Full Value on Shuksan

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Strava approach

Strava climb

After posting this adventure on Strava, one friend asked how I picked this objective. It's because it is one of the "Fifty Classic Climbs of North America." This book drove my development as a climber for the first two decades of my climbing career and I pursued them regularly. The past couple of decades, I've turned to other things, but I'm back interested now. My time for climbing such objectives is growing short and if I want them, I need to get after them.

The last one I did was the Northeast Buttress on Slesse with Derek. That was #36 for me. Shuksan would be #37 and the last one in the lower 48 states. All the remaining ones for me are in Alaska and Canada. 

The look of this face intimidated me. It was such a chaotic jumble of crevasses, seracs, and ice cliffs that I wondered if I had the skills. I'm not much of an ice climber. I knew the route sometimes doesn't even require any ice climbing, but sometimes it does and it can be very challenging then. To prepare for this route, years ago, I climbed and descended the Fisher Chimneys route with the Loobster. This at least allowed me to not only learn the summit rock pyramid, which is shared by all routes, but to learn the descent. One of the logistical challenges of climbing this route is that you descend a different way to a different trailhead. But we had that covered.

Derek's girlfriend Renee agreed to shuttle our car from the Nooksack Cirque Trailhead, where we'd start, to the Lake Anne Trailhead where we'd finish. She organized a peak-bagging outing with some girlfriends in the same area. I'd never see her on this trip, but her help made this ascent possible.

While this climb was on the list for this year, what really made it happen was when my friend Denise did the climb three weeks before. We owe a big thanks to her for providing the GPS track of the approach and some information about the climb. She mentioned that the descent was epic and they had to bivy a second time on the descent, but I didn't know Denise's climbing ability that well and just assumed we'd do better. I thought I was past that kind of hubris. I always tell myself to assume that everyone is fitter, faster, and stronger than me until I have concrete proof otherwise. In most cases, that proof is never forthcoming. But I had Derek with me and counted on him to be my ace in the hole. Suffice to say that now I have a much higher and more accurate opinion of Denise's ability and toughness.

I flew in late on Friday night and Derek picked me up. We slept in his apartment that night and headed north to North Cascades National Park the next morning at 6 a.m. We picked up breakfast along the way and got to the trailhead a bit after 9 a.m. We changed clothes, packed up, and were hiking a bit before 10 a.m.

We expected a lot of stream crossings on the approach and we both brought trekking poles to help out. I also brought Tevas because I didn't want to get my shoes wet and I didn't trust myself in bare feet since my feet are especially wimpy. So, I left the trailhead with three pairs of footwear. The Tevas, the Cyklon approach shoes I wore, and my La Sportiva G5 climbing boots. Derek didn't have a wading shoe, but he had the same boots and similar approach shoes (Uragano's). 

We crossed the first river via a log bridge and followed a well-defined trail for the first three miles. We went to rotate leaders at one point and I checked my Gaia map of the approach (thanks, Denise!) to find that we'd gone by our turn. We backtracked and found a very faint path descending to the creek crossing. Here, I took off my pants (I was wearing long pants) as I didn't want to get them wet and changed into my Tevas. I waded across and then threw my Tevas back over so that Derek could use them. We expected a lot of stream crossings, but this was our only one. At least on the approach.

Derek took over the route finding and did an expert job through the bushwhack. There was initially not even a hint of a trail. The only thing guiding us was an occasional orange or pink flag (hard to see as they were really faint) and sometimes bringing up Gaia. We eventually found a worn path and followed that up very steeply, but at least there was no more bushwhacking.

We continued to climb steeply and then emerged from the woods and had great views up towards the peak, though we couldn't see much of our route yet. We traversed slopes to a rocky rib above the lake far below to our right. We followed the rib until it merged with a very steep grassy slope. Then the path we'd been following petered out. We were a bit confused but knew we had to get on top of the steep grass. We went straight up the slope via a slight weakness. We had to grab branches and even hunks of grass to make progress. This was really the end of any defined trail.

Getting atop the slope was heinous but short-lived. We then followed the wooded ridge as it got less wooded and more alpine. We got to a steep wall that blocked access and took a break. I forged ahead without my pack to see if I could find a route around the wall. I traversed a steep slope to the left before going up a steep gully that was at least fourth class. Above I had gained the ridge again, so I reversed to get Derek.

We continued up and up, now looking for a bivy site, but without much luck. We were again confused by the lack of any signs of a route. We took another break at a possible, though not very good, bivy site. We weren't sure where we should traverse right to get onto the glacier. Once again, I continued upwards solo in search of easier access and a better bivy site. I went by a few marginal sites, but at least they were better than below. Then I found it. The perfect site: a large, flat ledge at the edge of a 300-foot cliff overlooking the glacier with an incredible view of our route. Plus, we'd walk right onto the glacier just three minutes further. I descended back to tell Derek about it.

Once I could see Derek below me, I called out, "We're moving up!". I then reversed the tricky, brushy terrain and when I next saw Derek below he was carrying a pack that looked white. My pack is white, I thought and I knew immediately what he was doing. He had gone back to where we dumped our packs and was bringing my pack forward first. He dumped it at the saddle and then went back for his. This type of behavior is what I love about great climbing partners. We were a team in the deepest sense of the word. Derek wasn't considering what actions it would take to get him up the mountain, but what actions needed to be taken to get us up the mountain. 

High on the approach

That goes for all the food we carried. Once we leave the trailhead there is no "my food" and "Derek's food." That might have been the case on the drive, but once we start the adventure, it is our food. On this trip, Derek forgot to pack food. He knew I was bringing the freeze-dried dinner and with all the other items, it slipped his mind. No worries. I brought extra food and everything was shared. In fact, we finished still carrying some food. 

Our bivy site

When Derek saw the site I had picked out, he beamed. Later, he'd call it amongst the top three bivy sites he'd ever used. I know that the 17,000-foot camp on Denali is in that group. Maybe Thanksgiving Ledge on El Cap too?  Here we discovered that Derek wasn't the only one to forget something. We carried a Black Diamond FirstLight tent (on sale now). It's a bomber, light alpine climbing tent and it's packaged into two separate stuff sacks, unlike most tents, probably to split the load more easily among partners. Anyway, I grabbed two bags of the tent and didn't realize until we tried setting it up that I had the tent and the fly (with its one pole) and not the poles for the tent. Bummer. We used the tent as a 2-person bivy bag and put our boots inside just in case we got rain. The weather report for the night had been good. It proved accurate and we stayed dry.

I also forgot my two-ax leash. I know all the hotshot ice climbers don't use leashes but for a thrasher like me to go up on a big alpine face without some protection against droppage was foolish. It wasn't just the expense of dropping a $300 tool, but the fact that I'd need both tools to make it up the climb. 

Our rack consisted of three ice screws and one picket. We'd end up using all of them many times. We also carried a small rock rack, but it went completely unused. I'd done the 500-foot summit rock tower before and soloed up and down it without any trouble. I guess it didn't hurt to have a little extra gear in case we had to climb rock to escape the Price Glacier. We both carried down jackets which we didn't need. I wore mine at the bivy, but it wasn't very cold.

The alarm went off at 3:15 a.m. We moved a bit slower than anticipated and it wasn't until 4:20 that we had downed our breakfast, finished our coffee, and strapped on our crampons. Under headlamps, roped together with our 30-meter cord, I led us across a long traverse to the right. This route does a tremendous amount of traversing because the route starts on the far left of the face and finishes on the far right. This is some zigzagging, but it is predominantly a rightwards traverse. And the traversing doesn't stop there. Most of the descent is also a rightwards traverse.

At the notch below Nooksack Tower

I led across steeper and steeper ground, heading for the notch below Nooksack Tower. Once there, we regrouped and reviewed our general line of ascent. We had to continue traversing, but we also had to descend too. Our route called for dropping down below a huge crevasse, but once I had descended a ways, I called an audible to take a more direct route up to a section we called the "zig-zag", a maneuver through the big icefall in the middle of the face.

From a distance, I could see the gray that indicated ice as opposed to the pure white snow. Derek called this out immediately and I knew he was right, but from afar it didn't look too steep. But I was wrong. Not for the first or last time on this climb. The gray section proved to be rock-hard ice with a vertical section that I had to traverse and turn to avoid overhanging ice. Leading across this section, I thought, "What am I doing?" 

I can't normally ice climb my way out of a walk-in freezer and there I was taking a more difficult path. Yes, I didn't think it was going to be such hard ice. Or this steep. My intent was to just shortcut the route and save myself from losing the elevation. So, laziness got me there and laziness (and a stubborn streak to avoid admitting I was wrong) kept me there. I didn't want to retreat. Laziness is a strange quality to have while simultaneously considering yourself a climber. And it isn't just me. It is rampant among us and not just in the mountains. Fixed draws at sport crags exist for one reason: laziness.

I put in two screws with some effort. Placing gear while hanging off a tool is not something at which I'm adept. The saving grace was that it wasn't too cold, so that my left hand didn't go numb. With the second screw placed, I raced to turn the lip before my arms gave out. I belayed Derek off my one remaining screw. 

Derek at the top of the lower crux ice section

Derek did great cleaning the pitch and took over leading up towards our zig-zag, leading a long steep stretch of snow. We brought two Micros and used them to simul-climb. Derek led up and right and then zigged left, but when he zagged back to the right, he did so early and was atop a serac and not connected to the main glacier. It was a freaky place to be, and he retreated down to me, where I was belaying him. I took over the lead and went hard left, across a runnel and onto a buttress with some solid ice. I placed a screw and then a picket higher up and continued as the slope started to roll off. I belayed at the lip of a crevasse. This was a common belay scenario for us, as the crevasses marked short bands of flat ground. Sometimes we belayed slightly in the crevasse on a ledge just a couple of feet below the lip. It felt secure and safe.

