Banner Trip

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.” –John Muir
Brad stood nervously on the precipice like a child on the high dive for the very first time. This was his first mountain climb and by the gleam in his eye, I’d guess that it won’t be his last. Jared came up beside him, and Bob popped up over the edge to join us on the summit of Banner Peak (12,945’). The heavens prevailed above while the Earth fell away for thousands of feet to the alpine lakes and chaotic world beyond. For now, we were completely in the moment, filled with nature’s peace, and were indeed receiving the mountain’s good tidings.

Jared had called out of the blue, asking if I wanted to go on a backpacking trip with him and some friends. Arienne was heading off on a business trip and I had some flexibility, so being a sucker for spontaneity, I said “Sure!”

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Jared Chaney was a high school class mate of mine, though we didn’t really get to know each other until college. For a few years we were seemingly inseparable. We were both art majors, shared a house, worked together, climbed, mountain biked, and of course chased a few girls. We ended up knowing each other so well that on road trips we barely conversed except to debate opposing positions on irresolvable issues. On climbs we became a well-oiled machine; our system and communication polished to the point of utmost efficiency. It is rare that you find a climbing partner or friend like that.

(Jerry and Jared on Leaning Tower, Yosemite, 1994)

In 1995 Jared left to study architecture at Chico State. Our partnership was broken and we pursued different paths. He got married, had kids, built a house in Ukiah, and established a successful career. I pursued my own career, continued seeking mountain adventures, and found a beautiful bride of my own. Though we rarely saw each other for thirteen years, Jared is one of those friends who you can go long periods without seeing, then pick right up as if only a week had passed.

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The day after getting the call, six of us (Jared, Bob, Brad, Chris, Rick, and I) were grinding up the switchbacks on Rush Creek Trail, out of June Lakes on the East side of the Sierra Nevada. The sun beat down unrelentingly without a breath of wind, and smoke from forest fires fouled the usually crystal clear Sierra air. We took the trail to Clark Lakes, intending to unwind for a few days. Though the mosquitoes were insane, the campsite was amazing. We dumped our packs and went fishing. I caught a few brook trout and cooked them in the fire with garlic, wild onions, and lemon. Tasty! There were big views over the canyon edge and the sun, setting through thunderstorms and billowing smoke was spectacular.
That night we sat around the campfire reminiscing about youthful adventures, recounting anecdotes long forgotten, and swapping tall tales with new friends. Eventually, the conversation turned to tomorrow. What should we do? Maps were pulled from packs and pored over in the flickering light. Thousand Island Lake was the unanimous destination, though the mosquitoes were feared to be unbearable. We’d have to keep moving.
Beyond the lake, Mount Ritter and Banner Peak loomed up, dominating the view. I had wanted to bag these peaks for years and started my campaign to motivate and instigate. It wasn’t a completely selfish agenda …well perhaps… but the majority of the group was really excited to give it a go. With this plan, we would have no leisure trip. The easiest route from our camp would be fifteen miles round trip with about six thousand feet of elevation gain and then loss. If climbing had been our original goal, we’d have camped closer to our objective.

We started just after sunrise and fought through a vicious cloud of blood sucking mozzies the whole way, probably loosing a quart of blood between us. The pests motivated us to keep moving.

(click the photo above to enlarge and you'll see the cloud of mosquitos in the sky)

Before eleven we had crested Glacier Lake Pass (11,158) on the west side of the mountain and were at Lake Catherine below the Ritter/Banner glacier. Two of our party decided to wait here while the rest pressed on toward the summit of Banner Peak.
It was rough going but not technical getting up the glacier, scree, and talus that led to the summit. The barometer was dropping on Jared’s altimeter, so the elevation was off. It said we had another eight hundred feet to go, but when Brad climbed up on that block he found nothing but the heavens above. We had arrived.

