Notes on Climbing
Trip to Wyoming, June 1998


Larry Susanka

Rereading the old emails from 1998 when we were planning this trip is a hoot. I had forgotten most of the details. Here is the way, with some electronic assistance, I remember the story playing out.

Dan Sola and I had been regular climbing partners for at least ten years dating back to my grad school days in Minnesota. We were compatible personalities, had a similar perception of risk and were both reasonably fit for weekend warriors.

We decided to visit The Tetons. I'd been there before a few years earlier with another climber, climbing mostly vertical rock and scrambling up one mountain, Nez Perce, 11900 feet and just Southeast of the Grand, 13770 feet. I wanted to climb that.

We had met Jack Hicks a few years before while climbing Rainier and he had been to the Tetons before too and really wanted a summit.

Dan and I had 5 days free, so I flew into Salt Lake from Seattle, rented a car, and drove to Jackson. Dan had driven from St. Paul and we hooked up and got a place at the Climber's Ranch, run by the American Alpine Club for climbers. Jack flew into Jackson the next day.

As I recall we had a warm-up day and the weather was not cooperating at elevation. There can be snowstorms anytime on the mountain. During this day we met another guy at the Ranch, Jim MacDonald, who seemed strong and compatible and who needed a partner. We liked him and invited him to join us.

We heard a one-day weather window between two storm systems was likely, so we decided to position ourselves to take advantage of it.

The next day we loaded up our packs, parked at the Lupine Meadows lot, and headed off toward Garnet Canyon and the Lower Saddle. At around 11000 feet, the Lower Saddle is a common camping spot and staging area for climbs up the Grand Teton.

The weather was fine with fog, a bit of light snow, gusty wind, occasional blue sky (blue-black actually, an elevation effect I guess) here and there heading to the saddle.

I don't know if it is still there, but behind a boulder at the Lower Saddle is/was what could be the most amazing privy on the planet. It is a small platform hanging over a cliff looking thousands of feet down into Idaho with a waist-high fence around it and a commode in the middle. You lift the lid and scrape the ice off the seat and sit down on the .... well, throne. Really.

We were just set up, fed and hydrated, as the storm moved in. We were pinned in our tents for the next 36 hours by continuos high wind, fog, snow and really strong gusts that threatened to collapse the tents. We were determined to ride it out and see what developed.

We had two tents. Jim and Dan and I crowded into my three man Moss Olympic and Jack had a one-man bivvy tent. It was weird. The flapping of the tent was so loud we could hardly hear each other shout. We just hunkered down, reading, snoozing, acclimatizing.

The first night was OK, but half-way through the second day, with no let-up, it began to get to us. I had a persistent vision that the tent was surrounded by an entire tribe of gnomes who were relentlessly beating on the tent with brooms. If we opened the tent door for 10 seconds for someone to crawl out the tent filled with spindrift. Jack, who had been isolated in his one-man tent, was getting the worst of it. At least we could shout at each other in the Olympic.

We resolved to wait out the second night but if nothing was looking better we would break camp and head for the fat air the next morning. We had planes to catch and so on, so we couldn't do the climb if we had to wait a third night.

About 3 am the wind stopped. At 4 I peeked out and it was clear and beautiful: our window between storms had arrived. We got dressed, ate and headed out. The climb was in winter condition as far as ice and snow were concerned, although the temperature was maybe 20 degrees F rather than -30 degrees F. It would be crampons and ice axes today.

Jack, looking haggard from the gnome-beating he had taken, resolved to keep an eye on the camp while we climbed.

Anyway, we took off for the Exum Ridge route. It was great climbing, but slow. The ice was sticky but not very thick so we couldn't use ice protection. Instead we had to scrape out cracks and get in rock gear. Still, it was lots of fun. Soon the fog rolled in but I don't recall route finding was a problem. The fog got heavier and the wind picked up.

Jim and I were on the ends of our 2 ropes with Dan in the middle so Jim and I swapped leads with Dan doing the belaying. It was great fun with occasional ice sheets to climb and a couple of huge cauliflower formations to scramble up. We got past the "wind tunnel," a huge slot on the side of the mountain funneling wind. Really strong knock-you-down wind. The weather was getting worse.

I don't remember much about the rest of the climbing (other than it was cold but fun) until we came to an icy bulge at the top of a gully we were in, maybe 500 feet below the summit. Barometric pressure was plummeting, so I don't know how high we were really, and we couldn't see more than 100 feet. I was leading.

I tried for probably half an hour to place gear and make the move onto the verglassed bulge but I simply did not feel confident and an unprotected fall would be serious. I backed off and looked around the edge of the bulge to the right and saw a snow-filled slot. I moved down and into it and began swimming up the slot, moving maybe 50 feet up. I was shaking loose massive amounts of powder snow and the wind, howling up the slot from below, turned it into a dense choking cloud packing into every crevice in my clothes, choking me. It was getting steeper and I realized this was a no-go. In the course of maneuvering back to Dan and Jim (who by now were getting REALLY cold due to inaction) I took a (protected) fall, not too far. But my full weight welded the rope in a horizontal crack.

It was stuck. Really stuck. I climbed up to it and tried all the tricks. I began cursing loudly and trying desperate things. I placed a perfect number 2 Camalot and a stopper in a clean crack above me and, protected by this, put both feet on either side of the crack and heaved on the stuck cord with all my strength. Had the rope pulled out, I would have been propelled like a rocket away from the wall to be caught by Dan and the Camalot. Hopefully. But it didn't happen.

