Bear Creek A-Spire
During a climbing road trip with friends this summer, we stopped by the Rocky Mountain National Park. My friends went up on a spire called the Petit Grepon. It stands right next to a calm, turquoise, and mirror-like alpine lake called sky pond. I have not heard of alpine climbing before, it combines hiking, climbing, and often camping. It struck me as the best way to spend time in the alpine wilderness. I was only slightly regretful for missing the climb, but way more excited to explore this new mode of being in nature. Since then, I have wanted to get on an alpine climb in the fall season. Lots of alpine peaks are irresistible beauties. There are usually spectacularly beautiful hikes to just get to the base of them. At the end of these hikes, there are often lakes of beautiful colors - many shades of emerald that’s far superior to any gemstones I have seen. Great source of water too! After getting water resupply from the lake, there’s a wonderful multi-pitch climb. What not to love about that! Given my schedule this year, I set my mind on Bear Creek Spire in the eastern Sierra. September was the earliest I could travel after my wedding, so that was when I decided to make an attempt. Bear Creek Spire (BCS) is beginner friendly. It sits at around 10000 ft in the Little Lake Valley, and goes up to 13713 ft. The ascent consists of ~2000 ft of hiking on good trails, a relatively short approach, and 2000 ft of climbing. Just for reference, the approach to the east buttress of Mt Whitney, the tallest peak in the lower 48, consists of 4300 ft of 3rd class scramble. In the 2 months leading up to the climb, I trained as much as I could, learned about alpinism and altitude, and read anything I could find on the spire. Finally, as Labor Day rolled past, I packed my bags, and headed northeast to the mountains!
I spent the first day after arriving at Mammoth climbing Crystal Crag (the north arete variation). It’s a mini alpine climb with 1 hr of very mild approach hike, and 4 pitches of really fun climbing with views of beautiful mountains and alpine lakes nearby. At the top of the climb, I was delightfully surprised by an entire gully completely made of white quartz crystals. The crystals are of a bluer white color than the snow patches common in the eastern Sierra, and the rocks reflect light more gently than snow, so they are easier to look at. As I was climbing through it I felt like I was going through a rock palace because I was immersed in this beautiful gentle white light. The crystals felt smoother than granite but not too slick, perfect for climbing. It reminded me of walking through the Acropolis of Athens, except no one exerted effort to build it, and nothing was destroyed. It was just there, possibly for millions of years. To prepare for BCS, we practiced ridge traverse w/ short roping. It was probably the least protected version of rope climbing I had ever done, but it exhilarated me! I have always found it dissatisfying to simply walk up to the highest point of a mountain, take photos and head back down. Ridge traverse seemed like a perfect way to engage more with a mountain top. It’s fun to move around the ridge line, inspect higher rocks and use them as protection, and see different angles of the ridge as you move through it. The traverse moves that day were very manageable, though entirely exposed. That night, to better acclimate, I slept at the trailhead for the BCS approach. The approach hike day had perfect sunny weather. Before the hike, my guide Paloma went through an exercise with me which reminded me of what the Buddhists call detachment. We went through every single item in my bag, and talked explicitly about why we needed to carry it up the mountain. As a result, I swapped out my usual personal safety gear Petzel PAS for a lighter sling (which I had grown very attached to :) ), and ditched my favorite climbing knife because the guide had a more petit version of it, and left many other things I thought I could not live without.
The approach hike made me wonder if there are elements of pilgrimage in what I was doing, where the eventual goal fuels a long hard trek. With a heavy pack, the hike was not exactly fun, at least for the first 15 minutes. But every time my mind asked why I was doing this, I looked up at the snow sprinkled spire, and was instantly filled with so much awe that I was giddy, and my doubt would dissipate, and a surge of energy would replace it. It felt like caffeine without the digestive side effects. It was a kind of high, sustained by the mountain beauty, the alpine air, and everything in the eastern Sierra surroundings. The hike was not really a problem after I adjusted to the heavy pack. Soon we passed a beautiful alpine lake. The guide said it had a generic name for such beauty: long lake. But it was the first Long Lake I have encountered. So not generic to me at all! After the lake, the trail led us to a steep talus field. I felt like a frog jumping from rock to rock, while streams rushed under them. The heavy pack made balancing hard. After some repetitions of planting poles on good rock surface, and finding the most flat place to place each foot, I started to get a hang of it. Above the talus, it’s about 30 minutes of above-the-tree-line granite hiking. Finally we went high enough that the Dade Lake appeared in the valley where it sits, and it was time to set up camp.
