dylan_taylor

Thanks for describing the broken stuff. I think it's important for us to know the limitations of our gear. I guess the good thing about most of these accidents, is that the gear that failed was either old and fatigues, or was used improperly, or was manipulated into a failure-prone position by vibration, etc... With diligence, gear failure in all but the most extreme situations shouldn't happen. Catbirdseat: the cracks in the biners I have looked at are suprisingly large (maybe 0.05 - 0.2mm wide?).I feel like I can almost get my fingernail in there. Although the salt-caused stress corrosion cracking seems a plausible explanation, do you think the force exerted by the crystallization of salt is sufficient enough to crack the aluminum that wide? I had been under the impression that when the steel notch and gate pins are driven into the pre-drilled holes in a carabiner, they would have to be driven in under a lot of pressure. The pressure exerted by the more competent steel onto the surrounding aluminum over years and years may be enough to cause cracks? 3 out of 4 of the cracked biners I saw were probably at least 20 years old (big fat coon-yards, like I said). This was just a speculation of mine. Perhaps it's way off base? Perhaps the salt crystallization initiates a crack into already stressed aluminum, and the crack keeps growing? I dunno. Thanks for the input. I gotta go. I'll be back at a computer in a month.

Maybe it needs a nighttime courtesy trundle.

So who has broken gear in the past? Either by falling on it, or discovering a little crack in it? What types? What brands? I know I have found at least four biners with hairline cracks in them. In all four, the crack either propagated from the steel pin at the notch, or the steel pin at the gate axel. Two were old coon-yard ovals, one was an old BD quicksilver, and one was a euro bentgate POS. Three of these biners were on other peoples racks, and I found them while killing time at a hanging belay! Any other broken gear stories? Broken cam shafts on rigid friends? Cam axels? slings? micro nuts?

inspecting your gear goes without saying. All the biners I don't trust get turned into coat hangers, bottle openers, dog-leash connectors, and kite-skiing hooks. But 99% of the booty biners I find look pretty darn fresh, and i don't think twice rappin off them - or adding them to my rack if they're spiffier than the ones I already have!

I heard about some testing done on quicklinks in the mid 90's. Sorry, I don't have a link or magazine article to refer to. Basically the Taiwan quicklinks occasionally broke below their "rated" strength of 800kg and the french made Maillon Rapides broke at nearly double their stamped strength. But again, this was 10 years ago, so maybe quality control has improved and this is a moot point. However, it would be interesting to see which QL's corode faster, in regard to which types should be left on permanent chain stations. These days, if someone's old QL looks thick enough, and it isn't worn through, I'll rap off of it, regardless of where it was made. And if it looks dodgy, I'll leave my own 'biner anyway. I've seen some awfully skinny quick links being left on bail slings out there. Basically, I keep finding booty 'biners faster than I need to leave them. So thats why I'm not in the market for quick links.

I think if you are buying 3/8" quick links and installing 2 of them, for lowering and rappel purposes only, you don't need to worry about failure. My $.02 I don't buy heavy quicklinks. I leave biners.

I here there's a new theft-proof car on the market...

Yep. I don't trust the little ones that say "taiwan" on them. The better one's are Maillon Rapide. The're more $$. That's why i just bail off of biners that I bootied from somewhere else anyway. Kudos to you for fixing up a bunk anchor.

Tex, Gray areas suck, don't they? In the end, we all end up creating our own "definitions". I hate getting all caught up in an arguement about what could be construed as "contrived". The strictest users of the term "onsight" would probably consider an onsight attempt in progress once the climber's feet leave the ground. What you consider the "ground" is up to you. If the route is a 5.11 but there is a 4th class section up to the "real climbing", I think we can all agree that this short scrambly section isn't really part of the route. But again, this is up to you. In the climbing I've done, I've never really had to stop and scratch my head and think about where the "route" really begins. It seems like it's obvious in most places. There's the ground, and there's the route. I only get fussy about using the term "onsight" if it is on a route that is very near my limit. If my limit is usually lld and I "onsight" a 12a, it feels pretty cool. If I "onsight" a 5.8 I don;t spend that much time thinking about it. But if someone else has never climbed as hard as 5.8, and they "onsight" one, that is awsome. And I'm not saying downclimbing is "off bounds" during a redpoint attempt. But downclimbing to the ground during an onsight attempt is. Also, handjaming on a sport route isn't "cheating", it's using good technique!

