Since the early 1900s, when Roald Amundsen and Robert Falcon Scott raced to the South PoleÌęfor the first time, the field of polar explorers has been dominated by men. But a group of women from the United Kingdom is aiming to change that, with an expedition they’re calling the .Ìę

The project, which has been in the works for over a decade, is being led by two officersÌęof the British Army, Major Natalie Taylor,Ìęand Captain Nicola Wetherill. “I always wanted it to be an all-female team because women are so underrepresented in expeditions,” Wetherill says. “We wanted to make it not just about crossing Antarctica, but also about inspiring more women to challenge themselves.”Ìę

This tripÌęwill put Wetherill, Taylor, and their team out on their own in one of the harshest places on earth. The groups is planning their departure for October 2017 and they will attempt to chart a course fromÌęLeverettÌęGlacier, to the South Pole, to Hercules Inlet.ÌęOver the course of their estimated 75-day, 1,000 mile trip, they will encounter winds of 40-to-50Ìęmiles per hour or more and temperatures down to -40 degrees. “It’s a high consequence place,” Taylor says. “If the wind blows, then your glove is gone, then your hand is gone.”Ìę

Louis Rudd, a British explorer and UKÌęArmy Reservist who made a successful journey to the South Pole in 2011, says Taylor and Wetherill are on the right track. “I think it's a great endeavor and I wholeheartedly support anyone looking to try a polar journey,” Rudd says. “It’s ambitious for a first journey in Antarctica, but they are preparing well and have chosen the sensible option of taking resupplies so that they can travel lighter.”

In addition to breaking down gender barriers, the Exercise Ice Maiden team also hopes to generate valuable scientific data from the journey.Ìę

There’s not a large body of evidence on female physiology and endurance in polar environments. Taylor, a doctor and a regimental medical officer in the Army, and Wetherill, a general practitioner trainee, will gather the evidence and share it with yet-to-be-disclosed research institutions. They plan to conduct psychological interviews before, during, and after the expedition to see what drives the participants, since “it’s not everyone’s cup of tea to be cold and miserable and tired for three months,” Taylor says. They will also weigh themselves before and after the trip, track body composition along the way, and possibly take blood and urine samples for more detailed metabolic work. One of the questions the expedition could answer is whether or not women’s higher body fat percentage works as an advantage to enduranceÌęin the extreme cold.

Moving forward, Taylor and Wetherill’s biggest weakness in organizing the trip will likely be their lack of polar experience. However, Rudd at least still thinks they have good a shot. “They have given themselves a reasonable chance of success by preparing thoroughly with all their build up training,” he says. And while they haven’t been to Antarctica before, they both come from strong athletic backgrounds. Wetherill has raced competitively in Nordic skiing for the British military, and also is in the midst of training for an Ironman. Taylor also comes from a strong Nordic skiing and adventure racing background, and last March won the Likeys 6633 Arctic Ultra, a 350-mile footrace through the Arctic Circle in Canada. Perhaps most of all, the two bring a sense of optimism. During the 6633 race, for example, Taylor had limited distance vision because she didn’t want to have to change out her contacts and was worried about her glasses fogging up. So on a seemingly long and endless stretch of road, she managed to just tune out the world and keep going. “I think the penultimate day was the hardest day,” she says. “I had a massive case of sense of humor failure. But then I just sang a lot of Disney songs to keep myself going.”Ìę

It will take a lot more Disney songs to get through a 75-day trip in Antarctica. But Taylor and Wetherill appear game and excited, nonetheless. “We’re going to get injuries, we’re going to get blisters,” Wetherill said. “But then the next day, you just get up and do it again.”

The post Behind the Scenes with the All-Female Military Expedition to Antarctica appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

One day last March, 44-year-old Ìęwas climbing in the Owens River Gorge, a popular sport climbing area just outside of Mammoth, California, using an advanced technique called rope-soloing, whichÌęinvolvesÌęa climberÌęclipping each boltÌęabove with a stick-clip,Ìęthen unclipping from the bolt below. About 25 feet off the ground, while clipped into the third bolt, Sederstrom was scaling an arĂȘte when the bolt snapped in half and pulled out of the rock.ÌęSederstrom tumbled down,Ìęhit the ground, and was killed,Ìęlikely due to head trauma. (He was not wearing a helmet.)

Sederstrom’s body was found by Inyo County Search and Rescue the next morning, after his fiancĂ© became concerned and drove to the crag, where she found hisÌęvan and dog in the parking lot. Upon inspection, it was found the bolt that failed was an old 3/8-inch buttonhead. It was likely placed over 20 years ago, had corrosion hidden beneath the surface, and could have beenÌępartly fractured before Sederstrom ever clipped to it.Ìę

The way Sederstrom was rope-soloing, which left him relying on a single bolt instead of on multiple points of protection, is inherently riskier than typical sport climbing. But his assumption is shared by every sport climber at the crag: Bolts are safe. Modern ones—typically made of stainless steel—are designed to withstand upwards of 3,300 pounds of outward force and more than 5,600 pounds of downward pull. But bolts wear down and corrode over time, and even the most expertly placed ones eventually need to be replaced.

There are roughly 60,000 sport routes across the U.S., roughly a third of which were put up in the lateÌę1980sÌęand earlyÌę1990s, according toÌęNick Wilder, co-founder ofÌę. The bolts on these routes are now reaching the end of their projected lifespan—roughly 20 years—and may or may not be safe to climb on. In fact,Ìęthere are likely hundreds of thousands of bolts that will need to be replaced in the not too distant future, according to Brady Robinson, executive director of theÌę,Ìęwhich works to open up climbing areas across the country to the public. To chip away at the issue, the fund and theÌęÌęlast month announced a $10,000 round of funding through a new program called theÌę. Seventeen climbing organizations nationwide received a portion of that money for bolt replacement.

“Some of these bolts are just ticking time bombs,” says Ian Kirk, founder of the , which raises money for rebolting effortsÌęand received a small grant. The Red River Gorge, a world class climbing destination in Kentucky with more than 2,000 sport routes, represents a microcosm of sport climbing’s booming popularity.ÌęRoute development there “has been occurring at an exponential pace in the last two decades,” according to Kirk’s group’s website, and more climbers than ever are clipping into, falling on, and wearing down bolts. “It’s becoming a bit of a chance game” with older bolts, Kirk says. “You just don’t know if they’re good or bad.”

