Flashback: suncup eights on Blackfoot Mountain

After seven months, three failed attempts to transfer the photos, and a bit of slow blogging time, I’ve finally got everything together to actually tell (and perhaps remember) a ski trip from this July past. To tell the truth, this was in the same 4th of July weekend that saw me skiing Iceberg Notch, but enough with the excuses–it’s winter now, so here’s a piece of sandal wearing summer skiing.

Originally, I’d been eyeing a snowfield on the northwest face of Mt. Jackson. Just as I saw on the Notch, spring rains had ripped snow out of the hills, and the line probably wasn’t going to go. That meant flexibility, and since Rose and a group of folks from the Park Cafe had just climbed Mt. Logan in the same basin, I though of Blackfoot. Glacier travel makes it one of five “technical” peaks in Glacier (all of which have been successfully done without gear), so it’s a dubious designation. The line, though, promised some of the most connected July skiing available.

Clay, fresh off a stint of staring at and banging rocks in Canada, hitchhiked to the shuttles with his backpacking, skiing, and glacier travel gear. I found him looking severely clean shaven on Logan Pass. Our backcountry permit gave us a night at Gunsight Lake before our climb, so it was off to the trailhead. Diving into the brushy track down to Reynolds creek, our ski boots drug through dusty alder–we were definitely in for an adventure.

We rolled into the backcountry campground a couple hours later. Gunsight Lake sits at the base of a cirque full of waterfalls. Even filtering water and munching bars on the gravel beach next to camp feels scenic.

A steep track (“Not recommended for pack stock” on the sign) leads into the glacial basin. One side sees the remnants of Jackson Glacier, while the other leads up into the Blackfoot Glacier. To get a better perspective on our line, we grabbed the lids of our packs (which, in a stroke of luck, become fanny packs) and hustled up.

Routefinding.

Though without service, Clay phones in a request for sunshine.

During the wander back to camp, clouds knit themselves above the valley. Though I’d already donned my shells to keep the ferocious mosquitos at bay, it started to rain as we cooked our couscous. Wasn’t much of a downpour, but it left the brush wet, and stray bits of drizzle during the night meant that, come morning, our hike to the glacier would be a soggy one.

Five am. Behind the sound of my watch alarm came the rasp of something chewing just across the campsite. A headlamp check revealed a deer trying to get salt from our pole grips. Breakfast would wait, we’d filter water higher up, so camp was struck, and time to don packs. Stashing a beer in the creek for the return, Clay’s lamp lit the narrow slice between shrubs studded by raindrops. Halfway up, my shoes were beginning to slosh. To make matters worse, the spot Clay had called in the sun was covered in dense fog. Descending the moraines with care, we crossed into the bottom of the glacier basin.

Early light showed that the fog was low cloud cover, stretching across the valley. Clear conditions were our navigation plan, so after climbing the east terminal moraine, we sat for almost an hour, wondering. But there wasn’t much for it–we’d hiked six miles to camp, four more to check it out, crawled through the wet shrubs–too early to give up. Balancing on the rocks at the edge of the snow, we stashed our hiking boots, roped up, and skinned into the fog.

But it was only a couple hundred feet thick. Time for sunscreen, sending it, and that bit of euphoria released after sitting beneath a boulder for an hour wondering if the whole thing was shot to hell. A quick series of gullies between moraines and the rock face lead us onto the glacier proper.

Despite the spring rains, the glacial surface wasn’t too cracked out. We’d brought a picket apiece, planning to use axes or skis to make other snow anchors should we need them. Moving off a bench and up onto the higher glacier required negotiating a couple cracks/bergschrunds. I set our pickets as running protection, and we made the traverses in fine style.

Once above the cracks, another traverse above some downslope holes was required. I remember thinking that another picket would be super nice. Never the one who seems to find gear in the mountains, I was completely shocked to look down the rock ledge to see a picket and quickdraw lying there. Still haven’t found the owner, so if you lost it, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll keep using it.

Switching back into our skis, we made good time across the upper flats.

The summit snowfield was another switch back into our crampons. Clay lead it, finding a lone mountain goat looking down on us at the top.

Looking over to Harrison Glacier on the backside of Mt. Jackson.

Later in the season, some friends would have a high-angle confrontation with an ornery grizzly sow and two cubs, but we were lucky to drop our crampons for an easy three hundred foot rock scramble to the summit proper.

The fog had burned off, we’d been just fine on the glacier, and looking back down the glacier and valley to the trailhead, it seemed a long way to have come to make July turns. On the way out, we met David Boye and his buddy Gary on the trail, who talked about how “in your twenties, you don’t really think about efficiency or practicality in trip planning.” Which was fair. We’d carried camping, skiing, and glacier travel gear through summer foliage, over moraines, and then used some of it to get all the way up here. A single day assault might have been lighter. There were things in my pack I probably didn’t need. It’d be a long walk out.

But of course, we had 3600ft of skiing ahead of us. Clay drops in.

Digging our edges into the slushy goodness, all the lame things I could say about why it’s worth it to drag skis in just evaporate. Clay skied the first pitch, I followed.

And since it seemed like a good idea, we made some slush eights down the upper face: 

Clay fills in:

Once back at the cracks, we had to make the call about how to get back across. Standing above it that morning, it occurred to me that the slope was perfect for just jumping across. Looking at it again, it seemed the simpler option. And probably easier than down climbing.

I’d call it the benefit of freeride eyes in mountaineering. A long traverse, and we were back atop of the gully where we’d left the fog. Near the bottom, we grabbed our boots, and negotiated some cracks and rocks, but the eights came back.

At the bottom, the hiking boots went back on, and we retraced our steps over the moraines, back to the lake, to the beer we’d stashed in the creek that morning, and out.

On the trail, we got a chance to look back at the route from afar.

The weight of the skis on our packs was a reminder that we’d been up there, across the valley, in July, making slush eights as people backpacked and hiked by. It feel neither “practical” nor particularly “efficient.” The hill back up to the highway wasn’t much fun. Now, in the middle of winter, with tons of options and plentiful snow, it’s good to look back on July and how we made use of the snow then, our youthful enthusiasm, and this gorgeous playground.

Many thanks to Clay for his companionship, photos, and uncanny ability to bring good weather on our trips.

Mindless on Mt. Merritt

Glacier National Park is home to six peaks over 10,000 feet. Last week, my buddy Mitch and I found ourselves in line at the Apgar Backcountry Permit office at 6am, hoping to climb two of them.

The initial plan was hatched on a random drop in to Mitch’s house earlier in the summer. Over homemade pesto, he mentioned that he was looking to climb Mt. Merritt, one of the tens,  and Mt. Cleveland, the highest peak in Glacier. We put dates on the calendar, and that’s how we found ourselves at Apgar a full hour before it was set to open.

Usually, that’s enough time to be first in line. In recent years, the popularity of Glacier has exploded. People of all stripes have been flocking to the park, including backpackers who fall in love with the scenery and deal with the somewhat medieval backcountry permitting system to sleep under the stars. However, we were third in line. Because four offices open at the same time, we were in competition for something like twelve to fourteen groups connected by the same internet-linked reservations system. With a limited number of sites available in the Belly River, our subsequent nights got gobbled up by other groups. We left with one night at the head of Glenn’s Lake, about a fourth of our intended itinerary, no thoughts of Cleveland, and an inkling that the trip we were about to embark on was going to be a bit silly.

Rose got off work in the afternoon, and we had twelve miles to cover after leaving the Cheif Mountain Customs trailhead. Three of those went by before the rain started.

Thunder echoed all over the valley, gullies on the mountains became white with sudden streams, and the vegetation overgrowing the trail brushed water onto our legs and boots.
I got the squishy feel of water in my only pair of socks (only out for one night, right?) as we neared the Belly River ranger station.

Cleveland in the thunder.

Wet crossing over the Belly River.

Near the foot of Cosley Lake, things got extra overgrown. Meaning extra wet. Though the storm seemed to be clearing out as it got dark.

It was a wet crew that rolled in to eat dinner at 11pm. No idea how my phone transformed  Rose into a zombie. I fell asleep listening to water drop out of the trees onto our tarp.

Breakfast. 5am wakeup. And the worst part was putting dry feet into wet socks into still wetter boots. A bright spot: oatmeal.

Good morning, Merritt.

Crossing the north end of the lake.

Mitch and Carl.Water stop at Mokowanis. Looking up at the Stoney Indian peaks and Cleveland.

The Edwards route description notes finding elk trails across a “vegetated gully.” Given that we were the third party to summit this year, it comes as no surprise that we weren’t able to find much. Heading into the soggy shrubberies.
After some serious sidehilling and a bit of cliff scrabbling, Mitch and Rose top out in the cirque.

We stopped for a break, dried socks and maps, and I realized that the thunderstorm had frosted the summit of Kaina Mountain with the first new snow I’ve seen this year.

Yay for winter. I can’t wait.

