Mt. Stuart – Complete North Ridge

Or: The Bear, the Billy, and Bushy-Tailed Woodrat

August 14-18th, 2020

Sunset from "the notch" bivies

"Not an option." I'm looking down the upper ridge access gully at one lonesome block of snow, 500-600' below. Multiple chockstones and way too much sandy rubble between me and it. I'd hoped it would be reasonable to rappel and/or down climb far enough to gather some ice. This looks far too dangerous. We have 2L of water left, and too little daylight. It's going to be a thirsty night and an absolutely parching day tomorrow. 

This is the second time Grace and I have reached the "notch" bivies on the N. Ridge of Mt. Stuart. Last time our schedule didn't permit an on-route bivy, and we retreated down this gully on firm July snowpack. This time we've got more equipment and more time, but no snow to drink.

As usual my plan was ambitious. I like to dream big (for me), and have a plan to fail. Better that than to succeed at something that's too easy. We approached from the north, bivied at the toe of the ridge, and planned to climb to the summit in a day. Then we'd climb Sherpa's west ridge, and descend back north via the Sherpa-Argonaut col. Not knowing what we'd find there, and seeing a persistent snowfield high in the pass, we opted to bring our ice axe and crampons up the route. 3 lbs of gear we never used once.

The trail was crowded as far as the turnoff to Colchuck lake, sparse after that, and then we plunged into the beautiful deserted forest north and east of Mt. Stuart. It's a pocket of the west-slope rainforest, stranded east of the crest. Eschewing the idiotic cairned high route up the valley we headed for the stream, the good footpath, and a world of moss and rushing water. Black squirrels chitter, spiderwebs shimmer, and an enormous black bear shambles away, giving us a wide berth. He must be more interested in the plump blueberry crop at the stream crossing.

Sherpa (L) and Stuart (R)

Our first views of Stuart are awesome as always: the dark castellated granite buttresses rising to the unseen summit, the gleaming blue-white ice cliff in its deep polished recess. We plod up the boulders to the moraine crest and make our way to the toe of the north ridge. The bivy rock is occupied by another party, but no matter. More cleared sites are scattered around.

Stars wheel slow and bright, the night is moonless and still. Meteors streak, and countless satellites speed along their unnatural tracks.

*Clunk*

The moon is up, and something large is moving closer, rattling the large granite talus that surrounds us. I think of the bear and grope for my axe. But it's just a big Billy staring at me, moonlight gleaming off the black points of his horns. You can tell them from the Nannies by the barrel chest, broad head, muscular build, and greater belligerence. Not that much less frightening than a bear when you're lying down with your boots off. But he's just here for my urine. He keeps me awake for awhile, chomping on the gravel I'd anointed earlier, ultimately bedding down in another bivy site ten feet away.

Billy gets his salt

Up with the dawn, we see the other party heading up ahead of us. Billy follows them for the first 4th class pitch, but eventually comes back to us for his morning cup-o-pee.

Rock shoes on and out we go. Beautiful rock. First crux in the squeeze. Ugh! *Scrape*. The pack goes onto a runner from my waist. So much better. Then we're at the second crux corner. Long, beautiful, pretty hard in places. My fingers scream when I start lie-backing with that pack. I hang, look down at the parties queuing up behind us, and start pulling on gear. I run it out through the easier 5.8 jamming above, then one more thin bulge and I'm at the belay.

Crux pitch!

Six more beautiful pitches of low-mid 5th class rock bring us to the beginning of the simul climbing up white sandy ledges, and around to the northwest side of the ridge. Last time, I traversed the ledge system that cuts across this face for quite a ways, and found a moderate 4th and low fifth route that brought us to the notch bivies in no more than two simul pitches. But this time, there are lots of parties on the route, and everyone is heading up much earlier. Do they know something I don't?

I follow, and it's a big mistake. Of course, the parties ahead are not as fast as I think they're going to be, and it's lots of lichen-covered 5.7 that turns into 2 or 3 belayed pitches. 