The Access Fund's $10,000 is a drop in the bucket—designed as more of an awareness-driver than a solution. Robinson estimates itÌęwould cost millions of dollars to replace all the bolts nearing the end of their lifespan. Given how many sport climbers are flocking to crags around the country, it’s scary to think that the issue of bad bolts is accelerating just as the number of people using those bolts is increasing, too, says Dale Remsberg, technical director for the . “We’re just at the point now where the bolts are old enough and climbing is popular enough that accidents could start to happen more frequently.”

The types of bolts and hangers that climbers install on new routes today—the ones you’ve clipped into most everywhere you’ve climbed—haven’t been around very long, at least in the scheme of the 60-plus-year history of sport climbing in the U.S. No company in the country manufactured bolts specifically designed for rock climbing until Metolius started manufacturing bolts in the late 1980s. Modern climbing bolts, hangers, and chains sold by Metolius, Fixe Hardware, ClimbTech, Petzl, and other companies are now made to meet specific safety standards set by the International Climbing and Mountaineering Federation (UIAA).

Before then, as far back as the 1950s, when climbing was in its infancy, the tools of the sport were rudimentary. Climbers, including Yosemite legend Warren Harding, co-opted expansion bolts and fasteners designed for use in cement, brick, and stone construction projects. One of the most common bolts was the Star Dryvin,Ìęa steel nail inside a lead sleeve that was placed by hand-drilling a hole into a rock face and simply pounding into place. (Today, climbers typically use power drills, then hammer in an expansion bolt, then tighten it with a torque wrench.)ÌęA Star Dryvin was attached to a hanger, a piece of metal flush with the rock that you would clip the rope to when ascending. Some hangers were even handmade. These early setups were far weaker thanÌęmodern climbing bolts—climbers distrusted them so much so that many preferred to place pitons rather than risk falling on them.

From the 1960s through the early 1980s, the bolt of choice shifted to the 1/4-inch Rawl Drive (a.k.a. “buttonhead”), a construction bolt that climbers would laboriously place with a hand drill while on lead. The bolts were often attached to old styles of (what are now considered to be) extremely unreliable hangers, such as theÌęLeeper hanger. Bolt manufacturer Ed Leeper recalled all his hangers in 2004 and urged climbers to remove any remaining ones from rocks nationwide, as some are vulnerable to stress corrosion, a combination of mechanical stress and chemical corrosion that can cause a bolt to break in half if put under the stress of a falling climber.ÌęBy the late 1980s, climbers were using thicker, stronger bolts of 3/8-inch or 1/2-inch diameter.

The strongest and most long-lasting bolts available today are titanium, but they are so expensive thatÌęthey are generally only used at seaside crags, where the salt air can cause particularly rapid corrosion to traditional steel bolts. șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű of titanium, Âœ-inch stainless-steel bolts are considered the contemporary gold standard, though some first ascensionistsÌęopt for less-expensive plated steel bolts. When plated steel bolts are placed on a stainless steel hanger or bolt, theyÌęare subject to a process called galvanic corrosion, which occurs whenÌętwo different materials swap ions and degrade.

“It’s just not realistic to expect metal to be functioning in 20, 30, 40 years,” says Kevin Daniels, founder of Fixe Hardware. “People need to be aware and think, if this bolt fails, what’s going to happen? Even if we change every bolt out there, that’s the question that should always be on people’s minds.”

Experts warn that incidents like the one that befell Sederstrom could become more common in the sport, but there have been surprisingly few accidents due to bolt failures in recent years.ÌęThe two most recent bolt-related fatalities occurred in 2012 and 2010, in the Meadow River Area of West Virginia and in Index, Washington, respectively, according to a search of the . But ask around and you’ll hear stories from experienced climbers about near misses on sketchy bolts. Robinson, for example, remembers climbing a route in the 1990s at Cathedral Spires in the Needles of South Dakota. “I clipped a bolt and pulled it right out of the rock,” he says. “I looked around and saw that there wasn’t anything else, so I put it back in and kept climbing.” In the absence of any better protection around him, he just continued up, risking a bigger, more dangerous fall.

Aside from the risk that individuals climbers face when using these bolts, there's another reason the Access Fund wants to replace them: so that climbing areas don't close.ÌęWhen a 12-year-old girl was critically injured byÌęrockfallÌęwhile hiking in to theÌę, the Hawaii State Department of Land and Natural Resources (DNLR) closed the wall for climbing indefinitely and installed no-trespassing signs that threatenedÌęa $2,000 fine. The ban then expanded beyondÌęMokuleiaÌęto include all cliffs managed by theÌęDNLRÌęuntil legislation was passed to provide the state with immunity from liability. It wasn’t until January of this year thatÌęMokuleiaÌęand it’s 70-plus climbing routes reopened to climbers.

The Access FundÌęwants to make sure other areas don't suffer the same fate. But reboltingÌęall the older sport routesÌęwon’t happen overnight. Apart from funding shortages, there’s also a huge shortage of manpower because few people have the specialized skills to replace bolts, and fewer have the time to do it regularly. “It’s just hard to get knowledgeable people who can dedicate the time to get out there,” says Kirk. He personally replaces hundreds of bolts each year at Red River Gorge, which usually entails using a breaker bar to extract old bolts and drilling new holes for glue-in bolts, which rely on a strong chemical adhesive to keep them in place and typically last longer than the mechanical expansion bolts they’re replacing.

But it’s not enough.

We need more people replacing bolts and more funding for them. “It’s becoming a huge undertaking for us to stay on top of it and get them replaced,” Kirk says. “It’s a growing epidemic.”

How to Spot Bad Bolts

There are some telltale signs of suspect bolts that climbers can look out for. Buttonheads (which look like coat buttons) and Star Dryvins (which have a star stamped on the head) should not be trusted. If the hanger on a given bolt is loose and jiggles, that means the bolt is sticking out of the rock more than it should be and might not be at full strength; the bolt may not necessarily need to be replaced, but needs to be re-torqued to the proper tension recommended by the manufacturer.Ìę

Rust on the bolt or hanger can indicate weakness. But not all bad bolts have visual signs of corrosion, since corrosion can happen inside the bolt hole itself.Ìę

Apart from bolts, it’s also important to inspect the hangers. Any Leeper hangers are suspect, and are identifiable by their sharpened edges and trapezoidal shapes.ÌęThe old SMC hangers can be identified by how thin they are—about the thickness of a quarter. Dangerous bolts and hangers can be reported on Badbolts.com, an online database that tracks bolts that need to be replaced and provides that info to prospective bolt-replacers.Ìę

Climbers should be especially aware in areas where high numbers of sport routes were developed more than 20 years ago, according toÌęRemsbergÌęat the American Mountain Guide AssociationÌęincludingÌęRed Rock Canyon, near Las Vegas,ÌęEldorado Canyon in Colorado, and the Red River Gorge, which has a high percentage of zinc-plated bolts placed in humid conditions.

