climbing.

C L I M B I N G .

Eldorado Peak, North Cascades National Park, Washington

© 2013 All Rights Reserved

At this elevation snow fields

lie like afghans for the slopes,

make shawls for the avalanche lilies.

To breathe becomes the rule,

to move,

each leg a body,

to squeeze oxygen

out of the air.

Think of conjugations

to gain five minutes.

Stopping beneath this last stand of trees

the rain slips down rocks and faces,

luminous from hours of rain,

legs prickling

inside soggy wool.

Hunched into the wind,

it whips and wraps cold fingers

around the ridges, ripping the

clouds,

and bringing an indictment; there is

no hiding on this face.

~ Phyllis Munzlinger

Excerpted from The Mountaineer, January 1977

the loneliest mountain.

Luna Peak in the distance from the summit of Black Peak

We were sitting at Vivace on Yale sipping white velvets (at least I was ... I think ... it might have been caramel) and I was reading some article in Backpacker magazine about extremes - the tallest tree, place with the most snow, quietest spot and such - and among the list it mentioned what the writer considered to be the loneliest mountain ...


Luna Peak.


I liked the idea. The sense it conveyed. Buried higher and deeper in the Picket Range of the North Cascades than any other peak, the article stated ~

You’ll need determination and navigation savvy to reach 8,311-foot Luna Peak, the rarely visited highpoint of the remote Picket Range. From Big Beaver Landing, it’s a 16.5-mile bushwhack that ends with a class 4 scramble.

I wholly intend to climb it next year for a view like no other - one direction to the southern Pickets the other to the northern part of the range. Fury. Terror. Challenger. Whatcom. Triumph. Despair. All the incredibleness of the most rugged slice of mountains in the lower forty-eight.

gear lust, er ... list.

So part of this year's plan was to go lighter/farther/faster (faster will be tough, but I can definitely shoot for lighter and more remote). And along with that ideology comes a few new gear items for the year -

- Montbell Crescent 1 solo tent -

I've had my eye on this tent for a couple years now. Time to pony up for it - I say 'pony up' cos REI doesn't carry Montbell so I'll have to (*cough*) actually pay retail ... And I know - it tips the two pound goal for a tent at 2 lbs. 6 oz. (packed weight). But short of just tarping it, this thing is s-l-i-c-k. And I plan on doing at least one or two solo overnight trips this year (mostly for photography but also cos I tend to think it's good for the soul).

And ... paired with the GoLite pack below (1 lb. 10 oz.) and either my REI Flash UL 40 or Marmot Hydrogen 32 (both just over 1 lb.) bags - the three still add up to the ultra-light holy grail of under 6 pounds for the tent/bag/pack combo.

- Snow Peak Trek Starter cook set -

Yeah, this kit is wicked cool - holds the stove and a fuel canister inside the 700mL titanium pot (and an extra canister on top if needed). Weighs in at eight ounces for the whole deal. Uhh, yeah - eight ounces ... hot chocolate at night (along with a hot meal) and instant coffee (or white trash mocha) in the morning will always be on the menu.

- GoLite Peak pack -

Tried this puppy on one evening at the Seattle REI and shoved about thirty pounds in it - fit like a glove. Under two pounds (1 lb. 10 oz.). About 40L (size large). Check. Check. Check.

- Black Diamond Ultra Distance Z poles -

Okay, so this is probably the most exciting piece of gear I've discovered this year (the other three aren't new - this one is) - a pair of these carbon fiber poles tips the scales at a whopping nine ounces. Uhh ... that's about the weight ... of one carbon fiber pole. And (wait for it ... ) no camming device that will eventually break! No flick locks even - just whip 'em into place like a tent pole and never worry about them. I just ordered these - and cannot wait to try them out.

And from last year -

- Cascade Designs NeoAir pad (size regular 72" length) - 14 oz. - the most comfortable air mattress I've ever slept on in the backcountry and cannot feel the cold of the snow through it - this piece of gear is absolutely stellar - a rock star and well worth its minimal weight in gold as they say

- Black Diamond Raven Ultra Pro ice ax - 12 oz. - this thing is awesome, but I have to admit for the more technical climbs I've done I've wished for something with - well - a bit more heft to feel more secure (so for those I carry the lightweight Petzel Aztarex tool - the lightest ice tool out there)

- REI prototype single-wall 2-person Duet/Ace SW tent (put into production for a year I think before being pulled) - weighs in at 3 lbs. 15 oz. packed and stuffs down to nearly half the size of my next lightest tent, the REI Quarter Dome (which makes sense cos it's a single-wall without a separate rainfly and body)

Now just need to head out ... cannot wait. Just what'll be the first trip ... ?

mind-numbing cold showers.

I totally stole this photo of me towel draped over shoulders miles and miles deep in the backcountry having climbed down to the base of a frigid waterfall to take a shower bivied up above Hidden Lake with views to glaciers and the Cascade Pass peaks flip-flops and shorts sunglasses and ball caps dropping my little tiny container of shampoo in the rocks scrambling to find it to stick my head under mind-numbing cold water but loving it all of it nothing else like it to dry off quick under July North Cascades sun the bugs had gone off by then to go sit on my sleep pad and crack open a book nothing no sound just silence still and perfect and blissful.

I want to take a shower like this again soon ...

Sad story.

Joseph Puryear - a photographer and climber and Washington native - recently died while climbing in a remote part of the Himalayan Range in Tibet.

When asked earlier where his climbing heart lay, Puryear's reply echoed in every ounce my own sentiment ~

"It’s hard not to say my own home mountains the Cascades, but really my heart lies in all alpine travel and exploration off the beaten path and away from civilization."

...

