Rockpirates Three by RockPiratesMag

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ROCKPIRATES THREE

ROCKPIRATES EVAN HAU RACHAEL GALIPO TOSH SHERKAT JOSH MACKENZIE VICTORIA BUSCHMAN INUNNGUAQ ROSENORN LOVSTROM LASSE KYED DANE STEADMAN

Combating Antiblackness, Education Resources BLACKLIVESMATTER Ways you can help The Brown Ascenders Website What are land acknowledgements? Why do they matter? VOTE!

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No indifference here This publication is not ignorant of what is happening in our community and in the world. We aren’t ignorant of our shortcomings and where we can do better. The first thing that should be addressed is that there are really more important things to be reading and devoting attention to. Rockpirates is not the resource to educate yourself on racism and challenges that climbers and HUMAN BEINGS of colour face. On the opposite page, I’ve highlighted a few resources of education and action. If you only have a few minutes, I ask that you devote your time to these resources instead. Going forward, I’d like the magazine to defy blissful ignorance in our own manner. This isn’t a “politically correct” press release, this is me realizing that I have a voice and a platform for other voices, and I need to make an honest effort to source a broader range of voices if I truly want to capture the essence of climbing as a lifestyle. If you see a way I can do better, please tell me. This issue is one month later than my self-inflicted deadline. It wasn’t ready, and I’m glad I waited. I’m really proud of this issue and the direction of Rockpirates. Being trusted with the words of others (for free right now, this is all volunteer writing) is a massive honour, and the magazine is also becoming a bridge to meet and form relationships with people from all walks of life; amazing. In the first issue, I likened the ethos of the magazine to sitting around a campfire. Unfortunately, our society is a campfire in which being welcomed is not a safe assumption for many people.

This truth is why I am making an effort to source more diversity in contributors. Not to fill a quota. Not to pass guilt or responsibility. Because the assumption of welcome is a privielge that everyone should enjoy, and very few currently do. I know that a punk-inspired climbing magazine isn’t the vehicle to change the world, but the more people captivated to laugh, cry, think, and act, the better. This attempt at captivation is the small and important power wielded by the privileged dirtbag with a laptop! And with small and important power, comes great responsibility...? As always, I hope that this makes you laugh, cry, think, and be inspired to act on your personal dreams and making this world a better place. Thank you to the contributors for forthcoming writing, and to you, for reading. Also, if you’ve got ties to cool companies with money, please email rockpirates69@gmail.com for adveritising inquiries. Seriously, I hope I have the means to sell out soon, these writers deserve some cash for their work. I want to keep publishing high-quality stuff, and I am so very broke. YAR! Nat Contribute to the next Rockpirates! Send submissions to rockpirates69@gmail.com

Chipping... Kinda... Not really

something narcissistic - a conscious clearing piece from another white person, rather than something that keeps the conversation moving forward. It must be acknowledged that our conversation is one of extreme privilege. There we were, hiking through a beautiful and stolen forest, discussing how to best educate By Nat Bailey ourselves on racism and go forward in meaningful allyship. We have it so, so relatively easy and this cannot be understated. Furthermore, the twenty year old white male Earlier this year, as I was lowering off a route with a editor of a climbing magazine isn’t the voice that needs big grin and pulsating arms, I found myself saying a usual to be heard right now, and this cannot be understated or overlooked (I understand my hypocrisy by continuing to phrase to no one in particular: “So much fun. So good!” type). I can listen and try to empathize, but I don’t have a This route has a few notoriously chipped holds; a big nono in the unwritten rulebook of the climbing community, personal story to tell about oppression. It isn’t my place to speak on oppression, regardless of my good intentions. and a waypoint far from true north on my own personal moral compass. “Fuck,” I thought to myself, “I can’t believe I don’t know shit about oppression. I have never been I thought that route was good.” In a mix of satire and seriousness, I cursed out the developer, lit a cigarette, ate a oppressed. I do, however, know about privilege. strudel, and happily tied in to try the same route again. I know a lot about privilege. Chipping, artificially enhancing existing holds, or creating brand new holds to begin with, has been intertwined with climbing since the beginning. Hanging onto the coattails of the sport throughout time; the history of climbing is laced with examples of chipping, one could even argue that contemporary climbing, to some extent, stands on the shoulders of the chisel wielders that came before us. The Nose, chipped. Punks In The Gym, chipped. If you have a sport climbing project a couple of decades old in The Bow Valley, Squamish, Smith Rock, or Rifle Canyon, to name a few of a long list, the chances of at least a few holds being created or enhanced are quite high. Most of us go along in a nonchalant matter: we climb the chipped routes, enjoy them, dream about climbing other ones, but also make it known that we don’t condone chipping and if the time comes where we discover virgin stone, we vow to maintain its innocence.

An extremely privileged conversation A few days before I dived into the crust-fest that is writing about chipping, I was hiking in the rain with the co-creator of Rockpirates, Mason Neufeld. We spent a large portion of our hike talking about systemic racism abroad and in Canada. We brainstormed how Rockpirates could use the small voice that we have within the climbing community to provoke thought, empathy, and positive action. We sifted through ideas, but nothing felt right. I know that any attempt at writing about oppression could turn into

*** Writing about chipping is as unoriginal as turning a crimp into a cheeky jug. I, and people that I bounced the idea of this article off of expressed doubt about a fresh article on such a crusty subject. A quick Google search of “chipping rock climbing”, and you will find historical examples, contemporary examples, and, the meat and potatoes of the subject: opinion. There is enough (well thought out and researched) opinion about chipping on the internet (Bill Ramsey’s Making The Grade being a great read if that is what you’re looking for) and enough newswires on the latest chipping scandal (No Ten Sleep here). With the exception of bias, this is neither opinion nor news. Plus, as one friend told me, not many people are going to be keen on reminiscing about old days rife with scandal, and maintaining anonymity is a hard thing to do because, well, the evidence is written in guidebooks, and literally etched into stone. *** Back at the crag, in between drags of a cigarette and chomps of a strudel, I lightly slandered the developer of the enhanced route. Nothing personal, just some bullshit about them being a conquistador, “robbing the next generation of vision.” I knew them. We had met a few times on the road trip circuit, and they were nice enough. I didn’t get it. So I did what any uneducated investigative journalist would do in this day and age: I slid into their DMs

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And they responded. We chatted back and forth for a few messages, one of mine being “What do you want people to know about you and chipping?”: “It is just rock climbing. To keep things in perspective. Being a good human, parent, friend, and community member is far, far more important than enhancing a few holds.”

*** “It is just rock climbing”. When I’m not feeling nihilistic, the phrase often stings to a twenty year old living in a dirty minivan, devoting life to “just rock climbing” (what a privilege!!!). But man, it is just rock climbing. It is just a few holds, next to a plethora of metal bolts, fixed quickdraws, and wooden benches. The prior sentence is an easy argument to dismiss; the small magnitude of a wrong *** doesn’t make it right. That a wrong action, no matter how When I reached out, the idea of perspective really wasn’t small or socially accepted, isn’t right, and should be taken on my mind. If I were granted a conversation, I expected as seriously, albeit with different consequences, as a wrong it to be about how it was ethically right, about the history action of more grand proportions. of climbing ethics and about justification. That is the way I agree. But what happens if the climbing bubble is these conversations usually go, and these conversations popped, and the same logic of strict ethical barking whilst run rampant in the climbing community: Is there any other topic more heavily debated than chipping? The vast happily shoving fingers into the drilled pockets we so very much hate, is applied to a different issue; grasp (some majority of the outspoken condemn chipping, even the would argue reach) at systemic racism: first ascensionist of the chipped route discussed said, “I am against chipping. I just had a moment of weakness, We get upset at the injustices around us. We become and made a few holds a little better. I regret it, and I would involved in conversations and make it known that we never do it again.” Every time there is a chipping event don’t tolerate racism. Maybe we even go as far as writing the community is quick to lash out, threaten, slander, and an article with chipping and racism in the same breath. berate the culprit. One of the questions that I had for the Perhaps most notably, we let the world know that we, most first ascensionist was about the backlash he received for certainly, are not racist people. enhancing two holds: And then we go back to being bystanders. We let “old “Backlash ranged from phone calls, to insults, to people fashioned” racist comments said near or to us in the refusing to speak with me.” workplace or at the dinner table slip by. We watch sport leagues that have ostracized civil rights activists. We swipe Thinking inside the bubble of climbing, the backlash our credit cards without thinking of where the money makes sense. Nobody, myself included, likes chipping. is going. If you’re Canadian like I am, maybe you, like Everybody, yes, everybody, likes talking shit. me, are also guilty of harshly criticizing the United States Outside of the bubble of climbing, the backlash doesn’t and not being educated, or active enough in the systemic make a lot of sense. Frankly, in a world rife with injustices racism happening on this side of the border. Or maybe, we to be passionate about changing, the scale of the backlash do nothing good, nothing bad, and watch an unjust world is fucking ridiculous: that favours us pass by. There may be no better example of what privilege is than the ability to be outspoken A man and his children are walking down the sidewalk on arbitrary issues and remain indifferent on more of their hometown. The sun is out and bits of melted ice important issues, and still have the opportunity to be cream orbit from the children’s messy mouths. It is an cherished as a kind, compassionate, and communityidyllic day for a father and his children. Suddenly, simple focused individual. paradise is shattered with the whining of an old minivan engine. As the vehicle blurs by, the driver hurls vulgar We shit talk chipping and then fist bump each other when insults at the man. The man sighs. The subject is too we send our chipped project. When it comes to enhancing exhausted for anger. holds, our disgusted condemnation and our joy sleep in the same bed. “Daddy, what was that about?” How different is this from a privileged perspective on How do you explain to your children that a complete racism? For example, proclaiming our disdain for systemic stranger just screamed genuine hatred at you for racism and then recreating on stolen lands. enhancing two holds on a bolted rock climb?