Hours lost, we arrive at the notch bivies around 4:15 PM. Three full hours slower than last time we were here. I'd hoped to reach this point by noon. My impulse is to use the daylight. There's no water, so we have to go! But Grace wisely convinces me it's better to sit tight where we have good bivy sites than risk being caught by the darkness in 5th class terrain.

It's a stressful night. We have perhaps 2L of water between us, and at least 6-8 hours of climbing in the morning before we can expect to reach the summit snows. I've never gone so long in the mountains with so little water. I'm worried about how my body will cope. I pull my mask up in the hopes of minimizing respiration losses. It seems to help. And we decide we're going to take the easy way out. Without effective athletic recovery overnight, I'm not willing to attempt the gendarme pitches tomorrow.

Sunset views to the north

The wood rat comes with full dark. Rodent teeth working upon vital gear is a horrid sound. It's after our salt, just like the Billy, but this guy is going after our pack straps. It eats all the finger loops out of Grace's crack gloves before we even know it's there.

I get up and hang the packs off a cam, dubious that this will work, but with nothing better available.

*Nibble* *Gnaw* *Scratch*

It's on the hanging packs, happily chewing away. I get up again. These guys can scamper up blank overhanging granite. What now? There are no overhangs available to get the packs free hanging. Eventually, I build a 20 kN-test clothes line to hang everything on; long slings and some gear in opposing walls of our alcove. It does the trick, and the rat is gone.

Moving again at dawn. We cruise for awhile on 4th class ground, and then it starts to get delicate. Beautiful rock, reasonably easy climbing, but lots of places you don't want to fall, and don't want an unexpected tug as you traverse the knifes edge. We wind up short pitching a lot of it. It's slow, but so, so, fun, even with just a mouthful of water per belay.

High on the upper ridge

All this time, I'm stressing about two things in Beckey's description of the bypass around the gendarme. The rappel "from a bolt" and the "crux friction move over a rounded face" that exits the gully. Neither turn out to be an issue. Rather than a rusty 1/4" singleton at the rappel point, there's a pair of shiny new 3/8ths with rings. Rather than a desperate 5.9-feeling run-out above a ledge fall, there's a nice staircase of holds and good gear. Past those two imaginary hurdles, the rest of the day transforms into pure joy.

The "crux friction slab"?

The hardest parts of the NW bypass are all in the things Beckey gets wrong: there's no ledge system I noticed after the rappel, and the hardest climbing is a bit of dirty lichen-covered 5.7 for the "30' up the couloir" (left side). But really, it's all well protected and way more fun than I expected. Maybe it's much more serious when wet iced! After 400' of enjoyable climbing (not 100'!) We reached the "tan-colored saddle", and easy access to ice on the NW face.

Mmm. We spend an hour filling our dromedaries and drinking soup, break out the lunch we've been to parched to eat. It's 2:30 PM. The upper ridge took 8 hours for us to climb, and in that time I ate a Snicker's bar and 3 sour patch kids. But water rationing worked. We were able to keep going, stay pretty happy, and still had half a liter left to jumpstart the ice melting.

The terrain just above the NW buttresses really is horrific, though. Back in boots I trudge up sandy rubble, and try to pick a path through that provides protection, and keeps Grace out of my likely rockfall zone. It works. We exit left onto large boulders and rejoin the upper north ridge route. 

From there we head up a striking 4" crack (5.0) and around to the right we find an awkward exposed step-across to a ledge. There's rap rings here for some reason. I clip them and step, building a belay immediately after to protect Grace from a nasty pendulum and avoid horrendous rope drag. One more simul pitch skirts further right, up a thin face (5.5) to a short chimney. Ugh. One more hard move (5.8). I plug a big cam and pull up and over onto the summit ridge!

Summit selfie!