Roger that! Quicklinks work great, and are cheaper than biners. But if you need to rap from say, 15 pitches up, biners are a lot more realistic to have brought along... Also, if you leave a biner, it can be a good idea to wrap duct tape or athletic tape around the gate to turn it into a "locker". Shame on somebody for tying a sloppy water knot!

Yes, my =

CBS: since your lump came about so fast, maybe there's hope that it's related to a little trauma or injury that you have sustained? Hopefully it will go away in 6 weeks? Me - I've had these damn things on my hands for over a year now, and it sucks on long bike rides, and when trying to parallel park my VW (no power steering), and when grabbing sharp JT slopers. I think the knife is in my future...

I don't think the definition of onsight has ever been based on one dubious ascent by Scott Franklin. I think my facts are straight. The climbing community I have involved myself in for nearly 15 years (colorado based - maybe the ethics are looser in the PNW? - just kidding!) has considered onsight climbing to be the purest form of ascent. That means "On Sight". NO prior info means not having been on the route before - i.e. no climbing halfway up and then backing off back to the ground because you didn't have the guns to fire it the first time. You are right that semantics change over the years. Todd Skinner and Paul Piana's free ascent of the Salathe was poo-pooed by subsequent ascentionists and critics as being less pure because each climber only led half the pitches. Whatever. So later ascentionists have claimed "more pure" ascents by leading all the pitches. I would hate to see the purity of an onsight become diluted because people think you can dink around on a route and take a break from it and then "onsight it" as long as you didn't say "take" or fall. You have your definition, I have mine. Forgive me if I think mine more pure...

RuMR, In 20 years of climbing you've never heard that an onsight means climbing it first try? Unfortuately, there's no webster's for climbing terminology but if you do a search for climbing terminology and onsight, I think the definition is pretty consistent.

Dylan, I'm not so sure I agree with you....yet. What's your basis for making that statement? CO is the result of incomplete combustion (of either fuel type). It seems to me that complete combustion would be much easier to approach with the butane/propane mixture in the canisters than it would with the petroleum based fuel. Where's CBS when we need him..... Lets not split hairs here. Maybe one pumps out a few ppm more than the other. But I would tend to think that they are both equally lethal when used improperly or in a poorly ventilated place. However, neither cannister stoves nor liquid fuel stoves achieve 100% complete combustion of the fuel. And liquid fuel stoves burn pretty damn clean when they are well taken care of, burning clean fuel, etc... If you cook in a poorly ventilated spot, you will eventually exhaust the fresh supply of O2 due to having only a finite volume of air to draw from in the first place. That means the stove can't perform the complete combustion reaction stoichiometrically. That means it is going to put out more CO (a positive feedback loop) but my degree is in geochem, not organic chem, so forgive me for speculating.

For many years it seems, an onsight meant that you had climbed a route successfully, with no beta, and no previous experience on the route. If you downclimb to the ground, rest, and fire it, thats a redpoint. There is no difference between doing that and falling, or saying take, then lowering to the ground, and firing it. You are succeeding on your second attempt . Your first attempt must be considered a preview, and thus precludes you from ever onsigting this route. This is what makes onsight climbing the purest form of roped ascent. If a climber climbed to the crux of some gritstone testpiece, and backed off by climbing to the ground before returning to climb it successfully, he has decreased the level of committment of the ascent by gaining knowledge (no matter how valuable or non-valuable) about the route. I hope that this definition remains the same for some years to come.

Liquid fuel and cannister stoves pump just as much CO into your tent. Liquid fuel stoves just stink more when you shut them off, and they are dangerous to prime inside a tent. CO is 200 times the affinity for attaching to your red blood cells than good ol O2. So if you suck in a bunch at altitude you aren't doing yourself a favor. I've tried cooking in my tent (a bibler) with canister stoves and I suck at it. I have burned a hole in both sides of my sleeping bag when it touched a swinging superfly ascent, and I dumped a liter of boiling water off the top of my pocket rocket. I never cook in the tent if there is a vestibule. Only when I don't have the vesty and it is nuking outside.

I think all the pics should be on it now. If not, they ought to be in my gallery. The biggest bummer with Spurr now is that since the eruption of 1992, the crater lake no longer exists. When it was there, those few who ventured there could soak in 106 degree water right in the belly of the beast. We had to settle for a steamy muddy crater that smelled like someone had eaten too many freeze-dried meals.

