Mountaineering: a Personal History

By Keith A. Brueckner

High atop a mountain, Keith Brueckner grappled with fear at the sight of an immense wall of steep ice and snow, a looming overhang, and the descending grey of storm high on a face. Time after time as he bravely faced the unknown and elements beyond his control, Brueckner opted to bury his fears, test his abilities and inner-strength, and join his mountaineering heroes in creating unforgettable adventures.

In a narrative released posthumously, Brueckner details over fifty years of climbs in the mountains beginning in 1938 in Switzerland when he first ascended a steep dusty trail up the Rigi and discovered his love for thin air, spectacular views, and physical challenges. In his entertaining anecdotes, Brueckner leads others through his mountaineering adventures that took him from the Matterhorn to Mt. Blanc to the Sierra Madra, Half Dome, Mt. Woodson, and the Tetons. Brueckner not only shares a glimpse into a day in the life of an avid climber, but also describes the technical aspects of mountain climbing, the equipment, and the sometimes unforgivable terrain. Included are his personal ratings that classify climbs according to difficulty.

Mountaineering: A Personal History is a nostalgic compilation of stories that chronicle one mans adventures as he scaled peaks in Europe and the United States and nurtured his passion to become one with the gods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480826533

Keith A. Brueckner

Keith A. Brueckner earned a PhD in Physics from University of Minnesota in 1950 and began working at the University of California, San Diego in 1959. He hired scientists in solid state physics, plasma physics, and astrophysics that included two Nobel Prize recipients. Dr. Brueckner climbed for over fifty years in Europe and America. He died in 2014 at the age of ninety.

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Copyright © 2016 Bonnie Brueckner.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-2652-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2653-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016901823

Archway Publishing rev. date: 05/24/2016

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1    First Impressions

Chapter 2    Big Peaks 1940-1948

Chapter 3    The Intermediate Years 1948-1962

Chapter 4    New Beginnings 1963-1969

Chapter 5    Technique on Rock, Snow, and Ice

Chapter 6    Some Observations on Condition and Training

Chapter 7    Return to the Alps - First Climbs

Chapter 8    Chamonix: 1970

Chapter 9    Chamonix: 1971

Chapter 10    Chamonix: 1972

Chapter 11    Chamonix: 1974

Chapter 12    Chamonix 1975

Chapter 13    Chamonix 1976

Chapter 14    Eight Days On The Nose of El Capitan 1977

Chapter 15    The Salathe Wall Route on El Capitan 1977

Chapter 16    Chamonix and the Dolomites 1978

Chapter 17    California, Norway, Chamonix 1979

Chapter 18    Chamonix and the Limestone Country of France and Italy 1981 and 1985

Chapter 19    The Final Years 1986-1996

Epilogue

A breeze cool and bracing seemed to gather force as he plodded up the long slopes, more gentle now as he approached the final goal. He felt the wind about him with its old strange music. His thoughts became less conscious, less continuous. Rather than thinking or feeling he was simply listening -- listening for distant voices scarcely articulate… The solemn dome resting on those marvelous buttresses, fine and firm above all its chasms of ice, its towers and crags; a place where desires point and aspirations end; very, very high and lovely, long-suffering and wise… Experience, slowly and wonderfully filtered; at the last a purged remainder… And what is that? What more than the infinite knowledge that it is all worthwhile -- all one strives for?… How to get the best of it all? One must conquer, achieve, get to the top, one must know the end to be convinced that one can win the end - - to know there’s no dream that mustn’t be dared. Is this the summit, crowning the day? How cool and quiet! We’re not exultant; but delighted, joyful; soberly astonished. Have we vanquished an enemy? None but ourselves. Have we won a kingdom? No… and yes. We have achieved an ultimate satisfaction ... fulfilled a destiny ... To struggle and to understand - - never this last without the other; such is the law… We’ve only been obeying an old law then? Ah! but it’s the law…and we understand -- a little more.

George Leigh-Mallory

(the British climber who died with his companion Irvine in 1924 near the summit of Mt. Everest)

INTRODUCTION

M emory of climbing is often dulled by the passage of time. The moments which endure in memory must have special qualities - - of beauty, supreme effort or fatigue, uncertainty, unusual apprehension and fear, long hours of hunger or thirst, cold, wind. and cloud, loneliness. I have often found the child within me recoiling with fear and apprehension at the sight of an immense wall of steep ice and snow, a fantastic arete of rock, a looming overhang, the descending grey of storm high on a face -- in short, at the sight of the superhuman, the unknown, the elements beyond one’s control. My reaction has always been to look, breathe deeply, collect my experience, then move ahead with caution. This reaction is accompanied by deep, powerful sensations of excitement, exhilaration, and of love for beauty, for the exercise of strength and endurance, for the momentary possibility of becoming one with the gods. The child stares in terror and admiration -- and opts to join his heroes. What moments for the infant within one! What moments for the man to test his ability, strength, and nerve!

This book records my climbs and experiences in the mountains, which began sixty four years ago. The climbs I describe are not those of a virtuoso climber but of a mountaineer who passed through many stages of experience and competence. They should be of interest to the mountaineer in the United States, to the beginning climber, and to the rock and snow expert who is ambitious to climb the great peaks of the French Alps. I believe that my observations on technique, training, misadventures, and mistakes should be illuminating to all climbers and particularly to the amateur. I have tried to be candid about my errors and limitations, so that others may learn. As the following accounts will show, one can maintain strength, endurance, and agility, and even surpass one’s early achievements by proper training and practice well into middle age and beyond.

