Buckner is on the right; Boston on the left with Ripsaw Ridge connecting them.
18 june 2010. So we were trying again for the steep remote north face of Buckner buried in the heart of the North Cascades. We were trying again cos last August there was not enough snow to climb it. So we were back now in June. Turned out last year's snowpack dwindled quickly so that by July routes normally climbable a month or two later were not. Glaciers were cracked open. North faces bare down to rock. And this year's snowpack with the winter that seems to be dragging out through June has left the mountains caked heavy with the stuff. The meltout is slow. We found cornices resembling enormous tidal waves high on Sahale. A belay up steep ice to the Sahale-Boston col with no runout dropping far below to the Davenport glacier. A quick shout to a pair of climbers trying for Sahale from the Quien Sabe and Boston Basin. Then turning around.
Buckner alludes me still.
.....
I found Matthew sitting in the sun outside The Original Bakery in West Seattle where I was supposed to pick him up from him having taken the ferry over from Vashon. He had finished his coffee and was reading the paper catching up on the World Cup apparently while no doubt enjoying the unexpected warmth and sun. I slumped in a chair across from him to soak it up myself for a bit before we crammed back in the truck for the long drive to Marblemount and up the Cascade River Road. We were really in no hurry.
Our plan was to grab a permit for the Sahale glacier camp that evening which we knew was only maybe a four-hour climb and near the summer equinox we had light until ten o'clock or so. Then we'd get up around four the next morning to climb Sahale, traverse around Boston to gain access to the upper Boston glacier, descend the glacier to the base of Buckner's north face, head up, summit and drop down the south face into Horseshoe Basin across the Davenport glacier and back up to our camp to grab our stuff and haul it back to the car. It would be a long day. A very long day. No really. A very long day. Most of the descriptions of the descent route included the word 'grueling.' I assumed that was no coincidence.
But eventually we surmised we should go and we jumped in the truck to hit up northbound traffic on I-5 to Mount Vernon. It was absolutely gorgeous out I remember thinking. Unexpected. I think the forecast had said mostly cloudy or something to that effect but the forecasts have been wrong for the past couple (or few) months so I have not really been paying much attention to them. It's just a really weird year weather-wise and has not made any sense. And I am quite sick of it. But this day was beautiful and we were enjoying it.
.....
I found Matthew sitting in the sun outside The Original Bakery in West Seattle where I was supposed to pick him up from him having taken the ferry over from Vashon. He had finished his coffee and was reading the paper catching up on the World Cup apparently while no doubt enjoying the unexpected warmth and sun. I slumped in a chair across from him to soak it up myself for a bit before we crammed back in the truck for the long drive to Marblemount and up the Cascade River Road. We were really in no hurry.
Our plan was to grab a permit for the Sahale glacier camp that evening which we knew was only maybe a four-hour climb and near the summer equinox we had light until ten o'clock or so. Then we'd get up around four the next morning to climb Sahale, traverse around Boston to gain access to the upper Boston glacier, descend the glacier to the base of Buckner's north face, head up, summit and drop down the south face into Horseshoe Basin across the Davenport glacier and back up to our camp to grab our stuff and haul it back to the car. It would be a long day. A very long day. No really. A very long day. Most of the descriptions of the descent route included the word 'grueling.' I assumed that was no coincidence.
But eventually we surmised we should go and we jumped in the truck to hit up northbound traffic on I-5 to Mount Vernon. It was absolutely gorgeous out I remember thinking. Unexpected. I think the forecast had said mostly cloudy or something to that effect but the forecasts have been wrong for the past couple (or few) months so I have not really been paying much attention to them. It's just a really weird year weather-wise and has not made any sense. And I am quite sick of it. But this day was beautiful and we were enjoying it.
We made the turnoff before Marblemount on Ranger Station Road to have Ranger Joe grant us permission to camp at Sahale. Matthew and I talked about the whole permit system sitting on the tailgate of Stuart a bit later at the Marblemount Drive-In (formerly Good Food and to prove it or more like confirm my suspicions to such I by chance found the old Good Food sign stashed around the side of the building). About how we understand the need to limit the number of people staying in certain areas but on the other hand about all the times we have been to those areas to find them nearly deserted. And the fact that most rangers seem more like police officers treating everyone with just a bit of smug and contempt rather than helpful backcountry experts eager to talk about and share these wild lands as one might expect.