Layton Kor and Harvey T Carter deserve some recognition for their slew of desert and alpine first ascents. "...Not because they are there, but because they might not be there much longer..." -Kor trying to explain the reason for climbing rotten desert towers. Jim Donini, and (to an extreme effect) F Becky, for giving us hope that one can have a long and fruitful climbing career.

yes, no, pink Not that much, except that one is the ground (where you can lie around and have your belay slave massage your forearms) and the other is somewhere on the route. I admit, this stuff goes into gray territory sometimes. When Yuji Hiriyama onsighted sphinx crack in the south platte of colorado (solid 5.13), he climbed up to the roof where the sustained cruxyness is, he placed gear, clipped it, and downclimbed to a good rest. I can't remember if he was able to fenagle a "no-hands", but, knowing Yuji, he probably did. He was still well above the ground. He then shook out for a bit, returned to the crux, and sent it about as clean as can be. I give him credit for the onsight. Seems like everyone else does too. This is the first of many examples I can think of. For instance, I have gotten about 10 or 15 nohands rests on Caboose, in squamish. The thing is basically a flared chimney. I can't remember, but I might have downclimbed a move or two here or there. Did I botch the onsight? I led it clean, never hung, and what not. Things have changed since the old days of yo-yoing counting as a free ascent, but some people I know still consider that to be a valid ascent (albeit not an onsight). More power to them. Where do you draw the line? Alex Huber might be able to rest on a hold I won't be able to touch if I train for the next ten years. If he downclimbs to an enormo-jug, is his onsight blown? Seems to me we ought to just draw the line at the ground and leave it be.

Todd - See you in the cascades in a couple months!

Seems like the onsite is blown once you've downclimbed to the ground. Most people might give you the credit if you could downclimb to a good rest - even a no-hands, before heading back up to fire it.

Danalco sent me some skins and socks recently as well. I got the thin liner gloves and the thick "chill blocker" gloves. Ditto for the socks. I like the thin stuff, I don't know about the thick gloves though - mainly due to the fit. It is a little sloppy. Still, these gloves (and socks) would kick ass for the cascades during a rainy june. You could make and throw slushballs all day and your hands would get soaked by the sweat before the slush gets through. I've been using them up here in AK for a couple weeks, and as long as it doesn't go from really warm to really cold too fast, they work awsome.

Sorry, I don't know why all the pics didn't load up the first time.