The accounts of nearly all of the climbs, starting in 1963 when I started to keep detailed writings and records, were written at most a few days after the climbs. I have utilized the best-known words or phrases -- usually French but more or less incorporated into the English language -- to describe the technical aspects of mountain climbing, the equipment, the terrain itself, the names of peaks, ridges, chimneys. In addition, I have used ratings from either the French or American tradition to classify a climb, or part of a climb, according to difficulty. The rating sytems are given in the Appendix.

CHAPTER 1

First Impressions

A s a boy raised in Minneapolis, I had little reason to be aware of mountains and even less of mountaineering. My father, a professor at the University of Minnesota, believed in travelling extensively with his family, I did see the mountains of the United States during long summertime vacation trips.

My first impression from these early years was on a trip with my parents and my twin brother, John, to the Canadian Rockies in 1936 when I was 12 years old. We spent several days in Banff National Park at Lake Louise, and I looked with wonder at the beauty of the lake and the giant rock and ice wall of Mt. Victoria rising precipitously at the end of the lake. I walked with my brother and father up a gentle trail to a local summit which offered more extensive views of the area.

Much clearer are my impressions of Jasper Park, farther north. In 1936 Jasper Park was still a primitive wilderness, accessible only by rather bad dirt roads. There was wildlife visible everywhere and Park weather was cold and often rainy and cloudy. I still recall with aching intensity several moments in the mountains there. Once, looking up at a high peak, I could see, above the first rock walls, the green alpine meadows two or three thousand feet above and felt for the first time the powerful urge to climb up, to see, to explore, to experience. On another occasion, we walked to the base of Mt. Edith Cavell, to the Angel Glacier. This glacier descends the face of the mountain, then splits into two arms until it reaches a level area and drops finally as separate icefalls, giving the glacier its characteristic shape and name. The huge, glittering blue ice blocks, the chaotic icefall, the unknown scale and wildness of the glacier were memorable. Later, we drove to the end of the northbound road, up a curving glacial valley with prominent peaks on each side and glaciers dropping into the valley from high glacial bowls on each side. We walked a mile or two, climbing slightly, to a vantage point. The day was cool and cloudy, a light rain was falling, and we looked up the long gentle valley at the grey-blue of the glaciers, quiet, cold, damp under a remote ceiling of grey cloud. The area was totally wild, with no signs of human use. Its austere yet gentle beauty deeply impressed me and has come back like a vision many times since in the mountains of other parts of the world.

Two years later, in 1938, my father took us all -- my mother, my older brother, Richard, 17, sister Patricia, 12, my twin brother John and I, 14, to Europe where he spent a sabbatical half-year on leave from the University. John and I went together for ten weeks to a wonderful tiny private school run by a stern old Swiss professor. This school was in a rambling old chalet on Lake Lucerne, just outside the town of Lucerne. The lake and vicinity had enormous charm which, in 1938, was relatively unspoiled by highway and commercial development. At the school I was very fortunate to meet Malcolm Horsfield who also was a student. He was English, 17 years old, and immediately singled me out as his companion in bicycling, walking, and climbing. At the time, at the age of 14, I was robust and intense, yet quiet and introverted, just starting to sense the world about me.

During the brief summer in Lucerne, Malcolm took me on my first mountain walk and ascent. We climbed a steep dusty trail up the Rigi, a peak rising about 1,200 meters from the shore of the lake. We walked up the side away from the lake, and the dryness of my mouth, the sweat accumulating and drying on my face, the thirst, are still vivid in memory. At the top, there was a hotel and the terminus of a cog-railroad coming directly up from the lake -- not very Alpine! -- yet I was amazed and deeply moved by the sight. Far below -- it was hard to imagine we had lifted ourselves step by step all that distance -- lay the beautiful lake, visible in all of its complex detail. The peaks directly above it were also visible and the pattern of cliffs and summits forming the lake boundaries clearly were in sight for the first time. Far back, I could see the magnificent line of Alpine peaks, snowy, glaciated, awesome. In a small sense, that first climb wedded the reality to the dream in Jasper.

Later that summer the school organized a walk for several of us up another peak, Pilatus, which also rose directly from the lake. It was more precipitous, with a snowfield to be climbed and steep rock pinnacles toward the top -- and again a hotel on top and cog-railroad up the back.

My stay in Switzerland promised to come to a splendid end when Malcolm invited me to spend several days with him walking, glacier-scrambling, and peak-climbing. He had some experience and to me was obviously competent to take me for a wonderful time. My parents, advised by the head of the school and in any case doubtful, vetoed the trip to my deep sorrow. I have still the painful memory of deprivation, the frustration of leaving the mountains, unsatisfied and longing for more.

During the fall and winter of 1938-1939 I was filled with memories of the walks and climbs in Switzerland and began to read avidly about mountains, climbing, and exploration. As my family’s plans for the summer became definite, I found that my two brothers and I could drive across country from Minneapolis to Los Angeles, giving us a perfect opportunity to stop and climb. I selected the Sierra Nevada in California and obtained a map of trails into the wilderness area west of Mt. Whitney, 14,495 feet, the highest mountain in the continental U.S. The trip which I planned (with the passive acceptance of my two brothers) was to start in the east at Whitney Portal, cross the very high pass just south of Mt. Whitney, turn north at the pass for the last few hundred yards to the summit, then descend west to the high wilderness country for a prolonged stay. The self-proclaimed expert and climber, I planned not just the itinerary but also the equipment and food. In retrospect the plan was comically inadequate.

