.)

I enjoyed the rough crossing because it forced me to just sit back and reflect on the entire trip to Antarctica. No computer, books or socializing, just staring out at the waves. Lots of funny things to reflect on. like the evening we drilled a V-thread (this is when you drill two different holes into the ice until the tips intersect, so a line can be threaded through them making an anchor to rappel from) into a block of glacier ice and then gulped through two and a half bottles of vodka at the other end. (In case you didn’t know, the “V” stands for Vodka.)

And then there was the early morning when one of the guides disguised his voice as the Ship Announcer and informed everyone that there was a polar bear mother with her cub on an iceberg within view. Some people did actually believe him and ran up to the top deck to see the sight.

Taking the polar plunge was exciting for everyone who jumped into the frozen salt water and especially for the spectators when a voluptuous skinny dipper leaped from the second level deck. Bless her heart.

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On October 18, Be First recipients Gavin McClurg and Jody MacDonald—The Best Odyssey Team—successfully became the first expedition to kiteboard, surf, stand up paddleboard and paraglide some of the most remote places on earth, accessed by sail on their 60-foot catamaran, Discovery. Are you in pursuit of your own “first?” Our Be First program is an opportunity to get sponsored when you go for your own summit, whatever that may be. To learn more, visit Be First.

by Gavin McClurg. Photos by Jody MacDonald

Weeks before we ended the expedition, which happened on a warm, still day in Ibiza, Spain, on October 18, I asked Jody to begin working on a slideshow. I asked her to do this because I knew I wouldn’t have the words to describe, to explain, to illustrate, what the expedition has meant to us, or to those who have joined along the way. Of course photos are only a slice of the picture, a fabulous collage pieced together somewhat magically and very haphazardly as we slowly worked our way around the world. There’s been a plentiful supply of blood, pain, laughter, disappointments, discoveries and, of course, moments that are too special to ever try to represent with words.

So here it is, a slideshow that takes us back to the beginning and all the way to the end. From the Caribbean through the Panama Canal, across the South Pacific, Micronesia, Indonesia, across the Indian Ocean to Africa, around the Cape of Good Hope, Namibia, Cape Verdes, Azores, Scotland and Spain:

When I look back I see images that many of you have shared and many that are mine alone. I also see statistics, and some of them turn out to be figures that I find a bit shocking and, honestly, make me a wee bit proud of what we’ve achieved. For example:

Total miles sailed: 54,000 (the distance of nearly two circumnavigations)
Circumnavigation completed: December 10, 2010 (near Cape Verde)
Countries visited: 50
Total trips operated: 90
Days with guests on board: 986
Documented virgin kite locations: 148
Dinghies destroyed: 2
Trips cancelled or delayed: 0
Money spent on food: $123,321 USD
Approximate bottles of beer consumed: 4,320
Cumulative staph infections suffered by Jody and me: 23
Pros on board: 37
Reefs I’ve planted us on: 3
Times hitting the reefs caused an emergency haul-out: 2
Times rebuilding a toilet has caused me to swear profusely: 24 (the exact number of rebuilds I’ve done)
People I kicked off the boat: 1

We’ve gone places that I could have never dreamed even existed. We’ve gone places that are very close to being totally destroyed, if they aren’t already. The sadness, the beauty, the mistakes, the friendships; the many things we’ve discovered, touched and seen along the way will be with us forever. Memories, of course, have a way of fading, and the many thrills and wonders that took place will be remembered less and less as time streams along faster and faster, rushing us all towards the one true inevitable end. And now that it’s all over, we’re trying to come to terms with what it has meant and what it continues to mean.

No easy task.

People keep asking Jody and me: What’s next? To be honest, neither of us knows. I’m not sure I want to know, at least for the time being. For these five years and eight years before that I have been charged with keeping a lot of people safe in some seriously tight situations at sea. At times, the stress of it was as suffocating as drowning, but to witness the smiles and hear what the expedition meant to those who joined was more payback than I could ever get from a paycheck. Even in the very dark times I knew my office was something I should never take for granted, and hopefully I never did. Neither Jody nor I consider ourselves planners, but somehow we planned what is certainly one of the most complex expeditions that has ever happened. If someone died or got hurt or got sick, the show had to carry on. No calling in sick; no taking a day off. At times I felt like I was living inside a pressure cooker that had no relief valve. More than once Jody and I had long, tearful, serious talks about pulling the plug. But always these times would pass and be replaced with some of the most precious and happiest moments I’ve ever lived. I’m humbly proud of what we’ve achieved and at the same time scared that what we’ve achieved is only human, which succumbs, like everything, to history.