The post What Happens When Climbing Bolts Go Bad? appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Rising more than 20,000 feet above sea level, Denali is the highest peak in North America. But here’s the thing: Nobody knows exactly how high it is.Ìę

Three weeks ago, a group of climbers headed to the mountain to answer this question. They’re part of a Ìęled by the University of AlaskaÌęFairbanksÌęand survey company Ìęand funded by various governmental agencies, including the U.S. Geological Survey and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, to put an end to the controversy once and for all.Ìę

“It just seemed crazy to me that we don’t know the elevation of the highest mountain in the U.S. It’s disputed by more than 23 meters [or 75 feet], which is a lot,” says Blaine Horner, a former Denali guide and one of the climbers from CompassData.Ìę

It’s not like groups haven’t tried to come up with an exact height before. Many have, but they’ve all arrived at different numbers, using old, disputed technology. The widely accepted elevation of Denali (20,320 feet) is based on a survey Bradford Washburn completed in 1953. Since GPS wasn’t a thing back then, he used a process called photogrammetry, which relies on aerial photography, to figure out the mountain’s height.

Thirty-six years later, another group used an early version of GPS to measure the mountain. They came up with an elevation of 20,306 feet. Then, in 2013, another survey outfitted a plane with remote sensors, flewÌęover the peak, and pegged the height at 20,237 feet. (That’s the stated elevation you’ll find if you search Wikipedia.)

The 2015 project differs from both the 1953 and 2013 surveys because it’s sending climbers to the summit. “With our project, we actually had boots on the ground,” Horner says. “If you come over the south side of Denali in a plane, you have this insane vertical relief, and it’s going to be pretty hard for any sensor to keep up with that.” This survey will also be more accurate than the 1989 mission because there are more (and more accurate) satellites for the survey equipment to communicate with.

Ten days after Horner and his colleague Agustin Karriere arrived at base camp, the pair summited and began taking measurements. (Two others on the team remained at 14,200 feet in a support role.)ÌęIt was a clear day, zero degrees, and no wind—balmy as far as Denali summit days go.Ìę

They set up two different pieces of survey equipment—a Trimble NetR9 and a Trimble R10—to measure the exact location and elevation of the summit. One device was placed at the true summit; the other was set 2.5 meters back, but with its antenna at the same height as the first to get the same elevation. Both devices measured the summit’s location and elevation by accessing satellites from three different groups: GPS, the Russian version of GPS called GLONASS, and another group of satellites called QZSS.Ìę

The two receivers communicated with the satellites. By figuring out their distance from a group of satellites, the receivers determined their exact location on the ground. The results should be accurate down to the centimeter.

Because batteries tend to die in the cold, Horner and Karriere hooked up each unit to an independent motorcycle battery to keep the devices warm and their internal batteries charged. Both units recorded data for 23 hours straight until a guided group retrieved them the next day.Ìę

Results from the survey could be available by mid-August.Ìę

The post Why Scientists Are Measuring America’s Tallest Peak (Again) appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Ice caves are spectacular natural attractions, but they’re not exactly known for being safe places to hang out. These caverns are, after all, formed by melting, shifting swaths of snow and ice that can collapse or crumble without warning. “Deceivingly friendly” is how Seattle-based Mount Everest guide David Morton describes them.

On Monday, hikers at the Big Four Ice Caves in Washington found out just how volatile these environments can be, and with tragic results. A major collapse in one of the caves left a 34-year-old woman dead and five people injured, including two children and one man in critical condition. Those people, and several others, entered the caves despite warning signs outside.ÌęThe cause of the collapse can largely be chocked up to unseasonably warm temperatures that has destabilized the caves. “We’re looking at conditions that we usually don’t see until September,” says Aleta Eng, partnership specialist for Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest.

Warm weather notwithstanding, these caves are dangerous.ÌęThis isn’t the first time there’s been an accident at the Big Four. In 2010, 11-year-old Grace Tam was killed by a boulder of falling ice just outside theÌęcaves. Now, a Ìęcommemorating Tam’s life—and warning others of the dangers—is posted right outside the caves. Other signs on the one-mile trail to the caves also warn of falling ice and instruct people not to get too close to the caves, much less enter them. On the same day the accident happened, Ìęwent live on YouTube showing another collapse at the very front of the caves.

“When you’re trying to figure out if an area is safe, you have to look at the history,” says Gordon Janow, Director of Operations for , a mountain guide service in the Seattle area. “It’s clear that these caves are unsafe because there’s a record of bad events here.”

It takes years of experience with snow and ice environments to evaluate the stability of a specific ice cave, Morton says. These features are delicate, and only form within a rare nexus of conditions. The caves at Big Four form whenÌęrunning water from the mountain above tunnels through a snowfield at its base.

In winter and spring, avalanches shoot down the north face of Big Four Mountain, creating a snowfield at the bottom. As the area melts out in warmer months, water runs down off the mountain and drills through the snow, creating the caves visitors travel from hundreds of miles around to hike through. Thousands of visitors flock to the caves during summer, Eng says.

The saddest part of Monday’s tragedy may be that it was preventable.ÌęNow, some in the outdoor industry say that aggressive measures need to be taken to keep people from accessing the caves at all. “I think we need to just put up a fence around it and keep people out. People don’t read signs,” said Jason Martin, Director of Operations for the , another Northwest guide service. “It’s just way too easy to get to the caves via the trail right now, and people get hurt.”

For now, it appears the U.S. Forest Service is heeding the message. It has closed off access to the Big Four Ice Caves at one-third of a mile down the trail. Whether the caves will ever be reopened is unclear.

The post The Case for Closing Ice Caves Permanently appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

A new study claims going barefoot has unique injury prevention benefits for women. We're not buying it—at least until there's more supporting research.

The , led by an anatomy and physiology researcher from in Dublin and published in Medicine & Science in Sports & Exercise, looked at the benefits of barefoot running versus running in shoes. Twenty-three different recreational female athletes ran on treadmills. First, the women ran wearing standard (neither minimalist nor maximalist) footwear, and then they ran barefoot, each time wearing devices that allowed the researchers to conduct a three-dimensional gait analysis afterward.

