Spartan Race

Before I did a Tough Mudder over the summer, I'd always thought obstacle racing looked like fun. I hate running, but I love being outside, challenging myself, and trying new things. I also have a bit of self described outdoor ADD. So obstacle racing turned out to be a perfect fit for me.

In August, Dante, Brian and I worked as volunteers for a Spartan Race in Washington. That weekend was a Spartan Sprint, which is a short (~5k) race with lots of obstacles. Volunteering got us free race entry. We didn't run the race together like we had during the Tough Mudder. Instead, after the first hill climb, I got in stride and took off. None of the obstacles required teamwork, so I was able to move at my own pace and really push myself.

The race had a lot of challenging obstacles and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I finished the course in just over an hour, significantly slower than racers in the first heat that got to run before the course got muddy, but overall a fast time. I spent about half of that time on one obstacle, trying to crawl under barbed wire up a 100 yard long hill covered in mud that they were constantly spraying down with hoses. Dig fingers in to mud, climb up two feet, slide down one foot (sometimes slide down three feet), repeat. At one point I teamed up with another racer to make better progress up the hill. We'd act as human ladders for each other. One of use would cling to the mud while the other would climb up him. We'd trade positions and keep going. It was tough work, but eventually we made it to the top. We got to slide right back down the hill on a giant water slide, definitely the most fun part of the course.

I managed to keep running during the entire race. Except for one section; carrying this heavy sandbag up a long, steep hill. 

Clearly the guy behind me has the right strategy. I was a rookie for this race. I'll be back.

Climbing Mt. Adams

A couple of my climbing partners have been training for Mt. Rainier (near Seattle, the most prominent glaciated peak in the lower 48) and were climbing Mt. Adams for training. I was also supposed to be training for Rainier, but I was out of town for their climb dates. When they brought up climbing Mt. Adams, I was instantly on board. By volume, Mt. Adams is the second largest volcano in the Cascade Range and rises to 12,281 ft, with a prominence (height above the surrounding terrain) of 8,117 ft. It is by all measures a large mountain.

Most climbers hike the non technical route halfway up the mountain to a broad shelf known as Lunch Counter in one day, then climb the remaining way to the summit and descend on a second day. Gabe, Jeremy, and I planned a variation of the standard South Spur Route that would include glacier travel, crevasse navigation, and steep snow and ice climbing.

However, when we arrived at the Mt. Adams ranger station Saturday morning, we were informed that the route we'd chosen was closed as it entered seasonally open Indian territory. Also conspiring against us was an oncoming low pressure system and rain forecast for Sunday.

We decided that the summit was our real goal, so we traveled the standard, dog route. We left the trailhead just before 11 am, slightly behind our initial goal. Though it was late June, we hiked less than a mile from the trailhead before hitting snow. The snow was melting in the heat of the afternoon sun, but was firm enough that travel was relatively easy and we made good time.

We made a friend on the way up.


By 3.00 pm, we made it to lunch counter, a 3,900 ft climb over four miles. We were tired from carrying heavy packs loaded with technical climbing and overnight gear. However, with rain in the forecast for Sunday, we decided to set up camp, refuel, then make a push for the summit while we had good weather. We still had a few hours of daylight left and decided  a sunset summit would be a great idea.

Unfortunately, the climb from Lunch Counter to Piker's Peak (the false summit) is the longest, steepest section of the climb. It's a sustained slope with sections as steep as 45° that rises 2,000 feet in only one mile. Fortunately, because we were climbing in the evening, the snow on the slope was soft and made for easy steps without crampons. Climbing the frozen slope in the morning would have required crampons and been much more strenuous.

Despite the long day behind us, we made relatively good time up the slope, gaining Piker's Peak in two hours.

