Lotus Flower Tower

All Photos

Nahanni National Park, Northwest Territories, Canada (8334 feet)

At the bivy ledge. The upper headwall appears to overhang the entire way, but it doesn't.

I discovered the book Fifty Classic Climbs of North America in the Boulder Mountaineer, which was located at Broadway and University, back in 1982 or 1983. I had been climbing for just a couple of years. A line in the introduction particularly motivated me: No one, as yet, had even climbed half of these routes.  From then on this book directed my development as a climber. I wanted to do at least half of them. I passed 25 a long time ago and reset my sights on forty. I knew I'd never get them all and that didn't bother me, though it seems strange that it didn't. As with all lists like this, there is a vigorous debate on the climbs included, but some of them were clearly too objectively dangerous for me. 

I liked this list a lot because to climb most of these routes, I'd need a wide variety of skills and, in my quest to do these routes, become a well-rounded climber/alpinist/mountaineer. That's what I wanted to become.

The Lotus Flower Tower had been near the top of my list almost since opening up the book, as it is so spectacular. Acquiring the necessary skills, finding the right time, and finding the right partner for such a climb took a lot longer than I thought. 

I started climbing with George Bell when I moved back to Colorado in 1994. We climbed seven 50CCs together. He was as interested as I was in the quest but also ahead of me in numbers and in the skills necessary to climb them. He did an early ascent of the LFT and wrote the online guide for the Cirque of the Unclimbables (as the area is known). My other buddy, Opie, drew the topo that everyone uses. It was cool to have this connection. George retired from climbing at this level more than a decade ago and I've had to soldier on with other partners. My list of potential partners for such a climb is short. Very short. 

The number one quality in picking a partner is how much you enjoy spending time together; how compatible you are under the intense stress of a long, potentially dangerous climb. Yet, for such a difficult climb, ability must be a strong factor. That ruled out at least three great partners for me. Two others had already done the climb. Stefan couldn’t spare that much time away. Chris was booked on a climb in Europe. It had to be Hans, but could he be talked into it?

Hans Florine hardly needs an introduction. Eight-time holder of the Nose speed record, he's climbed the Nose over 100 times and, more impressively, with over 100 different partners. He's done forty different routes on El Cap. When it comes to getting average people up a massive granite wall, he is the best in the world. Period. 

Hans is a master of getting subsidized for such things, and he worked his contacts. Eventually he got connected with Scott Clark, an anesthesiologist from Tucson with a long climbing resume, though heavy on the mountaineering and thin on big rock climbs. They came to an arrangement and we were a team of three.

Getting There

My timeframe for this climb was tight. I was teaching a class at CU through July 28th and need a few more days to get grades filed. I wanted to go as soon after that as possible, knowing that the far north turns towards winter before the end of August.

The Lotus Flower Tower is located in Nahanni National Park in the Northwest Territories of Canada, and this is a very difficult place to get to. Thankfully, we had the logistics handled by Dr. Chuck Charlie, who'd been to the area twice before (and climbed the tower with another good friend Tom Karpeichik). Charlie would be joining us on the trip into the area but not for the climb. His plan was a solo backpack/float trip.  We followed his advice and we all flew from different cities (Vancouver, San Francisco, Phoenix, and Denver) to converge in Whitehorse, British Columbia. There we rented a van and drove six hours to Finlayson Lake. Yes, that's right. We rented a car for 9 days and used it for only two of those days.

We arrived at Finlayson Lake around midnight after an extremely long day of travel. We were able to crash in a spartan bunkhouse right there. Our next leg was via a bush plane, taking off of Finlayson Lake and landing on Glacier Lake. All communication with our pilots was via an InReach messenger as no cell phones work here. This communication was very intermittent, and we waited hours the next morning for a response. 

We flew with Sean of KluaneAir in a 1957 Beaver that can take off and land at about 50 mph. This plane is bombproof and was on its 12th engine (these are replaced every 1500 hours). Sean picked us up around noon for our one-hour flight. The trip was incredible. We flew over so much wilderness and then across a huge glacier, before spiraling down into Glacier Lake at around 2800 feet elevation.

Flying over a huge glacier en route to Glacier Lake

Waiting on shore was a group of four climbers ready to fly out. They offered us some of their leftover food, gave us lots of good beta, told us that they replaced slings at most anchors (two of them were climbing guides), and recounted their 30-hour round trip ascent. They had shared the wall with another party and it added time and some conflict. We wouldn't have that problem. For our first three days, we'd be the only people in the cirque, and we were the only ones on the wall when we climbed. 

At the lake was a cabin with absolutely nothing inside except for a canoe. Just bare plywood floor. There were a number of bear boxes next to the cabin where we stored our extra luggage and food. We took just four days of food with us on our first trek up there. Still, the weight we carried was tremendous.

On the beach at Glacier Lake

The Approach to Fairy Meadows

The hike up there is grueling for a number of reasons, but it isn't because of the length, which is only four miles. First and foremost is the weight we carried. I didn't weigh my pack but judging from the 45 pounds I carried on the John Muir Trail, I'm guessing at 65 pounds. I carried a tent, sleeping bag, clothes, food, water filter, stove, fuel, 75-meter rope (yup, 75 meters!), our entire rack, jugging gear, harness, shoes, helmet, etc. Next, was the many downed trees we had to negotiate, which we did by climbing over them and sometimes crawling under them. Then the amazing steepness: the crux section gains 2400 feet in 1.9 miles. 

We stayed together for most of the way up, taking many breaks. When conversation dwindled with the effort, I went to my stand-by, hiking, time-killer: Teaching the presidents. I was mildly successful throughout the trip. Hans, ever the feminist, insisted that we name the First Ladies at one point. Backwards. We did better than expected, only getting stumped when we got to Hoover's wife.