We finished our greasy spoon food in the sun then got back in the truck for the long twenty-two mile haul to the Cascade River Road's end a couple miles shy of Cascade Pass. I've been down that road a few times. It would get old if it didn't gain access to some of the most spectacular mountain country in the world. Mountains jagged and rugged in every direction. The higher you climb the better and further the views. Eldorado. Forbidden. Johannesburg. Torment. Formidable. Magic. Spider. Mixup. Sahale. Buckner.
More than I could possibly ever know or explore.
And glaciers. Glaciers. Glaciers. Inspiration. Cascade. Quien Sabe. Forbidden. Klawatti. Eldorado. Boston. The largest non-volcanic glacier in the lower forty-eight. Looking at a topo map of this place nearly gives me the shivers. The blue and white contour lines denoting them set in lovely contrast against the brown and green of the rest of the landscape. I decided a few weeks ago I want to find a huge map of the Cascade Pass region of the North Cascades to frame and hang on my living room wall. Seriously.
All that to say the drive is not bad. Neither one of us had really packed before we left. I had just thrown all my stuff in my truck and Matthew was borrowing a pack I brought for him so we dumped all our gear into the bed to sort and weigh and contemplate. To bring or not to bring? Do I need that extra pair of socks? Damn I forgot to bring a t-shirt so I guess I'll wear the cotton one I was wearing. Do we want ice screws? Three or four pickets? Decisions decisions. Finally we stuffed our packs and shouldered the load that seemed quite manageable (among our gear I was carrying my three-something-pound two-person tent and trying out a Neo Air nearly microscopic sleeping pad) and left the truck for the trail.
It was warm as we set up the switchbacks to Cascade Pass just after three-thirty. The pass is visible from the parking lot and I remember eyeing a route directly up underneath the shadowy and imposing and downright ugly north face of Johannesburg up and up to the pass. It looked like it could go since snow still hung around. Maybe for the way back.
The hike up to the pass was enjoyable. I started out ahead but quickly fell behind as I stopped to shoot clips of video. Mostly to record the sounds and quiet of the forest. Trickling water off soaked logs. Small waterfalls along the way. A grouse in the distance. Just quiet and still forest air. A few times I'd glance up and see Matthew a few switchbacks above.
I had time to think to myself. Nothing remarkable or revolutionary mostly a reminder of sorts is all. A reminder about why I like to do this sort of thing so much. The sweat and the sacrifice I guess. The sweat from pushing myself. Up and over high mountain passes. Along nerve-wracking steep snow ridges and rock faces. And the sacrifice of some comfort to gain access to these places rugged and pristine that defy description but that are beautiful beyond any. When the light spotlights one peak basking in alpenglow while behind dark clouds brew setting it off. Or the spectacular sight of a rainbow dropping out of skies hit by the setting sun against seemingly invisible rain drops scattered beyond.
There is something wholly unique about hiking and climbing in these North Cascades. About how you start so low and end up so high. In forests dripping from rains seeming to melt in the sun. Filtered sunlight striking a trail switchbacking up and up. The soft crunch of boots on dirt and mud. Every so often a peek through out beyond to mountains rising high above river-carved valleys overflowing with green. To finally break out above as the trees and mud give way to rock and ice. The soft crunch of boots to a hard crunch of crampons. The sounds of climbing gear clanging against itself that lend a sense of seriousness to this outing something more than just a simple hike.
We made it to the high camp a little before eight o'clock. Everything was under snow so we stomped a rectangle in it and used some pickets to flatten it out before setting up the tent. Matthew fired up his trusty Whisperlite and we melted some snow for soup and hot drinks and water for the next day. I took some telephoto shots of the layers and layers of peaks as the sun slipped lower in the sky towards twilight. Then we climbed in the tent for some dinner before wrapping up in down bags bundling up against the cold mountain air for the night.