Drier socks on my feet, there was a bit of scree/talus to traverse before the gully scrambling begins. No real goat trails through there, and the storm from the hike in kept the rock wet. Mitch starts the real climbing.

Just above the algal reef, an outcropping of particularly hardy rock that we cut through via a nice little shelf, Rose looked up and said, “Bear!” We all watched a nice blonde griz make a hasty retreat up through the cliffs and into the draw to the left. Despite the fact that bears can be anywhere at any time of year here, I admit that my guard was down. Pretty impressive to see it move so fast up the shelves and scree.

Carl near the top of the cliffs. At this point, we’d done nearly 1500ft of scrambling since leaving the basin.

Cresting the ridge, we got our first views to the south. Mitch drinking it in.

From there, the route traverses a number of scree shelves above the Old Sun glacier. Rose heading across with Natoas Mtn to her upper right.
Yours truly bringing up the rear.A short arm of snow blocked the route, and Carl was kind enough to lead and cut the steps in for the rest of the crew.Some confusion about which of the two summits was higher ensued. The map and route description consulted, we headed up to the northern one.



While up there, I thought about the rainy trip in. My wet boots. How far we had to walk out that night. And really, those are the parts that make the summits sweet. That part of talus that doesn’t get any higher is flavorless unless it’s spiced by everything that comes before and after.

Back at the saddle for our water break.

And the descent.


On the way down, we found our elk trail. It emptied into a streambed infested by a large moose. We waited for him to leave, followed it down, and then saw why we couldn’t it find it on the way up.

It was easy overhead going, with lots of ripe thimbleberries to sweeten the ride. We made noise, ate, schwacked, and popped out at the lake to find some buddies enjoying their dessert.

No more photos from this point on is a testament to the grunt back out. A couple miles to  Glenns, and we we grabbed the rest of our gear. With no permit for that night, we were determined to headlamp our way to the trailhead. About six miles in, my feet were feeling it. Carl started telling cougar stories. Eight miles in, and sitting down wasn’t smart. Ten miles, and my stomach began to do backflips. One trip into the woods, and I thought I was good.  A mile further, and I hastily ran in there again, but didn’t make it in time. One am, by headlamp, holding up the group, changing out of soiled shorts into the other pair of underwear I had, my long johns.

Somewhere around this point the trudge entered the stupid level, where each foot propels itself forward. Blisters starting to form from still damp socks. Rose’s headlamp died, so I was lighting her feet and remembering for when I got there. A couple of times, the eyes across a field would flare in our lamps before heading off. At the beginning of the trip, I joked about the switchbacks right below the trailhead being punishment. Instead, I can honestly say I smiled when we hit them.

2:30am saw us laying in the parking lot, watching shooting stars. Earlier this year, two climbers I met on the trail mentioned that “while in your twenties, you don’t think about efficiency or practicality in your climbing trips.” They said this in reference to our overnight bags complete with skis and glacier travel gear. Lying there behind the car, it flashed back to me. I remember thinking, “well, they said efficiency or practicality, but at least we brought our headlamps.”

Thanks to Rose, Carl, and Mitch for sending it on such a fool’s errand. ‘Twas an honor to be out there with you all. Thanks to Mitch for his summit photo, and to Rose and Carl for taking my picture.

Fourth of July: Iceberg Notch

This spring, even while still in Alaska, I was dreaming of three choice couliors in the Many Glacier area. But by the time I got home and got them scouted, only one of the three was even somewhat skiable. Fourth of July saw photographer Myke Hermsmeyer and me headed out to ski Iceberg Notch.

Flagwise, it was a solidly blue collar specimen. The last one in stock at Cardinal True Value, it came with 3’ x 5’ flag, two attacher things, and a pole topped with a plastic eagle. The first purchase with my first painting paycheck of the summer. And it was riding into a Fourth of July couloir mission below Iceberg Notch, catching some serious commentary.

The sandals should have tipped them off. Two young guys wandering up the Iceberg Lake trail in Glacier National Park with nearly bare feet, Mike with a camera. Skis and spangles on my backpack. Fifty yards after every tourist comment about patriotism, I’d start laughing.

The Notch isn’t skied very often. By the Fourth, it didn’t go all the way from the top, and even what was skiable was suncupped, filled with fallen rock, off angle. A ten foot deep runnel ran down the upper section, and was only partially manageable at the necessary crux. None of the buddies who’d expressed interest could make it over, so the only company was Myke over the radio.

A quick, cold crossing of the outlet steam brought me to ski boot time. Once on snow, I rigged leashes from my harness to the axe and Whippet to make instant anchors. The flag was wrapped up so it didn’t snag on something while I kicked steps up the center of the snow.

The apron proved to be mellow, the runnel navigable. Eventually I found myself on an off-camber patch of steep wall, gaps to my left and right, and a crack across the snow above
me.

There’s something to being a fly on a glacial wall—exposure below, the consequences stark. An intrinsic immediacy, maybe, that whatever is going to happen won’t take long. This was far enough for today. I planted my axe and switched crampons for locked Dynafits.

Skis give confidence. Even though the points of crampons and ice tools hold more certainly, the act of facing downhill with boots buckled tight brings familiarity. The first turns were quick, but reassuring—it’d go. Definitely. After a little difficulty in the crux, I heard the flag flapping above me while arcing down to the lake.

A roar came up, and after first checking for rockfall above me, I realized that it was a crowd cheering on the other side of the lake.

On the hike out, we passed many of the folks that watched. A few wanted to take pictures, and we got more talk of patriotism. Pride in the country. We wished people a happy Fourth.

Drinking a beer on the deck of the hotel, I wondered about how far the irony of it carried.

Politics and government didn’t seem worth celebrating with the flag on my pack. Nor troop invasions or tort reform or DOMA. But the place that we’d been—the wildness, with a couloir rising upward and reflecting between icebergs in the lake—that held the value. Patriotism, in our sandal-wearing fashion, looked towards the parentage in the outside world. A sort of Mother’s/Father’s Day for the places that nurse us, that make a backyard the home where freedom is as simple as a pair of picks and some skis. And that’s why the flag was there, why the Fourth was worth celebrating. God bless skis, buddies, sandals, and crampons. ‘merica.

Huge thanks to Myke Hermsmeyer for his photographic skills and Rosemary Till for her hospitality.

Denali Fo’ Real: Part 2

And we’re back. If you’ve returned after that last massive missive, thanks. If you’re just wandering in, this is part two of three from my Denali adventure this spring. The third section, which will include our summit day and leaving the mountain, will be along shortly. I left off just as we arrived at 11,000ft camp.

All the prep and travel to get to the mountain had the effect of winding me up. Some of my buddies talk of getting “itchy” after extended stints of normal behavior; there was no question that I was raring to go by the time we set foot on the glacier. Excellent weather only made me want to take advantage in case we got cut off by an incoming storm.

Arriving at 11,000ft camp, I was stoked. Over the past few days we’d made serious progress on the mountain. Our team worked. We had what we needed. We’d made friends. The night of our arrival, we got our first gifts from an expedition lead by a climbing ranger: cheddar cheese, salsa, and reindeer sausage. Grant savored his meat treats while I threw restraint to the winds and clobbered the whole lot of cheese.

And it felt good. Many folks have asked what surprised me most about our trip, and I’ve pointed out that it went beyond my previous experience in many categories. The most winter camping. The heaviest loads and sleds. The greatest elevation gains. Altitudes above 12,000ft. The largest amounts of glacier travel. I guess there’s a certain amount of hope that one will cope well with all those difficulties—I certainly believed that we’d be up to them—but to have it actually happen is vindicating. Lying there in the tent at 11,000ft, it was undeniable that we’d be doing well.

Rest was the objective of our first day. We’d done 3200ft the day before, a grand of it with all our gear. The sun was well overhead and the frost on the tent had long since melted into water by the time I got up. For the first few days on the glacier, I’d refused to wear my noseguard. On one hand, it was pride, because there’s absolutely nothing even remotely cool about noseguards. On the other, it changed the fit on my glacier glasses so that light came in underneath them. I’d tried to be diligent with sunscreen instead, and had a bright red and aching schnozz to show for it. So to make up for my stupid pride, I did the sensible thing and covered the chapped skin in duct tape. It stayed on for two days and, while looking even less appealing than the noseguard, allowed it to heal somewhat. After that, the noseguard was on every day.

Right above camp is Motorcycle Hill, supposedly so named after the even steeper hills that see motorcycle hillclimb competitions. The good weather had many groups in the same state of excitement I was exhibiting, so we watched various ropeteams jockey for position, take different routes, and eventually all get stuck crossing a crevasse at the same point. Good spectating was had from camp, warm mugs of oatmeal in our hands and down booties on our feet. Later in the day we skinned up Motorcycle Hill and found the few pow turns to be had there.