Steep going, but a beautiful, lush forest

When Hans needed an extended break, I went on ahead to find our camp and be prepared to help with loads. Ever since Hans' fall on El Cap where he broke both of his legs, he hasn't been able to hike very well. In fact, he has to wear a carbon-fiber contraption that transfers all the weight from his foot directly to his upper calf -- just below his knee. This takes all the weight off his lower leg. My buddy Mark has needed the same contraption after getting his ankle fused. I knew going into this adventure that my biggest contribution to the climb would be my ability to carry weight up and down from the lake to camp and to the climb. I was eager to pay my dues early, as I knew I'd be relying on Hans once on the wall.

I continued up to Fairy Meadows and was completely blown away. What a collection of ridiculously hard peaks! Walls everywhere, mostly without ledges, mostly with some vegetation in the vertical cracks. Pocket glaciers in every cirque and longer ones lurking beneath the ever-moving talus.

Hans crawling under a log on the approach

I selected the camp on the left, below a huge boulder. It was further away from the main path, sheltered and quite cozy. I put up my tent, filtered some water for the crew, and was unpacking when the Hanster (Sheri's nickname for Hans and when he heard that, he started referring to Sheri as the Sheri-ster) and the Godfather (my eventual nickname for the childless, 3-time godfather Scott) arrived, carrying light loads. They had dumped more than half of their weight an hour down the trail. I quickly set off to retrieve the rest of Hans' gear, which included his 15-pound semi-portable bomb shelter, which he called a tent. 

I found the gear a mile down the steep trail and loaded it into the empty pack I brought down. I took some of the heavy gear that the Godfather left as well and started back up. Only a tenth of a mile up, I met the Godfather coming down to retrieve his cached gear. All in, it took six hours before all our gear was at camp. We still had tons of daylight and we made plans for a semi-casual start the next day. 

Fixing Day

We left camp at 7:37 a.m. and were surprised by how grueling the approach was and how loose and dangerous the talus was. The Tower isn't visible from camp, but it came into view early and I blanched. It was more intimidating in person. The wall is huge and has just a couple of ledges on the lower half and absolutely zero ledges of any size on the upper 800 feet. 

I was a bit in front and went too high on the final talus bit and had to traverse horribly loose ground. Hans and Scott followed cairns (what a good idea!) more up a gully of talus and we arrived at the base around the same time. The wall is quite steep at the start and the upper headwall seems to lean over the lower part. I knew it actually didn't do this, but we all agreed that via some optical illusion, the upper half appeared overhanging and thus added to my intimidation. Hans, of course, was nonplussed. The Godfather? Oh, he was plussed alright. Over plussed, I imagine.

Hans started leading, dragging our two 70-meter ropes behind him. He scooted up the first pitch quickly and linked it into the second pitch, where he set up a hanging belay in the corner. The Godfather and I would climb at the same time, with me about twenty feet above him (at least initially) so that if I came off I wouldn't hit him. We each climbed on separate ropes.

I found the first pitch quite challenging. It was only rated 5.8 but seemed more like 5.9 to me. There was some wetness and some loose rock at the start that unnerved me. I didn't want to pull off something and bean the Godfather. He'd probably have me whacked for that. Steep jamming led to a pull to the right and then committing liebacking solved the next problem. Below me, the Godfather was having some trouble. The first time he came off, his rope caught my pack and pulled me sideways. I didn't come off, but it wasn't ideal for him to be falling while simul-seconding.

I rolled right into the second pitch, rated 5.9, and felt it was 5.10. I was off to a rough start. But the Godfather was having a rougher time. A little ways up the second pitch I looked down to see that he had switched to jugging the rope. I didn't even know he was carrying jugs. Hans and I carried jugs up to the base because we thought we might be fixing lines today, though we didn't carry them up the climb. We stashed them at the base of the route. But the Godfather was jugging already. Hmmm. I started to have serious doubts whether the Godfather was prepared for this climb. Those doubts were reinforced when I noticed his jugging technique, which was non-existent. Anyone that's jugged a line before without really knowing how to do it can attest that it is incredibly tiring. 

Hans starting up the first pitch

I got up to the belay, clipped in and readied myself to belay Hans. When the Godfather arrived he was huffing and puffing so badly that I knew he couldn't sustain that effort for 16 more pitches. Hans cruised up the next pitch, which started with some burly wide 5.9 climbing and then finished with a more casual 10a traverse around the huge roof above us. He belayed at the top of the third pitch.

The first pitch

After some discussion, we decided that Scott should continue jugging. I immediately got my foot stuck in the wide crack and pulled on the rope above me so that I could thrash wildly about to free my foot. The rest of the pitch was reasonable for me. When I got to the belay, I put Hans on belay and he led up the fourth pitch while Scott continued to jug below. I watched Hans and tried to give some advice to Scott about turning the roof. 

The fourth pitch was rated 5.7, but it seemed a bit stiff, too, but not too bad. There is a foot-side ledge at the top of this pitch and once we were all there, we had a powwow. I knew Hans wanted to continue because he didn't want to do the approach a second time.  We hemmed and hawed for ten minutes. I wanted to go down and I think Scott did too. We had got it into our minds that today was just a scoping/fixing day. I said, "No offense intended, Scott, but I have my doubts whether you're ready for this climb." He took my comment well and wondered also. He said, "I'm just not used to this aid climbing." He'd use that phrase a few more times throughout this trip and it bothered me a bit. This wasn't supposed to be an aid climb. Hans and I weren't aid climbing. But if you can't free climb, then aid is necessary. He must have suspected he couldn't free (or even French free) the route since he had brought jugs. I didn't know then and I don't know now what conversations he had with Hans on how he'd get up this route.

Scott has a long and impressive climbing resume, but the one thing he lacked was any big wall experience and the LFT is most definitely a big wall. We would later discuss this quite a bit. What's the definition of a big wall? A route that takes a normal party more than a day? Yes, but that isn't enough. It can't be a ridge climb. It needs to be a wall. It needs to be more continuous. It needs to have few ledges. It needs to be at least a thousand feet tall. It has to be pretty hard, as 1000 feet of 5.9 can be done in a single day by an average party. The definition is amorphous, but that's what we came up with.