4:22 a.m. 19 june 2010. Matthew woke first and unzipped the tent fly. It was already getting light and a cold breeze through the tent whipped us into action. We quickly munched on some breakfast before tying into boots and harnesses for the climb ahead. The snow crunched under foot as I headed off towards the summit of Sahale for Stage One. This was the easy part. Or so I thought.
We finished our greasy spoon food in the sun then got back in the truck for the long twenty-two mile haul to the Cascade River Road's end a couple miles shy of Cascade Pass. I've been down that road a few times. It would get old if it didn't gain access to some of the most spectacular mountain country in the world. Mountains jagged and rugged in every direction. The higher you climb the better and further the views. Eldorado. Forbidden. Johannesburg. Torment. Formidable. Magic. Spider. Mixup. Sahale. Buckner.
More than I could possibly ever know or explore.
And glaciers. Glaciers. Glaciers. Inspiration. Cascade. Quien Sabe. Forbidden. Klawatti. Eldorado. Boston. The largest non-volcanic glacier in the lower forty-eight. Looking at a topo map of this place nearly gives me the shivers. The blue and white contour lines denoting them set in lovely contrast against the brown and green of the rest of the landscape. I decided a few weeks ago I want to find a huge map of the Cascade Pass region of the North Cascades to frame and hang on my living room wall. Seriously.
All that to say the drive is not bad. Neither one of us had really packed before we left. I had just thrown all my stuff in my truck and Matthew was borrowing a pack I brought for him so we dumped all our gear into the bed to sort and weigh and contemplate. To bring or not to bring? Do I need that extra pair of socks? Damn I forgot to bring a t-shirt so I guess I'll wear the cotton one I was wearing. Do we want ice screws? Three or four pickets? Decisions decisions. Finally we stuffed our packs and shouldered the load that seemed quite manageable (among our gear I was carrying my three-something-pound two-person tent and trying out a Neo Air nearly microscopic sleeping pad) and left the truck for the trail.
It was warm as we set up the switchbacks to Cascade Pass just after three-thirty. The pass is visible from the parking lot and I remember eyeing a route directly up underneath the shadowy and imposing and downright ugly north face of Johannesburg up and up to the pass. It looked like it could go since snow still hung around. Maybe for the way back.
The hike up to the pass was enjoyable. I started out ahead but quickly fell behind as I stopped to shoot clips of video. Mostly to record the sounds and quiet of the forest. Trickling water off soaked logs. Small waterfalls along the way. A grouse in the distance. Just quiet and still forest air. A few times I'd glance up and see Matthew a few switchbacks above.
I had time to think to myself. Nothing remarkable or revolutionary mostly a reminder of sorts is all. A reminder about why I like to do this sort of thing so much. The sweat and the sacrifice I guess. The sweat from pushing myself. Up and over high mountain passes. Along nerve-wracking steep snow ridges and rock faces. And the sacrifice of some comfort to gain access to these places rugged and pristine that defy description but that are beautiful beyond any. When the light spotlights one peak basking in alpenglow while behind dark clouds brew setting it off. Or the spectacular sight of a rainbow dropping out of skies hit by the setting sun against seemingly invisible rain drops scattered beyond.
There is something wholly unique about hiking and climbing in these North Cascades. About how you start so low and end up so high. In forests dripping from rains seeming to melt in the sun. Filtered sunlight striking a trail switchbacking up and up. The soft crunch of boots on dirt and mud. Every so often a peek through out beyond to mountains rising high above river-carved valleys overflowing with green. To finally break out above as the trees and mud give way to rock and ice. The soft crunch of boots to a hard crunch of crampons. The sounds of climbing gear clanging against itself that lend a sense of seriousness to this outing something more than just a simple hike.
We made it to the high camp a little before eight o'clock. Everything was under snow so we stomped a rectangle in it and used some pickets to flatten it out before setting up the tent. Matthew fired up his trusty Whisperlite and we melted some snow for soup and hot drinks and water for the next day. I took some telephoto shots of the layers and layers of peaks as the sun slipped lower in the sky towards twilight. Then we climbed in the tent for some dinner before wrapping up in down bags bundling up against the cold mountain air for the night.