After re-grouping, I continued right and then up, trying another shortcut versus dropping way down. We needed to cross the main gully splitting the face, and it was daunting to look at it. It appeared deep, wide, and dark, meaning it was sprinkled with rocks falling from above. We didn't want to linger in that gully for fear of getting beaned with a boulder. Thankfully, we crossed the gully easily and I then traversed further until I tiptoed along a tiny fin/snowbridge to cross the big crevasse. There was a bit of near-vertical climbing here, but the snow/ice was solid and it wasn't long. 

Things continued smoothly, though with some stress due to the constant crevasses and committing nature of the climb, all the way up to the bergschrund at the base of the last 400-foot snow face. The bergschrund was nearly a continuous, giant crevasse here, but there was one tiny section that allowed crossing to the vertical section on the other side. 

We belayed just before I tackled this section. I took all the gear, so Derek just belayed with his axes and body weight. I inched across nervously and then made a big step to span a gap and got a good stick with my axe. I moved up just a few feet and placed a solid screw. I then traversed about twenty feet to the right where the vertical section was the shortest, only about ten feet high.  I placed another solid screw here and climbed straight above it. The wall was slightly overhanging and the ice was rock hard. I had trouble getting my frontpoints to grab securely. But the ice was bomber...until it abruptly turned to soft snow. My feet were barely into solid ice and now I had to drive my shafts into the snow just above the lip. Then, my feet popped. I fell onto my axes and they slowed me for a moment before they ripped through the snow and I was falling. My feet hit the tiny ledge below and I fell over backwards, upside down onto my pack. Derek caught me just a few feet above the yawning crevasse below me. If I had gone into it, it would have been much harder to climb out.

Climbing the crux bergschrund

I fell about 15 feet, and the impact on my back was large but cushioned by my pack. Nothing fell out of or off of my pack. Most importantly, I never let go of my leashless tools. I still grasped them tightly in my hands. Worried that the fall and the necessity of getting up this wall would get into my head, I swarmed right back up to the hard section and tried again. This time I put my last screw in, about four feet above the other one. I tried again and moved up a bit higher. I desperately pushed in the picket with my hand, knowing it couldn't have held me, but throwing everything at the problem. Two feet higher and I was comfortable on my feet again. Derek said I should belay there, but with no gear, I moved up another twenty feet so that I could get into another crevasse. I placed both tools and clipped into them.

Derek was really solid following. I was braced and keeping all slack out of the line for fear that he'd come off like I did. No falls for him. I continued in the lead and traversed up and right, crossing the last of the bergschrund crevasses on a dicey but short rib. Now on the upper steep face, I kicked steps upwards. The snow here was wet and it continually shed small plates of slushy snow. A hundred feet up, I was able to dig down to some ice and place a solid screw, but that was the last of the ice. I placed a picket a hundred feet higher and then we moved into no-fall zone, being roped together with no protection between us. 

Roughly the route we followed

We didn't endure this stress too long before the slope started to roll back and once it did, it continued to get less and less steep. I went clear until the top flattened out and we took a break in the shade. Lower down, the sun on the face had me sweating streams into my eyes, yet ten minutes in the shade drinking had me moving on to warm up.

What followed was more traversing of slopes on glaciers, avoiding crevasses, as we worked our way to the west to get around to the southern side of the summit pyramid. I was getting tired and we were both getting dehydrated. We spotted climbers up on the pyramid and Derek took over kicking steps up to the base of the rock.

We both carried just one liter of water each which wasn't enough. We were both nearly out at the base of the pyramid and already dehydrated. We had our stove, though, and could brew up water whenever we wanted, though it would take a bit of time. We stowed all our gear on the first semi-flat ledge we found up the rock pyramid. 

Scrambling the summit pyramid

We changed into our approach shoes and soloed up the summit pyramid, following the same route I did with the Loobster years ago. This is such a fun, solid scramble (once up the first 100 feet). Derek led the way and we followed a beautiful rib of rock. The scrambling is about 400 vertical feet. We dispatched it efficiently and hung out on the summit. We had cell service! I called Sheri but she wasn't available. She'd call back soon, but once I descended off the top, I lost service. 

In the same time that a group of 8 guided climbers descended the bottom 300 feet, we climbed 300 vertical feet of snow up to the start of the route, switched out of boots and into scramblers, ate, drank our last water, soloed to the top, spent 15 minutes there taking photos and making phone calls, reversed back to our gear stash, switched back into boots and crampons, packed up, and headed down. 

We descended Hell's Highway and made the traverse across the Upper Curtis Glacier to the campsite above Winnie's Slide. We took an extended break here to rehydrate, eat, and rest a bit. We each drank an entire liter and left with full bottles

With our mountain boots still on, we kicked steps down the steep Winnie's Slide snow slope. Then through some talus down to the White Salmon glacier, which we crossed in just a couple of minutes over to the top of the Fisher Chimneys. Here, naively thinking we were done with steep, hard snow, we switched out of our boots for what we thought was the last time. Wrong! We descended until snow blocked the route and I led us down a false path, off route. By the time I realized my screwup, we'd descended quite a bit and I wasn't sure where I went wrong, though it must have been at the snow blockage. We were able to work our way back to the correct descent with some dicey scrambling on a very exposed traverse. This led to a steep slope of grass, scree, and slabs.

Once back on route in the Fisher Chimneys, which is just a ramp, we did two rappels. Heck, we already had on our harnesses and the rope was easily accessible on the side of my pack. Once at the base of the Chimneys, we encountered rock-hard snow on the final...glacier? Maybe this is an arm of Lower Curtis Glacier. There was no way to safely kick steps in our scramblers. We had to boot-up and don crampons once again. I'd keep the boots on the rest of the way -- clear back to the car. 

Putting on my G5 boots, I noticed that the BOA cable securing my boot was stuck in the zipper of the attached gaiter. I couldn't get it out. I could still wear the boot but not fully secure it or zip the gaiter. Upon returning to Boulder, I took it to Sportiva to fix it. They couldn't get it out either without breaking the zipper and BOA. Instead, they gave me a new pair of boots! Yeah, I love La Sportiva...

Derek slipped early on the glacier and went down, but expertly did a self-arrest and stopped almost immediately. We continued across the glacier to the rocky prow where the Loobster and I camped on our ascent. I promptly caught a crampon in the rocks and went down hard. My left ankle was twisted and I felt it, but I was fine to continue. We pulled off the crampons, stowed the axes, and got out the poles. Before we could get moving, though, the rain started in earnest. It poured on us, turning every tiny gully into a stream with crazy big drops. Descending the steep rocks at the bottom of this slope was a challenge in the running water and we were very focused here.

The trail crossed many snow gullies and one was particularly steep and a bit hard. I carefully kicked some steps and braced myself with my poles...until I didn't. I made a mistake and down I went, immediately accelerating down the slope. I had to drop one pole so that I could use two hands to drive the other pole into the slope to stop myself, which I did after about 150 feet of mostly out-of-control sliding, tumbling. If I wasn't completely soaked by the rain, I sure was now. And cold. My hands were frozen. Derek retrieved my other pole and we met up on the trail... and promptly lost it.

We got back on it and had little trouble following it to Lake Anne, which was completely covered in snow, as was the surrounding terrain. This was where we were sure the going would get easier since we just hit a popular trail only 4 miles from a trailhead. Oh how wrong that was. It turned out the Lake Ann trailhead was closed, as was the 2-mile road leading to it. So no traffic had been on this trail. And it was completely buried under snow. At least for the first three miles, we were on it. Or at least close to it, as we could barely tell if we were on a trail or not. 

The going was arduous and a bit dangerous. Stepping down off a steep section, I planted my butt onto a stump. Getting a sharp-stick enema is not nearly as fun as it sounds. Instead of the nice packed trail I envisioned, we got very confusing snowfields in forests, willows, and raging streams. We lost the trail too many times to count, and we forgot what it was like to have dry feet. Several times, after losing the trail so often, we decided to forge our own way and quickly learned of a huge stream or gully that forced us to backtrack.

Derek handled all the navigation, using the GPS track from my previous ascent. He had it loaded onto his watch and without him leading the way, I'd never have gotten out. In fact, the one time I went into the lead, when Derek stopped to switch out of his boots, I promptly lost the trail and led out the wrong way. He quickly righted me, retook the lead, and I backtracked to follow in his footsteps.

So much of the hike out was walking over snow that could collapse at any moment. We broke through into crevasses, talus, streams, and the trail itself! The trail was a pretty deep rut, and snow would melt out underneath, forming a tunnel. We broke through them all! Happy to not twist a knee or bash a shin too bad, but we both have some cuts from it. And I broke my trekking pole (since replaced by Black Diamond -- thank you!)

The last mile of the trail climbed 800 feet out of the valley. I had almost forgotten about this indignity. How horrible to put such a big climb at the end of a descent! It was demoralizing, but we finally had some dry trail upon which to trod. It almost made the climb pleasant. It wasn't, but heavenly compared to the snow work that we'd been doing since 4:20 a.m. Alas, snow obstacles were replaced with deadfall, and the never-ending stream crossings persisted.

Derek got a text while still low on the climb. It was from Renee, telling us that the car wasn't at the aforementioned closed trailhead. We'd have to walk an additional two miles down to the Mt Baker Highway. That was tough to hear, but there was nothing to do but death march on. At least the road was dry.

Once on the road, our pace picked up. I was able to cut a big road switchback via a steep, hard snow slope, only because I was still in my mountain boots. Derek, in trail runners, had to stick to the road. He had to do an extra half mile because of this. I spotted him trotting to catch up! With a big heavy pack, 16 hours into the day, he was running. That's one tough dude. 