From there, a short, slightly downhill hike, then uphill slog gains the summit. This turned out to be the longest part of the day. The altitude and exhaustion were catching up to all of us and our progress slowed. Still, we made reasonable time and gained the summit 45 minutes before sunset. We'd gained 6,900 feet over 5.5 miles in about nine hours. None of us were feeling great and the wind wasn't very friendly, so we took the obligatory summit pictures then began our descent.


We took advantage of some glissading to speed our descent, but the conditions were less than ideal. The snow had begun to refreeze, so the glissade paths were hard and fast. Gabe and I both managed to break buckles on our packs and I wore a hole through the mesh on one of my side pockets, nearly sending my Nalgene down the mountain ahead of me. Despite some difficulties, there was some good glissading to be had and the trip back to Lunch Counter and our camp was relatively uneventful.

Except for one thing.

Though I had forgotten, we were climbing on the night of the super moon. And just as the sun was setting, we were treated to the most incredible view of a mountain shadow I've ever seen. The few clouds in the sky gave way to the moon, making for one of the most awe inspiring views I've ever had and one of the best pictures I've ever taken. The view for this shot was only there for a few minutes and I was fortunate to look up and see it and more fortunate still to capture it.


We made it back to camp just before dark, ate dinner, then promptly climbed into the tent to sleep. When I woke briefly at 3 am, rain was pummeling the tent walls. We'd made the right decision to summit Saturday evening.

Sunday morning came around 6.30 am when we all woke, listening to the rain. It would be a miserable, wet day and our plans to explore the Mazama Headwall and do some technical climbing were instantly cancelled. We took advantage of a lightening rain around 7 to break camp and begin our descent. Just after 9 am, we were back at the car, having descended 3,900 feet and 3.75 miles in an hour-and-a-half. We didn't linger in the rain.

Despite the poor weather on Sunday, we had a great climb and accomplished most of what we wanted to. And I got to check off one more of the Cascade volcanoes.

Tough Mudder Oregon

When my rock climbing partner, Dante, mentioned interest in doing a Tough Mudder, I was instantly game. I'd been wanting to do one for a while. For those that don't know, Tough Mudder is basically a 10-12 mile long trail run with ~20 obstacles throughout the course. Right up my alley.

I didn't really have to do any special training for it. I'd been rock climbing three days a week since the beginning of the year and have been playing 3-5 indoor soccer games a week for a long time. I did participate in a couple of Ultimate Fitness Classes through my gym, which are basically an hour-and-a-half circuit training that included flipping tractor tires, dragging tires, swinging sledge hammers, rattling heavy chains, and many other plyometric exercises. Again, right up my alley as far as working out goes. I'd also climbed several large volcanoes, which turned out to be great preparation for the event.

We had a team of three for the run, including one of Dante's high school friends. I'll spare all the details of the race and just mention a few highlights. Our start time was 10:40 on Saturday (third heat), which was good because we started well before it got too hot. The event was held at Wilson Ranch Retreat in central Oregon and the weather was 70s with not a cloud in the sky.

For 20 minutes before your race starts, you listen to an MC discuss the Wounded Warrior charity and course rules. He explained that it was a team event, not a race and that if you saw anyone injured or in need of help to stop and hold your arms in an "X" over your head to notify medical staff to come over. We got to use our Xs right away. As our heat of ~100 people left the starting line, a few members of the Wilson family rode in front of us on horses. One of the horses stopped and stood up on its hind legs, attempting to throw its rider. The horse fell back, on top of the women riding it. Dante, Brian and I were at the front of our heat, with a first row view. Our whole heat stopped and held our arms in Xs over our heads, not knowing whether to continue the race or wait for help. The woman got up, saying she was ok. We found out after the race that she had broken a couple of ribs.

Many of the obstacles required climbing over wooden walls and logs and crawling through mud or swimming through muddy water. In some places the mud was knee deep and smelled like manure.

The second obstacle of the race was called Arctic Enema. It's basically a giant dumpster full of water and ice that you have to jump in, swim through, duck your head under a log, then climb out the other side. By the time I was climbing out, all of my muscles were tight and felt like cramping. With the warm weather and running ahead, though, I warmed up quickly.

