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Available today: Backcountry Skiing California's Eastern Sierra

Our friends in Mammoth Lakes, California have just released a stunning and informative new guidebook to classic backcountry ski descents in the Range of Light. Together, authors Nate Greenberg, a GIS Cartographer by trade, and Dan Mingori have personally skied each and every line featured in the guide. Presented with clear maps, detailed with a wealth of data and first-hand accounts, and complimented by gorgeous photography - this backcountry ski guide will be a welcomed addition to anyone's bookshelf.

Take a glimpse into the book and place orders here at Wolverine Publishing.

With a speed record of 2 hours and 21 minutes on the Grandes Jorasses, Ueli Steck climbs the third of the Alps' three most important North faces and sets a new solo speed record!

On Sunday, December 28, 2008 Ueli Steck soloed the Colton-Macintyre route on the North face of the Grandes Jorasses in 2 hours and 21 minutes. (The Grandes Jorasses are a chain of linked summits on the Mont Blanc massif.) He summited the highest point of the Grandes Jorasses, the "Pointe Walker" (4208 m).

The Colton-MacIntyre Route on the Grandes Jorasses, picked out in red.

Ueli Steck has now climbed all three important Northfaces in the Alps (the Eiger Northface, the Matterhorn, and the Grandes Jorasses), setting new speed records for each route. On February 13, 2008, Ueli Steck set a new speed record soloing the classic Heckmair Route on the Eiger Northface in 2hr 47min 33sec almost a year to the day since he first broke the speed record for climbing the North Face of the Eiger. On March 14, 2006 Steck climbed the technical demanding Bonatti route on the Matterhorn in 25 hours. This is not the fastest ascent on the Matterhorn Northface ever, but it is an absolute record on this historical route. Walter Bonatti needed five days for his first ascent in 1965. The French alpinist Catherine Destivelle soloed the same route in 1994 in three days.

For Ueli Steck, the Grand Jorasse represented his only missing speed record. The only way to get to the wall is long and difficult. A big challenge for someone travelling solo. On December 27, 2008, Ueli Steck places his small Mountain Hardwear tent on the glacier not far away from the face. He spends the afternoon studying the wall. The big difference between this route and the Eiger: he doesn't know the route. For Ueli Steck, this route is completely new.

By Jon Bowermaster

Leopard Seal

We spent New Year's in the appropriately named Danger Islands (Darwin, Beagle & Heroina), the easternmost point on the Antarctic Peninsula. Wild and windy despite the blue sky, we attempted to land on Heroina but were thwarted by surf and the 600,000 nesting penguins who call it home. Just offshore we cruised through beautifully sculpted icebergs, resting spots for both penguins and birds as well as predators as well, especially the big, lounging leopard seals. In the heart of the Weddell Sea, in the midst of the Erebus and Terror Gulf, all around are huge icebergs broken off from the Larsen Ice Shelf. These are not soft, cuddly bergs but the big, tough, ship-sinking variety broken off the Larsen due to a decade of warming temperatures here along the Peninsula.

By Pat Goodman

When my good buddy Ryan Franks asked me to join him on a sailing venture to the Bahamas I was initially hard pressed to accept. First off, I had not even been back from India long enough to unpack my bags. Secondly, I'm the kind of person that has to plug their nose to jump into the water.

However, after being persuaded by a few beers and the prospect of travel through the fabled Bermuda Triangle (I'm a sucker for adventure!) I found myself at the bookstore looking for a book on sailing - after all, I had never even been on a sailboat before.

Ryan's plan sounded simple; shove off from Charleston, SC and sail down to the Bahamas, some 500 nautical miles away. He suggested it should take 4-6 days. Given my 2 1/2 week time crunch, that would allot us roughly 1 1/2 weeks to frolic in tropical paradise before my flight back to NC.

Dolphins swim around Pat's sailboat

View more Photos from Pat's trip

While making last minute preparations in Charleston a few of the local hardened sailors got wind of my inadequacies as an able seaman. The visuals they quickly managed to implant in my mind were a far cry from the relaxing tropical vacation I had envisioned - vomit spewing from my mouth and nose as a result from the certain sea-sickness I would have to endure, capsized boats followed by weeks in a 4x4 life raft and my most dreaded fear ever; failure.

Eight hrs after our departure the seas began to intensify.

By Jon Bowermaster

Six a.m. and the sea is clouded by a morning mist, making the always mysterious-looking Elephant Island appear evermore ... mysterious. Its sharp rocky peaks climb out of the Southern Ocean in inverted Vs; the tide is high, washing out the few shallow beaches that ring it. Just off Point Wild - named for Frank Wild, Ernest Shackleton's right hand man - penguins feed near the surface of the gray sea and a solitary Weddell seal curls up in the rocks. Just around the point we watch a leopard seal rip a penguin to bits for breakfast, flopping it around on the surface like a rag doll.