The results were surprising; subjects running barefoot showed less hip adduction (inward rotation), hip internal rotation, and pelvic drop (when hips sway from side to side, dropping one side down). These factors have been associated with injuries like IT band syndrome and patellofemoral syndrome, two problems women are particularly at risk for because the width of their hips can lead to increased stress on the knee during running. The authors concluded that barefoot running may help prevent these common running injuries in women.Ìę

But other experts aren't so sure.Ìę“Some of the things that they were looking for in women—all of those things happen whether you’re a woman or a man when you’re sloppy and fatigued,” says Dr. Jon Woo, a sports medicine physician who runs a high-altitude in Santa Fe, New Mexico. In other words, while the biomechanics the researchers examined could be important in relation to injury,Ìęthey aren’t limited to women specifically. Any benefits—or negatives—from barefoot running would happen equally in women or in men. In fact, in his own practice, he hasn’t found a significant difference in men’s and women’s injuries at all. Instead, he’s seen greater differences between recreational and elite athletes: elite athletes get hurt because they overtrain and put in too many miles, and recreational athletes get hurt due to poor running form.Ìę

“I am of the camp that says, sure, in some runners using a minimalist shoe can be beneficial. But it all depends,” Woo said. “I feel that if gets people to be more aware of their running and their mechanics, it can be helpful. But I can say in general, if we put everybody barefoot we’re not going to have less injuries.”

While relatively few articles have been published examining barefoot running in relation to gender, the others that have were similarly skeptical about the benefits for women. A 2014 in the Journal of Science and Medicine in Sport, for example, looked at 18 healthy female runners and found that running in minimalist footwear increased pressure on the forefoot without actually changing from a rearfoot to a midfoot or forefoot strike, which is what barefoot running advocates say is one of the main benefits of minimalist/barefoot running.Ìę

“This increased pressure in the forefoot region might play a role in the occurrence of metatarsal stress fractures in runners who switched to minimalist shoes and warrants a cautious approach to transitioning to minimalist shoe use,” the authors wrote. Looking specifically at plantar pressure, the researchers didn’t find any benefits—and in fact found some risks—for running in minimalist shoes.

“You can read the science, but the proof is in the pudding,” said Dr. , Fellowship Director of Sports Medicine at in Greensboro, North Carolina. “When I went to races for or five years ago I would see people running in minimalist shoes, now I hardly see that at all. I think people are running into problems.”

After seeing upwards of 1,500 patients a year, many of them runners, Fields believes that gender differences in injury patterns are based on key variations in men’s and women’s physiologies, not in their running gait. According to Fields, women tend to have more problems in their feet, ankles, and with runner’s knee, possibly due to the hormonal effects of estrogen, whereas men are more prone to muscle strains due to lack of flexibility.Ìę

“I’m not opposed to people trying barefoot running, and I do use it in some therapy,” Fields said. “But for the average runner, I don’t think it’s very effective.” Most of the time, he says, the way to prevent injuries isn’t to buy a new type of shoe—or ditch the old pair—but instead to put in the hard work to build strength and improve your running form. For women with injuries, one of the first things he’ll do is give them a core- and hip-strengthening regimen to help make their gait more efficient.Ìę

So instead of worrying about your footwear, focus on getting strong instead. World Champion triathlete Craig Alexander’s core workout is a good start:

The post Should Women Be Barefoot Running? appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Ortovox, one of the world’s leading manufacturers of avalanche safety and alpine sports equipment, issued a Ìęof all its S1+ avalanche beacons, which have been on sale since 2011.

The company discovered a critical flaw in one unit that was sent in for service on March 23. According , the issue could limit “the ability to transmit a discoverable signal even as the unit appears to be powered on and functioning properly.”

The owner of the beacon sent the device in after finding that it didn’t work properly during a search training exercise. When the Ortovox team examined the device, they discovered a flawed component in the circuitry that manages the beacon’s transmit and receive functions. According to Patrick Brown, the spokesperson for Ortovox, while all beacons are quality tested before shipping, this problem could arise due to “changes in temperature or discrepancies in the component geometry.”

According to Ortovox, this is the first beacon with this issue. But the company determined the flaw could occur in other units and issued a voluntary recall. The recall applies to all beacons sold through March 2015.

Ortovox will continue selling the S1+ after the recall by finding a new supplier to produce the component that came into question. This particular part is only used in the S1+: the recall does not apply to other beacon models sold by Ortovox.

“Once you have a known issue, you have to bring it to people’s attention,” says Ben Pritchett, program director for the . “If your ski skins don’t stick, that’s a bummer, but that doesn’t necessarily mean there needs to be a recall. When you’re dealing with safety equipment, consumers expect a really high degree of reliability. I think Ortovox is doing absolutely the right thing by issuing the recall.”

The S1+ debuted in August 2011 and, among other features, is distinguished from the earlier S1 model by the addition of Ortovox’s Smart Antenna Technology. Since its initial release, between 3,500 and 3,600 S1+ beacons have been sold in North America.

S1+ owners Ìęto send in their beacons for repair. Ortovox will do all repairs for free, pay for shipping, and provide loaner beacons while the S1+ beacons are being serviced.

Ìę

The post Ortovox Voluntarily Recalls All S1+ Avalanche Beacons appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

On a sub-zero November morning, following a month spent slogging 600 miles along wet, snowy stretches of the Pacific Crest Trail in Washington and Oregon, and awoke to find their trail shoes coated with ice and frozen stiff.

The men had shipped their snowshoes to a resupply site in the city of Bend, Oregon, 40 miles away through Santiam Pass, under the assumption that it wouldn’t snow much before they arrived there. But the weather had turned for the worse, and through gritted teeth that morning, the men jammed their feet into their frozen shoes and prepared for yet another long, cold day on the trail.

“We told ourselves that if our feet aren’t warm in an hour, we’ll stop and re-warm them,” Forry said later. As an instructor with , he knew that if they developed frostnip, an early stage of frostbite, immediate re-warming was critical. A few hours into their hike that morning, the hikers pulled their feet out of their shoes and saw that they were cold, white, and waxy.

They needed to thaw their feet as soon as possible, which meant they had to get to town in a hurry. They post-holed down to the nearest highway and hitched a ride into Bend, where they were able to warm up their frozen limbs and assess the damage. “We had a long, serious talk about the fact that the trip might end,” Forry said. “We started to prepare ourselves for the disappointment.”

