Well, I think I will start off by saying this climb had it all. So ... from the beginning then.
I was grateful for a bit later start on Saturday – this time an eight o'clock meet at a park and ride in Bellevue. I still only got a few hours of sleep but it was fine and I was off sans coffee. We headed out and hit Highway 2 in a flash, stopping for coffee in Sultan after missing the Cowgirls Coffee in Monroe (apparently Matthew did not realize it was staffed by baristas wearing bikinis and so we joked that we would go there next time, although we realized neither one of us owns a large truck which we presume is a prerequisite for visiting such an espresso stand). Regardless, the double-shot was good and we drove over Stevens Pass and then north at Lake Wenatchee to hit up a gravel road headed towards the Phelps Creek trailhead. We would have made fine time except for the lovely bit about getting stuck behind a huge truck pulling a horse trailer for the last ten miles. Going (seriously) five miles an hour. So we hit the horn when we'd pass a pullout to clue him in but he was either deaf or totally rude. We assumed just rude.
Oh well. We did eventually make it to the trailhead and quickly got ourselves ready under sunny, warm skies as to be expected east of the Cascade crest. I knew, however, that the weather report had called for a thirty percent chance of thunderstorms but I also knew that thirty percent was mostly the weather service covering their butt. So I opted to leave my brand new ten ounce Mountain Hardware Quark in Matthew's hatch, taking just a new three ounce Sugoi jacket really only meant for a light rain and wind protection (afterall, it weighs about as much as a sheet of looseleaf paper). But I wanted to try it and was hoping that presumption of mine would hold.
And then we were off. The first nearly four miles follows Phelps Creek with all of four hundred feet of elevation gain. And about forty minutes from the car my presumption proved, well, incorrect. And it began to rain. And we could hear thunder. Oh well, out came the Sugoi which quickly got soaked through. But thunderstorms tend to be spotty and not last very long, and this one did hold true to that so by the time we crossed Leroy Creek where we finally got to climb up it had passed and we were just under cloudy skies. Matthew opted to climb higher up trying to find a way to cross the swelling creek. I instead opted for the low road and headed down to near where it emptied into Phelps and found a half-submerged log that – with the aid of a trekking pole – afforded me a way across without completely soaking my boots.
I headed up the über-steep trail (marked 'unmaintained') a couple hundred feet, peering over the edge and finding Matthew about seventy feet below taking off his boots to make a daring cross under a fairly large waterfall. I waited patiently for him to make his way across, dry off his feet, don his boots and scramble up the bushy ridge to meet me and we continued up the fourteen hundred foot trail carved nearly straight out of the hillside that led up to the Leroy Creek Basin under the watchful eye of the west faces of Seven Fingered Jack and Maude. We made it in good time and rested in a bit of a clearing where Matthew clambered over to the creek to get some water and I sat down on a rock to have lunch. We debated but quickly decided to stick with the original plan to skirt around the west face of Maude, head up over a saddle at seventy-six hundred feet and drop down a bit to camp at Ice Lakes under the south face as opposed to camping in the basin where we were and climbing Maude's north face the next day via a traverse from the Seven Fingered Jack-Maude col which we could clearly see about a mile to the north of us and at an elevation of eighty-one hundred feet. It was two forty-five.
So this meant a traverse across the Leroy basin that was called 'cross country.' That typically meant more or less making your own way, such as no established trail. Of course, the Leroy basin was dense forest interspersed with avalanche debris paths from the west face of Maude. We clambered up and over rocks and scree and brush and messes of all sorts. So it took a while to cross the mile or so to gain enough elevation to begin making our way to a saddle that would lead us around the west face to another saddle along the west ridge. About halfway up to this first saddle it began raining as dark, ominous clouds moved in all around. I was a bit ahead of Matthew and made my way to a fairly stout strand of larch to huddle under and wait for him to catch up. I think I might have been talking to myself as I approached, somewhat startled to find two other climbers huddled under the same bunch of trees. Oh well. They were also headed for Maude and thinking along the same lines as me – the line leading to the saddle on the west ridge was above treeline and fairly exposed, and the sound of thunder and at times sight of lightning did not inspire confidence in any of us.
So we waited. I pulled out the rainfly which I fortunately happened to be carrying and draped myself in it as the Sugoi wasn't really holding up to the mountain elements being dished out this day. In time I got up to wander over to the edge of the ridge I had just come up to see where Matthew was to find him closing in, and after he caught up we headed over together to wait out the storm and make a call.
