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.

Climbing Mt Hood

(Mt Hood from my apartment roof)

Volcanos Rock! The volcanos of the Pacific Northwest are alive. They change from year to year, season to season, day to day, hour to hour, more than I do. They produce mountains of snow in the winter, and shed rivers of it in the summer. They feed the streams that feed the rivers that feed the fields that feed the animals and crops that feed us. They let us drink water and sustain life. They allow civilization to persist in the west. The volcanos are so huge that they produce their own weather systems, including blizzards that would make the arctic proud. They gurgle and belch, they vent sulfuric gasses from deep within the earth. They grow, they bulge, and in exceptional acts of superpower they explode, destroying the ecosystems that they created. The volcanos are vortexes of raw energy and of life. They are mutating monuments that mark portals between the underworld and our world. They reach deeper into the earth and higher into the sky than anything else, like great cathedrals rooted in magma and pointing to the heavens.

Mt Hood

At 11,235 feet above sea level Mt. Hood, Or Wy'East (son of the Great Spirit), is Oregon's tallest volcano. I find any reason I can to be on it's slopes. For ten years I've been snowshoeing, cross country skiing, snowboarding, hiking and camping on Mt Hood. I've also been lucky enough to have views of Mt Hood out my kitchen window. I see Mt Hood when I walk to work, I see it when I run in the park. It's ever present in my life. The mountain has become a very good friend to me. It even visits me in my dreams. I've always wanted to climb it, but reaching the summit requires technical gear, even in the summertime. And many climbers perish on it's upper slopes. The task has always seemed a little too daunting to me.

Planning

A couple of weeks ago I got word that some friends in an outdoor club were going to try to summit Mt Hood. It seemed like a perfect opportunity. I signed up. I spent a week psyching myself up for it, reading up on glacial climbing techniques, studying topo maps. I was as ready as I could ever be. Then, a few days before the climb they cancelled the trip. I was extremely disappointed. Trying to climb it alone seemed absurd and dangerous. After considering my options I decided to go on the trip anyway alone and just practice the climbing techniques that I'd been researching. Maybe I could get halfway to the summit. My goal was to climb until it started feeling too dangerous or risky and then turn around. I also reserved a small ray of hope of possibly reaching the summit.

Gearing Up

It's Friday, the day before the climb. I work all day, then go pick up a rental car. I drive to REI outdoor store, and rent my technical climbing gear which includes: thick plastic mountaineering boots, crampons (large steel spikes that I will strap to the bottom of the boots), an ice axe, a helmut, and a mountain locator unit. The locator is a little box about the size of a flashlight that transmits a signal if I pull it's red cord. No one is actually listening for that signal unless I am reported missing, so I tell several people where I'm going and when I should return. After getting my gear I go home and sleep from 7pm to 9pm to try to get some rest. Then I make a big breakfast dinner and begin packing my snow gear, some first aid stuff, power bars, a few liters of water, some Gatorade, etc.. At 10:30pm on Friday night I leave Portland and drive to Mt Hood.

Timberline

I reach Timberline Lodge on Mt Hood by midnight. The temperature at Timberline is a balmy 45 degrees at 6000 feet above sea level. I spend about half an hour gearing up and filling out a climbing permit at a self service climbing station. The permit is free but required. There is a form that I must complete describing exactly what provisions I'm taking and when I expect to return, which I put in an outbox. When I return, I'll move it to a "returned" box. Other climbers begin showing up and filling out forms too. I mill around looking for a possible group to join. I talk to a couple of climbers, but nothing materializes. I decide to start the ascent alone.

I put my crampons in my backpack, which weighs about 25 pounds. Other than food and water, my pack contains a bunch stuff I'll never need on this climb, unless I need it. I strap my ice axe to my pack. I try to put my helmut on. It doesn't even begin to fit my giant head so I throw it in the trunk, and decide to keep an extra keen eye on rock fall, which is very common on this mountain. Time to climb.