Forry and Lichter had set out to do something no one else had ever done before: hike the Pacific Crest Trail in winter. The Appalachian Trail’s badass older cousin, the PCT stretches 2,650 miles from British Columbia close to the border of Mexico, and wends through the Cascade Range in Washington and the Sierra Nevada in California. Since its formation in 1977, there has been only one known attempt to hike the PCT in winter, by couple Gerald Duran and Jodi Zatchick back in 1983. They were traveling south to north and were hiking towards Wrightwood, California, to resupply when they got lost. They had started down the wrong canyon and ended up on much steeper terrain than their intended Acorn Trail. As they were descending, they slipped on an icy slope and then fell several hundred feet off a cliff face to their deaths.

Ìę

Despite the challenges, or perhaps because of them, Forry and Lichter found themselves drawn to the idea of doing the trail in winter. “For me it’s not so much the moniker of being the first to do something as it is the enticement of going into the unknown,” Forry said during the journey. “I have a real logical mind and it’s that problem-solving that I enjoy the most.”

These days, between 1,300 and 1,500 hikers attempt to thru-hike the PCT each year (and just over half of them finish). Almost all of them travel south to north, and they begin in late April or early May and finish in September specifically to avoid the winter. The trail’s popularity skyrocketed in 2012 after the release of Cheryl Strayed’s bookÌęWildÌęand has received another big boost from the recent film adaptation starring Reese Witherspoon. In February, the (PCTA) instituted a new permit system to limit the number of hikers who can start from the trail’s southern terminus to 50 people per day starting this spring, .

It seemed at first to Forry and Lichter that their journey would end in Bend with frostbitten feet. But after a night spent holed up inside and thawing their toes, the men resolved to return to the trail and pick up where they had left off—this time with snowshoes.

Forry, 33, is based in Truckee, California, where he works as the High Sierra Program Manager for Outward Bound California. He is five feet ten inches tall with a long, bristling mustache and a full beard. His friends in the trail community and his colleagues describe him as a kind, good-humored guy with an insatiable drive. He grew up in Amish Country in Pennsylvania and attributes his passion for long-distance hiking to his early experiences grounded in a community centered on simplicity and a sense of daily purpose. His trail nickname is “Pepper.”

Lichter, 34, tall, and athletic, is the more soft-spoken of the two. He works as a ski patroller at Sugar Bowl Resort in California. Friends describe him as an incredible athlete who goes into challenging situations with the mental toughness and aplomb that it takes to turn a miserable situation into something enjoyable. In the summer of 2007, Lichter decided to swim the 72-mile circumference of Lake Tahoe unsupported and without a wetsuit. Towing a dry bag with food and supplies, he swam in temperatures ranging for 45 to 65 degrees. The journey took him seven days.

Lichter has channeled his extensive knowledge of lightweight backpacking into two books, and , a collection of backpacking tips. When describing past trips, Lichter presents as humble and understated. On the trail, he goes by “Trauma.”

Before this trip, the two combined had more than 55,000 miles of trail hiking experience in seven different countries. Their bond is one forged by years of hiking and establishing new routes together: in 2007, they established a precursor to the 850-mile Te Araroa trail in the Southern Alps of New Zealand; in 2008, they became some of the first people to traverse the 850-mile Hayduke Trail in the Grand Canyon; in 2011, they traversed the Himalayan Mountains from the eastern Nepal border to the India-Pakistan border; and, in 2013, they completed the High Sierra Ski Traverse from Sonora Pass to Mammoth Lakes, California.

You get the idea: These guys are tough.

“We know how the other person reacts,” Lichter said. “We know when the other person is dehydrated or frustrated, when to say something, and when to leave it at that. I think it helps to have a lot of experience together. We almost know what the other person is going to say or want to do before they do it.”

Logging all of those miles together meant that the two were able to work seamlessly throughout the PCT trip, which was crucial. They were often the only people out there.

In the summer, hikers turn to one another for day-to-day things, and there are plenty of people around in case of an emergency. “Generally you’re around enough people that if something happened to you, someone would come along in 24 hours at the latest,” says Whitney LaRuffa, an experienced thru-hiker and the President of the . During a 1,700-mile stretch from Snoqualmie Pass in Washington to north of Walker Pass in California, Forry and Lichter didn’t see another soul.

The cold conditions did more than keep other people off the trail. They made the logistics of organizing the trip and the gear selection process far more difficult. In the summer, most hikers complete the trek wearing only hiking boots or lightweight trail running shoes. Forry and Lichter, however, started their trek in trail running shoes, experimented with neoprene overboots and neoprene socks in the rain, strapped on snowshoes for a 650-mile section of North Cascades National Park in Washington, and skied roughly 450 miles of the trail in California.

Nevertheless, they , with just 18 pounds of gear plus food for the backpacking sections, and 33 pounds of gear for the sections on which they wore skis and needed avalanche safety gear like beacons, shovels, and probes.Ìę

Food proved to be one of the biggest challenges. Without access to the regular summer resupply stations, the men had to hump more food and gear over greater distances. Summer hikers usually buy supplies every four-to-ten days. They make their way to nearby cities using Forest Service roads or by stopping at hiking and fishing camps along the way. But in the winter, the roads and camps are closed and snow-covered. So Forry and Lichter had to get creative. At one point, facing a 12-day stint through the California mountains during which they didn’t have the option of buying new food, they arranged for a friend to stash food for them in the snow on top of Kearsarge Pass. Even getting water was difficult. Water sources were often frozen over, so they had to constantly melt snow for water, which sometimes added hours of work to each morning and night.

Navigation was far more complicated than it would be in the summer, when days are long and hikers have access to a well-established and maintained trail. Lichter and Forry found that most of the time the trail was obscured by snow. They relied solely on a map, compass, and Delorme GPS to decipher the route.

“Sometimes it’s just irrelevant or inefficient to stay on the trail, so you get comfortable not knowing exactly where you are and picking the path of least resistance,” Forry said. “Then when you do need to stick close to the trail, you look for subtle clues, like a slight depression in the snow, or signs of trail maintenance like axe marks on trees.”

The last major challenge of the trip was the journey from Mammoth to Walker Pass. Forry and Lichter knew that if they could make the ski trip through the Sierra and down into the desert, they would be in the clear. But skiing over the 12,000-foot Gabbot Pass, the two hit extremely high winds.

“I’ve never been a good gauge of estimating wind velocity, but whatever speed it takes to lift a 165lb man and leave them in the fetal position getting sandblasted by snow granules, it was at least that strong that day,” Forry shortly thereafter.