(L-R" Bob, Brad, Jared, Jerry)

Jared had done a lot of rock climbing, but this was his highest elevation to date and first big Sierra Peak. Bob, Jared's uncle and the oldest of our group at 59, was strong as an ox and un-relenting in his effort. He had climbed Mt. Shasta previously, but this was his first big Sierra peak. It was Brad’s very first climb, and I don't know how many for me. Quite a few.
The descent became rushed as thunderstorms moved in overhead, hail and rain pounded, the wind howled, lightning cracked, and thunder boomed, echoing for an eternity through the granite canyons. It was awesome. We hurried down wet snow and slippery talus fields, nervous that the metal trekking poles we carried would become lighting rods. Thousand Island Lake, and our camp site beyond, were receiving a moderate flash flood, but it didn't quite hit us.
The wind blew its freshness into us, and the storm filled us with its energy. Our feet ached as we hiked back to camp, but our cares had fallen off like the autumn leaves. We fell into silence on the trail, each in our own thoughts, mesmerized by the rhythm of footsteps, content to have received full value from the day.

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“To see an old friend in a distant land, is like a refreshing rain after a long drought.”
-fortune cookie wisdom

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As I get older I appreciate personal history with friends more and more and value the people with whom I have grown up and experienced both the joy and sorrows of life. It was great making new friends, and fantastic seeing Jared again, climbing, cooking over an open fire, sharing a tent, debating philosophy and religion… carrying on just like old times.
Back in Santa Rosa, we separated our gear in a dirt pullout. I’ve never been one for long good byes, but after such a great trip in the wilderness, it was hard to just drive off and jump back into the fray of life and business. There wasn’t enough time to part ways in a manner that respected the time and experience we had just had together. So we said the normal cordialities; “nice to meet you.” “Hope to see you again sometime.” “See you later.” “Thanks for everything.” Handshakes, hugs all around, and off we went, back to the rat race, talking on cell phones almost as if nothing had happened. But even as we left, I noticed the sun burns and perma-grins acquired during our thrilling adventure were still plastered on our faces. The mountain glow may fade in a few days, but will stay in our memories forever.

Prints are available from all images on my blog

http://www.jerrydodrill.com
© 2008 Jerry Dodrill

Sonora Pass Wildflowers

Arienne and I just got back from a quick trip up Sonora Pass. Thought I'd post a couple photos of the outrageous wildflower display before heading out again to spend a few days in the high country at Thousand Island Lake with my old friend Jared Chaney. Stay tuned next week for a report from that trip. Hopefully we'll get some nice photos and catch big trout!
Until then...
...Motivate. Instigate.

-Jerry

http://www.jerrydodrill.com
© 2008 Jerry Dodrill

An Ascent of Mt. Laurel

Valentines Day, 2004. I stood in the snow gazing at Mt. Laurel, a mile and a half across the frozen waters of Convict Lake. For a brief moment I scanned the route to the summit then snapped back to the task at hand. In a few minutes I would be married. Over the years I'd lost more climbing partners to marriage than to the mountains. Would today be the day I'd succumb to the same fate as the others? Not a chance. I made a vow that my life would be different and knew that it would be.

June 2008. Kurt, Eric, Kendall and I piled out of the car and hit the trail to climb Mt. Laurel. I'd been wanting to do it for over four years now.
Mount Laurel's Northeast Gully (III 5.2) rises four thousand feet above Convict Lake to the 11, 812 foot summit. This historic route was first climbed in 1930 by John Mendenhall and James Van Patten and marks the first place where a real roped belay was used in the High Sierra. While most of the High Sierra peaks are composed of immaculate granite, Laurel is loosely comprised of sandstone, slate and limestone. The N.E. Gully is polished smooth from avalanches sweeping the steep face, so the climbing is excellent. But if you get off route you are quickly on the worst rock imaginable. Despite the rich history, we decided to leave ropes in the car and simul-solo the long but easy face.
We cruised up the deep lower cleft and emerged into a broad bowl. Route finding became more difficult but we just followed the best rock up and left toward the summit. The geology was unlike any I'd ever seen. In the upper trough, the polished white rock yielded a beautiful red slate dike that Kurt climbed while I photographed.We reached the upper slopes and finally the summit.
Here, beautifully colored gneiss stones were scattered about like a blown up art project.Red Slate Mountain loomed in the south. Bloody Mountain to the West. Mammoth, the Minarets, Ritter and Banner Peaks to the North, and the upper Owens Valley was to the east. There was a funny moment where we each sat on the summit talking to our sweethearts on cell phones. We spent all this energy getting away with the boys, but when we reach the top, our natural reaction is to share the moment with the women we love.
Some time was spent taking in the tremendous view, then we blasted down the north ridge, descending long sandy slopes in a cloud of dust, finally arriving back at the car. We ate a quick bite and were off again to climb sport routes in Rock Creek before soaking our tired bodies in the natural hot springs. It was great spending time with my friends, in fact, these were my best men. But truth be told, the best part was getting home, kicking back, and sharing the story with my wife. Guess I'm a lost cause after all!