Climbing The Ski Runs By Moonlight

At 12:30 am, now Saturday, I begin hiking up above Timberline Lodge along the east perimeter of the ski runs (which are open all year long at Timberline) by the light of the full moon, which casts a dim blue glow on the entire mountain. I don't even need my flashlight. I am hiking alone, but can see a couple of head lamps a couple hundred feet above me. I use them as a point of reference. I've snowboarded down these runs a hundred times, but have never climbed up them. Along the way a couple of Sno-Cat vehicles slowly pass me with the roar of tank tread and diesel engines pushing them up and down the steep slopes. One is grooming ski runs for the Saturday skiers soon to come. The other is going up. I look inside the cab as it passes. It's taking a group of six climbers to some drop off point so they don't have to climb the length of the ski runs. I call that cheating.

It takes me about an hour to reach the Silcox Hut at 7000 feet, at the bottom of the Palmer ski lift. I continue to hike past many giant snow carved ramps and other snow sculptures built for tricks. Finally I arrive at the top of the Palmer ski lift, 8500 feet above sea level. I am now officially above the ski resort and higher than I've ever been on Mt Hood. I am winded, my heart is pounding, and it's getting colder, but I'm still feeling good to go.

New Ground

Somewhere above Palmer, I encounter the climbers that took the Sno-Cat. They are in a circle gearing up and going over safety details. There are two experienced guides leading four middle aged men. I ask them if they are taking the south side route, or "dog route" which is the route I want. They say yes, and then head off. I can't really ask to join the group and they don't offer either. The four men probably paid between 500 and 1000 dollars each for their training and guided climb. I did not train with the guides, and I did not pay for their service. They'd be liable if they took me on and something happened. But I decide they are a perfect group to follow (with two experienced guides) so I decide to shadow them by a hundred feet for a while.

The snow is getting hard and crunchy, and the terrain is getting steeper. Time to break out the crampons. I spend a couple minutes struggling to strap them on to my boots. I have to do it without gloves, but after about 30 seconds, my hands are numb. The temperature is below freezing now. I fumble around and manage to thread the straps. It's takes about 20 minutes of curling my fingers in my gloves as I climb to thaw them out. The slope gets progressively steeper as I climb. It wouldn't have been possible to go too far above Palmer without crampons. And as the route gets steeper I find myself using my ice axe more and more. I am also starting to feel the effects of the high altitude, lack of sleep, and subfreezing temperature. I check my watch periodically, but realize at some point that it's data seems less and less significant. So I just try to say focused on the climb. When the six man guided group ahead of me rests, I rest. When they move on, I move on. At some point the snow field ends at a steep dropoff, and I have to climb over and up a long stretch of exposed rock. The guided group leaves their crampons on while scrambling up the rock, so I do too. It'd be impossible to take them on and off in this cold anyway. It's difficult to climb solid rock with crampons. They tend to get lodged and create strange torque on my ankles. Eventually I'm back on snow, and it's refreshing. I follow the guided group at a respectable distance for about an hour up to 10,000 feet.

Hogsback



At a flat resting spot, I catch up with the group I've been shadowing. We are at the base of the hogsback, an enormous steep snow ramp with steep drop offs of each side that climbs hundreds of feet to the pearly gates (two large rock outcroppings), beyond which is the summit. The most direct way to the summit is to climb the narrow and steep spine of the Hogsback. However, a giant crevasse known as the bergshrund has opened up near the top of hogsback, as it does every summer, making this route impassible. There is a large guided group up high. They seem to be climbing hogsback, then traversing an insanely steep slope to the left, over to the west crater rim route. This large group is roped and anchored with help from their guides.