We don't linger. There's weather brewing and we move quickly down the ridge to the Ice Cliff Glacier col. There we organize our retreat. With an extra day burnt just getting up the ridge, and the beating Grace's feet took in the process, it doesn't seem wise to proceed with our north side decent plan. Grace'e dad, Benno, is fortunately willing to spend his day-off coming to fetch us from Esmeralda basin, and then ferrying all the way back to the Stuart lake trailhead to retrieve the car we left there. Amazing.

The weather finally breaks on us while we're still sitting there, and we scramble into our bivy bag. That keeps us from getting soaked, but the site is too small for me to stretch out and I spend a miserable few hours pretending to be a tent, propping up the bivy bag with my elbows while the wind and rain whip against the fabric.

It breaks around midnight and I get out, rig up another line to suspend the bag opening properly, and set about the task of eating dinner and melting enough snow to get us properly rehydrated for the hike out. Grace is fast asleep. The stars are indescribable.

The hike down the Cascadian and over Longs pass are tedious and long, but Benno meets us at the trailhead with fresh melon from the garden, hot coffee, and good humor. Life is good.

All the Photos:

Route info, condensed:

1. Unless it's June, and you fear that the low route is really swampy, you should head directly to the stream rather than following the cairns that lead off high through the boulder fields. It's way better down there (I've done both).
2. The simul climb between the top of the lower ridge pitches and the "notch bivies" is best done by traversing the ledge on the northwest side of the crest further around until you can find a 4th class path upward. Going up too early lands you with 2-3 pitches of lichen-covered 5.7 which is pretty time consuming if you aren't good enough to simul climb it.
3. The upper ridge is beautiful, but way more time consuming than we expected due to the delicate balancy climbing.
4. We actually DID find a small ice patch on the upper ridge that we could have made a short rappel to, and there are small bivy sites scattered around up there. We decided to wait for the ice we could see on the NW face.
5. The gendarme bypass is mostly quite good climbing! The rap into the gully is made off a pair of 3/8" stainless bolts. The gully itself is reasonably clean and safe. 30' of dirty but well protected 5.6-5.7 climbing got us up to a comfortable and sheltered belay from which to begin the true exit pitch. Straight up the gully on the right side would have involved a lot more sand and smooth unprotected rock to get round a constriction, but could be easier. 
• Although clean, the gully is exposed to rockfall from parties exiting the gendarme. Think twice if there's anyone up there.
• Beckey's description seems kind of off.
•  no "ledge system" to reach the corner for the exit moves
• the 30' of climbing up the gully was pretty hard compared to the rest
• the 5.4 friction move for the exit was super easy, and protected really well with a red x4 and a #2 camalot.
• The "ledge system" after you leave the couloir is quite narrow. More of a big U-shaped flake system that you continue up
• Climbing out of the U was a bit more difficult than the exit move, but not terribly so.
• All was solid and well protected. It's more like 400-600' to the shoulder, not 100'.
• The "sandy blocks" on the upper northwest face are sort of awful, but not too too bad.  A safe route can be found skirting rock walls for protection, holds, and isolation from rockfall. 
• If you exit the big sandy ramp system to the left over clean boulders when you get to an impasse, it rejoins the N. ridge route. A clean boot crack leads to a step around at a slung horn (easy). Go right and up. We finished up a nice clean wall with thin cracks to a short chimney with a grunter bulge at the top.

The Rules

I always read right through ANAC when I get the newest issue and it always gets me thinking. A few years ago it prompted me to implement a total change in my rappelling procedures. This year it has me thinking about what I want my children to know before (if) they start climbing on their own.* What have I learned from years of reading and experience that can help them live long adventurous lives? I've made my share of mistakes in the mountains, and while it's never resulted in injury or rescue I like to think I learned something from every one. Many of them should have gone to ANAC as near-miss reports but I didn't think of it at the time. This is my attempt to pass that learning on.

When I started writing this post I thought it was going to be the "Ten Commandments of Climbing Safely". In writing it I realized there are three much more important organizing principles I want to convey that give rise to everything else. So think of this as the three laws of safe-climbodynamics, with ten corollaries.

