Time to do it...

Follow our journey to the land of the enlightened. We leave on October 29th and return on November 20th. Click on the link below to see where we are today... 

Annapurna 2011

Casaval Ridge, Mount Shasta

Paul, Eric and I out for a go at Casaval Ridge, Mount Shasta, California. We ended up pulling at 11,900' just below the hourglass.

The dead of winter in the middle of May on Shasta?

This past weekend, I was guiding a great group of climbers up on Mt. Shasta. They were mostly all from the Seattle area raising money for the Hutchinson Center for Cancer Research. Most all of them have climbed mountains before. At gear check on Friday morning at the 5th Season, it was rare to have somebody with any rented equipment. Me and the rest of the guides were stoked. It seemed like we had a strong group of 17 that all knew each other relatively well and were ready to climb. From the parking lot, we could not see a cloud in the sky and the standard flip flops and boardshorts were the attire. As we wrapped up the gear check and final instructions, the clouds rolled in like a freight train. We knew there was a chance of showers in the afternoon and colder temps with high winds, but the morning gave no indication as to what were in store for.


When we reached Bunny Flat trail head, a full springtime snowstorm was in effect. The kind of storm where you would get a sunburn AND an inch of graupel within an hour. Day one found us at Horse camp and sharing the warming hut for cooking detail. It was great to share the space as the storm was developing outside. By nightfall, the winds had picked up to a steady 30 mph and the snow came in waves.

Day two had us on the move for high camp at 10,400’ before the summit attempt. Spirits were high as we climbed. The wind had subsided for a time and the sun came out. It was downright hot with all of the residual radiation coming off the snow and lack of wind. It was the “Country Club” climbing these folks from the Northwest had signed up for. We arrived at Lake Helen parched. We divided up the duties of brewing water and helping set up camp. No sooner than the tents were up, the clouds rolled in and deposited another 6” of snow. Temps dropped like a rock and the wind returned with a vengeance. From that point on, it was pure survival mode. We rushed getting the rest of the water brewed as the spindrifts kept extinguishing the stoves like a kid blowing out birthday candles. Finally to bed as the intensity built to gale force winds and the temps dropped to single digits. It was cold, and getting colder. The tent lines whistled in the wind while the tent fly danced and stretched over the poles. The flapping was loud and non-stop. Sleeping was not in the cards.

2:45am. Summit bid wake-up. Turn on the radio to check in with the other guides and assess the situation. The current temperature was -1 Fahrenheit with 35+ MPH winds. The wind chill was around -34F. We quickly decided that the summit chances, with this group, was off for fear of frostbite. By 4am, I went stir crazy with the wind unrelenting on my tent and the fact that I had a 20 degree bag in far colder conditions. I got up and dressed to try to warm up. I love this time in the morning where the sun is rising and the clouds create images on far away canvases. As I watched the sun come up, I watched multiple groups try to gain the avalanche gulch, only to turn around because of the horrid conditions. I knew we made the right call. Later in the morning, I had to talk multiple team members out of their disdain for not attempting to summit. I assured them the only thing they missed out on was the unquestionable likelihood of losing digits. Not on my watch.

New Years on Pico Orizaba

Garmin GPS track of the climb
flickr link to the photos

Why not?

In June, Caron, my girlfriend and I met this couple at a going away party for my friend Liz. We ended up just chatting. You know, the usual; Where are you from? How do you know our friend Liz? What do you do? The conversation took a drastic turn when one of them glanced down at my feet. You wouldn't think the following question would be a life altering moment...but hey, take it as it comes. "Where are your big toenails?" asked one of them.
"Well, funny thing, I lost them climbing Shasta (again) this summer," I replied.
Next thing you knew we were talking about their trip to Argentina and their climbing trip up Mt. Aconcagua. After about 30 minutes of back and forth questions, we were duly talked into the idea of giving it a shot. We had already planned on spending 3 weeks in South America over the winter holidays. Now we had a destination.
So, now, after months of preperations, consultations, discussions, hikes, weight lifting, learning to pee in a bottle in a tent in the middle of the night, we are ready. We have spreadsheet upon spreadsheet of logistics, aclimitization schedules, calories per gram for the foods we are carying, and a plethora of other details that someday I will put into some sort of report and post it somewhere on the interweb.
What is an Aconcagua?
It's a beast of a mountain. All 22,841 feet. It happens to be the highest of all mountains in both the Western and Southern Hemispheres. We are taking the Normal Route up to the top. We are departing today for Buenos Aires. On Monday we fly to Mendoza and buy the last of our delightful trail food, hire some mules to carry our 200 pounds of stuff to the base (2 days trek in), and get a good night sleep in a nice hotel. On Tuesday, January 16, we embark on our journey. We will be hopefully summiting on the 28th if all goes perfectly. Regardless, we have hotel reservations in Mendoza on the 2nd, so one way or another, we are back, eating the best beef in the world and drinking Malbec wine by a pool.

