An October Weekend: Bachelor and South Sister

Two days in Bend: Bachelor and South Sister

Saturday:

I drive to Bend and try to meet up with a woman of interest. It's a bust, so I head to Mt Bachelor (ironically). My goal is to run it round trip. It's a warm day so I'm in shorts and my new Solomon trail runners. I start at the Sunrise? Lodge at 6500 feet. My goal is to Summit at 9000 feet in 45 minutes, then return in 30. I start fast, and soon realize that this hill is going to kick my ass. After gaining about 1000 feet, I really start to struggle with altitude issues. By time I reach 8000 feet, I'm slowing to a hike about 50 percent of the time. I'm not measuring my heart rate, but it's through the roof. The top 500 feet of the trail has quite a few patches of snow. Several times, my foot punches through up to my upper shin, a very cold and shocking sensation on my bare legs and ankles. The last 500 feet are grueling. There is a cold wind whipping across the slope, giving me brain freeze and incubating a headache. I finally make summit in exactly one hour, which incidentally is exactly how long it took me to hike it in August. I'm either a fast hiker or a slow runner.



I think there are a few reasons that I hiked Bachelor in August as fast as I ran it in October. In August, I had just climbed three mountains in the days prior to Bachelor, and I was well acclimated to the altitude. In October, I came from sea level in Portland and was trying to run at 9000 feet by late afternoon of the same day. In August there was no snow on the trail. In October, I was sometimes in snow up to my mid shin, which makes the hike very slow going. When hiking, I can find a high end target heart rate without maxing out, and sustain it indefinitely. When running up high on big hills, I seem to max out then crash, recover, then max out again.



The return goes quickly, taking about 30 minutes. Total time was about 1:30. Bachelor is a good training hike. It'll be interesting to see if I can shave anything off that time next time around. With some acclimation time I think I could do much better.

Sunday:

I wake up in Bend and drive to Devil's Lake Trailhead in Three Sisters Wilderness. Today I am climbing South Sister, Oregon's third tallest volcano. The hike is non-technical, about 12 miles round trip with about 5000 foot elevation gain, to the summit at 10358 feet. I'm a bit sore from running Bachelor yesterday, but get a good start and charge up the forest trail, and across the plateau toward the volcano's base. I have decided to wear my mountaineering boots today and bring my crampons and ice axe in case I run into some snow. About an hour into the climb, I've developed blisters on my feet, even though I taped them up before I started. I'm surprised by this. I've done many climbs this summer in these boots and have not had any problems. I stop to put on an extra pair of running socks beneath my thick wool socks and add more tape to my heels, but I think it's too late, the damage has been done. The upside to blisters is that it takes my attention away from my sore quads and nagging knee problems. So that's good.



I did this climb about a year ago. This time it seems much friendlier. The portions that I considered steep and dangerous last year, now feel more like fun sections that break the monotony of the hike. The altitude is hitting me though. I feel out of breath, and my heart rate is way up. It could either be more acclimation issues, or I'm pushing too hard too fast, or I'm just fatigued from yesterday. It's probably a combination of all three. But I find a pace that doesn't kill me and try to keep to it.

There is considerably more snow on Lewis Glacier than last time, and the green cirque lake in the moraine at the bottom of the glacier is frozen solid now. I am able to skirt the glacier all the way up the final ridge to the summit. Looking down, I see another climber, and he's gaining on me. He catches me about 100 feet below the summit. He's a young guy from Salt Lake City, doing a rotation in Warm Springs Reservation for six weeks and trying to climb some volcanos whiles he's here. He's got a really strong pace. We reach the summit crater rim and hike north across the quarter mile diameter crater which is filled to the rim with hard, crunchy, frozen snow. I traverse the frozen crater with the guy from Salt Lake City, and we chat about climbing, climbers, and good routes on other volcanos he's considering while in the area. We reach the north side of the crater. Middle Sister and North sister loom large, Jefferson beyond them, and Mt Hood beyond it. The sun is out, the sky is blue. It's a beautiful day.



The north face of South Sister consists of a short vertical wall, below which is a steep icy pitch that plunges for a long long way. As we peer down the staggeringly steep north flank, we see a man slowly making his way up it! He has about 50 feet left to climb. He doesn't have crampons or an ice axe. He is using only a sharp rock as a hand axe, and is kicking steps into the icy face with his boots. I watch him in amazement for about fifteen minutes as he makes the final push to the summit. I really can't believe what I'm witnessing. He finally reaches the short vertical rock wall and scrambles up over it to where we are. I greet him, shake his hand, and try to figure out if he's insane, or just the most hardcore climber I've ever met. I'm still not sure. He seemed very composed, confident, mild mannered and casual about what he's just done. It is definitely the most bizarre thing I've seen a human do on my climbs.