There were two electrocution obstacles on the course. Each had dangling wires carrying up to 10,000 volts of electricity. The first, Electric Eel required you to crawl through muddy water while being shocked. It is impossible to avoid the wires. I probably got shocked a dozen times, despite crawling as quickly as possible. With each shock, your muscles contract involuntarily and violently. The worst were the shocks to my head. They felt like a combination of being punched in the head and blacking out. Some people described it as a "brain reboot". That's pretty accurate.

The second electrocution obstacles was the last obstacle of the race, Electroshock Therapy. For this obstacle, you could stand up and run through the dangling wires. Per the suggestion of one of the race coordinators talking to the spectators at the obstacle, Brian, Dante, and I linked our arms before entering. We starting running and made it about half way, getting shocked simultaneously, before a shock sent Brian to his knees, pulling me down. The last half of the obstacle was an every-man-for-himself dash to escape. The shocks hurt.

Three hours after we started, we'd finished the race and received our free beer. We watched other competitors run through Electroshock Therapy (and some chicken out). I flipped a 400 pound tractor tire 10 times to get two more free beers. All in all, it was a very fun event and I look forward to doing another.

Since a lot of people ask, the hardest thing about the event wasn't the obstacles. Team work is highly encouraged, often necessary and makes the obstacles relatively easy. The hardest part was the hill running. I was in pretty good shape from soccer and mountaineering, though, so the hills and running didn't phase me too much.

Here's our team picture just after crossing the finish line.

Mt. Hood, Round 2

A couple weeks ago, an email went our to my climbing club asking if anyone wanted to climb Mt. Hood. I was free that weekend, but I wasn't about to jump on to a climb if the weather was going to be bad. I had no desire to repeat my previous experience with the mountain. As the week went on, the forecast continued to look favorable, so I accepted Gabe's prodding to see what the mountain was like in good conditions with him. In addition, two students from this year's climb school would join us for their first full climb of Hood. While summiting a mountain once doesn't make you a guide, Gabe and I certainly have the experience, route knowledge, and technical skills necessary to help novice climbers make it to the top of Hood.

The four of us left the climbers' parking lot around 12.30 am, pretty close to our planned departure time. The parking lot was packed and there was practically a conga line of head lamps dancing up the mountain. In good weather, climbers flock to the second most climbed glaciated peak in the world.

Our spirits were high, though, and we made good time on the long slog up the Palmer Snowfield. We cruised by several other climbing parties and before we knew it, were at the top of the Palmer. The hike we'd normally dreaded had seemed like a breeze this time around. Gabe and I both remarked that it had been our most pleasant hike to the top of Palmer (a gain of 2,500 feet over two miles).

At the top of Palmer, we strapped on our crampons and began the ascent toward the technical portion of the mountain. Here, the going was a bit slower, as a steady, cold wind blew across the mountain. One of our new-comers was struggling, partially from exhaustion (he had climbed Mt. St. Helens a day earlier) and partially due to poor caloric management. He didn't have enough food and water easily accessible. We worried he might have to turn around, but with a few sugary snacks and encouragement from the rest of us, he made it to the Devil's Kitchen, the start of the technical portion of the climb. 

We rested and refueled in a small windbreak that previous climbers had built, glad to get out of the wind, but eager to start moving again to keep our muscles warm. It was just after sunrise that we began our trek up the Hogsback. Perfect timing. In stark contrast to our last experience on Hood, this time a highway of boot prints led us straight up the Hogsback. Though we had to pass a couple of slow moving rope teams*, we made good time up the Hogsback. At the peak of the Hogsback, Gabe looked back at me, pointed at the Pearly Gates (a slightly more technically challenging and quicker route to the summit) and asked what I thought. It's a route that I have wanted to climb for a while and looked perfect today. After a few minutes of debate, we opted for the standard Old Chutes route to accommodate our less experienced climbers.

