Mt Baker - The next challenge.

The climb was exhilarating. I can say that now because it has been more than eight days since I have returned from the summit. Not too long ago, I would not have been so sure. We made it to the summit just as the sun was setting - a magnificent sight. The air was thin but tolerable. My breath was sure and I was not really fatigued-thanks to our trusty lead guide, Seth Timpano. He made the difference as the lead climber. I had the luxury of following in his footsteps- literally. The ascent took about 8 hours from base camp. When I look back on it, I really have to think as to where those hours went. I have no sense of the length of time that had transpired. You take an eight hour plane flight and you know it. You sit in an airport for eight hours and you know it. You climb a mountain in eight hours and it seems like only a brief interlude. Only really scary moment on the way up was a small avalanche that caused a few screams. It was headed directly towards us from about 200 yards up the mountain side. In the end, however, as all but me scrambled to safety, it turned out to be more of a loose snowfall than a significant avalanche. I do remember them screaming at me to move. I turned only to see that all four others on my rope team had made it further from the oncoming runaway snow mass than me. I just had a harder time moving in the deep wet snow as the others. My body had sunk to my knees and further movement would have been almost futile. The fall moved about three feet to my left.

The descent was probably the most difficult part of the expedition. We descended from the summit after dark with head lamps to guide the way. Made it to base camp after midnight. I learned my biggest weakness and one that concerns me the most - balance. The snow on the highest part of the glacier was soft, uneven, and deep at that time of night. It had become wet following exposure to the day's sun and cloudless blue skies.The slope at that initial high point of the descent was the steepest part of the journey. I was constantly falling and scrambling and falling. To descend at a steady pace in the thin air does require energy expenditure. To descend, tumble with a 35 pound pack on your back, scramble frantically to your feet, free yourself from tangled ropes, and then repeat the same nearly futile process every three minutes requires tenfold increase in energy expenditures. The others with steady feet never experienced the same exertion. At one point, my leg sank so deep in the snow, I almost pulled my foot out of my boot in an attempt to free myself from its vice like grip. Remind you, I was the oldest in the group by several decades. Most were in there 20s and 30s. We were all on ropes and I had a hard time keeping up with the rest of my more experienced climbing partners. I was ready to beg them to leave me behind. I knew, however, that was not really an option given the plummeting high mountain temperatures.

I think you get the picture. I was asked by a colleague here at the hospital what personal insight I had gained from the experience. An interesting question? Was I a different person? Did I know myself better? I thought for a moment and responded with the first words that came to my mind- " I am older than I thought."

C'est la vie. There is much more to be said but that will require more time. It is also time to end this chapter of my blogging. The hospital fund raiser has met its goal and our plans are to continue and involve my friends here at the Infirmary. I am grateful to all. It has hopefully for us been a unifying experience. This particular blog will open again in the future as new plans are established. As for me, I am planning a new adventure this winter. Will, likely, head to Chile and the southern Patagonia ranges to practice mixed climbing techniques and summiting one of the 13,000 foot peaks found in the region. In the meantime, training in rock climbing and ice climbing will occur in Westchester County and the Catskills. Will likely do Algonquin in the Adirondacks this fall. Need to work on more leg and core strenthening as well as balance and endurance.

As for my blogging, I have enjoyed the experience of writing. If nothing else, the process has awakened in me the joys of literature - the process of conveying thoughts with words; the pleasure of seeing how creative those many minds out there can really be. I now read more than at any time in my life. All this indeed may be a life changing event. On the other hand, I may just end up in my usual state of affairs, some place on a beach sipping pina coladas. I will be opening a new blog wouldbemountaineer.blogspot.com ( an opportunity for full blown irreverence)- practicing my writing skills in addition to mountaineering. Have no idea where this is going but enjoying the trip -climbing the summit of my sunset years

Mt. Baker - what day is it?

So last night I checked in at this spur of the moment hotel room with a big king bed within the Seattle city limits. Not exactly sure how I got there or what part of Seattle it was in. I know that there wasn't a building around that was higher than four floors. I even doubt that I could ever find the place again if it wasn't for that Space Needle Thing down the block that was stretching to the night sky like a beacon calling me to a new world order and a chance to rest; yes, a chance to rest. After I checked in and told them to leave all luggage in the car (I was certain I did not have the strength to unload my tooth brush), I then walked across the street and had an order of fried chicken at this hole in the wall restaurant. I can't remember the name of the place or how the food tasted. I knew the affair was over when they took my plate away and gave me shake so as to remind me it was time to pay the bill. From there it was but a short walk to this little movie house down the street. It was just in time to see one of those indie films, you know the ones with the shaky camera and unknown actors. It was called The Winter Bones. I think it was around 9:45 PM. when the movie started. There were about three other people in the theater. Munched on some malted milk balls for the sugar rush so that I could stay awake for the rather bizarre conclusion to the film. I then walked back to the hotel room, closed the curtains to the flashing neon lights on the street right outside my window, and collapsed on the bed. As you might conclude from all this, I am still alive - barely.

This morning I checked into the most expensive hotel I could find. It happens to be The Four Seasons on the Seattle waterfront. From the lobby it was a straight course to their outdoor pool that overlooks the Puget Sound with the North Cascade Mountains in the background. To get to the pool with its fantastic plush lounge chairs and the best Bloody Mary you could ever ask for at 11:45 in the morning, I had to walk by the fitness center. Lots of folks grunting and puffing on tread mills so intensely, it was if they were trying to beat the devil for an extra few years of life. Not that latter insanity for me today, no sir. I can't even remember why folks would be actually doing that sort of thing. As for me, I just want to sit by the pool on the sixteenth floor, take in the incredible vista, and soak up the sun and the tasty beverage I will have delivered on a silver platter - not necessarily in that order.

The climb to the summit of Mt Baker and the subsequent descent was actually more than I had imagined. I am sore and very, very, very tired. I will talk more about that later. Right now, I am headed back to one of the super soft lounge chairs by the side of the pool. Sweet dreams await.

Mt Baker -Tomorrow is the Climb

This message is being sent illegally from some hotel lobby in Seattle. Not a very heroic way of communicating my last blog before the climb but the truth none the least. The hotel that I am actually currently staying at does not have a business center. The redeeming factor is that my own friendly, rather modest inn is close to the offices of Alpine Ascents and, thus, satisfies my anxiety disorder. I want to be sure to get to gear check promptly at 2PM today, so I have been pacing up and down the street in front of their offices for the last two days. Makes sense? I really felt that I needed to write this blog. Thus, I walked until I could find a hotel with computer access. Signed in at the desk and voila. They assumed I was a guest and never asked.

After gear check this afternoon at the Alpine Ascents office, I will drive my rental car (not an XK8 Jag!) to a motel outside of Mt Baker National Park. I will there unload all my equipment, check to be sure all is in order, and repack my Denali Pro backpack in hopefully some practical way. My objective is to minimize the weight of the pack by any means possible. That means thinking in terms of ounces not pounds. One protein bar, for instance, is 3 ounces. How many protein bars do I actually need? Tried to figure out the most usable calories per unit weight and load up on that substance. Trail mix with nuts seem to be the best option. It is principally because of the dehydration process which makes it the most efficient means of energy delivery. Beef jerky is another example of the way in which removing water weight may be beneficial in reducing weight. I also loaded up on nutrient/electrolyte mixes to add to my drinking water. An interesting article in the NY Times Science section several days ago pointed out that energy levels in a randomized study increased 18% in those individuals who drank caloric mixes during exercises vs those who drank only water.

Yesterday, my biggest dilemma was deciding on whether or not to include a summit pack to my gear. The latter is a small backpack that I will use on the day I climb to the peak and obviates the need for my more weighty expedition-oriented Denali Pro. The latter is designed to get all my gear to base camp. There were several summit pack options to choose from. Comparisons were made between one weighing 24 ounces (30 liter volume) vs another weighing 13 ounces (18 liter volume). I chose the former so that I would not be short changed on space for any lifesaving clothing or equipment. I was hesitant, however, because of the extra 11 ounces, a humongous weight addition. After packing, I plan to get to bed early. I am to be at the trail head at 7AM.

The trip here to Seattle was fairly uneventful. Read an interesting book on the plane called "No Way Down: Life and Death on K2". For those of you who might not know, K2 is in the Karakorum mountain range on the border of Pakistan and China. It is the second tallest peak in the world, 800 feet lower than Everest but a far more treacherous climb. The true account by a New York Times journalist, Graham Bowley(spelling?), took place in 2008 when 11 climbers from an international expedition lost their lives. They were cut off during a descent from the summit of K2 by an ice fall which destroyed their rope lines. I read to try to understand any important message that could be used for my own upcoming mountaineering adventures. After finishing the book, I am not sure there really is one. Stuff happens and that is that. Mountaineering books tend to run in the same vein. Serious works about individuals lost, injured, or otherwise. There needs to be a different perspective. My own little mountaineering blog started three months ago and has been an experience in and of itself. Will plan on continuing the writing effort in some form after the climb is over. Still, however, searching for the right genre - adventure, humour, mystery, love story, fiction, non-fiction, or some sort of strange hybrid.

Anyway, time to go and sample some different nutrient drinking mixes. Thanks to those who bothered to read this and wish me luck.

Mt Baker -Day 11 (Oh My God - Cont)

So what is there left to say and do. I have 11 days left. Prayer at this point is probably the best option. Join me in a moment of silence.

Okay, that helped.