We owe much of our success and all of our most incredible moments to our owners and sponsors, who dedicated much of their own lives (and no small amount of their hard-earned money!) to the Best Odyssey. Each of you took a huge gamble on us, two people you had never met before and to you we say THANK YOU. Thank you for making this absurd, crazy, impossible dream come true. We hope it has also been a dream realized for you.

Because it certainly was for us.

Many thanks to each and every one of you, all those thousands of people who I’ve never even met who have followed our trials and tribulations in the form of the Captain’s Logs for these past five years. As most of you know, writing these logs is always hard for me, and without your continued support I would have given it up long ago. But again and again, you have reached out to me with your own stories, sorrows, joys, hopes, and fears and blessedly—your encouragement, which always makes penning the next story possible.

I hope we’ve kept you entertained.

But now we have reached a point that five years ago I couldn’t even imagine, and I still can’t believe has come. This is the final log of the Best Odyssey. An era has come to an end.

But really, somehow, I think it’s just the beginning.

As always, I leave you with a quote. It’s one I’ve used before but it remains my favorite. Someday I hope to be as cranky, profound and important as Edward Abbey, who fought his entire life to preserve wild places. Unfortunately, it’s a fight that will continue to be lost to the corporations unless we get seriously pissed off and do something about it. Seems like now is a pretty good time.

“One final paragraph of advice: Do not burn yourselves out. Be as I am—a reluctant enthusiast…a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this: You will outlive the bastards.” —Edward Abbey

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Last month First Ascent Guide David Morton helped lead a climbing team from the Heroes Project, an organization that provides an adventure outlet—among other things—for injured veterans, to Carstensz Pyramid, a 16,000-plus-foot peak on the Indonesian side of the island of New Guinea. This is the third part of a three-part story.

Story by David Morton. Photos by David Morton and Ken Sauls

Act III

Base camp was a treat. Not because it’s really that nice. It’s not. But for the first time in quite a few days we had a rest day. It was well deserved and much needed. There’s nothing quite like a long slow morning for relaxing and reorienting.

But by noon it was back to the drawing board and trying to plan how we could pull off the summit in the amount of time we had left. We had one issue that was greatly affecting the plan. The porters apparently weren’t aware that not only did we need more days into base camp than usual, but we also needed more days for the climb as well. Surprise, surprise … they weren’t psyched.

We made a plan as best we could and rolled the dice. I went to the route to do a bit of recon that afternoon while the team organized gear. Back at camp that evening we discussed our plans and serious concerns about the issues particular to this trip. The main one being that most afternoons, and sometimes all day, it pours rain. Because of the nature of the rock and route, with that type of rain the ground turns into a river. The limestone slabs shed water in massive quantities. The drainage path is the route.

We would not be moving fast. Often the route is climbed in a day during the drier morning hours with a return the same day. If these rains are encountered on the descent, one is still able to get back to base camp to warm back up. For us, if we were out in the rains, it would be very difficult to quickly descend. Hypothermia quickly sets in being that wet. There was no question, we had to prepare for multiple days with shelter and stove.

Noah was game as always. He remained super excited about each and every prospect even if he harbored doubts about the climbing. How could he not? His experience climbing rock was relatively limited for starters and he has limited use of both his left leg and arm. Bringing his leg up and bending that knee is incredibly difficult on steeper rock. But there remained places he had to walk so he needed the knee joint.

We gained the base of the ridge with plans to climb up one-third or one-half of the route to an area we could put in a camp. It was impressive, though it was not fast. Noah used an undying amount of reserves to shimmy and slide along rock sections where he couldn’t get his leg underneath him. My respect was won over and over.

Noah and Tim spent the night in a tent on a ledge. Ken and I returned to base camp and would return the next morning early to begin again. At base camp we learned our porters had decided they had had enough. Most left and descended to lower camps. We had a quarter of our porters left. They would not wait for more days. We also were a bit under-equipped for what appeared to be an extra three days more than what we anticipated.

The following morning we returned to the camp and broke the news that we were out of options. We needed to keep the remaining porters in order to get out of base camp and we didn’t have the time or supplies to continue.

