From: sinclair@cc.usu.edu (Bob Sinclair)
Newsgroups: rec.climbing
Subject: Grand Teton Report :Long
Date: 10 Nov 92 10:15:33 MDT
Organization: Utah State University

Bill and I had an ongoing mailversation about who might post their
teton trip first.
I guess he beat me to it.
I guess he had a more pressing deadline than me.
I for one am sorry to see him go

                 Sportclimbers in the mountains. 

Bob's account of a 1 day blast up the Grand Teton, Wyoming. August
1992.


"4.30 am" I grumble to myself as I trudge down the trail. "Not even
light yet. 4.30! Hmmpfh"

Friday had been a long day. A six am. start at work had lead to an
eventual late departure from Jim's, and by the time we had collected
all our gear, loaded a boat on the truck, driven to the gas station with
the back open and hit the road it was almost 8pm. We were supposed
to meet Chuck and Chris in Bubbas in Jackson, intending a one day
blast up the Petzholdt ridge on the Grand Teton, WY. Predictably,
Bubbas was closing as we arrived so Wendy's was the best fare we
could find. After a quick jaunt around the supermarket, we drove out
to the backup meeting place -- the Death Canyon trailhead. Camping
is not exactly allowed there, but for a late night - early start bivouac
it is rarely checked. Chuck and Chris woke when we pulled in next to
them, and when Chuck answered my "when do we start? enquiry with
"3.30" I thought he was joking.

I had forgotten to buy new laces for my oversize megas in REI a
couple of weeks previously. I forgot again in Logan earlier that week.
And I managed, with a certain amount of consistency, to forget again
at the supermarket. I sat and threaded the laces from my "son of lava
domes" and replaced those with some thin utility cord. By 12.20 I was
asleep. Well, sort of. 

One of the few places I have heard first hand stories about bear
encounters is Death Canyon. To make it worse, Jim and I had traded
tales over our tasty Wendy's burgers. Even though I knew there would
be no problems, and had thrown my bag down in many unlikely spots
(including K-mart car park in Spanish Fork one fall), tonight seemed
to be a good time for some odd dreams. A mouse had scratched around
my bag for a while to set the scene, and some while later I had
awakened abruptly with a heavy bear sitting on my back. I lay there,
very still and very quiet, as I had read that if caught by a bear you
should play dead. Eventually however, when nothing happened, I
risked a quick peep and hit my head on an exhaust system. Bears don't
normally have exhausts, so things were getting progressively more
weird. Eventually, I realized I had somehow squirmed under the
Chuckwagon, which explained why I could not get up. A few more
very odd dreams, one of which, set in a huge field, involved my
partners driving their truck around to keep a huge pink bear between
them and me. I was quite glad when an alarm grated it's 3.30 chorus.

What to wear, what to wear? I settled for the lycra - the bright green
pair with the red and silver flames on one hip. After all, the Grand is
just a big sport climb, right? No chalkbag though as Chuck had
insisted we travel light. 
"You taking a rope, Chuck?"
"No. It's only 5.5 so we won't need it" However I had seen him
cramming a harness into his fanny pack, and asked why, - as we
weren't taking a rope.
"Looks better if we have to be rescued." 
"Hmm."
"How much water you got in there?"
"A liter. We can refill at the spring and again at the saddle"
"Is it safe?"
"Sure." 
"Hmm."

We drove to back through the park, and out to the Lupine meadow
trailhead. Here we went through the rope discussion all again. In the
end we compromised. Harnesses and rappel devices. Chris and I, not
owning 5.tennies brought rock boots. I hid two slings and 4 biners in
my pack and chopped my oldest 9mm in half. 75' of rope for 4 of us.
"We won't need it Bob, it's only 5.5"
"Hmm"

I should put a qualifier in here regarding Chuck. He is not as wild and
irresponsible as the above paragraphs might suggest. Chris was the
least experienced of the team, but had been ticking some quite
respectable 5.10's recently. Jim and Chuck had both been on the Grand
several times, Chuck even as a guide. And after all, it is only 5.5.

"4.bleeding.30. Sod this for a game of soldiers." Trudge, trudge,
trudge.

Mind you, there is an almost full moon in a clear sky. Patches of silver
strewn along the trail and that crispness that tells you it's going to be
a great day. Deprived of the usual visual inputs, the other senses are 
sharpened. The chill air has a substance to it that is rarely noticed, and
it prickles on my forehead as I warm to the hike. The smell of pine,
mixed with something unidentifiable and the rustle of invisible sprites
clearing the trail for our passage. It's not so bad after all.

