Mt. Shasta: Casaval Ridge (snowboard descent, Avalanche Gulch)
May 5-6, 2001 Mark Miller, Yossi Farjoun

The trip was great, everything it wasn't last week. Everything we hoped for, in fact, and in so being, it was strangely vacuous. Why is it that we are drawn to these heights?

I've come to these mountains recently, saying to people in that way you have to when you don't have the time or energy to bare your soul that I'd arrived home for the first time in coming to them. Of course inwardly I was not the least bit sure I meant it; notions of home and coming are hard to fathom without headache, and I've had an aversion to such things recently. But the statement does contain much truth, for I've taken to the endeavors newly opened to me since arriving in California with a devotion which surprised myself. No girl, no career, no moralism to drag me away from pure, immediate, aesthetic indulgence.

Though I utter this three-quarters truth, I am stopped from going the obvious step further: that I venture into the mountains because they're beautiful, or worse, "pretty," "exciting," or "a good time." Of course I do it for the beauty, but the sacredness of the beauty I've experienced is not translatable--when is it ever? More importantly, that beauty is not objective. With this trip I'm beginning to learn how to become a part of the beauty.

Last weekend on the same mtn Yossi and I took too much gear and gave ourselves to many luxuries and were perhaps too cautious in av. terrain and essentially got blown off the mtn nowhere near the summit. That weekend marked the end of winter on the mtn, for after that daily av. forecasting ceased, the California sun took dominion, and scree began showing it's ugly head all over the mtn. It's a sad time in California when the snow melts, and we must turn our attention to more northern climes like Rainier, as well as other pursuits--rock, bike, sailing. Yossi and I drove home thinking about summer tuning jobs for the boards and making plans to climb Half Dome.

Monday, though, the emails started. Yossi was saying what I wasn't even allowing myself to think, that we should go back. We'd done this silly back-to-back thing on Morgan; wouldn't it be cute to do it again? I had a ski patrol BBQ the next weekend, and needed to get in a good, long bike ride on the following Saturday if I were to be at all ready for the next month's activities. Yet Iagouous Yossi, evil, malicious Yossi, planted the seed. I held up a meager facade of restraint, but it was as to one offering ice cream; inside I was not weighing options, but drumming up excuses to go. Getting out of the obligations was easy; more difficult was finding that rationalization that would allow myself to live with. By Tuesday, I wrote:

"I unpacked the bags this morning, and smelled the rancid underwear and cleaned the GU residue off my camera. I pulled out superfluous item after item... and am completely psyched. Desperateness is the word. ... I want to not make the mistakes I made last time. I want to feel we made an elegant push, to be in a position of consequence and commitment and complete cooperation, to once more be perfect in a perfect place."

I then proceeded to detail what we wouldn't bring, where we would sleep, and how we would move. A flurry of emails ensued, preparing us, hopefully, for that elegant push. The goal was of course to summit, but more important was style and commitment. We would only bring one bag for the two of us, and no tent. We would sleep on the summit plateau if we could, or in any case as high as possible. We would swipe broadly at the large safety margins of previous trips.

In my pack or on my person would go: 35F bag, first aid kit, fleece gloves, mitten shells, balaclava, neck gaiter, water bladder, ten packs of GU, five Cliff Bars, Tikka, glasses, snow saw, shovel, air tech racing axe, Salomon Fastback w/ Burton CFX bindings, Whippet poles, 2.5 layer goretex shell, bib overalls, Lowa Civetta Extremes, thermals, NF Summit jacket, Yashica T5 w/ one extra roll of film, topo, whistle, three extra batteries, transceiver, compass, radio. In Yossi's pack was effectively the same. No sleeping bag or saw, extra thermals, space blanket, soup, chocolate, and potatoes mix, XGK, and 22ox. fuel. The total weight was a fraction of what we had taken the previous week, and when the packs went on our backs, we were giddy.

Bags and car having already been packed, I met a Yossi already running just outside Evans at 2:50pm. Sprint to the Prelude, watch Yossi rip the bedsheet veil off the snowboards atop it, and and we were moving. Piedmont to 24, 24 to 680, 680 to 80 (still some traffic at 3:30), 80 to 505, 505 to 5, 5 to Shasta. We'd not even stepped foot on the mtn, yet we were already many mistakes and three hours ahead of last week. We'd even brought extra sleeping bags for the trailhead (well, except for those of us who forgot ;-) so that we could leave our packs packed and save time in the morning. I took a Diamox, in anticipation of a possible bad reaction to the altitude we would soon reach.