I did spend the past weekend practicing my camping skills. Put up my Copper Spur Ultralight -2 tent in the back yard and slept there in a twenty degree sleeping bag with a self inflating mattress. Mind you, the temperature outside was in the eighties. The tent looked a little shaky to say the least by the time I was fed up trying to assemble it correctly. Fortunately, the backyard breezes were about three miles per hour. Any stronger winds and the cursed conglomeration would have been a jumble of nylon, crooked aluminum poles, and aged climber. My dog, Jezebel-the-Beagle, joined me. The two of us were reasonably comfortable as we lay there staring at the stars overhead. I fell asleep for three hours and then decided I would be more comfortable in my own bed with the cool breezes coming from the window unit air conditioner in my bedroom. My wife, on the other hand, is fed up with the whole thing and is moving out of the house - permanently.

I also spent time this past Saturday packing and unpacking my expedition backpack with everything I will carry on the mountain. Final weight will be close to 40 pounds. Once packed and appropriately adjusted to my torso, I spent the rest of the day with the loaded Denali Pro strapped to my back, doing routine chores around the house; washing dishes, picking up stuff, weeding the garden, etc. - quite a site for those driving by the house who were not aware of my plans. After perpetual adjustments of the shoulder straps, hip pads, and myriad other adjustable laces on the pack, it actually felt reasonably comfortable.

As far as my readings are concerned, I am now focused on some key elements, foremost of which have to do with avalanches. I rushed an order from Amazon.com, the titles of which will provide clues as to my concerns - "Staying Alive in Avalanche Terrain" by Bruce Tremper, "The Avalanche Handbook" by David McClung and Peter Schaerer, "Mountain Rescue Doctor" by Christopher Van Tilberg, and "Mountain Responder: When Recreation and Misfortune Collide" by Steve Achelis. Get the picture. I will need to be sure to pack my Xanax.

As far as physical conditioning is concerned, the last four days I have basically been taking it pretty easy. Paul G., my trainer, has been guiding me through the process. Staying loose is key; no heavy weights and only moderate aerobic stuff. My diet is pretty much gone to pot. Eating a lot of everything and loving every second of it. I rationalize it as a way of building glycogen stores in the muscles that I have been stressing the last six months. Got to be sure I have enough energy reserve for ATP production and O2 transport. I happened to look in a mirror yesterday and noticed that I am actually "buffed", a very significant transformation and not bad for someone several years past the age of 36. If there are any interested women out there, just let me know. I fantasize that after the climb I could get a job as a body double for some aging Hollywood actor, like Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise. Picture this. The director yells action. The cameras are overhead focused on my back with me in bed with some nubile young starlet wearing only an appropriately colored hairpiece. What a life!! At this point, my only consolation is that I have, indeed, spent a lot of time getting into condition. If I don't succeed, at least I can say I tried.

The plans are to leave next Tuesday to travel to Seattle where I will be spending a couple days getting acclimated. I should qualify - acclimated to the Seattle time zone - certainly not to the upcoming thin air. The highest altitude of this part of the trip will be the bar stool of a local saloon. For those of you who don't know Seattle and have never been to a saloon, that's about four feet above sea level. Following equipment checks at the offices of Alpine Ascents in Seattle on the 22nd, I will rent a car and head to a motel near the trail head at the base of Mount Baker. The climb starts on the 23rd.



I can also take comfort that the fund raiser for the hospital "Climbing for Sight and Sound" has done well. Many of my patients and physician colleagues have contributed. It will go for a good cause. I am deeply grateful for their support to the cause. I will carry their names with me, if not on paper, then in my brain. It will certainly give me more strength.

Mt Baker - Day 17 (Oh My God!)

All this talk about movie legends of yesteryear is hopefully behind me for at least a little while. I now am back in the real world. I wake up to write today's blog. In keeping with standard operating procedure, I count the days until I climb. Not too long ago it was 84 days. Remember that?. The discussion that day was The Painted Veil, an allegory for why in the world I would want to climb some majestic peak at my age.Then there was day 64 on self-arrest and how George Mallory and crew may not have used the technique to their avail when only 800 feet from the summit of Mt Everest. Then there was day 44 on Storm Clouds Ahead, a series of blogs on the knowledge that can be applied to predicting the fickle weather when camped in some desolate location on the mountain side. And guess what, I now have a little over 14 days to go. Oh my God!! I worry about my conditioning. Do I have the necessary strength and mental endurance? Will my body give out someplace near the summit and they have to helicopter me down to safety? I do recall that I have been pretty religious in daily routines; aerobic, core training, weights, anaerobic, and hiking specific exercises. But what do I have to show for it? Yesterday, I could barely lift my left arm. My shoulder is killing me. My left biceps hurts like a son-of-a-bitch every time I try to curl even modest weight. My left knee hurts with any pressure, I suspect some irritated deteriorating cartilage on the top of my tibia. My guess is I also have a stress fracture of my left foot. Can't put any weight on dorsiflexed toes without significant discomfort. The only exercise left that I can perform without aggravation is possibly to roll over, slowly and carefully. And to think I will be climbing to 12,000 feet after a 12 hour approach to base camp. The good news is the right side of my body feels just fine. Remember those three legged races in which we used to compete during our younger days; two people standing together side by side, the inner leg of each tied together to jointly share both the burden and the restraint. We'd tear off, or should I say hobble off, to the finish line. I wonder if that arrangement can be applied to mountaineering. Let me know if there is a volunteer out there in reasonable shape with a functioning left side of his or her body. I could use the help.

Dorothy, Otto, and I remained silently frozen in place for the next five minutes. It seemed an eternity; Dorothy gazing into space as if she were trying to recall her next instructions, Otto staring at me with those mocking eyes as only some self-important mixed terrier could, and I not having a clue as to where to look or what to say. Finally, Dorothy broke the silence. "Come here!", she exclaimed. "Aha!", I thought, "you can fool me once but you can't fool me twice". I instantly turned to Otto, looking as smug and condescending as I could, and waited for the dog to rush to her side. Without turning her head to face either the dog or myself, Dorothy impatiently said, "Not Otto, I was talking to you!" If the irascible canine could have roared with laughter, it would surely would have been his next move. The arrogant little pooch looked again at me with a clearly visible sarcastic smile as if to say "but can you roll over too!"

I quickly scrambled to my feet and joined Dorothy as she stood on a large sandstone boulder on a mountain ledge. She was gazing with an unobstructed view at the horizon in front of her. She pointed, arm straight towards the sky, adjusting the arm's direction to compensate for the downward bent of the distal phalanx of her slender right index finger. She whispered to me in reverent tones, "Tell me what you see?" I looked up at the clouds. The message I had previously witnessed was still in place, but now totally in view. It read, "there is no place like home". After a brief pause and in halting and perplexed tones, I repeated the words aloud, "there is no place like home?" I repeated the words again and this time with more assurance, "there is no place like home.". Finally, again, this time with pure unbridled confidence, "there is no place like home! There is no place like home!" as if my salvation had risen like a Phoenix from the mountain slopes to whisk me in an instant to the waiting comfort of the tan leather bucket seats of my light green XJ8 Jag.

Having said the words, I quickly turned to Dorothy to share the obvious joy of my discovery. I had finally learned the true ethereal message of that mystical poster on the 6:50 AM train from Katonah to Grand Central. So this was the divine message I had been sent to find on that desolate mountain peak. It a lesson not to be found on some "smart phone." It is not an insight to be gained by travelling to unforgiving impersonal worlds. The answer is within us all. We only have to look within to find it. I repeated the words blissfully as I turned to my guiding apparition from the small farm in Kansas, "there is no place like home." But, alas, Dorothy and her little terrier were nowhere to be seen.

Within the next instant, I found myself on the ground in a most unusual position. I was propped against a boulder, my legs and torso facing to the right. My arms were spread eagle in both directions with my head facing opposite to the direction of my chest and abdomen. It was much like a rag doll having fallen below from its resting spot on a nearby table top. I was dazed and felt that I had just awoken from a deep sleep. My left forehead ached as if it recently experienced the crush of a striking blow. I put my fingers to a place above my left eye and felt a bruise the size of walnut. My guess it was the rock I was laying on that had provided the damage. There was a trace of blood on that stone that matched the drops left on my fingers from their dutiful exploration. What had happened? I recalled a violent wind and then my encounter with Dorothy. Then, the next thing I new, I was lying on the ground nursing a most untimely wound. Could there be another explanation for what I had recently experienced? Could I have possibly been blown from my standing point by the gale forces, my head falling only to encounter the hard rock with ensuing loss of conscience? Did I dream my experience with Dorothy and her terrier? Was it all a figment of my imagination?

I rose to my feet and began trecking down the mountain. I never paused to question my direction. The next thing I knew, I was on an obvious trail. There was now a clear purpose in my steps. Within a relatively brief period of time, I could hear other cars in the distance passing the trail head at which I was parked. It was a clear sign that I would soon be back to safety. I had time to recall the days events, no longer in a state of hysteria. I know now the importance of things held dear to life. I know now that endless searching will not provide the peace and happiness we need. I must look within to find the satisfaction. I chuckled at the thought that I had to be knocked unconscience alone on a mountain peak and dream the existence of the famous characters from the land of Oz to discover that truth. I chuckled again at the thought of the vivid dream as I reached my car. Finally, I put my hand in my left pant pocket to pull out the keys. The keys were there ready for use. But there was something else I felt unexpectedtly. There were two other objects, one metal and the other cloth. I pulled out both objects to view. It was a metal shoe buckle and a small red dog collar with the word, Otto, engraved on its tag.

By this time, I was about as ready to get home from my remote unknown location on Slide Mountain as I am to finish this story. I was about to ask Dorothy what was to be the next move when she abruptly stated "sit!" I dutifully dropped to the ground. At her feet, with my elbows resting on my folded knees, I suddenly felt like a boy scout in front his scout leader ready to absorb every word. Not looking at me but gazing wistfully at the distance in front of her, she went on to quietly say, "not you, I was talking to Otto." I turned my head over my right shoulder and caught a glimpse of the little black terrier sitting on his back legs, panting with a tongue hanging all the way to his thin red collar. Other than the quick rhythmic movements of his chest, he was totally immobile. The cursed pooch was stareing at me like I was some kind of idiot. I was not pleased. My left eye twitching, lips tightly closed, I returned the look at the canine traveler and silently barked, "yeah, but can you write a blog!!"