Just before the first fork, we hit a curtain of noticeably warmer air and
within minutes we are sweating and shedding a layer or two. Soon
after, we hit the first of the zig-zags and the mindless grunt begins. I'm
startled by another bear at one point, which proves to be a deer, and
we continue. By dawn we are high up on the trail, and a spectacular
sunrise rewards our efforts. We had been keeping a wicked pace, but
in the couple of minutes that pass as we take a drink and watch the
colors, a sweaty body passes us. A friend of Jim's, solo. We invite him
to join us on the Petzholdt but he declines, having set his sights on the
Exum direct. And anyway, he had promised to be down by 5pm so a
larger group would simply be too slow.

The trail soon flattens out, and we pass through Garnet canyon. It is
an incredibly beautiful place. Chuck and Jim describe how it is in
winter, and it makes me think it just might be worth learning to ski
after all. Next, the big boulder field, and then the trail steepens a little
and we follow the stream up into the meadow. It's around 7 am, and
campers are just beginning to emerge. Looming ahead is the Middle
Teton, with a huge black dike running up the side which faces us. 
"Chouinard told me not to climb the Black dike" Jim started "But we
went ahead and did it anyway"
"What was it like"
"Awful! Loose, bad rock, scary. But what an incredible feature"
And it is. Incredible. A wide, straight, vertical slash of black which
leads to the summit. 

Onward past the Petzholdt caves, Heartbreak hill and a water stop. Up
to the moraine. The water looks OK, but I still have plenty and figure
that it will be safer still higher up at the spring. Breakfast, again. A
bagel and a powerbar. After all, sport climbers eat powerbars, right?
Jim throws his wrapper on the ground, with a comment that he'd heard
they biodegrade in a few days, but no-one rises to the bait so he
retrieves it and stows it in his pack. We're getting used to that one.
Onward.

As we continue, an arete which rivals the black dike is to the right.
"What's that, it looks amazing?" I ask. Chuck answers first,
"Irene's. Great climb." But Jim cuts in immediately,
"Death route!" 
"But the gear was great, you can sew it up." 
"Death route." I sense some historical and private joke and decide to
join in,
"Well let's go back down and get the Hilti. Rap down it and slam in
some metal". And on we go. More moraine leads to a rock band which
we pass with the aid of a fixed 2" hemp rope. Then more scree to the
second water stop just before the lower saddle. At the saddle there is
a small canvas city. Sierradesignsville judging from the prevalence of
pale blue. 

The lower saddle proved to be one of the highlights of the hike. It had
taken us a little less than four and a half hours to get there, during
which time the scenery had changed slowly, with views to prepare us
for what lay ahead. Suddenly however, the saddle is crested, and a new
panorama revealed. The valley beyond is immense, and very deep.
With the sun behind us, the shadows of the Grand and Middle Tetons
emphasize the fact that we are really in the mountains. Right turn, and
another slog up a gently inclined slope to the start of the mountain.
Right again at the base, and follow another black dike into a gully
behind Disappointment peak where the Petzholdt ridge begins.

"Start 100' up from where the snowfield begins". Great description, I
guess they somehow make sure the snowfield remains a constant size
so that it is easy to find. Only 5.5 though, so we find a likely looking
face and begin to climb. After about 100', Chris and I stop on a ledge
and put rockshoes on. Jim has vanished above and Chuck is waiting on
the ledge. Off again, a little greasy in places, and maybe a little hard
for 5.5, but we continue. I catch up with Jim stalled under a evil
looking chimney. It feels like 5.9 getting to him, and although I give
the chimney quite a determined go, its really slippery, the holds are
poor and there is a certain death fall if I get it wrong. We retreat and
look for alternatives, but to the left we are confronted with a big drop,
while to the right is a steep wall. We decide we are probably too far
left, but that if we can crack the chimney we will probably be able to
get on the route. We belay on a spike, and Chuck gives Chris a rope,
which I just happened to have in my pack, up the 5.9 section. All on
the stance, Jim ties the rope around my waist as there is no room to
hop around getting into harnesses and I lead off armed with three
biners and a sling. I clip a couple of questionable pins in the chimney,
and following adequate whining on moves that feel like 5.12, and are
probably 5.10, I top out on a ledge. It looks fine, so everyone joins me.
Above, no go. Left, big drop. Right, steep wall. "Have we been here
before?" This time though, there is a tangle of bail webbing, and we
rapel down the steep section (I never did figure out ropeless rapelling,
lucky we had one) and scramble back to the snowfield. Manage it with
only one dropped biner, but with some unexpected and exciting
moments crossing the hard packed snow in megas.