It was heartbreaking for all of us. There weren’t words to describe how empty it felt at that moment after such an amazing effort on Noah’s part. Truly, he was spectacular. He deserved every bit of a successful summit and the logistics were what stopped him. He would have gone for hours upon days. I’m certain of it.

Despite not making the summit it was an experience we could all be proud of. The decisions were appropriate and clear. We will return within the year. Tim is dedicated to raising the funds and we’re all dedicated to finishing the job.

No question Noah will “show up” in every sense.

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First Ascent kayakers Chris Korbulic and Ben Stookesberry along with Pedro Oliva are in Zambia to tackle new rapids. This is the second post in a series of stories. Follow the Kaiak III Expedition and see where they guys are on their DeLorme digital map page.

Story and photographs by Chris Korbulic

The view from here is like a hallucination. The light is bent, and makes the space just behind my eyes hurt a little. I can hear my heart beat, which is surprising because I’m standing at the base of Victoria Falls, above the Minus Rapids, where the sound is amplified not just in volume, but in intensity by the black gorge walls, so much so that it’s shaking my brain inside my skull. It’s thundering all around and carrying on like it has for only about 250,000 years, making the falls a geological infant. But just long enough, it seems, to polish every rock to a shining, icy-like finish. A pair of porters has taken my kayak, for which we’re all thankful; I get to take photos and walk with little weight and they supplement their income. But by the time we’re at the top of the rapids, we’re both questioning whether or not it was a good idea.

I remember flying in a couple days ago, fresh from some heavy snows in California, and seeing this part of the gorge. The rapids looked big from 1,000 meters up, so why am I surprised that they look so big from 10? False sense of security, I guess, and self-preservation in some sick twist of the words. But I mean these rapids are huge, bigger than I’ve seen in a long time and I’m nervous. My stomach is knotting, but it’s refreshing to feel my nerves again, and that’s why I came. Fortunately, that transforms into intense speculation of the rapid with Ben and Pedro, after which I watch their mostly clean descents. I stretch a little, consider that I haven’t really paddled in about a month, shrug and then follow with a mildly successful descent.

At the bottom of the rapids is the man who is making this whole trip possible, Pete Meredith. He was Hendri [Coetzee]‘s best mate, brought him on the river for the first time, and is now our guiding light. The Zambezi was his home from the late 1980s into the 90s, when there was little tourist infrastructure and you had to beware lions and leopards on a walk home from the bar. Pets were scarce, but limits on the possibilities of adventure were scarcer. It was the perfect setting for the two to build a bond, a river-borne brotherhood, on and off the river.

It’s a far cry from that wild place now, with supermarkets, hotels and paved streets that easily accommodate Pete’s overland truck, our home for the next month. Its 54-inch tires glide down the main street, but it’s made for the roughest roads in Africa. We’ve tested it a little, but we’ll really take it there soon. It’s an old Kenyan military vehicle; and Pete has made some upgrades that, while certainly increasing comfort, don’t quite turn it into a sleeper cabin. After driving it from Kenya to Uganda and now to Zambia, all signs point to reliability. It carries everything we need, but for eight people, there’s no room for anything less than absolutely necessary. And, trust me, industrial sized Nutella is necessary.

I woke up this morning to a sputtering, struggling Cummins diesel engine. Pete cleaned the fuel filter and lines of muck, then bled, primed and tried the engine again. Nothing. Wait a few minutes. Nothing. Then … something. One of the other two guests where we’re camping is a diesel mechanic. Rob, it seems, is here to save the day. I held an improvised funnel contraption and a tube spitting diesel and oil while Rob pumped and unscrewed and poured and repeated to no avail. Rob was supposed to leave today, but instead wants to make sure we get on our feet again and on the road. We must have done something right to warrant him staying here with us—but not enough to completely secure visas for Angola. So now we to wait, wish and eat Nutella.

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Last month First Ascent Guide David Morton helped lead a climbing team from the Heroes Project, an organization that provides an adventure outlet—among other things—for injured veterans, to Carstensz Pyramid, a 16,000-plus-foot peak on the Indonesian side of the island of New Guinea. This is the second part of a three-part story.