As we traveled along the Hogsback, I marveled at the beauty of the surrounding mountain (you are litteraly walking through the cauldron of a once active volcano) and the perfect sunrise.

(click on the panoramas for a larger view)

The well traveled path and well cut boot steps made for easy traveling along the traverse below and up the Old Chutes. Here's the rest of my team ahead of me, climbing up the Hogsback. The small dots on the left of the photo are other climbers making their way up to the Old Chutes.


Today, our biggest challenge was ice fall. Chunks of ice ranging from golf ball to soccer ball size came bouncing down the slopes. I was hit by a few smaller pieces, which stung sharply. Being hit by a medium or large chunk would have knocked you off your feet. I developed a meticulous rhythm on the traverse: plant ice axe, step, step, look up for ice fall. Plant, step, step, look up. This continued for the next hour, until we gained the relative safety of the summit ridge.

Looking down the North Headwall after gaining the summit ridge, my ice axe sticking all the way through the thin snow ridge (my feet were firmly planted on solid snow).

Again in stark contrast to my previous Hood climb, the treacherous catwalk had been reduced to a relatively wide, stable walkway with ample sturdy snow to support a solid ice axe placement. This time, I walked easily across it, even pausing to take pictures.

Here's Matt, one of the new climb school students, demonstrating good self belay while walking across the catwalk.


Despite the dozens of other climbers that we had passed (some on their way up the mountain, others on their way down), our group of four had the summit to ourselves for near ten minutes, unheard of on a beautiful day on Mt. Hood. While we waited for someone to come along and take a group photo, we basked in the warming sun and took in incredible views, ranging from Mt. Rainier to the north, all the way to the Three Sisters to the south.

I'm on the far right in this picture.

Only a few clouds below us. Mt. Adams in the distance.


After a brief rest and a quick bite, we began an uneventful descent of the mountain. With the great visibility, Gabe and I could see how we'd made out navigational error on our last descent and could clearly see the cliffs that swallow stray climbers.

Here's a shot of the whole crater I took on our descent. Pretty much sums up the great weather and climb we had.


Our car-to-car trip time was just under nine hours and we'd helped two beginning climbers on their first summit of Hood. By 11 am, we were at a local bar, eating a couple thousand delicious calories, enjoying cold beverages, and basking in our success.

I got a lot of great photos from this trip. To see the rest, check flickr.

South Sister and Memorial Day Weekend

For the past two years, it's been a tradition for me to visit friends in Houston for Memorial Day. This year, I wasn't able to make the trip. So the week before Memorial Day, when I realized I had Monday off, I started scrambling to figure out how to make use of the long weekend. I decided to cram as much in as possible. An offer to climb South Sister, the tallest of a group of three volcanoes in central Oregon, on Sunday came up part way through the week. I tentatively accepted, knowing that the forecast was calling for generally poor weather, including up to a foot of new snow and steady 20-30 mph winds.

Saturday, I joined a few friends around noon to cheer on Bayern München in the Champions League final. The day started out well with a victory for Die Roten. During that game, one of  my friends invited me to a pickup indoor soccer game at 6:30 that evening. Not one to turn down an invite to soccer, I gladly accepted, still debating whether I'd be climbing the next day, or not.

Because of the pain and swelling from the toe I broke a couple months ago, I'd been unable to wear my right rock climbing shoe until about a week ago. After the Bayern game, I met my rock climbing partner, Dante, at our gym and sent a few routes that I had previously been unable to climb. Being able to wear both climbing shoes and use my right foot more has improved my climbing.

After climbing at the gym, I came home to begin checking the weather for the potential climb on Sunday. It was still a poor forecast, but didn't sound like anything that would make summiting impossible. Still unsure of whether I was going to attempt the climb, I loaded the route coordinates into my GPS just in case.

