Placing a piece of climbing gear properly is just one part of trad climbing. The other part is checking the rock. Is it hollow? Is the crack a crack in the rock or a crack in the earth? A "crack in the earth" is always going to be better than a "crack in the rock."
In many granite areas, chickenheads—rounded knobs formed by differential erosion—offer surprisingly strong natural anchor options. When a sling is wrapped low and snug around the feature, it can create a secure, multidirectional attachment point without placing any metal gear. Before trusting one, climbers assess the rock carefully, looking for fractures, exfoliating plates, or grainy surfaces that could crumble under load. A solid chickenhead, properly slung, distributes force smoothly and resists walking or lifting when equalized with other pieces in an anchor.
These features are especially valuable on runout slabs, wandering ridgelines, and faces where cracks are sparse or nonexistent. Because the sling cinches tightly against the base of the knob, outward pull is minimized and stability is improved even as the direction of force shifts. Extending the sling appropriately prevents leverage and keeps the system aligned with the expected load. When paired with additional natural features or gear placements, chickenheads can form part of a redundant, low-impact anchor system that leaves the rock unaltered.
Used thoughtfully, these humble knobs become reliable protection points. They reward careful inspection, good rigging habits, and a climber’s eye for subtle terrain features that others might overlook.
On May 18, 1980, Mount St. Helens produced the most destructive volcanic eruption in U.S. history. After weeks of earthquakes and steam blasts, a magnitude-5.1 quake triggered the largest landslide ever recorded. The mountain’s bulging north flank collapsed, abruptly releasing pressure and unleashing a lateral blast that flattened forests for miles.
An ash column soared more than 80,000 feet, turning morning to twilight across the Pacific Northwest. Fine ash drifted east for days, coating towns, highways, and rivers in gritty fallout. Aircraft were grounded, engines failed, and communities shoveled ash like snow. Pyroclastic flows and mudflows raced down valleys, clogging waterways and reshaping entire landscapes.
Fifty-seven people died, and countless animals perished. Homes, bridges, roads, and recreation sites were destroyed. The summit collapsed into a vast horseshoe-shaped crater, lowering the peak by over 1,300 feet and permanently changing the skyline.
In the decades since, scientists have watched life return to the blast zone. The recovering terrain has become a living laboratory, improving volcanic monitoring, hazard planning, and emergency response worldwide, while standing as a stark reminder of nature’s power and resilience.
The rest step is the quiet superpower of efficient uphill travel. Used in mountaineering, backpacking, and steep snow climbing, it allows you to move continuously without burning out. Instead of walking with a constant rhythm, you pause briefly on every step with your rear leg straight and your weight stacked over your skeleton, not your muscles. This micro-pause lets your quadriceps relax and your breathing settle before the next step. Over thousands of steps, the energy savings are enormous. The rest step turns a lung-searing grind into a sustainable cadence, helping climbers conserve strength, manage fatigue, and keep moving steadily for hours on steep terrain.
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A shot of someone as they fall into the crevasse. Alasdair Turner Photo.
The Abilene Paradox describes a peculiar group failure: people collectively choose an option that none of them actually want because each assumes the others do. In mountain travel, it shows up constantly.
A team commits to a questionable slope. Climbers keep moving toward a summit as the weather turns sketchy. Skiers drop into terrain that makes everyone quietly uneasy. No one says a word, because everyone believes the rest of the group is comfortable with the plan.
This is a classic heuristic trap—a mental shortcut that predictably leads to poor decisions. It blends the desire to fit in with the tendency to defer to what looks like group consensus.
The issue isn’t competence. It’s communication.
Once a team slips into this pattern, it often takes only one extra factor—a wind slab, worsening visibility, a small navigation error—to turn a marginal choice into an accident.
Avoiding the Abilene Paradox starts with a simple habit: say what you actually think.
Before crampons had front points, climbers solved the problem of uphill travel on snow with a move that feels backwards—because it was.
In piolet ramasse, the ice axe is held across the body with a hand on the adze and the shaft braced along the forearm. The spike is planted behind the climber for balance. Since early crampons gripped best when toes pointed downhill, climbers faced the fall line and stepped uphill in reverse, keeping all their points engaged while the axe provided steady support.
It’s counterintuitive by modern standards, but elegant for its era—and a worthwhile technique to try for historical insight and balance practice.