After a short chat, I head back down the mountain. The descent is uneventful but long and tedious. My boots have chewed up my feet and I'm ready to be done. During the last couple miles, I find myself stopping frequently which is unusual for me, especially on a descent. In 24 hours of climbing almost 8000 vertical feet, I'm feeling totally spent. Finally, I'm back at the car, but still have a three hour drive back to Portland before I can rest. All in all, it was a great late season weekend up high in my favorite Oregon wilderness.

Climbing Mt Adams

My first climb on Adams is a bust. I spend all night in Portland checking the weather, hoping the skies will clear by sunrise. Then I sleep through my alarm, drive for two hours, and don't get started up the mountain until 9am which is ridiculous. On top of that, there is a nasty weather system socking in the top 2000 feet of the mountain, which I can see from miles away. I know before I even get out of my car that making summit is not even an option. Instead, I just climb up to timberline and break in my new gear on Crescent Glacier. Everyone I see is coming down from Lunch Counter at 8500 feet, a flat spot where most climbers bivouac. No one is attempting summit. They all say it's too cold, windy and socked in. At noon, I see clouds creeping in below me. This is when I planned to turn around anyway. I head down, but decide to come back in a week fully prepared for a summit bid, weather permitting.

Eager for some company on this climb, I invite my friend, "Danger" Dave. I spent a week with Dave at Whistler/Blackcomb in BC in January, snowboarding some steep and gnarly glaciers, and we've also surfed White Sands. Dave climbed Mt Adams a few years ago with his girlfriend, and he expressed interest in going up again, so it seemed like a good fit. We agree to do the entire 7000 foot vertical climb in one day instead of camping at Lunch Counter like most climbers. This is a tall order. Adams tops out a thousand feet higher than Mt Hood. My biggest concern is altitude related sickness associated with gaining that much elevation without acclimating, as I seemed to struggle with altitude problems quite a bit on my Hood climb.

Dave picks me up at 5:30am and we drive east through the Columbia River Gorge at sunrise, which is absolutely spectacular, causing our conversation to trail off several times, while absorbed in the beauty unfolding before us. I view this as a good sign. By 7:30 we have our permits, reach the climbers trailhead, and begin our ascent.

We make good time getting to Crescent Glacier where I'd practiced with my new boots and crampons the previous week. We decide to skirt this glacier to the left up a rock ridge, rather than climb snow. Once on the ridge, the climb goes quickly. Before long we've reached the top of the Glacier, and arrive at Lunch Counter. Several climbing parties have established basecamps here. We break here and gear up for snow climbing. We watch other groups glissading down the snow chutes as we prepare to climb. It's shaping up to be a beautiful day, and everyone on the mountain seems to be having a good time. It's supposed to reach 100 degrees in the valley, and even though we are climbing snow, we climb in shorts. We are trying to get as high as possible before the heat of the day kicks in.

Dave sets a strong pace. I'm impressed with his climbing strength. He enjoys longer breaks. I tend to climb a little slower, but prefer to keep moving. The longer I stay in one spot, the more stiff and cold I get. But we find a good balance between his speed and my desire to keep moving. We storm up the mountain making excellent time, but it's still a massive effort. Hours roll by as we continue to climb. We kick step a switchback trail through a glacial finger on the far right that no one else is climbing. It requires a traversal, but this snow finger extends higher than the rest, which means less rock scrambling above it. This entire section of the climb is swarming with Monarch Butterflies. There is no vegetation up here, only snow and rock. I assume they are migrating, and maybe this giant monolith is some sort of layover or watering hole for them. The site is amazing. It doesn't photograph well at all, but I'll never forget climbing up a snowfield at 10,000 feet surrounded by the Monarchs.



Hundreds of feet below Piker's Peak, the false summit, we run out of snow and must resort to scrambling up steep piles of loose rock and scree. This part of the climb is by far the most grueling. We take it a step at a time, trying to not trigger rockfall on climbing parties below us. After serious effort we reach Piker's Peak and can finally see the true summit, still about a thousand feet above us. The route is free of snow but very steep. Between Piker's Peak and the true summit at about 11,000 feet is a vast, relatively flat ice field. Walking across this ice field is probably my favorite part of the entire day. We're so high up, and it's so quiet. All I can hear is the crunching sound of my own footsteps on the ice. Because I keep stopping to take photos, Dave is a ways ahead of me and looks microscopic against the gigantic ice walls behind him. When I get to the middle of the vast plain, I stop and take in the epic view. The ice is melting beneath my feet, creating millions of miniature streams of water rolling just beneath its surface. Some of this ice is a deep penetrating blue, a color variant I've not seen in nature before.



