De retour dans les Calanques

Last weekend Hillary and I completed the France adventure sampler triple crown: Paris with Abe, skiing in the Ecrins and climbing on the coast all without missing a day of work. Completely different worlds all within less than three hours of travel from Grenoble. There was much to celebrate though beyond the compact wonders of France: most of all our anniversary, which for the first time in three years we chose not to spend in the context of a pre-dawn wakeup in a crowded, smelly refuge, but in the comfort of a rented Airbnb studio just outside of Cassis. Also it was my first time wearing climbing shoes in 4-months, and I am happy to say that I was able to high step and hand jam without pain (just weak muscles)...

We did the ultra-classic Ramond Traverse, which features 4th-class scrambling on narrow ledges above the water followed by two pitches of 5.7 to get back to the plateau. The next day we got sandbagged on the Liautard Route on the Sirène (FA 1927), which was described in our guidebook as 5.6 and re-bolted in the 1980s. We later found through our own experience and other topos that the route was 5.6 R/X and 5.9 A0, and polished! Fortunately the slightly spicier than planned re-entry went well in the end, and I even had the pleasure of further testing my ankle at the end of day by carrying both packs back to the car while Hillary embarked on a late afternoon trail run. All in all a great weekend!

"La perle des Calanques" - En Vau

Cruising the Traversée Ramond above the Calanque de l'Oule.

On the last pitch of the Ramond.

On an exceptionally well-protected stretch of the Sirène.

Back in the Saddle: Brèche de la Meije

As Brad consistently reminds me, I am, as usual, far behind on my blog postings (you would think that he would have figured out, after all this time, that I am just not that good of a blogger).  While he's been laid up with a broken ankle and subsequent crutch-induced tendonitis, I have still managed to get out on some adventures--which have been, thus far, sorely underrepresented on the blog.   I'm sure that our loyal readership (Hi Dad! Nancy!) is anxious to hear my accounts of the following outings:
- Grand Renaud with Thibaut, Olivier and Olivier
- Abe and Evan come to Grenoble
- Brad walks 14k in the Cirque d'Archiane
- Lenny comes to visit
- Hillary and Brad take in culture in Paris
However, before I recount all of the 'old news', I want to share the newest most exciting news:

Brad is back in the saddle! 

(well, getting there, anyway, and this weekend was an amazing start!!) 

After getting the go-ahead from his physical therapist, Brad and I headed up to the Ecrins to test out the old ankle on a mini ski touring adventure.   Saturday afternoon we drove to La Berarde on a road that will never cease to amaze me or take my breath away with anxiety.  We skinned up to the Refuge du Châtelleret in the mid-afternoon heat with the intention of spending a leisurely evening in the refuge.   Unfortunately, a rather unwieldy group of CAF members made the soirée a little less relaxed than hoped. However, the joy of finally being in the mountains together again helped us to ignore the 30 obnoxious, cackling, snoring, and rustling overly-confident yet under-experienced Lyonnais who shared the refuge with us.
Fortunately, said group headed out on a different itinerary in the morning, and we were able to start the ski tour at dawn while observing their cluster from afar.

Skinning up toward the Promontoire as the first rays of sunlight hit the Meije

From just below the Brèche: Promontoire, Grand Ruine and a little glimpse of the Barre

Climbing up to the brèche

The snow was firm as we skinned up, and the sun rose behind the looming peaks around us.  But as soon as sunlight began to hit the slopes, the snow began to transform and we knew we'd have a fun descent.
About 100m below the Brèche de la Meije, we swapped skis for crampons and piolets, and worked our way up to the day's high point. At 3,357m, we definitely felt the altitude as topped out in the the saddle, but still felt completely dwarfed by the Meije to the east and the Rateau to the west, towering above us.
After a snack and a brief bask in the sun, we saw the window of perfectly sun-warmed snow below, and headed back down to put the skis back on enjoy the corn snow before it turned to soup.
As he tightened down his boots, Brad was anxious about how his ankle would fare on the descent.  He knew he could get the to bottom of the hill, but wasn't sure how it would feel and whether or not he'd be able to move beyond survival skiing into the realm of having fun. Luckily for us, his fears soon disappeared--the snow was perfect: just the top few inches were softened by the sun on top of a solid base allowing for excellent ski conditions.   Watching him ski down the slope with ease and obvious pleasure (as evidenced by punctual whoops), you never would have guessed that it was his first real outing of the year.

"He hasn't lost it!!"