"Otto, you just called him Otto, Isn't his name Toto", I asked now somewhat confused. Dorothy replied," that's his name, Otto". "But you called him Toto earlier", I responded. Dorothy softly giggled, blushing with innocent embarrassment, like a grade school girl being kissed for the first time by her youthful sweetheart. "I did? It must have been a senior moment. No, he's not Toto. Toto died about 70 years ago. Kind of a sad day when it happened. Died of old age, on Auntie Em's back porch. We were all there at the end; Auntie Em, Uncle Henry, the farm hands-Hickory Twiches, Hunk Andrews, and dear old Zeke." They had all apparently been present as Toto peacefully blew his last life's wind through his "wee" black nose. "He was a good dog," she added. "We buried him in the back near the shed underneath the big oak tree." I imagined his resting spot, deep within the prairie soil with a heavy stone placed knowingly as an eternal marker. He was safe there, not likely to be transported by the indescriminate clutches of a ruthless tornado.

She went on to explain that Otto was from a long line of Toto's male terrier descendants. Otto's mother, on the other hand, was a Border terrier from Topeka, named Jezebel. Dorothy adds, "she, as you folks say these days, 'had an attitude.' " I learn that Jezebel had come to the farm with her master, a local real estate developer shopping for a location to build a giant shopping mall, one of those monstrosities with the endless asphalt parking lot. Dorothy describes, "as you folks might also say these days, the little dog was 'one hot little bitch'. Wanted to make 'amore' with every four legged or two legged creature that walked. Goats, roosters, pigs, you name it. She even went after one legged creatures that couldn't walk. Take old Zeke for instance. Several years earlier, he had a bad stroke. Also lost his left leg to sugar diabetes. Pretty much, he was stuck in his bed oblivious to the rest of the world. We used to put him in a rocking chair on the back porch. He'd sit there never saying a word for hours. One day, I go to the back to check on him. There she was, as you folks might also say these days, 'humpin' his right leg'. Her tongue hanging out of the left side of her mouth, ears flat and turned backwards, eyes rolled up skyward, it looked as if she was at it for hours and totally worn-out. Old Zeke was just kind of slumped in his chair. If he wasn't moaning and groaning, I would have thought he was dead. He had no idea what was happening. He just sat there and groaned,'take me Dear Jesus, take me' ."

Too many questions I had to ask at this point. I had to drop them all and get on to important matters, like how to get home. It seemed, however, that Dorothy was developing a little slippage of the mind that belayed her many years.

For a moment, I was speechless. After all, who would believe this was actually happening? Did I even know it was a reality? Or was it some journey into madness; me, henceforth, a mountaineering Orpheus, ascending to the heights of hell to rescue peace and harmony from eternal damnation? On the top of a mountain, lost, and at risk of being lifted skyward by an unforgiving tornado headed directly towards me, I am suddenly rescued by one of the timeless characters of our lives. It was Dorothy, Auntie Em's loving niece, the youthful slayer of evil witches; she, previously, a technicolor vision ingrained in the silver screen recesses of our collective conscience, but now incarnate and 75 years older. Confused and searching for the right words, I looked at my now aged time-traveler and stated with a sheepish grin, "Um, er, ...I guess were not in Kansas anymore."

Dorothy gave a prolonged. impatient sigh as she rolled her eyes skyward beneath her half-closed heavily wrinkled eye lids. She shook her head and said with an air of obvious disgust, "I am so sick of that stupid joke, you would not believe. I have been traveling for the last 60 years trying to rescue people lost and in danger in some remote location and that it is all I ever hear. And the last several years, it has for some reason gotten worse." I thought it better to drop the subject at that point. She apparently had not attended any local IMAX theater to view the newest cinema graphic marvel of our time.

She looked at me again and declared emphatically. "You know, for some reason or another, it's you middle aged men over the last 10 years or so, that are keeping me constantly on the go." I suddenly had visions of other like-minded pot-bellied boomers, dealing with mid-life crises, naively placing themselves totally unprepared in remote locations. I could see each one clearly. There was the out-of-shape aging wanna-be adventurer caught hopelessly in a sail boat just off shore in the Atlantic with a hurricaine about to descend upon his position. I saw the balding, overweight male with more chins than functioning neurons join a horde of other would-be mountaineers to swarm up the nearest mountain only to fall over the edge of an all-ready overcrowded crevasse like a hapless lemming. Or perhaps, it was the gray-bearded, near-sighted angler in a bright silver aluminum fishing boat with his newly acquired Orvis fishing gear. He is trying to put bait on a hook for the very first time in his life when his paddle accidently falls from the boat. He leans over to save the paddle only to watch as his car keys fall from his shirt pocket into the depths of the dark still lake. All this, just as sudden hail storm begins to strike with painful force. Dorothy was there to rescue each, to lead them back to their safer, more familiar life. I silently lamented to each of these kindred spirits with sad resignation, "No, I guess it's really true. We're not in Kansas anymore."

Not waiting for any further reply, Dorothy suddenly turned her head over her right shoulder to search for her travelling companion, the black Scottish terrier we all knew as Toto. She saw him just at the edge of the evergreen forest on a rocky ledge above our standing spot, digging furiously, nose buried within the middle of a decaying tree trunk which had fallen between two large moss covered boulders. He was oblivious to our conversation, having caught the scent of some aromatic tiny four-legged fur ball who had made the rotting log a warm abode . Dorothy yelled to the pooch in the sharp tones that only an 85 year old woman could reach, "Otto, come here!!"
(I'll continue later. I've got to get on with my workouts. Only about 30 days until I climb. Got to be sure I'm in shape. My wife is warning me about my blogging indulgence. "Get serious", she says, "you're wasting time.'' ??!!)

Mt Baker -Day 40( Dark Clouds Ahead-Conclusion, Part 2b)

Given that I could not use characteristics of the wind and barometric pressure in order to forecast the oncoming weather, the only clue left for me on the mountain that day remained the shape of overhead cloud cover. This, too, had been thoroughly detailed in my trusty text Mountaineering: Freedom of the Hills. In Chapter 27, the types of cloud cover formation are categorized. You got your common cumulus clouds. You got your altocumulus and your cumulonimbus formations. Then you got your basic cirrostratus, your nimbostratus, and a few others not necessary to name. Their readily visible shape will tell you weather or not a cold front is approaching. It will tell you weather or not rain is likely and even the probability of thunderstorms or lightning. You just simply stand in a spot where the trees are not blocking your view, look skyward, and there you have it. Simple. I scrambled on to the largest sandstone formation in my location away from the obstructing limbs of the balsam fir and looked up. Simple, right?

Wrong! My panic attack was overwhelming. I was no longer in control. To my untrained eye, there must have been six or seven different shapes? Were they heaped, were they sheet like, how low were they, and how low did they need to be? Not only that, but the cursed fluff kept changing with every moment I looked. Every word of the book that I had memorized seemed to fly away with the strengthening winds. Was the nimbostratus formation the one that predicted a cold front and rains or was it the cumulonimbus pattern? I suddenly couldn't even remember what the clouds were actually called. Was there something called cirrobottomless? Or was it hippopotamus? Muchoserious? Whatamessimus? Don't bother spell checking. The more I thought, the more panicked I became, and the more strange the terms that came to mind sounded.

The winds were now howling and seemed to be swirling more like a tornado with a bad attitude. The sun could no longer be seen through the dark cover overhead. I could hear large branches breaking off the swaying trees in all directions. For secure minds, these mountaineering events could have been considered no big deal, just routine risks that come along on a nearly daily basis. But for me, with my biochemically determined stress-anxiety disorder, this was really heavy stuff. I was close to a psychotic breakdown. I began to see strange things. Black shadowy figures under the dark sky and within the balsam forests began to appear everywhere. I thought that someone was actually watching me. I started to think of all my disgruntled patients in my career. Did they plan this? Was this a moment they would seek their revenge? Maybe it was all the office staff to whom I demanded they find another job for some mistake that turned out to be my own. Or worse yet, all the in-laws for whom I always forgot the yearly Christmas gift. They had to be planning this for sometime. There were shapes that now stood out among all others. It was a frightening form that I believed I had first seen at some point in my childhood. Hundreds of them. They were more like monkeys than anything else. But they weren't monkeys. They had wings and they could fly and they wore some kind of funny helmet. Where had I see them before, I wondered? I started to recall something about the "wicked witch of the North"? My words were being spoken aloud at this point. "What is all this about?" "What do you want from me?" "Have I gone mad?"

I looked up again at the sky believing the end was approaching. I couldn't decide what was the greater problem, the eerie creatures within the nearby forest or the fear of a possible mountain storm. Suddenly, it happened. To the left of me was a black funnel with all the appearance of a whirling tornado headed directly towards the clearing in which I stood. To the right, however, there was an intense stream of light not dissimilar to the one I had seen strike the poster on the 6:50 AM train from Katonah to Grand Central. That light as you may recall led to the poster's metamorphosis and divining message. The rays touched the clouds on the right and their formation began to change. No longer the natural curves of a cumulus cloud, they became almost a rectangular shape. "My god, it's the poster", I said to myself. A message in clear blue lettering began to shine through the now white clouds much like that I had seen on that fateful train. It read "there is no place like...." The last word was hidden behind a tall tree . "No place like ...what!?", I shouted. The tornado on the left was nearly upon me. Was this my final breath? I thought the time had come for me to meet my maker and then, from directly behind me, I heard a voice. It was a gentle voice, ageless, and womanly. "Are you lost?", she quietly said.