To see more photos from this set, see my Flickr page:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/10454187@N07/sets/72157605941980595/

© 2008 Jerry Dodrill
http://www.jerrydodrill.com

Interpreting the Big Trees: rambling among giants.

When my friend Faith asked if I would take some photos of the Giant Sequoias at Calaveras Big Trees State Park, there was only one answer: YEAH! That was familiar ground. In college I spent three summers on a fuels management crew in this area, up in the western Sierra, half way between Yosemite and Tahoe. It had been years since I'd been back, so I was excited to have an excuse.
Faith Rumm is one of those people who never cease to amaze you, even as you get to know them more and more. Formerly a back-country ranger in Sequoia/Kings Canyon National Park, she "gets it" when it comes to how badly we need to preserve wild places. In addition to being an inspirational mother, she is an accomplished artist who has painted and designed interpretive nature panels for many organizations including the Panda Bear Preserve in China. I've had the fortune to help her out with a few projects over the years and am delighted to provide my assistance on one of her current projects designing interpretive panels for California State Parks.
Many of my favorite places to photograph and rock-climb lie within Califoria's State Park System, and it is no wonder. A quick look at the State Park website (http://www.parks.ca.gov/) reveals that the system includes "nearly 1.4 million acres, with over 280 miles of coastline; (and) 625 miles of lake and river frontage." With the rapid increases in development, urban sprawl and intrusion into open spaces which we've seen just in my short lifetime (34 years), I fear for the future of wilderness. Sure, nature adapts. Peregrines live on downtown sky scrapers and raccoons live under my deck, but is it their job to adapt? No! We have a responsibility to be stewards of the land, and that includes accounting for the plants and critters. If we had the hindsight of just one of the Big Trees, chances are we would assign very different priorities to our lives and make more sustainable decisions.No amount of watching Planet Earth can replace the experience of actually seeing the autumn bird migration, or hiking along a gurgling brook filled with spawning salmon. I grew up camping in our state parks and hope to (some day) take my own kids to them. But with California's budget shortfalls and a governator who is willing to shut down our parks to save costs, it is more imperative than ever that both the park system and nature itself have active and vocal advocates.
I drove up to the Big Trees just after our epic on El Cap in May and spent three days roaming the woods and river making photographs among these stunningly enormous giants. The weather was perfect after a few storms during which an inch and a half of rain fell. One of the best parts of my job is just being out there getting "zen-ed out" with my camera, exploring the intricacies of an eco-system and finding a voice for Mother Earth. No, I'm not a barefoot tree hugger. A balance must be struck in all things, but it sure feels right to be making images that will go to work for a just cause.
As I drove home from the Big Trees I passed through hundreds of miles of urban jungle and pondered how the landscape would have appeared prior to our intrusion. I drove through the East Bay and recalled a passage from Malcom Margolin's "The Ohlone Way" in which he states that the number one cause of death for the native Ohlone tribe of native Americans along the San Franciso Bay prior to white settlement was from grizzly bear attacks! Grizzly bears! He described the wildlife-filled bay as a veritable Serengeti. It will of course never revert back to what it was. Our "progress" is deep and permanent. Even the seemingly pristine stretch of the Stanislaus River I had been photographing that morning is but an illusion of natural tranquility.
The water level is carefully controlled from the dam at Spicer Reservoir to give optimum amounts of power and water to the thirsty valley below. I went fishing for several hours and never saw a single fish.
It's a tough world for optimists and idealists, but you must have hope in something. I hope more people will kill the TV, go for a hike, take a dip in a remote swimming hole, and enjoy a sunset from a high mountaintop. It's the best program they'll ever see, and who knows, perhaps they might run across one of Faith's beautiful interpretive panels and learn something new.

