Alpine climbing does not make sense.  Waking up at 2 am to go climbing does not make sense.  Super long approaches in the dark does not make sense.  Chewbacca, a wookie, on the planet Endor does not make sense, although here I digress. 

The plan was to do a car to car ascent of Mt. Russell via the technical Mithril dihedral.  After seeing pictures of the splitter cracks on this route in Rock and Ice years ago, I have always wanted to do this route.  I have done great rock climbs before.  In Joshua Tree, in Yosemite, in Red Rocks.  But never have I done a great rock climbing route high in the mountains, where I imagined beautiful climbing would sublimate with the perfect setting and combine to create the ethereal.  The normal plan, no, the sane plan, would have been to sleep overnight at Iceberg lake, wake up early the next day, do the route and then head back to the trail head.  However, as long days in the backcountry have started to become more normal for me, I decided to try and do the route in a day. 

I could think of no better person to try it with than my friend Stephen Becker from Caltech.  Stephen and I have been climbing the hallowed Caltech rock wall for some time now, and from our many conversations I understood that Stephen is strong in the backcountry.  He has already done other hard car to car trips in the Sierras successfully, although none that involved rock climbing as sustained and difficult as the Mithril dihedral. 

As my alarm started cranking at 2 am and I was awakened from my weary and complex dream state, I quickly gathered my belongings from our bivouac site near Lone Pine.  With much anticipation I had thought about this day, over and over again.  How hard would it be?  How fast could we go?  Driving through the dark, winding up the steep road to the Whitney portal, there was no more need for anticipation, only one foot in front of the next, for how long, I did not know. 

We started at 3 am, slowly winding our way up the North Fork trail, trying not to think about how far the approach to the mountain would be.  But Stephen knew the route well, and although it was very dark, we never got lost.  As dawn came, we found ourselves nearing the beautiful massif containing the huge Sierra granite mountains of Muir, Whitney, and eventually, Russell. 



It took us roughly 4 hours to approach Iceberg lake.  I was happy with the progress, but a little dismayed at how far we were from our objective.  I was also disappointed to see that the rest of the approach would be on loose scree, talus, and dirt.  Without more than a 5 minute break or two, we needed to regroup at the lake, get some food, and fill our water, as there would be none for quite some time.  I cannot express how exhausted I felt at the lake.  I wanted to sleep so bad.  So I put my pack down, rested my head on it, and closed my eyes.  There is no shame in bailing on the climb, is there?  It is not as if the entire trip was a waste.  I mean, the hike was nice, right?

Stephen could tell that I was in trouble.  "Well, maybe we should get going, eh Gary?"  Yes indeed, we better get going.  My 15 minute nap actually helped quite a bit, and I was feeling strong again.  The scree field wasn't nearly as bad, and in about 45 minutes, we were at the Whitney/Russell saddle, with our first look at the mountain and the route that we would climb. 



For those of you who are climbers, you will instantly recognize the beautiful rock climbing routes on Mt. Russell.  The Fishhook arete, located just right of the summit, its elegant white granite cascading steps falling from the summit to the base.  Our route is to the left, in the prominent dihedral that is on the edge of the sun and shadow. 

The Mithril dihedral is a 6 pitch 5.9 grade III.  Once on top of the technical climbing, one has to ascent another 400 feet of much easier terrain to the summit.  To the non-climbers still reading this report, the grade of 5.9, while technical, is not at my limit, or that of Stephens.  We reasoned that the ascent should go fast. 



A zoomed view of the Mithril dihedral.   Notice that the route is in the shade.  The shade is very, very cold, even on such a warm day.  For reference, it would be approximately 100 degrees in Lone Pine, nearly 10,000 feet below.  But it could have been easily below 50 degrees in the shade at our elevation.  I look down at Lone Pine, jealous of the tourists basking in the sun.  Come to think of it, they probably will complain of the excessive heat. 