Back at the car, we immediately changed into dry clothes. I experienced the heavenly relief of removing my boots for the last time. We threw everything in and started driving almost immediately. We had a long way to go. We gave profuse thanks to our angel, Renee, who not only relocated the car but also loaded it with snacks. Donuts, Snickers, and Gatorades slid down our gullets. She even cleaned out our McDonalds trash.

The drive home was smooth save for a couple of fast food false starts. We missed the Burger King drive-thru by 2 minutes at 11:02 and had to go 20 more minutes to a Wendy's. We got back to Derek's apartment at 12:15 a.m. I was packed for the airport by 1 a.m. I showered and got to bed just in time for two hours of rest before meeting my Uber to the airport at 3:15 a.m.

Then things got bad... Airlines suck. Either their people, their software, their training, or their procedures and checklists suck. I was still in Seattle on Tuesday and booked to leave Wednesday. Fortunately, I got out via standby and was the last person to board the plane. But this is an off-topic rant not suitable for this report. Suffice to say that I'll never fly again. Just like I'll never climb again.

I’ve now done 38 50CCs. They are, in no particular order:

• Ellingwood Arete on Crestone Needle
• Durrance Route on Devil’s Tower
• Kor-Ingalls on Castleton Tower
• East Buttress of Middle Cathedral Rock
• Royal Arches in Yosemite National Park
• East Face of Mt. Whitney
• South Face of Charlotte Dome
• The Southeast Face of the Clyde Minaret
• The Northwest Face of Half Dome
• The Nose on El Capitan
• The Salathe Wall on El Capitan
• The Regular Route on Fairview Dome
• The Lost Arrow Spire in Yosemite National Park
• Northcutt-Carter on the North Face of Hallet’s Peak
• The Petit Grepon in Rocky Mountain National Park
• D1 on the Diamond of Longs Peak
• Direct Exum Ridge on the Grand Teton
• The North Ridge of the Grand Teton
• The North Face of the Grand Teton
• Northeast Face of Pingora
• East Ridge of Wolf’s Head
• The Direct South Buttress of Mt. Moran
• The Finger of Fate on the Titan
• The Japanese Route on Mt. Alberta
• The East Ridge of Mt. Temple
• The North Face of Mt. Edith Cavell
• The West Ridge of Forbidden Peak
• Liberty Crack on Liberty Bell Mountain
• The East Ridge of Bugaboo Spire
• The Northwest Arete of Mt. Sir Donald
• Shiprock in New Mexico
• Steck-Salathe on Sentinel Rock
• The North Ridge of Mt. Stuart
• Becky-Chouinard on South Howser Tower
• Northeast Buttress of Mt. Slesse
• Traveler Buttress on Lover’s Leap
• Liberty Ridge on Mt. Rainier
• Price Glacier on Mt. Shuksan

Kit Carson in Winter

Strava

Photos

Climbing 14ers in winter is...well, varied. They are always more demanding than in summer. Duh. But with good weather and ideal snow conditions, they can be reasonable if you can get to the summer trailhead. That last bit is frequently a significant factor and can sometimes double the roundtrip mileage versus the summer, which generally means a lot of travel in the dark on short winter days.

I've been slowly working through the 58 (59 in winter!?) Colorado 14ers. As of this climb, I've done 32, so I know a bit about doing these and have encountered a wide range of conditions, especially with the weather. In general, I won't attempt a winter 14er without a good weather report. Even then, it's unlikely you'll have stellar weather the entire day and I've turned back on numerous occasions. These are serious objectives and if you make a mistake high on one of these peaks it would quickly become a life-threatening situation. Hence, I'm pretty conservative.

While I won't try a 14er without a good weather report and good snow conditions, once committed, by far the most important factor is your choice of a partner. And it is here where I am very blessed. John "Homie" Prater is one of the most experienced 14er climbers with 600 ascents and more than 100 winter ascents. He's done every 14er in winter, many multiple times, and more than half of them twice. He isn't impervious to cold, as no human could be, but he seems that way to me, as I would never be out in conditions where he'd truly be cold. He's also got unreal endurance. When he went for the 14er speed record, cut short by injury, he'd done over 40 14ers in seven days. Seven days of nearly continuous climbing!

Dan Mottinger and Wes Thurman joined Homie and me for this climb. Dan and Homie did the Maroon Bells traverse, in winter, in a day. Wes is an accomplished ultra-runner and he's running the Barkley for the second time this March. These two are badasses, yet, there was no question in anyone's mind who our leader was: Homie.

Homie picked Dan and me up at my house at 2:30 a.m. and drove us to the Spanish Creek Trailhead (same as the summer trailhead) where we met Wes. The weather report was good and would hold for the entire day. When we started at 6:45 a.m., it was 8 degrees and a bit chilly for the first hour, but working hard kept us warm. 

Homie led us up the "trail" which was entirely covered in snow. We broke trail the entire way, though down low, it was just a couple of inches of sugary snow that wouldn't consolidate. Eventually, we started to rotate leaders and the snow got deeper. We constantly had to deal with deadfall. Most of the time we could climb over it, but a few times we had to go under it and I was reduced to crawling a couple of feet.  Staying on the trail was a constant chore, as it was faint to the point of being invisible most of the time. Homie and Wes used topo maps on their phones to keep us on track.

After two thousand feet of gain, we had to pull on the snowshoes. We had resisted as long as we could because of the deadfall, but once we were plunging consistently to our knees, it was time. Now we really had a peloton rotation going. The leader would break trail until they needed a break and then would stay aside and rotate to the back. Breaking through crust to sugary snow and climbing over deadfall made progress difficult and tiring. We were averaging about one mile an hour. Later, we'd all agree that none of us would have made it without the others. I certainly couldn't have made it with just one other partner.

Nearly every step of this adventure, up and down, was hard work. That said, the time I spent in the fourth position was heaven compared to being at the front. I've done winter 14ers with Homie and Danny where I never went to the front. It was all I could do to keep up in the back. But this day, I took my turn at the front. I'm sure my pulls were shorter than everyone else's, but I didn't skip any turns.

Finally, after four hours of near-continuous work, we got the base of a third-class ridge that would lead most of the way to the summit. A snow gully to the right was another option, but we wrongly assumed it would be brutal post-holing and eschewed it. 

I took us first up the ridge, assuming as is usually the case, that I'd be the slowest and would need more time. I'd do this at each of our very short breaks as well. Taking off a minute or two early so that I could get a headstart on my stronger companions. I was concerned about altitude issues as well. I hadn't been over 10,000 feet since early September when Homie, Sheri, and I had climbed Granite Peak in Montana. I expected to get crushed after 13,000 feet.

I led up the first section of rock and along a flattish ridge. Dan took over and broke trail in snow up to the next step of rock. I went back into the lead here and set a goal for myself to stay in the lead until we hit 12,500 feet. Once there, I still had a gap and reset my goal to 12,700 feet. I was moving really slowly but very deliberately with little wasted effort. The rock on this peak is great: really solid with lots of good handholds. My pace was slow enough that I could maintain it and I just kept going. I hit 13,000 feet and kept going. Normally above 13,000 feet, there is no pace slow enough that doesn't require me to stop to catch my breath. But, remarkably, I found a pace that I could maintain. 

I felt like I crawled the last 1500 feet to the summit since I almost always had my hands on the terrain. Either I was grabbing handholds or punching my hands into the snow. I think this helped me, as I had four limbs propelling me upwards like a dog. And my gap on the others wasn't shrinking but growing. How could this be? Dan was next below me and a similar gap stretched from him down to Wes and Homie. I knew Wes, despite his amazing fitness, wasn't a climber. He was uncomfortable on steep rock and was unfamiliar with the proper use of an ice axe. This climb was probably over his safety margin, but Homie took care of him. Homie takes care of everyone...

At 13,700 feet, the wind was finally making me quite cold. My slow pace wasn't generating enough heat. I pulled off my pack and pulled out my down jacket. Normally, I couldn't climb in a down jacket as I'd overheat, but with the wind and my slow pace, and my susceptibility to the cold, it worked for me. If Homie had pulled on a down jacket here, he'd have died from heat stroke. I'm an absolute wimp in cold temperatures. I've wondered many times why someone like me would do something like this. I don't have a good answer.  It is only because of the quality gear that I have that I can do winter 14ers. 

Once my jacket was on, I pulled out my $300 Black Diamond gloves. These gloves were a game-changer for me. They are ridiculously warm and have an inner, lobster-style, Gortex glove that works well on its own. They are very expensive, yes, but these gloves make my hands nearly as tough as Homie's. 

I put on one crampon and couldn't get the other one on. The buckle was jammed with snow and I couldn't clear it. I gave up and pulled a Microspike onto my right boot. Below me, the others were stopped as well doing the same tasks. Before continuing, I made sure to eat and drink. Then I pulled out my ultra-light ice axe and headed towards the summit.

I kicked steps in the snow when I had to and scrambled rocks when I could. I hit the summit ridge and encountered a steep, knife-edged ridge of the hardest snow I'd ever seen. It was impossible to kick a step. With only one crampon and one axe, I wondered if continuing was too risky, but, duh, I had an axe in my hand. I laboriously chopped steps up the ridge. I'd hang onto the ridge with one hand, stand on one foot and chop away until I could then plant my axe and pull on it while I hopped up my foot. Thankfully, the ridge was short and I probably chopped only ten steps before I could get across to the fabulously exposed north side and work along a foot-wide ledge.

A short while later, I arrived at the summit. I sat down there but realized I couldn't see the ridge so reversed back about fifty feet to where I could sit and watch the others. Bundled in my jacket and my giant gloves, I was warm enough, though my feet started to get cold. I watched the others inch up the technical crux toward the top. I could see that Wes was probably at his technical and mental limit. Homie watched him closely. 