Point Wild, Elephant Island, Photo by Fiona Stewart

I wonder how Elephant Island would have fared historically if this weren't the very beach where Shackleton and the twenty two men from his crushed "Endurance" had pulled and sailed to back in 1916. It is impossible to land on the beach this morning, due to the high tide, but I have been here before. Even when the seas are calm and the tide low it is a narrow, rocky, inhospitable place. That they managed to sail their trio of tiny lifeboats here, to the far eastern end of the South Shetland Islands, at all is a miracle. That they survived for many months on this thin sliver of rock is testament to ... well ... I'm not sure what exactly. Fortitude? Patience? Belief in myriad higher powers?

Minus the Shackleton quotient, I doubt many around the world would have ever heard of this rocky lump. But today it holds a historical context far larger than its minute circumference. Bobbing in the rough seas just offshore, I can make out the monument built by the Chileans who sailed to the rescue aboard the "Yelcho" to rescue Shackleton's men.

Check out our photos from Ouray!

Link to Flickr!

AlpineExposures.com posted this article with wonderful photographs from Ueli's climb on the North Face of the Grandes Jorasses. These photographs give a better sense of the Mont Blanc massif's incredible beauty. Enjoy!

Scroll all the way to the end for Luca Signorelli's rundown of previous record ascents on the Grandes Jorasses.

Read Ueli's account of his climb.

By Jon Bowermaster

Ernest Shackleton had an intimate relationship with South Georgia. He stopped here for a month in 1914 before sailing the "Endurance" to its crushing fate in Antarctica; a year and a half later with five others he sailed the gerry-rigged lifeboat "James Caird" 800 miles across the Scotia Sea to King Haarkon Bay, arriving on May 9, 1916; and in 1922 he returned, died and is buried here.

On a warm and sun-filled morning we land at Fortuna Bay, to repeat the last chunk of Shackleton's legendary and unprecedented climb across South Georgia. A steep and muddy tussock hill leads to fields of broken slate, which climb gradually to 3,000 feet. The higher we get, the more stunning the landscape grows: tall, spiky, far off peaks covered in snow, clear mountain ponds, tufts of soft moss scattered among the shattered scree, waterfalls tumbling off nearby walls.

Photo by Fiona Stewart

It was the whalers of South Georgia who first warned Shackleton that his route to the northern edge of the Antarctic continent was likely to be barred by unusually heavy concentrations of ice that had arrived the year he sailed for the Weddell Sea in December. He went anyway; we don't know what he was thinking when he left South Georgia then nor what exactly when he thought when returned via the "James Caird." In retrospect would he think it had been a mistake to take the "Endurance" down that season?

By Cynthia Houng

A mountain is a vertical world. As we move upwards, we travel through layered ecosystems. Here in the Sierras, we pass through open sagebrush desert (on the dry East side) or rolling grasslands, then chaparral, then forest (pine, occasionally mixed with oak), high montane meadows (often wet with mountain streams), until finally we break through the timberline and enter a strange but beautiful land.

Washed by intense sunlight and scoured by strong winds, these high alpine landscapes are a study in contrasts. Delicate, jewel-like plants blossom beneath an endless sky. Miniature columbines and gentians grow amidst massive stone peaks.

I fell in love with these alpine landscapes while still in graduate school. Those long summer breaks seemed designed for long trips to the mountains, and I spent as much time as I could outside, above timberline. This became our summer pattern -- to alternate days of hiking or climbing in the high Sierra with lazy days lounging with my papers and notebooks. On one of these rest days, I picked up a copy of Anne Zwinger and Beatrice Willard's classic Land Above the Trees: A Guide to American Alpine Tundra. First published in 1972, Zwinger's book remains a classic in the field, presenting a lucid overview of North American alpine ecosystems.

Andrew McLean would like to test your skills.

Play Andrew's game and you could win a Mountain Hardwear tent.

Go to the Chuting Spree and get your first clue.

By Dawn Glanc

In December I returned to Ouray Colorado for another season of ice and mixed climbing. This would be my fourth winter in Ouray and my third year competing in the ice festival. This year I was more committed than ever to try to win the Ouray Ice Festival. I began to train for this goal on December 2. My training routine was very intense this year. I went out mixed climbing all day, 6 days a week. I hit the gym immediately after climbing 4 nights a week. I did yoga every morning for at least 30 minutes and did what I could to have a good healthy high protein diet. I adopted new training partners this year as well, which I believe was the true key to success. Andres Marin, Paul "Pablo" Stein and Geoff Unger held my string day after day. These guys gave me the encouragement and "shit talking" that I needed to help me excel. It was a grueling regimen that I strictly followed for six weeks.