Excellent schussing conditions

I did my best to keep up with him, equally ecstatic with the incredible conditions.  Remarkably, we were able to scope out untracked lines and ski down virgin pitches of perfect spring snow. The only complaint of the day was that the 1000 meters of descent was over far too fast--Brad showed his enthusiasm by missing the refuge entirely on the way down, too focused on the pleasure of skiing to notice that he passed it by.
Back at the Châtelleret, we sunbathed and enjoyed our picnic before finally coming to terms with the fact that we had to go back to Grenoble.

Picnic below the Meije

As is always the case, when we made our way down to the valley, wound down the road and drove the city, we felt the overwhelming sense of un-reality that accompanies spending time up in the mountains, and then quickly entering back into a city that did not miss a beat in your absence.   For us, even if it was for little more than 24 hours this round, time had slowed down a little bit.  We were more deliberate, more observant, and more reflective.  And arriving back in a place and surrounded by people who are unaware and unconcerned by the fact that you've changed--just a little bit--is a weird feeling.
However, I think Brad would attest to the fact that, after a few months of staying in the bustling city life, that sense of jarring readjustment and getting your bearings back is a damn good problem to have. And I'm certainly happy to be back to sharing that experience together.

Brad lets gravity pull him back down into the valley

A final glimpse of the Dome and the Barre des Ecrins before the heading back to the city begs the question:  When we head back into Grenoble, are we on our way back to reality (the so-called "real world") or are we leaving reality? 

Thistle Hill Alps - Hinesburg, Vermont

                                                                                                        Photo: Nancy Carlson

A breath of fresh air

At last!  A view of the Dévoluy from the Tabor on Saturday

Given the ankle circumstances, here at 32 Quai Perrière, we've had a pretty slow start to the winter.
Before Brad broke his ankle, snow conditions were pretty bony:

Searching for snow with Brad, François, Thibaut and Annelise

 and have remained pretty mediocre since.   Though he's been amazingly calm about not being able to get outdoors and found new activities to keep him busy (see below), I think Brad's 'cool' has been significantly aided by the poor ski conditions.   He'll always pine away over the mountains, but when nearly every ski report from friends sounds like 'meh', his pain is less acute.

Brad and Ian try out a new weekend activity

In the meantime, I finally got the go ahead from my physical therapist to ski for a half day, and quickly took advantage last weekend on Chamechaude with François

Regard toward Grenoble from Chamechaude

and this weekend on the Tabor with Thibaut and Austin.   While still I haven't yet been on an outing where I didn't touch down on grass or rocks, I was thrilled just to be up there, feel cold biting wind on my face and sweat.   I met Austin, a new temporary addition to Grenoble by way of AMC huts connection last summer.  He arrived a few weeks ago, and yesterday was his first Alps ski tour. His enthusiasm was palpable. While I didn't need much in the way of stoke-inspiration after weeks of being city-bound, the permanent grin on his face was appreciated.

Austin and Thibaut look towards the Grand Armet

Austin and the stoke

Great day, no happy ending: Fantomas - WI 4, 1500'

            Before I get into recounting the unhappy ending, I want to emphasize that Olivier and I had a totally kickass weekend from Saturday morning through about 3:30pm on Sunday. Low snow and cold temps for once made the decision not to ski easy, and we kicked off the weekend by taking his recently purchased and renovated Renault Traffic van up to la Grave with our sights set on climbing some ice. “La colère du ciel” (melodramatically named “anger of the sky”) turned out to be the ticket, providing six pitches of interesting but relatively comfortable climbing (photos 1 & 2). I will confess that I forgot my harness in the car and had to do a quick round trip, dashing through the village in my mountain boots as the locals smirked from their kitchen windows. All in all things went very smoothly though, and Olivier and my suspicions were confirmed that we made for a good rope team on ice as well as in the mountains. 

Warming up on a 900' grade 3/4 called 'La
Colère du Ciel' above la Grave.

          Saturday night we geared up for the weekend’s main event by fueling up on soup and pasta, watching a movie and generally lounging in the van. The camper van is definitely a winning strategy for making winter trailheads comfortable. On Sunday we were up and at it at 5am, heading for our objective: Fantomas, a 500m gully featuring nine pitches of climbing up to grade IV ice.  Unfortunately there was too little snow to do the approach on skis, and I discovered an hour into our hike that my rented snowshoes were missing a piece and broken. At this point Olivier saved the day by using a key ring to fix the binding in place, and we marched on. After three hours we found ourselves looking up at the initial ice pitches winding their way through an imposing rock face, looking fat and almost inviting. The next five hours involved thoroughly interesting climbing, made even more so by the low snow (some fixed anchors were actually inaccessible). The route felt like multiple Chouinard’s gully’s stacked one after the other, with some steps of steeper ice and mixed passages reminiscent of Multiplication Gully or Unexpected Pleasure. Needless to say I was in my element, feeling right at home at in the Adirondacks while perched in a full-on alpine setting. Olivier and I shared leads and generally had ourselves a time.