4:22 a.m. 19 june 2010. Matthew woke first and unzipped the tent fly. It was already getting light and a cold breeze through the tent whipped us into action. We quickly munched on some breakfast before tying into boots and harnesses for the climb ahead. The snow crunched under foot as I headed off towards the summit of Sahale for Stage One. This was the easy part. Or so I thought.
I reached the spot where we had bivied last August this time around completely covered in snow just a few rocks barely poking through. And then up the steep now snow-filled gully towards the summit and the Boston-Sahale col that we had made short work of last summer now looking at the last pitch while Matthew caught up I shouted down maybe we should break out the rope and set up a belay. It was only maybe sixty or seventy feet but it was awfully steep and there was maybe only thirty or forty feet of runout before a sheer and exhilarating drop to the Davenport glacier far below.
When he reached me he uncoiled the rope while I drove in a picket and an ice ax to tie myself into. I said I didn't mind leading and grabbed his pair of pickets and my second ice tool and set off on a running belay. I got maybe only twenty feet or so underneath an overhanging rock cliff where the snow had begun to unconsolidate and melt out unpredictably. It kept giving out underneath my weight and I'd slide down towards the drop. Snow and ice I kicked up scattered down the slope and quickly disappeared over the void. I backed down some to place a picket in something more solid before trying again. I didn't like it. 'Matthew want to give it a try?' I resorted shouting down to him. I pulled the picket on my way back down to him and traded him spots only this time setting up a true belay for him as he headed up in my footsteps. After some time he got past where I turned back and led the rest of the pitch to the top of this snow field where he could peer over and beyond to Boston and the corniced ridge that lay between us and what we assumed were the upper reaches of the Boston glacier.
We talked strategy. He saw a climber pop up below on the Quien Sabe having made their way up from Boston Basin and shouted a greeting. Could we get past the corniced ridge? Well could we safely get past the corniced ridge. We agreed someone might be able to but neither one of us was feeling super confident about it. And so after maybe fifteen minutes - around eight in the morning - we turned around.
I belayed Matthew back to me then on further down. He placed an intermediate picket on his way down for me and as the slope mellowed off he shouted up to take him off belay. I followed as he belayed me down. Took the rope from him when I reached him and he quick set off back to camp while I descended only as far down as where we had bivied last year to sit on the one exposed rock and soak up the view. Cloud caps swirled over the north flanks of Buckner and I strapped on the telephoto lens to shoot some photographs. I took some video. Just hung out there by myself taking it all in.
And thinking to myself.
Like Constance had we given up too easily? Was our redline so-to-speak a few notches lower than it was years ago? Or were we just being smart? Safe? It seems a fine line and to me then at that moment at least a little fuzzy. Even the snow the last twenty or so feet to Sahale's summit was unconsolidated and crap enough to make Matthew nervous so we didn't even try to go for that. We probably could have pushed ourselves. The thing about this climb was where we turned around was sort of the part where up until that point we were not committed. We could easily get back to our camp and on down Cascade Pass and home. But just past that spot maybe somewhere along that corniced ridge I don't know we might have crossed that point and been committed to going all the way up and over Buckner. I know that weighed heavy on my mind. Maybe Matthew's too.
And it would have been a long day. Possible but long. We had climbed Eldorado in a single sixteen-hour day car-to-car. We had a couple of long days on Stuart. But that point of commitment being on either side of it makes a big difference. We trust each other's judgment in the mountains. That's why we climb together. Neither he nor I are trying to push the other too much.
So as I sat on that lonely rock soaking up sun and mountains I was just glad to be there. In that spot. The valleys to the west below filled quickly with clouds but the sun beat down from where I sat. I watched them rake over Cascade Pass exactly how they had last August. I watched Hidden Lake disappear from view swallowed whole. I watched Matthew a mile or so away and a couple thousand feet lower ambling around camp.
Nine o'clock. The clouds were climbing up Sahale Arm. Fast. Time to gather my stuff and head down to join him. It didn't take long and I was walking up to the tent to toss my pack on the ground before packing myself up so we could head back down.
