Day 0 Our trip began with a snag, before even reaching the trailhead. Meghan’s bag, marked with my name, failed to arrive with our airplane, instead opting to explore conversion options in Salt Lake City. Told the earliest the bag would reappear was 11am the next morning,
Thirty people in tents rarely move quickly or in unison and it takes a while to get the herd moving this morning. After much deliberation, tracking down the necessary gear, a double set of cams .5 through 3, we stand around for a while, wait for a bit, then hold
35 degrees and windy don’t feel outrageous, until you brush snow off some rock to start climbing. For a day ice climbing, this could be precariously warm, not so much for the splitters of Indian Creek. Last night’s wind blew one of the group’s tents over, much to the
Rain drops spatter on the windshield, as I cross the cold front descending on Grand Junction. In a few hours, it will dump 12 inches of powder on the Vail pass, an hour behind me. For now it’s just a few intermittent droplets, coming and going in brief waves and
A satisfying little vibration reverberates through the tool as the axe lodges itself in the ice. It’s a good stick. A few rocks up and down and the second axe lifts out of a pocket. A subtle glare gives away a small concave dip right at arm’s length above my
Sending Fortis, a fun climb at the Talking Headwall of Elizabeth Furnace. [map]
Burnt Cabins from Dan McEwan on Vimeo. A first attempt at some Jeep-attached GoPro footage.
A life well lived requires risk. An epic story demands epic moments. In the run up to turning 30 this past November, I played the nostalgia game and considered whether I had been living life deliberately. In finding a mixed answer to that question, I’ve come to realize that I
Didn’t realize that Mountain Project had a Google Maps widget that uses OpenLayers.
It is now slightly more than five years since my first trip abroad; one thing I’ve come to see is that the first day is always memorable. [image:Frauenkirche.JPG:left:tall]In the early summer of 2005, I picked my backpack up from the cart of other oddly shaped luggage which had not been