Dan arrived first and then Wes and Homie. After some summit brownies, I headed down to stay warm. I quickly reversed back to my pack and continued descending. I glissaded the couloir on the way down but found it to be a heads-up descent as the soft snow layer was thin, and very hard snow lay just beneath. I descended cautiously, keeping my speed slow by digging in my axe. Despite this, twice I got going too fast and had to roll completely onto my axe and self-arrest. I exited the couloir about halfway down and descended the ridge. I wasn't sure anyone would follow my lead. 

I got all the way down to the flat spot on the ridge, found a nice rock and waited for the others. I saw Dan descend the couloir all the way and then he cut back to our ascent track. He stopped above me and waited a bit before descending to me. We watched Wes and Homie carefully climb down the couloir. Wes didn't really know how to self-arrest and even being in that couloir was a significant risk. Homie would later tell me that he was very concerned that Wes might stumble and fall. If he did, he'd have to self-arrest and likely wouldn't be successful. But Wes has an inexhaustible supply of energy. And good concentration. He didn't tire and he didn't make a mistake.

Homie and Wes didn't stop when they got to us but continued down another couloir which wasn't nearly as steep as the upper couloir but was rock-hard snow. A bit below me, Homie's foot punched through the crust and he pitched forward onto his chest. Homie had only been using his poles and might not have been able to arrest his fall, but his boot was caught by the hard crust and he stopped. His foot was stuck so badly that he couldn't even extract himself. I descended to him and punched out the crust that held him fast.

Back at the snowshoes, I was once again ready first. I'd had more time to rest and knew I'd be the slowest on the way out. I got started. After a bit Dan caught up. Going back over the deadfall was getting trickier for me as my fatigue built. At one such obstacle, I got on top of the logs fine, but then fell forward. I put out my pole to stabilize me and it plunged completely into the snow. My arm followed up to my shoulder and I had to duck my head to prevent a face plant. Instead, it was a head plant. Thankfully, no sticks or stones were beneath the snow. How Dan didn't start laughing at my position, I don't know. My head planted and my ass in the air. 

Soon Homie and Wes caught me as well. I continued on until I needed a break to drink and get out my headlamp. Dark was coming fast. Dan and Homie continued and Wes joined me in digging out his headlamp. We descended together and soon had our headlamps on. We caught up to Homie when he was shedding his snowshoes. We did the same. It was really dark now and we had lost the trail a bit. But Homie is a bloodhound when it comes to finding the track. He's led me out of the darkness many times and he did it again. 

Back on the trail, we still had 2000 feet to descend and it took a long time. I fell to the back and was continually getting gapped, but Homie constantly looked back for me, making sure I didn't get left behind. Dan was leading and he slowed the pace so that I could tack on for the finish back to the cars. 

What a great group of climbing partners. I'm a lucky guy and I'm acutely aware of it. It's gotten to the point where I really don't want to even attempt a winter 14er without Homie. He's my security blanket. But Dan and Wes were incredibly strong breaking trail and I wouldn't have made the top without them either. So, while I still need Homie to summit, I now need Homie plus a couple more co-guides. 

Homie drove the entire way back. Both Dan and I volunteered to take a turn at the wheel. I certainly couldn't have done the whole drive but could have contributed an hour. Maybe. It might not have been wise because twice in the first hour of the drive home my hamstrings cramped so badly that I screamed out in agony as I tried to get them to release. If I'd have been driving... Well, I'm thankful for Homie's heroic turn at the wheel. 

I was so tired on the final descent to the car that I could not imagine ever trying another winter 14er. But I still seem to possess the most important quality of an alpine/winter climber: a bad memory. As I write these words, less than 24 hours after the climb finished, the suffering doesn't seem so bad now. Maybe I could do another 14er. Maybe even this year. But only if Homie and Danny and Dan and Wes come along too...

The Northeast Buttress of Mt. Slesse with Derek

Strava

Photos

I was bruised and battered
I couldn't tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself
Saw my reflection in a window
And didn't know my own face
Oh brother are you gonna leave me wastin' away
                                 - Streets of Philadelphia, Bruce Springsteen

While I might not yet be too old for big alpine climbs, I do seem to be too clumsy for big alpine descents. 

I bought my first copy of “Fifty Classic Climbs of North America” back when I was in college in the early 80s. This book directed my climbing for the first twenty years. Then for at least a decade, I ignored them. I’d done most of the ones that were in my wheelhouse and turned to other things like doing Longs Peak and the Yellow Spur over and over ad nauseam. But now that I’m older, I took a serious look at my climbing bucket list. There is no time to waste. 

Last year, Derek and I went to Slesse, but we didn’t even attempt the NE Butt, as the weather wasn’t conducive to rock climbing. Perhaps we should have canceled the trip, but I wanted to go see this mountain. With rain expected, we started up the descent route on the west side of the peak and climbed up one of the steepest trails I’d ever been on. It was a 50% grade for thousands of vertical feet. We got within 500 feet of the summit and onto technical ground when the rain started. We turned back.

This year, when the weather looked really good on a weekend, I booked my ticket and Derek picked me up at 5 p.m. at the SeaTac airport on Friday. We drove the three hours to Chilliwack (a pretty chill place but definitely a bit whacky) and then on up the rough road towards the trailhead. At 9:15 p.m. we came across a minivan crosswise and blocking the entire road. They were in the midst of an Austin-Powers-ish 23-point turn. The road ahead was too much for their soccer-mom-mobile. We decided to stop as well, though Derek’s CrossTrek could have certainly made it, we didn’t want any stress and still needed to pack for tomorrow.

The only problem with this decision was that we’d have to put up our tent directly in the middle of the road, as it was the only flat spot. We hoped that no one else would be driving up this road this late or even early in the morning. This was Canada, where a popular climb means it’s done more than once a year. We were wrong about the traffic, though.

The couple in the van was headed to the NE Butt as well but immediately told us that they were planning a 2-day ascent. This is the more common way to do this route because the approach is long and arduous (MP suggests four hours), the route is 24 pitches, and the descent is very long and very complex. I figured I was about the worst climber that could do this route in a day, but doing it onsight would make it even more difficult, as a mistake of any length would probably mean a bivy. We carried two emergency shelters with us and I thought the chances of using them were very good, maybe 80%. If we descended the way we came up the year before, once down we’d still have 20 kilometers of walking to get back to the car. There was another way down, though. 

The usual descent from Slesse was something called the Crossover Descent, but a big landslide took out a section of that route, making it impassable. A couple of years ago, some guides put up a route called the Crack of Noon Club. This climbs up a buttress to Crossover Pass. They equipped the route with 11 bolted-chain, rappel anchors, which makes the Crack of Noon Crossover descent possible. This descent isn’t a gimme, though, and we didn’t know anything about it. At least we knew the west side descent and that it was entirely on a trail, once we descended the top 600 vertical feet. We’d decide later.

We packed our gear, which was mostly a double rack to #2 Camelot, a #3, a #4 (used 3 or 4 times), a full set of stoppers (heavily used), two Micros (used one once), and 13 alpine draws. We took one 60-meter rope, though we knew a 70-meter was handy on some rappels, I couldn’t stomach carrying a rope so long. A 60-meter worked out fine, though we did have to do some down climbing off of a couple of rappels.

Once packed, we set up our single-walled First Ascent BD tent. This isn’t the best choice for the northwest where there is so much moisture in the air even when it hasn’t rained, and the dew point is high. In the morning the inside walls of our tent were damp. It was no big deal but not ideal. 

Before we could even get into the tent, a truck came up the road and we had to pick up the tent and move it to the side. We’d see these two guys the next day and spend most of the day with them. Once they were by, we moved the tent back into the middle of the road and hopped in around 10:15 p.m. with an alarm set for 3:50 a.m. Just after the alarm went off, the tent was completely lit up by headlights. Another truck was trying to get up the road. We hurriedly pulled on our shoes and jumped out of the tent to move it out of the way once again. The guys in this truck were headed for another cool mountain: Rexford. They said Slesse was on their list. Being from Chilliwack, they’d have ample opportunity to wait for ideal conditions.

We wolfed down a cold breakfast and were hiking before our goal time of 4:30. I thought we had close to a mile to the trailhead, but we arrived there in only a quarter of a mile. Cool. We started up the narrow, twisting trail, crowded closely by vegetation that was soaked with condensation. I was excited to see two salamanders on the trail. The moist conditions suited them but the cold temperatures made them immobile. 

By the time we got to the Propeller Cairn at the end of the trail, my pants, socks, and shoes were completely soaked. It was only in the 40s at this point and wouldn’t get above 55 degrees all day. I don’t think my approach shoes fully dried until Monday. 

The north face of Slesse loomed above us, split by three buttresses with two glacier-carved cirques between them. We had to cross slick slabs to get to the middle buttress, where we ascended steeply to a notch in the ridge and then down the other side on very slippery 4th-class terrain. It was an introduction to moss/lichen/rock climbing. Vegetation is a feature on this route.

Walking up the smooth granite slabs to the base of the wall, I thought of the upper slabs of Snake Dike, as the angle and rock were quite similar. That’s high praise of rock quality, I know. Alas the route itself has no rock remotely as good as these approach slabs. 

In the middle of this slab was a huge chunk of a glacier. This chunk was the remnants of the Pocket Glacier that fills this cirque in the winter and spring. It seems strange to call something a snowfield that disappears every year a glacier, but I think it is a glacier. It builds up enough ice to flow and crack with crevasses. Climbers wait for the Pocket Glacier to slide down this granite ramp before climbing this route because otherwise, you are crossing directly underneath it and very close to it, meaning if something falls off you will not have time to avoid it. In late September it was long gone. 