Looking down as Scott (jugging) and I climb the second pitch

Scott lacked crack climbing experience and the lower wall was all crack climbing. Most of the route on the upper section is crack climbing as well. We were a team of three, but I knew our chances were better as a team of two. We'd all come so far and spent so much and we all wanted the summit, but I wanted it more. Scott hadn't even heard of this climb until a couple of months ago. It was a complicated dynamic since Scott was sort of a client of Hans. We didn't resolve it there, hanging on the wall. Eventually, Hans says, "I vote we go down." He did that for team unity. I knew his real vote was to go up, but he didn't want to pressure his junior partners. He's a consummate teammate. Then he added, "But if we do, we're giving Scott a jugging lesson!" Scott and I quickly agreed and we started down.

Hans coiled one of our ropes while I fixed the other. I went down first, carrying the second rope. I stopped at the top of the third pitch and fixed the middle of the first rope, taking care to make sure there was enough slack so that my partners wouldn't have any trouble rappelling the line and switching over here. The reason for fixing the rope in multiple locations was to reduce the stretch. A full 70-meter rope will stretch at least twenty feet with one person at the end of it.

I continued down below the big roof to the hanging belay at the top of the second pitch. I fixed the end of the first rope here and also the start of the second rope. I continued down to the top of the first pitch and fixed again before continuing to the ground. Scott followed and Hans came last, fixing the rope in a couple of additional places. The key fixing point was just below the roof on the third pitch. This way, the rope wouldn't be free-hanging. This would make the jugging the next day much easier.

Back at the base, Hans held class: Jugging 101. Well versed in jugging, I still listened intently. He stressed safety and always (almost always) being clipped in twice. Scott paid close attention and asked many questions. Hans also swapped out Scott's aiders with more secure jugging straps. This way Scott's foot could remain in the strap much more securely, saving lots of time. 

After practice, we stowed all our gear in a trash bag under a huge boulder and hiked out. We didn't get back to camp until 4 p.m. or so. We still had all of Fairy Meadows to ourselves. We relaxed, ate, drank, and talked strategy. I was shocked and relieved when Scott announced that his summit would be the halfway ledge the next day. He was sacrificing his chance at the summit to increase our chances. It was an incredibly noble thing to do. I selfishly jumped at this offer perhaps a bit too quickly. Hans was more reticent and said that we'd see how things were going the next day. 

The Ascent

We did start a lot earlier this day, but it still wasn't any alpine start. We weren't hiking until 5:30 a.m., more than an hour after it got light. I can't blame my companions for this. I could have pushed for an earlier start, but I didn't. The approach was complicated enough where daylight was an advantage. In the end it hardly mattered, as we'd use up most of a 24-hour day.

The approach was a lot easier carrying lighter loads. Plus, we knew the best route. Still, it took us nearly two hours. We drank, ate, and stowed some gear at the base. I started up the lines first, at 8 a.m. Scott went next, starting up as soon as I transferred to the next fixed location. We had the first rope fixed just twenty feet up and then at the top of the first pitch before it ended at the top of the second pitch. Hence, Scott could start jugging as soon as I passed the first anchor at twenty feet.

Hans had the upper rope overlapping the lower rope and his plan was to start last but pass Scott when he'd switch to the upper rope early. This worked well. I got to the top of the lines in about 25 minutes and re-packed the gear we left there into that pack and the pack I carried. When Hans came into view over the roof on the third pitch he called up to me, "Get ready to lead." Until then I was assuming he'd lead the entire route, just for speed reasons. I was intimidated by the difficulty of the climbing up to here and the size of the wall, but the climbing above was only 5.7/8 and should be well within my comfort range. I started to gear up and most importantly, get my head in the lead game.

I started up shortly after Hans arrived to belay me. Scott still wasn't in sight and, in fact, I wouldn't see him until the big bivy ledge six pitches higher and ten pitches off the ground. The climbing looked runout and I started out cautiously, testing every hold and searching for solid gear. I soon found my flow and angled up and left across the face towards the start of the chimney system that would run clear to the big ledge. I ran out 35 meters of rope before getting to the next anchor. I debated whether to string the next pitch, looking at the remnants of my rack and trying to calculate the difficulties above. Eventually, I went for it and continued up.

Looking up at the start of the third chimney pitch

The chimney is wide -- from four to maybe ten feet -- and shallow. For the most part it isn't chimney climbing at all. It is more crack climbing done in an inset. Mostly. I got to the next anchor just as I was running out of rope, making for a massive 70+ meter pitch. Hans followed, carrying the pack and dragging the second rope. When he arrived, he immediately clicked in the trailing rope to a Microtraxion and called down to Scott that he was on belay. While I re-racked, he put me on belay and had me take a drink of water and eat a mouthful of food. I'm an efficient climber. I change-over at belays very fast. Yet, compared to Hans, I'm a bumbling newbie. He's an absolute master and it was a joy and a thrill to climb with him.

Looking down the 4th or 5th chimney pitch

I continued to lead all the way to the big ledge with Hans belaying me and Scott at the same time, via a Grigri and a Micro. This is the method that I advocated for, having used it very successfully to climb Squawstruck with Mark and Derek. While Hans is very comfortable climbing while dragging two 70-meter ropes and managing the simul-belaying and the stacking of both ropes from a hanging belay, I am not. I can do it, but it is a heavy chore, both in climbing and in management. With this method, I could lead on a single line. I'd generally take as long to lead the next pitch as Scott would to follow the previous one, so this worked quite well. 

On the seventh pitch, I was using feet-back chimney technique when my back dislodged a loose flake that I didn't notice since it was behind me. It was probably four inches thick and two feet by one foot -- large enough to kill if it hit you. I yelled "Rock, rock, rock!" as loud and as long as I could. The rock careened down the chimney towards Hans and Scott, but both were able to duck behind shelter. Yikes. I yelled down my apologies and promised to be much more careful as I continued up. They were both nice about it, knowing that sometimes rockfall is part of alpine climbing and that's true, but it's also true that if I'd been more aware, I'd have avoided this horrible mistake. 