(the photo is one of his most popular taken high on the Infinite Spur on Mt. Foraker six thousand feet above the glacier below)

climb list 2011.

First snow storm in the mountains and am already starting next year's list -

- Storm King - approach from Park Creek either via Cascade Pass and down into the Stehekin Valley (for the first time) or up from Lake Chelan (also would be for the first time) ...

- Formidable - approach over Cascade Pass and climb the south face. Camp at Kool-Aid Lake or bivy at the Spider-Formidable Col.

- Buckner - north face. Enough said. Third time's a charm. July.

- Challenger - Pickets. Finally. Yay.

- Ruth - summit this time. Early. Maybe camp up on the high east ridge for alpenglow and early morning shots of Shuksan's spectacular and terrifying north face. Maybe combine with climb of Challenger.

- Eldorado - from Sibley Creek/The Triad side this time. Camp high. Summit in the evening. Spectacular.

- Black - possibly. In the fall, maybe? Camp at Wing Lake.

- Snowfield - this was such a cool area when we climbed Colonial this year. Impressive. Possibly in combo with the Isolation Traverse below ...

And then backpacking -

Thorton Lakes - the Pickets. Again. Easy. With J.

Ice Lakes - in Autumn - maybe?

Kool-Aid/Yang-Yang/White Rock Lakes - see Formidable above - so combined. And at least the first, maybe the second, possibly the third? But if all of those then, why not just the entire Ptarmigan Traverse? Which would include climbing at least Dome and Le Conte and ... but definitely Dome.

- Thunder Creek - sweet. Long weekend. Three days. Start north, head south. Car shuttle. Get to know the valleys of the North Cascades a little better.

- Isolation Traverse - ok ok this is ambitious but just jotting it down ...

- the Enchantments - Autumn - hopefully ... maybe? Or maybe Ice Lakes or Black Peak ...

- the Sierras - of course. Kings Canyon. Yosemite. Julian. A week. Summer holiday. In-N-Out. Duh. Somewhere spectacular. Remote. Time to lounge for a few days. Let his little legs rest. Explore. Be a kid. In the mountains.

The whole point though of all of these is to mark a change. In direction. In both climbing and getting out in general. No day trips anymore. At least the same as this year if not even more über-ultralight next.

More remote.

More remote.

More remote.

No roads visible from any summit. No hard climbing routes (with the one possible exception of Buckner's damn north face of which I must, must, must climb). Mellow. Scenic. Deserted. But out there.

Already. I can't wait.

whether or not to just listen.

A late start. A wrong turn just after Hennegan Pass. Back track. Two and a half hours to here. Two hours without the wrong turn. A tight timeline. Fourteen hundred feet from the summit staring up at it from this high alpine ridge the North Cascades in every direction. The northern Pickets. Mount Redoubt. Whatcom Peak. Mount Challenger. I stop finally to pause and am startled by the silence. How quiet it is. A slight breeze warm in the sun crests over where I stand. A bug or two fly past my ear. Rockfall far in the distance. I just stand still for the first time in hours and listen. Look up at the summit from here. I could make it. I would have to haul but I have crampons and ax to get me to the top. The glacier is not opened up much and I spot a seemingly-obvious route. Mount Shuksan and Baker glisten in the autumn afternoon sun. Beckoning. Or. Or I could stop here. Pull out the sit pad acting as pack frame of sorts and plop down on a rock. Eat the fixings I brought with me. Soak up and absorb the silence. Not a soul in this valley. Probably not in the next. Or the next. This mountain vista is mine temporarily and I could own it for the next hour or so until the setting sun urged me to get moving back down shadows growing longer and higher up the valley walls. It is warm enough to be sitting here in shirt sleeves. I cannot describe the views or the silence. They must be earned. Experienced. Or. Or I could rush up to tag the summit quick. To see the north face of Shuksan though washed out at this hour. I could no doubt see more. More than I could from where I stood despite the already insatiable view. See. And then it hit me: but not hear. Cos all I would hear would be the crunch of my crampons on the ice of the glacier heading up. My own breathing. I could see from the summit for a few minutes before having to race back down. Or. Or I could save it. Save it for another day when Shuksan's north face was not blinded in shadow. I could let the sun wash over me. Enjoy this moment tucked away in these mountains for which I feel such a deep connection. I feel remote but then stare over at Whatcom and Challenger and sense their even more remoteness two valleys over from where I now sit here on this rock in the alpenglow. On the east ridge of Ruth there is this enormous cirque carved by glaciers scraped bare and smooth down to rock thousands of years ago itself falling thousands of feet down into the Chilliwack River valley where the Brush Creek Trail winds its way to the nearly-impenetrable Whatcom Pass. And beyond that lie the peaks of the northern Pickets. Whatcom. Challenger. Fury. Luna. I do want to see them. This is certainly a special and extraordinary place. There is the ice of glaciers. Granatic rock. Vine maples on fire middle of October. Firs. Cascades of creeks and rivers Ruth and Copper and Chilliwack from those same glaciers offering the intrepid climber the ability to see. I know I will be disappointed if even slightly for having chosen not to rush up to the summit. But it is so peaceful here. Time flies. Shadows lengthen. Light falls. I want to stay but know I must leave. The Ruth Creek valley is filling with darkness while high up on this ridge I bask in alpenglows and I could stay here indefinitely as I would like to think. But I gather my things. Take a last few photographs to remember the light and the shadows and race down.