Sometime after we got back from our ski, the Army boys rolled in and set up camp right next to us. They’d sit on our counter/bench, give us candy or poptarts, and tell stories that made me weep from laughing so hard. Guys that I’d probably never talk to elsewhere became friends to joke and struggle with. Just before we went to bed, the Swedes arrived, called us Cinderellas (I still am not sure why), and we helped them dig a cache.

The next day dawned the coldest yet. In the shadow, we packed up most of our food and gas, our really cold gear, and set off up Motorcycle Hill.

Slow and steady, we made our way up towards Windy Corner. When nasty, it’s common to see 60-100mph gusts cutting across the rock bands. For us, it was still and sunny. Going up the hill right before it, I thought I smelled white gas, which seemed strange given that there weren’t any camps nearby. A hundred feet before the top my ass started to burn, and the smell was getting stronger. Upon opening my pack, the fumes got worse and it became apparent that our lucky streak had ended.

Nearly everyone on Denali burns white gas as fuel in their cookstoves. Most of it is purchased from the air taxies, who stockpile it on the glacier and give it to you when you arrive at Kahiltna Base. Following the elevation, the two gallon cans in my pack had ascended nearly 13,000ft from where they’d been put on a plane in Talkeetna. Amongst everything we’d made happen, we hadn’t opened them to equalize the air pressure with elevation. That caused them to leak, and some bolts on the frame of my pack rubbed holes in the plastic of the garbage bag that contained them. Two and a half sticks of precious butter had been soaked. My pack reeked. The white gas had leaked onto the waterproof bottom, soaked through the seam into my hipbelt, and soaked into my pants. Which accounted for the burning sensation. Frustrated, I repacked everything and poured water on my pants to dilute the gas.

A guided group at Windy Corner.

Just shoveling out our cache at 13,500ft took our breath away.

After wanding it and clicking in, we made turns back to camp. 7.5 hours up, 15 minutes down. All fun and smiles.

Until I pulled out my avalanche beacon to turn it off. Safely back in camp, I realized that some hardware flapping on my harness must have struck the screen. With the crystal broken, I had no idea of the battery life, and the search mode was only auditory—no arrows or distances. It was the second setback.

Sound sleep usually follows big days, and this was no exception for me. I was out like a light, until awakened by what sounded like Grant hacking up his third lung for the evening. I must have dozed off. 5am, and I open my eyes to see Grant wide awake, reading. Not at all normal. He’d been up all night hacking, and while he explained this the coughing fits would interrupt him. Scrolling through both our heads were thoughts about HAPE—we were within  the elevation range, and Grant has a history of altitude sickness. Shortly behind those were thoughts that the whole expedition might be in jeopardy. We talked it through, reiterated our commitment to coming home safe before everything else, and changed our plan.

With good weather in the forecast and momentum behind us, the strategy was to head up to 14,200ft camp that day. Get past Windy Corner with our gear, acclimate, relax, and then push for the summit when the weather gave us a window. With only three days of food in camp, the supplies weren’t there to wait out whatever the cough or a storm might bring. I found a couple of guys we’d met the day before, Robert and Edward, and asked to rope in with them. I’d go up and grab food from the cache, come back, and in the mean time, Grant would try to call my uncle, a doctor, on a borrowed sat phone to see if we could get some expertise on the situation.

Throwing some bars in my jacket for breakfast, I hustled to get ready. Edward was about to leave the Air Force, and was prepping for a speed ascent. While I tied my prussiks on, he mentioned that Robert, a priest by occupation, had been hit by a truck at some point and suffered frontal lobe damage. I realized that I was tying in with two of the crazier people on the hill. We flew up the hill, and they fed me Snickers bars at 14,200 camp while I took it all in.

Robert leading below the Messner.

Gapers. Real gapers.

Another Foraker shot. I wonder if climbers over there constantly take pictures of Denali.

14,200ft camp feels like the epicenter. Above, the fixed lines trace up to a saddle at 16,200ft. Rescue Gully drops into cracked, icy aprons below 17,200ft camp. A few over, the Messner Couloir, Orient Express, and West Rib all drop nearly 5000ft from the Football Field that sits below the summit.

Fixed lines.

Messner is on the right.

From above, the camp itself looks like a town: a central sort of broad thoroughfare, with the sprawl of walled, tent subdivisions springing up around its periphery. Only 6000ft from the summit, it’s the first place that really feels within striking distance. Knowing that I had to descend, grab food from the cache, and potentially not make it back up that high if Grant took a turn for the worse made it bittersweet. Our lack of experience at altitude wasn’t helping us, so I asked a few friends already at 14,200 what they thought. The general consensus was that it was some sort of respiratory bug that came from the cold, dry air. Optimistically, I dropped in and enjoyed the skiing back to 11,000.

“Want a picture before you head out?”

Grant was doing much better when I returned. Coughing only occasionally and smiling, he’d been chatting with folks in camp and had come to the same conclusion—probably just the dry air getting to his lungs. The plan was to take another rest day, and head up to 14,200ft the day after. My brain was sporting an altitude headache, so I took a nap while he cooked dinner.

The offday saw us basically sedentary. I built a lounge chair of snow and read Moby Dick in the sun. During our training, I’d anticipated the fun of off days—just getting to hang out in the snow, no real goals for that day. Lazy style in the midst of a ton of activity.

The Swedes in their 11,000ft camp.

The next morning, it was back on. Feeling similar to our second carry day to 11,000ft, we kept up a good pace, took breaks, and made it into 14,200 camp in the evening.

“This, kids, is a rainshadow.”

Looking up to Windy Corner.

A few hundred yards out of 14,200ft camp.

We’d backcarry for the cache at 13,500ft the next day, but for the moment it was wonderful. Taking a spot in what we later learned to be an empty Alaska Mountain School camp, it was only a few hours before the Army boys joined us, pitched their tents, and the neighborhood resumed.

Prior tenants dug a massive amphitheater-style cook pit, so we all piled in to melt water and share the stoke of arriving.

My last trip up had been in different conditions, with the expedition hanging on how Grant would feel. To be there, have our stuff and friends, and stare out at alpenglow on Foraker while brushing my teeth—it’s another in a massive series of moments, each valuable enough on their own to be worth remembering for years, all compressed into a tight bundle that sparkles differently from each direction in which it’s viewed.

That was the first night I was cold. With morning temps around -15F, it was always a bit of motivation to get out of the sleeping bag. After, I started sleeping in my heavy long johns and Fitzroy. Which only added to the motivation issues. Perhaps the best qualifier for that couple minutes of hopping around in the vestibule and changing is the view. The trick seems to be a vista with a gravitational pull equal or greater to the contentment of staring at the tent ceiling, totally toasty. For those wondering, I took a Mountain Equipment Iceline down bag. 800ish fill power, rated to -12F (-25C). The next step of armament would have been a -40F bag, and that was overkill. With my clothes layers to amplify, it worked great.

As motivation to get our cache, Grant and I promised ourselves a pancake breakfast after we returned.

The Army boys grab their cache.

Our unqualified pancake disaster (eating mushy, half cooked doughballs) from a Stevens Pass trip was swiftly dispatched by expert-level non-stick pan handling.

Drying out our bags.

Later in the day, we did a little walk over to the Edge of the World, a spot with a view off the glacial bench that 14,200 occupies. It looks some 6,000ft down into the NE Fork of the Kahiltna, the distance that I earlier showed an avalanche sliding down.

If we’d hauled it this far, might as well enjoy a nip.

Colton and Troy from the Army came with us, and when we returned, the Swedes had arrived to fill out the neighbors.

Each evening, folks at the Airstrip would relay the weather forecast at 8pm via the little handheld radios. Everything seemed to stop for a couple minutes while the decisions for the next couple days were determined by what the little voice would say. 14,200 camp was different in that the NPS camp posted a weatherboard, so it was easier to make plans if we’d missed the forecast or just plain couldn’t hear it. That second night at 14,200ft was a Tuesday. Weather was supposed to roll in during the weekend, and with it our summit bid time seemed to be closer. If it was Sunday, we could swing it: cache Weds, rest Thurs, move to 17,200ft on Friday, summit Sat, head down Sun. If it held. Any sooner and we’d be interrupted, on the hill longer, and possibly running out of belly fire to get the thing done.

Shadow crossing into camp for the evening.

Foraker, 2AM. By Grant. I was asleep.

Following the plan, we headed out to cache the next day. Sleds aren’t much use above 14,200ft camp, so it was just our packs filled with food, skis strapped on the outside for the ride down. There’s no proper name for the headwall below the fixed lines, but it just gets steeper the higher you climb. An hour or so out, the fog came in. We watched a group of injured climbers make their way off the ropes with assistance from the NPS folks. After, we walked over, clipped our ascenders on, and started up. Having seen the lines from below, it’s obvious that you’re exposed to falling and crevasses below. Rockfall from above. Though in the fog, it consisted of cuplike steps in the ice.

Stops to clip around the pickets anchoring the lines in. More of a slog than an awareness of the place; a huge mountain rendered down to the little circle of visibility.