I turned towards the voice and saw a most peculiar sight. She was standing alone, no more than three feet behind me. I had never seen anyone like her. Her shoes caught my eyes first, ruby in color with a metal buckle. These were not shoes for hiking to some desolate peak six hours from civilization. Just as the flying monkeys shook my memory banks, so did these "slippers". Where had I seen them before? How did she arrive here walking with shoes that were more appropriate for a piano recital at a local school than scrambling over rocks, streams, and sand. Her dress, too, seemed out of place. It was cotton, light blue in color, simple in design, and hung to her knees. It covered a white delicate blouse that matched the color of her ankle socks. It looked as if it belonged on a young child who lived in another era, perhaps in the late 1930s. She stood erect, lithe. But her face was not that of a young girl. It was a most unusual face. The eyes were as blue as her dress; bright, kind, and all knowing as if she had previously lived my current predicament. Her lips were innocent, red and full. Her hair was light brown in color, parted in the middle, and braided into two pig tails that hung in back to her shoulders. Her age, however, was revealed by the skin of her face. It was not a face that matched the rest of her appearance. Her skin was pale and lined. Indeed, the myriad creases over her cheeks, eyes, forehead, and mouth reminded me more of the topographical map of the Adirondack Mountains that I had obtained at a local mountaineering supply store in Lake Placid. Though she dressed as she might have seventy years ago, her age must have been closer to eighty-five.

"Perhaps, I can help you find your way home", she said in almost whispered tones. My mind suddenly became calm.The nightmarish creatures had vanished and the strong winds no longer blew. Suddenly, I could see from the corner of my eye what for a moment appeared to be a small black four-legged animal. The woman turned and gently called, "Toto, come here boy." The creature came from the woods to her side. It was a black Cairn terrier with a thin red color around its neck. "Toto?", I questioned to myself. Suddenly, it was all beginning to make sense. The sudden realization caused my entire body to quiver. With the shock of sudden recognition of an old acquaintance returning from some distant continent, I turned to my fellow traveler and asked, "Dorothy?". With a slight smile, a single nod of her head, and a gentle blink of her eye, she silently affirmed, "yours truly".

Mt Baker - Day 44 (Storm Clouds Ahead - Conclusion, part 2a)

So there I was on the edge of the mountain trying to figure out what weather to expect in the next hour or so. A bad forecast would certainly be a call to seek shelter rather than brave continued climbing. My anxiety level was skyrocketing to heights well above the readings of my never-used altimeter hanging by a lanyard by my side. Slide Mountain is not exactly the Lohtse Face in the Central Himalayas. But there beneath the darkening skies, it was not exactly my usual warm confines of the Harvard Club in mid-town Manhattan either. I had never before been to this highest peak in the Catskills. For almost six hours, I had been hiking to what I initially thought was the highest ridge on the mountain.With the sun now disappearing behind ominous clouds, the usual clues as to direction of travel were no longer available. How did I get to the remote spot in which I then stood and how to return to where I came? There were no familiar clues as to my location; no trail head marker, no familiar trees, vegetation, geologic formations, no previously heard earthly sounds, nor any ready made street signs. Was I headed east away from my waiting Jag at the northwest trail head? Maybe I could pray for a southern direction and at least be a little closer to the nearest turnpike back to Pound Ridge. Better yet, pray for a direction which would lead to a welcoming mountain inn, a hot meal, and a full glass of shiraz? For awhile, my climb had been interspersed with brief intervals of descent as if I had been heading towards a valley between Slide and a neighboring unnamed peak. Did I even know whether or not I was on Slide Mountain at this point? I suddenly felt like an eternal time traveler arriving for a fleeting moment in some dark mysterious land. The only hope was to soon be transported to another more forgiving new age. In short, I was hopelessly lost. To make matters worse, was there now a brewing rain storm ahead that would leave me miserably drenched and shivering? The now prevalent balsam firs intermingled with rough hobble bush suggested I was well above three thousand feet, perhaps only a few hundred feet from the summit. I sat down on one of the sandstone boulders on a relatively level part of a now questionably discernible path to collect my thoughts. My watch said 5:20 PM. In a few hours, that day's light would be only a remembrance, a brief moment among my ever increasing faded memories. I silently cursed that Xanax did not grow in the wild, no easy pluck like some golden eliptical huckleberry hanging from a leafy bough. Its sweet nectar would instantly be a harbinger of my soon to be experienced mind's calm.

I had spent many hours reading and rereading Chapter 27 of Mountaineering:Freedom of the Hills on indicators of approaching storms. It was now the moment to test my knowledge. Perhaps, this was the moment the ever-changing poster on the 6:50 AM train from Katonah to Grand Central had divined. My obsessive compulsive nature had dictated that the relevant pages be memorized word for word. The chapter describes four key elements from which to draw necessary conclusions regarding dire weather ahead: changes in cloud cover, changes in air pressure, changes in both wind-direction and wind speed. However, one of these elements were not to be realized. In my haste to start the climb, I had inadvertently left my handheld barometer recently bought at Eastern Mountain Sports on the front passenger seat of my Jag. I had learned that pressure decreases recorded on the barometer of as little as 0.08" can signal immanent winds with speeds greater than 40 miles per hour; a clear sign to move to a protected area. Were such pressure changes now in the works? I had spent a lot of money on the little gadget to assure myself of being well-informed. It was money suddenly wasted; its message not to be revealed. Even my all knowing iPhone could not be a substitute;no app to be downloaded to provide a barometer's clues. Steve Jobs, are you reading this? The winds suddenly felt stronger, more intense, their sounds more resonant as they rushed through gaps in the towering boulders above me. I had also learned that it was important to gauge wind speeds upwind of a gap before climbing to the gap location. Winds within these higher rocky passages may be twice as strong as ones experienced at lower altitudes; again a signal to stop climbing and return to a more sheltered location. (to be continued)

Mt Baker- Day 49 (Storm Clouds Ahead -conclusion)

Those close to me have said that the last three blogs are difficult to understand. I think it is because they have taken it literally. No, these past events described in Storm Clouds Ahead did not really happen. There is no 6:50AM train from Katonah to Grand Central. Yes, these recent blogs are essentially paying homage to the knowledge required to predict weather while in the wild. Yes, I intend to further detail those skills. But no, there was no metamorphosing poster on the 6:50AM train, no poster that starts as an add for The Weather Channel, no poster that subsequently changes under the influence of the sun's rays to an ethereal message of truth and destiny. Other characters briefly mentioned in these more recent blogs and to be introduced later in today's conclusion are also not real. The process of writing on a blog is essentially for me a new life's experience. I suddenly realized the pleasure of "creative" writing, if that it is what it is called. May even take a course in it, perhaps at NYU night school, or wherever else it might be offered. Regardless, I have been advised to return to the detailing of day to day preparations for the July 23 summit. OK, I hear you. There are very meaningful things that need to be retold. The goal, indeed, is to climb Mount Baker and, most importantly, raise funds for a hopeful cause. But let me finish my recently experienced drama before moving on. It is a drama that has changed my life forever. So here goes the conclusion: truth, fiction, or otherwise.

Having quickly exited the southbound Metro North commuter train heading to Grand Central and having left a message to my office to cancel all the day's appointments, I arrived by return metro at Katonah and quickly scrambled into my waiting Jag at the station's parking lot . I headed north to the Catskill Mountains. Keeping to a steady speed with no traffic, I knew I would be there before noon. My intent was to climb one of the Catskill's 4000 foot summits and try out the skills of forecasting the weather detailed in the book Mountaineering:Freedom of the Hills. After three hours of travelling, I finally arrived at my destination, the northwest trail head of Slide Mountain. Though my iPhone was still on my belt, a resolution was made to keep it powered off for the duration. I had learned from previous experience that its Weather Channel app may not be a reliable means to forecast weather in the remote mountain peaks with temperatures well below freezing. Better now to become less dependent upon the digital world. The crisp white shirt, my usual red paisley tie, and recently shined brown Italian loafers were left behind, replaced by more appropriate climbing attire always kept in my car's trunk just for such contingencies.

For those of you who don't know, Slide Mountain at 4,180 feet is the tallest peak in the Catskills. No Himalayan Mountain for sure but still a means to test certain mountaineering skills. The main trails are easy to follow but several paths branching from the trail can surely test ones capacity for orienteering. Taking "the path less chosen" off the main trail so as to proove my mountain worthiness, I climbed through forests of sugar maples, beech, black cherry, and hemlock. It was, indeed, a beautiful hike. The mountain laurel was in full bloom, its delicate white flowers looking like a neckless of perfect radiant pearls. The sky at this point was blue with only an occasional cloud. I could hear the soft clear songs of red-eyed vireo and yellow-bellied sapsuckers, each having recently arrived during their yearly migration from the Arctic to South America. And so it went for the next three hours.

I soon realized that the path had changed. No longer marked, I was less certain that a trail actually existed. Limestone boulders covered with club moss began to dominate the setting. Forests also changed in character, reflecting the sub alpine altitudes. The trees were smaller with a greater number of balsam firs mixed with feathery ferns and rough hobble bush. There was now a chill in the air. The blue sky was now sparse. Was this the moment my ethereal poster in the first car of the 6:50 AM train from Katonah to Grand Central had divined? A judgement had to be made as to whether or not to end my climb and head back to the car at the northwest trail head . What could I expect in the next two hours - rain, sun, high winds, cooling temperatures, lightning? I realized the time had come to use nature's clues and test my newly acquired mountaineering talent for predicting summit weather (oops, sorry, the conclusion to this episode will have to be saved for tomorrow)

Mt Baker -day 50 (Storm Clouds Ahead-cont.)

