Gadd’s Truth: Classroom Earth
I didn’t know it on the summit of Mt. Savage (name changed, as it’s self-incriminating), but I was in the midst of committing multiple crimes against unbending natural laws. Ignorance of these laws never buys a reduction in sentence, and the sentences are often biblical: stoning, entombment and lightning strikes straight from the heavens. But I was yet unaware of what my sentence would be.
My late friend and noted American alpinist, Jeff Lowe, once wrote roughly, “This planet is perfectly designed as a classroom for humans. The dimensions and living architecture of the mountains, polar ice caps, rivers, oceans, jungles and forests are perfect for extracting every last ounce of effort and creativity from us. As individuals we learn the most by an intimate acquaintance with all of its natural laws; all of its colours, textures, sights, sounds, smells and tastes; all of its miraculous plants and creatures and the fantastic balance of the entire system.”
I have the full quote on my wall as a reminder that my job in the mountains is not first to stand atop them, but to use all my senses to learn from them and to understand their natural laws and their systems. If I do that, maybe I’ll stand on top of them and come back better.
But as outdoors-people, we tend to focus first on the technical how: knots, rescue, anchors, fires, poop etiquette and sleeping bag temperatures. And then the physical training, so we can be “ready” when physically challenged. But Jeff’s words often echo in my ears as I’m out on skis or paddling across a lake with clouds building in the distance: I’m in a giant classroom, and my presence is as relevant to that system as a gnat, meaning none of my technical systems are meaningful if I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time. My safety and enjoyment of the outdoors depends first upon my understanding of Classroom Earth.
On the way down Mt. Savage, the cold crunchy snow I’d climbed up was already an oatmeal mess, and I held my breath on every softening snow bridge I had to cross. For the crime of being too late on the route, the sentence was temporarily suspended, but I noticed the sun’s heat and the lack of wind were warming the day up fast. I had really screwed up.
As I followed a ridge down toward the ice face below me, my footsteps kicked off some snowballs, which grew into giant pinwheels and launched into space. As I dropped onto the ice face, my boots kicked off a small wet slide that headed downward carrying all the snow I’d enjoyed on the way up. If that much weight hit me, it would knock me off the mountain—a death sentence. I figured out I could cut sideways across the face, starting slides as I went, and then quickly cut back across the now-cleared ice while it was still solid. The mountain court was in session, and the defendant’s plea of youthful exuberance was denied.
The next 30 minutes on that face are burned into my mind. It took only a few minutes for the new surface ice and snow to melt and release a new mini slide. At the bottom of the face, I had to traverse back underneath the giant solar oven avalanche generator. I used small rock outcroppings like bridge abutments to hide behind while I waited for the slides to go by. As soon as one passed, I’d zap across the gully in its wake, playing a reality video game with no extra lives. It’s a measure of how crazy that experience was that I felt massive relief when I was below the tottering towers of the ice Jenga seracs I’d run past on the way up. But was all that moisture lubricating their fragile bases as well? There is a not-so-fine line between the caress of the sun’s warmth at sunrise and the harsh terror of midday death-rays in the alpine.
Twenty-five years later, I flew past the south face of Mt. Savage on a paraglider at almost exactly the same time of day I’d soloed the peak. I was close enough to the same face to hear the rocks and snow falling down it; but in the air, I was having the flight of my life, riding the strong thermals generated by the same death rays that had almost killed me before. Earlier in the day, I’d ridden morning thermals formed on the high east faces that caught the sun’s first rays. Later in the day, the thermals would be coming off the west faces; then late in the evening, the northwest faces. And that is exactly where the rockfall that kills so many climbers would also be at the same times of days. For skiers, the north faces hide from the sun’s weaker warmth, creating a stronger temperature gradient that would result in the snowpack’s base creating facets, and no thermals. On the southern faces, we’d find winter sun crusts and thermals in the summer.
I’m now a very motivated student of the day’s energy balance every time I walk out the door of my house into Classroom Earth; I’m on an endless quest to try and understand the mountain environment. Why is the ice on my sidewalk staying firmly attached in late January but starting to melt off my eaves? The sun’s low winter angle won’t put much energy into the sidewalk, and it’s covered by ice so it’s reflective. My roof, however, is nearly 90 degrees to the sun and has black shingles poking through. Albedo (colour and material’s effects solar energy absorption) and angle of incidence to the sun always matters. We have to understand daily and seasonal solar variation to survive in the mountains. I didn’t on Mt. Savage—and almost didn’t.
All Classroom Earth knowledge is connected and each day and season has a predictable progression based on the sun’s position. This is one of the most important natural laws and systems to really understand whether you’re a climber, paraglider pilot, skier, paddler or just looking for a great place to eat lunch on a cold winter walk (find a south-facing hillside protected from the wind, preferably with some bare rocks to sit on and help warm the air up).
The longer I live and work in the mountains the more I see the interconnections and energy balances our natural world goes through every day. One day I hope someone finds a sort of Einsteinian “E=MC2″ theory to link and understand all the magic that goes on every day in the mountains—and that helps us avoid the various sentences from hours of terror to death that I’ve experienced—or seen. I’d love to be able to predict serac failure accurately, and the exact time when snow melt turns safe paddling streams into dirty raging rivers. But until then all I can do is remain a wildly motivated student of Classroom Earth. There is no arguing with rockfall or any consequence of the natural mountain laws, they are always right, and they expose our ignorance with all the sympathy of a wrecking ball. At the same time Jeff’s Classroom Earth theory rings true; there’s a lifetime of deeply meaningful learning to be done no matter where we are in our outdoor careers.
This article was initially published in the Spring 2024 issue.