Check out Faith's work: http://www.rummstudio.com

Motivate. Instigate.

-Jerry Dodrill
http://www.jerrydodrill.com

Tahoe Workshop Trip Report

Five days seemed like an eternity to spend with ten strangers. How would I keep everyone focused? What would they be like? Where would we go for our field shoots? Would the light work out? I'd done my prep work, but still felt the anxiety of anticipation. If I were climbing, I’d have stopped to shake out, focused on breathing, smiled, and put my head back together. But I wasn’t climbing, I was preparing to teach a photography workshop in Incline Village at Lake Tahoe’s Sierra Nevada College.
The jitters of the first day quickly subsided and the group settled into a nice groove. After orientation and introductions, we had a couple lectures, and the first of many delicious lunches in the cafeteria. By late afternoon we were in the field photographing near Sand Harbor. Next morning we were up early to shoot sunrise along the north Shore. Group dynamics are always an interesting part of the workshop experience. You want a mix of women and men, ages, and experience levels, and a healthy sense of humor. This class certainly had that. Of the ten participants, four were women, and there were four climbers. This was great and added an instant sense of brotherhood to the group. The age range varied nicely, with the youngest being seventeen. Of all the workshops I've done over the years, the energy of this group was among the best I've seen. With fifteen hours of sunlight, it quickly became apparent that sleep deprivation would be part of the program. The sun set at about eight thirty and rose at five. We were out late at night, up and out the door again by four or four thirty each morning. My philosophy for field sessions is to put people on location at the right place and right time so they have the opportunity to make exceptional photographs. I try to be available to help folks with their gear and equipment, answer questions, creative advice, and offer one-on-one time as participants work. I roam the area seeing if anyone needs help, but of course, also want to make some great images and feel obliged to bring quality work back to the critiques. So as the light begins to peak I’m often running from one location to the next, trying to bag my shots.
After our morning shoots we ate breakfast, downloaded and edited our photos and prepared for critique. The critiques are probably the most important part of a workshop. It is here that what we discuss in lectures, see in the field, and capture in-camera all come together to be evaluated. There are always amazing and unexpected images. You can put folks together at the same place in the field but will never see two images alike. In evaluations, people always say that they learned the most from critique, not just of their own images, but in observing and participating in the critique of what everyone else did as well.
When I was in college I was often frustrated by some of the soft-ball critiques art teachers would give to work that was obviously crap. Then, while working with Galen, I saw a whole different method. In his workshop critiques, he was always encouraging, never cruel, but dead honest in evaluating images. He would focus on the potential that an image had to become a finished piece. In this way, he found a positive way to give a tough critique that would inspire rather than intimidate a young photographer.
As we got deeper into the workshop, the participants really hit their artistic stride and the quality of their work increased with each critique. We all got accustomed to working creatively on limited sleep.
One direction I’ve been pushing is digital storytelling, and how we use photography as part of the way we tell stories and document our lives. So as the end of the workshop neared, we each worked on a final assignment to tell a story in pictures. I wasn’t sure how this would work, but with the mounting pressure of final critique, everyone went deep into the “zone” and came out with amazing projects. (I'll have to post some of those at a later date). All too soon, the class was over. Someone produced a case of Fat Tire (thanks Carol!), we toasted our new friends and parted, each in our separate ways. Over the five days we had a profoundly bonding creative experience. I want to thank all of the participants for a great workshop. I hope to see you again some day and will always cherish the time we shared chasing light on the shores of Lake Tahoe.
-Jerry Dodrill
http://www.jerrydodrill.com