We started climbing around 10 am.  This is a good time to start the route.  Any earlier, it would be too cold and miserable.  Any later, and you risk getting caught by thunderstorms.  After a quick session of papers-scissors-rocks, we determined that I would lead the first pitch.  I quickly switched from hiking shoes to climbing shoes, racked 10 pounds of rock climbing gear/protection onto my harness, fastened my helmet to my head, put on my backpack, and set off climbing.  It felt good to finally be using my hands and upper body muscles instead of the endless plodding during the 6 hour hiking approach. 

The climbing was okay, nothing remarkable, but the rock seemed solid.  I felt tired and the thin air was taking its toll.  For some reason, I was also nervous.  I suppose it is because it really hits home when you start a climb like this that you are all alone, you and your partner, and help is a very long ways away.  You cannot make any mistakes.  If there are loose rocks, you must find them before you pull on them.  You cannot afford to fall.  You must be perfect.  So perfect I was, but am I really perfect, or is this just my perception? 

Stephen led the next pitch.  The climbing was remarkable and much better than the first pitch.  We were now about 300 feet off the ground, attached to the rock with rope, slings, climbing gear, and faith. 



When you are hanging off a big wall, with nothing but air underneath you, it cannot quite be described as fun.  There is so much exposure, well, it really is scary.  But the sense of adventure is intoxicating.  I cannot say I was happy to be there, but I was glad to be there.  Now the climbing was getting more serious.  Maybe it was the lack of oxygen, maybe it was the approach, or maybe it was the fact that I was getting cold when it was not my turn to climb, but the climbing started to feel harder than 5.9.  Maybe the individual moves were not any harder, but the climbing was sustained.  And oh so beautiful.  The rock, as solid as anything I have seen in the majestic Yosemite valley, and the movement, like ballet.  How wonderful, and frightening, and intoxicating. 

Soon, the sun came around and visited us.  The warmth was amazing.  As I sat in my harness belaying Stephen, I looked up and saw that he was happy.  And I was happy with our progress.  If only that one damned cloud would stop blocking the sun.  How can it be, that the only cloud in the entire sky, has parked itself in front of my solar blanket.  Go Stephen, go my man, get us to the top of this thing!



Now the sky is filling with clouds.  I can only look south, towards Mt. Whitney, or to the west, towards Sequoia National Park.  There are no clouds over there, but they are building around us.  These large mountains, the highest in the Sierras, are starting to create their own weather.  But the weather forecast was 10 percent chance of thunderstorms Monday, and today was Sunday.  These clouds are harmless.  They are small pillows on which I would love to rest my head.  They are but a nuisance. 

The climbing continues to be challenging.  Stephen and I each struggle, grunting out loud, cursing our way as we jam our hands and feet into the cracks, the only real weakness on this vertical wall.  I am somewhat dismayed and surprised.  The climbing is very sustained.  Its challenging me and requires me to tap into energy reserves.  I hope I have saved enough to get down.  But still, as much work as I have to put in, how can you not marvel at the beauty of the climbing.  It is some of the best that I have ever done.  And look at the surroundings.  I cannot imagine a more perfect setting.  If I believe in God, then I shall certainly pray, because no church or temple could ever match the majesty of this microcosm that Stephen and I exist in. 

I am leading again.  We are near the top.  Some 15 feet of difficulty, rumored to be the hardest climbing, and then a perfect ledge. 



I struggle out of the vertical world onto a horizontal one, a ledge.  I call down to Stephen that I have made it.  Is it too soon to celebrate?  Just then, I feel something kiss my skin.  I look up.  The sky is gray, but the clouds do not look threatening.  Could it really be?  Are those snow flakes falling out of the sky?  One by one, they fall on me, and I realize that it is indeed too soon to celebrate.

I belay Stephen to the ledge.  We realize that we better get moving quickly.  Stephen starts off on the last pitch, only 5.6, but the snow is really starting to fall.  I am very nervous, because wet rock is so much harder to climb than dry rock.  My ecstatic nature turns into dread.  I look south, towards Mt. Whitney, which has become enveloped in clouds.  But at least there is no thunder. 