*note: I started writing this post back in December 2019, got too busy before I could post.

Kiddos learning about risk mitigation strategies. Vedauwoo, WY.

The first law: evaluate the whole risk-mitigation equation

Risk is the product of probability and consequence; the merit of any risk-mitigation strategy is its efficacy divided by its cost. These four factors, probability, consequence, efficacy, and cost must all be taken into account to make any rational choice. Low-probability events can still present substantial risk if the consequences are extreme, and low-cost mitigation strategies should almost never be rejected, particularly in the face of extreme consequences.

Climbing is particularly fraught with low-probability high-consequence risk, which humans are very bad at evaluating. Low-cost mitigation strategies are routinely rejected in these situations.

An excellent example is tying a backup hitch on rappel. It is an effective strategy to prevent loss of control due to unforeseen low-probability events (rockfall, pendulum fall, medical emergency, etc.), the consequences of which are extreme (death, dismemberment). The cost is a few seconds to rig and remove the hitch, but people often don't bother.

This routine rejection of low-cost mitigation strategies is primarily due to a lack of proper consideration of all four elements of risk and mitigation outlined above, combined with in-the-moment decision making. We tend to weigh a low probability against an immediate cost and come to the wrong conclusion, having left out two elements of the risk-mitigation equation. The solution therefore is twofold: vigilance, which is required to recognize high-consequence eventualities, and prior planning that allows calm evaluation of the risk-mitigation equation. Decide in advance that you will always tie a backup hitch and the immediate (trivial) loss of time will never dissuade you.

Finding the descent from Redgarden Wall, Eldorado Canyon state park. Easy unroped scrambling risk = low probability x high consequence.

The second law: practice constant vigilance

If humans were perfect, tireless, this would be enough. It isn't, but it is necessary, and comes higher in my hierarchy than rules.

Vigilance is the first line of defense, and begins before even deciding to climb a route. Be vigilant in reading route descriptions and trip reports for inherent risks, and devise strategies to mitigate them. Is it a committing route? Look for retreat options. Is it subject to rockfall? decide on acceptable weather, season, and timing. Where no mitigation is possible, decide if you want to climb this route at all.

As the time for your climb approaches keep vigil on the weather, on snowpack, trail conditions, wildfires, anything at all relevant to the access, climb, descent, and or retreat options.

On the approach keep your attention on the weather, on the snowpack, on your body, on your partners. Do these match with your original plan? Is it sunnier than you expected for a snow climb? Are you moving slower than planned? Are there risks not mentioned in descriptions or reports you've read? Cornices, fresh rockfall scars, seracs, high streamflow, etc? Adjust your strategy and goals accordingly.

On the climb keep track of your progress and supplies, evolving weather, and climbing conditions. Is the snow softening, are thunderheads forming, are your partners still psyched to continue?

Perhaps most important are the minutiae of the descent. Is everyone clipped to the anchor? Is this a clean rappel line? Are there ledges with loose stones? Does this snow slope warrant a belay?

If all of this sounds oppressive to you, if the need for hyper awareness sounds awful, don't go alpine climbing. Or if you do, go with someone who loves this aspect of it. To me, this is what makes alpinism the most engaging recreational activity on the planet. The obsessive planning, the constant attention to detail, the borderline obsessive paranoia about conditions before and during the ascent. Meeting it all with your mind and your muscle, and pulling it off safely. That's achievement. But the burden on the mind is great, energy and attention are finite, which brings us to systems and procedures.


The third law: learn, understand, and follow standard procedures

These are The Rules, and they are vital, despite coming third in my hierarchy. We develop standard procedures to relieve the pressure on our vigilance, not to replace it. Vigilance allows you to recognize potential risks and begin the cycle of evaluating the risk-mitigation equation, out of which come standard procedures – cognitive and physical tools planned for use in the face of anticipated need.