Speaking of late September, this isn’t the ideal time to climb such a long route, due to the lack of daylight and colder temperatures (the high was 52 degrees), but much more important is to have a dry forecast. There is so much lichen on this route that I imagine it would be nearly unclimbable when wet. Our forecast was good. We had to make an attempt. I knew I was in for adventure and all that entails which means stress and discomfort. I don’t yearn for challenges like this as much as I once did and I felt that uneasy. Once we got up reasonably high, we’d be committed. There isn’t an easy way off this mountain. There are no fixed belay stations anywhere on this route and hardly any tat. If we got high on the route, we’d have to top out, but there is no walk-off on this mountain. Every route to the summit is a technical route.

As we headed up the slabs to the ByPass Ledge, which avoids the first six pitches of the Direct NE Butt (10c), we heard and then saw a pair of climbers. They were roped up and simul-climbing along the ledge. We quickly gained the ledge and seeing that it was really just 3rd and 4th class, continued unroped in our approach shoes. The exposure grew significantly with upward movement as we gained the buttress itself. We could already look down on a thousand feet of vertical. 

We caught up to the follower just as we started heading up the buttress proper. His name was Cory and he was a rock guide from Squamish. His partner was also a guide and his name was, and this is his true name on his birth certificate, Tigger. I couldn’t resist asking Cory if his partner’s head was made of rubber and his bottom of spring. But he didn’t know what I was talking about, so I had to sing it to him:

The wonderful thing about triggers
Is tiggers are wonderful things!
Their tops are made out of rubber
Their bottoms are made out of springs!
They're bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy
Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun!
But the most wonderful thing about tiggers is
I'm the only one

Cory and Tigger were the guys that drove by our tent the night before. 

We moved up to the right of these guys to a small perch in trees and dirt with hardly any level ground. I found a sling anchor here. We geared up, being careful not to drop anything. I asked Derek if he’d like to lead first or me. He said I should start leading “just in case any passing was necessary.”

I climbed up steep ground, but most of it was dirt and trees with some rock. We were still really working our way up to the cleaner rock. I ran out all the rope and decided to belay Derek up rather than simul-climb because of the drag of 60 meters of rope. If we were to simul-climb we’d need to shorten the rope, which we really never did. Instead, I did long pitches and by then I needed more gear anyway.

The climbing on the lower half of the buttress is low angle, broken, and rich in vegetation, meaning lichen covered the rocks and moss filled the cracks. Some cracks were clean and others had gardened-out spots for placements. The climbing was probably 5.6 or easier but insecure because of the greenery and a bit freaky because protection was sparse. 

I stayed in the lead and we followed Cory and Tigger up the route. We were both using the MountainProject written description, but I didn’t need to refer to mine, as I just followed these guys. They were both really friendly and we got along great. Tigger was leading everything on the first half of the route so I got to know just Cory. They had a 70-meter rope (for the descent) but were climbing on just 35 meters of rope and simul-climbing with Micros. This simul-climbing seems to be catching on. Pretty soon people will be doing it in Eldo!

Despite not simul-climbing, we kept up with them and sometimes even had to wait on them a bit. But they were doing all the route finding, so we didn’t mind at all. I was worried about the descent and secretly hoping we could join forces to figure it out. Or that they could come to pick us up if we went down the other descent.

From the moment we left the car, we’d been moving nearly continuously. I didn’t even sit down to belay but once or twice. Derek and I are very efficient at the belays. Once he arrives, we re-rack gear, get him anchored, take him off belay, put me on belay, and I’m off. Rarely does this take more than a minute and never more than two. I liken our partnership to a band that is “tight”, meaning all working together in the exact same rhythm.

The crux of the lower half of the route is a 5.9 pitch just below the halfway bivy ledge. It was by far the steepest pitch yet, but it went nicely on some big holds and good gear. It was by far the best pitch yet. Derek liked it because “it was mostly rock.” That’s a strange comment to make for a rock climb, but it was appropriate for this route.

At the halfway bivy ledge, which is huge, we’d done 12 pitches with 12 to go. It was just 11 a.m. The route above steepened and the climbing got harder. Above us were three more pitches of 5.9. I asked Derek if he wanted to take the top block and he hesitated. He said he wasn’t feeling that great about the climbing. I got that completely because I was a bit put off by it as well. In Italy, Derek was keen to be in the lead for all hard climbing. He asked how I was feeling. I told him I was happy to keep leading. I like leading and I was already used to climbing and had my lead head going. He said that he wanted to lead some but maybe a bit further up.

I ended up leading the rest of the route and we never talked about switching leaders. Just like our change-over coordination, we know each other so well that there was no need for discussion. I knew Derek would speak up if he wanted to lead. Frankly, this climbing is my specialty: semi-runout, moderate, tricky-gear-placement, alpine climbing. I’d have included ‘difficult route finding’, but the guides were doing that all for me. If the climbing was harder and cleaner with more solid gear, Derek would have been in front, placing all the gear for me to grab and pull on. He’s done that before. Still, it was good to know that I can still be useful and a valid partner to my much younger, much stronger, much fitter son.

The 5.9 pitches above were steep and interesting. One had a few precariously jammed flakes that were necessary to use. It was freaky to pull on them, but they didn’t move. Another pitch was runout and devious. The last real pitch was rated 5.7, but this passed by some rock that was just barely attached and too big to trundle for fear of hitting Derek or chopping my rope. I felt this was the crux pitch, mentally. 

There is a 4th class escape at the top and I took that. I got incredible rope drag going hard to the left, down, and then up again and Derek had to simul-climb below me to free up the rope. But it got me to the summit and soon Derek had joined me. It was just before 4 p.m. Cory and Tigger were nearby, packing up their gear. Derek and I ate, drank, changed shoes, stowed the rack, coiled the rope, and were soon headed down, following Cory and Tigger.

We scrambled down some scree and then across exposed ledges, up to a notch, and steeply down the other side to some rappel slings. The guides went down first on their rope. They moved surprisingly slowly on rappels, as each set up a prussik backup each time. They weren’t that slow. I’m just used to guides that move ultra-efficiently. They pulled their rope and we rapped down next. We had to do an extra short rappel due to our 60-meter rope.

More scrambling and more exposed climbing led us to another rappel. Then we traversed further around and decided to rappel what the guides were down climbing. We did two more rappels here with some short, fifth class, heads-up down climbing to get to the next anchor. Then it was hiking and scrambling in loose gullies, over notches, and along the ridge. Up, down, up, down. At one point, I slipped off the narrow trail and fell to my knees. Then my hands slipped and I literally planted my face into the rocks. Thankfully, I bashed my face into my cheekbone, which seemed way better than knocking my teeth out or breaking my nose. It really rang my bell though. Derek was right there and knew I was hurt. I laid there for a while just trying to get my wits about me. After less than a minute I stood up and moved on. We had a long way to go and little daylight left.

We kept traveling the ridge, up and down. We topped out the highest mini-summit and had to do two more rappels to get down into another loose gully. In general, I was always last here, as I’d pull the rope, coil it, and put it in my pack. I always encouraged Derek to just keep moving once he was off the line so that he could either follow Cory and Tigger or lead the way and find the route down. Derek did a great job of this all the way down.

Eventually, we got to Crossover Pass and the first rappel anchors of the Crack of Noon Club route. From here it would be 11 single-rope rappels down to the talus, all on 2-bolt, chain anchors. In this last section, I caught and passed Tigger who seemed to be fading a bit. This set Derek and me up to go first down the rappels. Cory asked if it would be a good idea to have the first guy down bring the second rope and set up a rappel below, but I nixed that idea. It didn’t make any sense for this many rappels, as you’d then have to pull the top rope, coil it, and transport it down to the third rappel. It made much more sense for us to descend as two teams of two and just pull the rope through the next anchors when we pulled it down. Plus, Derek and I would simul-rappel the entire thing. We’d known from the earlier rappels that we were faster than the guides.

This shows the descent we took, with the dotted yellow line being added to this photo by me.

Derek and I both got our Grigris on the rope and started down together, but not before getting our headlamps out and getting Cory’s phone number, as we suspected this might be goodbye. Our descent went super smooth. We have a lot of experience simul-rappelling. We count down weighting and unweighting the ropes. We knot the ends. We clip into the anchors…mostly. After maybe the second rappel we had to turn on the headlamps. Here simul-rappelling really helped us, as we could scan a much wider area on the descent in search of the rap anchors. Sometimes Derek would spot the anchor and sometimes I would. Each time we predicted where the descent would go and tossed our ropes in that direction. We always made the right decision. A descent this long, sight unseen, in the dark would normally be quite stressful for me, but here the angle wasn’t very steep and ledges were plentiful at each anchor. We counted down the 11 raps and were soon on talus.

Here, we finally took an extended break, though by extended I mean 15 minutes. We got to finally strip off our harnesses and helmets. We ate a ton and drank even more. We’d carried three liters from the car and still had plenty left due to the cool temperatures of the day. We had one crux left: finding the trail. In the Pacific Northwest, you cannot descend through the forest without a trail. Something that would take two hours on a trail would take two days without one. 

Derek led the way down and left across the talus, searching for pink or yellow tape or a cairn that would mark the way. We found nothing but continued on in the same general direction. Derek was faster here and he’d get out ahead, always searching. Sometimes he’d wait for me to catch up and turn on my powerful headlamp so that we could scan further. After 30 minutes or so, Derek said, “I may have found something.” When I caught up, he pointed at a cairn. Sweet. We made our way from cairn to cairn and lost them at one point, but found them again. Then we hit the forest and a very faint trail. We followed it across and up and down and then hit a T-junction. Derek followed it uphill because he spotted some tape, but after a while we turned around, figuring this must be the old route up to the pass. Back at the T-junction, we followed it down and soon it became obvious that it was the trail. At that point, Derek stopped, turned around, and gave me a big hug. This has traditionally been my move and it touched me deeply to have Derek initiate it.