Stephen climbs fast, and I follow behind him as fast as I can.  Normally climbing parties would unrope at this point and scramble to the summit.  But the rock is wet, and I am tired, and I feel like the safe thing to do is to stay roped up.  Stephen, with no choice but to agree, sets off again, leading us towards the summit.

BOOM.  That must have been rockfall, because these clouds are not thunderstorms.  I cannot keep lying to myself like this, can I?  More thunder starts falling from the sky, and snow comes down harder.  I am in disbelief.  I am at 14,000 feet, exposed, on a tall granite mountain.  There is nowhere to go but up, so that we can get down.  The mountains are dangerous and unforgiving.  Have I finally not shown the respect that the mountain Gods deserve?  Will it be a matter of minutes before I am in maelstrom of hail, lightening and fury?  "Stephen, hurry up." 

But Stephen is as cool as the other side of the pillow.  My mind is wandering, thinking of the dangers that can be.  Stephen is keeping it together, getting us to the summit as fast as he can.  And just like that, the snow stops, the rock dries, and things do not look so bleak after all.  The storms still surround us.  The thunder is still present, but Mt. Russell is now below the eye of the storm.  It is eerily peaceful.  I make my way to the summit, soon to be joined by Stephen.  It is 5 pm, some 14 hours from when we left the car.  I am safe.  I am content.  I am sitting on top of California. 



There is not much time.  Only 3 hours till dark.  We must get down and we must get down fast.  Mt. Russell is a knife edge ridge, and there are no easy ways down.  We must traverse the east arete, climbing over and sliding down endless blocks, to finally reach the broad plateau below.  I try to hide my malcontent, but my thoughts betray me. 



I am tired and want this adventure to be over.  But 6000 vertical feet and many miles separate me from that goal.  And it is important to be safe.  The thunderstorm danger is gone, but when you are tired, it is easy to slip and make a mistake.  I will not let this happen to me.  I will not become a statistic.  I must summon energy, from where I have no idea, but it will come because it has to.  Still, the ridge is sublime and so is the descent.  Its beauty aids me down to safety below.



Its interesting, really.  The more I go, and occasionally refuel my body with food and water, I start to regain my energy.  Soon, we are off the ridge and find ourselves atop a huge 2000 vertical foot gully, leading down to the upper lakes that mark the beginning of the trail home.  We plunge our way down this gully, which is filled with loose sand, dirt and rocks.  If you let gravity do its work, its almost like skiing.  Somewhat effortless.  It only takes 30 minutes to navigate and we find ourselves at the upper lake, and it is dark again.

I take my headlamp out and now my body is fully rebelling against me.  It asks, why are you doing this to me?  I reply, because I have no choice.  I have no sleeping bag.  I have no tent.  I only have car keys, and that car, which will take you home to your warm bed, to a hot shower with soapy wonderfulness, is still 2 hours away.  So I walk.  And Stephen sings.  And we complain.  And we laugh.  And we talk about cheeseburgers.  And we wonder why the hell we would do something so crazy.  And we marvel in how unbelievable our day was.  The slim margins of safety versus catastrophe.  Was it really that bad?  I'm sure it wasn't, but it sure felt scary.  I respect the mountains.  But I also love them.  Which means that I want to be part of them, and the only real way for that to happen is to fully immerse myself in them.  Which I shall.

The 2 hours takes an eternity.  My body is dead to me.  My legs feel like that of a cadaver.  But the end is so close, and finally, there it is.  I am so happy, I hug the trail head marker. 



It takes 5 minutes to get our gear situated, and just like that, we are off in our gasoline chariot, making our way towards a hot meal in Lone Pine.  The drive home is, well, as you might imagine.  Stephen and I take turns driving.  We both stay awake to keep each other company.  It would be too cruel to sleep while the other struggles to stay awake.  But we are so close, it is impossible to think that we could blow during this last hour driving down the highway.  And just like that, at 3 AM, we are home.  Some 25 hours after waking up, it is time to sleep.  This day has been one of the hardest, yet one of the most rewarding, of my 35 years of life.  Thank you Stephen, you are a great partner.  Thank you Mt. Russell, you are everything an alpinist could dream of.  Thank you.