Story and photos by David Morton

Thirty-five dollar rubber boots don’t make the best footwear if you’re going to walk nine to 13 hours a day for eight days. But if your walk takes you through mud and marsh that is often knee high, they fit the bill. The tricky part is pulling your boot out of the mud without it staying stuck. A prosthetic leg has the same problem.

As I came around a corner during the first few hours of that first day, I saw Noah shin deep in mud trying to engage his left leg. He wanted it to move; it didn’t. After much effort Noah ended up lying in the mud while his leg remained upright and proud. So began a quick learning curve as to how to finesse a prosthetic out of the mud without losing important pieces that keep the leg on the leg. A hint: duct tape is helpful.

The first few days through the jungle involved many river crossings on makeshift bridges as well as steep climbs. And mud. Always the mud. It ranged from thin and almost soup-like to a thick consistency that set up like concrete. All tastes in mud were represented.

I’m convinced Noah spent close to one-half of the time on his knees, belly or combination of the above. Pulling, pushing, levering, sliding. His was a Herculean full-body attack. It was truly impressive to witness. It was multiple times the amount of work we did.

We stopped nearly every hour to dry off Noah’s stump. One of the big concerns on a trip like this was that blisters and irritations may develop on the stump and turn into an infection or wound that would be nearly impossible to continue with or treat. So this became our standard routine: take a break, get the leg off quickly, dry it off, eat, drink, get the leg back on and continue. We started to function like clockwork and had a great time doing it despite how long and difficult the days were.

Once we figured out how to keep Noah’s leg and body in working order despite the pounding, the crux became how to deal with the porters. Every other evening or morning there was a problem. We got good at picking up the signals that something was up. A bit of chatter… porters voices slowly elevating… walking back and forth from their makeshift shelter to the cook tent… discussions with the cook… then, eventually, shouting among themselves. One porter, whom we nicknamed Groucho, would often take the lead. But often he had a sidekick that looked like a good-cop/bad-cop routine. After much back and forth, wasted time and satellite phone calls we’d eventually be on our way. It was incredibly frustrating.

Despite truly enjoying the interactions with the Papuans, this consistent tension always kept a bit of a wedge in things.

As we neared our base camp on the last couple of days, we broke from the jungle, entered the highlands and were treated to some of the most breathtaking scenery I’ve ever experienced. The terrain at times even gave us a few hours of relatively easy walking. It was quite a treat. The clouds broke each morning and gave us glimpses of the massive limestone formations that form the range.

After eight days of walking from dawn to well after dusk, we crested New Zealand pass, ambled through the ancient limestone bedrock once covered by glacier and dropped down to our base camp.

Once again, it was pitch black, our headlamps were on and it was pouring rain.

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Story and photographs by Chris Korbulic

The plane skids and I lurch forward as the wheels hit the ground and the reverse thrust kicks in to slow our careening down the runway before pulling into a rather arbitrary gate. The heat hits me even though I’m three seats away from an open door, the bright African sun is beaming in through the dust, and soon I’m standing out in the red African dirt. This feels right. Then, before I’ve had time to make sense of a missing bag, I’ve met up with the crew, jumped into Pete’s truck, and driven to a crocodile farm, or crocodile reserve, as they like to call it. I haven’t seen one of these ugly, primeval beasts for a long time, since I saw one far too close and personal nearly a year ago. My palms sweat and I feel the skin tighten on the back of my neck. Already I’m facing one of the things I came to challenge; not necessarily crocodiles in the flesh, but the inevitability of facing the unknown, of staring it down and charging ahead. I get the chills, but I can’t look away.

Today, while Ben [Stookesberry] dealt with some logistics, I followed Pedro [Oliva] down the Zambezi below Victoria Falls where most rapids are fun, splashy rides where you can spin around and surf a wave, high-five your buddy and carry on, but there are always lines that push it a little bit. I looked upstream to the Minus Rapids above where we put in, where rapids rage right at the base of Victoria Falls, and knew that’s where I wanted to go. I used to wonder why people are compelled to put themselves back into high-risk situations again and again, and though I now feel like I understand a little, it’s an understanding that defies articulation. I felt it again today when I dropped into rapid # 9, aka Commercial Suicide, where Pedro and I paddled in the crashing waves, and were tossed and lifted again and again by the rhythmic swells. As always on big water, I was awed by the river’s graceful power, how, once in its current, any attempt to escape is useless. That’s how the last year, since I last saw that croc, has felt.