At the end of the 3-hour approach with the early crux of the gully in view.

Olivier tunneling up the 2nd pitch. 

Enjoying one of the best ice pitches on the route. 

At least I didn't break my ankle here - an awkward passage on pitch 8.

Olivier topping out the route around 1pm. 

           After the rappels and back at our packs, we found ourselves smugly congratulating one another and transitioning to the 6km walk back to the car.  Given the fragility of my snowshoes, and my aversion to keeping crampons on in a low snow cover talus field, I opted to descend in just my mountain boots. Olivier put his snowshoes back on and thus benefitted from some additional traction. After hearing a standard remark about how I couldn’t keep up, I decided I would show him by boot skiing right past him. I gave a quick “coup d’accéleration” and promptly found myself flat on my ass and sliding rapidly downhill on firm snow. I had a picture in my mind’s eye of rocks on the horizon, and after a couple of bounds I did everything I could to stop myself. Digging my heels in, I came to a rapid halt as my left ankle bit down on a rock. “F***!!” Thoughts quickly went to my parents’ arrival in less than two weeks, the ski season, and an unwanted helicopter ride. Olivier arrived rapidly saying he was relieved that I had stopped myself and hadn’t hit my head on any rocks, which was a fair point.  I knew however that in some form another I had just joined the messed up ankle club, and it was time to decide how we might get out of there.

            Olivier stated a preference for calling the helicopter, which was a pertinent suggestion given that darkness would arrive in an hour and we had about 4 miles and about 2500’ of vertical to cover. Despite some pain, I nonetheless felt alert and physically capable. Olivier’s offer to carry my pack, my ego and pride, and my belief that physically I could get out with Olivier’s help caused me to not call for rescue. At that point we also called Hillary, who fielded the call with grace and was positive and understanding of my urge to get back to the car by our own means. I immensely appreciated that Olivier was willing to support my decision, especially considering that the ensuing hours would be no picnic for him either.

And so it began, first sliding gingerly on my derrière and using gravity to make headway. Then the crux: the low-angle, trail-less, snow covered talus field at the bottom of the basin, which necessitated crawling on all fours and doing whatever I could to get by. After a couple hours we were back on the trail, and I was able to use poles as crutches to hobble down hill. I remember stopping at one point to have a drink of water and a snickers, and feeling as if my body were shutting down as the seconds ticked by – best to keep moving. After a few hours, I remember Olivier asking me a question about return strategy, whether or not he should go ahead to get the van and pick me up a bit higher than our starting point. I replied by saying, “I’m in the now,” totally unable to reflect about anything other than getting down that trail.  At last I saw headlights and soon found myself under a blanket in the front seat of the van, off my ankle and taking down multiple cans of Coke.

Hillary and Thibaut came to meet us at the emergency room in Grenoble, bearing homemade soup and Quick Burger fastfood.  After a couple rounds of X-rays, some magic pills, lots of waiting and nodding my head to an endless procession of care providers, Hillary accompanied me out of the ER just before 2am. It turns out she had started the Grenoble chapter of the messed up ankle club the previous week, badly spraining her ankle while charging down a staircase at work. And so there we were, both on crutches, hobbling out together as the receptionist asked, “Who is taking who home here?”

And to conclude, here are the facts: the medial malleolus on my left ankle has a clean fracture. I will get routine surgery tomorrow, after which I’m looking at 6-weeks in a cast and on crutches, followed by 6-weeks of taking it easy and PT. In the coming months I plan to log some serious time on the fingerboard and to get super top heavy, and expect that I will be sport climbing like a true Frenchman come spring (I have Jeff Banks to thank for that line). I don’t feel like there is any golden rule to be learned here, other than shit happens, one must always be careful and the adventure begins and ends at the car. I am doing my best not to over-analyze the sequence of events leading up the accident, as is my tendency. I will say that for the price of a stupid mistake things could be a whole lot worse. I feel very lucky to be with Hill and surrounded by good friends who care and are willing to go out of their way to help. I am the most sorry to my parents, who are coming out here next weekend and will have to deal with a gimp for the duration of their visit – restaurants here we come! As I enter the hazy hospital world, at least I am sure of one thing: I have no regrets about Sunday’s adventure, and that goes both for crawling on all fours through the snow and darkness and for feeling like the king of world shouting off belay, already looking ahead to the next pitch.

            

"We got a long way to go this evening, and if you don't like what you hear that's tough.
Here's an old song, called Blue Sky." - Greg Allman

Celebrating the end of Rocktober

Thibaut and Christophe working their way up "Du 5 à Tire-Larigot" on the Tête de la Maye, la Bérarde. 