Read up on the mountain if you would like. We will have more to come once we get around a computer after the climb.

Until then, enjoy the ride (or climb)

Shasta: Certain Uncertainity

"The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today."

Franklin Delano Roosevelt:

Everything went according to plan. Almost.


It was a trip rife with uncertainty. This was a first for me in many respects. First time climbing Shasta. First time attempting a 14'er, and really first time over 12,000 feet. First time hiking through the night to destination unseen and virtually unknown. I had good reasons to feel uncertain of the journey I was about to embark on.


I left work on Tuesday afternoon around 3:30pm. On the drive up, I had plenty of time to think about a lot of things. I found myself having driven the whole 4 plus hours without listening to a single song on the IPOD. Now that is unheard of for me. But given the things I had to think about, music would have had no use or effect on me, I was deep in thought. Everyone on that mountain tomorrow was climbing for a cause, Cancer. More specifically breast cancer. I needed to look only near to my heart to find my inspiration to climb. Cancer will affect us all in one way or another throughout our lives. I chose to think about someone that I know that has been threatened by cancer, not someone that has lost the battle. Not that my meager steps can cure anything, but my intent thoughts about the significance of this person in my life and how to possibly make a difference in theirs when they might need it the most. That is powerful.


Before I knew it, I was in Mt. Shasta City by 8:00pm. I grabbed a big chicken pesto sandwich at the local Italian restaurant and I headed up the mountain to the trailhead; Bunny Flat, elevation 6950ft. I changed out of my work clothes into some shorts and a t-shirt, pulled on my boots, took one last check of the equipment and threw on my pack. There was a blanket of clouds covering the peak, and it smelled like rain. I was already nervous that this was going to turn into a wet slog and an exercise in futility. But I press on, ready for what comes at me.


My first section is a simple 2 mile hike to Horse Camp, a place where in the olden days, mountaineers would ride their horses to and tie them up while they climbed up Avalanche Gully. The Sierra Club has built a small warming hut there fully stocked for emergencies, and general shelter from the elements for hikers and climbers. It is at Horse Camp that I am going to meet up with some co-workers from Clif bar, Kim and Jennifer. They have been selected to raise money and climb for the Breast Cancer Fund. I knew that there would be a lot of people on the route on Wednesday morning, which is the only reason I decided to go Solo. I would be climbing alone, but there would be 35 people around me if I got into any trouble and needed help.


I managed to let my nerves get the best of me at the start. I waffled around the trailhead, not quite sure which trail I needed to take. There was one very distinct trail I followed for about a mile or so, but it felt like it was going too far to the left of the Avalanche Gully. So I backtracked to the main junction. I then followed the trail the seemed to go a little more to the right and it too was feeling all wrong. I pulled out my map, took a good look, in the dark, under headlamp, and retraced my steps back the the junction. I then took the original trail off to the left. I felt some relief that it was well traveled, unlike the last one. The rain started to fall ever so lightly. It smelled good, and it felt even better. It was 9:30, and it was still in the low 80's at 7500 feet. I noted that at my cabin last weekend, 2 days prior, we arrived around 11:00pm and it was still in the 70's, but much lower in altitude. I was in for a warm hike. My thoughts were if I were to get "lost" I had my GPS with the location of the car locked in, so I could at least find my way back to there. I was just going to hike till I got tired, sleep, and then access where I am in the morning. If it started to downpour, I would retreat to the sanctuary of my car and reassess the situation. Finally, if I made it to Horse Camp, I would reset my goals for the summit with the same parameters.