We are a community full of privileged hypocrites, myself very included.

When it comes to enchancing holds, our condemnation and our joy sleep in the same bed. How different is this from a privileged perspective on racism?

We are complex humans with the ability to care about two completely unrelated issues at once. But do we exercise this ability? Do we pop the climbing bubble and dive into frankly more important human issues? Many of those with voices in the sport are speaking out. Almost all pro climbers have made some sort of commentary on social injustices and racism. But what about the grassroots dirtbag? What about the climbers that don’t have companies to represent and adhere to, where do their morals lie? Will some continue to prefer the ethical spray on some subjects, and silence on others? If we evolve from gym-to-crag gumbys, to lifers, and go through this wonderful climbing life only blowing the whistle on ethical practices within the sport, then we are “conquistadors of the useless” in a much more profound and pathetic way than simply climbing mountains and cliffs only to go back down them.

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S I X T Y

N I N E T R I E S

Photo by Jaron Pham (@jaron.allan) 9

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In early September, for the fourth time that day, Chris Verbeck tied in to try The Battle of Evermore. The scene was ritualistic. Cigarette. Food. Music. Laugh. Fist bump. Blast off through the kneebar section. Awkward clip. A thudding series of arete slaps. The culminating jump. Mate. Do it. And on his sixty ninth redpoint attempt, he did it. Committed. Devoted. Lovebased. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s burning.

Photo by Jaron Pham (@jaron.allan) 11

Experiences Of My name is Chung-Young Evan Hau and I’m a Chinese Canadian living in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. For the majority of my life I have avoided using my first name. It was instilled in me at a young age— by various figures of authority— that I should go by a more English sounding name, “so I would fit in”. These are some of my experiences that have made me feel welcome or unwelcome in the climbing community.

A Chinese Canadian Climber By Evan Hau

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I first started climbing in 2004 through a university climbing club. The climbing club wasn’t necessarily a diverse group, but it was very welcoming. There was little social media around back then; we were all beginners in a bubble learning together. Tucked away inside that small community, I grew to love the sport. A big factor that helped my pursuit of climbing was the subsidized lessons and rental gear provided by the club. Even more helpful for launching my climbing career was a local climbing mentor who tirelessly volunteered his time year after year to teach new crops of young climbers how to rock climb safely. I was one of them. Upon leaving my blissful bubble and entering the larger climbing community as a whole, the general vibe at the crags always made me feel slightly awkward, even unwelcome, as a newcomer. A sponsored climber once told me I was cheating because I pre-clipped the second bolt prior to a working burn on a route. This person started trying to tell me the “proper” way to rock climb. All I could think was, “what the hell is the ‘proper’ way to hangdog a route? I’m just trying to have a fun day safely trying a cool climb.” There is a hard section between the first and second bolts that I wanted to work on, and while taking a fall on the first bolt would have been safe, it would have been unpleasant

I was later referred to as a “slanty eyed Asian” by this individual. and pointless.

At the same time, I found my share of great climbing partners who were, and are amazing. Two in particular made a huge impact in helping me join and feel welcome in the climbing community when they saw I was new to the scene. They would continuously invite me time after time to tag along with them, even if it meant adjusting their plans to accommodate a group of three.

I’ve climbed indoors and outdoors in six different provinces across Canada. During my first visit to a particular climbing gym in Canada, I went alone and inquired about the bouldering. The staff member directed me to a back room instead of the primary bouldering area. Sure, the back room had a little bit of bouldering, but it wasn’t the far more substantial and obvious public bouldering area. There was no conversation about my climbing level and whether I was looking for a beginner area or an advanced area. There was no talk about the gym having 2 bouldering rooms, I was simply directed to the back room. Towards the end of my session, I decided to do a self-tour of the gym and discovered the main bouldering area on my own. And it always seemed strange why it was never mentioned.

Of all the places that climbing has taken me, I have spent the most time abroad in Greece. My experiences in Greece, though wide-ranging, have been overwhelmingly positive. For example, on my first night in Kalymnos, after a grueling two days of travel, I was hungry and looking for a restaurant. It was the off-season, and most places were closed. To my luck, I ran into some jovial construction workers on break who waved me over and shared some gyros with me. It’s unlikely they had any idea I was hungry when they first invited me. They were simply on a break, had ordered a large quantity of food, and felt like sharing. After chatting, they offered me an extra gyro to take home for the next day as well. Zapped from travel, their random act of kindness gave me a new energy. It kicked off what was to be a trip that I will forever remember fondly. However, I have also had some negative experiences in Greece. Mostly with police officers. While travelling solo and disembarking a ferry among a sea of travellers, I was singled out and asked for my identification and travel documents. It seemed they were looking for illegal immigrants, and upon producing a Canadian passport and my return flight information back to Canada, they sent me on my way. Weird.

While in Athens in April 2012, I was taking pictures of some buildings and monuments in the tourist zone. Greece was still feeling the effects of the financial crisis and it was a time of great civil unrest. As such, it was common for police officers to be stationed regularly throughout the city. There happened to be some police officers standing around, doing nothing, in front of a public building. I took a photo of that public building. One of the officers noticed me, approached me, and confiscated my camera. We established that I did not speak Greek and also established that the officer spoke fluent English. After refusing to return my camera, the officer then started pushing me around while berating me in Greek. It was a scary experience. I felt so helpless. What could I even do? They have all the power. These are the people that are supposed to be protecting the public. One officer was doing all the pushing, but there were close to a dozen other officers standing nearby, watching and doing nothing. During that trip, I always felt uneasy walking alone outside of the tourist zone. It felt like everyone was always staring at me. I have since learned that this was also a time period where the Golden Dawn—a racist and xenophobic neo-nazi political party—was gaining popularity and controlled 21/300 seats in Greek Parliament in 2012. I was quite naive about the world back then.

Photo, next page, Golden Dawn members hold flags with the meander symbol at a rally outside of party HQ, Athens, March 2015, by DT Rocks (Wikipedia), Licenced under CC BY-SA 4.0

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Had I known about the Golden Dawn and police brutality in Greece, it is quite possible that I never would have gone and I would have missed out on some of the most enjoyable and memorable times of my life.

In the last Greek federal election, Golden Dawn failed to gain the mimimum of 3% of the votes needed to hold seats. The entirety of its leadership, including those who served as MPâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, are on trial for directing and belonging to a criminal organizations, as well as other charges. -Ed

Ultimately, these, and other negative experiences have not stopped me from pursuing climbing, but that doesn’t make it acceptable behavior. I’ve been lucky to have enough positive experiences to draw on to feel good about the climbing community. However, our collective behavior in the climbing community has not led to a diverse and inclusive community. We all need to be willing to improve our behavior. I am more mindful of the language I use, and how my actions can impact others— sometimes in unforeseen and unintentional ways— now, and in the future. Being the only one who is told to climb in the secondary area while everyone else is climbing in the primary area sucks.

Change will not happen overnight. It will take a generational shift. Some things are better now than they were in the past. Continuing to make the climbing community more inclusive is the collective responsibility of everyone. Like it or not, climbing is not a fringe sport anymore. Before the pandemic, new climbing gyms were opening at an incredible rate, climbing has made it into the olympics, the crags are getting busier and busier. The world is watching now, and it is well past time we all behave more responsibly.

We live in a world where calling out poor behavior is seen as more serious than the actual behavior itself. If it doesn’t make sense to call it out publicly, reaching out privately sometimes yields better results. Words and actions are not always intentional and sometimes actions that have good intentions end up having a negative impact. Change and inclusion should not be such a far out idea. Attitudes and behavior change in climbing all the time; climbing beta evolves over time; Yoyoing isn’t common practice anymore; hangdogging is normal; rap bolting is in; knee pads are in. These things used to be strictly forbidden. Now, they are not only acceptable, but are common practice. We can change. We have changed. And inclusion matters a lot more than how we go about getting up a piece of rock.

The Author, at home in The Canadian Rockies. Photo courtesy of Evan Hau

ROCKPIRATES My friendship with Jules is a rare commodity... Our connection is as bold and courageous as any day climbing at Smith. -Rachel Galipo from her featured short story By Fear? No. Photo by Rachael Galipo of Jules Jemreivat on The Quickening 5.12c

YAR 17

By Fear? No

short story by rachael galipo

The morning started off pretty swell despite the mild hangover from the previous night’s sippable sake. MidJuly in Central Oregon is no laughing matter when it comes to the heat. Jules and I woke up around 4:45am, turned on our pre-rigged caffeine and began our couch-coffee conversations as the liquid gold entered our veins; quite soothing if you ask me. As we reached the bottom of our mugs, we began packing. “You bring the rope and I’ll bring the draws”, Jules spoke in a soft voice. I replied with a “You bet.” This was a familiar ritual for us, “The 5am Club”, and we left the house the same way we had many times before. Settling into the car, we charged through the early morning dew towards the park.