To Rope Or Not To Rope

The climbing group that I've been interloping begins harnessing up. Each guide is roping up to two of the climbers, guides leading. Everyone above this point seems to be roping up for the final ascent. I ask how long it takes to make the final climb. Someone tells me about two hours. It's several hundred feet vertical from where I'm at, and very steep. I sit at the bottom of the hogsback for over twenty minutes, while I watch the group I'd been shadowing climb up and then traverse the steep slope in two sets of three roped climbers. I'm totally exhausted, feeling nauseous from the high altitude and from the sulfur spewing out of the fumaroles right beside me. I think this might be the end of the line for my climb. Time to turn back. Too steep, not enough energy, and no one to rope up with. In the meantime two climbers pass me, a man and woman in their mid twenties. They are not roping up. They've climbed Hood before and said roping up is not needed. Guides tend to rope up to people they're guiding, but this couple is confident in not roping up. They move onward and upward at a good pace. I watch them in awe, but am not convinced.

Randy Watts

Just as I'm about to turn back, a climber appears. His name is Randy Watts from Pennsylvania. He's never done any technical climbing either. He is twice my age and made of steel. He's suffering from brief episodes nausea and fatigue too. But he is in high spirits, unassuming, yet confident. We chat for a bit. He tells me he is climbing with three others, but got separated from them. He wanders if they're ahead of him or behind. I tell him I've been at this spot for a while and no one fitting their description has passed me. I say I think they're behind him. He decides to press on. He's going for the summit unroped. So I say, "Okay, if you're going up, I'm going up. Let's do this."

Traversal to West Crater Rim Route



Randy and I climb the hogsback together, unroped. I follow him for a while, and he is a source of strength. He overshoots the traversal point by a few feet then points it out to me from above, so I take the lead. The traversal is tricky. We have to side step for about 200 feet with nothing but hundreds of feet of snow above us and below us. The bottom of our steep slope gets swallowed by a sulfur and steam belching crater. The traversal is also lacerated by deep vertical crevasses. For the first time on this mountain, I feel like a single misstep would spell certain doom.

Gear Fear

I have three points of contact: my boots and my ice axe. In my mind, two of these contact points should always be securely anchored. I have to make sure every step is planted perfectly, and that every plunge of the ice axe handle creates a solid hand hold. I have to keep an eye out for rock fall which is common on Hood. I've already seen several large rocks tumbling down adjacent slopes. Other than misstep or rock fall, my biggest fear right now is mechanical failure. Losing a crampon or my ice axe would make it impossible to continue or retreat. After making some headway across the traversal, I look back and Randy is a ways back holding a crampon in his hand! His crampon popped off in the worst of places. But he managed to save it. I work my way back to him and try to help. I hold his glove for him, while he somehow manages to refit his crampon with his one free hand while clinging to the side of the glacier. I'll never know exactly how he managed to do it. The longer I stay in one spot the more freaked out I get, so I keep moving.

On the way, I'm passed by two male climbers in their mid twenties. They fly by me like I'm standing still. They are both employing an audible and deep controlled breathing technique. I take note. I am stuck at one of the vertical crevasses as they pass. One of the guys asks how I'm doing. I say I'm not sure how to negotiate the deep crevasse on the side of this steep slope. I watch him traverse it effortlessly. He tells me to plant my feet very firmly. He tells me to get a really strong ice axe hold. Sink the handle deep. He demonstrates as he passes. They make it look so easy, so I do it. It's not easy at all, but I make it across. They both quickly disappear up the mountain.

The Final Ascent



I finish the traversal, and reach the final 300 foot climb that leads straight up to the pearly gates and summit ridge. It's so close yet so far. This final 300 feet is the steepest part of the entire climb. I stop looking down. I only look up and then look at each foot as I plant them firmly into snow, kicking out a toe hold, or an edge hold, then I watch my ice axe as it plunges into the snow. I move a foot up, then start the process all over again. Every now and then I look over and see Randy doing the same thing a dozen feet away. The morning sunlight now floods this slope. At some point sunrise has occurred.

The unroped man and woman climbers that I'd met at the bottom of the hogsback somehow intersect my path. I thought they were way ahead of me. In passing, they suggest a better technique for holding my ice axe: always in the uphill hand. I try it. At first I don't trust my right hand, but after a few minutes I learn that this method is vastly superior.