The ninth pitch ended the chimney on a wide ledge that cut way to the left, where the belay was an old rope slung around a piano-sized block. Above was a confusing set of cracks and slots. Some old tat hung from the clean corner on the far right -- basically continuing straight up from where the chimney ended, but that looked hard to me and I falsely interpreted the tat as a bail sling. Instead I started up above the piano block. This was a huge mistake.

I climbed up fairly easily for a bit and then reached up for a hold and pulled off a big chunk of rock. Luckily, I hadn't committed to it yet and pushed it back into the wall, but it barely held fast. The rock was big enough to cause considerable damage to Hans, directly below, and tethered to the only anchor. I called out the situation and moved gingerly up and right to a stance where I could get in a piece. I didn't want to leave that rock perched above Hans like the Sword of Damocles. I reached back over to it and grasped it in my left hand, but it was too heavy for me to be sure I could toss it beyond Hans. I pushed it back. A smaller rock was also loose and I tossed that out away from the wall and my partners below. I tried again with the big rock and moved it in front of me where I could get both hands on it. Now I had the power to wing it out away from Hans and did so. 

It was obvious to me then that I'd gone the wrong way. I downclimbed to the right and eventually traversed back into the steep corner with the tat. This was the route and the only way that would lead to the big ledge. If I had continued up on the left, I'd have missed the big ledge altogether. It was a terrible route-finding decision, but I corrected. The rest of the pitch was challenging, but on solid rock, though with some spaced out gear. It felt maybe 5.9 to me. I was elated to pull onto the huge bivy ledge that marked the halfway point of the route, ten pitches up the wall.

Scott nearing the top of the 10th pitch, where the bivy ledge is located.

Hans followed quickly and while he chilled and prepared to take over the lead, I belayed Scott up. Scott had trouble on this last pitch, hanging on the rope two or three times and seeming to confirm my 5.9 rating. Since the climbing above was considerably harder than this pitch, it seemed a fitting place for Scott to stop. It was so strange to leave Scott on this ledge, over 1000 feet off the ground with no rope, but it was the right thing to do. At least if we wanted to make the summit. I think. 

All of us at the bivy ledge with the headwall looming above

The first pitch off the ledge is a gorgeous corner with an incipient crack and technical, slippery feet. Hans moved steadily up it, but even called out, "Watch me" at one point. When I tried to upgrade the rating from 5.9+ to 5.10 Hans would only say, "Well, it won't be downgraded." And, "I don't usually say 'Watch me' on 5.9." I fell once following this pitch when my foot popped off a tiny nubbin. The climbing was super fun, though, and sustained. The pitch has two alternate endings. You can stop on a lower ledge and then venture out left on the next pitch, supposedly to easier climbing on the wall, but since we didn't go that way, I cannot comment further. We continued up to the small, flat stance at the very right edge of the wall. The view down to the right was vertiginous and dropped more than a thousand feet. This was also the last ledge of any size before reaching the summit.

Hans leading the 11th pitch -- right off the bivy ledge

The next pitch was considered the crux by the party we met at the lake. It's rated 10c and is quite sustained. Hans followed the crack on the right for a bit, then moved left to the next crack before moving back to the right crack. Most of the footholds were these gray intrusions that stuck out by either a millimeter or a couple of inches. The bigger ones served as “thank god" handholds as well. A lot of the handholds were side pulls on the cracks with the occasional fingerjam. Hans made good use of the offset cams that we brought but didn't place a single stopper on the entire climb. The descent would be another matter–see below.

Looking down as I finish up the 11th pitch

I fell off once following this pitch as well. My pull on the rope on pitch three and these two falls were my only taints, but I also didn't lead any of the hard pitches. The pitch ended in the first of six consecutive hanging belays. Hans continued in the lead, as he would to the summit. I threaded our second 70-meter rope through a Micro so that Hans only had the weight of the ropes between him and the belay. 

The next pitch was easier but still stout. In fact, the whole climb is stout. There is no easy rambling on this route save for maybe the top hundred feet. The Nose on El Cap has more easy rambling than this route. Each foot gained involved real work. 

Hans leading the crux 12th pitch

Before getting to the crux roof, we had to negotiate another roof. I was surprised by this, as no one seems to talk about this first roof. It's not as square as the upper roof, but it does overhang. Like the upper roof, there appears to be three cracks splitting it. Also like the upper roof, the right-most option was the least steep and appeared the easiest way to go. Hans opted for this choice, but to get to this crack he had to climb right up to the overhang via the middle option. He then did a challenging traverse to the right. As he started this he grabbed a flake that flexed and nearly broke off. He uttered an exclamation of fright before easing off it. He cruised the overhanging section and downplayed the difficulties. I thought the traverse had a 5.10 move on it and the obtuse dihedral through the overhang seemed pretty burly. I surmounted this via mostly liebacking with a bit of stemming to the right and hip scumming on the left.

Looking up the route from the top of the 11th pitch...I think

Above this first roof, we did another longish pitch up to a belay about fifty feet below the crux roof. We were still hugging the right side of the face and nearly straight below the "dirty 10c" rightmost option. Hans drooled over the leftmost option, which appeared to be a perfect handcrack through a very square (two 90-degree bends), three-foot (at least) roof. Turning this looked hard as it didn't seem possible to avoid dangling while turning the lip. Also, just below the roof, the crack was wide. It seemed to be at least offwidth and maybe even a squeeze chimney. He opted for the right variation and I was relieved.

Following the 12th pitch

Hans moved up on the edge of the face, savoring the massive exposure to our right. He found some "crunchy" rock and moved carefully. There were some unique fins of rock and he climbed by pinching them and nestling cams between them when they were deemed solid. Then he moved back left just a bit to get into the bottom of a bombay chimney. It looked scary from below because I wasn't sure of the rock quality, but Hans was raving about the climbing and enjoying himself. Following this chimney would be the crux for me, as my pack made squeezing up the chimney challenging and I had to turn to face into the chimney because of this. 