This page, The typical morning descent. Photo: Jules Jimreivat Next page, Old Greg making us laugh. Photo: Jules Jimreivat

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We roar into the parking lot and throw the van into park. With the keys out of the ignition and packs on our back we set forth into the slightly golden light of the park. Down the hill and around the corner, we were greeted by the wispy wind as we climbed over the apex of Asterik’s Pass. If you haven’t been to Smith Rock, the scramble over the pass is like a second cup of coffee.The sudden exposure provides the same jitters and shakes as a caffeine overdose. Safely on the back side of the park and hidden by the shade, we warmed up (both physically and mentally) on a few thin, airy routes - your standard fare for Smith Rock. We appreciated the crisp air and colors as the sun began hitting the snow capped mountains behind us. At the same time, we both recognized how grateful we were to be sharing this moment with each other. My friendship with Jules is a rare commodity. We met on an off-chance at a photoshoot last summer. There, she told me about her job as a teacher at The Climbing Academy. TCA is a private, traveling, high school that enables students to get their highschool credits, while climbing in world class destinations. Since then, we have settled comfortably into eachothers lives with a grace and ease I couldn’t have imagined. Despite our differences, Jules is easy to fall in step with. Without trying, I have found myself next to her, walking in the same rhythm. Her presence gives me joy, comfort, and the support I never thought I could find in a friend with such short notice. Our connection is as bold and courageous as any day climbing at Smith. Back to the Park: Jules swiftly flies up Holier than Thou, a classic 5.11b that was appealing to our early morning eyes. The next thing I knew it was my turn. My stomach screamed. Like previously mentioned, we drank the night before and I could feel my stomach rumbling. “Your knot is good and you are locked and on top” said Jules. “Sick, I’m off,” I replied. The first part of the route is mellow 5.9 nubbin pulling delight. Thoughts arose. I heard myself think: “Clip there. Move your foot here. Did I just fart? Shit I’m a little run out. Clip. You are having fun, right?” I was feeling strong and ready to snatch this flash. I began to enter the harder part of the route; big, reachy movements with poor feet. Each hold was different in its own way; big, small, side pull, pocket. As my breath began to flow, I found myself staring at the crux and proceeded to move. I felt graceful. I reached the last thin hold- only to be stopped! By fear? No.

“Jules, I’m not feeling so hot”, I said in a timid voice, a few feet above my last bolt. I could feel my arms giving out as the lactic acid built in them on the overhung headwall. I continued with, “I’m going to fall.” My thoughts kicked back in: “Am I about to shit myself? I could totally soil my new fucking shorts.” I heard Jules reply in a calm voice: “I got you Rach!” I let go of the rock. “What was that noise? I feel so light flying through the air. Why do I have so much time to think about all this? Why am I still falling?” A sudden stop of free fall caught me off guard as I safely hit the lower slab. Jules and I locked eyes as my body flung around and simultaneously said, “What just happened?” I looked up to see an empty bolt with no quickdraw in sight. I looked down to see the draw that should’ve been on the bolt hanging off my knot. Across the way, we overheard a friend yell, “that was insane! Rachael you just felt 30 feet. Are you okay? What’s going on?” Silence... “I think the draw unclipped itself from the bolt,” I replied with nervous laughter. I began to lower and once on the ground immediately locked arms with Jules as we hugged. I was completely unharmed; no scratches, bumps or bruises. Jules went back up to the bolt to suss what had happened. To put it swiftly, the way my hips were turned into the wall pushed the gate open. As I began to fall, the gate remained unlatched making it easier for the draw to slip off the bolt. Freak accident. Near miss. “This is going to take a while to get over,” I thought to myself. I took a few days off from climbing and instead opted for some early morning running to the backside of Smith. When I got to the route I had fallen on, I took a long pause. I thought back to the feeling of falling through the air; instant butterflies. The morning after my run, we indulged in our classic morning ritual, only this time our coffee-couch conversation was focused on how I was feeling. A quick discussion ended in, “I need to nip this in the bud now.” Before I knew it, I was back in the park at the base of the route, roped in, and clipped to the first bolt.

This page, Woohoo! Photos: Jules Jimreivat

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My heart raced and my inner voice spoke to me. “Breathe Rachael, you are fine, it was a super rare accident.” I took a deep breath to center myself. My breath was strong, yet effortless. I moved with each exhale. Slow, but intentional. I could see the vibrant pinks, purples, blues and oranges that began to paint the mountains behind me. I took a moment and locked eyes on a Canyon Wren that zoomed past my head. I thought back to my own endeavor. I began to shake as I crept up to the crux; the place I took the worst fall of my life. I clipped a second draw to the bolt for extra protection - yes, we can all recall a time when we did something we wouldn’t normally do when scared out of our minds. I heard Jules’s warming support. I seamlessly pulled through the crux with some powerful grunts and felt absolutely unstoppable. I was completely in control of everything surrounding me at that moment. I clipped the chains and began to laugh, filled with adrenaline. A few days later, Jules and I found ourselves in a soft whisper questioning the next adventure on our horizon. Double clip! Photo: Jules Jimreivat

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Stories, insights, and words from Tosh Sherkat Interview by Nat Bailey

This page, Tosh Sherkat working on a dream. Dreamcatcher Photo: Kim McGrenere

Tosh Sherkat is a committed, hard-working, and kind individual. He has the eye of the tiger, and the smile of someone who really gives a shit and backs it up with action. Forthcoming and thoughtful, I really enjoyed hearing about Tosh’s personal experience, and where his focus lies. -Ed I’m fuckin nervous as hell.

*** ***

The problem in my life right now is that I need to get more endurance [laughs]. This is all privilege, but man, I still can’t hold an edge for more than seven seconds. What matters most to you right now? Using my platform to really try and help. To show other people that it is possible to care about this change, AND BE YOURSELF. You don’t have to turn on your activism. You can be a climber and a good person. We are in a period of time where anti-racism and environmental activism cannot be a weekend activity. They must be done in every single action and be a part of your identity. You have to think, where is my privilege being shown exceptionally? Like, why don’t I just not eat sushi every 7 days, and donate $10/week to an important cause? I got goals man. I got goals for days. I want to do Dreamcatcher. I don’t know anybody who grew up climbing and doesn’t know Dreamcatcher. The route carries this lore. To know that I am close in a relative sense, or that it is even a possibility, that is really motivating; to know that I am in the realm. I feel like a lot of years I’ve just been climbing at the grade “that I should be climbing at” but I am ready to push it.

It is exciting to be in a place where you try your dreams, and they feel attainable.

*** It isn’t that people of disadvantaged situations don’t want to climb. They don’t have the opportunity to think about such a privileged pursuit. So how do we even that playing field? I owe a part of my livelihood, my wellbeing, friends and relationships, and self confidence all to climbing. All because I was given the opportunity to be a part of this community.

I don’t know. I know this needs to be investment based. Not a one time thing. ***

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I don’t believe in “motivation”. I don’t believe in romanticizing motivation over hard work. Man, I love trying hard. That is my SHIT! That is where I feel most comfortable. Pushing myself. Being uncomfortable. It is a part of the human experience that I feel is equal to human connection; connecting to yourself and your vulnerability. I love when I know that I want to go lay on the beach, but I don’t, because I know I’m going to train. I love that. *** On creating and releasing a musical album: Most people don’t know that I released an album because I don’t tell anybody [laughs] . I still write songs, and do music, but it was a period of my life where I went through a lot of mental health stuff. Really struggling. I needed to release some stuff and move on. Music has always been very grounding to me, very centering. And calming. It makes me feel listened to, or heard. Adding my voice to that was a goal. It is important for it to be on a larger platform, not just showing it to friends or something. I’ve played guitar for as long as I’ve been climbing. The process, learning how to record, was another extension of hard work. I had to figure it out. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just sat there on my computer for 8 hours a day and figured it out. I did it last year, between January and April. During that time I had mild insomnia, was dealing with stomach issues, and over training. My coach told me I needed to step back and do something else. I didn’t ever plan on recording until this girl that I liked said “these are really great”. And so I thought man maybe if I record these she’ll like me. So the whole motivation of this album was to win over this girl. She is my girlfriend now, we’ve been friends for a long time. It was an amazing experience. I definitely want to do it again, not for that reason though! [laughter] Amazing. *** When I was thirteen, I had been climbing for a couple of years and was given an opportunity by my parents to pay for training, coaching and move from Nelson to Vancouver Island. All for me to train and be on a team. So I felt like I needed to prove to them that this is where I needed to be. That I can do this. So for a long time, that was a factor of motivation; that I need to prove to someone that I can be here. Over time though, that is pretty fatiguing. I think it gets to a lot of young climbers; you’re climbing for others. It burns you out. Why am I doing this? A couple of years ago I found that answer. *** Climbing is my home. It is where I feel most comfortable. On the mats, on the rock, I feel like the person I most want to be. It allows me to find new parts of myself that I want to be. *** Yes my motivation [specifically related to Dreamcatcher] is a little ego focused as well. But then again, I’ve done a bunch of boulders that really didn’t take me much time, and that wasn’t as fulfilling. I was hoping to create a relationship with that problem, or that route, and I didn’t.