With my totally amateurish guidance, my mother bravely constructed sleeping bags for us from my father’s aged and worn Army blankets, remnants of World War I. The covers were heavy waterproofed canvas. We obtained workmen’s heavy shoes, crude Boy Scout packs, and a collection of old sweaters and jackets. We planned to cook over campfires with a folding grill to hold our pots. None of the beautiful modern camping gear existed in 1939 in Minnesota.

The commissary, planned from my expedition reading, was dried rice, bacon in a slab, dried fruit, Ryecrisp -- all hard to cook and barely edible. We carried fishing lines and hooks in hopes of catching trout to supplement a diet which was appalling from the start.

The memories of that effort are clear; some are pleasant, many are painful. We drove to Lone Pine, at the East Face of Mt. Whitney, and started in from Whitney Portal, heavily loaded. The fatigue of the first miles, carrying heavy loads uphill at high altitude for the first time, I remember well. The heat and dryness of the first pine-covered slopes, with the huge sculptured walls above, come back too. We walked uphill for two or three hours and by early evening found a pleasant campsite in the pines, at an elevation of about 10,000 feet. We had an unsatsifying dinner and then experienced our first open-air night in the high mountains. The night was beautiful -- moon brilliant on the silvery granite walls far above, quiet, the pine above and around -- but terribly cold. I later realized that the dry air and altitude in the Sierra Nevada on a clear night cause rapid cooling so that the hot daytime conditions and burning sun can give way at night to a hard frost, even at 10,000 feet. In our pitifully inadequate sleeping bags, even wearing all our clothing, we suffered throughout the night from the cold air and hard, cold ground against which our worn blankets and hard canvas were poor insulation.

We gratefully stood up in the first morning sun and breakfasted on cold fruit soup cooked the night before and Ryecrisp. Then we packed our equipment and were about to start. Suddenly we looked at each other and with minimal discussion decided that we could not enter the wilderness with the equipment and food we had. As a partial salvage of our plans we decided at least to climb Mt. Whitney and started off about 7 a.m. with a little food and a canteen of water.

We had no conception of the distance, altitude gain, or terrain and so suffered unnecessarily. The climb is uneventful; it follows a good trail, which passes lovely meadows and lakes before entering the desolation of the high country above timberline. The great cirques and bowls east of the high crest of Mt. Whitney, and the peaks north and south formed by the uptilted fault block of the Sierras, are without snow or water by midsummer. The sun is intense and hot. Above timberline the trail climbs first gradually then steeply through a wilderness of stone slabs, blocks, and debris to the crest at about 13,500 feet, finally turning north for several hundred yards along the gently sloping western side of the crest to the summit. The long, easy walk -- about 11 miles from Whitney Portal to the summit -- along a wide, graded trail offers fine views of the high country but is a painful and discouraging first exposure to the high mountains.

We all felt the effects of the altitude, hot burning sun, dryness and thirst. We had exhausted our small water supply early, expecting to find more later, but could find none. My brothers became increasingly tired as we climbed, as did I, and only at my urging did they reluctantly continue. Richard, older and wiser, decided we should begin the descent by 1 p.m. We walked slowly, stopping after each 100 paces to rest, up the last long traverse along the summit ridge. The trail crosses just at the base of several huge pinnacles on the ridge, so we would look directly down the very steep East Face of Mt. Whitney. We reached the broad, flat summit just before Richard’s deadline. We struggled to eat our dried fruit and Ryecrisp, about the worst choice of provision we could have made. We enviously watched a few older climbers, who had reached the summit at about the same time as we, drink deeply of water (perhaps lemonade) and munch on cold, juicy canned pineapple and sandwiches spread thickly with tuna and mayonnaise.

On the descent we somehow walked too quickly and carelessly and thus missed our camp on the previous night where we had left our equipment and food. Too tired to retrace our steps, we continued down to our car and to a motel in Lone Pine for the night.

The next day we walked back in and found camp. We discovered a marvelous shallow lake just below it, Lone Pine Lake, and spent a wonderful time swimming and floating in the cold water. This was the best moment of our trip and almost made up for the pains of the day before.

This experience was his last in the mountains for Richard. John climbed only once again with me, in 1946. For me, the lesson was primarily in what not to do, and I looked ahead to the following year.

CHAPTER 2

Big Peaks 1940-1948

D uring the winter of 1939-1940 I continued to read about mountaineering, thought about the Mt. Whitney mistakes, and decided to climb in Colorado in the summer of 1940. I was able to persuade a friend of my own age, Hans Ehlert, to go with me. Looking back, I am amazed at my parents’ tolerance and confidence in permitting the trip. My knowledge of climbing was very primitive and we had no rope or other technical climbing gear. Perhaps their mountaineering savvy was just as elementary.

We drove without incident to Rocky Mountain National Park, sleeping out and cooking over campfires. We established base camp at about 9,000 feet at the foot of Long’s Peak, 14,255 feet, the highest in the Park. The area holds splendid high-mountain country, well watered and rainy, particularly when compared to the arid Sierras. The mountains are precipitous and from some directions quite difficult, though a good network of trails makes access fairly easy. We explored most of the interesting areas of the Park and climbed the twelve highest peaks. We also went south to a fine climb of the Arapahoe peaks. I climbed some of the peaks alone. I learned to love the solitude and ease of solo climbing and, as in Canada years earlier, found the high mountains in cloud and rain especially beautiful and awesome. I remember, too, some first efforts at rock climbing, scrambling up short passages and experiencing the awkwardness of climbing back down from a difficult point.