-----


And all the while. All the while back down thinking to myself of the difference between seeing and listening. I have always wanted to see. To see from the summits of these peaks. To more and more peaks. Oceans of them. Above cloud-filled valleys glistening with emerald green dews and soaked from Pacific rains. To see from ice and rock. Always a race to the top. Then back down. Eldorado in a day. Sahale. Others. Seeing from the summits to distant peaks. But unlike today suddenly so sudden as if to catch me quite literally by surprise I discovered that leaves no time to just listen. Listen to the silence of these mountain vistas. Instead of racing to the summit just taking a moment to sit down and listen. I was amazed. My breath was taken away. Maybe more so than had I reached the summit out of breath no time to pause. No time to hear. What did it mean to just sit on a mountain ridge beneath the summit of an icy peak with views north to Redoubt and beyond and south to Cascade Pass and the majestic Glacier Peak rather than stand on the summit itself? Watching the light change. Clouds move. Disappear.

It sounded amazing.

slices in the ice.

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.

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.

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.

manque de bravado.

25 april 2010. Hmm. So this is not going to be a fun post really. Sort of like the one for Buckner but not for the same reason. I don't know why. Maybe cos we didn't make the summit cos I made the call to turn back. Maybe cos it doesn't take place sprawled out amongst the glaciers and crags of the North Cascades. I don't know.

We had made good time. It was only about nine o'clock or so in the morning and although it wasn't a perfectly clear day it was calm and a muted sun rose in the sky to our east. I hadn't really noticed climbing up towards the notch in the east-west ridge of Constance. We were just climbing. And it seemed spectacular. The snow was as hard as ice. Just ice in places come to think of it which we tried to avoid. Our crampons bit in without leaving enough of a mark even to see our tracks. It was steep. Steep enough to front-point instead of traversing back and forth up the narrow chute leading to the notch a thousand feet above. Near the top I trailed behind Matthew giving him space above so the ice he couldn't help but kick down was not just falling right on top of me. And in case he slipped and fell I would have a chance to move out of the way so as not to be knocked off the face of this mountain myself. Seriously.

Thirty feet from the top he went up one of three gullies that led off to the left. It was steep. It was insanely steep had to be over sixty degrees. And icy. But he made it. Tenously. He admitted straight away he wasn't very excited about having to come back down that. I knew what that meant. We each had our own way of understating the obvious. So I waited for him to give the thumbs-up that it was that chute we wanted before putting us both in the same predicament. Waited to hear that he had topped out in the right place or rather that I should head right. Sure enough. He yelled back he didn't think it would go so I headed up the just-as-steep and just-as-icy and just-as-narrow chute towards another crest in the ridge off to our right. Got to the top and peered over the edge at a sheer dropoff a few thousand feet down to the Tunnel Creek drainage. Um yeah that way was definitely a no go. Matthew must have been mistaken.

Sure enough again. A few moments later I hear him yell back it looked like it would work. He could see the summit. Trouble was I was about fifty lateral feet away from the chute he had climbed up. Fifty feet. I would have to traverse at a downward angle to get to him across a sixty-plus degree slope of ice. I hadn't really noticed climbing up. But I noticed now. Noticed now that I was teetering on the edge so-to-speak. That all I had were the front points of my crampons and the pick of my ice ax holding me to the ice. A self belay was all. Nothing more. There were scattered bands of rocks littering the chute all the way down for at least a thousand feet below me. And at least another thousand feet below that. That same thousand feet we had flown up thirty minutes ago was now terrifying. If my ax came loose or did not hold me. If one of the points of my crampons slipped. That was it. For real. There was no self-arresting on this kind of terrain. I hadn't really bargained for this. I was done.

But I had to get down.

-----

It started out like any other climb. I met Matthew at the Days Inn off the highway in Port Orchard and bid Spencer a somewhat admittedly reluctant farewell. I hoped he'd be okay. And we took off for the town of Brinnon on the Olympic Peninsula. We'd head inland along the Dosewallips River to the point the road washed out something like ten years ago and had never been and never will be repaired. No worries. It meant we had to bike up the road about four miles and seven hundred feet of extra elevation but the road was not as steep as I remembered or I was in better biking shape cos I could bike most of it without having to get off and walk.

We crossed four creeks and two bridges and passed by the Olympic National Park sign before finding ourselves at the trailhead for the Lake Constance 'approach.' Approach it was called. A long time ago it was actually called a trail. But it really wasn't a trail. That was apparently too misleading so the Forest Service or the National Park downgraded it to just an approach. It climbed thirty-four hundred feet to the lake in two miles. Insane. You literally just climbed straight up the ridge leading up to the lake at times grabbing onto tree limbs and roots to pull yourself up pack and all. There were cliffs near Constance Creek. The snow had started to melt out and was soft and slippery in places. Good times. But in a couple of hours we crested the ridge and found ourselves at Lake Constance a popular backpacking spot during the height of the summer months when it was warm and the bugs were in full force.

Nothing like that for us though this time of year. No one there. No bugs. Still frozen over. I grabbed some water from the creek and we took a bit of a break before heading up into Avalanche Canyon as the clouds moved in towards the base of the south chute - the twelve-hundred-foot climb up that would take us to the top of the north-south ridge that in essence was Mount Constance. The weather had been pretty decent considering the forecast partly sunny as we had made our way up to here mostly just cumulus clouds drifting to and fro.

But then from the top of that south chute we would turn and head north up another thousand foot chute to a notch in the dissecting east-west ridge. From there we would be able to see the summit though still at least a half mile further north but only a few hundred feet above us. Most of the climbing at that point would be done and it would only be a matter of traversing to it although over some apparently sketchy terrain.

But for the moment I found us a good spot to set up camp. I was sort of excited to be trying out a prototype single-wall tent I got cheap at an REI sample sale last Fall. It weighed just over three pounds and packed up smaller than any other tent I have ever owned. It meant Matthew and I could not split the weight of it (where one of us would take the body and the other would take the fly) but no worries. He had grabbed the rope before we set off from the car now what seven miles or so and almost five thousand feet below us.

