Photo by Robert Hyman

Twenty three volunteers from around the country met at the AAC Grand Teton Climbers’ Ranch during the first week of June. There were two birthdays celebrated, the first was the new manager Robert Montague and the second was that of Bill Fetterhoff.

The mountains still had plenty of snow that reached well down into the valley. Weather conditions during the week at the ranch were a mix of mild and sunny to rain and chilly with nighttime temperatures reaching the freezing mark.

Work that needed to be completed included various plumbing leaks and the need for some new plumbing fixtures, carpentry to repair door knobs and damaged wood replacement, an electrical contractor was hired to complete a lengthy list of items, cleaning of all cabins including all the windows, scraping/sanding and painting of all structures facia boards and window and door frames. This was a huge job that took all week to accomplish. Of course there were many other smaller items on the list that were completed during the course of the week and the list for future projects has already started.

So if you want to be a part of the fun and help out next year be sure to plan ahead. Remember that if you donate a week of your time during work week, your stay is free for the rest of June!! We need your help and specialized skills such as plumbing, carpentry, electrical, painting, landscaping etc.

More photos from Work Week 2011 can be found here.

Photo by Robert Hyman

Robert Hyman, a.k.a Barbeque Bob was, as always, multi-tasking with a paint brush in one hand and his Nikon in the other.  Check out Robert’s Picasa Album of Work Week 2011 Photos.

Mike Gilliland has shared his album of photos as well, and you can see them here.

Anyone else with photos from work week is encouraged to post a link or the photos themselves.

Work Week 2010

Let’s face it, Work Week is always a highlight of the Ranch season! Just ask anyone who has been there. It is always an unforgettable experience, and 2010 was no exception. See for yourself. Better yet, plan on being a part of Work Week 2011!.

The Mauldin Family teams up on the shower rooms

40 Years and Still Climbing!

2010 marked the 40th Anniversary of the Climbers’ Ranch. This milestone was celebrated on August 21 with a gathering of climbers and friends from across the country. Guest speakers included Jim McCarthy, Yvon Chouinard, and Ranch Committee Chairman Bill Fetterhoff, with an excellent keynote speech by Nick Clinch. A good time was had by all. Check out the photos by Rob Dowse.

40 Years and Climbing

AAC Exchange with Iranian Climbers

After a delay of several months, the first half of the AAC Exchange with climbers from Iran took place in the Tetons in September. See more photos in the Photo Archives. Read about the exchange on the AAC Blog Inclined.

AAC / ACI Climbers

ACI/AAC Summit Team on Jackson Peak

Photos courtesy of David Thoenen

Winning Contest Essay

Congratulations to Erin Mauldin, devoted keeper of GTCR, work-week regular, West Point cadet and Shawangunks climber, for her winning essay Our Lady of the Paintbrush Divide. Read Erin’s essay.
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The Winter 2010/2011 edition of Alpinist Magazine (#33) profiles  The Grand Teton.  The profile features an extensive article by Renny Jackson, complete with stunning photos and the best route diagrams I have seen.   Shorter pieces by Irene Beardsley and Susan Chaplin, Lito Tejada-Flores, Dave Carman, and Mark Newcomb make this a must read!  Better yet, pick one up, as I suspect this is one you’ll want to have around.  Alpinist #33

Robert took his B.A. in Business from The Evergreen State College in Washington and studied architecture at Savannah College of Art and Design, including courses in historic preservation–a welcome and useful foundation for care of the structures at the Climbers Ranch. Robert holds A.M.G.A. climbing guide certification and has guided for both Alpine Ascents International and Rainier Mountaineering on Mt. Rainier (60+ times, five routes) and Denali (four times). He led a trip to Aconcagua in Argentina, and was also a member of an expedition to Pico de Orizaba, Mexico’s highest peak. Robert currently resides in Bozeman, MT working with the Ski Patrol at Big Sky Resort.

The year 2010 marked the 40th anniversary of the Grand Teton Climbers’ Ranch. The American Alpine Club observed this occasion with a celebration at the Climbers’ Ranch on the evening of August 21. (see Rob Dowse’s photos—ed.)