The Colorado Mountains gave me my first real exposure to the high mountains: the pleasures of long climbs in good and bad weather, prolonged exposure to altitude, long walks with heavy packs, cooking my own food in the open air. I was not yet strongly muscled and often felt biting fatigue in my shoulder muscles after prolonged pack carrying. However, I also discovered that I had good endurance and tolerance of altitude. I began to acquire as well a resistance to the psychological effects of fatigue, which is essential to a climber in order to endure extremely long hours of exposure and effort.

The following year, I returned to the same area with my father. He accompanied me on walks and climbed one or two easy peaks with me, but for the most part, I continued my solo scrambles. Then we drove to Wyoming, to the Grand Tetons, which I knew from my reading.

The Teton Range is magnificent. Its peaks rise abruptly from the surrounding plains and are more precipitous than those I had seen in California and Colorado. The Grand Teton and Mt. Moran in particular were impressive, even more so than the mountains of my Swiss summer.

In looking for guidance concerning trails and potential climbs, my father and I were sent to Paul Petzoldt, who was already a well known American climber and guide. I knew of his participation in the 1938 American expedition to K2 in the Himalayas, where he had achieved the best performance of that expedition. When we met him he was directing a climbing school and guiding, an activity he continued for nearly three decades. He was a big, strong, handsome man and made me feel strongly his passion for the mountains. We joined his climbing school for a few days, and I learned for the first time details of technical climbing which I had only read about. He showed us how to establish a belay and to descend by rappel and took us on a short practice climb on steep rock, which gave my first real experience of climbing at moderate difficulty.

This brief training culminated in an ascent of the Grand Teton led by Petzoldt, with my father, me, and three European climbers. The day was cloudy and windy, and occasional snow and sleet fell as we climbed. We climbed first to a primitive camp at the Lower Saddle, at about 11,000 feet, where we slept under a huge old tarpaulin which provided inadequate protection from the wind and light rain. I had primitive climbing equipment -- heavy work shoes with hobnails and a climbing pack with light frame I had bought in Switzerland. My father wore a warm cap my mother had made from a piece of old blanket and a pair of old-fashioned shoes, ankle-high, with a sad scattering of widely distributed hobnails. Our remaining equipment was a random collection of old sweaters and jackets.

Given the conditions, the Grand Teton by the standard route was not easy. Because it was rather early in the season, the upper couloirs were snowy and the most difficult rock passages just below the summit badly iced. My father climbed directly behind Petzoldt, who watched him carefully. I followed, and the three European climbers tied on behind. Petzoldt used an ice ax and wore crampons, my father and I had no equipment, and one of the Europeans had an ice ax. In retrospect I think Petzoldt erred in taking on one rope as many climbers of such varied experience and equipment. On the descent the differences in ability and condition were particularly evident.

A day or two later, to my delight, Petzoldt asked me to join him and a schoolteacher he was taking up a very interesting route on Mt. Moran. It is now known as the Chicago Mountaineering Club Route, and we made the second ascent. The climb started from Jackson Lake, at the base of the peak, and followed steep wooded slopes to a campsite in a grove of trees at an altitude of about 9,000 feet, high enough to afford splendid views to the north of the Grand Teton, Mt. Owen, and the lesser ridges between. The route continued up rather steep but easy slabs and ledges to the top of a pinnacle called Drizzlepuss, which, because it stands out from the face, gives a remarkable and somewhat alarming view of the face to be climbed. This face is marked by a conspicuous vertical black dike which can be clearly seen from the valley. Petzoldt told me that on the first ascent when they reached Drizzlepuss, they were so impressed by the apparent difficulty that they gave up, started back down, and then finally decided to make an attempt.

We scrambled down the easy broken side of the pinnacle toward the face and rappelled the last 10 feet to the base of the pinnacle. The steep slabs were broken by small ledges and cracks which provide ample hand- and footholds. For protection Petzoldt used several pitons already in place. Toward the upper part, where the angle eased and the rock was more broken, Petzoldt asked me to lead (imagine the thrill for me!), which I did easily for a few rope lengths, carefully belaying Petzoldt behind me and he in turn bringing up the other climber.

The descent was by a series of long, elegant rappels down the smooth, steep face, easy and great fun. At the bottom we had to climb back up Drizzlepuss, and Petzoldt asked me to lead up the short difficult wall down which we had just rappelled. I tried in vain to make the lead, only about 10 feet, but after a few minutes of searching in vain for the necessary holds, I had to retreat, with exhausted arms hanging limply after repeated efforts. Petzoldt resumed the lead and made the few moves necessary to surmount the difficulty, a lesson for me in the skill of an experienced climber.

Petzoldt later told me that I showed sufficient ability and balance to lead the other major Teton climbs, an opinion very encouraging to the fledgling climber I was. So encouraged, learning every year as much as I could in the short periods I could climb, I grew slowly in skill and eagerness. The desire to climb, explore, test myself, to experience and enjoy, grew deeper, tempered now with the first measured knowledge of strength, ability, and endurance. It was 1941. I was seventeen. I little realized that coming to climbing maturity was to take me nearly three decades.

In the winter of 1941-1942 I began to plan for the summer’s climbs. I also wanted to obtain better equipment. As far as I could discover, the only source of climbing equipment was in New York, at Abercrombie and Fitch, at prices I couldn’t imagine meeting. Since I wanted an ice ax, I designed one and had it made. This I did by copying a few vague sketches from my climbing books and going to a local blacksmith who forged for me two ax-heads, the first heavy and crude and the second only slightly better. I mounted them on hickory shafts and added a tip forged by the same smith, thus ending up with heavy but usable axes. I also made a few primitive pitons which I cut from flat bar steel. The axes and pitons, together with my hob-nailed workman’s shoes, a length of 1/2-inch manila rope, and my old Swiss pack, made up my climbing equipment.