The final climb to the true summit is steep but manageable. I am starting to feel the altitude, but it's not nearly as crippling as it was on Hood even though I'm a thousand feet higher. I feel like I'm breathing and climbing more efficiently this time. We finally reach the summit around 2:30 pm, which is actually pretty late, since we still have a 7000 foot return. But we will be glissading down, making for a speedy descent. The summit plateau is huge (210 acres) which surprises me. An old sulfur mining operation stands in ruins on the plateau. It's insane to think that someone actually thought putting a mine on top of a 12,277 foot volcano was a good idea. We stay for a bit, take readings with Dave's gps device, snap some photos, and begin the long descent.



Down we go, plunge stepping down the summit, crunching across the ice field, blowing past Piker's Peak where a large group of climbers are resting, and carefully treading down the loose rock all the way down to the snow. From here, we glissade down huge portions of the glaciers on our butts. I've finally got the hang of glissading, and it's like riding a snow slide for a thousand of feet. With ice axe in hand, I dig the handle into the snow to brake and maintain complete control over my speed. Many climbers have met with disaster by losing control while glissading. It's a balancing act of having fun, but not too much fun. By 6:30 we're back at the car, eleven hours after starting the climb. Exhausted and hungry, we stop in at the local diner in Trout Lake at the base of the mountain and celebrate with burgers and fries.

The Mt Adams climb went perfectly. It was long day of climbing. Seven hours up, four hours down. I got many hours of valuable experience on all types of terrain, communed with the Monarchs, traversed an ice field which was an almost otherworldly sensation, and had a blast glissading down the mountain with Dave, all while escaping the infernal triple digit heat of valley below. If there is such a thing as a text book climb, Adams was definitely it for me.

The Smith Rock and Mt Bachelor Day

Socked In Again

On the fifth day of the Cascade Expedition, I wake up in Bend, drop Geoff off at the bus station so he can head back to Portland, and drive up Pilot Butte for a first hand look at the weather over the Cascades. To my dismay, all of the volcanos in Three Sisters are socked in, even though it's bright blue skies in Bend. This destroys my plan to start climbing them today. Instead, I shift to plan b: head into the desert and do some hiking at Smith Rock, an internationally renown rock climbing spot.

Smith Rock





I am absolutely blown away by my day at Smith Rock. I spend hours hiking down along the river, then up and over Misery Ridge, up to the summit of the park. I do a little bit of bouldering down by the river, watch climbers tackle the big walls, and spend time just soaking up the beautiful day at the summit. Conveniently, I can keep an eye on the volcanos from here, and by late afternoon the weather over them has cleared. Once I can see the summits of my brothers and sisters to the west, I start to gravitate toward them.



Bachelor on Bachelor



My first scheduled climb in these parts is Mt Bachelor. I decide to drive from Smith Rock to Mt Bachelor this evening and speed climb it at dusk. I've been snowboarding on Bachelor many times from summit to base, and am very familiar with this mountain. I've never climbed it though, because there is a chair lift to the summit. With only a 2500 foot gain from parking lot to top, many ski lift landmarks and ski runs carved into the forest, and an established climbing route to the summit, Bachelor seems like a perfect sunset sport climb. It's better than sitting in a motel, or starring at the ceiling of my tent.



I power climb/jog the entire mountain on a clearly marked trail (once I find it) and am able to make summit at 9000 feet in an hour. Two trail runners pass me along the way. I spend quite a while climbing around on the piles of volcanic rock up top, and taking in the views of the Three Sisters to the North. The wind is fierce, but it's not too cold. As the sun disappears behind the summit, I bolt down the mountain, and am back my car shortly after sunset.



Epilogue

Bachelor is not the most attractive mountain to climb. It's crisscrossed by numerous chair lifts, and many ski runs have been carved into the forest below timberline. The top of the mountain resembles a bizarre black rock quarry. I kept expecting to see dump trucks up there, or hear the "beep - beep - beep" of some large vehicle backing up across my route. There are no real climbing challenges or routefinding problems on Bachelor. The most notable part of the climb was actually a trail runner I met along the way, using this mountain as an evening running park.

Climbing Broken Top

On the sixth day of the Cascade Expedition, I attempt Broken Top, which I've been informed, is a miserable mountain to climb. It's like Thielsen's bigger meaner brother. The only practical way to the summit is via the Northwest Ridge along a very narrow spine of rotten crumbling rock. Knowing this before I even begin, I decide to give it a try anyway.



I arrive at the Fall Creek/Soda Creek trailhead in the Three Sisters Wilderness early in the morning. There is no snow on northwest ridge route right now, so I pack light and move fast. The climb starts with a four mile approach up Fall Creek through some of the most beautiful wilderness I've ever seen. After a solid hour or more of blazing up the popular trail past several wildflower filled meadows, I arrive at Green Lakes, a group of glacial fed lakes nestled in between South Sister and Broken Top. South Sister is dramatically poised behind the lakes. It is unclear how to to proceed toward Broken Top. I can see it looming large to the East, but cannot find an approach trail. I decide to head across open country toward an obvious saddle in the ridge from which I can stage my final ascent. I find a tiny glacial stream and follow it uphill, north toward the saddle. I follow this little stream to the spot where it begins from a large house sized block of snow. As I get close to the bottom of the saddle climb, I pick up a climbers trail and use it.