I arrived at the Sierra Club hut at Horse Camp around 10pm (right on time according to my plan) and immediately checked in with my support crew of Seth and Caron by sending a text. Caron's response was "Glad you made it. Sleep tight and good luck tomorrow." If she only knew where I was going to be sleeping, and for how little time. It amazes me that I can be on the side of some crazy mountain and have cell service. Thank goodness. I left my climbing plans with both of them and promised I would check in at regular intervals along the way if there was service. (Which there was the whole time.) They were my safety net. It always feels good to know somebody out there is aware of your existence. I managed to run into a couple of people that will be climbing with the BCF. I mentioned that I worked for Clif Bar and that I was there to cheer them on. One lady noted that my co workers were departing around 1am and that I could find them up on hikers right of the trail.

I settled down on the side of the hut, sitting on some foundation rocks, just enjoying the warm evening when it started to pour rain. I gathered my stuff and moved to the inside of the little hut. After about an hour, the rain stopped and I could then head back outside, where it was much cooler than inside the hut, and now it was clear. I laid down on the same rock foundation wall and I could see a gazillion stars which reminded me of sleeping on the deck of my cabin only two nights before. I needed to rest my eyes, for I only had an hour or so till I was to start climbing.

Sure enough, at midnight I could hear lots of people rustling in their tents, getting ready to climb. My plan was to let the first group go out front so I had somebody to follow in the dark and let the other groups follow me. That way, I could see where to go, and have back-up if I was to get into trouble. Hiking in the dark is a trip. Your headlamp is your only source of light. While you are out in the great wide open, your realm of reality is really only the small cone of light coming from your headlamp. While I was not scared, I was respectful of the severity of what I was doing. I did have the confidence in knowing that it was not too hard to find my way. Just go up. And coming back, just go down. Simple...right? And it was, but still, 6 miles and 7000 feet of climbing is no walk in the park. If there is anything to create uncertainty, it is the environment that I was currently challenged with. A baby cone of light all by it's lonesome in this vast space on the side of this serious mountain. My only guidance is gravity. I know to walk in the direction of most resistance...and that is about it.


Within an hour, I caught and passed the group ahead of me. As per my usual luck, the guide taking up the rear is a friend of a friend from Jackson Hole Wyoming. We chatted for a few minutes before I passed the group. Luckily, I met up with two guides that had no clients and were there for additional support if need be. They were traveling fast, like I, and they allowed me to tag along. We got up to Helen Lake at 10,500 feet (which is not a lake, but a big pile of avalanche sluff) where we took a break. I refilled my water bottles in a nearby spring. It was still incredibly warm. I had on a pair of running tights and a turtleneck. Not bad for the middle of the night.

At 11,000 feet, the snow climbing started. I have been essentially hiking up a large, inverted funnel. The higher I get, the tighter it gets and the steeper it gets. From what I hear, at the top, the slope is over 50 degrees in pitch. The guides tell me that the easiest route I had intended on climbing is unclimbable due to severe lack of snow. Oh, oh! What does this mean for me? I am certainly not going to climb something out of my comfort and ability zone. They tell me that we can only make it up "Left of the Heart." I remember reading in the guide that this is a more direct route to the top, but it is much steeper and a bit more of a challenge. Is my climb over? My uncertainty grows, yet I continue. I figure, I will go as long as I feel like I am not in danger to myself or anybody else.