Three hours that cost us. Well, at least it's lunchtime, so we have some
more to eat. Chris and I are fairly keen to get to the top, so we all
agree to hike round to the Exum ridge and give that a go. Jim and
Chuck have been on it before, and assure us that there is nothing on
it that is even remotely as hard as what we had just done. Maybe I
should lighten my pack, and stash the rope and slings at the bottom?
On the other hand, maybe I should keep them with me? Yes, that
sounds more likely.

The hike around the mountain is uneventful, and following a short
scramble we thread the eye of the needle and do the belly roll. I'm not
sure how official they are, but Jim has names for many of the features
on the route. More scrambling, and we round an exposed corner which
places us opposite wall street - _THE CRUX_! Chuck hangs out over
the edge on one arm and one foot, making for a spectacular, if
somewhat goofy photo, and we continue to the huge ledge that is wall
street. Shoes off, shoes on, and we're ready to get on with the real
climbing.

The wall street ledge gradually tapers down to nothing. Here, you step
out over an indistinct notch and make a couple of easy moves upwards
to another ledge. The crunch is that the exposure is intense which
makes the climbing seem that much harder. As I step across, I look
down at a lot of air and get quite a rush. I comment as much to the
others, and Chris decides that a rope would be nice. "Well, as you
mention it, I just happen to have one in my pack". Lucky that. The
ledge at the top provides us with a superb view of the Middle Teton,
with its underlying snowfield. It's just like being in the real mountains,
as Jim points out a little cloud building beyond.

Next is the golden stairs. A steep orange face with big holds. Chuck
keeps Chris roped, and from here on we discover we have caught up
with several other parties on the Exum and the Direct. Strangely, we
are all heading the same way, but the scrambling is sufficiently casual
that we wander around each other without conflicts. That is, of course,
until we reach the friction pitch, _THE OTHER CRUX_! The party at
the bottom notice Jim and I are missing a couple of bits of equipment,
like harnesses, gear and a rope (Chuck and Chris keep using it, Chuck
and Chris can damn well carry it! They have consequently fallen some
way behind). They offer to let us pass and we bumble on. Jim
scampers up it, while I am a little more cautious. Sure enough, it is
only 5.5, but it is genuine friction climbing, and a little slip could be
embarrassing to say the least. But its not too bad, and we sit at the top
to wait for the team. Amazing view, and I decide I want a photo, with
me in it, so I give Jim the camera and downclimb the friction pitch,
posing on command until he's happy with the result. I snag a stuck
stopper too - booty! But the owners are still at the top of the pitch and
I'm forced to return it.

There's a pitch near the top called the open book. Jim claims to always
head off right too early and therefore has never climbed it. We arrange
to meet Chris and Chuck on top and, hot on the trail of the elusive last
pitch, we stay left. After several false alarms (well, some of them
could have been corners) we find it. The climbing is easy, although
exposed, and several minutes later we are on the top. Just after 3pm.

What a view! To one side there is an enormous glaciated valley. A real
text-book example with steep sides and a small stream winding through
it. Teewinot, amazing. The middle Teton looks rather small, but
nevertheless impressive, while the view towards the Wind Rivers and
Yellowstone is incredible. There are lakes and summits and ridges and
big white fluffy clouds. Jim points out various routes and features to
me while we wait for Chuck and Chris. Big white fluffy clouds with
grey bottoms. We trade some gorp. A brief chill breeze reminds me
that usually clouds like that mean I am about to get cold and wet, and
this is really not a good place for that to happen. Chris and Chuck
arrive, and although he is not wet, Chris already looks a little cold.
They take a quick look around, a couple of summit photos and we're
off again, heading for the top of the Owen-Spalding and the rapel
station. 

About an hour later, we are at the big boulder field, out of the worst
of the weather, sweaty, and out of breath. We're having fun though,
and it's time to eat again so everything is going to be OK.

The downclimbing to the rapel was straightforward, only confused by
the sheer volume of traffic in the upper chimney section. One party
other than us heading down, also solo, and at least two parties coming
up, roped. Then, predictably, one of the guiding operations had the
rapel rigged, with a large group descending very slowly. Chris thumbed
a slide on the next group's rope, and to save time Jim, Chuck and I
headed off to see how much ice was in the chimney proper. The
catwalk was wet, not a good sign, but the chimney proved to be clear
and dry so down we went. In fact, there was virtually no ice in the
Black Ice Couloir either. The traverse from the bottom of the chimney
to the bottom of the rapel is easy but exposed. Chuck and Jim both had
stories about crossing it in full winter conditions, with full winter packs
on, and gloves and crampons. That must be exciting as a mistake
would funnel the pieces 2000 feet or so down the couloir. 