At the top of the lines, 16,200ft, it was intermittently clear. Clouds seemed to be cupped in the cirque above camp, pouring over into the Peters Glacier on through the notch. Grant realized he had cell reception.

Pile of rope and anchors when we stopped.

Then the real climbing began. Though there’s a plethora of pre-placed running protection into which to clip your rope, a fall would certainly be a bad choice. The Peters Glacier lurks somewhere down to the left, and on the right, clouds obscured the rock face crowning the ice down to 14,200ft camp.

Somebody who didn’t quite fit into the kindness of the mountain theme had pulled all the biners from the running protection. Leading meant piling most of our spare biners together, clipping them in one by one, and Grant would pull them as the rope fed up to his harness. Slow progress. Though at least it’s steep, with rocks peeking out or actually in the way. After all the glacier slogging it felt like we’d finally found a mountain.

By the time we hit the base of the Washburn Thumb at around 16,800ft, I was beat, woozy from the altitude, and wondering about how deep a cache I could dig. The hardest part proved to be finding a spot on the ledge that wasn’t already colored with urine.

Descent proved easier than I’d thought.

Grant exits the fixed lines.

Getting to the bottom of the fixed lines, we switched into skis and partied through six inches of dust on ice. Somewhere, I slashed to throw up a bit of snow. Flakes filled my glacier glasses, rendering the rest of my ski somewhat blind. I chortled and yelled my way into camp, thinking that I wasn’t any crazier than any of these other people. It was comforting.

Rest day pile in the tent.

The next day, we rested. Sort of. Grant managed to get through Game of Thrones and guarded the tent from unoccupancy. I read, then got itchy and went sledding in my camp booties with one of the Swedes. We picked up a pile of food from some Quebecians and a guided group on their way down, so I got to surprise Grant with a large package of Pop-Tarts and some peanut butter cups. Gio, one of the Army boys from SoCal, grabbed some bags of bagels. The XKG was converted into a toaster, and the food party was off to a great start.

Grant cooked up freeze dried potatos O’brien at 3pm. The Swedes had long since divided themselves into a cook and a dishwasher, and the cook brought over a cheesecake he’d made over the stove.

Krill with his cheesecake.

No idea how that worked. Delicious. We probably drank some whiskey too, though I don’t see that in my notes.

The night before, I’d seen a couple of guys ski below us as we descended from the lines. After wandering over to their camp it became apparent that I’d finally found the other Montanans on the mountain. Kurt and Craig proved to be suitably badass, having made their summit a few days prior. They were hanging around and hoping to get up into the Orient Express. Late in the “rest” day and somewhere in the middle of our food party, I met up with them and we skinned up to the bottom of the fixed lines to make three more tracks in the fresh snow.

Skis and the fixed lines–a match made in heaven.

And Grant.

The food party was prep for what now feels like the hardest day on the mountain. Per usual, it took us forever to get out of camp. Our packs were heavy, only to get heavier when we picked up the cache at 17,000ft camp.

Instead of stashing our skis, we carried them up the lines. While Grant chatted with his girlfriend at the notch, I talked to a couple guys heading down, and realized we both know Ryan, one of the guys at ON3P in Portland. Heading up, we grabbed our cache, and promptly got involved in a tangle of folks on the fixed lines going around the Thumb.

The Army guys were just above it.

For the rest of the walk to 17,200ft  camp we followed them over narrow spines and rocky moves with the heaviest pack I’d yet carried. The scenery was worth it, and as we walked around a shoulder to see camp, Denali Pass and the Thunderbird Couloir popped into view.

17,200ft camp.

Me walking over to the edge. I think that’s a hair on the lens of Grant’s camera.

Looking back at the ascent route–it goes right up the top of this ridge.

Best of all, we’d cleared the clouds. With nothing taller to block the sunset, the rays kicked down until almost 1am.

The Thunderbird Couloir sits in the middle of this black rock face. So tantalizing. Denali Pass in the center of the photo.

Autobahn, and the way up.

We made camp, scattering our gear in a somewhat organized way. I gaped at Foraker for about the hundredth time. After staying away all trip, I took some Diamox to help acclimate. Dinner was macaroni and cheese. We were beat, tired, spent, and we fell asleep knowing that in the morning, we’d try to ski off the summit.

Part three, which will include our summit day and leaving the mountain, will be coming very shortly. Thanks for stopping by.

Denali Fo’ Real: Part 1

Sorry about the delay. One of my hopes for this blog is that it goes a bit deeper than just soundbites, so the writing takes time.   In order to do this justice, I’m breaking the story up into three pieces. Thanks for waiting. Hope it’s not a boring tower of text. Here’s the first installment.

Midnight was my cut off. Around me, friends about to graduate college or leave for the summer danced or discussed their way through the second round of G and Ts. Many had finished their last assignments for the semester, and were looking forward to a few more drinks, a sleep in, late breakfast. Earlier in the week I’d picked up a cold from my sister, so I’d been napping and Dayquiling my way through that last seventy two hours. Hard to say how gin works on a stuffy nose, but I was tired. Time to leave. As I said goodbyes, a few told me to stay. I repeated the same thing I’d been saying all night—“Sorry. We fly north to Denali tomorrow.”

Since the schedule of my own college years, I can’t remember a date that I knew so far in advance. “We fly north on May 17th.” I’d said it a couple hundred times. Each was a moment to mentally check how many weeks, then days to gather gear and get those last few things. As I left the party and woke the next day on a couch, it felt like noticing that oil change sticker in my windshield matched the odometer. The trip, which only two weeks prior had been only thoughts, was palpable. Getting more real by the minute.

Grant and I met up at his place in Mill Creek to assemble our stuff. From here until the ski plane hit the glacier, we’d be at the mercy of all our stuff. Pickets, macaroni, skis, Lil’ Jon; everything to survive in a cold tent for a month.  Here’s most of it spread out across Grant’s living room.


Thanks to Grant’s plane travel regimen, we were both able to bring two checked bags for free. Given Alaskan food prices, it seemed better to bring more north since we had the space. That meant three checked bags apiece, carrying our slimmed-down packs on the plane, and ski boots stuffed with waterbottles as a “personal item.”

After some last minute shopping for lunch and snacks (Fred Meyer) and radios (REI), we rolled into the airport with three hours to spare. Grant walked off to get a cart. He came back. “They’re five bucks.” We thought about it for a bit, and did the math. “Six checked bags. A few at 50 lbs, a few others that were less.” I gave in to not schlepping the nearly 300lbs to the terminal, disregarding the fact that we’d be pulling most of it up the mountain. “I’m getting one.”

My sister and buddy Mark (who graciously drove my car back to Tacoma) arrived with an extra expedition duffel. We said goodbyes, and piled our flotilla of nonsense onto the stupid cart. Everything went smoothly through security. Boarding the plane, it occurred to me that we were literally flying to Alaska. More and more real.

Clouds obscured most of the trip north.  Grant sat by the window, and though I usually sleep on planes, it didn’t happen. We landed in snowflakes, the glow of the latest light I’d ever witnessed still lighting the tarmac.

All our luggage arrived on the carousel, and thankfully the ski bag stuck out the Oversize window. Piled outside on the curb, it was impossible to miss that we were another couple of climbers in a grand tradition of arriving in Anchorage. Just inside the door, a couple of sleep deprived guys stood next to a giant pile of expedition bags on a cart. After introducing myself, I promptly forgot their names until they camped behind us on the Kahiltna. They’d been traveling 26 hours from Sweden, and both had the name of Kristian (which also led to some confusion at first). As I thought, it turned out they were headed for Denali too. West Buttress. I tried to make jokes, and though I initially thought they were a little awkward, it was probably just that they hadn’t slept.

A month or so before, I’d arranged with my friend Sarah to give us a ride to Talkeetna. She rolled in with her boyfriend Wes, and I was thankful they drive a Landcruiser for two reasons. One, we had a lot of stuff, so much so that the ski bag got strapped to the roof. Two, it was snowing. After a quick grocery stop for a few more things and whiskey, we hit the road north amid flurries. A slushy road and somewhat stumpy trees (cottonwoods) were my first experience of Alaska. We scouted for moose and talked about the old legends of the PNW freestyle ski scene as the flakes came down.

Rolling into Talkeetna at 2:30am, I realized that it might be a problem finding Talkeetna Air Taxi and our place to sleep. It was the only time I used my headlamp all trip, despite carrying it all the way to the summit—habits die hard. Eventually, some guy walking his dog (who walks their dog at that hour?) pointed us toward the Pavilion. The snow had at least six expeditions backed up before we’d fly, and that meant the bunkhouse was full too. On the phone, they’d mentioned “it’s not heated, but it’s dry.” I replied that we were prepared for the cold. After unloading our gear, Sarah and Wes took off. Huge thanks to them for the ride up, especially in the dark and snow through those moose infested swamplands.