Climb: Mt. Spurr, in Alaska's Tordrillo Range- Date of Climb: 3/19/2004 Trip Report: Mt Spurr TR. It was a “Spurr” of the moment trip. I had flown up to Anchorage a couple weeks ago to ski and train for a traverse of the Chugach with my friend Joe. A few days after getting off the plane, I met a guy at a party who was searching earestly for a fourth person to join him and two others on a climb and ski descent of Mt Spurr Volcano in the Tordrillo Range of the Alaska Peninsula. It was to be a six day trip, starting on the last few days of winter, and ending during the first few days of spring. Of course, in Alaska, it’s all cold anyway. They had a pilot willing to take us. It would cost $325 each, I didn’t have the money, but I had a credit card so I said OK, I’ll go. Mt Spurr is around 11,070 feet. It is the northernmost volcano in the Aleutian chain, with Mts. Redoubt and Illiamna neighboring it to the southwest. It is an active volcano, last erupting in the fall of 1992. It deposited 3mm of ash on Anchorage, but a lot more ash fell on its surrounding glaciers, leading to an accelerated period of melt and deglaciation, and an almost perennial accumulation of poo-brown snow. With about two days to prepare, I tossed all the cold weather gear I could muster into my pack. It was about 5 degrees above in Anchorage, at sea level. I was terrified. I had as much clothes as I would have taken on Denali in May or early June. I hate the cold. Two Thursdays ago, the wind was howling, and our flight was delayed one day. On Friday, the three other AK boys came by the house to pick me up. I had only met Cody, the ring-leader of the operation. In the car were his friends, Chris and Andy, and the token K-9, Taz. The four of us drove to the Lake Hood seaplane base (frozen at this time of year) and stuffed gear into the PA 8 or 12 or something until it was well above FAA limits. Then Chris and Cody hopped in the back, then Taz hopped on their lap, then they went flying off into the cold Alaskan sky. The Pilot, Jimmy, would return in 2 hours and take Andy, myself, and our newest team member “Jackson”. The golden retriever belongs to Cody and was delivered with little prior notice moments before Jimmy cranked the prop over. Once we were loaded, Andy, Jackson, and I squeezed in behind our pilot, and we aimed his trusty steed towards Spurr, about 70 miles west of Anchorage. When we landed, it was blustery and cold, and Cody was wearing everything he brought. We disembarked, said our farewell to Jimmy, checked the battery on the sat phone that we had stored in our base camp, and within a half hour we were skinning towards the flanks of Spurr. Our landing zone was at 2500 feet directly south of Spurr and the intermediary peak, “Crater Peak”, the active vent that erupted 12 years ago. Our plan was to have a “leisurely skin” up the south flanks of Crater Peak, which, unlike the surrounding terrain, was non-glaciated. Upon reaching the summit of crater peak, we planned to ski down the north side several hundred feet, and set up camp on the glacier in the col between Crater and Spurr, at around 7200 feet. With our unruly packs, substantial elevation gain in front of us, and the high wind and diminishing sunlight, we soon realized that there was no way we were making it to the col camp. We dug into a 35 degree slope in a gully partway up Crater Peak, and we set up our tents. Cody and Chris and one dog squeezed into a Barbie-sized Integral Designs tent. Andy, Jackson, and I piled in to our far more roomy accommodations, “chez Hilleberg”. Given the steeper terrain we were on, it probably would have been akin to camping halfway up Mt. St. Helens in January or something similar. In the morning, the winds had increased, but we pressed on. I had never used ski crampons or Dynafit bindings before, but I was forced to learn quickly and I was incredibly pleased with their performance. There’s nothing like sketching up a 40 degree slope with just half your ski crampons digging in, and looking 3500 feet straight down a gulley that you would surely slide to the bottom of if you slipped. Eventually, hard nieve gave way to harder ice, and we were forced to find awkward positions in which to change into our mountaineering crampons without dropping the packs or skis back down the face. Eventually we topped out on crater peak, traversed a ridge with a mondo-sized cornice, and skied down into the col below Spurr. Snow coverage on the glacier was significant, so we just steered clear of obvious crevasses and glided un-roped into our home for the next few days. We went to work building walls around our camp before retiring in a camp with one hell of a view. Supposedly, Spurr has received only about 35 ascents, so it was inspiring to spend time in a place shared by so few others. We planned to ski to the summit the following morning, but high winds made us sleep in. When the wall directly upwind of the tent I shared with Andy finally caved in, we finally got up. We labored on our new double layer snow wall, and we marveled at the warmth of the wind. Although it was gusting to 60 mph at times, we were sweating profusely with only some thin layers on. Very strange. The dogs were the only smart ones. They endeavored to remain tent-bound for the entire day. That night the sound of silence woke us. A more typical Alaskan chill had blown in during the night, but the lack of wind was appreciated. We discussed the nature of the legality of certain chemicals in a state like Alaska. We had a leisurely pre-ski breakfast, and embarked on our summit tour at the more proper alpine start hour of 10:00am. Once the sun hit us it became hot. I was skinning in my t-shirt for some time. For March 22nd, it felt downright pleasant. We occasionally stopped to re-apply s-screen, admire the view, and clean out the smoking instrument. Skinning became rather steep at times, and we did have to remove skis in order to climb a slope of around 45 degrees. We wondered how fun the skiing would be on the rather hard, steep, wind-hammered surface. But our greatest concern was how we’d ski the sastrugi. The high winds felt earlier had sculpted piles 3 and 4 feet high at times, with little valleys in between. And it