Following a stellar crack

Above the chimney Hans was tempted to continue straight up. He said the climbing looked reasonable and fun. I called up that the climbers we chatted with said to go straight left for about thirty feet to the belay. After a bit, he relented and traversed to the belay. This belay must have been directly above the perfect-handcrack variation. Again, there was no ledge, so we hung from the anchor.

I've just emerged from the overhanging bombay chimney at the big roof

The climbing eased on the next pitch and it was rated 5.9. Hans initially wanted to string this next pitch all the way to the summit. That wouldn't have worked and we didn't do it. We could see the next anchors and it didn't look that far, but it turned out to be around 40 meters. Hans belayed there, at the last of our hanging belays. Following this pitch, I found the climbing pretty reasonable until the last ten feet where the crack I'd been jamming pinched down to green (0.75) camelot-size, and some difficult jamming ended the pitch.

Starting the traverse to the belay atop the roof pitch

Our last pitch was huge, as we combined the last two topo pitches into a 230-foot, rope-stretching monster. It started with some legit 5.8 offwidth, but that only lasted about five feet. At least of offwidth moves. The wide crack continued for about 35 meters to a rappel anchor. Hans clipped this and moved directly right for twenty feet across a face where he found the 5.6 hand crack the other climbers told us about. The rope zipped through my device and I yelled up, "Almost out of rope!" He didn't hear me. I cleaned most of the belay and was just about ready to unclip and climb when he yelled down "Off belay!"

I followed quickly up the pitch, excited to summit this incredible route, this incredible mountain. At the top we could unrope and scramble about to tag all the highest points. The summit area was more than fifty feet wide, though the highest points were along a narrow ridge. The views were extraordinary. I stood in awe of the surrounding peaks and how incredibly difficult each one appeared to be. Standing atop these summits, by any route, looked like a long, dangerous journey.

We spent about thirty minutes on top, eating and taking photos. We high-fived and embraced. We knew we had a long way to descend and that Scott was waiting for us, but we had worked so hard to get here that we didn't want to rush things too much. 

On the summit with Hans pointing out Mt. Proboscis

The Descent

At first we couldn't locate the summit rappel anchor and thought we might have to downclimb back to the lower anchor. But we looked where we would have put an anchor and, sure enough, it was there. Hans and I simul-rappelled the whole route. Our first two rappels went fine, but after clearing the crux roof on the descent, our rope got stuck when we tried pulling it down. When a rope gets stuck above you, there is immediate stress. At least for me. There are various ways to deal with this problem, but by far the most effective that I've found is to climb with Hans Florine. On a wall like this, there is nothing he hasn't seen. No problem he can't solve. Having done the Nose of El Cap over 100 times and forty other routes on El Cap, when it comes to climbing big granite walls he is if not the world's expert, he's comfortably in the top five. 

I've had to be "the man" in these situations in the past, but when teamed with Hans, it wasn't even discussed who would be climbing back up. That would be like a mother and a toddler deciding who was going to push the stroller. Hans' attitude also set me at ease. He calmly asked for his climbing shoes out of the pack that I carried and rubbed his hands together in delight, saying, "This will be fun without dragging a second rope and without a pack." Indeed, he flew up the pitch, calling it 5.8. This pitch might actually have been part of the route, or at least a variation of the climb. Hans was then going to downclimb the pitch, but I insisted he put in an anchor and make it as bomber as need be. Damn the cost of the cams; I'd be more than happy to cover that.

We proceeded downwards without further mishap to the bivy ledge where we found a severely bundled-up Godfather. Per the usual, he was in great spirits and excited to see us and talk about our ascent. When he saw our ropes get stuck, he wondered what he'd do if we never made it back down. The rangers had told us that if we did call for help (via the InReach), it would be a minimum of 72 hours before anyone arrived, as the Nahanni Park had no vertical rescue capability. 

We took a short break to repack, eat, and drink while the Godfather threaded the rappel ropes. Before we left this ledge the Godfather informed us that his headlamp was dead. He said it must have turned on in his pack. I asked if he had the headlamp locked off and he responded, "I don't use the lock function." In my fatigued state, I just looked at him with my mouth agape and finally said, "You might want to reconsider that position in the future." 

Hans and I continued to simul-rappel together, but before each rappel, we got Scott onto his rappel device. That way he didn't have to mess with it in the dark. It had the added benefit of basically fixing both lines so that Hans and I didn't need to coordinate the weighting and unweighting of the ropes. We still diligently tied knots in the ends of each rope.

On our first rappel from the ledge we went too low. At least we found this out days later. The rappel anchor is only 30-40 meters below the ledge and we weren't looking closely until at least 50 meters down. We were baffled at how we could miss the anchor, but miss it we did. We dug out the stoppers and Hans and I set up a 3-stopper anchor that included an RP. The placements looked solid, but they weren't deep because the cracks were shallow. It looked scary and I said so. Hans, still on rappel, clipped into the anchor (equalized with a cordelette), gave himself some slack on his rappel line, and jumped onto the anchor. It shocked me how quickly and assertively he did this, but it made complete sense. Before all three of us were to hang from this anchor, at which point if it blew we'd all be dead, you want to stress test it. He did. We clipped in and called “off rappel.”

Scott was none too happy with the anchor and I don't blame him, but he didn't harp on it. He clipped in, we pulled the ropes and moved on. We found the next anchor below, but when we pulled the ropes, it got hopelessly snagged above us...again! It was now fully dark. All three of us hung from a two-bolt anchor without even a foothold to stand on. The ground above looked too difficult to climb. I would have sunk into a deep despair if I wasn't teamed with Hans. I knew he'd solve it one way or the other. He wasn't as cheery this time. He didn't yell or curse but hung his head silently for just a moment before telling me the plan.