After what seems like an eternity of peril, I take that final step up onto the summit ridge and sit on solid rock and rest and drink water for the first time in two hours.

The Summit Ridge



I am more physically, mentally, emotionally exhausted than I've ever been in my life. I sit for a few minutes regaining my breath and trying to slow my heart rate. I've developed a dry cough. I know from reading that I have all the signs altitude sickness. I look west along the summit ridge that leads to the true summit. The ridge is narrow, only a few feet across in spots, with a sheer drop off to the north. I scramble along the summit ridge rocks, walking upright without the use of my ice axe for the first time in hours. A few minutes later, I reach the summit. It must be about 7:30am but I'm a bit dazed and am not really sure. I keep thinking it's high noon for some reason, but then correct myself.

The Summit



There are about six people at the summit. The couple that went ahead of me unroped is there. The two speed climbers with the breathing technique are there. Turns out they were hired by Coleman Outdoor Company to reach the highest point in all fifty states, as a promotion to get children outdoors. They have two climbs left: Mt. Rainier in Washington, and Mauna Kea in Hawaii. They even have camera gear with them and are filming segments of the Coleman documentary, interviewing the couple that gave me ice axe advice.

Shortly after reaching the summit, Randy emerges, scrambling up the ridge. We give each other a big pat on the back and celebrate our success. We take in the view, exchange stories, and recuperate. Eventually the rest of Randy's climbing party shows up. My nausea is gone. I feel good. I spot all the landmarks: Rainier, Adams, St. Helens, Jefferson, Three Sisters, the Columbia River Gorge, the cloud shrouded Willamette Valley to the west, the high desert to the east. I swear I can see the curvature of the earth. And of course I see many of the 4000 and 5000 foot peaks that I've climbed over the years, and they are far far below. They look like a rolling green carpet beneath my feet, almost indistinguishable from the valley below them.



The Descent

Now it's time to descend. As the sun rises, the loose mountain rocks will heat causing rock falls. This is why most climbers try to reach the summit by sunrise. I watch as other climbers make their way down, and I imitate what they do. I mostly side step and carve my own switchbacks all the way back down the steep slope, across the traversal, and down the hogsback. I take it very slow, stop often, and even find energy to snap a couple of pictures when the terrain permits.

I spend the next few hours retracing my steps down the glaciers all the way to Timberline Lodge. The snowboard park is in full swing now. Hundreds of snowboarders and skiers dot the runs below me. I finally reach them. It feels good to be back in the world. The last mile is painful. My feet hurt badly. The plastic boots are cutting into my shins and calves. My toes and ankles are blistered. I practice glissading, sliding down on my bottom, and I practice self arrest, the art of stopping a slide with my ice axe. It'd be a lot of fun if I had any energy. I finally reach the parking lot at 11:30 am, exactly 11 hours after I first started my climb. Shortly afterwards, I run into Randy in the parking lot. We talk about the climb and exchange e-mails. I move my climber's form from the outbox to the returned box, and begin the drive back to Portland.



Epilogue

Climbing Mt Hood changed me. It took me ten years of climbing to get there. Something in me broke as I clung to the side of the final ascent. I had to face real mortal danger, process real fear, and find reserves of strength and courage that I never knew I had. I killed fear on that mountain at least for that one day. Reaching the summit moved me deeply, but not just from fully realizing my own inner strength. I also realized, or maybe just remembered in a very big way, the strength, courage, and resolve that others can give me. What started as a lonely climb in the dark, evolved into a powerful social experience. A small group of random strangers all decided on a beautiful Saturday to do something larger than life. Had I not met Randy, I probably would not have ventured up the hogsback unroped. The climbing couple that I encountered showed me a better way to use my ice axe. The Coleman guys demonstrated strong and confident foot placement to negotiate large crevasses effortlessly and showed me how to breath efficiently when climbing at 11,000 feet. All these brief interludes made me stronger and got me to the top. It would have been a very different tale without having so many exceptional people to share it with. I write this story so it will help me remember how to climb mountains, and also how to live life.