*** Everyone runs on validation, whether they think they do or they don’t. *** On depressive episodes: I feel like I have a lot more to learn. My journey down this road is just beginning, and it is different from everyone else’s. One thing that I am learning is that you create your own reality. The way you think about yourself and treat other people and hold other people in your life, you create that. You can dictate your own reality. There’s a Mad Season lyric: “My pain is self-chosen.” That never really resonated with me until I realized that you can choose to be positive, and to not believe in those things [negative thoughts]. It just means you have to replace those with other things. Everybody experiences something. Things can be going your way and it still feels shitty. It is important to be kind to yourself and understand that not every day is going to be a good day. It is okay to have shitty days. Let yourself have them. Even if it doesn’t make sense. The worst part of it is when they reciprocate back on these thoughts: Why am I having these thoughts? I must be a horrible person, because I am having these thoughts. That is a cycle that you can be trapped in forever. *** More self kindess. *** On leaving a legacy: I don’t know if I want to think about that. I have a tattoo on my arm, of a present box. An obvious pun, but it is to keep me in the present; What I can do now, not what I want to leave behind. For anyone dealing with anxiety and depression, living in the future, or in the past, is the worst place to be. Cause you’re doubting yourself. There is just so much to worry about in those places. My grandma said to me, “I’ve had such a great life. People say, “I wish I was 20”, “I wish I was 30.” Me? I love being 84. I’ve loved living every single year I’ve lived.” If you can love every single year you’ve lived. That is your fucking legacy; if I can love every year, love on people, and do as much as I can for people, then that is all I need.” Also, my name should be in every fucking guidebook ever. [laughter] *** What does it mean to be a good man? (Tosh is writing a feature on ideas surrounding masculinity for Rockpirates 4) I want to acknowledge that while I might be talking about masculinity or being a man, I’m not trying to reinforce a gender binary. I don’t believe in that. I do want to discuss the concept of being a good man, socially. And I don’t know what it means to be a good man. I know there needs to be a re-creation and it begins with looking at power and privilege and how it can be redistributed.

Next page, Happy Tosh Photo: Kim McGrenere

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I don’t want to create toxic competitiveness. That is so fundamental to what it has historically meant to be a man. That is something that needs to break down. *** Climbing yesterday, I was two Advil’s deep and in pain. I think maybe I shouldn’t go back on. I don’t know if I can take another ten minutes of lying down and praying for the pain in my shoulders to stop.

Toxic competitiveness That is so fundemental to what it has historically meant to be a man That needs to break down

Josh Mackenzie’s compelte guide to building an epic

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Get comfy, and let Rockpirates’ staple contributor and “part time Australian” Josh Mackenzie show you the way of the vision quest. The original vision of this article included racy photos of Josh in an apron, which I still have in my possession -Ed

I consider myself to be the type of climber who not only enjoys having the occasional epic, but

one who seeks out objectives that will be potentially epic. The balancing act of teetering on the brink of failure certainly isn’t everyone’s idea of a good time, but for a small percentage of us fringe climbers, the uncertainty of an epic contributes to a much stronger feeling of accomplishment. Or, more often than not, a great story when it all falls to pieces.

The main ingredient for building an epic: Psyche Jake is a mate of mine who I met in the climbing gyms in Sydney; another Blue Mountains climber who had developed a serious infatuation with big alpine climbs. While we were both living in Canada, Jakes’s copy of Fred Beckey’s “50 Classic Climbs of North America” became the focal point of much of his planning. One day, Jake called me with an excited tone in his voice. He told me he was leaving the coastal climbing mecca of Squamish and making his way inland. I was in Canmore, the climbing hub of the Canadian Rockies. He suggested that we meet up halfway and go climbing in the Bugaboos; big, snow covered granite peaks. His eyes were set on climbing the Beckey-Chouinard route on South Howser Tower. The seed was planted and the psyche began to grow. For those unaware of the geology of Australia, we do not have a large amount of granite. We do have some, but if you don’t live in those particular areas it is unlikely you are going to seek it out for any great length of time. As a climber from the Blue Mountains, an area just outside of Sydney, we have endless amounts of steep sandstone; seeking out the available small pockets of granite never really held too much appeal.

Did we have the skill-set required to climb this two thousand foot wall? Hmmm. Two novice granite climbers four total hours spent in crampons, one glacier crossing, zero climbing in remote glacial settings.

We were fabulously under-qualified, yes. But man, we were psyched!

Building An Epic, step 1: Preparation When planning a big mission into the wilderness, there are generally two different approaches to packing and preparations; either the “prepared for anything” method, or the “fast and light” option. After hiking our bags up to camp, it didn’t take us much time at all to realize that we may have packed a little less gear than perhaps we should have. Immediately after finishing our dehydrated dinners— with our one shared utensil— we could hear a bit of a commotion making its way closer to us. A woman, very short of breath, came running over and explained to us that her climbing partner had just been hit by rockfall while descending the col on the way back to camp. She explained that her partner had sustained some heavy lacerations to his legs but was still able to walk, albeit slowly. “Do you guys have a first aid kit?!” She asked rapidly. Jake and I stared at each other blankly. After an extended pause, we asked if there was any other way we could help.

Building An Epic, PRO TIP: Know where you’re going Due to work commitments, we only had a very short window of time to spend out in the mountains. Thus, we didn’t have a chance for a decent reconnaissance mission to make sure we knew where to find the start of the climb. We had a general idea of where we were going, and besides, it will be so obvious, right? Right?! The detail we had overlooked was that, despite having long days during Canadian summers, it was still dark at 3am when we started our approach. This, coupled with a thick smoke haze from nearby wildfires meant that we couldn’t see the mountain at all. Luckily for us, two champions who we had met the night before, Max and Clay, had left before us. We can follow their crampon trails across the ice, problem solved! Or so we thought. Unfortunately they had also managed to get themselves lost. Our short approach took us over three hours. An efficient start.

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Building An Epic, step 2: Know when to turn back

At approximately 8:30 in the morning we had managed to make it six hundred feet up the mountain to a crossroads. This is the point where the route starts to traverse and bailing becomes difficult. This is quite well documented: statements of “you bail here or you commit to the top”, were obviously echoing in Jake’s head. When he questioned whether we were moving quickly enough and if we should consider bailing, I responded how all good, considerate climbing partners would: “No one bails at 8:30 in the morning, dude!” Onward and upward.

No one bails at 8:30 in the morning, dude!

Photo: Live sports action on the Beckey Chouinard. Courtesy of Josh Mackenzie

Building An Epic, step 3: (Kind of) Master the art of the descent We took a long time to climb the route. We were both quite tired, but we made it to the summit with just enough time to watch the sunset. We were going to be descending the other side of the mountain in the dark anyway, so why not enjoy the moment? Over the mountains, the pink sky turned a fiery red through the thick smoke. The stainless steel of the rappel bolts shimmered in the light of our headlamps. Rappel after rappel, the ground grew ever closer until the exact moment that the rope got stuck. We had felt the rope pull freely through the anchors above us, but somewhere in its freefall, it was caught by something other than a pair of climbers on a small ledge. Whatever the rope was stuck on was out of reach of the beam from our headlamps. But we had just enough rope with us at the ledge to make an attempt at aid climbing back upwards again to see what we could retrieve. While I do love an opportunity to further my skill set, I most certainly did not envision teaching myself to aid climb at two in the morning halfway up a big wall! A successful salvage mission was made and no gear was left behind.

R E H T ANO Building An Epic, PRO TIP: Know where you’re going Seriously, how we got lost again trying to find our tent, I will never know!

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Building An Epic, step 4: Check your condition (hastily) As climbers, we put so much trust in our equipment and we will often (read: very occasionally) inspect and maintain our gear. Yet, why do we ignore the aches and pains in our own bodies? I had been keeping half an eye on a small, red spot on my leg in the lead up to this trip. I had no idea what it was. It didn’t seem like it was about to stop me from being able to climb. “I’ll just make sure I check in on it and make sure it isn’t getting worse,” I thought. “Yes,” I thought, “I will check in on it while hiking for five hours with a heavy pack; while climbing mountains; while wearing the same pants for four days.” Sure, checking in on the small red mark on my shin was not at the top of my to do list. This “small red mark” turned out to be a little more serious than what I had hoped. My first stop after leaving the beautiful Bugaboos was straight to the slightly less beautiful Canmore Hospital, where the overnight surgeon would tell me “don’t worry about how to pay right now, let’s just work on saving your leg.” Twelve days of bed rest (in a van) ensued. I had nothing to do but make my nightly visit to the hospital for a dose of I.V antibiotics and have my wounds cut open, drained, and cleaned. I often thought to myself, “I wonder how much better that climb would have gone if I weren’t trying to battle a nasty Staph infection.”

I wonder how much better that climb would have gone if I weren’t trying to battle a nasty Staph infection. 33

So, even with this many factors stacked against us, Jake and I managed a team send of that iconic route on that beautiful piece of rock. Who cares if it took us twenty four hours?! Have the knowledge to be able to get yourself out of bad situations. Understand your safety systems and operate within those limitations. Go have an epic.