The beginning climber could be forgiven for thinking that rules and procedures are all there is to keeping yourself safe. It begins immediately. The knots, partner checks, commands, belay technique, etc. But climbing is NOT a rules-based activity. It's too unpredictable for that. You can follow all the rules and still be an accident waiting to happen if you fail to evaluate risks properly, fail to exercise adequate vigilance, or misunderstand what those rules are protecting you from and how they work.

Building belay anchors is a good example case. There's a simple rule-based way to build them that often makes them worse: the equalized cordelette. Don't misunderstand; this is a good convenient method for equalizing a multi-piece anchor. I use it about 20% of the time because that's about how often it's appropriate. Here's why: 3 excellent gear placements are rarely available 18" apart. It takes a lot of cord to equalize 3 pieces of gear, and your cordelette is rarely long enough to reach all the best placements. The worst solution to this problem is to settle for sub-optimal gear placements that are all neatly equalized. To do so shows a misunderstanding of the relative importance of equalization and solid primary anchor placements – the latter take priority. I often get two good pieces reasonably close together, but the third may be six or eight feet higher up the wall. Sometimes this is just because I don't want to use up all the pieces in a given size range, but more often it's to obtain higher quality placements in redundant features. This doesn't have to take any more time; often it's faster because expanding your search for placements gives you more and easier to execute possibilities. You just have to think beyond the length of your cordelette, and learn the techniques necessary to use more scattered placements.

Descending the upper McAllister Glacier after a successful ascent of the SW buttress of Dorado Needle. Steep snow slopes present unique challenges for risk mitigation.

Corollary Rules:

The three laws are the most important fundamental concepts in climbing, and apply to any activity that contains an element of risk, from driving a car, to operating a laser, or climbing Everest. But to leave it there would be like presenting a student with the laws of thermodynamics and expecting them to derive the Carnot equation, unprompted. That's what books, mentors, and guide companies are for. Learn all you can, fill your head with the cognitive tools to adapt and deal with any situation.

I'm not going to try and teach books worth of climbing technique in one blog post. But here I have compiled 10 general rules that may help keep you safer. These are the specific commandments I originally had in mind for this post; they're all derived from the three laws combined with my experience. I follow them to the best of my ability.

1. Close your rope systems [1]
Open systems kill. It's that simple. Never rely on pure vigilance to prevent the rope running through your belay/rappel device. Always tie knots in the end of rappel ropes, or tie yourself in. Always tie a stopper knot on your belay strand, or tie the belayer in. ALWAYS. Even if you know the pitch is too short to warrant it. Even if you're in the gym. Build the habit.

2. Double check and back up singular components [4]
There are very few components in the climbing system we trust unconditionally. The rope.  The locker. The harness. Personal anchors. I can't think of any others. These are super strong objects, but not immune from human error. All such components should be double checked by both partners where possible, and double checked through redundant procedures when not. This includes both their setup and physical condition. Knots, belay setups, rappel setups, personal anchor cords, harness buckles.

Rappelling Prusik Peak, WA. Special care is warranted on the descent. Lots of system transitions, exhaustion, high potential for party induced rockfall. The rope pull is a particular moment for everyone to be on their toes, as rockfall his highly likely.

3. Never rush (almost) [2]
Getting dark? big deal. Storm coming? Go slow and focus on what you're doing. You should move with urgency and efficiency, but you can't start skipping steps, abbreviating systems. That's going to get someone killed. When you're under stress from external pressures you are even more likely to need the dependability of procedure. No exceptions. Planned hurry is something different. Got seracs threatening a portion of the route? Go ahead and scurry through that section, but make a plan first and figure out how the system is going to work. It'd be pretty dumb to wind up stuck in a crevasse for a few hours right under those seracs.

4. Place your belays with care [6-7,12]
Rockfall and icefall are two of the most common ways to be killed or seriously injured climbing. It is particularly vital that the belayer be protected from these hazards because (a) they are protecting the leader, and (b) they cannot usually dodge, being anchored in place. Always evaluate rock and ice fall potential when building a belay and choose locations that provide shelter, even if you think rock/ice fall is unlikely.