After about thirty minutes, the rain abated (at least for the moment) and the thunder was much more distant so we gathered our stuff and made a go of it. Fortunately (although we did not know it at the time) Matthew led us in a – well, scenic – route to the saddle, on which we passed by a small meltwater stream where we refilled our liter bottles (fortunate because we would not find easily-accessible water for a long time after this – which, like I said – we did not know). After doing that, we headed up a bit of steep snow to a crumbly rock face that made up the lower west ridge. I started up, finding it fairly atrocious and then second-guessing which saddle would take us up and over to Ice Lakes. So I ended up convincing Matthew to try the saddle farther down the ridge, which entailed a traverse of this rotten rock interspersed with steep snow. But in about fifteen minutes we wound up on the other saddle and staring into the Entiat River valley, but no sign of two frozen-over lakes. Damn.
Back then along the crumbling west ridge to gain the first saddle, at which point when we crested we saw quite clearly the south face of Maude and about four hundred feet below us Upper Ice Lake. I turned around to the view of Glacier Peak to the west shining in a clearing of still-ominous clouds though the thunder and lightning had seemingly passed. We headed down in search of a flat enough space on rock to pitch my small tent. Fortunately we did not have to descend too far before finding the perfect spot. I quickly pitched the tent, pulled out my bag and pad and crashed inside. I had maybe three hours of sleep the night before and we had been on the move for six hours. It felt good to have taken off my boots and climbed inside my down bag even though it really was not very cold out for the moment. We figured at best the snow would crust over but would not totally freeze – it was a beautiful evening.
I fell asleep for about an hour before waking up to enjoy the mountain scene spread out before us, lit up by a setting sun somewhere behind us and the west ridge of Maude. The alpenglow was beautiful. I took some photos from inside the tent, stretching out as far as I could from inside my bag. It was beautiful but wasn't worth enough to get out of down. Then I crashed for good – I do not remember waking up once during the night, totally comfy wrapped in my sleeping bag under a peaceful night deep in the mountains.
I woke up without even setting an alarm at four. It was getting light out already. I laid there still for about fifteen minutes before rustling about enough to wake Matthew. We scampered about in the tent for food, to change into climbing clothes excited and pumped for the impending climb. Even though I had read a few route descriptions and seen a few pictures of Maude's north face, I knew nothing of what to expect or what lay ahead. And we were greeted upon leaving the tent having strapped on crampons and harness (well, me anyway – Matthew was going to rely on his memory of a bowline on a coil should we ever need to rope up) with – yes – hard, crusty snow. Matthew got a jump start while I tightened things up and followed behind him, giving me the opportunity to lag a bit and take photos of him climbing ahead of me and of the mountains surrounding us as the rising sun began to bathe them in a wash of warm light.
We headed up to a saddle along the east ridge that would take us down onto the Entiat Glacier where we would traverse under the enormous buttress of the Marmot Pyramid and the Entiat Glacier icefall. The moon was rising behind us as we dropped down onto the glacier and into the impressive glacial headwall cirque of the Entiat – surrounded on three sides by the enormous and imposing north face of Maude and the east and south faces of Seven Fingered Jack, wrapped by the north section of the massive Entiat Glacier. It was as impressive a place as I had ever been, brand new to me and forbidding and massive and everything all the reasons I go to the mountains.
We traversed up towards a buttress where we knew on the other side lie the route up the north face in which we intended to climb. It would be spectacular – a wild, steep pitch unrelenting for two thousand feet. I led off, the snow in great condition and soon found it – the rhythm of climbing. Perfection. I had carried a second ice tool that Matthew had lent me and was glad for it. Swing and bury axe into snow. Climb up. Swing and bury other tool into snow. Climb up on other foot. Over and over and over. And over and over and over. The Entiat fell beneath me for thousands of feet to the headwall where the Entiat River churned on its way into Eastern Washington. It is something to witness the headwaters of a formidable river. To be in the moment was everything.