So much has happened in the last two weeks that will impact upon the Mt Baker summit.I worry that I am not any better prepared than I was two months ago. It's getting hot outside and long aerobic runs are becoming increasingly difficult. Enough with that, however. Let's get back to other equally serious issues -specifically: 1) how does one accurately predict mountain weather while "on the job", half way up the mountain when the only protection is the cover of base camp five thousand feet below? This a critical skill that can save a life. Mountain weather is fickle. It can change from serene to catastrophic in a moment. Just pick up "Into Thin Air" by John Krakaur and you will know exactly what I mean. And most importantly 2) what was the hopefully relevant ethereal enlightenment being conveyed by the ever changing poster on the 6:50 AM Metro North train from Katonah to Grand Central? You would have to read my more recent blogs to know to what I am referring. The poster was more than an add for The Weather Channel. Its ever changing content was meant to prepare me not only for the unforgiving mountain with its unforseen forces but perhaps also a guiding light through the calm and storms of my own life as well.

I took my seat as usual on the 6:50 AM train. My foremost objective was to learn the deeper message of that 2'3"x 3'5" poster to the left in front of me as I sat in the first seat of the train's first car. The never-changing cast of silent commuters were there as well to witness the event. They were true "partners" I have come to know on a daily basis. People who were the one constancy in my life; partners in daily living with whom I have never once spoken a word. In fact, I know them only by the hats, caps, coats, and other substances they use to cover their faces as they rest silently with their shoulders against the window, arms folded tightly in front. Their monthly commuter cards always flash clearly on their chests so as to alert the conductor of their not to be disturbed meditations. Maybe, they have experienced the poster's message in the past. Maybe they have resultantly achieved the serene place for which I strive.

There were many on the train that day. I have come to know them by name. Among them was "Lou Gehrig", as I have come to call him. He sits on the right hand side of the first car, one row behind me; the Yankee clipper, the iron man (or welder as the case may be). He's surely never missed a day of work in the last 10 years. I know him by his faded blue blue baseball cap with the NY insignia pulled down over his face, covering all but the three day growth on his square chin. His thick calloused hands, heavily worn jeans, and thick-soled, skuffed, tan boots speak to his life in the nobler profession of steel and dust. Directly behind me was "Norma Desmond", looking as if she just came off the set of Sunset Boulevard. I have yet to see her face as well. I recognize her by her skin pulled very tight at the edges behind her ears. My surgical experience has led me to understand her recent submission to a 15 Bard Parker blade to mask her many years beneath the abusing sun. I recognize her also by her jet black hair serving as a stark contrast to the fading hues of her aging eyes. Her mask of heavy colors are always propitiously applied to the usual facial recesses to make for certain disguise. Is it possible, too, that she may have experienced the poster's call? There was the usual cast of others. "Darth Vader", "Cinderella" and "Wolfman". "Ralph Cramdon" and his buddy "Norton" were in their usual seats. Behind them were"Thelonius Monk", "Lolita" and "Andrew Carnegie".Finally, in the back row from left to right were "Rabbi Rabinowitz", "Che Guevara", and "Clarence Darrow" All there to receive the message. Their frozen constant positions reminded me more of characters from a back room at Madame Tussaud's than group of early morning commuters.

So there I sat patiently waiting. Then on the third day of the week, it happened again. The same brilliant sun streamed through the window directly upon the poster. The same change in color of the poster from green to pure white was coupled with the poster's metamorphosis into a cumulus cloud. The now clear blue lettering peeking through this fluffy white vision spelled, yet, another message I knew I needed to heed. The message was strong and unambiguous. It spelled out with clear force my next instructions. It almost bellowed to me in deep tones. It read "go now to the mountain". I instantly pulled out my trusty iphone and left a message to my secretary. "Important, something has come up, please cancel all appointments for the rest of the day. I'll explain later". I got off at the next stop. From the corner of my eye as I exited the train, I could see my "partners" turning in unison to face the poster with blank stares and gaping mouths. Did they see the same message or some other call to their own personal destiny? The doors closed behind me. I stood alone on the platform on the station and watched as the 6:50 AM train headed south. I knew then that a stage of my life had just ended. I would never sit in that train again. My "partners", those feckless frozen characters, were gone forever. My future now uncertain, the call to the mountain clearly enticing , I waited impatiently on the platform for the next train headed north to Katonah and the waiting seat of my Jag('01, XJ8, light green in color). I could be "on the mountain" by noon if I stayed focused on what exactly I needed to do. (to be continued tomorrow or the next day)

Mt Baker - Day 61 (Storm Clouds Ahead -cont)

So there we were at the base of the mountain ready to return to base camp lodge. I felt like a mutiny was at hand, my role as driver of the car soon to be terminated by my disgruntled colleagues. Why were the computer-driven keys to my rental SUV not working? Why were we consequently out there in the minus 25 degree windblown location with the sun beginning to dip beneath the tops of snow-covered pine groves standing on the dark mountains to our west? Only in this frigid situation for less than 15 minutes, we were beginning to look more like the Blue Man Group than intrepid climbers. Except for the sound of my banging knees, there was only silence. Suddenly, one of my more impatient brutish colleagues sounded as if he had a thought. I scoffed silently to myself, "by the looks of this guy, a once in a lifetime event".

"Where did you keep your keys when we are on the mountain", the climber snarled through his face mask. Not quite understanding the significance of the question, I timidly replied "in the outside pocket of my hard shell jacket", pointing haltingly to my left chest. "Give me the keys" was his only response. I could see nothing of his face other than his razor sharp white teeth beneath a narrow slit of his "furry" head cover. He looked like a mama wolf guarding her pup from an unwelcome intruder. I knew then my days as the designated driver were over. Worse yet, they might just leave me here in the cold as a soon to be frigid rememberance to others not properly schooled in outdoor living. To my surprise, he pulled the front waist band of his Gortex hard shell pants forward in front of him looking like one of those success stories advertised by an annoying weight loss program. He followed with a similar move with the middle layer fleece pants, then again with the inner polyester layer, and finally his underwear (the latter not cotton, cotton is a no no, absorbs too much moisture, never wear cotton mountain climbing). The next move made me startle with disbelief. With determined swiftness, the somber climber simply dropped the keys into the abyss of all those layers. Was this some sort of mockery of my manhood? "Now we're just going to have to wait awhile", he replied totally without expression. He couldn't have been comfortable. You know what happens when skin meets frigid metal?

About five minutes later out comes the keys. The climber hands them to me forcefully and and abruptly states "now see if you can open the door and start the car". I noted the keys were no longer as cold as ice. Maybe that was the simple solution we were looking for. I carefully followed instructions and voila. Results were instantaneous. The door lock lifted and my impatient climbers scrambled quickly into the SUV for the long journey to base camp lodge; the circulation alas returning to our feet. Now relegated to the back with the luggage, I had time to consider what I had learned. The message was simple. Don't trust these modern computer driven gizmos when you are in the cold mountain air. One must search for real truths, whether its forecasting the weather or the means to open car doors; truth to be found by a common sense approach that uses the clues nature has provided. Certainly, reason to return to the relevant chapter in Mountaineering: Freedom of the Hills on the understanding of the ever challenging mountain climate. Near the summit and looking for weather's soon to be immediate plans, I know now that I just can't count on The Weather Channel app on my iphone to be there when needed.

But was this the real message to be learned from the vision that day in the first car of the Metro North train travelling from Katonah to Grand Central? For that answer, I returned again to my first seat in the first car at 6:50 AM and waited. (Need to see patients now. I will have to finish later).

Mt Baker - Day 65 ( Storm clouds ahead?)

Remind you that mountaineering requires a variety of skills to meet the many challenges to be endured - at least from what has been explained to me. One must consider physical endurance, mental toughness, determination, keen understanding of climbing techniques, proper equipment selection and handling to name a few. The 6:50 AM Metro North commute several days past from Katonah to Grand Central led me to consider another skill that had not yet been fully addressed.

The stimulus for today's consideration came from a poster on the wall of the train's first car. It was located just before the front doors on the left as I sat facing forward in the very first seat of the train. The poster was about window height, measured approximately 2'3"x 3' 6", all green in color with yellow lettering. It was clean, crisp with neither a smudge nor a wrinkle. Set in clear glass with a thin aluminum frame, the early morning sun streamed upon it making it an almost sacred image to the adoring gaze of my fellow commuters. Seriously.

Now all this meandering over-the-top "where's-he-coming from" chit-chat above may simply be a reflection of two of my obsessive/compulsive tendencies. The first is the need to remember meaningless details, perhaps like those above. The second, but not least, is to always be first to arrive at any destination, ergo, my chosen seat (obscessing on blogs may soon be a third). On the other hand, it may be something else. For while I was sitting there in the first seat of the first car, something very mystical began to happen. The light from the sun streaming through the window became much more intense, for an instant almost blinding. I looked again at the poster and what I saw took my breath away. The poster began to change. First the silver aluminum frame lost its metallic glow and soon morphed into an almost fine mist. The background of the poster began to change colors from the pale green to an almost pure white. The edges of the now white poster radiated a glowing red hue, like a cloud illuminated by the setting sun. The print of the poster also changed to the color of a pure heavenly blue sky peeking its way through the drifting white day's cover, still clear and still easy to see. I understood what the poster had become, a wonderful fluffy cumulus cloud reaching to the top of the train carrying, to my trembing awe, perhaps an important message. A message that needed to be considered. Seriously.

Perhaps and certainly possible regardless of my state of mind, the writing on the wall that I experienced that day on the train was an ethereal message of destiny. You see, this mysteriously shining poster on the train's wall, perhaps from someplace"out-there" special, carried words of deep meaning to all of us. It was not just a simple reminder of events to come, no common call for toothpaste or deodorant. No, indeed, it was far more profound. It carried forth a message of common joy, a statement of great significance. I knew also at that moment that there was a purpose for me. One that I could only accept. For I believed I was chosen to be the messenger of its almost sacred promise. You see, it was a listing of apps for our beloved iphone. The message was clear and uncompromising. It set forth that the most frequently downloaded free app by all us 3-G worshippers out there is the one called The Weather Channel. This was, indeed, a calling for those not yet converted to the promise. I looked down quite smugly at my own smart machine knowing that I was, indeed, among the in-crowd, a chosen-one. I even have blue tooth headphones. Well, ok, maybe not as serious as I thought.