After some trial and error of figuring out just which poles went where we got it pitched. It was cold. Cold but calm thankfully. I fired up the stove over on some rocks nearby to melt some snow so we could have hot soup and chocolate. That was delightful. Wrapped up in my down sleeping bag and Matthew in his we tightened up the tent for the night and dozed off.

I slept well only waking up a time or two. Then it was light. After dozing off and on for maybe half an hour we were both up getting ready to head higher. I was first ready and so headed off Matthew about five or ten minutes behind me. Up the south chute I climbed. Up and up. I love the feeling of starting out cold my fingers numb then ten or fifteen minutes later they were tingling. In another five minutes or so I was completely warm enveloped in the sound of my own breathing. What a way to start the day at seven o'clock in the morning. Nothing like a little warmup routine. But my crampons bit into the hard snow spectacularly. I loved the feeling. Of just climbing. Sheer climbing. All I could hear was the sound of my breathing and the crunch of my crampons and ax. It was wonderful.

I stopped a couple of times. To catch my breath. Admire the view. Check on Matthew's steady progress. After an hour I topped out on the chute and gazed across the wide expanse to the east greeted for the first time that morning by the rising sun. I could make out Seattle. Rainier. Glacier Peak. The Stuart range. Said hello to some folks to myself that I could more or less see from my vantage point high on Constance. Matthew came up shortly after as I was taking some photos and having a bit of a snack. We rested quick and then he led off up the next chute that would take us to the top of the east-west ridge.

It was another thousand feet up. We made good time. I had led the south chute while Matthew took over leading this one. We avoided the patches of sheer ice. The patches of scree where the snow had thawed out. And soon enough we found ourselves staring up at three different chutes all within fifty or so feet of each other. Which one to head up? Matthew chose the one in the middle to our left.

-----

Well before my mind checked out of this climb and all I could think about was getting home. Saying 'hi' to Julian. Mowing the lawn. Working more on his bed. The house. Playing the piano. Before that I had to cross those fifty feet of incredibly steep ice to get to the base of the chute on which Matthew was standing at the top. I was safe where I was sitting although a few feet to my right was that several thousand foot pretty damn sheer drop to a creek and valley snow-free and green nearly a mile below. I had my ice ax and my crampons. I couldn't stay where I was. But all of a sudden I was acutely aware of how steep it was. The thousand feet. The bands of rock. The ice. 'Easy-peasy lemon squeezy' I said under my breath something Julian used to say when he was little that I still use when climbing over sketchy ground. Gingerly I headed across. Facing into the slope I front-pointed my crampons into the ice. Strapped the wrist loop over my glove and dug the pick of the ax in. Took two steps. Extracted the pick and dug it in again this time closer to me. Repeat. Repeat. Tried to keep my mind from panicking too much. Breathe dammit. I felt secure just knew that if for some reason I slipped it would not be a good day. And so I was not having fun.

But I made it to the base of the chute below Matthew. We knew no matter what he obviously had to get down. Luckily he had the rope. Of course I had the picket with the only sling we had (except for the ones looped around our ice axes) so in order for him to set up a rappel he would have to cut off a section of my rope. 'No worries go for it' I said. I wanted him to get down safe as much as I wanted to get down safe. 'I could belay you up' he said from above. Getting up wasn't what worried me I told him. It was getting down. We had a thousand feet of steep, icy terrain we had breezed up to get down that now all of a sudden seemed dizzying. And all we had was an idea of what lay ahead. There was an exposed bypass of a couple of even more exposed traverses. The Fingertip Traverse was called that because in order to cross it required hanging on by fingertips. At least so-to-speak. And below that the other option called the Terrible Traverse. A steep snow slope on the edge of a couple thousand foot dropoff with no run out. At this time of the year the Fingertip Traverse was not really an option caked with snow the ledges narrow. So the option to head over and cross to the west side of the ridge behind the Fingertip Traverse is what we were after. Not sure though how that would be. Sounded like a steep chute then to gain access to the summit ramp.

All of this and the thousand foot icy descent. 'Go ahead' I told him cut the rope and get yourself down safe I was going to head down to safer ground. Calm down a bit. Breathe. 'Mind your surroundings' I muttered to myself (a quote from near the end of the movie Batman Begins I also repeat to myself while climbing - it helps). Think of each foot placement. Each ax placement. Do not move down until your ax is secure. Then step down. All of this in my mind I faced into the slope and headed down while Matthew set up his belay and rapped off down the narrow chute just above.

We regrouped a few hundred feet down. Back up there me at the bottom of the chute Matthew at the top we had talked about whether or not we would continue on for the summit. But I was wasted. All I could think of was getting down. Down this chute. Down the south chute. Back to camp. Tear it down and back down Avalanche Canyon. Past the lake. Down the steep slope to the creek. Along the creek and down the ridge through the forest. Back to the road. Our bikes stashed behind a log. Screaming down whipping past people trudging along maybe thinking damn if only I'd thought to bring a bike. To change into cotton and flip flops. Have a burger. Mow the lawn. Work some more on Julian's bed. The house. Play the piano.

constance.

Forecast:

Saturday: Snow showers likely. Mostly cloudy, with a high near 37. West southwest wind between 11 and 14 mph. Chance of precipitation is 60%. New snow accumulation of around an inch possible.

Saturday Night: A 30 percent chance of snow showers before 11pm. Mostly cloudy, with a low around 25. West southwest wind between 3 and 11 mph. New snow accumulation of less than a half inch possible.