I reached a band of rock where the snow had melted out and so had to negotiate some mixed climbing – crampons on wet and slick rock, the sharp front points barely scraping the rock holding on with everything just the placements of those points and of the perhaps even sharper points of my ice tools. It was a bit nervewracking, unroped with breathtaking exposure holding on by an eighth of an inch on a couple of ice tools and a pair of crampons. But quickly I made it up and was back on snow, thankful to be breathing again. Matthew was far below, and as I climbed as strong and as fast as I could in an effort to keep ahead of the ever-softening snow (a week before the Soltice even the north faces are bathed in sun) the distance between him and I increased to the point where I could no longer see him – he was below a curve in the steep wall of Maude's north face.
I continued up and up, crossing a second band of rock just as exhilarating as the first and going until I reached shade. There I dug my ice axe into the snow and anchored myself to it in order to have a bite to eat. I was desperately thirsty but rationing the water we had thankfully found the day before, knowing it might be until we were back over the west ridge before we would find more. After maybe fifteen minutes I could hear Matthew coming from below, and eventually he reached me. In the shade I was just starting to get cold. And in that time I had had a chance to inspect what lay ahead, and despite the crazy exposure and steepness of the sixteen hundred feet or so of climbing I had seemingly breezed up it was this last four hundred feet that I knew upon eyeing it would take all my mental capacity. Looking up it seemed I was staring straight up and I was very aware of the exposure I had beneath me and that in order to get up this would require a mind game of which I had not really ever had to play before in the mountains.
There were seemingly two options – head left to cross a breathtakingly-exposed sixty-degree slope for about thirty feet to a wall of ice about four feet high, climb up and over that onto the final sixty-five degree snow slope that led to the summit; or head to the right directly above where we stood along an edge of rocks where the snow had melted out for what looked like an easier way up and onto that final snow slope. Four feet may not sound like much, but when it is vertical and what was beneath it was nearly vertical for several thousand feet and a fall meant checking out earlier than planned, four feet was imposing. We agreed to try the direct approach.
Matthew took a turn leading and headed up about fifteen feet above me to where the bare, wet rocks started and fumbled for a way up them. It did not take him long to utter the words "I do not like this
at all." I knew from having climbed with him for all of these years the tone of his voice and choice or words meant Matthew was sufficiently not having a good time (which is of course putting it mildly). We both knew the gravity of the situation. Fortunately, he had the rope and I offered the suggestion of having him tie in with his lovely bowline and toss me the rope, which I would then tie into as well as anchor and put him on belay. This seemed to work for him and he quickly did just that. I buried both ice tools into the snow and looped them into my harness, then for good measure pulled out my picket, burying that and clipping the rope through the biner and belaying him back to me.
He then headed left across this steepest of slopes while I played out the rope, placing a picket about halfway across. The snow ramp leading up a rock band to that final slope crumbled and fell away down the north face under his crampons, destroying that option. So he backtracked up along the four-foot wall to another band of rocks. I yelled to him we were near the rope's end but thankfully – thankfully – we had just enough for him to gracefully pull himself up and onto the final slope where he quickly buried our second (and only other) picket, anchoring himself and effectively putting me on belay as we traded positions. I undid my anchor, grabbed my tools and worked my way across and up – following in his footsteps. Getting to that band of rocks under the snow wall I similarly made a graceful effort of digging and swearing my way up and onto the final snow slope where we swapped leads and I started up, having grabbed both pickets before leading this last and final pitch up a snow slope that was steeper than any I had ever climbed. Earlier down on the face I would every so often peer beneath me, partly to look for Matthew but also partly to mind my surroundings, but on this last pitch I knew it would be dangerous to do so. I was winning the mental battle so far and wanted to keep it that way.
The snow was shit on this last pitch, crumbling underneath me and I would slide down with each intended step up swearing partly out of exasperation and partly out of plain fucking fear. But I made steady progress, placing a picket maybe fifty feet above Matthew and another near the top of the pitch. And then at last I could see it – the rocks of the summit block came into view and I topped out on Maude's north face. The snow eased considerably nearly in an instant and I had a hard time walking standing straight up after having spent the last two hours on the front points of my crampons. But I managed to clamber over to a rock and sit down, coiling in the rope as Matthew made his way in my footsteps to crest the face as well and join me. I was ecstatic. I think more so than I had ever been on any other climb. I could not figure out why, but perhaps because this was the first climb in which I had led more or less all of it (but that one pitch, although that was perhaps the worst pitch the face had to throw at us) or perhaps because it was one of the most intense climbs I had ever done. I knew from the photos of the face I had seen it would be that way, but experiencing it was of course something else entirely. The relief I felt sitting on that rock even before taking off my crampons and harness was something I had never felt before. I find it incredible and somewhat amazing what the effect of exposure has on me mentally – that over time, when each foot placement means quite possibly life or death and each placement of an ice tool the same, how physically exhausting that adds up to being. This might all sound overly dramatic, particularly to those never having been in this sort of situation, but rest assured it is not. Granted, I was confident of the conditions, confident of my experience and equipment – but all the same, it was always in the back of my mind with each step that a slip could be utterly disastrous. And over time that constant sense of fear leads to physical exhaustion. And similarly, how reassuring it is to follow – just having someone ahead of you can ease the mind, and it is a different sense entirely to be the one in the lead.
