Down To The Wire Book

[Serafin Sonnier]

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So I bought what i thought was galvanised wire to tie down my trees in their pots. I repotted 10 trees and now Im seeing rust on the wires on the underside of the pot. Am I in big trouble here? should I repot them all or is the rusting wires ok for a season?

If esthetics is not a priority you can run a new stainless wire from the bottom and tie to strips of bamboo that are above the main root ball. The traction on the wire puts pressure over a large area and allows the roots to grow underneath. I have done this with native junipers and it hold even the tall trees that could move in the wind. Send us a photo if you can.

Tackling electrical projects without expertise can increase the risk of injury and damage. Hire a licensed electrician instead. For challenging tasks, trust the professionals at Down To The Wire Electric.

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Outdoor lighting is an essential aspect of your home or business. It enhances the curb appeal and increases the safety and security for your family. There are many forms, from soffit to recessed lighting to pathway lighting for decks. Each type of light serves a...

Throughout 2021, the average American experienced seven full hours of power outages in their homes. Do you remember the last time you went without electricity? These situations can range from annoying to downright life-halting. The next time your home loses power,...

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The common thread here is that I came back from a life-changing series of medical challenges. First viral spinal meningitis, then Guillian-Barre Syndrome, a rare, debilitating auto-immune disease. I was able to get better and try to get back to where I was, so to speak, despite some neurological damage. The desire to get back into the greater ranges is what got me back on the horse to go climbing again.

EVERYTHING IS BLACK AND SILENT. My right cheek stings against the coarse, cold snow. There is an acrid smell and taste in my mouth as it fills with blood. The entangled rack hangs precariously from my left shoulder. I struggle not to lose it but am incapable of preventing it from falling down the face. Except for my head and mouth, I am completely paralyzed.

Three days before, on June 15, as I first peered through my binoculars at the north face of Mt. Augusta, I realized Charlie Sassara and I were in for more of a challenge than we anticipated. Blue ribbons of ice wove their way from the bergschrund to the top of the face, forming a perfect 3,000-foot line as they connected through the rock bands. It was more technical than I had imagined from the photographs. Nonetheless, I was excited by the prospect.

Mt. Augusta is a 14,000-foot peak that straddles the US/Canadian border. The south side of the mountain lies on American soil; the north side belongs to Canada. I had wanted an objective that was challenging, but not overwhelming. I needed to be cognizant of the altitude and the cold: my feet still went numb in cold conditions, the the result of the Guillian-Barre. Mount Augusta seemed like an appropriate goal.

Charlie and I spent a day and a half after we first landed looking at the face, watching it, glazing it constantly, and doing our homework. We did most of the approach as well. Thirty-six hours after arriving, we left at 4 a.m., skinning on top of an incredibly hard crust that left almost no trace of our passing. Two miles and 1,500 feet of elevation gain later we cached the skis, roped up, put our crampons on and headed across the final cirque, scampering quickly beneath the seracs. We reached the bergschrund at 8 a.m.

The pitch took two ice screws and a shitty Spectre. I found decent rock anchors, hauled the pack, and brought Charlie up. As I belayed, I gazed across the cirque at the serac walls we had sprinted beneath just minutes before. A huge cloud engulfed the glacier below with windblast and debris. Timing is everything.

Charlie led through, climbing with the pack. When he reached an overhanging overlap that had bad protection, he wisely hung it from a piece of gear, pulled the roof, and led the rest of the thin mixed slab to the end of the rope.

From that point on we led every pitch with a pack, swapping leads and even simul-climbing a bit between the third and fourth pitch. The climbing was fun but demanding. When it was steep, the snow was shite; only thin iron was useful, and it was difficult to place in the shattered metamorphic rock. Nonetheless, many of the pitches were classic: enjoyable alpine ice flowing smoothly up the face.

I led the twelfth pitch of belayed climbing over to a sound rock buttress with bomber anchors, then brought up Charlie. Now the Alaskan ledgechopping fest began. As often happens when you really need the ice to be thick and fat, we hit rock. The ledge was one person wide.

Leaving my pack, I tied into one of the eight-mil ropes, took the rack, and climbed up forty feet on easy snow and some moderate mixed ground to the first ledge, where I placed a .75 Camelot. The ledge sloped badly under the snow cover, and was no better than what we had below.

The rock had glanced against my head, cutting into my scalp beneath my helmet, then shot across my right shoulder and into my neck and back at a forty-five-degree angle. The rock had knocked me forty or fifty feet onto the perfectly placed Stopper. I stopped on the snow twenty feet above Charlie, from which point he then lowered me directly to the ledge.

I flopped around like a rag doll. When he grabbed my chest to turn me around, a tremendous pain shot from both sides of my sternum. He used my parka as a litter to reposition me on the ledge; I screamed with the slightest movement. Blood covered my entire head. Three of my teeth were gone and my face was covered in blood as well.

Any movement, any contact from Charlie made me retch in agony. I had a deeply sickening sensation of fear, and shock, and pain. When he finally got me sitting on the ledge, I slumped over like a wet dishrag.

Kenny had suffered a severe head wound and a broken femur. The only option was to secure him and leave him alone while I tried to get help. I downclimbed the face, skied ten miles unroped down the West Fork of the Ruth Glacier and finally radioed our bush pilot for help.

I felt like I was slipping into a state of unconsciousness. If I went unconscious, I feared that I would never wake up. I fought dutifully, diligently, to stay awake. But I felt so sick, I hurt so badly, that I thought that I was done.

I started telling Charlie things about my mother and my girlfriend Pat that I wanted him to tell them. I had never done this before, and I could tell that it disturbed him. At the same time, he was attentive, and tried to encourage me.

Once Charlie got me horizontal, he worked tirelessly, getting me fully clothed with an expedition parka, putting both foam pads underneath me and then putting both sleeping bags (we had thirty-degree synthetic bags to save weight) on top. He continued to melt water, hydrate me, and give me food.

Charlie pulled the tent millimeter by millimeter around me as I sat in an upright state. Once I was inside, he put the pads, the sleeping bags and all of my gear inside. He placed my pack underneath my head and hung the stove.

Charlie had melted four and a half liters of water, and he gave it to me, along with the two and a half cartridges of fuel that remained. He left all the food except for what he needed to get back to the base-camp tent.

The ledge was not very wide, and I was in a precarious place. I needed to be anchored, so Charlie placed an ice screw through the inside wall of the tent, wrapped a sling around my hips and clipped me in. Then he cut off a piece of yellow eight-mil rope, which was still tied into my harness, and ran the rope out the door of the tent to my original three-piton belay anchor.

The north face of Augusta is tight, steep terrain, and we were halfway up its 3,000-foot lower wall, with another 4,000 feet above that to the summit. The best ship for navigating this kind of ground that we knew of was the Llama helicopter. A Llama was stationed at Denali National Park. The problem was we were in Canada, in Kluane National Park, 300 miles from Talkeetna and the Llama. We both agreed we needed to call Daryl Miller.

Daryl is the chief rescue coordinator ranger for Denali National Park. A Marine, a veteran of two tours of Vietnam, a former rodeo clown and a native Montana boy like myself, Daryl is also a good friend to both Charlie and me. His vast experience with rescues on Denali, his coordination of governmental agencies and his sincere concern as a fellow climber would facilitate his ability to work out a memorandum of agreement for a cross-border operation.

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