It was all over now but for the marching. We couldn't do much damage to ourselves from here on it…or so we thought. We still had to drop 3600 feet.

Cory caught up to us a bit further along but Tigger never did. We chatted with Cory a bit before he dropped back to be with Tigger and that was the last we saw of him. It was fun sharing the climb and descent with these guys. They were both very solid alpine climbers and basically guided me up the route.

Derek and I continued to the only stream crossing. We walked across a one-foot-diameter log that didn’t quite reach across and the end of the log was covered in moss. Fearful of that moss at the end, we both didn’t pay as much attention to a trio of smaller logs that we stepped onto with our right foot. These logs were as slippery as anything I’ve ever stood on. Or rather, tried to stand on. They couldn’t have been more slippery if they were coated in verglas. Derek immediately slipped, but he didn’t fall. He did plunge one foot into the creek though. Warned by his slip, I inched across carefully but didn’t know the three smaller logs were the problem. As soon as I put my foot on those logs, I was down. But I landed on the logs. Trying to get up, which was impossible due to the slickness, my left hamstring cramped. I had to scoot along with my hands and feet to the other side to stand up. 

We descended on and on, our satisfaction with a great adventure increasing with every step. But fatigue was also increasing and I fell back a bit from Derek’s pace. Not much, but some and I tried to close the gap. I stumbled and not wanting to do another face plant, ran forwards in an attempt to get my feet underneath me. As I did so, something, a branch of something, stabbed me in the eye. It was excruciating pain and I cried out but kept moving. Derek stopped and turned back and I told him I got stuck in the eye. Less than a minute later I had Derek check my eye since it seemed like something was still in there.

He shined his headlamp on my eye and gasped. “Oh, Pops,” he said, “that doesn’t look good.” He immediately whipped out his phone to take a photo of my eye. I had a rapidly growing blood blister in my eye. It was big enough that had it been anywhere else besides my eye, we’d have punctured it and tried to drain the blood out. Sticking something sharp into my eye, even to drain blood, didn’t seem like a wise decision to us, so we moved on. I moved a bit slower now. I could still see out of the eye, but a bit diminished and I was gun shy about another possible stumble. It was uncomfortable to blink because my eye was so swollen that I had increased friction between my eyelid and my cornea. This would actually scratch my cornea. 

The rest of the way to the car went without incident. We got there 18h36m after leaving it. It was after 11 p.m. We hopped into the car and headed towards Chilliwack and possibly to a hospital. While the adventure ended a bit, unfortunately, the day was hugely successful. I loved that we were still a well-balanced team. We look out for and took care of each other. We had the skills and fitness to pull off this one-day ascent safely. My clumsiness cost me a bit of pain and some recovery time. It’s a price I’d rather not pay, but if I had to pay it for this climb, it was worth it to me. I don’t know how many more adventures like this I’ll have with Derek. I cherish each one.

I’ve now done 36 50CCs. Amazingly, Fred Beckey did the first ascent of seven of these classics. I still haven’t done three of these Beckey routes, but the Price Glacier on Mt. Shuksan will likely be the next one I try. The 50CCs I’ve done are, in no particular order:

• Ellingwood Arete on Crestone Needle (x3)
• Durrance Route on Devil’s Tower (x3)
• Kor-Ingalls on Castleton Tower 
• East Buttress of Middle Cathedral Rock (x3)
• Royal Arches (x5)
• East Face of Mt. Whitney
• South Face of Charolette Dome
• The Southeast Face of the Clyde Minaret
• The Northwest Face of Half Dome (x2)
• The Nose on El Capitan (x3)
• 
  
• 
  
• The Salathe Wall on El Capitan (x2)
• The Regular Route on Fairview Dome (x2)
• The Lost Arrow Spire
• Northcutt-Carter on the North Face of Hallet’s Peak
• The Petit Grepon (x5)
• D1 on the Diamond of Longs Peak
• Direct Exum Ridge on the Grand Teton
• The North Ridge of the Grand Teton
• The North Face of the Grand Teton
• Northeast Face of Pingora
• 
  
• 
  
• East Ridge of Wolf’s Head
• The Direct South Buttress of Mt. Moran
• The Finger of Fate on the Titan
• The Japanese Route on Mt. Alberta
• The East Ridge of Mt. Temple
• The North Face of Mt. Edith Cavell
• The West Ridge of Forbidden Peak
• Liberty Crack on Liberty Bell Mountain
• The East Ridge of Bugaboo Spire (x2)
• The Northwest Arete of Mt. Sir Donald
• 
  
• 
  
• Shiprock
• Steck-Salathe on Sentinel Rock (x2)
• The North Ridge of Mt. Stuart 
• Becky-Chouinard on South Howser Tower
• Northeast Buttress of Mt. Slesse
• Traveler Buttress on Lover’s Leap

Postscript:

We drove from the trailhead to the hospital in Chilliwack to have my eye checked out. We figured, “Healthcare is free in Canada, right?” Well, that’s just for Canadians. Unlike healthcare in Argentina, which is free to everyone. And, yes, it’s upsetting that I know these things from personal experience. Don’t worry, I also go to hospitals in the US. I’m apparently doing my own personal survey of healthcare across the globe. After the attendant found out I wasn’t Canadian, she asked for $1250 before she would proceed. I was shocked. Being within an hour of the US border where my health insurance would help me out, I opted not to pay this fee.

We were both pretty tired now, but Derek was extremely sleepy. I gave him an Advil PM after we got off the rappels and it had affected him more than expected. Either that or it was being up for 21 hours straight and working very hard for 18.5 of those hours. I had to drive and we first went to a hotel that was locked up and they didn’t answer the doorbell. I called another hotel but it was going to be $300 for the night and we’d be checking in a 1:30 a.m. Instead I drove around looking for a place to sleep and found a parking lot in the town of Cultus Lake, a short distance south of Chilliwack. We threw down the ground cloth, our pads, and bags. Derek was asleep less than 3 minutes after getting horizontal. I was so jealous. 

I slept some for sure, but my shoulder was hurting fiercely. It’s been a problem for a year or so, but much worse since my bike crash. I know I have a torn rotator cuff. I need to get (another) MRI to assess how bad it is now. I probably need to fix it and I’m not looking forward to that.

We got up around 6:30. I’d been awake since 5:30 but busied myself doing puzzles on my phone. We packed up our gear under the watchful eyes of…a security guard? I wasn’t sure, but he was giving us the stink eye that’s for sure. We headed to a Denny’s and ate like there was no tomorrow. With our belly full and our third cup of coffee empty, we headed south, back to the US, towards my sister Brook’s house, where Derek was staying. We figured we should make a quick stop by the hospital to see if we should be concerned about my eye, which was now completely red. I looked positively…satanic. How appropriate.

I figured my eye would just have to get better on its own, but I wanted to be on the safe side, especially with a terrible record of self-diagnosis. The hospital had me in a room quickly and a doctor saw me shortly afterward and did an impressive job of examining my eye for an ER doctor. Derek had mentioned earlier that one of his goals for the day was to get a doctor to say that this was the worse subconjunctival hemorrhage they'd ever seen. Derek had done some internet research on my eye issue and seen photos of my condition, but my eye looked way worse than the photos he found. The doctor did admit that it was amongst the worst she’d seen before. She took a photo of it and sent it to an on-call ophthalmologist, who recommended a CT scan to make sure no foreign debris was still in the eye. That led to a tetanus shot, an IV in my arm to inject a tracer into my blood during the CT scan, and various eye drops and antibiotics. I stayed five hours in this hospital and then had to travel to Seattle (with the I-90 bridges closed in that direction) to see the ophthalmologist that day. It made me think back to my pulmonary edema incident, where I thought the hospital was just running up the bill on a torn chest muscle. 

One happy note was that the doctor that took over for my original doctor was a climber and had done the NE Buttress of Slesse. The other doctor told him that I had “hiked” Slesse and he knew there was no hiking path to the summit. He came by to see if I had just been hiking near it or had actually climbed it. We talked about the Crossover descent, which he did before it fell away. He told me I was being discharged and said goodbye. Then ten minutes later, he came back and asked, “Are you the Bill Wright of speed climbing records?” Then we chatted more about stuff like scrambling up Flatirons and timing it. So, that was cool. 

The worst part was that my mother-in-law Marilyn passed away just as I was being wheeled into the CT room. We had just seen her last month for several days. Though she had dementia she knew who we were and her physical health seemed fine. We expected her to live a lot longer, even though that would have been tough on her and us, especially Sheri’s brother Mike. He has been in charge of her health for the past 16 months. He moved her out of Texas to an assisted living center near his home in Portland. She was relatively fine then, but it started a steady and rapid decline which ended this day. 

Sheri and I cried together on the phone and she made plans to get to Portland immediately. Not for Marilyn, of course, but for Mike and for herself. I was so frustrated that I wasn't with her to hold her. I drove to Portland in my sister's car the next morning to join her and Mike.

That night, I went to the Harbor View hospital in Seattle and it was depressing. Homeless people, a guy dripping blood from a leg wound as he wandered around the waiting area, people hurting, everybody using their phones in speaker mode, and hours of waiting. I was told it might be a three-hour wait. Derek had enough and left for home. I didn’t blame him one bit. He’s been through this before with me and it is almost as bad for him as it is for me. I’d take an Uber to Brook’s house when and if I get medical attention. It’s a horrible place to be and reminded me of the horrible hospital in Buenos Aires where Derek and I waited for hours to get medical attention. Just like then, I’m tempted to just leave and go see an eye doctor back home. Except that I don’t know when I’ll be back home. I waited for over three hours and then left, taking an Uber back to my sister's house. I'd see a doctor in Portland the next day and find out that my eye would be fine and recover in a number of weeks. I just need to keep it lubricated.