The pickup soccer game at 6:30 was a lot of fun, and good exercise (to help toward the Tough Mudder I'm signed up for in June). It wasn't until I was on my way home from the soccer game that I finally decided I was definitely going to attempt the climb. I'd been playing the quote,

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do."

in my head most of the day (which is why I say "yes" to just about anything) and decided to let it guide me once more. After a quick shower and very fast packing, I threw all my gear into the back of my Jeep and by 9 pm was on the road, heading South.

A 5 Hour Energy and a Tom Clancy audio book kept me awake and alert for the four hours of driving, mostly through rain and over the lower mountain passes. I reached the parking lot of the Devil's Lake Trailhead by 1:30 am.

I unfolded my sleeping pad and laid out my sleeping bag in the back of my Jeep (with the back seats folded down, the back of the Jeep is exactly 6 feet diagonally). The 5:30 alarm came too soon, but I was excited for the climb as I began to cook breakfast while still in my sleeping bag. Just after 6 am, my climbing partner, Gabe (you might remember him as my climbing partner for summiting Mt. Hood) pulled up behind me. A light, but steady rain had fallen all night and continued through the morning.

We got a slightly later start than we had planned, but by 6:40 am, we were at the trailhead (5,500 ft elev). We hiked at a brisk pace through the lower, dense forest, following the sometimes faint footprints along what we assumed was the climbers' trail. After about 40 minutes, we'd climbed to 6,000 feet, where the rain turned to a wet snow.

Despite the less-than-ideal weather, we considered ourselves lucky that it wasn't sunny. The overcast skies protected the snow from the sun, keeping it firm. With the exception of a few knee deep postholes, our boots rarely sank more than a few inches into the fresh snow, so the hiking was relatively easy.

An hour-and-a-half and 2.5 miles after our start, we'd reached the first major waypoint of our climb, Moraine Lake. By this time, we were out of the forest and the forecast 20-30 mph winds manifested themselves. We bundled up as we stopped to get our bearings. Comparing our position to the track I'd downloaded to my GPS for the climb showed us on the wrong side of the lake. Gabe pulled out his map and confirmed that the climbers' trail was about a half mile west of us. The footprints and trail we'd been following was actually a hiking trail that veered off to Green Lakes, several miles east of South Sister. We resolved to check the map more frequently and follow the GPS route more carefully.

As we set off on the correct course, Gabe and I noticed that we were squinting, and opted to put on the sunglasses that we hadn't needed while hiking through the forest. We didn't wan't to get snow blindness, after all.

Over the next two hours, we battled the wind and steep terrain to gain another 1,400 feet over three miles. We had donned our snowshoes on the the steeper terrain to make the climbing easier. There was a persistent ridge to our right that we new we would have to gain. It didn't take long to spot a couple of weaknesses in the shear rock faces that made up the west side of the ridge. We chose one and scrambled up the even-steeper snow and through a rocky section at the eve of the ridge. For a brief time, the higher, west side of the ridge shielded us from the wind. But despite the steepening terrain, we moved quickly and were soon away from the protection of the ridge and back in the relentless wind.

After another hour and crossing a snow covered scree field, we reached 9,000 feet and the saddle at the bottom of the summit ridge. The wind and snow picked up as we gained the unprotected ridge. We were in near white out conditions. Luckily, I brought goggles and the switch from sunglasses made the difference between night and day, allowing me to see clearly and protecting my face from the brutal wind. I felt bad for Gabe, who had only sunglasses, which by now were fogging and freezing badly, making it difficult for him to see.

When we gained the ridge, our path converged with a couple of other climbers on AT gear (backcountry/uphill ski equipment). We remained just behind them for the rest of the climb to the crater and their presence gave us a good visual reference for the trail ahead.


At around 12:30, we reached a steepening, wind blown scree slope on the summit ridge that marked the last push before reaching the crater. Gabe and I removed our snow shoes and began the steep climb to the caldera. On our way up, we passed two other pairs of climbers on the way down from the summit. Some had chosen to wear crampons, but the snow was still soft and stable enough to allow our boots good purchase in the slope.