The epic certainly does giveth. The magnificent Howser Towers, hosts to many epics. Photo courtesy of Josh Mackeznie

INUIT ASCENDING

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Personal historical context, and a glimpse into the contemporary Inuit climbing community

By Victoria Qutuuq Buschman, Inunnguaq Rosenørn Løvstrøm, and Lasse Kyed

Arrutsak was a man with a wooden leg Once upon a time he had fallen from a bird rock, as we learnt later, and had his one leg broken. His mother had cut off the injured part of the leg and made him a wooden leg which could be bound fast to the stump. He could run and drive sleds just as well as if he had never lost a limb. -Northern Voices: Inuit Writings.

Welcome to the Arctic, home to 170,000 of us Inuit living in the far reaches of Alaska, Canada, Greenland, and Russia. You’ve never heard of us, but we are indisputably some of the original adventurers, climbers, and mountaineers of the far north. Our homelands are often considered a stark and barren part of the world, but for those of us born to this mecca of rock, ice, and tundra, we are comfortably at home. We’ve been pushing the boundaries of human achievement for thousands of *** years, long before climbing and mountaineering were ever It was 35°F/2°C and an early summer day in the conceived of as sports. For us, these have always been a Greenlandic mountains. We were perched up in a basin slightly raised above the sea, our shoes off in the means of survival.

warming tundra, our eyes glancing back at town. Our eyes remained squinted as the rays rebounded across the last of the spring snow and we frowned at the giant, cracked boulder before us. A gneiss monolith, crafted through time from the oldest known rock in the world and shattered internally from the constant expanding and contracting of freezing water that once penetrated its pores. It doesn’t appear on a map or in a guidebook, we hadn’t finished climbing it and it has no name – We were thinking Qivittoq, the wandering spirit.

Since as long as can be remembered, Inuit have accomplished and perfected two athletic feats – the soloing of immense sea cliffs and the traversing of some of the harshest mountain ranges in the world. Since time immemorial, Inuit have rappelled off and climbed up thousand-foot sea cliffs all across our homelands, sometimes without ropes, in order to collect eggs from seabird colonies. Inuit still do this in many places including Bird Island in eastern Russia, near Point Hope in Alaska, at Cape Graham Moore near Baffin Island in Canada, and at the sea cliffs near Qaanaaq in north Greenland. To this day, it continues to be an activity We laid out our crash pads and pulled on our climbing shoes. The sun was intensely warm compared requiring immense courage and skill.

to the ambient temperature and after a few burns on We’ve also traversed and mountaineered across some the overhanging crack, we were sweating. We wonder if this is harder than the routes taken by our ancestors of the coldest mountain ranges and glaciers in the world, both on foot and by sled dogs. The Brooks Range in down coastal cliffs and across mountain passes. We aren't sure that it is harder, for this is for fun not a matter of life and death

Alaska, the Baffin Mountains in Canada, and all along the west coast of Greenland. Inuit knowledge of snow and ice conditions make for good mountaineering skills, and to this day many hunters take to the backcountry to hunt muskox and caribou, travelling arduously between communities in our roadless landscapes. Inuit have stood on many mountain peaks, but we have never thought to record first ascents. No one can own our collective nature.

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Everyone has stories. V is an Iñupiaq Inuit climber from Utqiagvik, Alaska now living in Greenland. Everyone has stories. Her own great-great-grandmother Qutuuq—her namesake—led her starving children weeks out of the interior mountains of northern Alaska in the dead of winter, alone, and survived. The values Qutuuq exemplified now live in V’s traditional knuckle tattoos, a reminder of the important things: the strength to care for loved ones, the strength to make difficult decisions, and the strength to make it out of the mountains alive. One day, V hopes to follow the same route her namesake took before her.

Photo, this page, V. Photo courtesy of Victoria Qutuuq Buschman

In the same spirit as our ancestors, Inuit to this day frequently live our lives with deep connection to the lands and waters. Many Inuit use their skills as hunters, fishers, guides, and ambassadors to our homelands and our culture. These days, young Inuit climbers look more recognizable in our modern climbing gear. We have learned to climb sport, trad, and ice in modern styles with modern skills and common practice. However, most of us have had to pursue these skills abroad or far from home as the global climbing community is still distant to us. We also lack the climate, environment, and amenities that make climbing and mountaineering relatively accessible year-round. It is highly dependent on the person, but many of us carry our traditional knowledge whilest also applying modern schools of thought, and it goes the same with the gear we use when we’re in the outdoors.

For the most part, we look just like you.

Still, despite this connection to nature, for contemporary Inuit, the outdoors can often feel like places where we don’t exist; don’t belong.

Contemporarily, we struggle with access and amenities. We lack both exposure to modern means of exploring, and exposure in the media of modern means of exploring. These setbacks can make the outdoors a strange and unwelcoming place. Our lands are upheaving with massive walls of rock, and in a way, we are told that they are not ours to explore. This couldn’t be further from the truth! Our livelihoods, our spirits, are a strongly-weaved connection to the land. Our knowledge and skills have made it possible for other athletes and adventurers to come to our homelands and have amazing experiences.

Lasse is an Inuit ice climber from Nuuk, Greenland who’s worked as an adventure guide and photographer for the past few years. He first stood on a glacier in Kangerlussuaq during his adventure guide education. Before then, he had always seen the glaciers from afar while in a boat or standing on mountain peaks, but never had he actually set foot; never had he crunched ice to crampon. Thinking they were beautiful but without much plan to walk along the white glacial plains of ice, passions changed when he first encountered an ice canyon. Formed by meltwater streams over the summer, the deep canyon revealed how truly colorful the ice can be. He rappelled into the canyon, and came out on a different trajectory in life. Not all glaciers in Greenland are easily accessible. Lasse hopes to build a company that will make climbing more accessible for Inuit and tourists alike. His exposure to big mountains and their beautiful glaciers changed his life, and he plans to make that exposure—that opportunity to fall in love with adventure—more commonplace for those call the Arctic home.

38 Exploring an ice canyon in the Arctic. Photo: Lasse Kyed

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Representation matters As Inuit people, we can tell you that the more Indigenous and POC content highlighted in our climbing community, the better. It creates a domino effect of inspiration and action. There are climbers from everywhere, and their stories need to be told if we truly want to look at—and celebrate— the entire picture of this community. We don’t doubt you’ve seen lots of glossy outdoor magazines with pictures and stories of our homelands without ever seeing or hearing about us. Next time you see a feature from the Arctic, celebrate and be inspired by them, yes, but consider that international expeditions have not been the complete history of exploration in the Arctic. Consider our ancestors, hunting on loose sea cliffs, enduring brutal cold in mountain passes. Consider my great grandmother, questing into heinous conditions to protect her kin, with only her own wit and grit to sustain her. Think of the whole picture and the wilderness of it all. Think of us, pebble wrestling on a warm day on the onset of a new spring.

Exposure matters

...consider that international expeditions have not been the complete history of exploration in the Arctic. Consider Great Grandmother Qutuuq, questing into heinous conditions to protect her kin, with only her own wit and grit to sustain her.

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Consider our ancestors, hunting on loose sea cliffs, enduring brutal cold in mountain passes. Think of the whole picture and the wilderness of it all.

Think of us, pebble wrestling on a warm day on the onset of a new spring.

A Winter In Wyoming

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Exploring new ice and mixed climbs in the Bighorn Basin By Dane Steadman

Article Cover, Allie Oaks approaching the 800 foot “Dutch Charlie”. Photo, Dane Steadman This page, Aaron Mulkey exploring his backyard. Photo, Dane Steadman

I shut my eyes and try to sleep. The wind screams and my home, a blue-and-silver camper atop a 2001 Ford-F150, rocks violently. The noise, the motion, and my own nerves make sleep an elusive prospect. It’s late November and I’m in the Wal-Mart parking lot in Cody, Wyoming, after driving thirteen hours from Salt Lake City through a strong storm. My climbing partner has been delayed by the storm. We aim to climb a frozen waterfall in the South Fork Valley tomorrow, my first ice of the season. It’s been awhile since I swung an ice tool. My mind wanders between excitement and nervousness for tomorrow, the uncertainty of my future, and the relentless wind. Finally, I drift off to sleep. The next afternoon I drive up the South Fork Road in a whiteout, with Jay following in his van. I can’t see the mountains that line either side of the river valley, but I feel their presence. At the Boulder Basin Trailhead we park and throw our gear together. Our goal is Sendero Illuminoso, a classic grade 4 waterfall on the south side of the valley. Setting off, we see an enormous bighorn ram sporting a full curl appear on a small hill a hundred yards away. This place is wild. An hour later, a narrow ribbon of ice cascading over a dirty brown cliff appears through the mist—our route. It’s only one pitch, so we’ll each lead it. Jay wins rockpaper-scissors to lead first and sets off after a few sips of tea. After paying out 60 meters of rope, I hear “off belay” drift down from above, and before I know it, it’s my turn. I can tell it’s been a while. At first, my movements feel clunky. The ice is brittle, I struggle to trust my tool placements, and I place a lot of screws. Halfway up, I hear a strange sound from the forest. I pause, look down at Jay, and continue. Then I hear it again and realize it’s a wolf howling! The clouds have parted, and I get my first view of the 4,000’ southern flank of Ishawooa Mesa across the valley. The meandering braids of the Shoshone River snake across the sagebrush plains below, and the sky is filled with a soft pink light. It’s as if the wolf wants me to witness this beautiful moment. I turn back to the ice, and find my flow. Several days fly by in a whirl of hiking and climbing with Jay. After getting soaked to the bone on Icefest, my first grade 5 route of the season, I drive back to town for Wi-Fi. In the last month, I’ve gone through a difficult breakup and found out I wasn’t getting the winter job I thought I would; my future is uncomfortably uncertain. I’d originally planned to come to Cody for just a week or two. But now, I don’t know. Now, the only sure thing is that I want to climb lots of ice. I use the Wi-Fi to apply for jobs in Cody, Bozeman, and Ouray. I also start talking to Aaron Mulkey over Instagram.