I lowered him from our anchor just enough to where he could pendulum to our left, back into the chimney system we had ascended. He switched into his climbing shoes there and moved upwards, not placing any gear at first to reduce rope drag. Unfortunately the rope got caught behind a flake straight left of where I belayed and we couldn't flip it. Hans continued up to the stuck rope, freed it, and looped a long sling around a big flake. He wasn't certain the flake was completely solid. He banged on it as best he could, but then had to commit to it. He called down, "Bill, lower me as smooth as you can. No jerks. No stops. Just completely smooth, slow, continuous descent." We all held our breaths as I stared intently at my Grigri constantly trying to make the rope flow at a consistent speed. I didn't get it perfect, but it was good enough. It was with great relief that he rejoined us and the rope above pulled successfully.

We continued down without further mishap to the top of the fourth pitch, where Hans and I had left our jugging gear and a bit of food and water. We had been out of both. The last two rappels went smoothly, though the final hanging belay was super cramped.

We finally hit the ground at 1 a.m. I stripped off my harness, so happy to finally be free of its straps. I kept my helmet on until the ropes were down, though. I pulled the last of our ropes and we all cheered when it fell to the ground. We took our time packing up all our gear. We'd have considerable loads once again, but success makes you strong.

I trailed behind at the start of the descent, as my knees require me to move extra carefully with such weight, but when Hans' headlamp started to die, I had the only really functional light and slowly led the entire way back to camp. I'd occasionally have to crank my headlamp up to max power to scan the darkness for the next cairn. Each time I did I wished that Derek was with me. He's an expert at this and always fills this role when we are teammates. I'm not known for my night vision. We didn't move at Derek speed, but I did find the cairns and led us back to camp.

As we approached camp, we could see bright lights burning at the other main campsite. We finally had company. As the headlamps bobbed closer I called out, "I assume you are bringing us freshly brewed hot chocolate to celebrate our success?" Alas, they were not. It was Brooks and Miles on their way into the route, getting a 3:15 a.m. alpine start. They were part of a four-person group along with Dan and Calley (newlyweds), who were going to try the route over two days. 

We continued to camp, arriving at 3:30 a.m. I figured we'd all just pile into our sleeping bags, but Hans and Scott wanted to eat...dinner? Breakfast? In the spirit of solidarity, I joined in and we all sat around eating and talking about the climb. All the work was done. All the stress was over. All the gear was back in camp. Relief and joy washed over us. My 5 a.m. alarm went off before I went to bed, which reminded me of the great Four Yorkshiremen skit by Monty Python: "We used to have to get up at 10 p.m. -- a half-hour before going to bed -- to go work 27 hours per day..." By the time I hit my sleeping bag, I'd been up for about 25 hours.

Crescent Peak...or Unicorn Peak

Strava

Around 9:30 a.m. a marmot started whistling (another name for a marmot is a Whistle Pig). It was incredibly piercing and this marmot did it every 20-30 seconds. It was impossible to sleep through. I laid in my tent contemplating ways to kill whatever was making that sound when I heard Hans chime in, "That's annoying." Indeed, it forced us out of the tent after only four hours of rest.

In camp

The glow of success still emanated from us and all three of us wandered around our site in just our underwear, so nice were the temperatures. We couldn't stop saying how lucky we were. We had perfect weather. Perfect route conditions (dry). And were the only ones on the face. Sheri would later tell me how lucky I get with weather but it isn't alway this way. It took me three tries to climb Half Dome. Three tries to climb Rainier. Two visits to get Slesse. I got super lucky here, but I've paid some dues with bad weather and conditions as well. Not to say that I don't mind being lucky. I've sure been lucky with my climbing partners.

We lazed about for the rest of the morning, and Miles and Brooks return from the face. It turns out they were not rested enough from the grueling approach hike the day before. Also, it seemed that Miles was a bit wigged out by the size of the wall and wasn't sure he wanted to climb it any longer. These two were experienced alpine rock climbers, with 5.11 routes under their belts, but they hadn't climbed anything this big before. Dan and Calley were bivying up in the boulder field beneath the route. I shuddered at that thought, because of all the rockfall and movement of those rocks, which are all sitting atop a glacier. I'd be afraid of getting crushed.

We toyed with the idea of going down to the cabin to get more food, though we all still had one dinner left, doing some cragging on the base of the East Huey Spire, or just hanging out. I decided that I was going to try to get to the top of Crescent Peak -- the peak that we stared at from our campsite. The George Bell guide said it was "an easy scramble with careful route finding from Fairy Meadows." That sounded perfect.

The above diagram isn't exactly right, as we stayed to the right of the creek on the steep climb up to Fairy Meadows, following the well-marked trail. Also, it isn't clear that there are two summits where Crescent Peak and Unicorn Peak are shown. The topo looks like this (the higher summit is the one to the north):

Neither Hans nor Scott was interested in joining me, so I went solo. They still weren't sure whether they'd be there when I got back down. They promised to leave a note if they left and if they did, I'd come down the next morning to join them. 

My topo doesn't have a name for this peak, so I'll assume it was Crescent Peak. My initial line of ascent wasn't great, but I nailed the lower section on the way down. The key to the lower section is getting into a horribly loose gully. It sucks, but it doesn't last long. I was super careful and hugged the ascender's left side, trying to stay on or at least be grabbing semi-solid rock. I crossed right at the top of the gully and immediately got onto more solid ground and spotted my first cairn. Sweet.

I followed steep ramps with a mixture of grass and talus, as I zigged back and forth a bit, eventually gaining lower-angled ground where I could hike more easily. This led me up towards a steep face above with a prominent, rounded buttress on the left. At the base of this buttress I could look further left to a horrible, grass-coated, steep slab. I wanted nothing to do with that death terrain. Instead I forged a low 5th-class route up the buttress via two 50-foot bulges. I found rappel anchors at the top of each of them, but I hadn’t brought a rope with me.  I thought a lot about my friend Bailee, who died on similar terrain in RMNP last month.  As I soloed up and down these sections, I took everything super slow and tested and re-tested every hold. Probably around 5.3 for two 50-foot bulges. 