Descending the access gully to West MacMillan Spire, North Cascades National Park, USA. The rock-snow transition point warrants special care. Sun warmed rock rots the snow making it unstable and treacherous.

5. Respect steep snow [3, 7, 9, 11]
Steep snow and alpine ice slopes can be like highways. Easy climbing, fast progress. But they can betray you all too easily. If you look at the ratio of deaths per accident report by terrain, it's substantially higher on snow (0.16) than on rock (0.11), and even worse by cause; a slip on snow has a death rate of 0.18, while a slip on rock is only 0.08.[ANAC, 2019] Sparse/poor anchor points mean you're often soloing. There's nothing to deflect rockfall away from the face leaving you very exposed, and surface conditions can change radically from step to step. Also the ability and experience of different climbers plays a disproportionately large role in determining the security of the team. It's all too easy to assume that slopes you find secure will be so for the whole team. This is often not the case. There are good belay techniques that can still be reasonably efficient. Boot-axe and butt-axe belays, snow pickets. Use them when in doubt about the runout, conditions, or party abilities.
Be extremely wary of steep (40+ degrees) snow/ice slopes that have been in direct sunlight for more than a couple hours, and always plan climbs that are predominantly on such terrain so as to complete them no more than a couple hours after the sun hits. Nearly all of my near-misses in climbing have occurred on NE facing snow and ice climbs with too much warm morning sunshine beating down.

On the cauldron rim. Mt. Waddington, Bravo Glacier, British Colombia, CAN. Sloppy variable snow conditions caused us to retreat.

6. Practice backing off [8]
Keep your mind open to the possibility of retreat, and be vigilant about your options as you ascend. There's no shame in running away so you can come back another day. The more confident you are in your bailing skills, the more challenging your objectives can become. Many a bad decision has come from a fear of rapping off or down-climbing a route, particularly if finishing over the top promises an easier descent. This goes both for whole routes and individual pitches.
You'll often hear people talk about "failing upward" because they were "committed". Unless the person talking is a highly skilled and experienced climber, this is usually code for "we lacked the skills to bail, so we pushed deeper into the maelstrom."

7. Choose a safe partner, be a safe partner [9]
Physical safety, observance of the the three laws; yes of course. But that's only the first  most obvious part. A safe partner is one who creates a safe social space around them. Social pressure makes people do stupid things. Sure, it can be good to have a partner who helps motivate you to do your best, but that sort of mutual challenge can be taken too far and should be left at the sport crag or gym. It has no place in the mountains. The final part of this is that the most cautious team member is always right. It is always wrong to pressure your partner to take more risk than they are comfortable with. Encouragement, logical argument; both fine in the right circumstances. But the person who wants to turn around, put on the rope, put in more gear is always right. The only exception is when the individual in question is not equipped to properly evaluate the risk mitigation equation. If that's the situation you've got a guide/client relationship whether intended or not. It is the guide's clear responsibility to make decisions for the client that minimize risks and maximize enjoyment of the experience. The guide's desires and goals are a distant third.

8. Don't tempt avalanches [9]
Even trained avalanche professionals get caught, buried, killed. Avalanche prediction requires a lot of specialized knowledge, and gets less and less accurate as the fundamental probability goes up. Don't push it. Learn as much snow-science as possible, but the goal is to tell the difference between safe and questionable. Just don't go if it's questionable. Usually the climbing sucks when avalanche danger is high, anyway. No one likes to wallow.

9. Always bring a headlamp [5]
If you have light you're much less likely to be tempted to rush to avoid being benighted. Wilderness travel in the dark (with a good headlamp) can be a glorious experience.