I’d guess it got light at 4am. After a magnificent introduction to The Roadhouse’s breakfast, we spent the day getting oriented, our gear repacked, weighed, and ready to fly. Our NPS orientation, mandatory for all parties on Foraker and Denali, was a great help. Many last minute questions were solved, and the climbing rangers were all very friendly. By noon, it’d cleared out and planes roared off the airstrip all afternoon. We took a trip to the AMS shop, and concluded that you could probably outfit an entire expedition there. Really great selection of last minute knickknacks (wet wipes, noseguards, slings), so I’d recommend a stop there. As we left, Grant expressed how we were both feeling: “No more buying things. We’re done.”

Talkeetna itself is a really interesting mix. Without the proximity to Denali, it might just be another group of Alaskan locals (typically burly men with large beards operating power tools while wearing rubber boots) who cater to tourists from cruise ships. Instead, an international cast of climbers awaiting their trips or looking for real food post-freezedried mingle in. Julbos are actually in fashion, and after a little while, I stopped doing double takes when I saw people wandering around town in 8000 meter boots. To their credit, the locals made every effort to make us feel welcome.

After a ramen dinner, we wandered over to the river. Standing on the accumulated ice on the edge, we watched icebergs head downstream. Looking to the northwest, I freaked out.
“Oh god. Look at that thing.”
Grant: “What? Those spikey mountains below the clouds?”
“No. Look above the clouds.”

As a first real glimpse of our objective, it was pretty stunning. Denali doesn’t stand. It towers in the skyline. The layers of mountains and cloud beneath it make the vista pretty impressive. Given that Talkeetna is at 360 ft, we were looking up nearly 20,000ft to the summit. That’s a larger altitude discrepancy than anywhere else on land on Earth. I walked back into town feeling a little daunted, and promptly bought a KitKat.

I’ll take a quick moment to note that Grant’s camera, much like everything we owned by the end of the trip, seems to have been covered in hair. Including the lens. So if you’re wondering why some of the shots have weird thingys on them, there you go.

At 8:30 the next morning, TAT sent a van over to the bunkhouse (which we’d moved into), and we loaded up. Wandering around the airstrip in our ski boots, dressed for the glacier, we loaded our gear into a Beaver and took some pictures. In retrospect, it’s funny that the airplane’s colors matched our toilet for the next few weeks.

Despite living in Mill Creek, right under the flight path of nearly every aircraft that flies into or out of Boeing, Grant had never been up front in a small plane. He won the rock/paper/scissors, which seems just. The flight confirmed my swampy suspicions. In every direction from Talkeetna, there were frozen rivers through frozen swamps under leafless trees. So Alaska was nothing but swamp.

Then we turned west, and I had to amend that—Alaska is nothing but mountains. Approaching the Alaska range, they start small and get big. Really big.

We banked through Singleshot Pass and over the Kahiltna. One long sweeping right, and we were on the glacier.

Our plane on the runway.

There’s enough of a hustle when you land that it takes a few minutes to hit you. Moving bags off the runway, dropping off a registration card with the base camp manager, moving gear up the hill to a campsite.

But when that spare moment hit, and I got a chance to look around, wow. BIG. Everything is big. Huge, unnamed glaciers hanging off the mountains. Foraker across the way. Hunter directly on the eastern flank of camp. Mt. Frances to the north, and Denali visible through a pass. All around, tents of folks coming or going to the Buttress or other wild destinations that may or may not have ever been climbed before.

On that note, Mountain Equipment athlete and all around badass Jens Holstein was right nearby during our time on the mountain. Though I didn’t know it and didn’t meet him there, they put up a first ascent which makes the Buttress look like child’s play. Check out his report to see how real men climb mountains.

I guess I expected some sort of giant revelation when we landed on the glacier. Of all the steps, it seemed the biggest, and perhaps the realest in our planning. When my moment of clarity didn’t quite show up, it was nice to know that we’d been thinking and buying for months. After a full run-through of gear, we’d only forgotten a couple things:
-A whisk broom for sweeping frost out of the tent. Moisture from our breath would condense and freeze to the tent walls. This made getting out of my bag that much harder, as no matter what you do, you’ll touch a wall or the zipper and get snowed on. When sun hit the tent, it would melt the frost, meaning the whole thing would be wet. Instead of the broom, I just used my mittens, and got very good at sweeping with them.
-Dish soap. It’s amazing what snow and hot water will do, but sometimes cheese just doesn’t come off for a few meals if you don’t have soap. With minimal flatware, it can mean the water tastes like tea or oatmeal.

As we arrived, at about 10:30 or so, many groups were packing up to leave. The general theory about traveling the lower Kahiltna is to do it at night. This means the glacier will be colder, more frozen, and less likely to drop one through the many trapdoors atop its crevasses. Before June, it’s less of a concern, but mid-day still isn’t ideal. Plus, we had plenty to do.

There’s as many crazy contraptions for hauling as there are theories about sleds. Stiff poles, rope rigging, jet packs, catapults for all I know. If you bring your own, maybe it’s more fun. For us, like most of the groups we saw, the ones provided by the air taxis at base camp worked just fine. They’re just kids sleds, and since we arrived after a bunch of other parties immediately following the poor weather, the pile of plastic looked a bit beat up. From its bowels we pulled two magnificent steeds of orange toughness, one already christened “Swamp Donkey.” Grant took that one, and I titled mine “Da Oprah Whin-free” with a Sharpie. Using a bit of 6mm cord, we made attachment points and haul systems. Some folks suggest bungies, but given how many times the cords got wet and then froze, I’d hesitate to use rubber strapping. Trucker hitches worked great. I also made sled brakes out of webbing with a couple knots, and we didn’t use them until the descent.

Denali with the Swedes’ tent in the foreground.

I reorganized gear and food while Grant dug our basecamp cache. After we’d done our chores, a hill we’d seen from the airplane called our names. Going up the fork of the Kahiltna, we skied our first pow of the trip.

The temperature was quite pleasant in direct sun, but as the shadow of Mt. Frances crawled over camp in the evening, it dropped. All around camp, down would appear on everyone outside. This held true through the whole trip—the shadow meant less going on, more going to bed. To be frank, we were a little cold. Washington had downright balmy, and wandering into winter came chilly. Not unwelcome though. And after a few days I noticed my body functioning more like it does in the winter—overall running warmer. Temps that required a puffy at basecamp needed less higher on the mountain.

The next morning, we blasted off. After being sick in Washington and all the transit days, I was itchy to move up the hill. Plus, the weather was just as sunny as the day before. We’d been gifted, and I wanted to take advantage. It’s actually downhill out of basecamp, an incline named Heartbreak Hill because of the emotions it inspires while returning. It’s the first test of any ropeteam’s sled system. Ours proved to be no less squirrelly then other folks. Roped up, I lead down the hill sans skins, belaying my sled in front of my skis by its haul ropes. Grant followed in the same fashion, but keeping rope tension proved pretty hard. Each undulation of the hill would cause something to go askew, so though it was downhill, it proved to be our first test of patience with the stop and go that is glacier travel.

Once at the bottom, and on the Kahiltna proper, it’s a fourish mile mostly flat slog to 7,800ft camp. We were some of the first folks out of camp, the glacier was solid, and despite the 70 lbs in our packs and 80 lbs or so in the sleds, we made good time.

Looking ahead to Ski Hill. 7,800ft camp is right at the base.

Some folks use the Camp I, Camp II thing, but since every expedition seems to take a different approach, I’ll call them by their elevation in feet. Sorry to the meters folks.
7,800ft camp sits right at the base of Ski Hill, a very apt name. In our case, it should have been Straightline Hill, but that’s getting ahead of myself. Camp etiquette on the hill dictates that once a party leaves their campsite, it’s up for grabs. We snagged a particularly snazzy spot complete with a nice wall and a great cook pit/CMC usage area. Reusing pee holes keeps things more sanitary and picturesque, so that fact that we were parked right next to one you could practically fall into was even better.

I should take a minute to talk about the CMC. The best picture is the one where I’m holding it with the plane earlier in this post. Government shorthand for Clean Mountain Can (and who knows what people have come up with; we used Canadian Mountain Can every once in a while), the main theory behind this rotund little green cylinder seems to be that if you have a designated spot for everyone in the expedition to poop, it keeps things cleaner. Fitted with a screw on cap and its own harness, it was mountain ready.  During our orientation, we were issued the CMC along with ten biodegradable plastic bag liners. Once the liner fills up, tie off the top and toss it in the nearest deep crevasse. Specific crevasses near camps were marked with bike flags for this express purpose, and it was rare to spend a day around camp and not witness some roped up group wandering off toward the crevasse to chuck their excrement.

For whatever reason, we usually referred to the experience as “going to have words with the CMC.” My most memorable was certainly digging out a small ledge right below the Washburn Thumb and surveying the Peters Glacier at about 16,800ft—all whilst relieving myself. Usually, it occurred in some sort of walled area or pit in camp. We brought hand sanitizer to avoid getting sick, and I’d really like someone to make some that doesn’t pull the heat out of your hands when it evaporates. Get on that, Science. Besides my photo with the plane, the CMC never got a starring role in our pictures. Instead, it’s more of a “Where’s Waldo?” You can usually find it strapped to my sled or backpack when we were moving camp. Happy hunting.

