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Journal Entry June 22, 2009 - Paintbrush Divide |
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Written by Daniel Hienzsch
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Wednesday, 22 July 2009 |
 Paintbrush Canyon
June 22, 2009
Grand Teton National Park
The name, "Paintbrush Divide" sounds so innocuous. The guide book said to expect snow, even in late September, so I went prepared: ice axe, crampons, wind/water proof jacket and overpants. Today, I needed every piece of gear, every ounce of strength and every bit of climbing knowledge I possessed to make it to, up, over and down the divide at 10,700'.
The hike up Paintbrush Canyon from Leigh Lake was unremarkable, as the
namesake Indian Paintbrush hadn't blossomed yet. It certainly didn't
have the same magnificent views as Cascade Canyon the day before. I
got on the trail at 8:45AM and hit the first snow bank at the end of
the first hour. By 10:30, the canyon floor had turned entirely to snow
and I began to really work my new mountaineering boots; what a
difference those rigid soles make!
I followed in the bootpacks of others for about a quarter mile
before putting on my crampons and unharnessing my ice axe. A couple I
had seen several times on the trail were headed back down and said the
path to Holly Lake became too steep for them.
I pressed on, wielding my ice axe in earnest for the first time,
climbing the traverse to Holly Lake. Like Lake Solitude, it was frozen
over, so I didn't get close, not knowing where snow ended and ice crust
began. I looked around me, the only sound an occasional rock fall on
one of the many scree fields. I felt puny.
Several passes were visible, but they all looked exceedingly dangerous, with one boasting an overhanging cornice that I wanted
nothing to do with. I continued up the canyon, checking my map frequently, until I crested a hill below Grizzly Bear Lake and saw the actual divide. It was at least 750' above me, so I told myself I'd maneuver across the bottom to see if a path was evident. The going was slow: 25 paces, rest for 5 breathes, repeat. As I approached, I saw a line traversing up to the west across the face. That line of travel then joined what looked like a trail in the scree, which hairpinned then came back across and up the face of the snow bank, finally topping out.
 Bootpack on Paintbrush Divide
I followed the trail up, but discovered a sheer wall of snow that I judged far beyond my ability to attempt. I looked around and saw the second traverse about 50' below me. I cautiously down climbed the scree to join the snowed in trail, fixed crampons again, moved the axe to my right, now uphill, hand and stepped out. My feet went in six inches before finding compact stuff and I found it easier to crab walk across, kicking my points into the face after each plunge of the spike of my ice axe. Then... whoosh! ... both feet slipped out and my hands instantly tightened around the axe head. I was fully laid out, face into the slope with only my hands on the axehead keeping me from sliding 500, maybe 600' down the smooth face of the bank into the snowed in bowl below. Not life threatening, but it would have required a climb out of the bowl to the base of the divide again and not enough time to make another go at the pass.
I kicked a ledge into the face and let my feet take my weight. Then, after steadying myself, I moved back up to my original position on the snow, about 15' beyond my starting point off the scree field, with 150' to go. I kept up the same technique, until the bootpack curved right and started a vertical ascent of the slope, at which point I made easy progress up and over the curving snow to the top of the divide.
Above the snowpack was all rock and tundra, so I removed my crampons again, hauled out my camera, and took pictures of the astonishing views. Mica Lake was below me, perched in a hanging valley that drained half way up the wall of Cascade Canyon. To the west, was Lake Solitude, right where I expected to see it. To the south, Grand Teton's summit peaked up above the surrounding granite spires. Virgin snow covered nearly every northern slope and beyond it all, large, brilliant white clouds showed a path to the distant horizons.
 Paintbrush Divide
I felt truly alone. There was no guide to show me the way out; there was no one I could call for advice. My only method of communicating with the outside world was my Spot Satellite Beacon. My own ability, such as it was, in mountaineering, climbing, trail reading and navigation were the only resources at my disposal. The sense of deep isolation was followed by the stongest feeling of stupidity. Doubt crept in as I asked myself repeatedly "How did you get yourself into this situation? Why didn't you turn around at the times you felt you should have? Why did you press on?" I squelched those feelings as much as I could and told myself to suck it up and descend that canyon wall, 1800' of snow and granite. I could see the canyon floor and knew that, in truly basic terms, I had to get to the canyon floor and walk out of it with Lake Solitude to my back. Eventually, that would lead me to park service trail. Each piece, in and of itself seemed surmountable as a task, but the combination felt overwhelming.
I checked the altitude of the sun and estimated three hours of direct sunlight despite being nearly 3 hours behind schedule already (here's to climbing the day after the solstice!) I took my first step off the trail to descend the wall and told myself to compartmentalize each facet: focus on the immediate task and worry about the next one when you get to it. Above all else: execute text book ice axe technique.