Just after 1:00 pm, we reached 10,190 feet and the caldera rim. Now, it was only a short walk across a frozen lake (the highest lake in Oregon) to reach the true summit. But the winds in the caldera were even more intense, I'd estimate around 40 mph or more. I hadn't eaten or drank much in the last couple of hours, not wanting to stop for any amount of time in the brutal wind. I decided we needed to find a sheltered spot to stop and refuel. It was challenging, but we found a small ledge behind a few rocks on the caldera ridge that blocked most of the wind. We hunkered down and ate sandwiches, drank water, and each added a layer of insulation to help warm us before the final push to the summit and the descent.

While we were stopped, Gabe's hands and toes began to go numb with the onset of frostnip. For several frantic minutes, he struggled to warm his extremities. The chemical hand warmers he opened were taking too long to warm up and he had to put each hand under his coat, in his armpits to warm them. We considered ending the climb and descending. The summit of South Sister isn't worth an injury.

When feeling returned to Gabe's hands, we decided to see if moving would help warm him up. We moved in the direction of the summit. The wind an snow were so bad that Gabe couldn't see anything out of his sunglasses. I navigated with my GPS, searching almost hopelessly for the summit. The visibility was so poor that after leaving our sheltered spot, despite being a mere 500 horizontal feet (and only 20 or so vertical feet) from the summit, we had no idea we were so close.

I barely realized we'd found the summit until I was practically touching it. When I stood on top of the small, craggy peak, I realized where all our problems had stemmed from. We were literally climbing in the clouds. With my feet on the summit, my head was above the tops of the clouds and I could see blue sky and the tops of white, fluffy clouds for miles in every direction. A small, single engine plane just 1,000 feet above banked and turned away from the summit. I waved.

After just over seven hours, 6.2 miles, and 5,000 vertical feet, we reached the 10,358 foot high summit.

Despite the inspiring view, I spent less time on this summit than any other mountain I've climbed. I stayed only for the 60 seconds it took to snap a picture of Gabe's signature summit pose. It took all that time to get my phone to take a picture. Despite not being able to see the screen and having my bare hand numb from the cold, I think the picture turned out quite well.


With zero visibility and our previous tracks completely covered by the blowing snow, we trudged back across the caldera nearly blind, barely able to read the GPS screen to keep us on course.

After reaching the south rim of the caldera, the rest of the descent was fairly straight forward. Having learned from our mistake descending Mt. Hood, we checked the GPS frequently to ensure we stayed on course. On our way down, we discovered that our navigational error around Moraine Lake had made our climb a bit longer and more difficult. We discovered that the climbers who had been ahead of us ascended the proper climbers' trail, which climbed much gentler slopes than we had. Ascending straight up from our detour, we bypassed one of the trail waypoints, missing the other climbers' footprints and the climbers' trail by a mere 30 or 40 yards. Another valuable lesson in poor weather navigation.

After over 11 hours and 13 miles, we made it back to the trailhead just before 6 pm. I wasn't looking forward to the four hour drive home. But I needed to be back in Portland that night for an Ultimate Fitness Class the next morning (more Tough Mudder training).

Not ten minutes after leaving the trailhead, on my way into Bend, the ground was dry and the sky was clear. After stopping for food in Bend, I had to drive back across the mountains to get back to the West side of the range. I got a clear view of the weather phenomenon that Gabe and I had climbed in. This picture shows North Sister, veiled in a thin cloud layer, the mountain range trapping all the weather to the west.


The next day, I realized just how thin that cloud layer was. I woke up with the second worst sunburn of my life (the worst also happened in the mountains, while spring skiing). I regretted my decision to not wear sunscreen as the thin layer of clouds offered little protection against the UV rays that beat on my skin for 11 hours. Another lesson learned.

Here's a link to my trip log that shows the track and elevation profile of the climb.