I bowed to the inevitable and cut 20 feet off the end of the rope. I lowered off the Camalot, leaving it for a lucky person to pick off for free when the Exum turned into a beautiful sunny rock climb later in the summer. Sickening.

Demoralized I looked at the guys, they looked at me, and Dan volunteered to give it a go. We untied and switched places.

Dan was able to get a stopper in low and cleaned out a crack at maybe 20 feet out and got a cam in and made his move. He had passed the bulge and was just a step or two to easy ground, Jim and I whooping and hollering below, when he slipped. I didn't actually see it, but Dan said a giant gust pushed him at that second. I just heard the noise, sucked up a few feet of slack as the metallic skittering of crampon against rock got closer, sat down hard when he came onto the rope and let the shock lift me back standing against the face. He was a bit above. That cam had held. Dan was disoriented but I lowered him a few feet so he was standing next to me, leaning against the wall facing in. He said he had dislocated his arm, and was in obvious and increasing agony. Something was wrong with his foot too.

Jim and I looked at each other. It was about 2 PM. Better get busy.

We got Dan into all his clothes, pulled gear, and I called 911 to let them know our situation. We did understand that a bad (worse) storm was coming in and we were on our own for a considerable period... at least days. We had to get down right away before it really hit. Dan was curled around the arm, slumped, in no condition to rappel.

After playing phone tag for a while with the Rangers and 911 I informed them and they told us about some quicker rappels from where we were. I reset Dan's shoulder. He could move on the foot and use the arm enough to rappel. Things were looking up.

It took us a miserable 7 hours to get back to the Lower Saddle. When we arrived we found that hellacious wind gusts had flattened the tents and Jack had punched a hole in the Ranger hut door window and gotten some shelter in there. (Our apologies for that!! I guess it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.) We crowded in too and organized food and water. Fearing that the foot would become too swollen or otherwise unusable, Dan and I headed down canyon immediately. Jim and Jack were to come down the next day.

The rest of the trip down was pretty much as Dan describes it in his note.

However he left out the part about endless suffering caused by incipient foot blisters that I was certain had progressed to wounds, and an unendurably heavy pack, and a maniacal slave driver who wouldn't let a feller just lie down in the trail and take a little nap....

Oh yeah - that's right. He wouldn't have remembered that part because the goldbricking SOB was carrying a pack containing two sleeping bags. Something about his sore shoulder and how we would be slowed down if he carried more than a few feathers while I, hale, could just shut up and deal with it.

I started noticing The Animals (some big, some small) somewhere around 8500 feet. I didn't really SEE them you understand. There was a flicker, a glint, a hint of motion and a shadow among shadows...then gone.

The Voices began around 7500 feet. A steady enthusiastic party-conversation, volume just below the limit of understanding what they were chatting about. Soothing really.

The debauch at the Jackson mini-mart was an embarassment and testament to how low the mighty had fallen. We fell upon high calorie food like hyenas, devouring it in the aisles, stacking wrappers and money in front of the clerk and going back for more without waiting for change. The Voices stopped though. Evidently that crowd just got disgusted and split.

Somehow we ended up back at the Climber's Ranch to retrieve our stuff and catch a little sleep.

The next day Dan took off to get an x-ray and I stayed around the climber's ranch to get organized and recover. Dan was supposed to be back by noon so we could go give exit-interview to the brown shirts (bless 'em.) However the time was coming when I was going to HAVE to leave in order to catch my plane in Salt Lake and at a certain point I drove to Jenny Lake and had all orifices probed by aliens in ranger suits. They were firm but friendly about it, always a good sign.

Back at the Climber's ranch - STILL no Dan. I heard at the ranger station that Jim and Jack were on the way down from the Lower Saddle. I had to go. I left.

What then ensued was a mad 95 mph dash punctuated by many construction delays. I was within 5 minutes of missing my flight, but thanks to a super-efficient team at Thrifty Car rental I JUST barely made it.

I whipped into their lot a couple of miles from the airport 30 minutes from when my flight was due to take off. Desperate, I left the car out front, raced in and saw the line of bored folks waiting for cars. I saw a manager off to the side and told him "I am JUST ABOUT to miss my flight." He took a look at the strain and exhaustion on my face, made a decision and leapt into action. He grabbed a worker and had him put my stuff in a van while I signed some papers. He pointed at a driver. 3 minutes later I was in the van by myself with my stuff and was off. He let us off at the SouthWest departure spot, a SouthWest guy outside grabbed my (overweight) bag and checked me in and I was sprinting (hobbling quickly?) to the gate. They closed the door and the plane was moving shortly after I was seated. My bag even made it to Seattle with me, I have no idea how.

When I got back I wrote a letter to "Thrifty HQ" describing the events and praising the folks who helped me unstintingly (both the praise and their help.) I got a nice letter back saying that those folks had been identified and honored for their commitment to customer service beyond the call etc. etc. and a gift was sent to me: a beautiful regulation Thrifty softball. I guess I'm on the team.

So that's the story, a standard mountain adventure for those who do this kind of thing a lot. It was fun revisiting it all.

It sure is pretty up there.