After the old climbers’ camp at the southwest end of Jenny Lake was closed by the Park Service in 1966, the American Alpine Club recognized the importance of finding a new site where climbers could gather at the base of the Teton Range, not subject to the length of stay regulations of the Park campgrounds, and where the tradition of mountaineering in the Tetons, and the tradition of a climbers’ community, would continue to flourish. That mission was realized on January 1, 1970 when the original lease for the Double Diamond Ranch became effective between the American Alpine Club and the National Park Service. The Climbers’ Ranch opened at the beginning of June, 1970 and has remained in operation every summer since. The nightly rate that first season was $1.00! Since opening, the Climbers’ Ranch has been sustained by the commitment of a long succession of AAC officers, an ever-enlarging membership, and numerous visitors who had their initial introduction to both climbing and the AAC through their experience at the ranch.

I have often said that the Climbers’ Ranch is not only a haven for climbers in one of the most beautiful places in America, but is in its best traditions a family of individuals who share a love of place, a love of climbing, wonderful memories, and after even a single visit, the gift of friendship.

Please make your reservations early for 2012, and join us at the Climbers’ Ranch to continue these enduring traditions. As usual, there’ll be some bunks available for drop-ins, but reservations will guarantee your spot.

William A. Fetterhoff
Chairman
Grand Teton Climbers’ Ranch Committee

Crunch, crunch. Pull the ice axe out and place it again.
Crunch, crunch.
The sun beats down mercilessly.
I look up. Extending before me is an endless staircase. Steps carved in snow.
Crunch, crunch. My weight sinks in with every step.
I’m up to my knees in snow.
The crampons are useless.
Ryan effortlessly pulls ahead of me. The summit effortlessly pulls ahead of me.
Head down, crunch, crunch.
A sense of urgency. We shouldn’t still be going up. The snow is getting softer and softer. Descent will be dicey.
I push myself hard. When will you be on Teewinot again?
Not for another year.
Work now, rest later. Legs screaming, I step as quickly as I can. Exhaustion from a midnight departure is setting in. I see Ryan at the summit.
Ragged breathing. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
Made it.

Grand Teton National Park spreads out below me. The lakes glisten in the early morning; light twinkles off the wake from the ferry. I peer over the other side of Teewinot; a steep, jumbled, stony expanse meets my eye. Ryan takes the obligatory summit shots; the mountains in the background jostle for attention in the photo.

The true summit, a ragged line of big boulders (perhaps ten feet higher than we are) tempts us, beckoning us higher. Too dangerous, we agree. Especially with crampons.

We do not tarry long. The sun has been shining on the snow for many hours now. Ryan starts down. His endurance is greater than mine. I follow at a more sedate pace.

I break through two steps for each one of Ryan’s. I am pushing through fog in my mind. I become more and more careless with each placement of my ice axe.

We see Scott, the third member of our party, waiting in the shade of the ridge. His white beard contrasts with the dark, round sunglasses, cherry helmet, and cobalt windbreaker. He is apologetic for holding us up and not continuing on. I am upset that he is embarrassed about his attempt, for Ryan and I are impressed with his turnout. He’s fifty-six and was the one who invited me on this endeavor.

Scott came to the Tetons at fifteen and fell in love with the mountains. He started climbing and returned often. He had promised to come to the Tetons for a month once he retired and had now done so. That’s the type of longevity I want in this sport.

Ryan is still in front. I follow. Scott comes next.

Ryan is somewhere in his late teens, early twenties. He has black, curly hair and is from Missouri. I summited my first Teton with him, Scott, Adam (another Climbers’ Ranch friend), and my brother. We all met each other at the Climbers’ Ranch.

We get to the rock wall, framed by narrow snow chutes. This was the only technical part of the ascent. I go with Ryan down the rocks; the same way we came up. Scott opts to try the snow chute. I am somewhat jolted from my fatigue by the down climbing. We balance precariously on the rock with our crampon points. The potential for slipping is high.

Back on snow, we wait for Scott.

Our descent route dodges between several avalanche runnels to the right where snow empties off of the face and small crevasses to the left, with bits of rock poking through menacingly.

I face inward and follow Ryan’s steps down, placing my ice axe every few steps. I post hole past my thighs in the slushy snow. The monotony of the routine lulls me into carelessness. I imagine getting down, eating dinner, and telling the story to my family at the Climbers’ Ranch.