I reach the saddle. From here, I have amazing views of the Three Sisters Mountains, and Green Lakes below. I can also see Mt Washington, Three Fingered Jack, and Mt Jefferson to the north. The ridge route to the summit is narrow, long, and very rotten, just as advertised. I seem to be the only human interested in this climb today. I slowly work my way up the spine. The rock is absolutely horrible. I thought Mt Thielsen was bad until I came here. I accidentally trigger a couple of small rockfalls off the north side of the ridge as I try to negotiate this route. I stop frequently to test rock and marvel at the views. After much effort, I ascend to a point about half way between the saddle and the summit. As I look up, all I can see is steeper sections, some with small rotten walls which must be circumvented on tiny rotten ledges. On top of it all is a summit block which I am not looking forward to.



I finally reach a point beyond all ground vegetation. I'm only several hundred feet from the summit now, but it still looks menacing due to the instability of the terrain and the high exposure. I reach a block with two options. One is to skirt the block to the north on a ledge about twelve inches wide, and the other is to climb the vertical block of rotten rock. In a decisive moment, I choose option three, abort the summit. I turn back in disgust. As I start down the ridge, I look outward and take in some of the best views of Three Sisters that I've ever seen. I realize that the forest below, Green lakes, and these views are what this climb is all about, not bagging the summit. I sit on a little flat ledge for a long time and try to process the grandeur that is spread out before me. Almost a dozen volcanos bless my view, each with many snow fields and ridges, each of those with many foothills, each of those with countless trees. Beyond all this, an infinite sea of trees blankets the horizon, fading into the atmospheric haze. Above is another world with clouds and penetrating endless blue, fading to the horizon. The detail is fractal-like. Each large form is comprised of an incredible number of small worlds that are in turn comprised of yet smaller worlds.



Descending the spine is tedious but not nearly as bad as climbing it. I reach the saddle, and follow the climbers trail all the way down to learn where it meets the main trail. Turns out, it was only a quarter mile past where I had decided to go cross country on the ascent. As I pass Green Lakes, I encounter a couple of backpackers. They ask where I'm coming from since I don't have a full pack on, am pretty far out, and am heading toward civilization not away from it. I tell them about my climb, pointing up to the spot where I turned around on the ridge. We chat for a while, then I follow the creek from Green Lake all the back to the trailhead. I'd like to revisit Broken Top someday, but only with some climbing company and some rope. And even then, I think it's pretty far down on my list of friendly mountains...

Climbing Mt Thielsen

On day four of the Cascade Expedition, Geoff and I are camping by Diamond Lake at the base of Mt Thielsen. The temperature hovers around 32 degrees all night making for a muscle clinching pseudo-sleep. Originally I plan to start climbing at 6am, but Geoff says he's in if I start later. After the big climb on Shasta, a later start sounds appealing. We sleep in, make breakfast, brew some coffee, pack up camp and make the short drive to the climber's trailhead by 10am. This climb is about 10 miles round trip with a nearly 4000 foot elevation gain. I've done a lot of hiking with these specs so I don't really have any apprehensions about the climb, yet...

The first few miles are straight forward: steep switchback trails up to timberline where the climbing trial is intersected by the Pacific Crest Trail. The forest is devastated by some sort of storm. Many very large trees are blown over and/or snapped off at the trunk. The trail has been mostly cleared of fallen trees. I wouldn't want to have been in this place when the shit was hitting the fan.



Once we reach timberline we have a somewhat foreboding view of the summit. Mt Thielsen's profile is unique and dramatic. It appears steeper and pointier than any of the other volcanoes. It's almost a cartoon caricature of itself. It is known as the lightning rod of the Cascades because it gets struck by lightening more than any other volcano. In fact, I've read that if there is a storm it will inevitably draw lightening. Fortunately today is bright blue skies.

The trail above timberline slowly evolves into a ridge scramble along the upper slopes, steadily increasing in steepness and decreasing in rock stability. At some point, it becomes necessary to use both hands to negotiate the ridge line. Certain sections require scrambling and pushing up steep loose scree from one small node of solid rock to the next. Up high there are several climbing groups in various states of rest and defeat. Every time we stop to rest, we both start to get a sense of vertigo, as the scale of the slopes on either side of the ridge is epic.