With that jacket and handlebar mustache, Ian is ready to climb rock into December...

Col Est du Pelvoux (3609m) -- Couloir Nord

After a couple of monumental failures (see the post from June this past summer), my friend Rui and I finally completed a high mountain route together. We were looking for a glaciated objective, accessible in a day and without a téléphérique... the Glacier Noir in the Ecrins naturally fit the bill. I mentioned to Rui that the route would involve more hiking than a typical Chamonix objective, especially on the descent, but I don't think Rui quite understood what I meant until we were looking down from our high point at larch forest 6000' below, no cable cars for miles... 

I'm psyched that we were dumb and tough enough to persevere and succeed on this route, for a couple of reasons. First, we rolled into the parking lot Friday night at 10pm, and then set alarms for 2am to kick off our 15-hour day. So the hagard factor was definitely high. Second, we had hoped that the half meter of snow fall last week would have padded things out and made the route less bony than typical autumn conditions (most parties climb or even ski the route in May or June). It turns out the new snow did not stick to the 50-60° glare ice, so we ended up doing close to 700 vertical meters of front pointing. My calves have never before gotten so rocked, and I can only describe the experience in the final couloir as being downright painful. That said, the full moon AM approach, interesting climbing down low on steeper ice sections, the satisfaction of emerging out of a cold, dark north face into sunshine and gentle snow slopes, not to mention the beautiful fall light filtering everything we saw, made it all worthwhile. 

There are at least a half dozen other of Rébuffat's 100 Plus Belles itineraries in the sector, and I am already looking forward to going back with better conditions and stronger legs...

Rui heading up to our couloir exit on the left. We did our best not to linger below the lovely seracs on the right... 

The route in spring conditions - April, 2012. 

Fall conditions! 

Moments of nice "sorbet" ice.

Calf explosion!!

Sorry for the clumsy iPhoto adjustments. Still, you get the
idea that we were a good ways up there... 

View of the Aiguille de Sialouze (3576m), which Hill and I traversed in July.

Signs of life and a long descent down the south side.  

L'Olan 3564m

Still too intimidated to try to recap a month-long trip to the US in August, I bring you, instead, a few photos from an adventure last weekend in the Ecrins.

One week after the infamous French 'rentrée', when all French people return to their regular lives after at least a month of vacation, and still manage to have plenty to complain about, Brad and I also found it difficult to leave the summer behind.  After a careful study of the weather forecast (at least 5 times a day from several different sources) we deduced that, in order to pursue our extended goal of climbing Les 100 Plus Belles Courses in the Ecrins, we'd have to consolidate our weekend outing into Friday night and Saturday--when it would start raining in the valley and snowing on the peaks. We made it out of Grenoble just before the rush hour traffic, arriving in Valgaudemar, a beautiful valley with which I was previously unacquainted, around 6pm.  After a week of 6-7 hour nights, we had to dig deep into the energy recesses to find the motivation for the 1200m climb up to our bivouac near the refuge.  Digging still deeper, we set our alarms for a 4am wake up, and settled into our bivy sacs with a bright moon illuminating the towering south face of the Olan behind us, and sheep bells echoing across the unlikely perched plateau.

Four o'clock came quickly, and in the chill of the early morning, I struggled with the idea of getting out of my sleeping bag.  However, the cold was short-lived problem, and we quickly warmed up as we made our way up talus and scree, stepped onto the glacier and traversed our way to the base of the Voie Escarra--the regular route up the peak. Looking at the Olan from below, it is hard to believe that there could possibly be a reasonable way to get up it--but following the topo instructions and advice from the hut guardian, we efficiently made our way up the initial step of climbing, across an improbable and walkable ledge in the middle of the face, and then up a leaning couloir to the notch where the real fun began.  Never difficult, the arête leading from the Breche Escarra to the summit of the Olan is airy to say the least.  The quality of the rock is excellent, and were it a few meters off the ground, it would be a piece of cake.  But perched on a narrow ridge with precipitous drops on each side, the traverse was pretty mind-blowing. Once on the summit, we set up a rappel to take us back to the lower part of the ridge, and sunned ourselves while taking in the incredible surroundings. 

On the descent (which followed the same itinerary as the climb), Brad and I enjoyed one of our most efficient downclimbs--which was a big step for the unsure-footed me.
Back down at our bivouac, we refilled on calories and liquid, and were tempted to, rather than make our way back down to the valley, do like the "alpinist" sheep (so described by the hut guardian) who spend several months a year, wandering the alpine landscape in search of green (some with significantly more success than others--see below).

for those climbers wanting to see routes....