Chris was a long time arriving. The single rapel station is a real
bottleneck in the descent. We chatted with the guides until they were
ready to go, and then an odd piece of timing struck. The lady guide
hanged behind to 'go behind a rock'. I fail to notice, and decide to
take a photo of the rapidly closing weather. Rock in foreground, foul
weather in background. Click. An instant later, up she pops. There am
I with a camera. Pointing it at her, hitching up her pants behind a rock.
I guess she thought I was pretty weird. I guess I thought she was pretty
weird. I guess that makes it fair.

Chris descended at almost exactly the same time as the cloud.
Suddenly we were shrouded in swirling mist and the first few
raindrops fell. We headed down the Owen Spalding trail, and Chuck
dragged us off left onto the rock band. "It's quicker" he explained. A
lot safer too, as we heard a significant rock slide and lots of shouting
from another group. A few hundred feet of descent and we were out
of the cloud with no more rain. The wind was still cold though and
Jim and I managed to get on a different trail, intersecting the Exum
route with no sign of Chuck and Chris. We continued down to the tent
city and sat in the shelter of a large rock to wait for them. A huge, fat
marmot sidled over to check us out. I was looking at the vegetation
which was sparse and unappetizing.
"What the hell do these things eat to stay so fat up here?"
Jim merely nodded at the tents. He's probably right.

Together again we continued down. At the rockband, we discovered we
were again behind the guided party, who were making a major episode
of the ropework. To confuse things a second mega-group was trying
to come up. And to further complicate things Chris looked a little ill
and appeared to be hypothermic. Thankfully it was warming up as we
descended, although Chris adamantly refused to put on any more
clothes as he claimed to be too hot. We opted to rig a proper rapel for
him (with our trusty rope), which gained us some abuse from the
guided party who had sensibly decided to sit right under the descent
and consequently caught a rope and shower of dirt as we sorted things
out. Chris down, we pulled up the rope and stashed it, downclimbed
and we were away again across the moraine and the meadow. I suspect
Chris was suffering from some sort of altitude problem, as about ten
minutes later, someone threw a switch and suddenly he was perfectly
alright.

Down, down, down. Trudge, trudge, trudge. Boring, boring, boring. "Its
not as if there's any interesting scenery or anything." Another in joke.
Jim began playing rock hopping. Balancing on any pointed rocks that
were in the trail, jumping from one to the next, waving his arms for
balance and generally making a spectacle of himself. Looked like fun
though, and before I realized it we were playing a sort of follow-the-
leader. The sequences got progressively more complicated, and faster,
until we were almost jogging. Then we were jogging, and then pretty
much running, down the trail. I was glad my sack was very light
because things were getting serious. Hurtling down the trail, jumping
rocks and bushes and struggling not to overshoot the bends on
Heartbreak Hill, we passed several people who were also on their way
down. It's not until we passed people coming up that I saw their faces.
The expressions said "They're mad, totally crazy". And I guess that
they were probably right. But it was fun, and fast, so we continued
without event until suddenly a root grabbed my foot. Airborne. Face
plant. I made a classic hands and toes landing and recovered, relatively
unhurt, before Chris could pass me. OK, so there was a little
competitiveness in the air, but it's allowed between friends. We
regrouped at the big boulder field, out of breath but basically unhurt.
In fact, we all seemed to feel great.