Our camp is out of site down and right from the bottom of this photo

A thousand+ feet of talus greeted me from the top of the technical difficulties. It wasn't obvious from below which point was the highest, so I tagged them all (knowing Homie would eventually observe my track). I got the highest one last. This was mostly bad eyeballing on my part, but it did ensure that I tagged all points. If I had got the highest one first, I might have been done. On top of the highest point I discovered a piton driven into the rock. This was strange, as all the terrain around the summit was Class 2-3.

I ate and drank on top and took photos of Glacier Lake over 5000 feet below me. The jumble of peaks in this area stand in stark contrast to the other mountains. These summits look Patagonian in their "unclimbability."

I reversed back to the technical difficulties, which had been weighing on my mind ever since I topped them. I knew it was my only way down and that I committed to soloing down them. Thankfully, I found the exact places where I had ascended and I painstakingly reversed my upward movements. The rest of the descent was routine, though the super loose gully still required my undivided attention. Below that, I found a much better way down, descending on grassy slopes all the way down to the LFT-approach trail, which I reversed back to camp.

Hans goofing around while being lowered down from the 5.10 crag

I was so happy to see Hans and Scott still in camp when I returned. I'm not much of a loner, and I was glad to have the company and conversation. They'd found a cool 5.10 crack at the base of the East Huey Spire and climbed it. They said more pitches, with anchors, awaited us tomorrow. I thought maybe Hans would want to go up Riders on the Storm (5.12) at least a few pitches. He'd mentioned it, but he didn't push it. I'd have been happy to try following him up it, since the descent was to rap the route.

We ate our last dinner and went to sleep.

Back to the Glacier Lake Cabin

The next morning, after a lazy start to let things warm up, we went back to the 5.10 route that Hans and Scott had done the day before to give me a shot at it. It was a 20-minute hike up to the base where we uncovered the stashed gear. It was cold, but the crack looked well protected. I racked and started up.

The climbing was more technical than it looked and I quickly got a bit pumped. I fell after placing my fourth piece but didn't really go anywhere. I got back on and nearly finished the crux before peeling off again for maybe a 12-foot fall. My hands were frozen. I cleaned it up from there, as the climbing went from fingers to hands and then wider before the anchors.

Me leading the 5.10 pitch on a cold, damp morning

I belayed Scott on TR and he had a much rougher time than the day before. Hans would make us both feel better by saying the climb was 5.11 in the cold. I knew it wasn't that hard, but it did seem tough with numb hands. Of course, Hans cruised it easily and showed us some great granite footwork. It was cold enough now that we packed up, but still stashed the gear for a subsequent try.

Back at camp, we started to pack up for our hike back to Granite Lake. We were out of food and had to go back down to restock. As long as we were descending, we figured we’d take some gear down that we no longer needed, specifically, our jugs. At least Hans’ and my jugs. 

My first indication that Hans probably wouldn't be coming back up (besides the obvious leg issues), was when Hans told me to take my tent down as well, since we could both easily sleep in his giant tent. If I'd known for sure he wasn't coming back, I'd have taken down his tent, as it weighed about 15 pounds. 

We descended with pretty light packs, though we all had to carry our sleeping bags and pads. We took it slow and easy on the descent with lots of breaks and it took us three hours to get back to the cabin. On the way down, we ran into a couple that were on a 20-day hiking/canoeing adventure. They had paddled the entire length of Glacier Lake (six miles) earlier that day and were now hiking up to spend a night or two in Fairy Meadows. 

We relaxed at the cabin and on the gravel beach in the nice wooden chairs. We spotted a creature moving across the lake. All of us possessing old eyes, we couldn't make it out very clearly. Despite this, Hans was sure it was a beaver and stuck to this judgment even after the "beaver" took off and flew away. 

After dinner, we retired to sleep in the cabin.

Back to Fairy Meadows and Mt. Sir James MacBrian

Scott and I knew we were going back up this day, but since Hans wasn't coming, we only took one night of food. I didn't want to leave Hans alone for more than one night, as I came on this adventure to be with him. Still, Scott and I would head back and try to do a bit more climbing before packing up the rest of our camp.

Scott and I did the grueling hike back up to Fairy Meadows in about three hours. We hiked with Miles to our first break, which was a ways up the steep portion. He left us after this break, but we were only ten minutes behind. We weren't carrying much weight, though. 

Once in camp, we dropped our loads and decided to head up valley a bit to see if we could see the climbers on the face. We knew Dan, Brooks, and Calley were up there as a team of three and Dan and Tyler (an American living in New Zealand) were up there as a team of two. We talked with the canoers that we met the day before on our descent and they told us that they'd scrambled up the sub-summit of Sir James MacBrian, so we did that as well.

Scott scrambling up the sub-summit of Mt. Sir James MacBrian

This was a 2000-foot ascent, mostly on car-sized talus and with a bit of 3rd/4th class scrambling at the very top. I led the way and Scott followed. He proved a strong, capable scrambler and in 80 minutes we were on the summit, looking at the LFT. We couldn't make out climbers very well, though. The face is huge and people appear as dots from our distance.

After coming down from our scramble, we went by the Penguin. I wanted to climb it the next day. We'd previously scoped out the 5.12d sport route that ascended it. That was obviously beyond me, but the previous team we met at the lake told me that I could mantle onto the shelf below the final four bolts from the backside. From there the route was "only" 5.11d. I was hoping that some pulling on slings could get me through it.

Scott and I on the sub-summit of Mt. Sir James McBrian

The mantle to the shelf was easy to find. A stack of rocks three feet high marked the start. I dropped my pack to check it out, but the rocks were so unstable that I didn't want to climb on them. I found an alternate way and could just barely reach a hold at the lip. I pulled up, rolled into a mantle and was soon walking over to the last few bolts. It looked good. I thought I'd be able to manage it. After scoping things I returned to the mantle. Hmmm, I thought. I wasn't sure about reversing that move. Instead, I jumped down! I tried to jump out as far as possible to hit the hillside with the least amount of drop. I landed fine, in grass, but the drop was further than I expected and was a foolish risk to take.