formed on slopes up to 35 degrees too. Chris was a little addled from either the sun, the exertion, or some chemicals, and he couldn’t thing of the word for “sastrugi”. So he called it “sturgerewski”. “Man, tryin to ski this sturgerewski is gonna Suck!” Eventually we reached the summit plateau. It was typically volcanic, with a broad flat summit plateau not unlike Baker or Rainier. We were able to ski right up onto the summit. The only crevasse we had to step across on the entire route was approximately 50 feet from the highest point. We took in the view, moving our gaze from Iliamna to Redoubt to Neacola, to the Revelations, to Denali and Foraker. The oil platforms in Cook inlet glittered in the sun. Some of us began carrying our skiis back to the crevasse, so that we could click in just on the other side of it. Chris came back to the summit and said “where’s Taz”? We all stopped and stared at the crevasse. We all heard a yelping sound. We all ran to the edge of the crevasse and looked. There, perched on a rather unstable looking snow mushroom about 25 feet down, was Taz, anxiously pacing and squealing. I grabbed a picket and our rope, slammed in a few things, lowered Chris in, who struggled to grab hold of his dog. Then we hauled him out on a 2:1. The dog was scared, but unscathed. We clicked in and began our 4000 foot ski descent back to camp. If only it was powder! Negotiating “sturgerewski” and steep boilerplate fatigued our thighs. We stopped occasionally to rest and regain psyche. Finally we arrived back at “chez hilleberg”. Freeze dried never tasted so good. It may have been some of the worst snow I have ever skied, but the weather, the scenery, the goofy company, and the outrageously remote setting made it a trip to remember. The following morning, we packed up, and climbed back to the top of Crater Peak, where another 4000 foot couloir led back to our base camp and airstrip. Rather than ski steep couloir shots with heavy packs, we all elected to remove the heaviest items, clip them all together, and give them the “huck” down the couloir. Chris elected to huck his whole pack, and we giggled like school-kid vandals as we watched his pack descend 3500 feet in a matter of seconds. The skiing was surprisingly good. The sun had baked the couloir, softening it up to almost a corn consistency. The copius amounts of ash sitting on the snow ensured that I would be getting a free base-grind out of the trip, and when I got to the bottom, there were no more chunks of old skin glue on my bases. Upon reaching base camp, there was just enough wind to launch our power kites, and Andy and I enjoyed a couple hours of Jibing and tacking along the terminus of a glacier. The next morning, Jimmy arrived as expected, and soon we were back in Anchorage, downing libations and cheering our efforts. The snow began to fall that evening, and the weather in the Tordrillos didn’t clear till this morning. It could have been a long wait. Given the circumstantes, the trip was an incredible success. The weather was perfect, we didn’t crash, only one crevasse fall, and I got to climb a peak I had never even heard of three days before we left. Even thought I had never met Chris, Cody, or Andy until the trip, they turned out to be three great gentlemen to suffer in the backcountry with. There was a lot of laughing, wise-cracking, and dreaming about future trips. It was perfect. Here are some shots. I took barely any of these. I was shooting slide film on my SLR and I don’t know if I’ll ever have the time to scan any of them. These are from Andy’s camera that we shared frequently. Our Objective: Mount Spurr in Alaskas Tordrillo Range. Loading up our trusty steed. Note Doggy. Me, Jackson, and Andy stuffed into the back of a PA-12 somewhere over cook inlet... A first view of our objective: Coming in on final for our basecamp. Diggin in on Camp 1 on the south flanks of crater peak. "hey, I've got some real estate over here I want to show you". Nearing the summit of Crater peak with top-heavy packs and high wind. "Chez Integral Designs" and "Chez Hilleberg". Our homes for the next four days. The wall above the hilleberg blew over the next day. Even on the first day of spring, we were still able to enjoy a pleasant day of Alaskan winter weather... During a brief lull in the wind, we squeeked a run in on Crater Peak. It was only a few hundred vertical above our camp. Here's a shot of me about to cross my tips... A view of our team during our quiet and hot summit day. At this point it was too steep to skin, and we had to don crampons. A demonstration of our high morale on summit day. A token summit shot on the top of Spurr. A good day of ski mountaineering isn't complete without a little Crevasse rescue thrown in. The dog has just fallen in to the crack seen behind us, and I am equalizing a couple of anchors. Of all the places where I have practiced or performed crevasse rescue, this one had the best view. Chris hanging on the rope, and trying to grab his dog before we hauled them out. Me sloppily skiing "sturgerewski" just below the summit. A little further down things got steeper. But at least it was a uniform slope. Heading home the next day. Here's me plodding up Crater peak one last time. Site of the "Great Huck". Once tossed, our various belongings and stuffsacks careened almost all the way down the 3500' couloir. We had a competition to see whose would go the furthest. Chris Won. He tossed his entire backpack. It was completely festoned with shovel, picket,pad, wands, and the like, and still managed to roll, tumble, and slide the furthest. The lower part of the couloir had pretty damn good corn for Alaska in March. Our basecamp/landing area is in the flat area in the center of the left side of the photo. Token shameless chump-ski-poser shot. Thats (L to R) Cody, Chris, and me (with the shortest boards of course). In front are Jackson on the left, and the crevasse-fall victim, Taz, on the right. The pointy non-glaciated peak in front is Crater Peak. We skied directly down the couloir from the summit. The peak in the back is Mt. Spurr proper. Gear Notes: took Dynafit system. Loved it. Approach Notes: Flew with Jimmy from Trail Ridge Air, Lake Hood, Anchorage, AK.