Forester Pass posed the final, looming challenge. At 13,200 feet, it is the highest point of the entire trail. In the spring, a cornice regularly forms near the top of the pass. (Cornices can be a huge danger for skiers, as you can end up on top of a cornice without realizing it, and it can collapse underneath you.) But this winter, it was only two feet tall. The two skied to the top of a large chute, and then popped off their skis and plunged the rest of the way down on their heels. “It’s a huge sense of accomplishment to get through that,” Lichter said.

Thirty days later, Sunday, March 1, was Forry’s and Lichter’s 131st day on the trail. They woke in their tent at 5 a.m. in the rain. They were in hiking boots and on the trail half an hour later. They covered the last 20 miles of the 2,650-mile journey, and hiked down out of that last trailhead in Campo, California, a small town near the Mexican border. By noon, they became the first people to pull off a winter traverse of the PCT.

The trail community was impressed, to say the least.

“What Shawn and Justin have done is really remarkable,” said Jack Haskel, trail information specialist for the PCTA. It’s not just their willpower that is impressive. The outdoor skill and planning involved in such a feat push Forry and Lichter into the upper echelon of long-distance hikers. “For them to be able to plan a hike that completely goes against that norm and faces all those challenges, rather than structuring their hike to avoid them, makes what they’ve done unique and exceptionally challenging,” said Heather Anderson, who holds the self-supported speed record on the PCT. (She finished it in just 60 days.)

In a hotel with his family in San Diego the evening of the finish, Forry was still processing that their four-and-a-half-month journey was complete. “It’s hard to feel like it’s the end right now,” he said. “We had this big celebration and everything. But it feels like it’s just another resupply day and we’re going to get back out there.” And with these two, who knows—maybe they are.

The post First-Ever Winter Thru-Hike of the PCT appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

When Alison Tetrick entered the in 2010, she was at the top of her game as a professional cyclist. Despite being relatively new to competitive racing, she was racking up podium spots. That season alone she had already taken first place in the . The previous year she had won second place in the Cascade Classic, and now she was gunning for first.

That all changed as she was barreling down a descent during the race. One cyclist near her crashed, creating a ricochet effect in a group already riding in tight formation. Another racer took out Tetrick’s front wheel, and Tetrick went down. Hard.

“When it first happened, I was going in and out,” Tetrick said. “I was thinking, I can still race again today.” With adrenaline pumping, she threw one leg over her bike and tried to get back on, but passed out again. She ultimately had to be airlifted off the course.

Tetrick was out cold for the next 24 hours, her body racked with seizures. First she was diagnosed with a broken pelvis, and later came the diagnosis of a traumatic brain injury. She didn’t realize how serious her condition was until she woke up in the hospital and saw the look on her dad’s face. That’s when she knew her season was over, and that she would face a long, painful recovery. What she didn’t expect, however, was the mental recovery would be harder than the physical.

“I was scared to death,” she says, of getting back on the bike. “I was terrified I was going to crash again.”

Fear, researchers are finding, plays an enormous role in an athlete’s recovery. In fact, it can determine whether or not an athlete ever makes a full recovery—and that fact is often overlooked, says Dr. Aaron Gray, a physician for athletes at the University of Missouri. Some athletes, he says, “almost have post-traumatic stress back to” the moment they got injured.

Addressing the fear, alongside the physical injuries, is critical for recovery, a recent study published in the found.

The study’s authors looked at a set of patients recovering from ACL reconstruction. Over the course of the patients’ recovery, the intensity of their knee pain was measured, along with the strength of the muscles around the knee, the knee’s functional range of movement, and the patient’s level of physical activity. Researchers also measured levels of kinesiophobia—pain-related fear of movement. Among the study participants, the most common reason for not having a full recovery was fear of getting hurt again. These athletes didn’t have higher levels of pain than other people in the study; they were just scared.

“Our results indicate physical impairments may contribute to initial functional deficits, whereas psychological factors may contribute to longer term functional deficits in patients who report fear of reinjury or lack of confidence as a barrier to sports participation,” wrote the study’s authors.

Tetrick’s fear was still alive and well at her first her big comeback race: the 2012 in Monterrey, California. Nevertheless, she jumped onto her saddle and rode. She didn’t place, but she knew it was a huge accomplishment to have recovered enough to be racing competitively again. The next year she went back and won the women’s division of the time trial for the Sea Otter Classic, and she’s been back on the bike ever since.

How did she crush her fear? One thing that helped: She decided to take ownership of the risks she faces while racing. Each time she races, “she’s 100 percent in.” She also took the extra time she had post-injury to focus on areas of her life outside of cycling. Now she’s a graduate student in neuropsychology—with a particular interest in brain injuries. She’s also volunteering with , a cancer awareness group. “I needed to separate my identity from the sport,” Tetrick says. “I’m so much more than a cyclist.”

If you’re struggling with fear and a lack of confidence post-injury, Tetrick and Dr. Gray have some tips to help you bounce back.Ìę

Take It Slow

Work with a trained physical therapist or sports physician to develop a gradual return-to-sport plan. This will let your body heal and helps your mind, too. Each day you do a little more, and gradually you’ll start to build the confidence to get back out there.

If You’re Feeling Blue, Get Help

For Tetrick, getting back meant working with a psychologist. It’s normal to feel blue when you can’t maintain your usual activity levels, but don’t be afraid to ask for help to deal with it. “People need to be aware of the potential tendency to feel down in the dumps as you’re recovering because you’re not able to exercise and release those endorphins that you usually do,” Dr. Gray says.

Track Your Recovery

Sometimes, even though you’re improving, it’s hard to see those gains because you’re so focused on performing at your pre-injury levels. Tetrick kept a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet to track the activities she did and her mood levels each day. “If you keep track of your recovery you can see, ‘Hey, I could only walk up half the stairs last week, but this week I did all the stairs,’” she says.

Practice Positive Visualization

We usually hear about positive visualization as a useful tool for uninjured athletes. To perform well at the race, the ski racer imagines herself floating down it elegantly and winning. The same technique can be applied to athletes coming back from an injury. If you’re afraid of running after an ACL tear, for example, imagine yourself running fluidly with perfect form before you lace up your shoes and head out.

Get Your Movement Analyzed

Make sure you have good form to avoid reinjury. If you’re a skier, take a private lesson and have your technique analyzed by the instructor. If you’re a runner, get your gait assessed. If there’s a deficit in your technique, you can correct it, and if there isn’t, you can get out there with the confidence that you have perfect form.

Embrace Relaxation Exercises

When Tetrick is stressed before a race, she’ll do deep breathing exercises to calm herself down. She also comes up with little mantras to keep herself psyched. If you’re thinking a negative thought, try turning it around into a positive. “I’ll be thinking during the race, I feel awful!” she says. “And then I’ll think to myself, no, I feel awesome!”