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By late spring I had been able to arrange summer employment employment in Glacier National Park. At Lake MacDonald where I worked, there was no one initially interested in climbing, but I managed to excite some interest in two of my fellow employees. In preparation, I walked and scrambled in the mountains as much as I could. My job lasted about two months, which gave me many opportunities. I was now 18 years old, with four years of climbing experience, which seemed very impressive to me at the time, and had made about 25 climbs. During the summer I made 15 or 20 additional ones, several of them interesting and relatively difficult.

Glacier Park is a beautiful, wild area with steep peaks sculpted out of sedimentary rock by extensive glaciation and many lovely lakes lying in old glacial valleys. The mountains also have many permanent snowfields and a few glaciers. The wild life in 1942 was abundant; there were mountain goats, mountain sheep, black bears and grizzlies, and a variety of smaller rodents and other animals. The stratified rock is generally of poor quality and breakable, and so more dangerous than the splendid granite I had climbed in earlier years. The Park is very well adapted to walking, with many fine trails leading deeply into its wilder areas. From Lake MacDonald Hotel there was easy access to the higher mountains. Rather than attempt now, so many years later, to reconstruct my memories of the ascents that summer, I quote from a few letters to my mother.

July 9, 1942

The weather turned fine about two weeks ago and we have had no rain since. The days have been hot and clear; the weather is beautiful and perfect. The nights are cold so I have no trouble sleeping. On my day off I climbed Mt. Edwards, above Sperry Glacier. One of my cabinmates climbed with me. We started up at 5 a.m. and reached the Sperry chalets at 6,500 feet in 2-1/2 hours. Here the Glacier Park guide, an old Austrian, took us over and guided us up the peak. We were on snowfields, flat and steep, up to about 7,800 feet, and the rest was a good rock climb. The rock was firm, dry, hot -- wonderful for climbing. The peak was just hard enough for interesting work. We had a wonderful view from the top. Our ice axes were necessary on the steep snow of the glacier approaches, and we were roped on the mountain. The guide told us of some other excellent climbs and we will do them later this summer.

July 25, 1942

On Tuesday this week, with two other of my cabinmates, I set out to climb Mt. Clements, above Logan Pass. The mountain is 8,768 feet and the pass 6,600. The peak is the butt end of a high ridge, and a saddle at about 7,400 feet is easily reached. The ridge up from the saddle is a series of steep steps; it is very narrow and drops off very steeply on both sides. We roped at the first step and did not take the rope off for the next six hours. We passed the first steep step by passing up a rather difficult chimney. To the next step we followed the almost level ridge. to the top of this step. Up to here we had been continuously in bright sunlight. The day was beautiful and the rock firm and clean. From this point we started to work our way to the right around the base of the final cliffs. We left the sun behind. At no time during that day was the sun on the steep rocks of that face. The rock was very rotten; we had no secure holding positions at any time after we left the ridge. We followed a fault in the rock, piled at a 45 degree slant with loose shale which slid continuously over onto the nearly vertical cliffs below. After about a 300-yard traverse, I, having led the entire climb, started up the chimney we had been told was the key to the ascent. It became increasingly difficult as I went up about 50 feet up, as I stood on a projecting ledge searching for handholds, the rock broke under my feet and I dropped 2 or 3 feet to the only secure ledge near. Roped to the others as I was, a slip might have been disastrous. I came down and tried again about 50 yards farther on to enter the chimney, but the increasing rottenness of the rock -- and the refusal of the other two to continue -- forced our return.

Years later I realized that we had followed the wrong ledge from the first ridge we had climbed and that we should have traversed left rather than right to reach a rather easy ascent chimney-gully on the face overlooking Logan Pass.

August 16, 1942

Last Tuesday, Paul Fridlund and I made the very long and quite difficult ascent of Mt. Cannon. We didn’t reach the base of the mountain until 8:10 a.m. because we had to hitchhike about 12 miles to get there. We had to fight our way through extremely heavy underbrush and over very steep, even overhanging, cliffs to reach a little mountain valley at about 6,500 feet in the cirque between Cannon, Clements and Oberlin. This took us over five hours. We started up the 8,800-foot peak at 2:10. An hour of climbing over steep snow and slide rock brought us to an altitude of about 8,000 feet at a saddle between Cannon and Clements. From this saddle, we went up a very steep and exposed but not particularly difficult ridge to the summit, which we reached at 5:10 p.m. As usual I led the climb, over which we were roped most of the way from the saddle. Leaving the summit at 5:30, we returned to the cirque and then climbed a thousand feet over the saddle between Clements and Oberlin to Logan Pass, which we reached at about 9:15. After walking a few miles on the road, we stopped a car and got a ride back to MacDonald. As as far as we know and could find, our summit records were the only ones; apparently the mountain has not been climbed in recent years.

September 4, 1942

Yesterday I spent 5 hours and twenty minutes of my afternoon making a long and quite difficult hike. I left here at just after 2 and went up past the two Snyder Lakes and up the cirque wall at their head to the right of the Litte Matterhorn and up onto the Sperry Glacier. About 500 feet of the wall were the most difficult rock climbing I have ever done, with no exceptions. The holds were small and outwardly sloping; in many places no single one was large enough to hold me and I had to cling to the rock with both feet and a hand while reaching for another hold. Most of this short steep part was very exposed and dangerous. The whole wall was about 2,000 feet high, but the rest was quite easy. I reached the Glacier at 5:25 and left it at 5:55, running the 8.6 miles to the hotel in 1:40. I believe that this may be the first time the Glacier has ever been reached in this way.