At this point, it was already getting windy. I should have checked the weather then, but instead, I was completely enthralled by BCS, especially its north arete,. In the preceding months, I have stared longingly at many photos of the north arete, and even painted it once. I had been dreaming of climbing it. But somehow this dream was not like other sources of motivation I have had. It was not a goal. By definition, dreaming for something is not already knowing what the experience would be like, so part of it didn’t feel real. It was as if I wanted to preserve the opportunity to be delightfully surprised if I achieved this. If this were the goal, then there’s no such feeling, only success or failure. Maybe I was protecting myself against devastating disappointment, because in the mountains, a lot of things are outside of my control. Deep down, I knew that if I didn’t climb BCS, it would still be okay. My happiness didn’t entirely depend on it.
I forgot the exact order of events which included piling up rocks to hold our tents in place, checking my satellite device for weather, and practicing traversing snow fields with crampon and ice axe. The latter must have come first. And I remembered feeling good with crampons and feeling the buzz of excitement about getting closer and closer to setting foot on the spire. Then all I remembered next was using my rational thoughts to dam a huge wave of disappointment brought on by the forecast of devastatingly high wind on our summit day. “we’d be blown off the ridge if we went up”, the guide said. I remember going back to my tent, which was flapping loudly in the wind, and lying huddled in my sleeping back. As it was getting dark outside, I kept telling myself that “it’s totally normal to run into unexpected weather in the mountains, this is real alpinism”, “maybe the weather will be different tomorrow morning”, “I have enjoyed everything so far”. But finally the dam broke. “Earlier, I was tolerating the heavy packs thus far so I could have a chance to summit.” “No, I would not have just done the backpacking portion of this trip without the climbing.” “Yes, summiting is the cherry on top of the journey of getting there, but I wanted that cherry very much!” In the midst of this disappointment, also feeling rejected, I caught myself try to make sense of this turndown - “Did I do something wrong? Did I not train enough? Why else am I punished?”
After quite a bit of intense self-dialoguing, I eventually began to accept that the weather is not in my control. What I could do at that moment was to choose whether or not to climb in this weather. It was really a decision between life and probable death (getting blown off the ridge). And it was a no brainer to choose to live. There didn’t seem to be much point to question why the wind came so suddenly and so strongly. According to the guide Paloma, the weather in the high Sierra has been more erratic than usual. There had been unexpected snow, hail, and thunderstorms. “Non-stop” is how she described the fall season this year, while fall is usually the calm and clear stretch of year. Could this be the tangible impact of climate change affecting my specific summit day? Or was mountain weather just like this? The Rockies has always had more unpredictable mountain weather, maybe the dry and calm Sierra weather we had for several years was the anomaly.
When my inner dialogue concluded, it was almost completely dark outside. Holding on to the last glimpse of hope, I reached an agreement with the guide to wake up at 4am and check the weather again. Then I took an ibuprofen and drank lots of electrolyte water to deal with my elevation-related headache, and drifted to sleep. That night my consciousness wandered in and out of deep sleep. After I felt long enough time had passed, I pulled myself out of sleep and checked the clock, it’s 3:30am. I felt decently rested. It turned out that when you eat dinner at 5 and sleep right at dusk, waking up around 4 isn’t so bad. But one thing was clear, the tent was getting tossed around a little by the wind. The weather forecast was dead-on this time - it was too windy to climb. Despite knowing this, I still dressed myself and walked outside to confer with the Guide. Even though the anticipated no-go was not a happy decision, I was delightfully surprised by the extra clear starry sky, bright moon, and the Milky Way. At least I could see the stars. I looked up at the night sky as much as I could stand in the high wind, and then went back to sleep.
The following morning was uneventful, we just hiked out. I carried the rope down, making my pack ~40 pounds. I thought I was not going to make it in the first 10 minutes, but after a while, my body adjusted, and it was completely okay. We met many weekend backpackers and fishing crowds on the way down. One of the fishermen was a 88 year old man who had been coming to the Long Lake to fish his entire life, after he learned that we attempted the most prominent peak in the valley, he called us “radical”, and said “you should come back when you are 88”. I gladly took his advice. What a wise perspective!
This is now my new dream, to be healthy and strong enough to climb BCS at 88!