The post Injured? Fear Is Your Biggest Enemy. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Imagine if the Grand Canyon, the Grand Tetons, or Devil’s Tower weren’t public land. If, instead of being open to everyone, they belonged to private landowners with rights to dig mines, build shopping malls, or lock people out of them altogether.

Not a pretty picture, is it? Ultimately, these natural wonders and dozens more around the country are available to us because of the 1906 Antiquities Act, signed into law by former president Theodore Roosevelt. The law gives the president the authority to create national monuments, and has since been used by leaders of both major political parties to preserve pristine lands and waters. Many areas that began as national monuments have been converted into national parks.

As of this month, the Antiquities Act is in danger. On January 13, Alaska Representative Don Young introduced a bill () that would limit that presidential power by requiring Congressional approval of national monument designations for areas on land and at sea. (Any marine proposal would also need to be approved by the legislatures of states within 100 nautical miles of the proposed site.) It’s the not the first time that GOP lawmakers have pitched the idea. Senator Lisa Murkowski (R-AK) introduced a bill similar to Young’s in July 2014. (It died on the floor.) What makes Young’s bill different is that it is far more likely to become law. Both chambers of Congress are Republican-controlled for the first time since 2006, and the House of Representatives has the largest Republican majority since 1931.

[quote]Study after study shows that the economies of communities near federally protected lands and parks are robust—not in spite of the areas but because of them.[/quote]

These bills are cause for concern. If they pass, they’ll undermine aÌęmechanism that has been used to protect public lands for more than 100 years. Given the gridlock on Capitol Hill,Ìęthe creation of new national mouments and marine sanctuaries will become far less likely if Congress is required to get involved.

“I think it makes sense for the president to have that authority,” says John Loomis, a professor of Agricultural and Resource Economics at Colorado State.Ìę“These areas could be lost to development before Congress has the chance to act.”

Young’s bill follows President Obama’s declaration last month that Alaska’s Bristol Bay region would be off-limits to offshore oil and gas exploration.ÌęYoung’s spokesman, Matthew Shuckerow, says Young has “a particular interest” in marine national monuments—specifically, preventing the creation of new ones—given Alaska’s emphasis on fishing and oil production. Shuckerow says the new bill is designed to bring transparency to the process and prevent federal powers from swooping in and cordoning off areas without first consulting with state lawmakers. (About 60 percent of Alaska is federally protected, Shuckerow says.) The underlying concern is for the state’s numerous rural communities dependent on fishing, mining, and timber, Shuckerow says. “We don’t want to see this jeopardize local economies and the ability of folks to provide for themselves.”

Absent from Young’s equation is the impact to one of his state’s top industries,Ìęthe one that stands to benefit from a national monument designation: tourism. Last year, an estimated 1.96 million visitors to Alaska spent $3.9 billion, by Anchorage-based Northrim Bank. As the state’s mining and timber sectors continue to shrink, tourism is steadily growing (as are oil and fishing), the bank says. When you take into account spending by visitors to public lands, the argument that federal land protections take jobs away from hardworking Americans and dollars out of government coffers just doesn’t pass muster. Study after study shows that the economies of communities near federally protected lands and parks are robust—not in spite of the areas but because of them.

Last year, the nonpartisan research group Headwaters Economics of the economic impact of 17 different national monuments in Western states. It found that the economies of counties bordering national monuments were stronger than those of similar counties further afield. Across the board, per capita income in nearby counties increased after the monuments were designated. “The study found no evidence that designating these national monuments prevented continued economic growth,” . “Instead, trends in key economic indicators such as population, employment, personal income, and per capita income either continued or improved in each of the regions surrounding the national monuments.”

For example, when the group , designated as a national monument in 1982 by former president Ronald Reagan, it found that jobs increased by 42 percent and per capita income went up 24 percent in nearby communities through 2008, when the group collected its data.

Gaining a national monument nearby may not immediately transform a rural community into a boomtown, but it does provide a window for sustainable growth through tourism. Visitors, of course, don’t just spend money on park entrance fees. They buy gas, food, lodging, gear, and entertainment—for a total of $12.5 billion in Washington alone, commissioned last year by the state. Those purchasesÌęthen spurred another $3.3 billion in “supply chain” spending—meaning the cost of transporting goods to retailers—and $4.7 billion in household wages. And consider that outdoor recreation supports 6.1 million jobs in the U.S., . That is more than the mining, timber, and oil and gas industries combined, . (Together, those industries employ 4.1 million Americans.)

“You have to ask yourself what the alternative [to a national monument] is,” says Andrew Seidl, a professor in the department of Agricultural and Resource Economics at Colorado State University. “It’s likely that if the land remains private that most of the value of the land will be captured by the landowner. Whereas if the land is public, it’s more likely that it would benefit the surrounding community.”

Historically, Western states have had to face more federal land preservations than the rest of the country, both because of their natural beauty and because they entered the union later, closer to when the conservation movement was in full swing. Washington may also be a higher-than-average example for how public lands affect the economy, given the rate of outdoors activity among its residents (the study estimates that the average resident spends 56 days a year playing outside) and that it is home to scenic wonders like Mount Rainier. But no matter the location, the economic principle is the same: When a beautiful outdoor site is preserved for public use, it has the potential to drive tourism to nearby communities. Young, up in Alaska, should be familiar with this fact; Alaska has reaped the benefits perhaps as much as any state in the country.Ìę

To start, he could review the case ofÌęDenali National Park. In 1978, then President Jimmy Carter preserved more than 157 million acres of Alaskan wilderness, including Denali National Monument and Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. “The Alaskan government was really upset,” Loomis says. “But this turned out to be a wonderful thing to do. Because some of those lands became national parks, and now cruise ships and tourism has provided a long-term, sustainable economic benefit.”

Protecting public land—according to all the data—benefits the economy.ÌęSo what’s more important, pulling petroleum from beneath the ground or going backpacking on the beautiful lands over it? Either way, we’re making money.

The post The Fight for Public Lands Just Got Serious appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

By New Year’s Eve, Lonnie Dupre had been pinned down for four straight days in his small tent at 11,200 feet on Denali’s western flank, uncertain if he’d be able to continue his ascent of the mountain. Facing whiteout conditions and battered by horizontal-blowing snow, he couldn’t even emerge long enough to descend a mere 600 feet to retrieve critical supplies for fear of suffering cold exposure or getting lost.Ìę

“It’s almost suffocating when the wind’s carrying that much snow and it’s that strong,” Dupre said in a satellite phone call .