So 7,800ft camp. As was typical, we put up our tent, exploded gear everywhere, melted water, and ate food. Grant usually took a bit to get to sleep. On the other hand, I would often pass out in fifteen seconds, give or take. I link it to the hard work, but there were a couple of conversations that randomly stopped when the party on my side of the tent responded with breathing or a snore. Before we dropped off, the shadow engulfed camp and we snapped a few pictures of Mt. Hunter and the moon. Did I mention that everything (aside from the pee holes) was beautiful up there?

Dawn of another perfect day caused rallyage. Our bagels were frozen. Our cream cheese was frozen. My sunscreen was frozen. On the outside of the cream cheese, it addressed our plight: “Do Not Freeze.” So we cut it up, half spread half sliced it onto frosty bagels, and chowed. Later, Grant would indeed sleep with the cream cheese to keep it warm.

Still excited by the weather, I wanted to do a double carry to 9,700ft camp. That’d mean doing the hill twice. We packed up the first load, mostly fuel and food, and headed up.

A two man rope team lacks the length and strength of three, but it makes a few things easier. The leader sets the pace for two people, meaning that tiredness or energy of only two climbers affects progress. In the back, the caboose has to keep rope tension for only one section, not two. Great weather and all the rest really had me wishing to send it, so I would gradually speed up on the hills. We’d hauled sleds before, but this was the first bit of significant travel with weight. I needed to learn to keep a slow, steady, consistent pace that didn’t jerk my rope partner and wasn’t too fast. Needless to say, this wasn’t easy.

Expecting something similar to the walls and tent city of 7,800 camp, we got all the way to about 10,066ft before checking the GPS. A little further up the route swings east to head up to 11,000ft camp. Grant had bonked and was coughing, probably a product of my going too fast. I dug the our cache while he tried to rest, but when we strapped our sleds onto our packs, he still wasn’t feeling well.

Our cache tag on an extra tall bamboo wand.

Easily the best part about hauling skis uphill is getting to use them on the down. We blew past a ton of folks on our way back to the tent. Some sections had powder, and lower down, it was a sort of wind mank. We stopped somewhere below the crest of the last hill and did a tandem straightline into camp, hooting and hollering.

While Grant napped, I brewed up some Ramen and  refilled our water.

It was really hot, so I wandered around shirtless for a bit. A bird flew into our tent. Amazing how good a cheap noodle soup can taste after a hard day of hauling. Doskrillos, the expedition name of the two Swedes named Kristian, rolled in to 7,800 camp that day. They surprised us by coming over to visit and bringing pudding. Very neighborly. By the time we got to bed, Grant was feeling a bit better. I vowed to go slower, so we plotted about going all the way to 11,000 ft camp the next morning.

The sun rose clear for our fourth day. We watched a slide come down from just below Windy Corner.

We packed camp, and hit our stride on Ski Hill. We both felt great. Clouds moved in near Kahiltna Pass, but that meant that things cooled down for our ascent.

On our way up, we passed the camp of a group of Army boys we’d chatted with at 7,800 camp. They’d left in the afternoon heat the previous day for a single carry to 9,700. I didn’t envy them. They were taking a rest day, and told us some stories while we took a break. Karl, one of the leaders, threw candy at us. I thought about the amazing unity that being on the mountain creates. I’d liken it to being at a sporting event where everyone’s rooting for the same team—just being up there in a common struggle brings folks together. Between the Swedes and Army boys, we’d spend a great deal of time during the rest of the trip. Cooking. Laughing. Telling stories. Sharing misery. And that’s the beauty of being on the mountain with so many other people. It’s not solitude; it’s the social dimension that makes life richer in any setting.

If it hasn’t been obvious, all of our water came from snow melted on the stoves. The true limits to how hard and far we could go were our reserves of agua—about three liters per person. We sat down to make some after grabbing our cache.

Following that, everything went back together and we headed up the hill in the fog. I suppose some food and gas weight had been used up, but it was hard to feel the difference with all the weight in our packs and sleds.

11,000ft camp is on the top of a convex rollover right below Motorcycle Hill. We chugged in tired, elated, a little loopy from the exertion at elevation, and ready to find a spot. Borrowing a shovel from some guys I’d given pieces of KitKat to earlier, we dug out a camp.

Dinner was a pile of starch and cheese. Perhaps the true achievement of mountaineering is that it makes generally crappy food taste like ambrosia. Falling asleep with the prospect of a late morning and rest day, it occurred to me that we were really there. Really on Denali, and managing to handle it. The tent flapped a little in the wind, and as was usually the case, I conked right out.

This is part one of three of our Denali trip. Check back for the next section, which will cover 11,000ft camp through 17,000ft camp. Thanks for reading!

Rewind: Mt. Baker in a day

Though I originally intended to get this done before I left for Denali, it didn’t happen. So here’s to catching up.

Mt. Baker is named for a third lieutenant of George Vancouver’s expedition. I imagine the dialogue aboard his ship went something like this:

Lt. Baker: “Hey, what’s that big snowy mountain over there?”
Vancouver: “I don’t know. I guess we’ll call it Mt. Baker, Lieutenant.”

Prior, it had been called Koma Kulshan by the native Lummi people, which essentially meant “white sentinel.” Fair enough. The Spaniards that showed up, fowled an anchor just north of Orcas island, and called it “La Gran Montana del Carmelo” appear to have been ignored as well. So we’re stuck with Mt. Baker.

My history with the peak goes back to summer of 2011. Though I was living and working on Orcas Island in the San Juans, three weekends of June saw me skiing up there. The first trip involved whiskey and jumping over tents. Then Grant and I kicked off our ski mountaineering partnership with a single day ski ascent of the north side. We got fogged out at 7500ft, but came back the next weekend. After camping at 6900ft, we popped out of clouds around 8000ft. A few hours of cramponing saw us on the summit. We skied off in 2pm corn.

Coming back to the PNW this spring, I had designs to go back up there. Some friends from Squamish were headed down. We met up in Bellingham, packed the cars, and drove up towards the Heliotrope trailhead in the late afternoon.

This would be a good place to put a picture, but it was really dark.

After a few hours of sleep, Carl shook me awake at 2am. We had some quick breakfast and started off by carrying our skis through the patches of snow, gravel, and asphault. After a little over a mile, we could skin. Rangers had told us that it was about three miles before the trailhead proper. Once there, we followed a snowshoe trail off into the woods. It took some doing, and eventually, we popped out of the trees just as the sky was lighting up.

Carl getting after some sunscreen.

Iris headed up one of Carl’s absurd TLT5 switchbacks.

Iris’ Achilles had been bothering her, so she decided to meet up with us on our way back. Carl and I roped up, put on ski crampons, and blasted off. I was in the back, doing my best to keep up with Carl’s massive strides. It’s the curse of being hobbitish with giant ski partners.

As the first real test of my B&D ski crampons, I’ve got to say that I was impressed. The grip is insane, they move well, and aside from some balling directly under them that I chalk up to skins that needed wax, no problems.

Carl around 8500ft on the Coleman/Demming route.

At the base of the Roman Wall, we switched to crampons. Somewhere right after, I started to feel the elevation and exertion. We’d come up 9K in only twelve hours.

Near the top of the Roman Wall. The wide shot is Iris’, and if you look closely, you can see us just below the top.

Once over the lip, we sandwiched on the summit for a bit. Carl was fine. My head was swimming a little from the elevation. We’d gone up nearly 11K since leaving Bellingham less than 18 hours before. The ascent from the car was just under 8K. Given that the conditions were perfect and we’d be able to drop several thousand feet quickly on our skis, it wasn’t too much of a worry.

As my first really big touring day on my new Tychoons, I was stoked to see that they performed so well. Light and fast on the uphill. They handle the mix of conditions I usually find in the alpine really well. And after shredding on bigger skis during the winter, it’s nice to take a break for something that moves so easily. The Tychoon features minimal tip rocker as well, which really helps it plane as the snow gets wetter at lower elevations.

Carl drops in.

And I had a blast too.

We met up with Iris, and skied slush most of the way back to the car. Many of the angles on Baker are really nice–long, consistent fall lines that you can just scream down. Certainly one of the more fun ski descents I’ve done.

Thanks to Iris and Carl for their company and photos.

Denali dreaming, part II

Going big. In every way, that’s how this Denali trip has been. More prep, more time, more money, more gear than I’ve ever sunk into one single endeavor. As much mental terra incognita as the physical glaciers and ridges we’re headed north to ski on.