Sunday: Mostly cloudy, with a high near 47.

That picture shows most of the route from the middle of the frame - the smaller pointy feature at the base of the V-shaped ridge is called the Cat's Ear and is where you gain that ridge from the other (west) side. We'll camp at the base of that since with the weather there's no point in camping near the Ear which - in good weather - would afford incredible views of the Olympics and across the Sound to Seattle and the Cascades.

The route we'll climb requires crossing either what is called The Fingertip Traverse or (below that) the Terrible Traverse. Sort of hairy with thousands of feet of exposure apparently. So we'll bring a 30m glacier rope and a couple of pickets.

the wildest dream.

Touching the Void has long-since had my vote for greatest mountaineering film. Ever. Much of it was filmed on location, and the cinematography was excellent and well done. The interview segments of Joe (and to only a slightly lesser extent Simon) were splendid. The emotions during the film are incredible, and I still end up getting slightly teary near the end Joe crying out in the dark alone. And it can easily appeal to climbers and armchair adventurers alike - an incredible story of survival and inspiration.

But this upcoming motion picture The Wildest Dream for National Geographic seems like it might be a very serious contender. The trailer is brilliant (linked here since Blogger only embeds 400 pixel-wide images/videos). Narrated by Liam Neeson (who also, coincidentally, narrated the Everest IMAX movie shot by renowned climber/cinematographer David Brashears) and voiceovers from some cool people (Ralph Fiennes to name one) this looks dramatic in every way imaginable.

Based on the 1999 climb undertaken by a team of mountaineers led by Tacoma-based climber Andy Simonsen searching for George Mallory's remains, the film looks like it chronicles that expedition as well as something I did not realize happened - a climb of Everest's north face simulating the gear available in 1923. I have always been amazed at how climbers succeeded even half a century earlier, but before that - with hob-nailed boots, wool pants and jackets, flimsy cotton tents and hemp ropes. Everything weighed ten times what we take for granted today. Incredible. Matthew and I have discussed this on our climbs - imagining chopping steps up steep snow and ice faces rather than relying on steel crampons and refined ice tools.

In any regards, I'll wait to give my take on it of course until I actually see it - but count me first in line.

(The only bit I do not approve of is the use of the word 'conquest' in the title - we climbers do not conquer, do not conquest a mountain particularly one of Everest's might and caliber - we are fortunate to be able to sneak up and back down in its graces as put by one well-respected high-altitude mountaineer ... )

glaciers on steroids.

Climbing season approaches. This is someone's pano of the northern Pickets. The most remote and wild slice of the North Cascades. Incredible. Yes.

From what I've read in the past, getting into and out of the Pickets takes a few days, but a basecamp (how about down there at Lousy Lake?) can be set up and then multiple peaks can be climbed over the period of another couple days - from Fury to Luna to one of the highlights of this pocket of ice-clad iconic Cascade peaks ... Challenger.

Matthew and I met at a pub last week to chat among other things about the upcoming season. Still want to do our traverse of the Stuart range up the north face Sherpa glacier, tag the summit then onto Sherpa, Argonaut, Colchuck, Dragontail and Little Annapurna. A marathon. And the north face of Buckner. I'm in. Those are definites. We threw out possibly the Mowich Face of Rainier, something that's been on my list since about the time I first started climbing and is, well, quite intimidating (it's on the right in that photo). Let's see, what else ... oh yeah, Bonanza (which was on my list last year) and would be awesome as it requires an adventurous ferry ride up the Lady of the Lake on Lake Chelan to the town of Holden deep in the North Cascades. I'd love to run up and down Ruth Mountain too, mainly for this view of Shuksan. Spectacular.

Regardless of what we all end up climbing this season and since it is doubtful we'll make it out there this year, the Pickets will continue to lure. Like the Winds' Cirque of the Towers on glacier steroids.

one perfect sunrise [for real].

So during a rather fantastic run one evening last week I was thinking to myself about sunrises and I remembered this one. Fortunately, I took a picture of it. J and I had taken Kathy and Annette backpacking last time they were here up to one of our favourite places. Headlight Basin underneath Mt. Stuart. In October. It is one of my favourite hikes the one to Ingalls Lake the larch at this time a bit past their prime but still glowing and nothing too terribly difficult for a couple of newcomers to the idea of hauling your stuff in a pack strapped to your back up a trail to crash on the ground in a tent in the freezing cold.

A late start to the day so we didn't get to the trailhead and start moving until something like 3 or 4 a little slower than usual up the trail patience for them me having to keep telling J to slow down, slow down it more or less dark by the time we reached Ingalls Pass so no real view to Stuart. It would have to wait for the morning. Then trying to find a place to pitch our two tents in the dark me stumbling into others' campsites asking if the place was full until we found something near the edge of where Headlight Basin drops down into the Ingalls Creek valley. We pitched our tents, giving Kathy and Annette the one on the ground and Julian and I took the one on the snow. We had done this before. We didn't mind. Hungry, I cranked up the stove and sat smiling at the sound of the whirring flame and boiling water and we huddled around a pot of piping hot ramen basking in the steaming goodness the night cold and dark but perfect around us. Afterwards, Annette crashed in the tent. Kathy, J and I sat outside awhile marveling at the Milky Way overhead picking out constellations talking about the mythology behind them a terribly crisp and cold perfect autumn night clear as could be our breaths frozen suspended in the air above us. We could see the dark shadow mass of Stuart rising just to the south of us, imposing and reassuring at the same time me excited to see it for real come morning.