The summer of 1942 was the last climbing opportunity for me for several years, because I entered the Army Air Force in January 1943 and served until June 1946. In 1946 I returned to Glacier Park with my father who was 56. We spent only a short time and did some easy climbs. He enjoyed the packing and climbing very much and showed the same strength and endurance he had earlier on the Grand Teton in 1941. My brother John joined us for a few days, and he and I climbed Mt. Clements without real difficulty. The climb was apparently a first ascent.

In 1947 I returned to Glacier Park with my new wife, Marjorie, on our way west to Berkeley, where I was entering the University of California as a graduate student in physics. Marjorie and I spent most of our time walking into many parts of the Park and I took time for a few fine climbs. After arriving in the park we met a very enthusiastic climber, Don Loeffler, of about my age who was in the park with his wife. On our first climb together, we went north to the Canadian boundry of the park to climb Mt. Cleveland, the highest peak in the park at 10438 feet. After hitch-hiking north, then a boat ride down Waterton Lake, we started in mid-afternoon at an elevation of about 4200 feet along the trail leading north along the valley just west of the peak. We knew vaguely of a route up the west slopes but had no guide-book or good map. We left the trail rather soon, too early as experience showed, and headed up through wooded slopes toward the rocky summit slopes visible far above.

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I know now that it was necessary to climb somewhat more than 6000 feet to reach the summit and nearly that much to find water and a place to camp. We soon encountered dense brush and timber, often on steep awkward rocky areas, very tiring to climb through, particularly with our rather heavy packs. We had unknowingly become rather dehydrated during the earlier part of the day and had to struggle with agonizing thirst and fatigue as we climbed. After what seemed to be an interminable struggle, we finally broke out of the dense undergrowth and timber to the more open areas at timberline. Desperate with thirst we then traversed in the twilight across the scree and easy rock ledges toward running water we could hear ahead, finally reaching a small stream and campsite at dark. This lesson was memorable, emphasizing the necessity of planning and knowledge and the hazard of a blind approach to an unknown peak.

The next day we completed the climb without difficulty. We did have a few exciting moments when traversing broad scree-covered ledges several hundred feet below the summit when we came across a mother grizzly bear with a cub, a few hundred feet ahead on the same ledge. Not wishing to argue the passage with such a dangerous animal, we quickly scrambled up steep rock for 200 feet or so and continued our traverse with the bears well below. After reaching the summit we returned fairly easily to the lake to catch a boat back north to the road, ending a long day tired and footsore.

Our next climb together took Don and me to Mt. Meritt where we hoped to make a first ascent. This peak is spectacular and precipitous when seen from the south, with a sizable glacier on steep slopes near trhe summit which are cut off below by high cliffs. We approached by a long walk from the road via Belly River Ranger Station, about 20 miles along a rather level valley, very beautiful with a series of lakes the last few miles below the climb to Stony Indian pass. As we approached the head of the valley, we could see the north slopes of Mt. Merritt, much easier that the south approaches.

In the morning we climbed Mt. Merritt without particular difficulty. We encountered some steep scrambling at a band of cliffs crossing the south slopes and some exposure after we crossed the ridge to the upper snows of Old Sun Glacier which we traversed to the summit. To our disappointment we found remnants of an old cairn showing that the peak had been climbed before, although possibly only by the first ascent party led by Norman Clyde.

Our return to camp was easy and we started the long walk out in early afternoon. Our choice of food and possibly our lack of condition made themselves felt; we were badly fatigued during the last hours of the long walk, seriously in need of sugar and drink. We were received in a very friendly way by the ranger at Belly River Station who fed us cookies and drink, giving us the energy to continue to the road and finally back to our waiting wives.

In the last days of August, I met another young inexperienced climber, Joe Murphy, who wanted very badly to climb, a young Keith. I was confident enough to try a difficult ascent with him. We climbed Mt. Wilbur, which rises very steeply above Many Glacier Hotel. The peak is formed by a long ridge extending out from the main divide, with a very steep triangular face verlooking the Many Glacier area. A conspicuous chimney leads up the face and allows passage of a difficult band of red rock, giving access to the easy scree-covered ledges below the summit. As in all of my climbing of those years, we had no guide book or knowledge of the route and so had to pioneer the climb. Our only equipment was a manila rope and possibly a few pitons which we did not use. The weather was rather bad, although the clouds did break occasionally. Abobe 7500 feet we climbed continually in the clouds and reached the summit at 11:30 a..m., having started up the steep upper part of the face at 9:00. The climb was quite difficult, particularly since I in the lead could never see more than 150 feet ahead. A light rain started to fall when we reached the top, so we stayed only long enough to take a misty picture and then hurried down. Just then a heavy rain started to fall, mixed with sleet, and we sloshed back to the cabins in the cold downpour. On the climb we had two long sensational nearly vertical chimneys to ascend, one about 125 feet and the other about 200. The climbing on all of the last 400 feet was difficult, the most difficult I had done for such a distance. Joe Murphy, who had been reading about climbing since he was young, did very well on his first real climb.

A decade later I read a climbing guide to Glacier National Park and found that this route on Mt. Wilbur was rated 5th class and for experienced mountaineers only.

Don Loeffer and I also made an abortive attempt on a quite difficult peak, St. Nicholas, where we were turned back well below the summit by difficulties beyond our capabilities.