From the exciting moments of reserving an air taxi or the confirmation of our permits, there’s a transition into what to do to get ready. Much like climbing or skiing, there’s plenty of decisions to make along the way. You can go it alone, use some help, or pay someone to guide your success. There are a number of Denali prep courses available—a quick survey throws the price tags between $2,500 and $1,500. Most take place in the Cascades, as spring conditions in March and April can be similar to what goes down up north. But we’re going as our own guides, and besides, it’s not like I’ve the cash to throw down on a guided trip. And it’s not like we’re doing this alone either—so many people have come together to make this all possible. Though we didn’t really plan it, the prep process, just like the way we plan to approach the mountain, has been on our own terms with lots of help, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Looking back, it seems better organized. Or at least more consciously thought through than it actually was. In my case, “training” for Denali started with a long winter of skiing, working on my skis, and traveling to ski. Not that this was really any different from what I would have been doing anyway. There’s no question that constantly being on skis develops the muscles needed to ski sastrugi with a heavy pack.

More than any other, this winter was one of touring. I got to go out skinning with my friends, and the reward came in the form of shredding more untracked, soft snow than I ever have. The planning and decision making for backcountry travel on a day trip crosses over into the expedition ski mountaineering we’ll be doing up north. Many of the days I was out saw 4,000-5,000ft of vertical gain, which isn’t any sort of record, but it kept the hiking stamina from last summer and fall mostly intact. One thing to watch out for: if your friends know you’re headed to Denali, they might let you break a bit more trail than you planned for in the name of “training.”

In mid-April, Clay Roehner and I spent three days in the Many Glacier area of Glacier National Park. It was the first trip that really felt relevant to what Grant and I will be doing up north. Initially, Clay had been thinking about a weeklong traverse of the touring zones along the west side of the Middle Fork along US 2. As things shook out, we didn’t have time to place the caches or do the whole thing. With the weather heading towards storm after several weeks of sun, it seemed better to scale back. When I mentioned Many Glacier in the 10pm phone call the night before we left, he was down.

Meeting up at seven the next morning, the junkshow bloomed quickly. I’d left my fuel bottle in Kalispell. We went back from the gas station to grab his skins. In a moment of totally obviousness, Safeway had no white gas and the hardware store saved us. My dad left work to get us a fuel bottle from his shed. All which goes to show that flexible planning and good cheer are probably the best tools to include on these sorts of ventures.
A stop in West Glacier yielded our backcountry permit and the info that the road had been plowed. Another stop in East Glacier saw the last supply getting and arranging our packs.

By virtue of the scope of the trip, the pile of gear is large. Intricacies come along with that pile. Simple things like how to pour white gas from large cans into the narrow MSR bottles. When full, the spout is too big. It spills. What happens if you overfill? A minor problem, but still frustrating. Easily, the solution is a funnel. But what interests me is the way that these things are learned. In my case, the folks at the East Glacier mercantile had a funnel I could use. A checklist could theoretically prepare you for all the small issues like this. Make it possible to anticipate them. Personally, I’d rather go out with friends, deal with small mistakes, and write the “To Fix” issues in my Rite In The Rain.

The turnoff in Babb had snow, and Clay’s Suburban made it all the way to the gate at the foot of Lake Sherburne. Skis went on packs, packs on backs, and we saddled up on our bikes for the six mile trip to the picnic area that was to be our campsite.

I can’t really recommend riding a bike with such big bags. We managed the slush, puddles, and winds with no incident, but we’re skiers. It was a close thing. Wheels were a means to an end from which a skin track can start, in our case the picnic area north of Swiftcurrent Lake.

After avoiding death by bighorn ram near the caretaker cabin, our complaining asses rolled into the picnic area to some serious amenities. Unlocked pit toilets. Picnic tables. A fire ring to put the Whisperlite in. Bearproof food storage in the garbage containers. During the summer, this is the domain of tourists who can park and eat Fritos in the shade of some pines. Though not open for public travel, crunching across bare asphalt in ski boots didn’t quite feel like backcountry.

Without much visibility, it was hard to say what was going on in the alpine. The whole area has seen 8-12” of snow in the last week, making the snowpack we skinned into below Grinnell Point a bit of scour, refreeze, and buff atop a solid crust. Nothing moved on the mellow slopes, but we weren’t convinced. Rapid warming could quickly destabilize the new snow making for wet slabs or point release slush gushers. It seemed smart to keep expectations low. Over dinner back at the picnic tables, we decided to head up to Grinnell Lake the next day. We’d be closer to the alpine and wouldn’t see work trucks heading past.

After waking, we packed up and headed over to dodge open water patches on Lake Josephine. Navigating the creek between the head of Josephine and Grinnell pushed us up on the hillside below Grinnell Mtn, and we arrived at the head of Grinnell just as the clouds parted. Immediately, we saw point releases moving into the cirque we’d need to skin through to make it up to Grinnell Glacier. Retreating to the shelter of the big trees, we pitched camp and went for a recon skin with the argillite face of  Angel’s Wing towering above. The crust was somehow bonded to a foot of new snow, though we skied conservatively. For good measure, I alternated Clay’s tracks out the bottom for some powder eights.

Transitions while winter camping are more than just skins or goggles. Pulling into camp means going from sweaty active gear, perhaps a softshell, to down and mitts. Insulating boot liners in the toe of my bag. Insulating water so it won’t freeze. It’s not the easy luxury of summer backpacking, but then again, snow allows you to build your own kitchen.

Ours had two seats, a counter for prep and cooking, a fridge box, and sat down out of the wind. Still, lessons learned: don’t keep your glove liners off in wind. Bring extra socks just for camp, as your usual ones are sweaty.

Hauling big bags and the bike ride of the day before had tired us out. Couscous came quickly and we gulped it before it got cold. As they say, hunger is certainly the best sauce. Planning an early morning, the tent door zipped up by six pm.

I woke up to ten degrees in the tent, ice crystals all over the walls, and six am. We’d been asleep for a full twelve hours. Best of all, the clouds of the previous days were gone. Clay rallied first into the sunshine; we powered out of camp to the bottom of the headwall. Just after layering down, I had to race back to the tent for my beacon. Lesson: put that thing on first. Then, we headed up the ramp towards the glacial basin. Summer sees this area as a set of cliffs with waterfalls running down them, so cutting a track through windbuff atop the crust required kicking in at nearly every step. Lesson: use the ski crampons I subsequently purchased.

Though hard, we made it up the first bench. Clay lead the second and popped out into the scoured steps of the glacial basin with a whoop.  Our route went up to the moraines above the pond, to the left, and we skinned through the flats between the Wing and Mt. Gould and up to the summit of Angel’s Wing.

Dropping off the summit, we milked crust that became the first true powder that either of us has skied in a few weeks.

A lower bowl was even deeper. Stoke was very high. Sounds of joy were being yodeled. As it was getting close to eleven am, we leapfrogged our way down through the headwall and reached camp congratulating each other on a safe descent.

After packing up camp, we headed back down the lakes.

Reaching the bikes, we caught a ride out with a service truck. Good thing, too—there’s a likely chance our flatish tires wouldn’t have survived the trip back to the ‘burban.

As we put on shoes and stowed our gear, I reflected on my sunburn. On the trip, and how it had become a learning experience. A tip here, an idea there. Not “training” in some sort of artificial, detached way, but an adventure in its own right. Good times had. Powder skied. Most importantly, safe decisions made that got us up and back to the car. My kind of fun.

Thanks again to Clay for his photos and company.

Two days in Leavenworth

A second Denali prep post is coming soon, but the adventures in Washington haven’t stopped, so the blogging won’t either.

After a few days up north in Bellingham painting a boat hull, I headed over towards Leavenworth to meet up with Chris and Woody. Chris and I planned to climb at the Index crags en route. True to form, the sunshine broke down into rain the minute we were both in the parking lot. Stevens Pass saw a full on snowstorm while we drove through, and as sure as it’s always rainy in Index, it was sunny in Leavenworth.

Stopped by the Mountain Equipment office to pick up some beta and found that the last of my Denali gear had arrived. There’s a disconnect between the 70F temps in the parking lot and the cold temps this stuff is designed for, and so I wandered across the street and we took a photo. Down coat, alti mitts, balaclava, insulated pants, and spring flowers.

After that, Chris and I headed back up Tumwater Canyon to Castle Rock. Warmups happened on Angel Crack, a 5.10b finger crack which also happened to be my first ever. It’s a classic example of why badass climbing photos are easier to come by than skiing ones. Judging the picture below, you might think I’m a solid ways off the deck on some classic of finger-wrenching bliss.

Instead, the whole route can be summarized thus:

We moved over to a 5.9 offwidth just next to it called Damnation Crack. Per usual, Chris lead it in fine style. Here’s his selfie from the midway rest ledge.

I hopped on the Struggle Bus for a ride of exasperation and expletives in the first few moves. Not much feet to speak of, but after pulling on the first two pieces of gear, I made it into the true offwidth and shimmied up.

Here’s another misleading photo. Given the large pile of expensive metal slung under my arm, you’d probably not know that I can’t properly set any of it. Judging by the rope, it looks like I lead my way over there instead of being headed toward the belay station.