We finally reach a spot only a few hundred feet from the summit that is nothing but loose rock piled on top of more loose rock. It's difficult to find a decent foot hold or hand hold without causing mini rock fall. There are a couple of climbing groups above us, which concerns me greatly. Geoff decides to call it a day. I am leaning toward calling it a day too, but two climbers coming down tell me of an alternate way up. They suggest traversing this rotten section to the right, aim toward a small scrub tree on the rightmost ridge and just beyond that ridge at that tree is a route on the backside that leads to the summit and avoids this unstable face with the climbers above us. I decide to go for it. The traversal is sketchy, but I take it slow and premeditate every move. I finally reach the tree on the ridge and can see the route on the backside. I wave back to Geoff as he snaps a photo of me from below. The route up the backside is loose and rotten too, but there is no one above me now to knock rocks loose, which makes the alternate route well worth it.

(Geoff took these shots of me pushing toward the ridge line. The images illustrate the horrible condition of the rock)




Twenty minutes later I'm climbing a final steep section of more solid rock to what I WISH was the summit. But out of this small summit ledge rises an eighty foot vertical pinnacle. The pinnacle is solid rock, but it's straight up. I have literally no vertical rock climbing experience, and learning on an eight story pinnacle perched on top of cliffs that plunge thousands of feet doesn't seem like a good way to learn. I climb about twenty feet up a chimney in the rock on the pinnacle's north face. I'm convinced I could get up this thing, but totally unconvinced that I could get down it. At this point, I have no choice but to abort the climb only 60 feet shy of the true summit, after having climbed almost 4,000 feet. I'm too relieved of my decision and of being off the pinnacle to even care about the failed summit attempt.

(The summit pinnacle)


I look down and see a couple of groups descending. No less than three times does the group above yell "Rock!" as they accidentally dislodge large rocks from the side of the mountain, and members of the lower group scramble for cover adjacent to the rock fall. There is no one between me and the summit which I am happy about. I wait until I have a clear line and there is no one below me, or even in sight at all, and I start the climb back to Geoff. By the time I get there he's gone. I assume he's started working his way back to timberline. I find him a few hundred feet below hanging out in the shade of a lone tree on the ridge. We begin the long 4 + miles back to the trailhead.

Thielsen, like Shasta, is another lesson in knowing when to turn back. I probably could have pushed my luck and grappled my way up that pinnacle, and then clawed, squeezed and slid my way back down it. But I have decided I don't ever want climbing to be about pushing my luck. Safety, fun, then summit. Maybe I'll put some time in at a rock gym and revisit Thielson some day. Or maybe I wont. I didn't really develop much of a friendship with this mountain. It was an exhilarating climb, with frustratingly rotten rock, and I was able to share most of it with a good friend. Geoff, having little interest in climbing, and in a pair of road running shoes, was in high places dealing quite well with some horribly unstable rock only a day after packing out of a 9000 foot basecamp with me on Shasta, and hiking to the summit on Mt Lassen before that. I'd have to give him the "most accomplished non-climber's climbing award" of the year. Tomorrow I will take him to Bend so he can catch a bus back to Portland and I will pay a visit to the Three Sisters.

Climbing Mt Lassen

On the first day of the Cascade Expedition, I pack all of my climbing gear and backpacking gear into my rental car (a compact Chevy Cobalt), hit the road at 6am, and pick up my friend Geoff who will be camping with me for half the trip. Today we make the long haul down I-5 to California. My goal is to start at the southern most Cascade Volcano, Mt Lassen, and head north, visiting and climbing many of the volcanos from here to Three Sisters in a week.



After at least eight or nine hours of driving, we finally reach Lassen Volcanic National Park, just east of Redding, California. Mt Lassen, at 10,000 feet, is the showcase mountain of the park. We wind our way up to the trailhead parking lot at 8000 feet. There is a well groomed and highly used trail leading to the summit, and even a cafe at the trailhead, which serves expressos and burritos. It's the perfect way for tourists to experience the thrill of making summit on a large mountain in a controlled and safe environment. I fill a bottle of water and we hit the trail, embarking on the 2.5 mile hike climbing 2000 feet to the summit.





Along the way, we pass families, little kids, older retired folks, a couple of runners, and some couch potatoes going for the hike of a lifetime. It's pretty cool to see so many different types of people setting out to climb this roadside attraction. Geoff and I make good time, stopping to shoot lots of pictures, and reach the summit in about 90 minutes or so. There is a fun little rock scramble to get to the true summit, and we spend some time up there soaking up the views. To the north, Mt Shasta is stoically poised, reminding us of where we will be this time tomorrow. The descent is uneventful and the cafe is closed when we get back to the parking lot. No burritos for us. Afterwards, Geoff takes a swim in Lake Helen below the parking lot, and then we find a place to camp for the night.