We glissaded the steep slope leading up to the camp and ten minutes later found ourselves engulfed in the clouds we had eyed from above. Whiteout. Luckily our tracks had not completely melted out so it was a simple task of just following them all the way back along the arm to Cascade Pass where we finally broke out of the cloud layer to grey and dull below. No more sun for us that day.
Like we had discussed we opted to head down what Matthew named the Cascade Pass Direct route back to the truck. Instead of taking the trail and its thirty-seven switchbacks we'd just shoot straight down for the parking lot that we could see from eighteen-hundred feet above. At least that was the plan. Unfortunately I apparently dismissed my instinct and replaced it with dumbness and just followed a set of boot prints we could see going down down down. About seven or eight hundred feet down - halfway - the boot prints just stopped at a rather large cliff. Matthew thought we might find the person responsible for them camped out in a tree well or something cos there certainly was not a second set heading back up. And there was no getting around this cliff even after a short debate of possibly trying to setup a rappel off some trees or rocks or something to the void below.
So up we climbed to within four or five hundred feet of the pass in order to head over closer to under Johannesburg where the snow dropped at a reasonable angle all the way down to the parking lot. We had to mix it up with some slide alder and blossoming devil's club but what North Cascades climb is complete without that? Eventually we found a way that would go and once the slope eased we plopped down and glissaded most of the way to the parking lot. One more thick patch of alder and devil's club and we broke out to the clearing where a couple of picnic tables were perched for people to enjoy a lunch on a nice day under the constant waterfalls and crashing ice avalanches of Johannesburg's infamous mile-high north face.
We breezed past them. Dumped our stuff next to the truck. Changed. Chilled for a bit before heading back down for a shake at the Marblemount Drive-In. For whatever reason Matthew always has to have a shake post-climb. I am not complaining. Just saying. Same lady working the window. I missed the sun at seven thousand feet. We told ourselves next year. July. We'd be back. August was too late. June to early. I want to walk across the Boston glacier weaving around crevasses. I want to climb the north face. I want to glance down leading up to the shadows cast by Ripsaw Ridge the crevasses of the glacier slices in the ice far below. I want to stand on the summit of Buckner. Maybe more so than any other peak I have ever climbed. Some day. Definitely some day. Just not this day.
But it's okay. It's okay. Buckner will still be there. Waiting.
When he reached me he uncoiled the rope while I drove in a picket and an ice ax to tie myself into. I said I didn't mind leading and grabbed his pair of pickets and my second ice tool and set off on a running belay. I got maybe only twenty feet or so underneath an overhanging rock cliff where the snow had begun to unconsolidate and melt out unpredictably. It kept giving out underneath my weight and I'd slide down towards the drop. Snow and ice I kicked up scattered down the slope and quickly disappeared over the void. I backed down some to place a picket in something more solid before trying again. I didn't like it. 'Matthew want to give it a try?' I resorted shouting down to him. I pulled the picket on my way back down to him and traded him spots only this time setting up a true belay for him as he headed up in my footsteps. After some time he got past where I turned back and led the rest of the pitch to the top of this snow field where he could peer over and beyond to Boston and the corniced ridge that lay between us and what we assumed were the upper reaches of the Boston glacier.
We talked strategy. He saw a climber pop up below on the Quien Sabe having made their way up from Boston Basin and shouted a greeting. Could we get past the corniced ridge? Well could we safely get past the corniced ridge. We agreed someone might be able to but neither one of us was feeling super confident about it. And so after maybe fifteen minutes - around eight in the morning - we turned around.
I belayed Matthew back to me then on further down. He placed an intermediate picket on his way down for me and as the slope mellowed off he shouted up to take him off belay. I followed as he belayed me down. Took the rope from him when I reached him and he quick set off back to camp while I descended only as far down as where we had bivied last year to sit on the one exposed rock and soak up the view. Cloud caps swirled over the north flanks of Buckner and I strapped on the telephoto lens to shoot some photographs. I took some video. Just hung out there by myself taking it all in.
And thinking to myself.