Aaron (aka @coldfear) is a legend in the ice-climbing world. Twenty years ago, with a mere two seasons of ice climbing under his belt, he dropped everything and moved to Cody, Wyoming, population 9,000, to devote himself to exploring the frozen arena of the South Fork. Since then he has climbed more ice and mixed routes in the South Fork Valley and greater Bighorn Basin than anyone alive. He has established hundreds of new routes, from long, difficult pure ice lines to modern, bolted, dry-tool routes, making a big name for himself in the small world of ice climbers. I had met Aaron briefly the season before, at the base of the first pitch of a route called Broken Hearts, and we had exchanged a few messages after that. I hoped to climb with him while I was in Cody, but I didn’t really think he’d want to climb with me. After all, he was a professional climber; I was just a kid living in a camper. I figured sending him a message wouldn’t hurt. A few days later, I get a call from an unknown number with a Wyoming area code. It is Sierra Trading Post, where I’d applied for a job, and they want to interview me. A couple days later, I’m Sierra’s newest salesperson. I send Aaron a message to let him know I’ll be sticking around for a while. To my surprise, he seems excited about the idea of climbing together, and we make plans for a few days later. My unexpected winter in Cody had begun. *** It was only the first week of December, but it had already been a busy winter for Aaron. Since the first icicles began to form at the beginning of October, he’d established eight new routes, some ice and some mixed. One in particular proved very exciting.

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He discovered a stunning pillar in the mountains north of Cody that barely touched the ground and was too unstable to climb as a pure ice route. So he bolted the rock behind it, and tried it as a mixed line. On his first attempt, he onsighted the overhung limestone to where the ice was attached, and swung his tool into the pillar. A loud crack split the frigid air, and he watched wide-eyed as thousands of pounds of ice crashed to the ground. He soon returned for a second try, but couldn’t repeat his performance on the rock. He fell twice when his tools popped off the miniscule rock edges. Finally, on his fourth attempt, he put it all together, made it through the rock, and swung into the ice. This time it didn’t break, and he completed the first ascent of Warpath. *** On December 6, my friend Chase and I met Aaron and his friend Adam at the Beta Coffee House in downtown Cody. We piled into Aaron’s black F-150 and drove to where the South Fork Road ends at Majo Ranch. While getting ready to hike to a waterfall named Cabin Fever, Aaron discovered he’d forgotten his climbing boots. Determined to not let the mistake spoil the day, he decided to hike in the Muck Boots he was wearing, hoping he’d be able to attach full-auto crampons at the base of the route. “Are you good leading this one?” Aaron asked me when we got there. “I’m not sure about leading with these boots.” As I was racking up the screws, he mentioned casually that the top out might be “a bit scary,” and that I should place a screw before I got to the low-angled ice near the top. I heeded his advice, and sure enough, what appeared to be mellow grade 3 ice from below was in fact a hollow shell of ice over a torrent of water. The ice grew thinner with each move upward until, just below the lip, I found myself above a black abyss clinging to a half-inch-thick pane of ice. I placed my shortest screw in a narrow strip of thicker ice to my left, then tap-tap-tapped my tool above. On the fourth tap my tool stuck, and I felt the entire sheet shift down slightly with my full weight on it. I held my breath, unclipped my rope from the screw I had just placed, and gingerly scampered over the top. Just a bit scary. Yeah, right. The next day we headed to an area called The Octagon, a band of steep, grey limestone high above the Clarks Fork of the Yellowstone River, and home to eight ice flows that spill over the lip. While the South Fork Valley was dry, windswept, and studded with sagebrush, the ground in the Clarks Fork was completely white, and snow clung to the branches of spruce and fir trees. Our first sight of ice was Rocketman, a spectacular dagger hanging from the top of the cliff. Aaron had spent days bolting and sending a difficult mixed route during the previous winter, connecting matchbox-width edges and powerful stein pulls to gain the ice. Today the dagger was not yet

fully formed, so we traversed left along the base of the cliff to more solid ice. Chase led off with Corner Pocket, a beautiful ice flow on the left wall of a dihedral. Aaron then led us up a fat ribbon of aquamarine ice to the left of Corner Pocket. I was up next, and I got to repeat one of the bolted mixed routes Aaron had established earlier that winter, called Return. Climbing from one small blob of ice to the next, hooking small edges and swinging into frozen tufts of grass until I could climb onto a hanging curtain of ice. Aaron resumed the lead and we climbed our first new route together, a thinly iced corner at the far left of The Octagon. To finish the day, I led a steep flow of ice to the left of our corner as the light snow that had been falling all day intensified.

Now I dont know Now the only sure thing is that I want to climb lots of ice

This Page, Dane repeating “Return” at The Octagon, a route established by Aaron Mulkey. Photo: Aaron Mulkey

The next weekend was the Bozeman IceFest, and Aaron was teaching clinics there. Unable to find a partner, I set my sights on soloing Smooth Emerald Milkshake, the longest grade 4 in the South Fork Valley. After being bluff-charged by an angry bighorn ram on the long hike up the Deer Creek Trail, I descended a steep gully into the creek bed, crossed, and soloed up numerous short, steep steps of ice to reach the main flow. Instead of the huge, thick sheet of emerald ice that gives the route its name, I found three separate skinny flows, with only the left one meeting the ground. I figured there was enough ice to try it. Near the top I had to fight to surmount a small roof that barred the exit from the narrow pillar I was on. Two hundred feet off the deck and gripped, I kept swinging and swinging, unwilling to trust anything less than a perfect stick. I watched in horror as the ice I needed to pull over the lip broke off piece by piece. Finally, I felt a solid placement reverberate through my tool and I pulled up. Just like that, the pitch was over. I continued climbing one step of ice after another until there was no more ice to climb. I took a moment to look back across Deer Creek; to savor my bird’s eye view of the spectacular amphitheater of Bitches Brew. I snapped some photos for Aaron and started down, rappelling where I had to and downclimbing where I could. Just above the top of the main pitch I traversed left to check out an icedup corner I’d spotted from below. It looked good, and I was still riding the high from Smooth Emerald. I started questing up the unknown terrain, climbing 40 meters of stellar grade 4 ice with a short, mixed traverse partway through. On top of the cliff band, I found a large tree to rappel from, but there was no cord around it. I assumed it must be a new route and started thinking of names for it as I headed back to the car. A month or so later, a longtime Cody resident and ice climber named Matt told me he’d climbed the route with a partner decades before. I’d done the second ascent of Shamrock Shake. The next morning I woke up without a clear plan. I wanted a less intense experience than I’d had on Smooth Emerald, so after perusing the guidebook I settled on a foray up the Triptych drainage to climb whatever looked good. A mile up the drainage, at the base of a beautiful grade 4 smear called High School Squids, I felt inspired to start up. From below it looked like I would encounter two steep steps, followed by a snowy ledge, then easy, rolling ice to the top. When I pulled over the second steep step and onto the ledge, I discovered that it wasn’t a ledge at all, but a 60-degree slab of rock veiled by a half-inch veneer of delaminated ice. Realizing I had no choice but to continue, I gathered my head and started tiptoeing upward. Dread mounted as the ice I desperately needed shattered away with each tap. Thankfully, I managed to find a solid

enough placement to trust before running out of ice each time, and twenty feet higher I was back on solid ice. The remaining hundred feet of easy ice flew by but it was a long time before the adrenaline dissipated. From the top, I made a long traverse right to regain the main gully and followed it back to the truck. *** The following Saturday Aaron and I headed to the mouth of the Clarks Fork Canyon with Aaron’s friend Natalie in search of new mixed routes. After a long day of hiking, we drove back to Cody with nothing to show but discolored legs and numb feet from fording the icy torrent of the Clarks Fork twice. On Sunday we returned to the South Fork Valley. We woke up early, and after a quick breakfast we were driving up the Valley before dawn. At the Ishawooa Mesa trailhead we set off northwest for the Schoolhouse Drainage, picking our way through sagebrush and trying not to step on the tiny cacti that dot the valley floor. An hour of hiking and scrambling brought us to the base of Schoolhouse’s first pitch. Natalie took the first lead. Two pitches higher we came to a fork in the drainage. We chose left, and soon a massive ice flow appeared. It was Dunce’s Corner, the first pitch of the route Classroom Bully. Normally thin ice and delicate mixed climbing, Dunce’s Corner had formed as a thick, grade 5 pillar. Natalie finessed her way up fragile icicles, soon gaining more solid ice that she cruised to the top. Once Aaron and I arrived, we found the end of the broken trail we’d been following since we first hit snow. From the belay, deep, undisturbed snow stretched to the next step of ice. We started trenching through knee-, then thigh-, then waist-deep facets, with many steps of rolling ice along the way. Finally we turned a corner, and the top of the mountain came into view along with another fork in the drainage. On the right, a three-tiered flow of thick, aquamarine ice rose at a gentle grade—the final pitches of Classroom Bully. But on the left, a menacing, yellow-streaked pillar shaped like an upside-down Christmas tree spilled over the final cliff band. Few had ever seen it, and no one had ever climbed it. Once again, we chose left. After sketching our way up a short smear and a steep snow slope, we arrived at a ledge beneath the pillar. The grassy plains 3,500’ below began to glow golden in the waning evening light. It was Aaron’s lead, and he began tapping his way up the delicate lower column. Thirty feet up, he sank in his first screw and continued with more force. A swing in a hanging curtain out left yielded a sharp crack. “Watch me,” he called down, “this whole piece is ready to rip!”