Up at two and on the trail at three, we were happy to make it to Horse Camp before four. The Bunny Flat trailhead is a little like Manhattan, with with people preparing for and embarking on their climbs arriving at all hours. This was perhaps especially true Saturday, for a full moon against the white snow lended midday clarity to every endeavor as well as an encouraging premonition over the whole trip.

We traced our previous week's steps through the friendly ground, and made good time doing so, all the while yelling back and forth to each other through the wind how exciting it was to be carrying so little weight. By just past eight we were at last week's snow cave around 11,000'. Ahead of schedule, we made hot chocolate and took a break from the incredible wind, leaving again slightly after ten. Around one we reached last week's high point and the beginning of the truly beautiful part of the climb, where the juxtaposition of rock and snow inspire no small amount of awe.

By three o'clock and around 13,000', we'd started to slow--Yossi's knee and my belly--I was having trouble with the altitude, or with the Diamox, or the sun or something--enough to think about building a cave. The shallow sloped, highly packed, ice splintered, low rise drift was far from ideal but it was wind protected and not too exposed and generally good enough to commence digging. We were far smarter than last week; nevertheless snowpack and my rising sickness (at this point I started taking Dexamethazone in addition to keeping up with the Diamox) conspired to keep us at work for four hours before allowing us to weasel inside. Soup and potatoes--neither of which sat terribly well with me, but I held them down--and by nine we were practically ready for bed. We were worried about the altitude for me, and the sleeping arrangement for Yossi--what with a pack and down jacket and space blanket and Mark in lieu of a bona fide sleeping bag. But in both cases our worries turned out to be unfounded, for when we awoke the following morning--having awoke perhaps every two hours, but suffering no grand insomnia or other troubles--we were in as splendid condition as the cool mtn air surrounding us.

I think it was around five we awoke, and around 6 we left camp, just as a number of other parties who had camped lower and left earlier reached our outpost. Up through the gendarmes, around through the windswept scree and snow fields, over the high ridge separating th false summit from Misery Hill. Now up the miserable hill itself, affording first views of the true summit. From there it's a short walk, but why walk when you've just reached 14k feet, the wind has suddenly abated, and you find yourselves among old friends talking about playing Frisbee? At the plateau we met Graham and Justin and the Eugene boys, whom we'd met a few months ago ice climbing at Lee Vining. I have no idea what we talked about--posturing about different routes in Oregon or how we were going to send the rime ice at the summit turret or something. But it was wonderfully serendipitous to have seen them and pleasured in their company for a few minutes.

When we finally got to the turret, the steep colloir Graham and I had postured about climbing seemed somewhat less appetizing. 14k' and no technical tools and rotten crampons and no rope all dampened my psyche, but the quality of the ice--crumbling under my looking at it--turned me back. I did find a spot of low angle mixed climbing, but it was just a slightly more interesting way to the top, not worthwhile for it's own sake.

The summit as always was neither here nor there for me; the view of the Whitney bergschrund was inspiring, but otherwise I saw nothing to elevate my spirit. Graham and I commented back and forth about the necessary anti-climax of reaching any tip-top. We got some photos, signed the register, got a shot of me with the Chaplin glasses Carla gave me, and prepared for the 7000+ ft descent.

Ice atop, then windsweep, traverses, red banks chute. The snow at this point becomes very good, and we are very happy. We run out of film, but don't seem to be able to take pictures of snowboarding anyway, so it hardly matters. Bliss continues to Helen Lake, where the terrain begins to slacken somewhat and the snow is considerably mushier. We manage follow the obvious drainages into the trees, and but for traversing over one ridge, arrive at Bunny Flat still clipped into our boards. It was now maybe 2:30 in the afternoon.

Short drive around Shasta City, learning that the community closes down on Sunday. Then on to Redding and In-n-out, learning that my belly is no better than at 13,000. And then back to Berkeley. All in all a pleasantly uneventful trip.

Yossi tells a similar story.