And then morning came. Where we were camped was open to the east, so the sun streamed in and washed across Headlight Basin warming it more and more with each passing minute. We were up with it, J running around the granite of the basin climbing over here and over there. Bundled up I sat on a rock watching him, watching the sunrise, just gazing at Stuart. Kathy wandered over and we talked a while about this and that. We don't see each other much.

It really was one perfect sunrise.

And there have been others. I think to myself. Camped under the granite rocks of the Hidden Lake peaks above the lake the bugs just starting to stir but open to the east like Headlight the sun streaming in after another perfectly clear and crisp autumn night of putting on glasses to stare up at the Milky Way tucked away inside my down bag and bivy eating an orange and some cereal for breakfast. Perfect. Up high bivied under the summit of Sahale above the clouds clinging to the valleys and the glacier below us basking in the warmth welcoming the light of another day in the mountains. Perfect. In The Enchantments, expecting grey and clouds etching the frost off my tent's window to witness the surprise of a rising sun coming up over McLellan Peak and lighting up the larch and letting all the water come to life shimmering in its radiance and warmth. Perfect. Out in the open no tent just our sleeping bags tossed on the dusty earth another fall morning this time in the middle of the Utah desert on the edge of the Goosenecks of the San Juan River carving its way to the Pacific. Perfect. We could see the shapes of Monument Valley now far to the south jutting up into the horizon it was warm cos even though it was October it was afterall southern Utah. We had gotten there at night much like our trip to Headlight so had no sense of our surroundings except that it was flat and we could see a billion billion stars, so the sunrise welcomed us with a sense of wonder of where we were (and for whatever reason that is still one of my favourite photos I have ever taken). Another sunrise me up before it the light pale and purple and pink freezing cold winter this time to walk along the South Rim of the Grand Canyon crunching on frozen snow and watch and wait and witness as the sun came up to the east casting long shadows among all the creases and folds of the canyon incredible listening to Moby on headphones. Perfect.

There is something magical about a sunrise.

I tend to forget this, being one to more likely stay up late than wake early. But particularly magical are these memories of mine either alone or with someone else witnessing a perfect sunrise. Another day. Purpose. Intentional. Simple. Essential. What will I accomplish today?

blisters and such and the art of needing to be uncomfortable.

17 august 2009. There was a week back end of July that it was hot. As in hot. Not humid cos this is the Northwest but it hit a hundred and seven apparently in town while the house hit ninety-one. Seemed everyone rushed out to scramble for every last window a/c unit at the local Home Depots and such. It lasted a week then it was back to more normal temps.

But it made me think I guess.

So did our vacation to California the week before where it was really hot. Yes, hot. Sacramento and Bishop. Even Yosemite Valley. Oliver of course does not have a/c cos well this is the Northwest. Our a/c was a spray bottle that we would aim at each other for some respite. Windows down didn't help much. It was still hot. But we survived of course. And I thought maybe it would wind up Julian telling his kids years from now how he would take these road trips with his dad down to California for summer vacations and bake in the car with no a/c but that was just part of the experience cos we would see such fantastic things and have such amazing adventures. Just part of the fun in a way the suffering. Besides it being nostalgic we won't remember how uncomfortable it was. We made it twenty-five hundred miles and have some incredible memories.

And that made me think I guess.

But so did a weekend spent in the North Cascades a couple weeks ago. We were headed for Hidden Lake, a destination of mine for a couple of years ever since seeing a photo of it on Flickr. Up the trail steep of course cos it was the North Cascades in which there are no gentle-graded trails. Under the sun it was hot and the biting flies were atrocious. Just don't stop to put on sunscreen or drink some water. Bushwacking despite the fact there was a hint of a trail. Just a hint, mind you. Did I mention it was steep? No worries of course I was home. And before we knew it we're above it all on granite making our way to the saddle between the Hidden Lake Peaks the lookout peeking out from the summit off to our right.

And then there were blisters from shoes too small. Blisters but no complaining. And they were big and I felt bad. Granted I was fine that time but it would be me the following week socks worn too thin time to be retired up to Cascade Pass then Sahale Glacier and over to a ridge dropping off to glaciers on three sides. And even then no complaining. Want to go climb up Mixup Arm? Sure, we're in the mountains and I don't want to leave. Not yet anyway and there's no hurry.

But the second day of that Hidden Lake weekend a go then the day after on North Twin Sister not helping her blisters any. Hobbling on the way back I guess I wasn't supposed to notice. Thirsty. As in really thirsty since there is no water on the route after maybe the second mile. And we biked another eight miles or so before hiking about three and turning around. Running out of time. Someone running out of energy. Not us. No complaining.

So what?

So what about blisters and being thirsty and swatting at bugs? ... okay, the bugs are annoying. But get high enough and they're not a problem. I've never had to swat a bug on a glacier. Julian once said to me 'Dad there are indoor people and there are outdoor people.' Good thing I thought not everyone is an outdoor person or it would be impossible to get a permit for Boston Basin in August or the Enchantments in October. It's already hard enough. But for us outdoor people I guess what's the point? It takes a lot of energy to get up into the mountains. There are no lavish accommodations. It's exciting to find a flat spot with some rocks piled up to block the prevailing wind underneath (or right on top of) a summit of some peak or other in which to toss down your nylon bivy sack and half-inch thick foam pad. We're not forced to do it of course. It would have been so much easier not driving three hours along interstates and highways and gravel roads and hiking for miles and miles straight up sometimes whipped over by wind pelted by rain basking under intense suns. So why then?

