MLK Weekend on Mt Hood

It's a three day weekend for me (MLK) so I decide to spend it on Mt Hood. Saturday I snowboard Meadows. Sunday morning I snowboard Timberline to try out the new lift and runs. There's a strange weather inversion going on, so it's actually warmer on the mountain than down in the valley. It's in the 50's at Timberline, but the snow is hard as concrete and I can barely get an edge, so I bail on boarding decide to do some climbing.



I leave the lodge parking lot around noon and decide to climb for three hours, and then turn around in order to be back by sunset. It takes me about 1.5 hours to climb from 6000 feet to 8500 feet, at which point I'm above the Palmer Glacier Ski runs which snowboarders and skiers are accessing via sno-cat rides today, as the Palmer Lift is not running. Above Palmer, the surface conditions become extremely icy. The entire surface of the slope has been sculpted into hard icy daggers that are pointing up and out of the surface straight toward me. It reminds me of a medieval trap, saying "go away". As I climb, I break the tips off the icy daggers with my crampons and try to get solid foot placement on the hard crunchy dagger stumps. All around me are strange otherworldly ice formations unlike anything I've seen before. Giant bulbous ice tumors cling to the mountainside, punching out a chaotic positive space from the deep blue sky.







I climb until 3pm and see Crater Rock to my left and Steel Cliff to my right. I witness frequent major icefall events on both of these faces and realize that not only are the surface conditions horrible, but icefall danger is extreme today. I pass several climbers that are descending from the hogsback. One made it up past the bergshrund but turned back short of the pearly gates due to heavy icefall. Another tells me of an experienced climber that fell 200 feet just yesterday due to unstable ice that gave way under his feet. These are all red flags to me. I climb until 3:30, reaching a point about half way around Crater Rock, at about 10,000 feet. From here I can see the hogsback not far away, and the summit just beyond. But today is no day to be up there. Plus, there's just enough time for me to get back down to the ski runs before sunset.





I spend two hours retracing my steps. Descending is extremely difficult today, physically and mentally taxing. I make minor missteps a few times, which frankly is a few times too many. At one point, around 9500 feet, I actually lose footing on unstable ice and fall backwards onto my ass and begin to slide. I self arrest after sliding about ten feet with my ice axe, my first real self arrest. This is a minor incident and I never really lose control of the slide, but it reinforces just how terrible the climbing conditions are. I finish the descent with extreme caution as the sun sets beyond the coastal range far to the west. Once I'm down on the ski runs I enjoy a leisurely return to the lodge as day becomes night.





Monday, my third and final day of the long weekend, I drive to the coast, hike down to the secluded Crescent Beach at Ecola State Park just north of Cannon Beach and recuperate from my two days of boarding and climbing. My mental images of the sea of clouds are replaced with a sea of water. I never grow tired of the ocean. It always has something to tell me. I could stay here.



As I write this log today, I read about a woman that died just yesterday (January 22, 2009) while climbing Mt Hood. She had reached the pearly gates and was struck by ice fall. She fell 400 feet and died instantly. She was climbing with her husband. My thoughts are with her family. I contemplate how important it is to listen to everything the mountain, and everyone I encounter on the mountain, is telling me. Every single indication this weekend was that of extreme danger. I turned back, exercising caution, and avoiding areas of icefall, but still had a minor self-arrest incident. I knew at 8600 feet that climbing conditions were no good, but continued up to 10,000 feet regardless. New rule: If in doubt, turn about. Always.

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.