After a rigorous and intense six weeks, the festival arrived. The town of Ouray awoke from its winter slumber as 1000 ice climbers flooded the town. The town began to bustle. Vendor booths cluttered the ice park and eager climbers were everywhere. The energy was high and people were psyched.

The day we had been preparing for arrived. Saturday was a beautiful blue bird day, the kind that we have grown to love here in Ouray. It was warm and sunny, and I could not contain my excitement. Andres and I headed to the park to get warmed up. We were both really stoked for our turn to compete. It seemed like an eternity passed as we waited our turn to climb the route.

Dawn Glance climbing at the Ouray Ice Fest

Finally my number was called.

Skiing or Ice Climbing?

By Will Meinen

Here in the Rockies it's an awfully long winter, and it's a good idea to have more than one type of arrow in your quiver.

I use to exclusively ice climb in the winter. I was young and I loved being scared shitless. I thought it gave me character. Post holing through waste deep snow on the approaches, screaming barfies at the belays, brittle ice with no protection, and always wondering if or when the loaded snow-bowl would cut loose and come avalanching down. It's a masochistic practice at best.

Just as time will smooth out the roughest Scotch whiskey, time has had its maturing effects on me too. Sometime last year while I was slogging through the snow on my way to another lonely ice climb that never sees the sunlight all I could think about was how much fun my skier friends were having shredding their way down the same snow that I was having a horrible time trudging up.

By Mike Libecki

"With full rage and fury the tent exploded and ripped in two, tent poles flailed like slashing swords, our tent had transformed into a savage monster. We dove out of the tent-beast and watched it thrashing and swinging its broken aluminum poles and nylon limbs."

I have a love-hate relationship with gravity, mostly love, of course. Gravity is my friend as well as my foe, mostly friend, of course. Without both the good and bad, negative and positive, a beautiful, healthy relationship is just not possible. Without the possibility of being blown off a huge rock-wall by hurricane-force winds and falling thousands of feet playing off the goal of standing on a distant virgin summit (and celebrating with a nude dance wearing the current year's Chinese Zodiac mask), the challenges of big-wall climbing would not lure me like a dog in heat.

This yin-yang relationship has gone on for fifteen years now, this pairing of man and stone, this obsession for big-wall first ascents, this romance enriched by gravity. On five different expeditions to East Greenland in the last 10 years, my relationship with gravity has grown like a high school crush that turns into marriage.

Greenland reminds me of a fantasyland right out of my five-year-old daughter's princess-and-dragon books. There are the wonders of whales, polar bears, foxes, and seals, endless wild flowers every color of the rainbow (many edible), traditional hunting and fishing with the local Inuit people, and magical boat rides in harsh, ice-laden seas, with the glorious bonus of 24-hour sunlight reflecting off glassy, bluish-white icebergs of every shape and size.

When not on a solo expedition, I invite only my best friends and partners. We share in the mystery, live in the "now," and create memories together that will never leave the warehouses of our minds. My closest and most trustworthy climbing partner is Josh Helling. From early training days on El Cap through suffering ascents on Baffin Island and in Antarctica, our partnership has grown into a bond as solid as the granite we hang from. We have an unspoken, shared focus on safety, respect, experience, and the conviction that success means coming home alive; standing on the summit is icing on the cake. A climbing partnership is one of the most important relationships in life. It is handing over your heart and breath, your fate and future, the chance you will get see your family and friends again.

Utah-New York-Iceland-Tasiilaq, East Greenland. Before we left I arranged for a 22-foot arctic fishing boat--wrapped with an extra 30 millimeters of fiberglass for unexpected sea-ice collisions--to take us 230 miles through a psychedelic sea maze of giant electric blue icebergs and white geometric plates of frozen ocean. As we sailed south down the coast of the ice-capped continent, icebergs bobbing slowly up and down in the rolling sea swells punctuated the aqua-blue-bleeding-into-copper horizon. Time, water, and sun carve these ice masterpieces into beautiful abstract sculptures, some the size of cars, other as big as cruise ships. At times we disappeared into thick fog and, surrounded by tingling mist, we would find ourselves looking up at giant, striped arching ribbons across the sky, mixed with silver, gray, and white-metallic that formed ghost-rainbows.

Ghost rainbow and sea ice

Watch a larger version of this video on our YouTube channel.

Mountain Hardwear athlete Kenton Cool and crew tackle the Colton-MacIntyre Route