I think it's like anything. We humans have a way of not remembering the negative. Be it a bad relationship or a bad vacation. We weed out the bad stuff and just remember the good. There's always something good. Or so I think. Walking down after nearly reaching the base of the west ridge on North Twin hot and thirsty and dying for some real food (and it had only been two days–it'll be something to do the John Muir Trail with Julian after he graduates and we're out for twenty-one days along that dusty trail) I remember thinking about blisters and such and the need to be uncomfortable. Because these days we're all too comfortable too much of the time it seems. Not that I'm complaining necessarily mind you. I enjoy an espresso in the morning on the way to work. My couch. My bed. My covered porch. Etc. But I digress. Hopefully you get the point and I'm not being too preachy.

So ask a climber why he climbs. Betcha one of the most-cited reasons would be to get away from it all. To get back to basics so to speak. To be hot. To be thirsty. To be in pain at least a little from something maybe a sore back maybe a scraped knee hopefully nothing much worse but just generally not the same as in sitting on a couch back home. It's all about the elemental. We won't remember the pain anyway. When Matthew and I climbed Stuart–a climb we naîvely thought we'd do car-to-car in a day but which ended up being probably our biggest epic except for possibly the blizzard on Eldorado–I swore after two days of up and down more than I had ever done or probably could have imagined exposure out of this world exhausting but elation at sleeping out under the stars slightly cold and uncomfortable but on Stuart's summit the Milky Way arching over us then the next day getting lost dehydrated trying to find the trail back up to Longs Pass for hours going crazy me thinking damn I would never climb Stuart again.

Heh. Of course I would. Didn't take more than a week and I wished I was back there standing on a ledge with about six thousand feet of air beneath me watching the sun set shouting to Matthew to yell when he reached the summit one pitch above us cos it was well getting dark and I was well standing on a ledge six thousand feet above real solid ground. We're going to climb it again in a couple of weeks. Hell we're going to traverse the whole range or at least as far as Dragontail or Little Annapurna.

But still ... why? After all this rambling on and on maybe I don't even know how to explain. Maybe I can explain better with a snapshot (ah, the venerable snapshot–candid and personal–love 'em for what they're worth) totally relaxed in the moment.



You can't get this view from a car. Definitely not from anywhere with a/c. But that's really not the point I don't think. I think the point is more along the lines of that's the whole point. That you can't get it without working for it. It wouldn't be the same if it were any other way. Blisters and all. Cos you won't remember the blisters.

You'll just remember the view.

You'll remember waking up out of a seemingly-dead sleep something like four in the morning to a perfectly clear sky streams of the Milky Way overhead like some fantastic dream ten thousand stars above cold air against your face not even a tent for protection but perfectly calm and silent surrounded by mountains silhouetted in the dark just able to be made out horizons closed in the walls of mountains or open to infinity high above. Oh yes, you'll remember the silence. The quiet. You'll remember watching clouds spill over ridges onto glaciers without making a sound. Who you spent it with. A good friend. Good times. You'll remember that moment in the snapshot of being in that place somewhere between reality and a dream. And it will last. Much, much longer than any blister or bug bite or frustration of sore limbs or bleeding cuts.

So I can't really say why I climb or why I am so in love with mountains in any meaningful way. But I look at photos that I took. Of snapshots from summits and along ridges and across glaciers and that helps. Cos it brings back all the memories. Just not of hobbling down thirty-six switchbacks aching to be back to the car to eat real food to sleep in a real bed to crash on a couch windows open or a heater and a blanket sore feet maybe a good espresso definitely a shower only to turn around and die to do it all over again.

Blisters and all.

in memoriam.

To Craig Luebben on behalf of all of us who find strength and solace and comfort and fear and peace among mountains.

i am haunted by mountains.

11 august 2009. So I am sitting here on my couch next to windows looking out to grey skies trying to sum up a climb into the North Cascades that a few hours ago would have seemed easy and I was wholly intending to get to but now has taken on a whole different meaning. I am listening to some song by Bruce Springsteen called The Nothing Man on repeat not sure why. Not sure why. We were trying for the north face of Mount Buckner in the Cascade Pass region of North Cascades National Park. Second only to the Enchantments a little south and east. Or equal, just different. The Enchantments, particularly when I visit them in early Autumn when the larches have turned golden and despite even weather that can turn inhospitable in an instant (as I experienced on my first trip) seems still warm and inviting compared to maybe this heavily-glaciated and impressive and at times imposing place such as we found this trip.

We quickly made it up the thirty-six switchbacks to Cascade Pass in an hour-fifteen under cloudy skies and on top of that from there and above we fought against a wind that would continue to knock me over. Visibility was maybe fifty feet at best but we were promised sun just below the high camp at seventy-six hundred feet. We made it up the four thousand feet and nearly seven miles from the car in three hours to the promised sun and beautiful skies all the while clouds clung to the myriad of valleys below us. The Stehekin. The north and middle forks of the Cascade River. Johannesburg peaked out above then swallowed whole. A quick stop and then continued up the glacier on our way to our intended camp on the Sahale-Boston Col. It was easy-going but I knew I was getting blisters. Whatever. Half an hour later we dumped our packs at the edge of the ridge that dropped off to the Davenport glacier with an impressive view to Ripsaw Ridge and Buckner and headed up to tag the summit of Sahale while checking out the route to the Col and beyond around and past Boston. The clouds threatened to engulf Sahale. Our view was limited to a few peaks thrusting out to the west but mostly of clouds below rising quickly and the light fading so we did not linger on the summit before heading back down to our packs having easily decided not to make a go over the ridge to the Col or the Boston Glacier that evening as clouds raked over Ripsaw Ridge and poured themselves onto the Davenport. There were perfect bivy spots carved into the ridge under the summit so that is where we set up our small camp to await the morning though it was already clear in the obscured and vanishing views we had gotten of Buckner that there was very little snow on the north face and we were already fairly convinced a snow-and-ice face climb was not going to happen this year. Weeks of unseasonably hot weather coupled with record non-existent summer precipitation had left the mountains mostly bare. The wind picked up and a chill came across us as the sun set me staring out across a sea of clouds set to a fading pale light as I zipped myself into my bivy, happy that I chose to at least carry my forty-degree down bag as opposed to the other option I had considered in the name of weight of just a bag liner.