Things are tough now, but I will cherish this adventure with Derek for the rest of my days. We are already planning our next one.

Pilot Peak with Homie

Strava

Photos

Sheri and I were headed to Big Sky for our niece’s wedding and we decided to go north up early and bag Granite Mountain, the highest peak in Montana. I’d already done Granite so I started searching for nearby peaks to climb as well. I stumbled on Pilot Peak and it grabbed my attention…hard.

It’s a cliché to say a mountain is “the Matterhorn” of this or that range. Like Ama Dablam is the Matterhorn of the Himalayas. Why is the Matterhorn the standard of alpine beauty and inaccessibility? Well, just look at it. If you need more explanation than that, you aren’t a climber. Pilot Peak looks like the Matterhorn of Wyoming. It’s form is irresistible to a climber. That isn’t completely true. While the desire might be there, the skills might not be. I found the easiest route, the only route, up the mountain was rated 5.6/7. That’s a range where I might solo it except that the route was supposedly very loose. No way I’d solo something like that. I needed to recruit a partner and reached out to my long-time partner Homie. 

Homie is the most knowledgeable peak bagger I know. Yet, he hadn’t heard of this peak. Why should he have? It’s only 11,699 feet tall. He did some research of his own. The peak isn’t climbed often. On his favorite peak-bagging site, Lists of John, there were no recorded ascents. His interest increased. With the prospects of Granite and Pilot Peak, he didn’t hesitate at all. He was in.

Granite went well and we rested and prepared for Pilot. We had a reasonable route description, but the details were sparse, left as an exercise to the climber. Knowing how well prepared Homie always is, I abdicated my responsibility of collecting the route information even though this was my idea. Homie didn’t let me down. 

I did know the rough line of the approach to the peak, which always looks reasonable when looking at a 2D topo map. Seeing the terrain directly in front of you is quite a different story. We started hiking right out of town, at 7600 feet. After two hundred yards on a steep 4WD road, we broke left onto the Woody Creek Trail. We followed this for a couple of miles and a thousand vertical feet. This trail was marked on my Gaia map but not very accurately. We were looking for a fork in the trail and once we passed by that point, at least according to Gaia, we wondered if a faint branch lower down might be it. We reversed back to that point and soon the trail and Gaia synced up. 

This trail just stopped on my map so we were expecting the end. The trail dropped us into the creek bed, which was a hundred feet wide and carpeted with smooth river rocks. The stream itself was minimal and we crossed back and forth looking for the smoothest passage. After a mile we arrived at the confluence of the creek draining the basin below Pilot Peak and its companion Index Peak. Both of these peaks are spectacular.

We headed east, towards the basin, following the creek on more creek-bed stones. We passed what looked like a couple of cairns, but we couldn’t be sure due to the tremendous effects of the flooding that struck this area. This was the same flooding that devastated Yellowstone National Park, which lays just west of this area. Soon the valley turned into a gorge and then nearly a slot canyon with a waterfall blocking further progress. Now what?

I’m not big on retreating. It’s not so much determination as laziness. I didn’t want to go back and try another way if there was a way forward. There was. It was up an incredibly steep slope to the south. This would lead, eventually, to a high ridge where we could traverse over a couple of intermediate sub-summits to Pilot Peak. We knew gaining the ridge would be loose and somewhat dangerous and maybe even impossible at this exact location, as we couldn’t yet see the slope above us due to the dense trees.

We continued up, blindly, determined to make treeline and assess the situation. Once there, the view was daunting, at least initially. After some study, we could see a couple of possible routes that might go. The slope was very steep and consisted of what could only be called a rock soil. The rocks were all loose and the climbing was stressful, delicate, and dangerous. We moved like we were rock climbing, picking out each foothold carefully and placing our feet gently, so rocks wouldn’t break free. We climbed parallel to each other instead of behind to minimize rockfall danger. 

We made steady careful progress and eventually got into a rock gully that was mostly solid. Further up, we broke out onto grassy tundra which would normally be considered risky at this angle in dot-rubber approach shoes, but compared to what we had been doing it felt very solid. Gaining the ridge was a relief. We knew we could approach the peak from here albeit with some work. The first peak loomed ahead and we continued along the rocky ridge, side-hilling around any gendarmes. At the top we took a well-needed break to eat and drink. I was surprised to find I had a cell connection — something we didn’t have down in town. I sent Sheri an update on our progress.

Pilot Peak stood guard at the end of our ridge. It looked…difficult. But that was part of the appeal: a mountain that looked extremely hard, yet was only 5.6/7. We started down from the summit of our sub-peak and in just a few minutes, I slipped on the loose ground, threw out my arm to get my balance, and sliced a flap off the heal of my right hand on the sharp rock. I tried to stop the blood with the sleeve of my shirt. I slipped a second time and nicked my left hand. After my third fall, I pulled out my gloves to protect my hands. I’m a slow learner, but I do learn.

Homie had no trouble on this terrain and led the way. Eventually, I tried to stick directly on the ridge. This proved much nicer for me. Though it was steep in spots, the rock was pretty solid here and at least I didn’t have to fight the slope. The sides of the ridge were steep, loose, and thousands of feet down. It is truly an impressive position.

When we got to the base of Pilot Peak, the north aspect of the peak completely blocked the ridge. This spire was clearly unclimbable for us and maybe anyone not named Ondra. I asked Homie which side we’d traverse around, as both sides seemed equally improbable. We went on the west side. It looked horrible and I steeled myself for a miserable, dangerous traverse, but it wasn’t as bad as it looked and we made good progress…until we went around a corner. 

The route ahead looked ridiculous. I’ve traversed rock climbs that were less steep and way more solid. My first thoughts were to abort, but Homie forged ahead. Well, if he thought it was doable, I thought, I need to pretend it looks reasonable. Again, we moved forward like we were rock climbing instead of hiking. The consequences of a fall or a slip here could be fatal. I wasn’t sure where you’d stop if you slipped, as it didn’t seem possible to stop yourself since the terrain would be coming down with you.

We got around this section only to meet something even more exposed. This was true scrambling but more serious than most of the Flatiron scrambling I do. I led this time, slowly, gripped. Around the corner things were better and I hoped we’d soon find the start of the roped climbing. We might have used the rope earlier if there was hope of any gear. 

We ascended a loose scree field to the base of the wall and traversed hard back to the left, looking for a break. The wall above was steep and either unclimbable or much harder than the 5.5/6 start we were looking for. I was in the lead and got to a corner where it seemed foolish to continue. Homie looked on the right. No dice. I swallowed hard and decided to venture around the corner to seek the start of the route. I inched around very carefully. There was reasonable footing, but I was worried about every handhold, every foothold collapsing under me. A mistake here would end things. Hence, what would be trivial scrambling on solid rock, got my full attention. Once around the corner, I ascended into a small bowl and found a crack that matched our description. Now I had to reverse back around to notify Homie. And then do it again to start the route. Before starting up the route, Homie would read the description again and we’d realize that this traverse was actually part of the first pitch.

In the exposed bowl, we geared up and decided to leave our packs, as we’d descend the same way. I could find no anchor, so I told Homie to not tie into the rope or belay me until I got a solid piece in. If I fell off, I didn’t want to pull him with me. The start was steep but only for about twenty feet and probably only 5.6, but, again, I had no gear and didn’t trust anything until I pounded on it with my hands or kicked it with my feet. I moved deliberately and tested every single hold. I found solid gear, placed a cam, and Homie had me on belay. I put in a second solid piece and moved up into the bowl above where I found a fixed sling — our first sign that people had been here before. 

I continued up and left, passing a short, steep, but easy wall onto low angle terrain and up to a flat ledge. I put in a single piece (the only one I could find) but it was solid. Homie joined me and I continued up and left for two more pitches. This was easy going. In fact, most of it was just walking on loose ground with short sections of scrambling. I was looking for the crux pitch and had some trouble locating it. I didn’t realize where it was until I was fifty feet by it. I put in a piece to belay Homie, who was already simul-climbing, and when he got to the right location he stopped and I reversed back to him. Things were about to get very interesting.

I climbed a steep wall for twenty feet with no protection. The technical difficulties were moderate and the holds seemed solid, though I tested and re-tested each one, acutely aware of how far from help I was and the consequences of a fall. Once above the wall and into another small bowl, I spotted a crack up and right and made a beeline to get in some protection. Once the gear was placed, I was puzzling out how to continue when Homie called up, “Hey, you’re  supposed to exit that bowl on the left.” I looked left and it did look climbable, but I wasn’t sure about the gear. I pulled my only gear and downclimbed a bit and to the left, where I found a solid piece. The next twenty feet would be the crux of the climb.

The rock here didn’t look great. Five feet out from my piece, I tried to place another cam. I fitted it into a crack and then gave it a tug. The rock to the left of the piece moved. It was no good. I removed the cam but then noticed that the huge piece of rock, to the right of the crack, was loose as well. In fact, it was too loose for me to safely continue. The rock was the size of a microwave and just moving by it might cause it to come loose. I was afraid it might cut my rope. I called down to Homie that I had to trundle this rock. I told him to move as far away as he could, though, since I had moved left of where I started, I thought this rock would land well to his left. I pulled it off and it plummeted, hitting the wall and bouncing towards Homie, landing right where he was initially belaying and shards barely missed him. 