Dinner and bed ensued.

The Penguin and Final Regress

The next morning we ate breakfast and visited with our friends at the other camp. Brooks, Dan, and Calley had turned around after the 15th pitch -- too tired and too cold to continue. Tyler and Dan had passed those three at the bivy ledge and made the summit. 

Around 9 a.m. we headed for the Penguin. I repeated my mantle move but this time with a rope, harness, shoes, and ten draws. I clipped the first bolt, threaded my rope, tied in, and lowered the other end down to Scott, who had moved around to the bottom of the 5.12 route. He put me on belay and I started up.

I started my climb up the Penguin from here. I got to this point via the backside.

The climbing was really burly and I hung on each bolt and used each one for aid. I did have to make a free move or two between each bolt. The crux for me was clipping the third bolt. I had to reach way left from bad handholds. I initially put my finger through the bolt hold to hang on, but I couldn't clip with my finger in the way. I reshuffled my feet and switched my grip to pinch the hanger. Then I carefully reached over with my right hand and just barely got it clipped and grabbed the sling just before I came off. 

The anchor hung a couple of feet below the summit, so I reached up, grabbed the top and rolled into a mantle before standing on the summit. Brooks had come out to take photographs and Miles showed up as well to catch a TR on the 12d. After photos of me on top, Scott lowered me down to the ground and I clipped the rest of the bolts on the 5.12 on the way down. 

This is me on the summit of the Penguin

Miles then went up on TR. He did not send. He pulled on every bolt, but he did make it up. He even had to pull on all the 11+ bolts, which confirmed the difficulty up there. Finally, the Godfather wanted to jug to the top, so Miles fixed the rope and rappelled down. The Godfather jugged up, getting his first taste of jugging a completely free-hanging line. He made the summit and struck the obligatory pose.

Scott rapped off and we packed up our gear. Back at camp we ate lunch and packed up our entire camp. The loads were huge on the way down. I took it slow on my knees and we took a few breaks on the way down. Scott was rightfully calling for a break well down from camp, but I was insistent that we at least go a mile! It was a steep mile.

Further down we ran into two Italians suffering under mighty loads. People come from all over the world for this climb. We found Hans at the cabin. He'd met Warren, Sean's dad and the owner of Kluane Air, when he dropped off the Italians. We caught each other up over dinner and went to bed, expecting to fly out the next day.

Waiting on a Friend

I'm not waiting on a lady, 

I'm just waiting on a friend

-- Mick Jagger

We waited and waited and waited. The weather was great for us at Glacier Lake, but apparently very bad over by Sean's house. He tried once and had to turn back and then gave up on reaching us on Friday. We played card games and word games and read our books. Oh, and we ate ALL our food. We were eyeing the cached food of the other teams in the bear boxes, but we didn't consume any.

Friday, we all took a spin in the canoe. Hans had been paddling each day he was at the cabin. It was fun but just killing time. We were ready to head for civilization.

Finally, on Saturday, we heard the whine of the engine. Sean landed on the lake and out of the plane popped Erik Weihenmayer (famous dude who fakes being blind because no way a blind guy could do what he has done), Felipe "Chile Pepper", and Nick from Yosemite. Hugs and handshakes ensued. Then they broke into their food to feed us. What great guys... They awaited the arrival of a helicopter to get Erik and his team up to Fairy Meadow. Both Hans and I have climbed with Erik before and we knew the chore ahead for all three, but they are tough as nails and I wouldn't bet against them.

Then Sean took off without us! No worries, though. He was just headed down to Bunny Bar to pick up Dr. Chuck Charlie, as the take-off there is tougher with a full plane. Soon the plane returned, we said our goodbyes and loaded into the cramped plane. The takeoff was smooth as silk, as was the landing at Finlayson, but the flight had some stress with some serious bumps where I bounced off the ceiling once and very limited visibility due to the rain.

Killing time at the cabin

Back at Finlayson, we quickly shuttled the gear from plane to van and turned the key at 5 p.m. Six hours later we arrived at our hotel in Whitehorse. After a shower, I went to bed at midnight with my alarm set for 3:15 a.m. I had to get up and drive Hans and Scott to the airport. That went smoothly, and I returned to sleep a few more hours. 

Charlie and I went out to a big breakfast and afterward did some shopping. Soon it was time for me to drop him at the airport. I didn't fly out until after 4 p.m. I returned our rental van, which was heavily coated in mud. I wondered if we'd done any damage to the vehicle with our 12 hours of high-speed driving with more than half of it on a gravel road, but the bill was exactly as advertised. 

My flights home were smooth and both Charlie and I arrived in Denver a bit after midnight. Sheri was nice enough to pick us up at 12:45 a.m. We dropped Charlie at his house in Boulder and got home by 2 a.m. 

What an incredible adventure with some great friends, old and new. I thought a lot about this climb and what I really accomplished. I did pretty well with the climbing, but I didn't lead any of the hard pitches. Could I have done this climb with an equal partner? Instead of with the massive cheat that is Hans Florine? Of course, I want to think that I could. It would have been a lot slower, that's for sure. Tom and Charlie did it, but they are both stronger climbers than me as well. Could Derek and I have done it? I think we could have.

Yes, climbing with Hans is cheating, but what's the alternative? I've already said that I climb mostly with people that I get along with very well. Basically, partners that I love. For a lot of my climbing career, I was the strongest of my partners, but nowadays I'm frequently the weakest. Do I avoid climbing with great partners that I love, like Hans, Stefan, Tom, Charlie, and Derek? No way. Of course, the logical option is to do my share of the leading. I could have insisted on that on this climb, but I didn't. If others want to consider this a taint on my ascent, I have no argument with that. Because I agree. I'm embracing these "aids" more and more. Hey, I deserve them. I cultivated these friendships. Heck, I taught Tom how to climb. I raised Derek to be my guide. It's payoff time and I'll be using this approach as often as I can.

Now...what's next?