Tomorrow, we’ll make final preparations and pack the truck to head into Angola. First though, we’ll visit the consulate here in Zambia to secure our visas. We’ve seen some grand BBC world weather reports; forecasts are vague, but we’re assured it’s going to be hot and wet. The previous night’s rains confirm this.

And that’s it. We don’t know much else. We really have no idea if we’ll be granted entry into Angola, international appeal not passing through the embassy doors. We don’t know if these rains will make the objective rivers too high, brown and raging to attempt or make roads impassible. We don’t know if entering a country, fraught with recent civil war and the world’s largest number of remaining and active land mines is a good idea at all. A few things we can assume, though: no matter where we end up, we’re in for a proper adventure, and all of us will be a bit different afterward. This begs the question, one that many have answered in some way and most will pursue until their final day: Why do this and what do we want to accomplish? We hope that with our collective experience and preparation for the road ahead, we’ll be able to find answers to this question, and have our best days ever.

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By Seth Waterfall

It’s 6:30 am here at my house in Washington state, and the fact that the sun won’t be up for at least an hour reinforces the fact that I am not in Antarctica any more. I’ve become used to 24 hours of sun during my two-and-a-half weeks guiding on Vinson Massif (the highest point on the Antarctic continent) with Dave Hahn, fellow RMI guide Billy Nugent and an international contingent of nine clients. The weather for our trip was mostly excellent, which meant sunburned faces, so my peeling nose makes me look very out of place where everyone is in the throes of a Northwest winter.

Even though the worst thing I took home from Antarctica was sunburn, the possibility of cold injury is ever present. Thus, it is necessary to prepare yourself for that at all times. A crevasse fall could result in a change in perceived temperature of up to 60 degrees, so climbing in the sun with warm clothes on is a requirement on the mountain. Our good luck with the weather means I have found myself in the ironic position of returning from Vinson with the only complaint being that I was a little too hot for part of the climb. That sounds like success to me!

The whole trip was a blast. Since it is a highly desired trip both for climbers and guides, we ended up with a great guide crew. Typically Dave, Billy and I lead our own trips, but in this case Dave took the helm and Billy and I assisted him. We joked at the beginning of the trip that there wasn’t going to be anyone to run the stoves and dig out the tents since all of us are usually running the show. But Billy and I spent years apprenticing on Denali and Rainier and a ton of old memories came back as we worked together in the kitchen.

After a small delay flying onto the continent the trip went like clockwork. We stepped off the flight and right onto another plane to Vinson Base Camp. After that, it was a by-the-book climb as far as schedule goes:

Day 1: Carry gear from Base Camp to Camp 1

Day 2: Move to Camp 1

Day 3: Carry gear to Camp 2

Day 4: Rest

Day 5: Move to Camp 2

Day 6: Summit!!!

Day 7: Descend to Vinson Base

It sounds simple and since we had great weather it really was. The summit was about as different from my last time there as could be. During my only previous trip to Antarctica this past January, we had very cold conditions on summit day, whereas this time I never even took my ball cap off! I couldn’t imagine a more perfect day on the summit. Dave said that of the 28 trips he’s made to the summit this one was in the top three. I feel extremely fortunate to have had such a beautiful day. The views of the Ellsworth Mountains were unbelievable; the range looks like a giant buzz saw erupting out of the flat ice sheet. The dark rock appears as if in direct opposition to the white snow covering the land. I describe it as a binary experience. Everything you can see is either perfectly flat or extremely steep, white or black, snow or rock. To me, this range ranks with the Alaska Range and the Himalayas in terms of beauty, but it definitely has it’s own unique feeling.

A huge part of the relative ease of the trip was our crew of clients. We had a very experienced group, including several Everest summiters, and this allowed us to move efficiently up and down the mountain. Combining the high competency level of the clients and a long spell of good weather truly made for a great trip.

The trip began with 36 hours of travel to Punta Arenas, Chile. The experience traversing the Earth from north to south is much different than east to west as there is very little jet lag. The downside is that you neither gain nor lose a day as you would when crossing the International Date Line. So I was deposited at the tip of South America feeling the full effects of a long journey. Our team gathered over the next 24 hours, and we busied ourselves by getting our last minute food and gear together and preparing for the flight to Antarctica.