The two guides and I manage to make it up to 12,000 feet before the sunrise, still 1,200 feet below the crux of the climb, the 50 degree section of ice. Upon the first light, as we climb by, we all notice this rather large rock precariously balanced on this pedestal of unmelted snow beneath it. Imagine a Volkswagen Beetle balanced on a garbage can, but not quite as high. Later, we all mention that we just had a very bad feeling and energy from the rock, yet none of us mentioned it at the time. We continued on, and at this altitude, coming from sea level the night before, I noticed I was moving in slow motion. Breathing was becoming a bit laborious. Still, I keep moving, and feeling nervous about what was to come.
"Rock! Rock! Rock!" I hear repeatedly from down below. The yell was not of caution, but of fear. I quickly look uphill to clear myself. Whew, okay. I whip my head downhill to see that large rock we passed rolling quickly towards all of the teams of women below us 1,000 feet. They were all directly in it's line while it gained speed. People were diving right and left like crickets trying to avoid the oncoming locomotive of a rock. You could hear panic in their voices, and I could hear my heart stop. Someone was going to die, I thought. At one point the rock hit another rock and it split in two. Now people did not know what to do. Dive from one into the line of another. I knew my co-workers were at the bottom of the chute, directly in it's path. As the rock careened out of sight, there was an erie silence that came over me and the two guides. Quickly, they were on their radios, getting a damage report. I thought for sure we would be switching into rescue mode. We could hear the other guides all report in one by one. Two women were shaken up pretty badly and in shock, but nobody was directly hit. Nobody died.


I sat there for a good few minutes, collecting myself. What did I want to do? Continue on? or down climb and just go home. My mind was strewn with thoughts of home and loved ones whom I desperately wanted to see right then and there and let them know how much they mean to me. But alas, I have lived my life in such a way that they already know this. I tell them all the time. Still, I am uncertain as to whether this was a sign from the mountain that she did not want us to climb her today, or was it just a test of desire to continue despite the uncertainty at hand. After a good mental inventory, I decided to continue on, but with great respect and caution. I want to climb high, but I don't want to die. I have people at home I want to see again, now more than ever.


At 7:30 am, I climbed up through the 50 degree chute "Left of the Heart" and onto the ridgeline at 13,200 feet. I had made it past the hardest part. I was elated that I had made it this far, higher than I have ever been on my own two feet. Upon my joyous celebration, I quickly looked in the direction of the summit to learn of my next hardship. Thunderclouds.

I still had over 1,000 feet to climb up Misery hill and finally onto the summit, and I could not even see the summit. It was covered in clouds. My heart sank. My climb was certainly over. I walked to the base of Misery hill and started up the first switchback when the rain came. Being on a peak or a ridgeline in a thunderstorm is no place to be. The risk of lightning is way too high to sit around there. I retreated to below the rocks in the chute. I was safe from lightning, I had a commanding view of the the climb below me and I was out of the rain. I figured I would sit there a while and enjoy the fruits of my view. It was a great time to reflect on the reason I was there, climbing in the name of someone else. Every step to this point had a hint of significance, and not of my own, but that of someone else. I was bummed that I was not able to make it to the top and raise my hands in dedication, sign the summit registry, enjoy the feeling of accomplishment of reaching the summit. Or could I still make it??? My mind quickly shifted from quiet defeat to the air of uncertain possibility. It was 7:30 am. My designated turn around time is 12:00 noon. I still have time. The weather may clear. Pigs may fly. I have a chance still and I am not leaving till that chance is gone. I reached in my bag and started eating my Clif Bars and drinking my water, prepping for a summit push if I get the opportunity. The rain has stopped. I think I will go topside and check it out.


As I climbed to the ridgeline for the second time, i was elated to see that not only had the rain let up, but there was a noticeable change in the density of the clouds shrouding the summit. I looked out onto the horizon and I could see blue sky. The winds tell me that that blue sky is coming my way. I time it and figure that I have an hour till the clouds open up and the summit will be in the clear. I start back over to the base of Misery Hill. My stomach is in knots. I am now not nervous, but scared. What if I am wrong? What if I get struck by lightning? What if the leaning tower of Pisa topples? All things are possible. I carefully and calculatingly walk up the trail leading to the top of Misery hill. The wind is fierce. As I walk on the switchbacks from into the wind to away from the wind, I have to catch myself from toppling over from the side wind. Slowly and nervously, I continue. I keep an eye on the clouds behind me blowing my way and I keep another eye on the summit. As time passes, the summit becomes more and more clear. I take another look behind me to notice that my plan is working. The clearing is soon approaching. As I crest Misery hill, I can see that the summit is now within reach, and the clouds are all but vanished. This is the final push. Every step at this altitude is intent. You don't want to be wasting valuable energy and oxygen. I scramble over the final scree field and climb up the last bit of trail up to the peak. Upon reaching the top, an elation has overcome me. I have conquered all the uncertainty to be here, and it was worth it. I thought a lot about how I had made it and what it all meant. I thought about the person whom I dedicated the climb to and I well up with emotion. I thought finally about the fact that I was only halfway to the finish and I should enjoy it for a bit more, than head on down, carefully. Get home.
All the way down the mountain, back to the car, and finally all the way home into bed that night, I thought a lot about how so many times I thought the climb would never take me to the summit, yet I never stopped believing it could be done, and that made all the difference.

"Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we often might win, by fearing to attempt."

Jane Addams:

Addendum: I keep getting e-mails asking who this mystery person is that I climbed for. It is a personal thing, between me and them. If you really must know, climb up there yourself and read the summit registry from July 11, 2007.

Another Day, Another Journey...

You would think after spending the weekend up in the Sierras climbing, conversing and relaxing, what I am about to embark on would be the last thing you would think of...

"A man travels the world over in search of what he needs, and returns
home to find it."
- George Moore

After work tomorrow, I am heading to the base of Mt. Shasta in advance of climbing to the summit (14,162) on Wednesday morning. I will arise around midnight, make some breakfast, turn on my headlamp and set out into the dark to climb over 6000 feet in a little over 6 miles straight up Avalanche Gulch, alone.

Now before you go getting all worried, I have three things to say. First, I will technically be alone, but this is one of the most climbed peaks in the US and I will be climbing the most common and easiest route up there. Additionally, I do know that there will be a party attempting to summit from Horse Camp, 2 miles up the trail, at 2 am. A few co-workers are in that group climbing in the fight against breast cancer. So there will be lots of people around. I did ask a few different people to join me, but for for varying reasons, they all declined to go.

Second, I do know what I am doing. I have spent the better part of my life in the mountains and I know to respect the mountains with great humility. This time of year, there is virtually no risk of avalanche, little risk of snow storm, and occasional risk of afternoon thunder storm (which is why I am leaving so early.) My turn around time will be 12 noon. Wherever I am at noon, I turn around, no matter what. There is a late afternoon risk of lightning, as well as the temps go up significantly and that increases the chance of rockfall. So, get in early, and get out before the risk goes up at all. Besides, the snow stays nice and firm which is better for walking on.

Third, the "Why?" Well, I need to get some thinking done. Without really going into details, I need to get over some things, work through some things, and get on with life. (No, I have not joined a 12 step program or anything like that, I just need some alone time in my "crawl space." What better place to do it than watching the sunrise from 14,000 feet.)

Now, I have to say, I am a super happy-go-lucky guy. While I much prefer to journey with a companion, for the experience with another is infinitely better, I have no problem wandering the earth by myself. I've done it most of my life. Not in a selfish sort of way, but sometimes you just have to go about it alone if you want to go at all. If you wait around too long for someone to go with, you may never get to where you want to go. And sometimes waiting is worth it, unless they don't want you to wait. So sure, I roam alone sometimes, but I have never been lonely.

John Greenleaf Whittier once said:

"Of all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these:

It might have been."

It's time for me to wander...so don't worry. I'll be fine. I always am.

RAAM Pre-Race

Race Across America- 24 Hour Corporate Challenge Team Clif Bar (Click on the link for time updates)

San Diego, CA-

Just a quick update. After months of preparations and hours of safety inspections, we are about to light this candle...We start tomorrow at 9:00am. We have decided to have Eric Walle, my cohort in crime at work lead it off for the 7 mile (neutral) Parade followed by a flat 8 mile section where he will undoubtedly throw down. I will then take over for the first of many hills here in the mountainous North San Diego County. My section will comprise of a 3 mile climb where hopefully, we will take over the lead, say goodbye to our competition and settle into just going as fast as possible...for the next 20+ hours.