My brother, sisters, and dad are in another part of the Tetons. They are attempting the Paintbrush Divide, a nineteen-mile loop several mountains and valleys to the north of me. For the past six years, we have come to the Grand Tetons and stayed at the Climbers’ Ranch. My life has been shaped by the summers I spent hiking, hammering, drilling, kayaking, restoring, and climbing at the Ranch and in the mountains.

I slip through Ryan’s steps easily. One leg occasionally goes faster. I am then balanced with one leg in my chest and the other hanging free.

With my right foot I step. The snow under it never stops. My left leg stays where it is until my right leg goes too far and I can no longer balance.

Into the debris runnel I tumble over backwards.

I see blue bits of sky. Flashes of rock. Maybe my ice axe.
I feel uncontrollably fast. I have no idea why.
Realization hits with the first rock. My head and shoulders bash into something hard and sharp.
I scream.
I lost the grip on my ice axe when I fell. I feel it banging around. It is attached to my wrist with a leash.
My legs go over my head. I am pitched to my side. I can’t tell exactly where my limbs are.
Like Wesley in the Princess Bride, I tumble; totally out of control.
Flooded with helplessness.
I’m going to die.
I need to stop.
I need to stop if I don’t want to die.
Instinct tells me to roll into the slope to self-arrest.
I have no control over the ice axe.
I have no control over my body.
Something in my mind clicks. I push the loop of the leash off my hand.
I am rolled over again.

THUD.

A sudden loss of momentum. Snow is cascading down on me. I cover my head; I know the ice axe is still loose above me.

The runnel drops off again before me. It finally levels out hundreds and hundreds of feet below. I am stupefied for many seconds. I don’t know how I stopped; I could have just as easily not have. I shudder at that. What do I do now?

I landed on my left leg. It is out in front of me and my right leg is buried behind me in the slope. My left ankle starts to throb. As I try to get my right leg back from the slope, an intolerable pain radiates from my hip. I cry out in agony.

I don’t yell for help, because I don’t require saving immediately.

“Hello,” I tentatively call.

From the direction I least expect – below – a voice calls out, “Hold on, I’m coming.” Someone must be on the way up.
Within two minutes, a helmeted head appears from below the runnel. He proceeds to introduce himself (Christian Santelices, an Exum guide) and asks my name and age.

My forehead is bleeding. I can tell by the concerned look on his face as he glances at my head. He takes my helmet off and checks for signs of head or neck damage. He asks if I lost consciousness (no), whether I know the date (June 24, a Tuesday) and where I am (Teewinot). The helmet probably saved my life.

Ryan shows up after a few minutes. That’s scary because he was far ahead of me when I fell.

When Christian ascertains that I probably didn’t break my neck or concuss myself, they move me out of the runnel. I cannot raise my right leg for the pain is too strong in my hip. They half carry, half support me to the platform they stamped out with their feet. I have to maneuver myself with my arms.

I’m still in my crampons. Christian asks if my pants are waterproof (no). He wants to be able to see if I’m bleeding. How did I not stab myself with those twelve sharp points on each foot?
Christian’s client is waiting patiently below. Christian sets several anchors with the ice axes and belays him up. Scott joins the party and is just as worried as everyone else.

My left ankle is throbbing. It feels like any other twisted ankle, except the pain doesn’t subside no matter how I move it. My hip is fine unless I try to move my legs or upper body. Something tissue-like feels torn or stretched in it. I feel an ache develop in my elbow. To make matters worse, my pinky is a little crooked and twice the size it should be. I cannot believe that this is all the damage I sustained.

Christian calls the Jenny Lake Ranger Station and they decide on a helicopter rescue due to the nature of my injuries and our location on the mountain. We are at about 11,000 feet. The start of the trail off of the snow slope is over 2,000 feet below.

Christian is antsy. He checks my spinal cord for sore spots several times. He finally makes me lie down. I drink and eat as the sun beats down cruelly. One lens of my sunglasses popped out when I fell, so I see the mountain in two different colors. Everyone tries to cheer me up. Scott asks, “Why are you smiling?”

“Because I’m not left-handed.”

We all laugh and discuss lines from The Princess Bride.

I feel miserable, though. The injuries don’t help, but I’ve dealt with pain before. It’s the shame that’s eating me up. I feel so irresponsible for disrupting these people’s days and lives. Christian’s client won’t summit today. Scott and Ryan feel guilty for letting me fall. I am endangering multiple other rangers for they have to come rescue me.