Within a second, the image the glowing poster on the commuter train wall coupled with the vision of ever changing mountain climate to which I must adjust in my future adventure caused the content of my daily blog to flash before my eyes. I knew what needed to be said. The facet of mountaineering that needed to be discussed today is ---you guessed it---forecasting the weather. Hallelujah! I mean, more specifically, the ability to accurately predict the weather at that moment you are high up on the mountain, climbing to the summit; a skill not to be taken lightly and one that could be life saving. Now all of us with iphones will know that this is no great shakes. It's easy. Just push the buttons and voila. Current weather reports, weather predictions for each of the next 36 hours, ten day forecasts, weather alerts, satellite images, etc. are all there retold in an instant. What other skills are needed when one is blessed with this well stocked, multitasking, ipod playing, video watching, texting miracle machine for the ages. And who says you can't teach old dogs new tricks! Now that is serious.

But there is more to this story than a good smart phone as experience has taught me. The appropriate selection of apps may be part of the true message that I was chosen to tell but there is something more profound. Another part of the lesson for me happened with yet another miracle computer-controlled gizmo of our time; one that I happened to bring on a previous winter mountaineering climb. That lesson: very simply, when it gets very cold, like the minus 25 degree temperature that we were experiencing on that winter day in the Adirondacks, these little gadgets don't work for crap! The gizmo on that particular day was the computer controlled keys to my rental SUV. There we were back at the rendezvous spot after 12 hours of climbing. We were cold and tired. No time to stand around and chit chat. The feet will freeze quickly. A better time for me to drive four other climbers who were half my age along with equipment back to warm comfort of our safe abode. I walked up to the car to begin the journey back to camp, pulled the keys from my pocket, aimed at the SUV front door, pressed the little designated spot on the gizmo, and waited impatiently for instant gratification. But guess what? -nada, nothing happened. Not a beep, click, chirp, or rattle of any kind. I pressed again - nada, and again several times. I switched fingers. Maybe I was pressing too hard. Was this actually the right car? Details, details - where art thou, my obsessive/compulsive instincts. What will I do? What was I to say to the seasoned mountaineers standing behind me? I felt the heated glare of those raucous cursedly-young genetically-predetermined tall lean climbing machines. I cursed again with silent resentment at their image. Why was I the one that was "short" changed with the DNA base pairs? Why was I the only one with gray hair and aching knees. I whimpered in barely audible tones "I can't get it to work?" Can't get it up when I need to in order to satisfy heated desires (the door lock, I mean!!! I'm talking about the door lock!!!). My self-image was in shambles. You just can't trust these "smart" gizmos in the mountains. What next out there in the frigid night and what is the true message to be written?
( To be completed tomorrow or maybe the next day after that)( not feeling well- have a cold)

Mt Baker - Day 66 (Reaching the Void)

It is all about the joy of giving. Yesterday I met with Richard F. regarding the New York Eye and Ear Infirmary Climbing for Sight and Sound campaign. Our goal is to raise necessary awareness and funds for treatment, care, and rehabilitation of children with vision and hearing disorders. The Mount Baker summit on July 23-25 is a means to promote this very worthwhile effort. Richard brought with him pamphlets, fliers, and materials which I could now distribute to friends, family, colleagues, and patients informing them of the effort and seeking their generous donations. We discussed the campaign further including other ways of getting the message "out there". He left with my readiness to carry-on efforts towards the common goal even more invigorated. There is no question that this whole upcoming mountaineering expedition is now for a greater cause. It actually makes the experience that much more rewarding.

No sooner had the campaign materials been delivered when a colleague( and friend) of mine walked into the office and told me of his intentions. Without me having said a word, Dr W said that the campaign's quest had touched him and that he will be contributing. He even mentioned joining me on later trips. It really made me so appreciative and even more determined to carry-on for as long as I am able. And again this morning, I was in the Infirmary cafeteria, getting a cup of the usual AM coffee when a similar episode happened. A friend and colleague (Dr U) mentioned that he had seen posters of the program. He, too, would be providing a very generous donation. The more I hear of this, the more I want to donate again as well.

The events made me think of some of the other important times of giving (and receiving) in my life. Perhaps the first and most important one that comes to my mind took place on April 30, 1983. At that time, I was in the northern mountains of Scotland in a small white chapel near the little town of Kincraig. Though in the majestic mountains, there had been no intention of spending the days with climbing the heights. I had barely thought of such adventures at that time of my life. Achieving success in medicine was far more immediate and consuming. On that day, however, not even medicine was to come to mind. On this particular day, we were in that chapel to pray for success in another venture. You see, that day was our wedding day; Nancy and I, a younger version of the two of us. The giving that I refer to on that bright, clear Saturday morning was both a wedding ring and my heart to my bride.

We had previously written the minister of the Kincraig chapel requesting him to perform the ceremony. We had chosen him and the church from several other options; all of which were of relatively limited understanding (Remember - at that time, the word Google did not exist). Our choice could never have been better. He generously agreed and provided necessary instructions.


We were without family in the Scottish Highlands but not alone. Even though we essentially left those we knew to "quietly wed" in this lovely but distant part of the world, the folks of Kincraig were there to greet us and had, totally unexpected to us, organized a beautiful ceremony complete with organist, flowers, photographer, and good will. A reception they had planned after the ceremony took place in a small inn near the chapel. There was even a reporter from a local Glascow newspaper there to detail the events for his city's readers. The whole experience is not something that is easy to forget and certainly something to draw upon later in life when the going gets a little tougher.

So why the title of today's blog, "Reaching the Void". Perhaps, there are two reasons. The first and why we are even writing the frequent blogs is to know that these children in need, when having neither the means or the ability to correct their handicaps, would have to be living their lives with a certain void. By giving when we can, perhaps we can reach those empty places and provide open doors to a richer life experience. The second is to know that in our own personal quests which can leave us at times with a void yearning to be filled; that these, too, can be reached by remembering the times of giving and sharing with those who make a difference in our lives, including colleagues and loved ones.

Mt. Baker - Day 68-67 ( Self -Arrest, Part 3)

The process of self-arrest begins with the ice ax and how it is carried should the need arise. The process ends with how this same tool is used to stop an unwanted fall. Needless to say that at a time of emergency, it is of no value if the ax is buried inside your backpack someplace below both endless bags of trail mix and clean underwear. No help, also, if the ax is dropped accidentally from your hand and falls below to meet the head of the hapless climber following your lead. This would be especially true if that same climber was tied to you by a rope. Knocked unconcience by the blow, your fellow adventurer would be at risk for an uncontrollable free-fall. The equally bad news would become readily apparent. You would quickly be pulled along. No chance at that critical moment to review the relevant instructions in Mountaineering: Freedom of the Hills (pgs 318-321) on how to prevent such catastrophies.

So was there such a situation then with Mallory and Irvine? Mallory was found with a signifcant depression on the front of the skull, the size of the traumatic defect matching the pick of their ice ax later discovered in 1933. Pictures of that ice ax showed no leash, ie, a cord attached to the carabiner hole in the ice ax head. This cord provides a sure way to attach the ice ax to your wrist. Could head trauma from a runaway ax previously lost from grip have resulted in loss of footing; both climbers, tied to each other then dragged down the steep slopes by the weight of their packs to an icy grave?

Could the depression found on Mallory's frontal bone have been caused by an improper grip on the ax? Is that a consideration? Read again to page 318 of the above provided reference. I'll repeat it here for those who do not have the book. "Place your thumb under the adze and your palm and fingers over the pick, near the top of the of the shaft. While you are climbing the adze points forward". Makes sense? Not likely if you have never held an ice ax. Anyway, the wrong grip puts you at greater danger of the ax pick puncture wound during a fall.; a wound, again not dissimilar to that noted on Mallory's body.

What about the proper technique of self-arrest? Here again, I would remind you that Mallory was summiting Everest with the inexperienced partner, Andrew Irvine. Pictures of our hero's young associate at the beginning of the ill-fated 1924 expedition showed him saddled with two large oxygen cannisters on his back, looking more like a lost scooba diver than an intrepid mountaineer. A gail of wind or loose footing on the powdery snow and rock could have tipped him over backwards, head first, glisssading on his back down the majestic slopes. The oxygen cannisters at that point would have functioned more like the hulls of a slick catamoran sailboat on a windy day than a source of what the Himalayan locals called "English air". It would be certain that Mallory would have been pulled along, each having each been tied together by a common rope.

The proper self-arrest technique to have been used by Irvine in such a circumstance is described in detail on page 320 of our reference. Self-arrest in such a position as possibly his would be considered the most difficult to achieve. "Hold the ax across your torso and aggressively jab the pick into the snow; then twist and roll toward it. Once again, the pick placed to the side serves as a pivot point. Planting the pick will not bring you around to the final self-arrest position. You need to work at rolling your chest toward the ax head while you work your legs to swing around and point downhill. A sitting-up motion helps the roll". Remember that if you are falling down a precipitous slope at 80 miles an hour, you may have problems putting on your glasses in order to read this section of the book. Only previous practice would make the difference and one could easily question whether Irvine was properly skilled in the technique. This, as it is now, would be the end of the consideration of the proper form of self-arrest.

So what is the bottom line in this multiday series of blogs on self -arrest? The answer - order a good mountaineering book such as the one recommended here, buy a sturdy ice ax (preferably with a leash!), and build yourself an icy slope to practice. Oh yeah, I nearly forgot. Perhaps equally important ----pray you are not tied to an inexperienced climber.