Fifteen feet out from my only piece, I placed a 2-cam #0.5 and a 2-cam #3. I didn’t think either would hold. I wouldn’t have weighted them if I was aid climbing unless a solid bolt was just below. There isn’t a bolt on this entire mountain. I tried hold after hold, either rejecting them as insufficient or too likely to break off. I knew I could not fall and I was determined to take as long as it took to make myself nearly positive that I could do the move and that the holds wouldn’t break. I wrestled with this situation. Was this too risky? Was it worth it? If I fell, I’d certainly rip my gear. Maybe the one solid piece would stop me before I hit the ledge where Homie belayed. I might be able to survive that fall, but I wouldn’t be going anywhere under my own power. Even if the piece held and I didn’t hit the ledge, I’d be hurt. Maybe hurt enough where I couldn’t get down without help. Unprotected 5.7 climbing isn’t a big deal for me, though it will have me very focused, but unprotected climbing at any grade where I have very little confidence in the integrity of the rock itself is terrifying. 

Rock climbing like this is such a strange thing to do for recreation, for fun. It’s no wonder that so many people think climbing mountains and rock climbing is the definition of misery and an insane thing to do for fun when you could play tennis or golf or sit on the beach and sip exotic drinks. Why would anyone put themselves, willingly, into a situation where they know they will be afraid and possibly in real danger? Climbers get this and in fact most people can understand why some can’t resist this challenge. Homie would comment later about the phrase, “Well, at least he died doing what he loves.” That isn't how we want to go. If you die while climbing, you screwed up. We like to think we know what we’re doing. Did I know what I was doing here? I wasn’t sure. I take calculated risks all the time and I could die with some of those risks. Heck, people take risks, though likely not calculated driving their car while messing with their phones. But, as I said, I’m reluctant to turn around. I’d done so much work just getting to this point. This reluctance to turn around might be an asset  to a professional climber, but I think isn’t such a good quality for a mediocre climber like myself. What’s the point of taking such a risk for a 5.7? 

I moved upwards, gingerly, focused. I searched out holds that weren’t edges, as edges can break. I eschewed anything too positive for pulling off an entire block. I kicked aggressively at any foothold I wanted to use. If it was going to pull off, I wanted it to happen before I committed to it. I got through the steep section and onto easier ground. There still wasn’t any gear, but I saw a crack above and moved easily up to it. Once there, I could see around the corner to the left. There was a mess of fixed gear there: a piton (the only one on the route), a fixed nut, a threaded sling, assorted other tat, and a biner. The entire climb I was concerned how we’d get back down. The only anchor I’d seen so far was that sling atop the first steep section. Homie had seen another fixed sling a bit above where I had climbed as well. I was prepared to leave gear, including cams, to descend safely, but that wasn’t my first choice. Seeing this anchor, I knew we could at least descend back to the ledge, where, if we had to, we might be able to down climb to the sling Homie spotted. 

I clipped in and put Homie on belay. He made short work of the initial steep section, though he found it a lot steeper than he originally thought. He traversed over to the crux section, noticing the fresh rock scar from my trundle. Once at the crux, he called up, “Keep the rope tight.” He’d later tell me that two or three times during the climb he had a foothold fall off after he moved off it. That’s unnerving. I kept the rope taut.

As Homie ascended, I was noticing the darkening skies. A squall was brewing and there was no way it would miss us. Homie was keenly aware of this. He thought he heard thunder on the previous pitch. When he arrived at the belay, he mentioned the weather and concern etched his face. I knew he was on the verge of calling for a retreat. I could read that plainly in his eyes. I wasn’t unconcerned, but I had invested so much and I hadn’t heard thunder or seen lightning. Not yet, at least. Before he could think any longer, I pressed. “Let’s tag this summit and get out of here.” I re-racked and Homie put me on belay.

The last pitch of note was a steep 5.7 chimney, but the rock was bomber compared to everything else. I placed three solid pieces and only struggled with a flared jam at the very start. I found a rappel anchor on top, though the sling was in tatters. I called down the good news to Homie (neglecting to mention the tatters). He swarmed up the pitch, faster than I had led it, spurred onwards by the threatening clouds now above us.

Once up, I sent him onwards to the summit, along the summit ridge. He passed two sections without placing any gear, then clipped the anchor on top and kept going on easy ground to the very summit. By the time he got there, I was simul-climbing, though most of this pitch was walking. We slapped a high five and took some photos before scurrying back to the rappel anchor. We found no summit register.

Homie is rock solid in the mountains. He knows what needs to be done and he does it. He never cuts corners either. He makes me a safer climber and I’m thankful to have him as a partner and a friend. He brought some accessory cord on this climb, expecting to leave it behind to either backup anchors or create new ones. He also brought a knife, which was necessary to not spend all the cord on one rappel anchor. At this first rappel, we threaded two reasonable slings and I went first. 

Back at the tattered sling atop the chimney, we used Homie’s cord and cut off just what was necessary. Down I went, as the wind picked up and skies started spitting at us. The next rappel was the mess at the top of the crux pitch. It looked okay and down we went. Although the climbing was easy below, we stayed roped and I led downwards, putting in a piece whenever I could find a location, so about every fifty feet.

On the second pitch of downclimbing, I was struggling to find the anchor that Homie had seen. At first, I traversed too high. I had to retreat back and try the next ledge. All the while Homie is out of sight, around the corner, and above me. He was stressing. Why wasn’t the rope moving, he thought. Bill is normally quick with this and now, when we need to be as efficient as possible, the rope isn’t moving. I knew what was going through his mind, as it would have been going through my mind as well. On the ledge below, I spotted the sling around a huge boulder, perched on the very edge of a crumbly ledge. That had to be it and I traversed over to it, clipped into a sling in such bad shape that I thought I could have pulled it apart. I immediately put in a cam between the boulder and the ledge to back it up and started reeling in rope.

When Homie joined me, he immediately got out his cord. There was no chance either of us was going to trust this sling. We had just enough to get around the boulder. In fact, we tied it a bit long, so that it hung below the tattered sling. I instinctively threaded the rope through both slings, thinking two is better than one. But now, when I weighted the rappel line, I’d also weight the tattered sling. As I did so I told Homie, “Okay, I have to remember not to freak out when that sling breaks and I drop three inches onto our new cord.” I cringed and weighted the rope. The tattered sling held. Down I went, but I noticed that Homie wasn’t clipped to the boulder. He thought if the sling broke and I shock-loaded the new sling, the giant boulder might be pulled off the ledge. He didn’t want to go with it. Everything stayed in place and while I struggled with a tangle on a ledge below, Homie adjusted the new sling to take my weight first. 

I almost got back to our packs on this rappel but was ten feet short. I had to stop at the first fixed line I had clipped at the start of the climb. Luckily this was in a cave of sorts and I was sheltered a bit. When Homie arrived, he rightfully didn’t want to trust a single sling, despite it looking quite good. I used four of my slings to back it up and sent Homie down first. As he descended, the lightning flashed and the rain and graupel hit us hard. I pulled off all my gear and piled it away from me. I huddled in the back of the cave, but the wind was so strong that it blew the moisture straight sideways directly at me. My marginal rain gear was located below, in my pack. 

I called down to Homie and suggested that we wait out the worst of it. I feared getting on rappel with the lightning cracking. I called for a 5-10 minute break and we each huddled in our respective caves, me forty feet above Homie. The storm did ease after maybe five minutes. The fixed sling held Homie, so I pulled my slings and descended down to Homie. We agreed that roping up the first part of pitch one, the part we had soloed on the approach, was the smart move now that the rock was soaked and the wind was so furious. Homie led, placing a couple of pieces, and I followed around the corner.

Once there, the storm stopped. Or at least paused. I wasn’t sure we’d seen the last of it and I knew we had lots of dangerous ground to reverse before we’d be safe. We switched back into our approach shoes and stripped off our harness and stowed our gear. I was able to get Sheri an update on our situation and told her we were probably five hours from getting back to town.

We carefully reversed ourselves back to the ridge and then down the ridge to the low point. Now, instead of going back over the peaks on the ridge, we dropped down steep, loose, 4th-class terrain into the giant cirque below Pilot and Index Peaks. We took different ways down this section, each trying to find something that would go safely. We both succeeded. Below we stopped to eat and drink and even shed some clothing. It seemed the storm was done.

We descended into the bowl and followed the creek until it became slot-canyon-like. We crossed to the west side, hoping to eventually intersect our ascent route to the ridge. Here we found a faint trail and followed it down for hundreds of feet before losing it at the creek. We crossed to the other side, hoping it might be better for descending, but avalanche deadfall forced us well away from the creek. We found an old mudslide and followed the hard dirt lower and lower, eventually back to the creek. We crossed over, again hoping to intersect our ascent route and traversed the very steep hillside, into and out of steep, loose, flood-torn ravines, sometimes following game trails, sometimes not. We never did identify our ascent route, but we crossed over it at some point. We found our way clear down to the initial rocky creek bed. We followed that for a mile, regained the trail, and were back at the car by 7:15 p.m., 12.5 hours after we’d left. 

This was a significant adventure. Once down, Homie likened it to Mt. Alberta and Shiprock. I’m not sure I agree, but that isn’t too far off. It was much shorter than Alberta and maybe as dangerous. It was much more dangerous than Shiprock but not nearly as technically challenging. It was the hardest summit I’ve done in Wyoming, but that isn’t saying that much, as I’ve done few peaks in Wyoming, but my ticklist does include the Grand Teton and Gannett. I’m sure that will entice others to give it a try and completely understand that, but I won’t recommend it. It’s just too dangerous to recommend. If you haven’t heard of this peak before, if you haven’t seen this peak before, count yourself lucky and forget about this trip report.