Topped out with Chris before heading to South for dinner.

That night, I drove out to Woody’s place in Plain. The next day, we headed up towards Merritt Lake. The drive out was uneventful until we hit the typical spring snowblock on an access road. That lead to the typical walk with hiking boots up the bare trail until we hit snowline.

Shortly before we put some glopstopper on our skins, I did a demo of dramatized touring.
A bit like Ministry of Silly Walks for the skin track.

Another shot of walking up. Oh, the gravity.

We decided to head up towards Mt. Mastiff, but a casual start had baked the snowpack. Traversing the ridge seemed imprudent, so I took some more photos.


Looking up the ridge at the summit. Another day.

Dropping down to where we ate lunch, the call was made to ski a sheltered, north facing coulior. I ski cut it, we both skied two short pitches, then a small (10ft by 10ft) wet slab triggered below Woody and ran over the tips of my skis. Something like 8″ of shmoo atop a refreeze crust. Time to pull the plug. Time to be thankful we didn’t try to push it on bigger slopes. We booted back up and skied down our skin track.

“I’ll slash that shaft of sun like it’s actually dry powder or something.”

Woody, after a detour ruined his speed.

After a rousing bit of searching for where we’d stashed our boots (which I had skied right past), we headed down the trail and back to the truck.

We’re headed off to climb tomorrow morning, so I’ll update that later. Big thanks to Woody and Chris for the photos, Woody and Mindy for their hospitality, and to Chris Rudolph for once buying a pink cosmopolitan for Gregg Winter at South so I can remember it now.

Denali dreaming, part 1

There’s an expectation, totally my own, that the words that I write about places are supposed to be equal to the places themselves. A theory that if this silly primate body I wander around in is barely able, maybe the words it strings together can compensate for sunburnable flesh and blistery toes. Ironically and obviously, it goes without saying that it’s hard to fulfill. Being a big mountain, certainly the largest I’ve ever sought to play on, Denali puts extra weight on that wish.

Grant Domer and I fly north to Anchorage on May 17th. A short trip to Talkeetna, a flight onto the Kahiltna, and we’ll be wandering up the West Buttress until we fly back to Seattle on June 17th. Grant’s been thinking of this trip since the summer of 2011, when we skied Mt. Baker.


Grant checking out a map on Rainier.

He envisioned building up to this climb two years later. At the time, it seemed about a lifetime and bunch of money I didn’t have into the future. Occasionally the thought would play through my head, but it didn’t feel serious–I’d wandered back to Montana and working through the summer didn’t leave much time for getting out on the volcanos.


A skinning day with Woody Dixon in the Cascades.

A phone call this last December got me back in the game. Grant was still on the chase, as excited as that climb a few years back. Plane tickets were the commitment to launch a several month scramble (on my part) to catch up.  Now, we’re less than three weeks away from flying north, and here’s the first part of some reflections on the process.

Most the climbing I’ve done in Glacier Park has been guided by J. Gordon Edwards’ quirky classic, <u>A Climber’s Guide to Glacier National Park</u>. Despite Grant’s guidance and general idea about what we were getting into, I was looking for a guidebook. Colby Coombs’ guide to the West Buttress has awesome route information and a solid section on gear to bring. There’s a lot of time devoted to common ailments from altitude and cold, both bountiful on Denali.

To add to the guidebook, there’s required reading to even get your permit from the Park Service. In the PDF is a code necessary for registration. I read through all of Wildsnow’s blog posts related to their trip from 2010 to get a more comprehensive idea of skiing the thing. Going on a tip from my father, I read an account of the first winter ascent of Denali,  -148 Degrees.

Most of the official tone talks of self sufficiency and preparation. Nothing promises an easy climb. Within the first few days of their trip, the winter ascent lost a member to a crevasse fall. The accident reporting from Denali last year does not flinch at the number of dead climbers. Between the vertical relief (13,000ft) between base camp and the summit, the latitude decreasing oxygen and making the mountain feel higher (more along the lines of 23,000ft near the Equator), and the timing of our trip seeing more spring weather, a serious tone is valid.

Still, I really enjoyed the moments of levity in what I read. These are mountaineers after all. A passage from Coombs:

“Perhaps the oddest animal encounter was with a red squirrel begging for food at 12,500ft. This is no less than 15 miles and over 10,000ft in elevation from the nearest spruce grove. Did the little mammal arrive on the glacier in someone’s duffel in a gorp-induced coma?”

Beyond all that I’ve learned on my own, I’ve been once again reminded of why mountain communities are the best ones. Conversations about my spring plans, once I mention Denali, have become a great outpouring of support for our trip. People have offered me their expedition weight long johns, mentioned friends who went before, connected through email to folks with experience, offered gear hookups, and in the case of my sponsors, pulled out all the stops to help with gear. In the piles of details and accumulating gear, the generosity of the people in my life is still the largest heap in sight. Thank you.

A few worthy specifics:
-To Grant. For spearheading this, helping with gear, and especially the booties. Arabianistas!
-To the family. To Mom and Dad for encouraging me, starting me on this path, and enduring the worry. To my grandparents for their support and employment. To my uncles  for their words of wisdom about avoiding chaffing and offers of loaned gear.
-Massive thanks to Woody Dixon  and Mountain Equipment for being onboard with the trip from the beginning. His help with clothing, equipment, and a new sleepsack made the difference between a cost prohibitive trip and a possible one.
-Thanks to Scott Andrus, Sam Caylor, and Rowen Tych at ON3P for keeping me in skis. The 186 Vicik Tours that I just mounted up will be perfect for spring assaults and slogging up the Kahiltna.
-Green thanks to SDot for transporting us in AK. Super stoked to see you.

Walking on sunshine: survival skiing on Gunsight Mountain

I picked up the phone. “You working tomorrow?”
“Nope. What we doing?”
“Something big. Get there early, be out all day. Get up high.”
“Sounds great. We’ll talk later.”

And we did. After considering the Cascadilla/Rescue traverse, Clay and I decided to head up to Glacier and try for Gunsight Mountain and some real alpine. Sandwiches were made,  I went to the store for clif bars and camera batteries (which I managed to forget, hence the  fisheye bubblyness that are the gopro shots), we went bowling, got a few hours of sleep, and left the house at 4:30am.

Readying at the trailhead.

After working and visiting Sperry for years, the slopes and viewpoints along the trail have become familiar. Moving steadily uphill in the predawn night, we made good time up the packed down trail. Dawn popped just as we were making it into the area just below the chalet.

Once we made the cirque above the upper bridge, we thought about and rejected several routes through the cliffs before settling on a fan and waterfall on the SE side. Switchbacking up the left side of a large debris/talus fan, we angled for the left side of Feather Woman falls, the creek the goes under the first bridge in summer. It got steep. And  icy. We switched to crampons and axes, then climbed through chest high faceted sugar, ice crusts, wind buff, and full on ice to make it up above the cliff bands usually traversed on the trail.

Boreal belay in the crux.

Topped out and back in my skis.

After some more routefinding and skinning over windcrusts, we made it to the stairs at Comeau Pass. Clay went through first.

Sandwiches and puffy coats later, we headed up the right flank of the mountain towards the summit.

Summit ridge.

Clay summit ridging.

Up top, the snow was a mix of hard windcrust, rime, pow pockets covered in rime, and rimecrusted wind crust with drifted surface hoar. There was no guarantee that the footing would function the same way the last step did, which made it interesting. Topping out required going over a cornice in the making and into howling winds on the other side.

Did I mention how awesome the sunshine was? This pile of high pressure has traded greybird storm pow for epic groomer cruising and functional backcountry stability. We saw an old crown high on Mt. Edwards, and while skiing down, a point release propagated a bit into an R1D1 that stopped pretty quickly. Otherwise, it was bomber and beautiful.

Looking down towards Lake McDonald and the chalet.

The excitement that I get atop mountains after a long skin and bootpack doesn’t square with how I feel looking at the pictures afterward. Which makes sense. But it also doesn’t help my summit photos look any less ridiculous. So I’m rolling with it.

Once we’d sufficiently windburned ourselves, it was time to drop. Clay got a couple great shots from up above on the ridge.

The snow went from rime crust to wind buff bordered by sastrugi. The turns were somewhat soft, but I followed the edge of the drift down into the flats making little noises of excitement that my gopro picked up. Unfortunately, it was at the wrong angle, and so there’s lots of footage of my skis sliding over snow but no visual of where I was headed. Chalk that up to climbing helmets.

Once down, we dropped over the edge, skied drifted pow becoming mashed potatoes, I missed a shot with Clay’s camera by forgetting the lens cap, we crossed the new wet slides that had come through on the lower trail, and hauled down the skin track towards the car.

Trying to slow down by the skin track.

Eight hours up, two hours down and two tired dudes eating deformed sandwiches on the car ride back after another perfect day in Glacier.

Huge thanks to Clay for the photos.