Mt Lassen is a beautiful park and I'm glad I came here to "climb" this volcano. I think this place can be many things to many people. For me it was a nice way to stretch my legs after an eight hour drive and scope out the weather conditions on Shasta and the surrounding area for tomorrow's climb. For others it is the perfect place to climb their first volcano in a pair of sneakers, stand on top of a 10,000 foot mountain, experience the panoramic vistas and the thrill of high altitude hiking, and even see some snow in August.

Climbing Middle Sister

On the seventh day of the Cascade Expedition, I wake up in Bend, Oregon and hit the road at 6am. By 7:30 I have driven all the way around the north side of the Three Sisters Wilderness and am at the Obsidian Trailhead on the East side of the wilderness. I obtained a permit to camp in this limited access area last night, but didn't get back from my Broken Top climb early enough to make the drive. Plus, the temperature has been hovering around freezing at night, making it difficult to get excited about camping here.

Because of it's regulated access, the Obsidian trail feels quite remote. I begin the long approach hike through four miles of dense forest toward timberline as the morning sun slowly starts to creep over the high peeks to the east. About one mile into the hike, I hear a grunt and the snapping of twigs. I look over and see a full grown black bear galloping about thirty feet from my trail! It's running parallel with me but in the opposite direction. It seems we have startled each other. I have an excellent profile view of this bear running, and at full stride, I'm impressed by its size. It stops about fifty feet downhill from me. I am both exhilarated and terrified. I've never encountered a bear in Oregon. I was beginning to wander if they even inhabited these parts. My initial impulse is to abort the climb and call it a day. With large beasts roaming around, I feel like I have no control over this situation anymore. But the bear is between me and the way down now. The only logical solution is to keep going up.

I spend the next hour hiking with a white knuckled grip on my ice axe, and I bang my car keys against the axe shaft every few seconds to let the forest know I'm coming. I finally reach tree break and lava fields. I scurry along this terrain for another thirty minutes, passing a creek, one tent, and two hikers. As I tell them of my bear encounter, they seem a little aloof, and I realize that I should probably put my ice axe away now. They begin to warm up and we discuss a couple of trail junctions and our respective destinations. I continue onward. The trail I'm on eventually ends at a T junction with the north/south Pacific Crest Trail. I study my topo map for a solid ten minutes, trying to figure out the best way to go, then realize that I just need to keep heading east over the open grassland. There is a small narrow unmarked trail leading off through a meadow. I deduce that this is the climber's trail. I've realized on this expedition that climbing trails are rarely marked or represented on topo maps on less popular mountains, but I'm getting better at finding them as I search for ways to get up the mountains instead of circumnavigating them like most trails do.



I follow a small footpath through fields of wildflowers and along a glacier fed creek for a while, and the summits of North Sister and Middle Sister reveal themselves. They still look so far away. I have a lot of work ahead of me. My first goal is to reach the saddle between the two 10,000 foot peaks. I could travel up one of the glaciers, but they seem atrophied and fragmented by the summer heat. It's not clear to me which glacier to take. I decide to climb on a rock ridge between two glaciers all the way to the saddle, to keep from having to mess with crampons.

The ridge route is tedious. It consists of large piles of volcanic rock, each about two to four feet in diameter, precariously stacked. These rock piles are hundreds of feet tall. Each time I summit a pile, another larger and steeper pile is revealed that I must climb. The volcanic rock is razor sharp. I barely brush my knee against one, and it draws blood. I spend a solid hour negotiating this ridge, stopping to catch my breath, and kicking myself for not choosing a snow ascent. But I've committed to this route and will see it through.



Finally, I reach the saddle. It consists of more large piles of volcanic rock. To the left looms the summit of North Sister, and to the right, Middle Sister. I work my way right along the saddle. I begin climbing the ridge that leads to Middle's summit. To the left is a sheer drop off of over a thousand of feet. To the right is a steep scree slope that plunges into Renfrew Glacier. This ridge is slow going. It's hard to see the best route from below. I'm trying to keep a safe distance from the left edge, but this pushes me into the steep scree, which is difficult to maintain traction on. I use my ice axe, plunging the handle into the scree, and it it sinks all the way to the axe head. I can't find a single solid rock to grab onto. I keep scrambling upward until I finally get a solid grip on the ridge line. Once on top of the ridge, I carefully make my way up, adjacent to the western headwall, and the abyss below. It takes a little less than an hour at this pace to reach summit at high noon.





The views at the summit are amazing. North Sister is in my face. I can see the route to it's summit, and it looks menacing. Beyond that, I can see Mt. Washington, Three Fingered Jack, Mt. Jefferson, and Even Mt Hood. South Sister, Broken Top, Chamber Lakes, and Mt Bachelor are all visible to the South. Middle Sister truly is smack dab in the middle of it all. I am alone up here. I seem to be the only human above timberline on Middle Sister today! It's such a different feeling than the popular South Sister climb I did last year. My stay at the summit is brief. I chug some water and eat some carb gels, photograph the views, and scout a good snow route to descend. From up here I can see the correct ridge route down to the saddle, and Renfrew Glacier looks like the perfect super highway to timberline.