Mt Baker - Day 70-69 (Self - Arrest, cont)

As legend has it (at least by my vague unvalidated recollection), Mallory and his young climbing partner, Andrew Irvine, had chosen the North Face route to climb the Everest peak. Mallory had previously failed at this route on two separate occasions . He believed, however, that appropriate use of oxygen supplies would lead this time to here-to-fore never experienced success. The North Face route, for those of us who are not familiar, was a favorite of English mountaineers. It led through Tibet and in 1924, several decades before China gained control, was still open to foreigners. Mallory's choice of Irvine, a relatively inexperienced climber, as his expedition partner was considered a mistake by Mallory's more accomplished mountaineering partners. The 22 year old Irvine was chosen by our intrepid hero because of his skills at handling oxygen cannisters; this of major importance to Mallory. Also accompanying the two was Noel E. Odell; the latter chosen to stay at camps below the climbers, assure supplies, and monitor the progress of his two colleagues. As Odell was to later recount, Mallory and Irvine had successfully passed the Rongbuck ice fields, reached the North Cul, and continued passed the North East Ridge's first step. The second step on the North East ridge would prove to be the greatest challenge. The second step on the North East Ridge of Everest is about 80 feet high and, in a rock climber's, descriptive, a challenging 5.8 grade. For Mallory, an experience rock climber, it was certainly not insurmountable. He had performed rock climbs of similar difficulty in England without the advantage of assistance, including ropes and pitons. For Irvine, it was a different matter. His capacity to traverse the step was not to be realized.

As Odell was to recall, it was at the second step that the two climbers separated. According to Odell, Mallory cleared the step which left him only 800 feet below the top of the world. It was at that moment that the picture changed. Remember at this elevation, temperatures never climb above freezing. Snow never accumulates and remains a highly fine powder, easy to be displaced. Odell noted that a sudden gail force blew a snow cloud around the climbers, preventing all visibility. In a relatively brief period and with the clearing of the turbulent swirl, Odell noted that the climbers were no longer to be seen. His limited but frantic search provided no additional clues as to their whereabouts. Mallory and his young friend were gone forever.

Now what does this have to do with the description of self-arrest. The answer could be surmised from the events to follow. It could for purposes of this blog begin with the discovery of Mallory's ice axe in 1933.


The need for an ice axe and appropriate self-arrest techniques is reportedly critical at this part of the Everest summit. The ridge is narrow. The slope, nearly 45 degrees on both sides, is steep. The snow at 28 thousand feet on Mt Everest becomes a hazzard. Given that temperatures never reach above freezing, there is no opportunity for accumulation. The snow is free to blow with the wind, causing loss of vision in a gale, loose footing, as well as no resistance in stopping a fall or buffer to the underlying hazardous rocks.
(will have to continue later, time to cover our residents in the Head and Neck Surgical Clinic)

Mt Baker-Day 72-71 (Self-Arrest)

Folks in Noreal Place, Georgia may define self-arrest differently than where we are headed here. Apparently, if one commits a crime in that town, an opportunity exists to admit to the wrong doing online (no 911 call needed). A form has been considerately provided by the local police. The "application", it appears, provides places for all relevant information including the nature of the self-confessed crime as well as one's email address for return correspondence. Lines are provided for personal descriptives: sex, height, weight, eye color, as well as precise locations of scars and/or tatoos. I did notice, however, that the space for age was kindly omitted; a relief to those who may be chronologically challenged. The latter confession, for some like me, beyond the pale and enough reason to reconsider admission of guilt. Of obvious importance, a line was provided for home address complete with instructions to stay in the house until police arrive. In addition to the nature of the crime, the perpetrator can enter his/her plea (what other than guilty?) , as well as select one of a choice of motives (insanity was perhaps the most fitting option). All this is very convenient for those who may feel sudden remorse for cheating on past income tax reports. On the other hand, there may be other definitions of self-arrest we may come to accept; examples which are no less distressing than committing a felony. Pushing yourself away from the table when served an extra portion of spaghetti and meatballs is one example. Or perhaps, a middle-aged married man, vainly pursuing a young twenty-something year old beauty, comes to his senses when forced to recognize his transgression. He deceases and retreats to more sedate affairs such as writing a blog.

The definition of self-arrest to be discussed here may be of more importance to the mountaineer. In the glossary at the back of Mountaineering:Freedom of the Hills ,the act is simply described as the use of an ice axe to stop unexpected falls. Every mountaineering course I have been apart of has started with hands on instruction for this process. It is not to be taken lightly. The descriptions of self-arrest technique can be somewhat cumbersome to write and even more so to read. Let's consider, however, how the proper technique of self-arrest may have applied to the legendary English climber, George Mallory, during his ill-fated attempt to summit Mount Everest in the late spring of 1924.

George Mallory, for those who might not know, was a famed mountaineer who made a lifetime's ambition of reconnaisance explorations of the Himalayan moutains; Mt Everest being his most notable. His legend derives to a greater extent from whether or not he actually was the first to reach summit of the world's greatest peak, 30 years before Sir Edmund Hillary. (to be completed later, time for my Sunday AM run followed by climbing with 60 lb pack and ankle weights)

Mt Baker- Day 74- 73(High Adventure, Apologies, and Lorna Doone cookies)

Only a brief moment. Just finished a case in the OR. A patient with cancer of the tongue. Had been previously radiated some years back for cancer of the nasopharynx. Hopefully, the surgery makes the difference for this young man. Need to get some rest tonight. Have another major surgery tomorrow at 7:30 AM. It is a young woman with a vascular lesion in the infratemporal fossa. It's a difficult case that requires the collaborative expertise of several colleagues - no less a challenge than climbing a summit. Given that I have only a moment, my apologies for being brief and, for that matter, while we are at it, I apologize to those friends and loved ones I know for, at times, saying too much. I will try to correct my ways and avoid embarrasing and uncomfortable statements.

Performing these surgical cases does require some preparation, mostly in the form of rest. Last night for instance, I had just finished a 75 minute workout on the legs with Paul G; the purpose for climbing endurance. I was hoping to later meet a long time friend, Andrew F, along with our drinking mates at the Dive Bar on the upper west side to discuss important matters. Who, for instance, was eligible for the hall of fame in baseball despite a relatively short career? Concerned about the early OR case, I had to settle for more sedate plans. In this case, it was a quiet evening on a soft leather chair in the library of the Harvard Club. I settled in with an evening night cap and a box of Lorna Doone cookies. Mostly just taking in the ambience and attempting to cast away concerns, including medicine, training for climbing, confusing relationships, and the other "business-as-usual"affairs that clutter the mind. Maybe, a good book would help. Although with my attention span, I probaby would only get through the cover inserts. I just happened to look down in front of me at the books on the bottom shelf, not looking for anything or expecting anything in particular. At that moment, I happened to note a collection of old relatively warn out publications. There was one book that was closest to reach and I picked it up. Remind you, this was supposed to be an evening of rest and escape. Brought the book close enough to see and, no joke, I could not believe it. The book with the cover nearly completely torn from the ensuing pages happened to be the first edition, published in 1955, of, you won't believe it, the writings of Sir Edmund Hillary about his journey with the Sherpa, Tenzing Norgay, to be the first ever persons to summit Mount Everest. The book - High Adventure. No lie, no rest for the weary,and within a brief moment the cookies started to go fast. I knew that my early sleep was not to be had. But for now, I will have to finish this story or, should I say, Sir Edmund's story, some other time. Right now, its late at night. The box of Lorna Doones are now gone. I will take my escape with better dreams --- perhaps, Tenzing and I on the top of Mt Everest.

Mt Baker - Day 76-75 (A Soul's Comfort on the Cold Day's Journey)

Walking away from friends and family for the relative solitude of the mountain gives me pause. I search for the words.

The nights will be cold, the weather uncertain
The risks well known, no lessons forgotten
But, alas, no bliss from the gentle touch of love
The ready warmth from only a glove
No cell phone, no desk top, no telephone
The cold night's sound, the mountain's groan
No words of comfort from those who care
When doubt breaks through the icy glare

It made me wonder where it is that I would find the comfort, something to keep me on tract when all else fails. I knew I had to look hard for it. And believe it or not, I found the answer - a link through Alpine Ascents Inc. It seems that other climbers also fear a painful journey.

The true comfort I found which will remain with me for, hopefully, a long time came from a man named Frank. I found him in Middletown NY, a town in the Southern Catskills. I had to drive 3 hours in the rain on a Saturday morning just to meet him. Surely, that time could be more liesurely spent drinking my coffee and reading the Saturday NY Times in the quiet of our Pound Ridge home. Frank met me at the door. We were alone for the duration. He immediately put me at ease with his gentle but penetrating eyes. I felt like he knew me instantly, my past not a mystery, my future soon for him to foretell. In only a moment and without hesitation, he reassured me of all that I was seeking, my biggest concerns put to rest. You see, Frank had a unique talent and not one that is obviously considered. No he was not a psychiatrist, nor a soothsayer or a priest. No, he was not possessed with supernatural powers from which I could draw in time of need. He was not any of those.

To me, as a would-be mountain climber, he was something more important. Frank was a pedorthist, a certified boot fitter; the place of our first encounter, Frank's Custom Shoe-Fitting. The comfort I was looking for were in the boots I came to buy. Think about it. The treck will be long, through, temporate rain forests, crossing cold streams, and spent for many hours on snow and ice. No place to be saddled with boots meant for feet other than mine. A blister, a sore toe, a painful fallen arch would be a disaster. I had to be sure of the comfort of the boot and Frank was definitely the right man for the challenge.