But at the same time it was exhilarating beyond description. We scrambled up the last hundred feet of rocks to the summit, on the way passing a perfect bivy site someone had erected in the rocks, bringing back memories of our bivy on Stuart's summit (without exception the hardest climb up until this one, however Matthew led most of that). And then we were on top. It was eight forty-five, three-and-a-half hours after leaving our tent. And the weather was beautiful. No wind. We took off our boots, rolled up our shirt sleeves and had a bit to eat. I found a rock to lie on under the sun for a time. We played Name That Summit. Matthew swore a peak was Fernow and even after I brought out the map as proof it was not he remained stubbornly unconvinced and we laughed. Surely the map was wrong. We chatted. We just took in the scene spread out in every direction. I allowed him the honors this time of signing the summit register for us. He wrote something but I did not ask what. I took some photos. A great candid shot of him lounging and laughing on Maude's summit. One of Stuart, far off in the distance but unmistakable all the same. A self-portrait.
All in all we were up there for well over an hour, having discussed we could head down and lounge around at camp or just do it on top as the weather was incredible. But in time we began the descent down the south face, able to see our tent seventeen hundred feet below perched on a rock outcrop above Upper Ice Lake. It was quick getting down, and we again were in bare feet in no time having a bite of lunch and just relaxing at camp before we knew we'd have to head out. This spot was amazing, and I offered up that I would enjoy coming back here some fall when the larch had turned golden and the two lakes – perhaps still not entirely thawed out and shimmering a brilliant turquoise blue – camped on a rock near the water's edge surrounded by an alpine world far-removed from everything else. Maybe I would climb up Maude's south face for the view from the summit. But mostly I would relax next to an open tent, maybe a light breeze next to beautiful alpine lakes basking in quiet that can only be found in places like this.
We packed up camp and headed out. It was back up and over the west ridge, down to the saddle and then down further into Leroy basin making our way through dense forest to try to pick up the faint, steep trail along Leroy Creek which in turn led to where it joined Phelps Creek where we took a short break and I dunked my head in the frigid waters of the creek. Where we had been under clouds and thunder and lightning the day before it was sun this afternoon – and it was warm. It was then a meandering walk back down the Phelps Creek trail to the car. In time we found ourselves under a dark cloud, one which opened up above and drenched us with a deluge of rain. I knew my Sugoi would be useless and that we were headed for Matthew's car anyway and so let it soak me through. It felt good.
And then we were back.
We had made it. I have always been grateful to have found a partner to climb with like Matthew – one where we match each other's pace, wits, sense of humor, graciousness, ability, willingness to take risks, and other important aspects critical for a partnership in the mountains. And on this climb maybe more than any other I found a sense of that partnership – I would not have wanted to go it alone, it was good to have someone else to look down and see coming up from below or look up and see him forging ahead. As always we reveled in the mountains, in the exhilaration of climbing and of getting away from it all if only for a couple of days. Then it was back into cotton, flip flops, feet up on dash windows open driving towards Leavenworth for a coveted Heidelburger and then home.
Like I said, this climb had it all.
(And eventually I'll post some photos to
Flickr)
Seriously, if there is anyone who enjoys photos of mountains that are beyond words this is THE site to visit (photography by John Scurlock). I stumbled upon it today from this site that lists out the top 100 highest peaks in Washington and has a lot of the photography from the first site–it is organized wonderfully, provides hi-res/exif/etc. of each image and, well, the photography is f'in breathtaking. The photo above is an aerial shot of the northwest face of Forbidden Peak during the winter. 
And endless. Absolutely endless.
