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As a retired electrical contractor and consultant I found this first hand account from Sports Illustrated fascinating.
Whole story @ http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vau...83/2/index.htm
Those wishing to climb to the top of the Grand Teton set out well before daybreak. It's safer to travel over any ice and snow then, when it's still likely to be frozen, and the early departure leaves time to hike all the way back down to the trailhead before dusk. One of the beauties of the Grand, the 13,770-foot signature peak of the sublime Wyoming mountain range and national park, is that it lies less than a full day's hike from the road. It's a world-class mountaineering experience that's also a weekender. There is another advantage to the predawn start: In the dark it is harder to discern the thousand-foot voids beyond the mountain's edge.
The appeal of the Tetons is obvious, even if you get no closer than a turnout on U.S. 89, 12 miles away. With no foothills, the 40-mile range rises from the earth's crust in one precipitous sweep, like an ax through a door. Upon seeing the mountains, Teddy Roosevelt is said to have remarked that they were ideal—the way a child draws them—and it's easy to see his point. The pinnacles are etched like a fever chart into the Western sky.
On Wednesday, July 21, 2010, the handful of parties hoping to summit the Grand Teton all awoke early. They were camped above timberline, some in a seasonal hut, others in tents; a few climbers, taking advantage of the clear night, had unrolled their sleeping bags between boulders and slept out under the stars. The day before, the forecast had been typical for the Tetons in summer: partly cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms by afternoon. But overnight the likelihood of a storm had increased, so the commercial guides hustled their clients out of their sleeping bags at 3:30 a.m. At close to 4:30, three self-guided groups began pulling on their harnesses, helmets and headlamps, and a half-hour later they were making their way with coils of rope up through the talus and bands of cracked rock to the near-vertical terrain below the summit. They were aware of clouds on the horizon but determined to get to the top and back down before they closed in. They had less time than they imagined.
The appeal of the Tetons is obvious, even if you get no closer than a turnout on U.S. 89, 12 miles away. With no foothills, the 40-mile range rises from the earth's crust in one precipitous sweep, like an ax through a door. Upon seeing the mountains, Teddy Roosevelt is said to have remarked that they were ideal—the way a child draws them—and it's easy to see his point. The pinnacles are etched like a fever chart into the Western sky.
On Wednesday, July 21, 2010, the handful of parties hoping to summit the Grand Teton all awoke early. They were camped above timberline, some in a seasonal hut, others in tents; a few climbers, taking advantage of the clear night, had unrolled their sleeping bags between boulders and slept out under the stars. The day before, the forecast had been typical for the Tetons in summer: partly cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms by afternoon. But overnight the likelihood of a storm had increased, so the commercial guides hustled their clients out of their sleeping bags at 3:30 a.m. At close to 4:30, three self-guided groups began pulling on their harnesses, helmets and headlamps, and a half-hour later they were making their way with coils of rope up through the talus and bands of cracked rock to the near-vertical terrain below the summit. They were aware of clouds on the horizon but determined to get to the top and back down before they closed in. They had less time than they imagined.
By 11:30 a.m. the Tyler party had turned around. Mike set up a rappel—an anchored rope to descend on—through the Owen Chimney. He reached the bottom easily, and Dan had just started down the 80-foot chute when the first pulse of electricity coursed down over the wet rock.
The Sparks group, 150 to 200 feet below the Tyler party, also felt it. "I really don't know what you'd call it—it wasn't lightning like you've seen lightning," Vogelaar said. "It zinged down our rope. I felt it leave from my elbow. But I didn't see a flash. There was no boom that first time, either." Other climbers near Vogelaar saw blue sparks and arcs around their shoes, and the jolt lifted Cameron Johnson, another member of the Sparks group from Worthington, Minn., off the rock a few inches before setting him down, unscorched. For an instant most of the Tyler party climbers were more amazed than panicked, "but that's when we all agreed we should go down, now," Vogelaar said.
The Tyler party was mostly unaffected by that first bolt, save for Appleton. His right leg was numb. Dan Tyler, hearing Appleton cry out, "I can't feel my leg! I can't feel my leg!" stopped rappelling down and started back up the rope to help. He wouldn't get there.
Out on the Exum Ridge things were even more dire....
The Sparks group, 150 to 200 feet below the Tyler party, also felt it. "I really don't know what you'd call it—it wasn't lightning like you've seen lightning," Vogelaar said. "It zinged down our rope. I felt it leave from my elbow. But I didn't see a flash. There was no boom that first time, either." Other climbers near Vogelaar saw blue sparks and arcs around their shoes, and the jolt lifted Cameron Johnson, another member of the Sparks group from Worthington, Minn., off the rock a few inches before setting him down, unscorched. For an instant most of the Tyler party climbers were more amazed than panicked, "but that's when we all agreed we should go down, now," Vogelaar said.
The Tyler party was mostly unaffected by that first bolt, save for Appleton. His right leg was numb. Dan Tyler, hearing Appleton cry out, "I can't feel my leg! I can't feel my leg!" stopped rappelling down and started back up the rope to help. He wouldn't get there.
Out on the Exum Ridge things were even more dire....
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