Background, The South Fork Valley, a place of sage, choss, wolves, elk and little snow and lots of ice. Photo: Dane Steadman

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Natalie and I held our breath as he pulled through onto a mushroom of ice where he could stand and rest. Another screw and more solid ice led to one last rest before the final steep section and as the last light disappeared from the valley floor, he pulled over the top.

A few days later, the three of us decided to explore another untouched drainage further up the South Fork hoping for a similar experience. Despite finding a beautiful slot canyon and promising walls, the best we could do was a 15-meter pillar high on the left wall of the drainage that we named The Roach. Sometimes you get "Off belay!" lucky, sometimes you don’t, but it’s always a joy to be in the hills. Even following, this pitch was the most difficult ice I had ever climbed. I thought, “this must be what grade A week later two visiting climbers, Jon and Mike, spotted 6 ice is really like.” I topped out in the twilight. We what looked like unclimbed ice in the Broken Hearts quickly tied cord around a tree and rappelled back to the drainage, and contacted Aaron. The three of them decided ledge, completing the first ascent of Teacher’s Pet. On our to go that Sunday and invited me to come along. Bad luck, horizontal oasis, we strapped on our headlamps and began I had to work. That day, they added an eighth and ninth a long descent into the night. After hours of rappelling pitch to the most classic ice climb in Wyoming. On their and downclimbing, we emerged from the mouth of the descent, they detoured onto the left wall of the drainage, drainage. The pungent aroma of sagebrush filled my where they had spotted a potential new line on their way nostrils, and we were safe. up. As Aaron tip-toed up a thin, delaminated smear, he wished he’d packed a rock rack. A perfect two-inch crack *** left of the ice beckoned, but with what he had he wasn’t Aaron and I continued climbing together each weekend, getting any pro. Higher up, he finally sank a screw and continued to the next ledge. One more pitch of easier ice, and I got out with other partners whenever I had a free weekday. On a day I had to work, Aaron and local climber and they had made the first ascent of The Stint. Chris took their ice tools for a walk up Cane Creek, an *** unexplored drainage in the South Fork Valley. Four miles in and thinking they might strike out, they turned a corner In mid-January, my friend Allie came to visit. I had and saw a beautiful iced-up chimney. They climbed it the whole week off, so I took her on a tour of South Fork and hiked on. Again, about ready to give up, they spotted classics: Broken Hearts, the Main Vein, the Moratorium, a pair of massive pillars spilling over a cliff band in the and several others. distance. They used the last remaining daylight to climb On Allie’s last day in Wyoming, we went big. the first ascents of both routes, and stumbled back to the car by headlamp hours later.

Aaron had told me about a behemoth grade 3 waterfall in the Clarks Fork gorge called Leaning Tree, and said I had to experience it for myself. He also mentioned a steeper route next to it, a monster grade 5 called Dutch Charlie. But apparently Dutch Charlie almost never came in, maybe once in five years. So, we went for Leaning Tree. After a 2,000’ descent into the gorge, Leaning Tree came into view. Blue ice cascaded down the sheer wall of tan granite across the river in a single, clean drop of nearly 800 feet. There were no snow-covered ledges to make it look less impressive. There was only ice and rock. As we walked downriver, a pendant of emerald ice revealed itself at the top of the cliff to the right of Leaning Tree. Could Dutch Charlie be in? More and more ice came into view as we walked, until finally the full sweep of Dutch Charlie appeared. There was ice from bottom to top. We decided to switch our objective and take on the king line. A convenient plug of ice directly below the route allowed us to cross the river, and Allie started up the first pitch of fat, grade 4 ice. The crux came two pitches higher, where a narrow ribbon of ice bisected a steep dihedral. By now we were getting full sun and it was downright hot. I was a bit terrified leading, as the ice under me was rapidly turning to water, but the crux was short and soon I was drilling a v-thread into mushy ice at a small stance above the dihedral for the belay. Two long pitches later we were at the top, totally drenched but feeling very alive. We zipped down the waterfall, swapped our soaked base layers for the damp ones we’d hiked in, crossed the river, and started the long grind back up to the car. Just as it became too dark to see without headlamps, we popped over the final rise and onto the road. *** A couple days after Allie left, I soloed up the initial pillars of Broken Hearts with a static rope, a drill, and a dozen 4.75” x 0.5” bolts (the rock in the South Fork ranges from bad to atrocious). At the top of the third pitch, I traversed right across a steep scree slope to the top of an ochre dihedral splitting an 80’ rock wall. I bolted an anchor at the top of the route, then rappelled the line, cleaning hundreds of pounds of choss along the way. I used the remaining bolts to establish a new dry-tool route that allows climbers to bypass the third pitch of Broken Hearts, which often melts out before the rest of the route, to access the fantastic upper tiers. Aaron and I climbed the route a month later at a grade of about M6 and named it Coronary Bypass. Next day, craving an adventure, I set off up the Dental Floss drainage with a light pack. It hadn’t snowed much in months, so the lower tiers of Ishawooa Mesa were bone dry. Dry spells are common in the South Fork, as both the Teton and Absaroka ranges rob incoming clouds of moisture before they can reach the valley. In mid-winter

the spring-fed drainages freeze solid, but with no snow to cover the lower angle terrain, climbers can sometimes encounter seemingly endless rolling ice. Such was the case when I started up Dental Floss, and after about half a mile of joyful rolling ice, I finally hit snow. Higher, one beautiful pitch of grade 4 ice cascading down a twisting chimney gave passage through a final cliff band. Just three hours after leaving the car, I was sitting on a promontory at the top of Ishawooa Mesa, savoring the splendor of the South Fork. *** A week later Natalie was in town for another visit. With the extremely dry conditions, we decided to go for one of the few routes that had eluded Aaron in twenty years of climbing in the South Fork: the Illogicicle. Driving into the Valley at dawn, we passed a herd of elk at least a hundred strong, grazing by the river, a reminder of the wildness of the place. We parked at the Ishawooa Mesa trailhead and set off northeast. Half an hour later, we ran, slid, and tumbled down a steep cut bank into the Illogicicle drainage, where we crunched along mostly flat ice. Further up, a crumbling cliff barred the way. There didn’t appear to be any ice, so we each found our own way up the chossy, low-5th terrain to the first real step of ice, where we broke out our tools. Above the step, we scrambled through a snaking slot canyon where Aaron had aborted his first attempt a decade earlier. He had found thigh-deep snow clogging the narrow incision in the cliff. Now, the three of us found bare ice and rock. Two hours into our approach, we exited the slot and found the first snow, but no steep ice in sight. Fifteen minutes later, coming around a bend, we saw an enormous chunk of ice at the top of the cliff band above; the first pitch. Hidden from all save those who make it to the last few minutes of the long approach, this rare and notorious pillar can make or break an ascent of the Illogicicle. On this day, it looked solid. As we continued walking, more and more ice appeared and my confidence soared—until the full pillar came into view. Part way down the cliff, the thick ice abruptly ended, and from the menacing curtain that was left, a tiny spindle of ice dropped down to the base. It looked totally unstable; a strong gust of wind could knock it over. But we kept going to get a closer look. From the cave behind the pillar, the ice seemed more solid. The tiny spindle was thicker than it looked from the front and attached well at the top and bottom. The weight of the hanging curtain was way out in front, not stressing the pillar. There were good features to stand on through the steepest section. And it was warm and had been for a few days. This was our thought process. I was glad to be with a master of pillar climbing as we debated whether it was safe to climb. Next page, Dane Steadman nearing the top of the first pitch of “Illogicicle”, after traversing around to the front side. Photo: Aaron Mulkey

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We decided it was good to go, and since Aaron wanted to shoot photos and Natalie wanted nothing to do with it, I got the sharp end.