We decide that a suicidal crossing of the boulders is probably not such
a great idea. Back to a saner pace. Garnet canyon, still pretty as ever.
Conversation pairs us off again and I find myself hiking with Chris
and talking, of all things, about rockclimbing. Chris does quite a bit of
hillrunning I think, and he sets a hard pace, but it's not too
uncomfortable so I match it and we soon leave Jim and Chuck behind.
They'll catch up at some point I'm sure. By the time we reach the zig-
zags, Chris is complaining that the hillside is not really all that steep
there, and that they should have built the trail as a straight shot. Well,
sure, it can't be more than about 60 degrees! The trail is a little too
steep to really let go, but a fast pace is easy to maintain, so it passes
quickly. About halfway down we meet  a couple who ask where we've
been. They refuse to believe that we had done the Grand as we didn't
have any camping gear. We explain that it was a one day deal, but
then they comment on the size of our sacks, as it indicates that we
simply didn't have enough equipment.
"Well, I do have a rope in here" they still look unconvinced, so I
decide to lie, "and two of our friends back up the trail are carrying all
the gear. They'll be by soon. About my height, you can ask them" A
little more convinced, they next ask if I think they could manage it -
how the hell am I supposed to know that? Should be amusing if they
quiz Chuck and Jim though, as Jim's sack is as chock full of nothing
as mine, and Chuck is wearing a fanny pack! A while later, we catch
up with a woman and a very sullen looking six or seven year old boy.
She flags us down and asks us
"Gotta quarter buddy?" Well, sort of. It's quite a hike for a small kid,
and she thinks he is suffering from a serious sugar deficiency. Do we
have any spare food? I rummage in my sack.
"I've got a bagel" and I offer it to him, but it is only a plain one, and
he turns his nose up as if to say "you expect me to eat that without
cream cheese, jelly and lemonade?"
"How about half a powerbar?" and I offer that. I might just as well
have said "Here, eat these socks, I've only been hiking in them for
four or five days" from the look I got. Mind you, to the uninitiated,
malt-nut powerbars do look a little bit like part-cured epoxy - and they
probably don't really taste a whole lot better either. Chris tries.
"What about a chocolate chip granola bar" He recognizes "chocolate
chip" and "granola" and accepts it. Before we have finished talking to
Mum, it is gone. I guess he'll be alright so we carry on.

Soon, we are at the fork in the trail. 1.7 miles to the trailhead.
Normally after a day like this, 1.7 miles is a distance that makes me
want to curl up in a small ball and cry. Today however, I feel great,
and we maintain our pace along a much improved trail. The weather
deteriorates again, and we catch a glimpse of the mountains, swathed
in cloud before the rain hits. Teewinot looms above us, dark and
foreboding. It is an odd feeling to think that just a few hours earlier,
we were standing in the sun looking down on its summit. The rain
produces that first rain smell. Like ozone. It mingles with the pine
scents producing a mysterious combination. I hear a woodpecker, doing
what woodpeckers do best, and smell a musky scent that suggests a fox
or some similar beast had recently passed by. Running on endorphins,
I feel light and fast. Maybe I'll just keep going when we hit the
trailhead and Jim can pick me up in Jackson. It's a tremendous feeling,
and I am sad when we cross the bridge that tells us the trailhead is
only a few hundred yards on. We sit behind the sign and finish our
water and a few minutes later Jim and Chuck appear. 6.30 pm. What
a great day.

Bill, a ranger friend of Jim's is on the 'phone to Claire, Jim's wife.
She tells him we are that we are in the Tetons, climbing the Grand,
and that he should watch out for a white Dodge D50 with a green
canoe on the roof. As the words wander along the wires, we flash past
his window on our way to the Ranger station in the hope that he might
still be there. He says a hurried goodbye to Claire and pulls in behind
us before we have sorted out where to start looking. After the hellos,
his next words concern the fact that he had not seen Jim's name on the
register. Jim and I thought Chuck was going to sign us in, and the
error was not realized until we on the trail. No problem though. Such
is the effect of having friends in high places, although without said
friends the transgression would never have been detected. We change
out of our wet and sweaty clothes and all head into town for pizza.

The weather looks grim, and neither Jim nor I feel much like camping
again, or canoeing in the rain the following day. At 10.30 or so we say
our goodbyes to everyone and hit the road for home. I'm whipped, so
I crawl into the back to get some rest before my turn at the helm. I'm
woken up when the truck stops, about 20 miles short of Jim's at some
hour of the morning I had forgotten existed. Unsure which of the two
diverging highways he should be trying to follow, Jim decided it was
my turn, and after a few minutes the late night driving adrenalin
synthetase gene kicks in and I know everything is going to be alright.
A quick car swap in Richmond, fill up with coke, and 15 more miles
gets me to the shower. I'm in bed by 3, and asleep by about
3:00:00:05.

OK, so Sunday didn't have a morning. The Grand is a terrific
mountain, and in all respects it was a fantastic trip. Good friends,
incredibly beautiful scenery, easy but aesthetic climbing. What more
could anyone want? Snow? Yes, that's probably it. Maybe I should try
it in winter next as from Chuck and Jim's descriptions that might be
even better. The round trip works out at a little over 18 miles, and
around 7500 feet of height gain. Quite a long day, but if you're fast on
the climbing it is quite reasonable. I'm told the round trip has been run
in a little under 3 hours. That's one record I think I have no interest in
trying to match.
-- 
bobs@biocat.ncdmf.usu.edu

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