I am ashamed for having fallen.
My mom’s going to freak out.
My dad is going to kill me for doing something so stupid.
I don’t know how to tell Christian that my family cannot afford a helicopter rescue.
I have a hard time reconciling myself with my mistake.

The hours we wait for the helicopter are hell for I cannot forgive myself.

Once the helicopter comes, I am packaged in the litter, and then lifted from the face of Teewinot. After such a harrowing escape, reflecting seems apropos as I dangle from the helicopter, suspended thousands of feet in the air. At least I’m alive. The other problems seem insignificant at this point. I’ll be able to see my family’s faces again. I don’t think I could have forgiven myself if I didn’t survive.

It’s not every day you face your own mortality.

She carried a walking stick and was wearing a skirt. It didn’t quite come down to her ankles. I could see the worn, muddy boots and the crumpled wool socks peeking out from underneath the damp blue fabric. About her neck were binoculars. She wore a bright red poncho.

The poncho was what we had seen first. Having pumped our water, we were sitting under the lee of the boulder, staring up at the slope of tomorrow. Steep and rock strewn, there was a faintly visible path zigzagging its way through the snow patches and islands of trees. Evening was settling in, and harsh words and sharp feelings were softening in the mountain gloaming. Thoughts of food drifted languorously through our heads, but contentment and sore feet kept it as a pleasant future. It was then that she walked out of the Sound of Music.

The Grand Tetons have a way of dwarfing everything around them. We had spent the day climbing inward and upward; after many miles and many hours, the mountains had deigned to let us into an inner sanctum. Buttressed by the lesser seen flanks of the Cathedral Group and the walls of Cascade Canyon, we were settled in a grand valley sharing the same floor as a lake of surpassing clearness and frigidity. Longleaf phlox, their delicate pink flowers vibrant, dotted the rising meadow we were camped on, while tawdry human affairs swiftly vanished in the face of the indomitable snow slopes. Their stern, eternal faces do not suffer the fleeting to pass.

Yet this lady held her own. Maybe it was the sprightly step. The freeness of spirit that that rock could not fathom. Or the sheer audacity of the cotton skirt and thin, red poncho on the vast snow slopes.

We sat at our camp and watched her approach, the motley crew of my family. Her red poncho bobbed down the slope from over the Divide. Some of us probably stood up, not trusting our eyes. We all cast inward glances, mentally comparing our newly sealed boots and modern ice axes with her more humble gear.

Shrugging off lassitude, the rest of us scrambled to our feet and shyly approached, as little kids are wont to do. Even at such an age, you know when something special has occurred. Out of the dusky mountain slopes, a Scandinavian goddess had touched down. We were awed by her presence.

And the fact that she carried a tiny, plastic water bottle.

We quickly determined, despite her Norwegian accent, that she had come up and over the pass from the canyon to our north (Paintbrush) – a fair distance of over ten steep miles – and had the remainder of the quickly dying day to finish the other half of her trek. We peppered her with questions, Dad insisted on taking pictures, and we eagerly offered her our freshly pumped water, which she eventually did us the honor of accepting.

Youthful, impressionable eyes stared longingly up at this miniature lady. A traveling nurse who roamed the mountainsides in her spare time as she worked her way between rural areas, she was the epitome of freedom and resilience. More than one of us wanted to grow up to be as gloriously independent.

As abruptly and magically as she had appeared, she faded away into the deepening dusk. Tiny feet picking their way nimbly down the path, she left much more than a charged atmosphere and a small dent in our water supply. The water, which I had previously pumped with a frustration and an outrage that I could no longer sustain, had now been cleansed by its new purpose. Long forgotten is that argument that had torn my sister and I, but my lady of the mountain pass’s image and aura are indelibly stamped in my mind.

Twilight and quiet were again settling, bringing with them that uncertainty that makes you blink your eyes and doubt your vision for a moment. For out of the crepuscular obscurity she had left us in, now emerged the king of the vale, followed by his herd. A majestic mule deer, strong flanked and well-antlered, he stood before his herd and regarded us with an air of detached interest. Finding nothing of note, he continued his passage; the herd, observing his assent, followed – a paradoxical vision of ephemeral power as they vanished into the night. Footprints, doomed to fade, would be all that we would discover in the morning.