After many questionable route finding decisions on the ascent, I now have a clear view from above of the best route down. I descend the summit ridge, then strap on my crampons and fly down Renfrew Glacier in giant strides, plunging my ice axe handle as I go for extra support. The descent goes very quickly. I am able to stay on snow most of the way. Only one section of the glacier is steep enough to require extreme caution. Once I reach the bottom of the glacier, I pop off my crampons and head toward the main trail. I complete the final four miles back to the car on the Obsidian trail. Along the way I pass four rangers that are coming up with large hand saws. They are clearing the trail of fallen trees. I tell them about my bear encounter. They are excited, and tell me that I'm lucky. Sighting a bear is very rare, and usually even then, they are running away as fast as possible. It sounds like my encounter was a rare and positive event, not a negative or dangerous one. I feel good about traversing this forest alone now, and I see my bear encounter in a totally different light.

I reach my car nine hours after starting the climb. I realize that I'm totally spent, not just for the day, but for the week. I feel my expedition coming to an end. I can't think of a better way to wrap up this adventure than by climbing Middle Sister and experiencing all that I did on this beautiful summer day in the Cascade Mountains. Tomorrow I will head back to Portland and I will try to bring some of this exceptional place back with me. But more than likely, some of me will forever remain behind, waiting...

Climbing Mt Shasta

On day two of the seven day Cascade Expedition, Geoff and I pack up camp at Mt Lassen and drive north to Mt Shasta. It looms large over us for most of the drive. Mt Shasta is a single monolith over 14,000 feet tall rising 10,000 feet above the surrounding valley. It dominates the northern boundary of California. We roll into Mt Shasta City around noon and I stop at the local mountain shop to get a weather report and a better topo map which includes all climbing routes and detailed descriptions of each. I am planning to climb the traditional Avalanche Gulch route from Bunny Flat, but the shop keeper tells me that no one is climbing Avalanche Gulch right now due to lack of snow. Instead everyone is climbing from Clear Creek on the southeast side of the mountain. Clear Creek was my second choice, so it's a minor adjustment but not a huge surprise. I'm glad I checked with the locals first.

We drive east from town to a forest road, and head north toward the mountain. The road gets steeper and rougher as we drive, changing from gravel to packed dirt to loose dirt. There are many junctions on this dusty drive, but the route to Clear Creek is fairly well marked. After thirty minutes on the one lane forest road we arrive at a steep section of road that is comprised of deep loose sand. About half way through this section my rental car (a compact Chevy Cobalt) sinks and we bottom out. I reverse down the sand trap and try again. We bottom out a second time. Geoff and I start strategizing about how to get up the sand trap. I take it to the left. No good. Then I take it to the right. No good. Then I try tacking back and forth, switchbacking up the narrow road. Still no good. Each effort creates a dust storm that blinds us in a brown out. On our fifth or sixth try I am losing hope, but decide to gun it and stay to the very right on the uphill slope. I manage to grab a little traction and crawl up out of the trap. Around the corner is the Clear Creek trailhead at about 6500 feet.

As we begin gearing up for an overnight stay on the mountain, a ranger shows up. He is filling pot holes in the road, hauling out bio bags and trash from the remote outhouse at the trailhead, and checking permits. He asks us if we had trouble getting to the trailhead, and I tell him about the sand trap. He is genuinely concerned, and says he wants the trailhead to be as accessible as possible, but funding has been cut making road maintenance harder. The ranger gives us a lot of great advice. He tells us of a natural spring at about 9000 feet with some good level camping spots protected by scrub brush. He shows us the optimal route of ascent on the map. He describes most of the common route finding blunders people tend to make which get them lost. All of it is very helpful information, and corresponds to my research. He also checks the weather for us one last time on his radio. Partly cloudy.

Geoff and I begin the backpack up to 9000 feet. It's a long haul with all of our overnight gear, and we take it slow. The route is a well worn trail. As we break timberline at about 8000 feet we can see a patch of green one thousand feet above us. We continue heading toward it, and eventually reach the stream that's literally coming out of the ground and flowing down the mountainside, creating a small meadow of lush green grass in an otherwise barren rock strewn wasteland. Above the spring is a ridge with many clusters of brush. We find a nook protected from exposure and set up camp. Around dusk the wind starts picking up. I turn in early, as I plan to start climbing before dawn. Geoff is sitting out the final ascent.