For the past four years, Dupre has set out to make mountaineering history by becoming the first person to solo summit North America’s highest peak in the month of January. The 53-year-old Minnesotan explorer is the first person to have circumnavigated Greenland using nonmotorized transport—in 2001, via dogsled and kayak—and he covered 3,000 miles of Arctic snow during a dogsled expedition through the Northwest Passage in 1991–1992.

But on Denali, it appeared Dupre had met his match. During his first three attempts up the West Buttress route, in 2011, 2012, and 2013, he didn’t make it higher than 17,200 feet—less than one day’s travel from the top of the 20,237-foot peak—before harsh weather forced him to turn around. Undaunted, Dupre returned to the Alaskan Range each winter for another crack at the mountain. Finally, on January 11 of this year, after 25 days of climbing alone, he reached the top.Ìę

Thousands of climbers have summited Denali in summer months, when the weather is most favorable and help is nearby. In 2014, more than a third of the 1,204 people who attempted Denali made it to the top. Only an elite subset of climbers have dared attempt the feat in the dead of winter, and fewer have made it to the top—16, to be exact. (Six people have died on winter expeditions.) Most were climbing in teams, which affords a small measure of safety that Dupre didn’t have. Ascending in January “is like heading out onto the moon by yourself,” says Tucker Chenoweth, a mountaineering ranger on Denali since 2002. “There’s nobody there.”Ìę

That’s what makes Dupre’s achievement historic. On a mountain that has become increasingly modernized with route markers and safety infrastructure, his journey was more akin to the first attempts on Denali that occurred more than a century ago.

With vertical relief of more than 13,000 feet, the climb up Denali’s West Buttress route presents the greatest distance from base camp to summit of any of the Seven Summits—more even than Everest. In the early days of Denali mountaineering, climbers had little hope for rescue if they got into trouble. Just getting to the base of the climb required dangerous travel across the wild expanse of the Alaska Range. A judge in Alaska’s Third Judicial District named James Wickersham is credited with the first attempt on the mountain, in 1903. He hit a seemingly impassable wall of ice partway up and was forced to turn back. It wasn’t until 1913 that a party led by Harry Karstens and Hudson Stuck reached the true summit, via the Muldow Glacier route on the east side. (The West Buttress route, widely considered the standard route up, wasn’t pioneered until 1951.) Climbers in those days carried only the most rudimentary gear: hemp ropes, silk tents, moccasins, and an early version of crampons known as “ice creepers.”

In February 1967, a team led by Art Davidson, Dave Johnston, and Ray Genet achieved the first winter summit. On just the second day of their trip, they lost one team member in a fatal crevasse fall. When Davidson penned his classic memoir of the expedition, he named it in reference to the lowest temperature the group experienced on its journey.

“At twenty-two I came to regard the first expedition to Mt. McKinley in the winter as a journey into an unexplored land,” Davidson wrote. “No one had lived on North America’s highest ridges in the winter twilight. No one knew how low the temperatures would drop, or how penetrating the cold would be when the wind blew. For thousands of years McKinley’s storms had raged by themselves.”

Today, upwards of 1,200 climbers tromp up Denali’s expanse each year (96 percent of them via West Buttress), and each is forced to contend with the inherent dangers of high-altitude trekking: crevasses, frostbite, altitude illness, and hypothermia. And that’s in May and June—the months with the highest summit success rates—after the severe cold of winter wears off and before late summer and fall, when warm temperatures turn Kahiltna Glacier on West Buttress into a minefield of crevasses.

In summer, climbers can avail themselves of ample resources to support their journeys. A battery of professional guides is available to plan and assist with trips. National Park Service rangers maintain stations at base camp and camps at 14,200 feet and 17,200 feet, and are poised to lend a hand when there’s trouble. The service even keeps physicians on hand to treat cases of altitude illness, frostbite, and other injuries. There are roughly 1,000 feet of fixed lines above 14,000 feet that climbers jug up in the summer and bamboo wands in the ground indicating the proper turns in the route. Most of the time, it’s so well traveled that climbers can follow in the footsteps of the person who came before them. In the event of a serious injury, climbers can hope for a helicopter rescue or at least a flight out on a plane from base camp.

Winter is a completely different experience. The hand lines aren’t maintained, the rangers and doctors are off for the season, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a willing guide. Pickets—the long steel stakes pounded into the snow that climbers clip to for safety—are almost certainly buried in snow and unavailable, which means a climber is more likely to fall and get hurt. In short, Dupre was completely on his own, miles from another human being, and surrounded by perilous mountains.

“Soloing in the summer is not really true soloing,” Chenoweth says. “You’re surrounded by other people. I think what Lonnie has been doing is true soloing. There’s really no backup.”

Without his experience in the poles, the climb might have killed Dupre in the manner in which the mountain has killed other climbers. “The low visibility and extreme winds made ending up in a crevasse or being blown from your feet and off the mountain a real possibility,” Dupre said, issued by his expedition company, One World Endeavors, the day he summited. (To safeguard himself against a potentially fatal plunge into a crevasse, Dupre clipped a 10-foot-long black spruce pole to his body.)

Frigid temperatures and crevasses notwithstanding, Dupre also had to cope psychologically with his circumstances. More than two weeks into the climb, waiting at 14,200 feet for the weather to let up, Dupre issued another satellite phone call: “There’s nothing worse than having to stay put—especially when you have 18 hours of darkness every evening,” he said. “It makes for very long nights.” At one point, he slept for 19 hours straight just to conserve his energy and calories.

Dupre relied on painstaking logistics and custom-designed gear to be successful. For traveling on the lower mountain, he used eight-foot-long wooden skis he crafted himself. The extra-large skis gave him additional flotation for traveling over crevasses. His 165 pounds of gear—including a five-week supply of food—he dragged behind him in a sled, at first. Once the terrain got steep, he switched to hauling it on his back.

The challenges the first ascenders of Denali battled—the ones most modern climbers go out of their way to avoid—were the same ones facing Dupre during his journey. However, Dupre did carry a Spot locator and a satellite phone to be able to call for help. But, according to Chenoweth, a rescue would be “very slow” and “improbable.” He was on his own, and the dangers were very real.

“It’s that big adventure spirit at its highest level,” Chenoweth said. “You’re doing something that not many other people are doing. Your decisions have consequences, and you’re accepting that.”Ìę

The post Lonnie Dupre Just Solo Summited Denali. That’s a Huge Deal. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.