The next 50 meters provided the wildest climbing on ice tools I had ever done. From the top of the cone, delicate climbing up the steep, mushroomed pillar brought me into a tight chimney in the ice. Squeezing through the chimney, I threw my foot out into a stem off the hanging daggers behind me and saw nothing but air between my legs for 100’. I stemmed higher until just below the junction of ice and rock, where I place a solid screw at head-height before making a long traverse on vertical ice around to the front side of the daggers. At the end of the traverse, I sank another screw and finished the pitch on steep, featureless ice. Once I clipped into the tree anchor at the top and yelled, “Off belay!” I was hit by a wave of nausea. We climbed two more fantastic pitches as afternoon faded into evening, and the sun was setting when we arrived at the third belay. We got a good look at the last, monstrous pillar of the route, but it was still a long way away, and it was getting dark fast. Another long descent by headlamp ensued, featuring lots of downclimbing and the occasional rappel. Every time we slid down, brown water oozed from the saturated ropes onto our shells. Hours later, we emerged from the drainage exhausted, caked in mud, but deeply satisfied. I once again welcomed the sweet smell of sagebrush as we hiked across the prairie back to the car.

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Dane Steadman climbing the first pitch of “Illogicicle”. Photo: Aaron Mulkey

The following weekend, Aaron and I headed to the Bitches Brew amphitheater to begin work on two mixed routes we wanted to establish, the same routes I had photographed back in December. After four miles of hiking and one long pitch of grade 3 ice, we arrived at the amphitheater in a blizzard. We needed to bolt from the top down because the rock there is severely overhung and has virtually no cracks. I led up the main pillar of Bitches Brew. It felt much harder than it had two weeks earlier, and after a prolonged fight with bad pro and frozen fingers, I pulled over the lip and belayed Aaron up. We fixed our static rope to a stout tree, then Aaron rappelled into the line and got to work while I ran minitraxion laps on the pillar to stay warm. The first route featured a short section of grade 3 ice leading to a shallow dihedral and a ledge. From the ledge, a section of rotten, lower-angled black rock guarded a dramatic overhang of solid grey stone, over which a massive icicle hung. When Aaron finished bolting the top pitch, he rappelled to the ground and I took over. I bolted the bottom pitch but ran out of daylight as I was excavating the rotten rock above the ledge in search of a belay anchor. We stashed our gear and hiked back to the car under clear skies as the full moon bathed the Valley in soft orange light. The next morning I jugged up the rope wearing only a thin fleece, and installed the halfway anchor for the first route. I finished cleaning the foul, black rock above and jugged up through the overhangs. Atop the cliff, I moved our rope to a different tree and rappelled into the second route. From the cliff’s lip, a short, steep pillar of ice dropped down to a snowy ledge. A few feet to the right of the pillar a menacing dagger hung over the lower part of the route. It looked bad, weighing several tons and angled away from the cliff. It was hollow and scarcely attached to the rock above. It was dangerous to work on the rest of the route until this overhead hazard was gone, so I swung out to break it off. It looked like it would cut loose with the slightest touch, so I was surprised when the first whack with my ice tool bounced right off it. I tried again, but nothing. “It seems pretty solid!” I yelled down to Aaron. “You just need to find the right spot!” he shouted back. I jugged a few feet higher and swung again, this time in the right spot. Time slowed as the dagger broke cleanly off the wall, and I watched bug-eyed as thousands of pounds of ice plummeted silently through the air. A very long second later, thunder filled the amphitheater as the dagger hit ground and exploded, spewing shrapnel in every direction. “Woo-weeeeee!” I shrieked. With the danger cleared, I continued down the line. When I rappelled over the lip of the snowy ledge, my heart skipped a beat. A gently overhanging wall of clean, grey stone, marred only by widely spaced, deeply in-cut edges, rose up to a curtain of icicles just below the ledge. Magnificent. I had never seen rock so conducive to climbing in the South Fork. I tapped on the wall with my hammer and the high-pitched ring it produced was music to my ears. I continued down, placing bolts without needing to clean anything, marveling at the beauty of the line. Clouds began to block the sun and the wind picked up, and I began to shiver uncontrollably in my thin fleece. After rappelling through an acute corner and below a roof, the drill ran out of battery, so I happily zipped down to the ground and into my down parka. Aaron had built a fire. I plopped down and pulled my boots off to warm my frozen feet while Aaron started up the rope with a fresh battery. As my toes slowly regained feeling, the smell of charred wool wafted into my nostrils. So much for that sock. Aaron worked his way down from my last bolt, first in the fading evening light, then by headlamp. When his battery died, the route was still far from complete. We stashed our gear and headed back to the car. A week and a half elapsed before we returned to our project. In the meantime, we had come up with a name for the amphitheater: The Ballroom. Upon returning, we were shocked to find that the dagger I had broken off had regrown in just ten days, and was now bigger than ever. So, I jugged back up and broke it off again. This time the dagger was more stubborn, and it took many minutes of chopping to take it down. Aaron headed up to finish bolting. The lower pitch was even more stunning than the top: huge blobs of ice plastered to vertical rock at improbable angles, connected by tiny rock features. After three days of work and nearly 40 bolts, our two new routes were ready to climb.

Next page, Aaron Mulkey cleaning the second pitch of Lethal Weapon. The route climbed up the smear bellow Aaron, through the steep section, and gained the dagger from the left. Photo: Dane Steadman

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The next day, we hiked back up the Deer Creek Trail, my seventh (and I hoped final) time for the season, along with Christian, a local photographer. It was my turn to lead the approach pitch, and 70 meters of ice and a bit of slogging later, we were looking up at our routes, this time intent on sending. Aaron started us off with the blob pitch. I watched as he hooked his tools over invisible edges, stepped up on rock, swung into overhanging ice, pulled up on top of the first blob, and disappeared from view. Eventually, “Off belay!” echoed down from above. Following his lead, I had to move creatively to get over the 35 meters of wild blobs. When I arrived at the ledge, it was my turn to lead. I clipped my tools to my harness and traversed left, grabbing the sharp edge of a flake with my gloved hands. I moved up to a small roof, clipped a bolt over the lip, and began scratching for a tool placement. Suddenly the climbing felt hard, and I couldn’t remember what holds I’d seen rappelling over the roof nearly two weeks earlier. I finally found an adequate hook, pulled over the roof and wriggled into the awkward slot above. From there, some stemming and tool-torqueing brought

me to the gorgeous overhanging headwall. I milked the last rest, and then started hooking my way upward. The pump built steadily as I moved from edge to edge. Just as my power began to wane, I reached up and swung my right tool into the curtain of ice. And it shattered! The late-winter sun had weakened the ice, and now the fragile daggers were mostly detached from the rock. Desperately, I swung again and again, each time shattering more ice and slowly losing the grip on my tool. I had placed these bolts my rope was clipped to, and I felt connected to this cliff by more than just a few steel points. I wouldn’t give up. I kept on swinging, and finally, my tool stuck. I matched on it, then sunk my other tool further right into the ice. With both tools planted, I cut my feet loose and swung out to the right. I locked off, barely hanging on, and planted my left tool in the snow-covered ice above the lip. With my last strength, I pulled up and flopped chest-first onto the ledge and crawled to safety. I felt exalted, but there was one last obstacle. Once my forearms regained some strength,

I tapped my way up the final pillar and fought through a few bushes to the tree anchor above.

and we named our new route Glass Animals.

I belayed Aaron up,

We rappelled back to the bottom, rested a bit, and started up our second route. I led the first pitch, which, though insecure, was much easier than either pitch of Glass Animals. Then, Aaron tip-toed up the rotten black rock of the second pitch to the first roof. From there, nearly 50 feet of severely overhung rock guarded a hanging dagger. He started up, making long reaches to connect tiny edges. About halfway through the overhang one of the edges exploded. The tool popped, and both his feet cut free from the rock leaving him dangling from a single tool. He swung violently from side to side. At first it looked like he would get his feet back on the rock, but just before he could stabilize the remaining edge broke and he fell. With the fire of the onsight extinguished, he hung a couple more times on the steep rock, then moved onto ice. He disappeared and a while later I heard that sweet faint and familiar “Off belay!”. I floundered on the steep rock but relished the exposure stepping across onto the ice. I was impressed when I saw how difficult and serious the climbing was above the dagger. Thin ice, rotten rock, and not much for protection. When I mantled over a log at the top of the cliff, the first ascent of Lethal Weapon was complete. We’ll be back next winter for the redpoint.

During the second half of February, Aaron and I climbed a few more ice routes, classic and obscure, and managed two more first ascents: a steep, dirt-stained grade 4 pillar in the Greybull River Valley south of Cody, and a short but wild dagger in the familiar South Fork. I finished the season with seven new routes, and Aaron came away with a whopping twenty one.

The Ballroom illuminated by fire and headlamp. “Glass Animals” climbs the blobs of ice on the left, “Lethal Weapon” the dagger in the center, and “Bitches Brew” the pillar on the right. Photo: Dane Steadman.

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The Absaroka Mountains and further reaches of the Bighorn Basin are some of the last truly wild places in the Lower 48, and magnificent arenas for winter climbing. We dug a little bit deeper into the potential for exploratory climbing there this season, BUT THE SURFACE HAS BARELY BEEN SCRATCHED

Aaron Mulkey starting up wild blobs of ice on the first ascent of Glass Animals. The big piece of ice hanging at the top of the image is what remained of the dagger that had to be broken off twice. Photo: Dane Steadman.

Yipee!!!

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Indifference kills