The flight in the Russian manufactured Ilyushin 76 is always a tough one to schedule and the folks at Antarctic Logistics and Expeditions (ALE) have to plan long and hard for every flight. There are no air traffic controllers, ground radar and such on the Union Glacier in Antarctica, so they have to have their weather forecast spot on to have a successful flight onto the ice. Upon our first meeting, ALE announced that the flights were behind schedule and it would be a three-day delay before we could fly. This was a blessing in disguise for us, as we were able to visit Torres del Paine National Park for a few days—a welcome distraction from sitting in the hotel stressing about weather.

After our brief sidetrack we were informed that the first flights had all been completed and we were set to go next day. At 8 p.m. the following evening, we all grouped up in the hotel lobby with our climbing gear on, boots included, ready for the flight. It’s necessary to board the Ilyushin with all of your gear since you exit into the interior of Antarctica. So it’s straight from hotel to plane to the coldest place you can imagine. It’s a bizarre transition.

Once we completed the flight to the Union Glacier, we were whisked quickly to Vinson Base Camp in a twin-engine Dehavilland Otter. The Otter is the workhorse of Antarctica, flying people to various spots on the continent. ALE flies people to Hercules Inlet where they will begin a 700-mile trip overland to the South Pole, to the Pole directly and of course to Vinson Base. The flight to Vinson is one of my favorite parts of the trip. I spent the entire flight staring out the window and marveling at the hundreds of peaks in the area that have never been close to having a person set foot on them and most likely never will. It’s an amazing sight for sure.

Thus, deposited at Vinson Base we did the only thing there was to do and began the climbing process. Within 36 hours of landing we had our first cache established on the mountain and were enjoying soup and dinner after a day of climbing. Everyone was feeling great and was psyched to keep going. We were camped next to a few other groups of climbers, but other than our small community it was total solitude.

The next few days saw us getting into the rhythm of expedition climbing where you ferry loads of food and fuel up the mountain. On Vinson this consists of two carry days and two camp moving days. The carry days can actually be physically tougher even though your pack is lighter than it is when moving an entire camp. This is because a carry day involves covering twice as much ground as you go from one camp to the next and back again.

But with one rest day and no need for sitting out bad weather, we soon found ourselves at high camp and poised to go for the summit. One of my favorite things about climbing close to the Poles is the long days and thus no need for an “alpine start.” When climbing closer to the equator you need to maximize the daylight and so you typically wake up some time near midnight and begin your climb. On Vinson we woke up at 7 a.m. and began at 9. It’s so much more civilized! The summit day on this mountain is not very steep until the final few hundred feet, so we began at a fairly moderate pace and quickly covered a lot of ground. The forecast had been for some wind, but we experienced none at first. This had the unexpected effect of making us rather hot in our down suits. We all unzipped them as much as we could and I even rolled the top completely down on mine. There could definitely be worse problems to have in Antarctica other than being too warm, that’s for sure.

After several hours of moving up the glacier the route steepened towards the summit pyramid. Here, the temps moderated some and the down suits were put to full use again. The last hour of climbing is along an exposed ridge and Dave, Billy and I short-roped our clients through the tricky section. After seven hours of climbing we had topped out on the “top of the bottom of the world,” and as I’ve said it was spectacular.

After spending almost an hour on the summit, the team climbed strongly back down to high camp. What had taken us over seven hours to climb was dispatched in just over two on the way down. That’s an impressive feat at the end of a long day. Everyone was still pretty smoked by the tough day though and we all passed out fairly early in our tents.

The next day everyone had mostly recovered form the summit and was anxious to descend. Cleaning up a high camp is usually one of the toughest parts of an expedition and for sure this was no different. But everyone chipped in and as we shouldered our loads for descending to base the thoughts of heading home spurred us on. Our trip back to base was enjoyable, with the nice weather we had begun to expect from Antarctica. I think Dave is the only one in our group who had ever tasted a true storm there, although my experience back in January was much colder than this trip. Either way, no one was complaining about it being too nice and it was great relax after walking into base camp and realizing that we had never seen any hint of bad weather while on the upper mountain.

The planes started flying into Vinson Base a few hours after we returned and at 3 a.m. that night our crew piled into the Otter for a late-night flight across the Ellsworths. The flight back to Union Glacier was probably the most scenic flight I’ve ever been on. The sky was orange from the low sun hitting the clouds and the mountains cast their long shadows across the ice. It was the perfect cap to a great trip to the top of Antarctica.

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