Like Constance had we given up too easily? Was our redline so-to-speak a few notches lower than it was years ago? Or were we just being smart? Safe? It seems a fine line and to me then at that moment at least a little fuzzy. Even the snow the last twenty or so feet to Sahale's summit was unconsolidated and crap enough to make Matthew nervous so we didn't even try to go for that. We probably could have pushed ourselves. The thing about this climb was where we turned around was sort of the part where up until that point we were not committed. We could easily get back to our camp and on down Cascade Pass and home. But just past that spot maybe somewhere along that corniced ridge I don't know we might have crossed that point and been committed to going all the way up and over Buckner. I know that weighed heavy on my mind. Maybe Matthew's too.
And it would have been a long day. Possible but long. We had climbed Eldorado in a single sixteen-hour day car-to-car. We had a couple of long days on Stuart. But that point of commitment being on either side of it makes a big difference. We trust each other's judgment in the mountains. That's why we climb together. Neither he nor I are trying to push the other too much.
So as I sat on that lonely rock soaking up sun and mountains I was just glad to be there. In that spot. The valleys to the west below filled quickly with clouds but the sun beat down from where I sat. I watched them rake over Cascade Pass exactly how they had last August. I watched Hidden Lake disappear from view swallowed whole. I watched Matthew a mile or so away and a couple thousand feet lower ambling around camp.
Nine o'clock. The clouds were climbing up Sahale Arm. Fast. Time to gather my stuff and head down to join him. It didn't take long and I was walking up to the tent to toss my pack on the ground before packing myself up so we could head back down.
We glissaded the steep slope leading up to the camp and ten minutes later found ourselves engulfed in the clouds we had eyed from above. Whiteout. Luckily our tracks had not completely melted out so it was a simple task of just following them all the way back along the arm to Cascade Pass where we finally broke out of the cloud layer to grey and dull below. No more sun for us that day.
Like we had discussed we opted to head down what Matthew named the Cascade Pass Direct route back to the truck. Instead of taking the trail and its thirty-seven switchbacks we'd just shoot straight down for the parking lot that we could see from eighteen-hundred feet above. At least that was the plan. Unfortunately I apparently dismissed my instinct and replaced it with dumbness and just followed a set of boot prints we could see going down down down. About seven or eight hundred feet down - halfway - the boot prints just stopped at a rather large cliff. Matthew thought we might find the person responsible for them camped out in a tree well or something cos there certainly was not a second set heading back up. And there was no getting around this cliff even after a short debate of possibly trying to setup a rappel off some trees or rocks or something to the void below.
So up we climbed to within four or five hundred feet of the pass in order to head over closer to under Johannesburg where the snow dropped at a reasonable angle all the way down to the parking lot. We had to mix it up with some slide alder and blossoming devil's club but what North Cascades climb is complete without that? Eventually we found a way that would go and once the slope eased we plopped down and glissaded most of the way to the parking lot. One more thick patch of alder and devil's club and we broke out to the clearing where a couple of picnic tables were perched for people to enjoy a lunch on a nice day under the constant waterfalls and crashing ice avalanches of Johannesburg's infamous mile-high north face.
We breezed past them. Dumped our stuff next to the truck. Changed. Chilled for a bit before heading back down for a shake at the Marblemount Drive-In. For whatever reason Matthew always has to have a shake post-climb. I am not complaining. Just saying. Same lady working the window. I missed the sun at seven thousand feet. We told ourselves next year. July. We'd be back. August was too late. June to early. I want to walk across the Boston glacier weaving around crevasses. I want to climb the north face. I want to glance down leading up to the shadows cast by Ripsaw Ridge the crevasses of the glacier slices in the ice far below. I want to stand on the summit of Buckner. Maybe more so than any other peak I have ever climbed. Some day. Definitely some day. Just not this day.
But it's okay. It's okay. Buckner will still be there. Waiting.
2 comments:
A weird year for weather indeed. What a cold wet father's day. I think you made the right call, the mountain will always be there and if you come down you can always return.
I try to keep that in mind. And yeah - yesterday was terrible weather-wise. Ugh.
Safe journey on your travels as well.
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