All night the wind gets stronger. By midnight it's howling relentlessly, making it impossible to sleep. What little sleep I do get is infiltrated by strange dreams of spirits haunting this place, most likely sparked by the rich folklore and numerous legends surrounding this mountain that I read prior to coming here. There are rumors of vast networks of underground tunnels inside the mountain built by the Lemurians, a highly civilized race associated with the kingdom of Mu. Other subterranean civilizations are said to thrive inside the mountain, including the Secret Commonwealth. Many climbers have claimed to see divine beings high on the mountain in white robes. I also read that the Native Americans considered the mountain sacred and to venture above timberline was taboo.

When my watch says 5am, I gear up and start climbing in the dark. I'm using the stars, the moon, and a flashlight to light my way. After about fifteen minutes of climbing what feels like the wrong way, I backtrack to a vague junction with some ambiguously placed cairns, and find the correct route. Shortly afterwards, I pass the only other climbing group on this route, consisting of four: two young men, one older man, and a boy. I wish them well, and am careful not to dislodge any rocks as I move above them.

The stars are brilliant. I track Orion across the night sky as I climb. But after a couple hours of climbing, it's still not light out. I realize that my watch is actually two hours off! I really started climbing at 3am instead of 5am! Oops. I can almost see the light of the coming sun now, so I estimate making summit at sunrise.

The route is steep but very manageable. I skirt Watkins Glacier to the left on scree and don't need any technical gear, just strong legs and lungs. The wind is becoming ferocious though. At 11,000 feet, it's ripping across the southern slopes, carrying a constant barrage of tiny rocks and sand. My face is feeling wind burnt and sand blasted. My eyes are burning. I don't have goggles, just sun glasses, which I can't wear at night. I put my hand in front of my face to shield it and press onward.

At 12,000 feet, the light of predawn is growing, but the wind has only intensified, I'd guess that it's a constant 60 mph or more. It's actually becoming a real force and source of concern. I burry my face in my windbreaker and shield my eyes with my gloved hand.

Somewhere around 13,000 feet, I look up and the summit is so close. Only another 1000 feet to go. I can almost taste it. But something strange is happening up there. I notice five long cloud talons creeping up and over the summit from behind. It looks like a white hand with long boney fingers sliding over the summit, reaching toward me. I keep a sharp eye on it but continue to climb. As I climb I see that the fingers are filling in and morphing into a solid blanket. I look down and see clouds starting to slide in from around the side of the south face too, closing in below me. At this point I decide I have to abort the climb. There is a bizarre weather system enveloping Shasta's summit, slowly erasing my ability to locate the landmarks I will need to navigate my descent. Not only that, but the wind is now blistering. My tear ducts are filled with sand, and my eyes are on fire. My left eye feels scratched and I have a hard time keeping it open.

I begin a rapid descent, plunge stepping the steep scree slopes. It's relatively effortless compared to the immense amount of energy required to climb. The cloud cap is pushing downward, but I am able to stay comfortably ahead of it. On my way down I encounter two of the climbers from the other party. The older man and the boy have already turned back. The two young men of the group are trying to decide whether to continue. I give them my account of what I just experienced above with the worsening wind and the developing whiteout conditions. I continue my descent as they debate their course of action. I try to snap a few pictures as I get closer to safety but it's so windy that most are out of focus. By 9am I am back at my 9000 foot base camp. Geoff is waking up. It's actually sunny here, but I can see the nasty weather system in it's entirety hanging on the summit. There is no other weather in the sky. It's almost as if Shasta has conjured up this force from within...

Geoff and I hang out at base camp for several hours waiting to see if the wacky storm will blow over. It doesn't seem to want to go away anytime soon, so we pack up and decide to head down the mountain. I swing by the basecamp of the other group to see if the two young men made it back, and if they made summit. They are back, and had decided to abort the summit as well. A very wise decision on their part. A couple hours later we are back at the car. Right about the time we get off the mountain, the violent weather system that had plagued my final ascent and forced me to abort the summit gives way to bright blue skies.

It is disappointing and frustrating to abort a climb so close to the summit, especially after climbing over 6000 feet with only 1000 feet to go, and then watch the weather clear up as I drive away. But despite the fact that I didn't summit, the climb was remarkable. I can't say that I believe in the highly advanced subterranean civilizations that are said to thrive inside the mountain, or buy that it's a hotbed of UFO activity, or that divine beings roam it's upper slopes. But after spending the night up there and experiencing such a bizarre weather event, I can appreciate how these stories come to be. There are extremely powerful natural forces at work on top of this mighty volcano, and also deep within. These forces are so extreme that it's not outlandish to interpret them as supernatural, because in a way, they are. For much of my ascent in the twilight hours of predawn, I felt like I was marooned on another planet, or slipping into some other dimension. Especially when the "great white hand" reached out to squeeze all life from the summit. Shasta haunts me. I want to go back. And maybe, if I'm lucky, even make summit. But ultimately that is for Shasta to decide, not me.