I plunge stepped down the canyon, facing out from the wall and concentrated on driving my heels into the fresh snow. I wasn't worried yet about crashing through into a moat, as the first 200 feet of the descent was clear of rocks. I held my ice axe ready in a self arrest grip but had to consciously tell myself, "relax your grip, relax." Just 15' later, I misplaced my heel, landed square on my ass and started to slide. I rolled over and pressed the pick of the axe into the snow and felt my slide abate. The pressure wasn't sufficient though and the pick didn't hold. I gathered speed again, now rolled entirely onto my belly, left hand with a death grip on the adze of the axe, right hand pulling upwards on the shaft. I shifted my weight onto my shoulder, pressing it into the back of my left hand while pulling up simultaneously with my right and felt the pick grab, then release again. I felt strangely calm with only two thoughts in my head: the closing distance on the granite outcropping that was getting closer with speed and the statistics in the Jenny Lake Climbing Ranger Station that states the most common rescue in the park is of 35 year old males that fail to execute a self arrest correctly. I saw the rocks coming faster and briefly contemplated trying to brace myself for an impact, but thought that any drag I could create with the ice axe would lessen whatever damage I was about to do to my body. I hoped I could reduce the collision to something that would only sprain or tear a ligament rather than shatter a bone. Then the pick bit into hard packed snow and I came to a stop within a five foot span, maybe 40 feet above the granite. As soon as I stopped, I kicked my toes hard into the snow, feeling the points go deep and only then did I look up at the 140' long trench my body had carved into the powder.
 Top of the Divide
I worked my way to a small overhang that I had to edge around. I reached for and stuck a good undercling with my right hand and handjammed my left into a moss covered crack. Easing my weight around the ledge, I saw a granite rill for my right foot so I inched it down, missed, had my left foot slip a couple of inches and then give entirely and I slammed chest first into side of the slab, scrambling for purchase with my feet while bearhugging it with an undercling and Yosemite crack jam. I'd have done anything for a top rope and a belayer... just to be able to yell "Tension!" and walk down that face. I held the cold, wet rock between my arms and felt for balance. Don's voice rang so clearly in my head, "Now, it's not good stuff, but just... try and reach out with your right toe. Good. Now slide your left down. Find your balance. Now look underneath for a grip, there might be something right where the slab is resting. Good. Now trust it." My body weight shifted and I swung under the slab onto good footing. Balanced, I looked at what would have been my landing zone if my hands had given out: a header into the rock and snow transition at the bottom of the outcropping. No helmet seemed pretty damn stupid right then.
A few more feet, 15? 20? and I would be back on snow, but now with 400' of run out through an hourglass of talus and pines before it opened out onto the final slope to the canyon floor. I contemplated glissading down, but I thought that if I wouldn't ski the slope, I damn well better not try a half assed glissade! Face into the bank, I made my way down. Step, plant axe, step, plant axe. Taking ever longer steps, like skipping rungs on a ladder. I could do five, maybe six steps, then needed to take a breather. Progress felt maddeningly slow; the rock above refused to recede and the canyon floor never got any closer. I dreamed of rapelling again but plodded as my toes went numb with the now three hours descent. The grip of my right hand hurt from continually plunging the axe spike into the snow.
 View from Paintbrush Divide
I put all thoughts of consequences out of my head and checked my compass, heading due west. My hike the day before, had shown me that all the foot traffic to and from Lake Solitude, makes a very distinct pattern in the snow, a sort of slushy trough of boot prints, so all I had to do was work my way through the fresh stuff until I intersected and then make a left.
Bang! Right on the money! Finally I felt I had done something right, the path was right there after only 100 paces or so. Now I made time, giving no thought to numb toes or soaking boots. I didn't want to be on the trail at dusk and add a bear encounter to my day's adventures. I stopped only to filter some water as I'd run out somewhere just after the granite overhang. Drinking greedily, I then hopped back onto the trail telling myself I'd stop and ringout my socks at Cascade Forks.
I bolted down the path and at Cascade Forks I said "no, at the first Talus field I'll stop". I would arrive at the Talus field and at each subsequent landmark and say "just a bit further" then continue barreling down the trail. I banged my bear bells against my cheset and whistled and sang "An die Freude" as I moved at nearly four miles per hour down the Cascade Canyon Trail to Jenny Lake. I never saw a single bear, but I did see an enormous fluffy rabbit and a porcupine that were both disinterested in my passing.
I cleared the 6.7 miles from Cascade Forks to the String Lake parking area in less than two hours, and I was so happy to see my truck, with its cache of food, dry socks and dry shoes.
Paintbrush Divide : 10,700'
Trailhead to trailhead: 20 miles
Time on trail: 11 Hours 58 Minutes.
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Last Updated ( Monday, 21 December 2009 )
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