It was a perfectly clear night and then the moon rose washing out our chance for stars and meteors and the Milky Way and I fell asleep as the wind died down and a peace only found high above ridges and clouds and trees and perceived safety among mountains piled on top of mountains on top of mountains settled in.

I woke early with the light even before the sun a pale glow washing over Horseshoe Basin far below, the Sahale Glacier and west to the Hidden Lake peaks where I was exactly a week before. Eventually the sun rose. Six-thirty came and went I had no idea. We had stayed above the clouds at over eight thousand feet. Slowly we rose, easing out of our warm bags to greet the sun and sit on rocks slowly warming shielding our eyes to peer east towards Buckner and a south face that seemed just as steep as the north face and then out and across Horseshoe Basin to try and pick out how we would get back to Sahale Arm in the event we would attempt our climb. Which we more or less knew we were not doing this time but for maybe next year. Earlier.

Matthew headed down to the glacier camp. I took my time. Strapped on crampons. Hell, I had dragged them all this way. Gained Sahale's west ridge to peer down to the Quien Sabe and over to Torment, Forbidden and Eldorado above the clouds. I could see into Boston Basin. Still had no idea. It seemed so peaceful me standing in the sun peering over a ridge to mountains and glaciers some that I have climbed some that I wish to climb. I took a few photos, then joined Matthew below at the high camp where we stayed awhile watching the clouds pour over Cascade Pass a couple thousand feet below. Maybe an hour. Maybe more we sat up there chatting. We talked about being in the mountains. We tossed out climbing up Mixup Arm to Cache Col just for fun to peer over into the middle fork of the Cascade River valley and peaks like Formidable and Spider and Dome and Snowking. More and more glaciers. Everywhere.

I taped my heels and eventually we headed down onto Sahale Arm the views impressive over to Torment and Forbidden mostly lost in the clouds. Eldorado completely hidden. Then quietly at first but able to pick out the speck set against rock and ice a helicopter circling over the Taboo Glacier below Torment. Not good we said watching it circle. It must have landed and we continued on down the Arm stopping every so often to look back and not long after first spotting it we saw it again coming towards us but still below up and over Cascade Pass. I was taking photographs cos the mood the clouds were giving where we were was incredible. And then we were immersed in them all the way back to Cascade Pass where the sun broke out as we dumped our packs and headed up Mixup Arm for a quick peek to Cache Col.

It is a steep and crazy trail up Mixup and in thirty minutes we wound up on the glacier leading up to the Col. Matthew took off as the wind whipped up and we were surrounded on three sides by imposing rock walls and clouds spilling over the ridge to the west onto the glacier above. With nothing but an ice ax and not even my trusty three-ounce windbreaker I opted to head back to a bivy spot seemingly carved out directly under Mixup to wait for Matthew to do the same.

We sat there in the sun awhile just enjoying the moment in the mountains. No reason to hurry, at least not yet. But eventually it was time to go. Head back to the Pass. Head back down the thirty-six switchbacks. Head back west for some food. Head back home. Warm sunny skies. Evening light and long shadows. A beer over pizza and a burger and conversations. Slightly sunburned. Tired. Fucking tired but in a good way. Sore feet for sure. Some photographs. Of course memories of another trip to the mountains. And eventually I made my way home to crash in my bed. To write this. To still be here.

Two days later. In passing as he was leaving–a coworker to me 'did you hear about the climber who died in the Cascades this past weekend?' Shit, no. 'Where?' I said, knowing where cos we were there and knew something had gone wrong. We just knew it. My heart sank. I read Mt. Torment. I read twenty-five years of experience. I read a wife and a five-year-old daughter. I read falling into the bergschrund. I knew getting over the bergschrund on Buckner's north face–the crack between the steep ice above and the expanse of the Boston Glacier–was at times the most difficult part of the climb and something could have happened. I showed him a picture I took where we had seen the helicopter Torment and Forbidden obscured by now-seemingly menacing clouds the glacier and ice and rock forbidding and downright terrifying. We were warming ourselves on a rock a couple of thousand feet higher but only a mile or so away while a guy fell into a crack in ice ten thousand years old. Pulled out by his climbing partner. SAR called but too late. Too fucking late. He died before they could take him away.

Could have been me. Could have been Matthew. I could have been scrambling back up rocks to go for help. Under the north face of Buckner. Along Ripsaw Ridge. The glacier would not have cared. Nor would the mountain. My son probably would. Maybe a few others I don't know. All of a sudden the photograph I snapped of Torment and Forbidden there obscured by clouds. The one of Matthew contemplating something while clouds ravaged below and imposing and dark rock outlined the horizon. They both fit. Fit perfectly for maybe how I felt about the mountains and the time we spent in them at least that day. These mountains–the North Cascades–are supposed to be benign because they are my backyard and where I consider myself home when I find myself surrounded by them. They are not supposed to act this way. But of course they do. I know this fully and appreciate it as best I can. Doesn't help sometimes I guess.

I love the mountains. I could not live without them. I will return of course. I will be careful of course. I will use my intuition and ten years of experience to guide me hopefully safely through and back home again. My thoughts go out to that climber's family. My thoughts are messed up at the moment. It's still cloudy. Thankfully. It fits. Going to make something to eat. Going to lay down. Listen to music. Going to think.

I am haunted by mountains.