I returned again in 1948 and 1950 to Glacier Park for limited periods, mostly to walk and scramble. By then I had more experience from my California climbing and with more maturity had greater strength and endurance. In 1948 I had arranged with the young climber, Joe Murphy, I had met the year before, to join me for climbs. We returned to Mt. St. Nicholas for a successful attempt. On the approach, we reached a vantage point showing us the northern side of the peak with a subpeak and steep couloir leading up to a notch between the subpeak and main peak. By this time I was able to judge difficulty more accurately, and it was obvious that the route I had attempted on my earlier trip with Don Loeffler was beyond our ability. Murphy and I traversed to the couloir, up to the notch, and I then led up a few rope lengths of considerable difficulty on the first very steep and exposed part of the final ridge. The difficulty soon eased and we reached the summit to find a can with old paper records showing six earlier ascents. The climb was enjoyable, however, with good rock and interesting climbing on the upper peak. We climbed back down with the aid of one or two rappels on the difficult part of the ridge and returned to the Glacier area with incident.

A decade later I obtained a climbing guide to Glacier Park and was interested to read the description of the best route, which we had inadvertently selected. According to the guidebook, St. Nicholas was the most difficult and dangerous climb in Glacier Park and for experienced rock climbers only. The route description calls for numerous piton belays and sounds alarmingly difficult.

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CHAPTER 3

The Intermediate Years 1948-1962

I n 1947 I entered graduate school in physics at Berkeley and so began my professional life as a scientist. The responsibilities of marriage and of fatherhood -- my two sons were born in 1950 and 1953 -- affected my opportunities to climb. The preoccupation of my earlier years was further reduced by active scientific publication and faculty activities. The period from 1948 to 1962 was in many ways a dormant one, although I continued to climb every year.

As a graduate student in Berkeley, I found the situation very different from earlier years in Minnesota. I quickly met many people interested in climbing, mostly members of the Sierra Club. Around Berkeley were several practice climbing areas, easy to reach, which provided the chance to learn rock climbing, belaying, rappelling, the use of pitons, and so forth. Yosemite Valley and the High Sierras were also relatively accessible, allowing major climbs to be made within a two- or three-day weekend.

I spent many hours in local practice climbing, although at a level of difficulty I later realized to be quite low compared with my later development. On one trip to a local area, I met John Salathe, who was just becoming famous for his remarkable climbs and for the development of a new type of piton. He had just finished his ascent of the Lost Arrow in Yosemite, which he made with Ax Nelson, whom I also met. In the later 1940’s a revolution was occurring in rock climbing and in the use of pitons and other aids for artificial climbing. The hard steel pitons which were developed in a variety of sizes including very large angle pitons for wide cracks, could be used repeatedly in long artificial routes. The new climbing ropes, of great strength and elasticity, together with the excellent pitons also allowed more ambitious free climbing. A consequence was the rapid advance in climbing technique and in the difficulty of routes attempted. My friends and I made many trips to the High Sierras and climbed peaks of a relatively low level of difficulty.

Most of the climbs we made were Grade 3 in the U.S. system of grading (See Appendix), meaning that rope was advisable although not necessary for experienced climbers. These were all enjoyable climbs and they acquainted me with the beautiful high country of the Sierras. My climbing equipment slowly improved: I acquired Marine Corps feather-filled surplus sleeping bags, a better pack, nylon climbing ropes, and a primus stove for cooking at high altitude. After my Montana climbs, I returned to California in mid August of 1948, in good condition for more climbing. This was my first opportunity in the Sierras since Mt. Whitney in 1939. With my Berkeley friends I went for the first time into the Minaret area east slope of the main Sierra crest. This is a wonderful area, with fine peaks and lovely lakes on high altitude benches below the peaks. It is well watered, for heavy winter snows provide active streams, lush meadows, and abundant flowers all summer. The area is named for the Minarets, a series of spectacular small precipitous peaks rising from Iceberg Lake on the east. Just to the north of the Minarets rise two fine isolated peaks, Banner and Ritter, also steep, with precipitous faces. Several small glaciers lie in the cirques under the steepest walls, and there is much snow in the couloirs and on the north faces through the summer.

The walk from the east to the base of the climbs is nine miles long, but not too arduous. From Agnew Meadows a good trail first drops for a long way to the San Joaquin River, then climbs steeply for a short distance to Shadow Lake, a large lake in a beautiful alpine area, with marvelous views of the Minarets and Banner and Ritter. The trail climbs gradually along the northern shore of the lake, then up through fine meadows full of flowers and the big trees typical of the High Sierra, along the stream descending from the higher snows along the crest. After a steeper climb, the trail reaches Lake Ediza, just above 9,000 feet, which lies in a broad, level bowl below the final rocks of the peaks. The upper shores of Lake Ediza on the slopes just above in the final timber are excellent camping sites; unfortunately they have become crowded in recent years.

We climbed Mt. Ritter by a route we had selected both for its interest and because it was difficult enough to test our amateur abilities. We climbed up through the meadow first, then on talus and slabs, to about 11,500 feet, directly below the Banner-Ritter Col. At this point there is an easy traverse to the left on broken rock slabs up to the small glacier in the cirque northeast of the summit. The hard, frozen snow and steep pitch of the glacier provided a satisfying test of our skills. We continued directly up the left side for several hundred feet and then traversed across it to a steep, loose rock couloir descending from the summit ridge. This gave us an easy scramble to the summit. The descent by the North Face was somewhat more difficult. We traversed on steep, exposed rock, first to the left of the summit ridge, then below a shoulder on the ridge itself, and last back to the ridge, which we crossed to the North Face. The North Face is also quite steep but well broken, with ledges and good holds which allowed us to scramble down readily to the col below the face. We may have used a rope on the traverse and on the face, but it was hardly necessary. We then climbed Banner directly from the col, an easy ascent not needing a rope. We encountered some difficulties in selecting a feasible route from the col down to the easy slopes below. A direct descent is not easily possible because of very steep, smooth slabs, so a descending traverse to the right, then back to the left, and finally more directly down the final broken slabs is necessary. This took us some time to work out, but we finally reached the camp.