10. Plan around your altitude tolerance [10]
Some people can do 4,000 m summits in a day from sea level with no ill effect; others can not. Learn which you are, what your altitude response is, on non-technical climbs. Respect that knowledge. Plan accordingly. Don't count on just "suffering through" as the effects of AMS can be highly variable, insidious, incapacitating.

Crossing Early Winters creek, Washington USA. Sometimes the most hazardous part of the day has nothing to do with "climbing".

Experiography:

[1]  July 2005 - Forbidden Peak, West Ridge. Washington USA.
I took a long pendulum fall while making a diagonal rappel. No backup, unknown if there were knots. I slammed into a wall, but held on. My helmet and good instincts saved me. This was my first alpine climb. An identical sequence of events led to a recent death on the same route.

[2]. June 2006 - Colchuck Peak, North Buttress Couloir and NE Couloir. Washington USA. Everything went wrong except for our strength and technical abilities. Novice decision making errors led to a 30+ hour epic descent of the wrong route.

[3]. May 2007 - Colchuck Peak, North Buttress Couloir. Washington USA. Partner fell on steep snow, tumbling 500+ feet. We were doing just about everything right, but were overconfident in our skills and the predictability of the snow slope.

[4]. September 2007 - Liberty Bell, Becky route. Washington USA. I leaned back on rappel only to find I'd clipped my leg loop instead of my belay loop. Fortunately I was using a redundant system and I was able to correct the mistake with no harm done.

[5]. June 2008 - Guye Peak, Improbable Traverse. Washington USA. Off route descent in the dark led to a nighttime rappelling adventure through brushy cliff bands. I caught one of my partners clipping the tail of the anchor. Likely he would have died if I hadn't been double checking. Score one for vigilance and double checks. Two headlamps for three people was insufficient.

[6]. November 2008 - Morningstar Peak, choose your own adventure. Washington USA. I kicked loose a huge block (refrigerator size) that came within a few feet of killing my partners, chopped one of our half ropes, gave the other a core shot. I could not have anticipated or avoided the rockfall, as it cut loose from under a layer of soil. I didn't even know it was there. This illustrates the need to safely position the belay stance (and the inherent danger of dirty gullies!)

[7]. 2010 - Serra 3, NE Face. British Columbia, CAN. Spontaneous rockfall nearly clobbered both my partner and myself. We had foolishly placed the belay in the center of the couloir as there was no evidence of previous rockfall (dirt, debris). It was also too late in the day to be starting up.

[8]. 2010 - Petit Grepon, South Face. Colorado USA.
Caught in a thunderstorm on route. Should have bailed when the first clouds started forming. Not adequately familiar with CO weather patterns.

[9]. May 2011 - Longs Peak, Notch Couloir. Colorado USA.
Huge wet slide rips down the couloir just as my partner is poking his head round the corner to reconnoitre. I had requested we descend, citing frightening snow conditions. He insisted on proceeding. This was a case of me not choosing a safe partner, and being persuaded by their impetuosity.

[10]. June 2012 - Longs Peak , Notch Couloir. Colorado USA.
Altitude sickness overtakes me on a 1-day ascent. My partners have to lead me up and over as I am mentally incapacitated, and unaware of it. This was my first experience with such severe altitude sickness, and shows that one should not plan to just "suffer through". Even 14ers can be quite dangerous to the susceptible.

[11]. July 2017 - Mount Stuart, North Ridge. WA USA.
Grace slips on snow, nearly falling into the a moat. I felt completely confident on the slope and conditions leading me to put the rope away. She felt comfortable too, but has much less experience in such conditions, particularly without crampons. I should have taken that into account and provided a belay.

[12]. 2019 - Goat Wall, Sisyphus. WA USA. Close call with rockfall. I was the fourth member of the team to start up, and I decided to excrete some weight before starting up. I started to set out my poop bag in the middle of the belay ledge, glanced up, and realized it was exposed to rockfall. I moved into an alcove against the wall instead. While I was squatting there a golf ball sized stone came ripping down off the wall, leaving a little crater in the dirt right where I had been. Vigilance pays off.