It is official: bike racers are complete geeks. While attending the rules meeting this afternoon, the organizers called all of the solo competitors on stage. These are CRAZY people in their own right. They will be sitting and sweating it out for 9+ days on end NON-STOP. To top it off, one of them showed up to dinner, wearing his chamois. (You'd think he will be getting enough time in them in the days to come) There is another report that one team will be wearing time trial helmets (you know, the ones with the big fairing that make you look like a conehead). I promise to get some snapshots of all the geeks and post as soon as I can...but we will be riding through Nowhere, Arizona so I can't promise when. Thankfully we have a great support crew from Clif Bar helping us every inch of the way keeping us fed and hydrated. More to come soon...

Enjoy the ride...

Pat Bush 2.0

Yup...I can't believe it either. I am actually posting a blog. To put it mildly...I have been relaxing and enjoying the P.L.T. (Pro Leisure Tour). I am racing again...sort of. Aside from the occasional "Off The Couch" cameo appearance on the local crit scene, I am joining my co-workers in a couple of weeks to race in the Race Across America 24 Hour Corporate Challenge on June 10-11. As you can see in my profile, I am taking it seriously. Don't tell anyone from the Two Ring Circus, but I had to put Aero-bars on my road bike for this one.

Since December, I have been up to a lot...but not on the bike so much. My energy has been focused on another fight, another race and ultimately another journey...that was coming to an abrupt end. Since September, my step mother was battling her third bout with cancer, and it finally won in the middle of December. That was a life altering experience for me. It reminded me how short life is, and how important your family and friends are. Every day, every minute, every second and every breath count. I literally sat and watched life pass and the lasting effects it not only had on me, but those that are dear to her, especially my dad. The thing is, it will happen, and when it does, what will it all sum up to? Say it happens tomorrow. Will you be clear with your closest friends and family as to how much you loved them?

Since I broke my back at the ripe age of 21, I have always thought about how I have appreciated life, in my own terms. I have been really good at ensuring that my time is spent doing the things that are important to me with the people that are important to me, but not really as it pertains to others.

As I sat and watched my dad say goodbye to his wife, my stepmother of 17 years, I realized how final it was. This was IT. My experience with her was ending right here and now. The big questions come to the forefront. Did she know that I loved her and appreciated her? Did she know that no matter what, I was going to take care of my dad for her and that she should not worry about him? Did she know that I will forever be grateful for being a positive part of my life?

For the most part, I know she knew the answers to those questions because I made sure in the past that she was aware of it. But what if she didn't understand? Or what if she was not quite sure? Or if I was not really that good at conveying how I truly felt? I can tell you this...I promised myself later that day, that nobody significant in my life would ever doubt how I felt about them or the positive impact they have made on my life.

So that's what has been going on, in a nutshell...in my nutshell.

Semi-retirement has allowed me to not live like a Buddhist monk anymore and actually have a social life. I skied my ass off this winter both alpine and Nordic, caught up with old friends, and made some great new ones. I am simply doing everything that I enjoy doing, including doing NOTHING whenever I feel like it. I promised myself to not over schedule myself to oblivion for a while. As it was in the past, I could tell you exactly what I would be doing on any given day down to the minute for the next nine months. And now...well, whatever...I like sleeping in on Sunday mornings when I get the chance.

I AM enjoying the bike, and all of the roads and trails it allows me to experience as well as the people that I can ride with along the way. With RAAM coming up, I am sure there will be some Blogs pertaining to the antics involved with 6 guys, riding bikes, FAST, for 24 hours from San Diego to Flagstaff. You can be sure, there will be pictures and stories coming from this one...

Working at Clif Bar is better than ever. I LOVE my job, the people I work with, and the positive impact we have on this earth. To put it lightly, we have fun, and we work hard. There are plenty of other GREAT things to share, but I shall save them for another time.

Till then, Enjoy the Ride.

Oh yeah, I was told that if I mentioned Paris Hilton, more people would read my Blog. So there you go, I did it...for whatever it means...

Happy Holidays

Every year on Christmas night our family reads a story after dinner. Usually it is the same story, the "Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry, so I thought I would share it with you. Click Here to read it.

Happy Holidays to everyone.