Prior to my visit I had done some fairly extensive research on the subject of mountain boots. I new from previous experience that lack of due diligence can wreak havoc on an otherwise exciting journey. My last trip, for instance, was ice climbing in the Catskills with a pair of rented plastic boots. What a disaster. I didn't think I would make it back to the rendezvous spot, the return trip spent in silent misery as my fellow climbers laughed with the joy of their shared accomplishments. I decided for my upcoming trip that the six hour approach to the mountain and then up to base camp would be better served with a softer alternative, one not left to a quick rental. I settled on a pair of leather boots, top of the line stuff. Forsake no expense. The manufacturer was Lowa. The boot called Mountaineering GTX would well handle the required crampons. Frank would order it for me but first, the proper fit. He brought out all the measuring tools. The first problem I learned from this man of artistry was my left foot was longer than my right. The right exceeded in width. I had always fitted my shoes with the right foot, a big mistake. We agreed on a size nearly one size larger than previously ever considered. He then put my foot in this strange machine and concocted a custom made foot bed. By this time, I was ready to buy anything else I could get my hands on: running shoes, rock climbing shoes, dance shoes, loafers, anything. I settled for another pair of sneakers. He taught me new ways to lace the shoes, the so-called Sherpa's lace. He told me of the importance of keeping the heel in place. He brought several other inserts for assemblage inside my new purchase.

I trusted Frank. He is a man of conviction. For instance, Frank is also a long distance runner - very long. You see, Frank ran from San Francisco to New York several years back.; not once, but twice. Not only did he accomplish this feat, but he is also listed in the Guiness Book of records as having completed the crossing in the fastest time, averaging nearly 70 miles per day. I knew that anyone who achieved with his feet like Frank would be a true "sole" mate; one that I could count on. I left Frank having paid my bill and wearing my new sneakers, feeling almost reborn, my soul (or should I say sole) comforted and ready to meet any challenge, even the cold rainy drive home.

Mt Baker - Day 78-77 (It's in the legs)

So you just can't just take a casual stroll to experience the "freedom of the hills" that John Muir and others have so eloquently described. Remember that you are carrying a fifty pound pack on your back. The first day of even the most elementary of trips, you may climb for 10 hours just to reach base camp. On the last day, you will ascend to the summit, return to base camp only to pack, and then hike to civilization as we know it. One climber relayed to me on a previous trip that his descent from the Denali summit to his vehicle took 24 hours straight. My knees ached just thinking about it. Remember that 30% of climbers who climb Mt Baker never succeed and are forced to turn back. Not a casual stroll, indeed. Its more about the physical and mental endurance necessary to meet a challenge.The foremost factor that determines success is arguably in the strength of the legs. My training sessions are increasingly focused on this part of my body

Fortunately, from my winter mountaineering experience last January, I learned of one of my weaknesses. At that time, I was a part of the Adirondack Mountain Club winter school. We were climbing various peaks outside of Lake Placid. Spent the whole day hiking on each of the four days of the school. Climbed on snow in weather with temperatures at minus 25 degrees farenheit. For nearly the whole time we were either in snow shoes or crampons. Backpacks were relatively light at 25-30 pounds. No problem with shortness of breath, getting winded and needing to stop to avoid exaustion. However, it was at that point that I realized there was a certain muscle group beginning to fatigue that I had neither anticipated or previously experienced. I began to realize that should muscle fatigue progress any further, they might simply altogether stop functioning. I began to wonder as to what happens if these muscles give out completely; especially, when I am 3/4 of the way up the mountain. I shuttered that I could end up frozen in place, the history of my experience forever captured as an eternal ice sculpture of human failure for all to witness. The experience generated a more intense pulse within my state of chronic anxiety. Being embarrassed by my predicament in front of my fellow travelers would be the least of it. I do not want that to happen again.

So which muscles were the earliest problem? It turns out the first set of muscles to go were ones that I would never have considered, the inner portion of the upper thigh. My anatomy text, which I do not have with me at the moment, would identify several muscles; the adductor brevis longus and magnus, the gracilis, the pectineus are the principal ones that I can recall. I have long forgotten the blood supply, innervation, origins, insertions or other descriptives of this group or much else about the anatomy of the upper leg. I had to ask myself what about this climbing effort caused these muscles to fail. I am still thinking about it but the best I can tell it has to do with the added weight on my feet. More specifically, it has to do with the exertion of lifting your boots up, through, and out of the snow and ice to take your next step. The stress is compounded by the weight of the snowshoes or crampons and the snow and ice that may accumulate around there edges. Remember, the plastic mountaineering boots may by themselves weigh 5 pounds each. This stress can over a period of time add up pretty quickly. Having lived with my generalized anxiety problems for nearly my whole life, I have learned how to compensate. I will be sure to prepare long in advance to avoid the problem in the future.

I have also begun to believe that most of the common exercises do not increase indurance of this particular muscle group. None of the machines in any of the fitness centers previously visited seem to work them. Certainly, not days of jogging on trails or on treadmills. Lunges, dead lifts, bicycling, step stairs,eliptical machines - none of it - nada - nothing. Paul G has, however, come to the rescue. Knowingly or not, he has finally identified for me exercises to be incorporated into the daily routine which seems to answer the call. These will be described tomorrow after I have time to worry about it some more.

Mt Baker -Day 79 (Freedom of the Hills)

Get back from Las Vegas. Do cases in the OR Tuesday and Wednesday. See patients, both old and new. Catch up with paperwork. Sweat out two training sessions with Paul G and three on my own, including two on Sunday. Time to catch a quick glimpse of the two hundred Monarch butterflies that land in our yard on their way to Canada from Mexico. It's then back to the airport to fly to Dayton Ohio. Time to reflect how lonely at times all this can really be. Going to Dayton to see my mother on mother's day. Actually, it is not as considerate as it may seem.Yes, I had made my trip to Dayton to see her. But it was Paul G, my personal trainer and erstwhile spiritual leader, who reminded me it was mother's day. Nancy, knowing my general failure to remember important occasions, had already packed a mother's day card in my carry-on bag. I arrive in Dayton just in time to run six miles on the paved bicycle trail by the Little Miami River. Hundreds of geese were lining the banks of the river making the stepping on the trail a little precarious. Will finish later with strength and endurance exercises, today mostly involving legs, after I finish this blog.

Brought with me two books this time. One was a love story by the Nobel Prize winning author, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, entitled Love in the Time of Cholera. The second was Mountaineering: The Freedom of the Hills. Marquez's story takes place in Cartagena, Columbia. It is about the love-struck Florentino Ariza who waits over fifty years to win the heart of his beloved Fermina. The powerful imagery that Garcia is able to create can be transporting. I find myself many times in the old Columbian city.

The book Mountaineering: Freedom of the Hills is actually the best textbook in the country on the subject of climbing and a Christmas gift to me from Paul G. Over 500 pages in length, the book's chapters cover the essentials of clothing and equipment, camping and food, physical conditioning, and wilderness travel to name a few. It is put together by the Mountaineers Club, a group based in Seattle, Washington who date their origins back to 1906. Their initial purpose was to explore the mountains and forests of the Pacific Northwest. The current edition of Mountaineering is their seventh. The book notes that "Freedom of the hills" is a "concept that combines the simple joy of being in the mountains with the skill, equipment and strength to travel without harm to ourselves, others, or the environment" I will likely refer to it on subsequent blogs. The authors convey the words of the naturalist, John Muir. "Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. Walk quietly in any direction and taste the freedom of the hills."
Makes it all bearable!

Mt Baker - Day 80 ( tying the knot)

Twenty seven years ago this week, my wife and I "tied the knot" It seems only fitting today we revisit the subject (albeit, from a slightly different perspective). Today, there is a also a twist in the tail. My wife warned me this morning about my poor spelling habits in writing a blog that becomes an open record. She also wondered about including stories like the one I concluded yesterday. She noted, for instance, the word veil in these recent blogs had about four different spellings throughout. Well today's tail (that's right, Nancy, tail and not tale) may be more understandable. This tail is actually the end of a rope. The twist that I refer to is about is how one turns and guide it into a particular configuration thereby serving a very specific purpose. We are talking about a climber's lifeline - his knots. I have actually spent a lot of time on this (not the blog! but the knot!). For the last month or so, I have on a periodic basis while sitting in front of the TV, brought with me the necessary tools - two pieces of rope, a book called Mountaineering: The Freedom of the Hills, and my reading glasses. I then begin to weave. I sort of see it as the image of some elderly spinster sitting peacefully in her rocking chair, quietly knitting, eyes focused but hearing all else around her. The issue for me is that these twists for which I am practicing need to be life saving.

I have learned form the above textbook as well as from several climbing instructors on various mountains that there are about 8-10 knots and hitches with which I will need to be proficient. I even have a DVD specifically dedicated to knot tying provided through a link with Alpine Ascents, Inc. The knot usually first mentioned in all these sources and the one most commonly used is the figure 8. If you have ever been rock climbing, that is the one you are tested for proficiency if you are to climb in an unsupervised setting. It is the knot you fasten to your harness that places you "on-belay", ie, the one that attaches you to rope to which you literally entrust your life. That rope leads to the belayer who uses a figure 8 knot tied to his harness for purposes of attaching to an anchor. For those who may not know, the belayer is your guardian in case of a fall, the individual who controls your rate of descent. The figure 8 knot will tie each of my climbing team to a common rope as we pass through crevasse fields within the Easton glacier route of Mt Baker. One would think that a surgeon should have no problem mastering this and other knots and hitches. That is probably why it is always a standard joke to my climbing colleagues as they see how often I made a mess of it. Arguably, the nicest thing about my knots in the OR that avoids this aggravating ridicule is that they are performed with material too fine for anyone to really notice. I am up to proficiency in about four knots to date. Can tie the figure 8 in either hand and can tie it in about three different ways. Would I trust my life with it? Well, there is only one answer to that one. I'm going to half to.