The Ritter climb is interesting and pleasant, neither easy nor particularly difficult, and involves steep rock scrambling and steep snow. These qualities, together with the beauty of the Minaret area, have made me return many times with other people I wished to acquaint with the High Sierras and with a good climb on a big peak. By now I have climbed Ritter five times and in addition had been in the area camping with my young sons and friends on a few occasions.

In 1941 I went with a friend, Al Basham, to the Palisade area southwest of Bishop. The Palisade Crest has the most impressive peaks of the High Sierras, made more so by the largest remaining glacier in the Sierras and by the many snowfields which persist through the summer in steep couloirs and other protected areas. The highest peak of the group, North Palisade, has a subpeak (now called Starlight) only a few feet lower. The ridge then drops steeply to a col at about 13,600 feet and rises to a striking peak, Thunderbolt. From a camp on the beautiful meadows at about 10,500 feet, Al and I climbed to the glacier and then to the Starlight-Thunderbolt Col, up easy debris- and talus-covered ledges above the glacier, then up a very fine airy ridge on good rock. This stretch was Grade 4, but difficult enough for us. We then climbed to Starlight, still on fine rock of Grade 4 difficulty, traversing out onto the West Face, then up chimneys back to the top of the ridge and so to the summit, which afforded a splendid view of North Palisade, whose summit is formed by a cluster of rock slabs. We climbed down 150 feet of steep rock to the Starlight-North Palisade Col and tried to continue to North Palisade, but this proved too difficult for us. The direct route was blocked by a huge gendarme, and the traverse to the left was on a very steep face, with new snow on the ledges -- too dangerous with tennis shoes. We could not see a way to the right around the steep, smooth rock of the gendarme, and so turned back. The reascent of Starlight was not difficult and we then descended to the Thunderbolt-Starlight Col and onto the glacier, climbing down carefully with good belays. I recall very well the apprehension I felt as we started the return from the gendarme, knowing the considerable distance we had to reclimb and then descend. I also remember worrying about being roped but not leading, which made me dependent on the climber above me. Some of these reactions I learned later to recognize as due to prolonged exposure to the altitude: we had been above 13,000 feet for many hours and were not well acclimatized.

Al and I returned to our camp by midafternoon after a long tiring day. We had agreed to meet several others to climb Middle Palisade, another fine peak of the Palisade group, several miles south of North Palisade. Since it was separated from our camp by a long, arduous traverse over rough country, we reluctantly packed and walked back down the trail to meet them in early evening. We camped that night at the road at 7,800 feet and in the morning started early for Middle Palisade.

After a dry, hot climb for 2000 feet, the trail passed over a ridge and into the huge alpine bowl below the Palisade Crest. This is a splendid area, with lovely meadows, lakes, and streams, rising gently toward the Crest. Middle Palisade, Clyde, and Mt. Sill are the prominent peaks in that crest, and there are several lesser peaks and many pinnacles on the main crest. The faces of these big peaks are very steep, and permanent snow fields and several small glaciers lie at the base of the faces at an elevation of 12,000 to 13,000 feet. As we continued up the meadows and through the big Sierra timber, the trail in the bowl became too indistinct to follow. So we dropped our camping gear just above timberline, where we found a good campsite, and continued up through open meadows and finally reached the slabs, talus, streams of the country high above timberline. After a few hours we reached and easily crossed the small glacier at the base of the east face of Middle Palisade. Climbing the face was relatively easy, because despite moderately steep, large slabs, there were enough cracks and small ledges. We climbed roped and rather quickly reached the summit. The climb was fine, on very good rock, sustained in angle, with good views along the face and beyond to the other main peaks of the Palisade group.

On another occasion I went with my friends to climb Mt. Russell, the peak just north of Mt. Whitney. They went up the rough mountaineers’ trail to East Face Lake while I, with my wife Marjorie, planned to go by the usual trail to bivouac on the summit of Whitney from which I would join my friends the next morning at the Whitney-Russell col by descending the north face of Whitney. This was much too ambitious a plan and my wife and I had to stop in late afternoon near Trail Camp at an elevation of about 12000 feet. The next morning, leaving early, I followed the trail to the Whitney summit and did meet my friends as planned. The descent of the north face of Whitney was not very easy, fairly steep with some hard-frozen snow fields. We then all climbed Mt. Russell, an easy climb with a short passages of 3rd and 4th class. On the return I had to climb the north face of Whitney and descend the trail to rejoin my waiting wife.

The next year I took my son Jan to the East face Lake below Mt. Whitney. He was unwilling to climb with me so on successive days I soloed Mt. Russell and the Mountaineer’s Route of Mt. Whitney while he rested at our camp and took several excellent pictures of the big peaks.

After leaving Berkeley in 1950 with a Ph.D. in physics, I spent nearly a decade in the East: a year at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, then four years as an assistant professor at the University of Indiana and three as professor at the University of Pennsylvania. During this period my research work was highly successful and I established a reputation in theoretical physics.

Fortunately for my climbing interests, in 1953 I became a consultant to the Atomic Energy Commission and was able to spend