Video of our summit approach:

The lowest point of the trip happened when we got out of our tents: Teresa was out for the summit bid. She had suffered a serious injury recently, and even attempting this trip was probably madness. She is tough as hell… and also smart as hell, and knows when to listen to her body, which that 4 AM was telling her NO SUMMIT FOR YOU. Common sense and self-awareness are among her many fine qualities that I admire, and which I lack in great abundance. We were a tight team, we were in this together, and summiting without her felt wrong. But there was no convincing her. She was at peace with it. She would have the day to rest, recover, and enjoy the solitude of a spectacular campsite. I had the rest of the day to catch up with her decision, mentally and emotionally.

The usual pre-departure business proceeded without a hitch… until we realized that our water source had run dry, because the sun was no longer melting the snowpack above. We had enough for breakfast, and to get us to the next source that must be waiting for us above. Leaving camp for the summit with half a liter felt strange… I think Justin and Forrest had run totally dry, which must have felt very strange. It’s the Pickets. It’s worth it. Do it. And off we went. The target was to depart at 5 AM… we made it out at 5:15.

And, sure enough, we found water within an hour.

Dawn became day, revealing our route: The first section would be a long traverse, gradually climbing towards Wiley Lake. No path, no trail… just trudging across talus, bushwhacking through stands of spiky spruce, scrambling up slabs, tromping across snowfields. Our packs were light, and we made good progress, with Justin always choosing the best, most efficient line.

Although the bugs were vicious, we had to admire this location’s beauty. “Every place we cross is better than the last one,” said Forrest. The second big one, in particular, I dubbed Magic Camp, because it was completely perfect: Abundant flowing water, cushy flat spots for tents… even the bugs seemed to stay away out of respect for this sacred location.

I started out feeling very strong. The summit pack felt so light! And yet… as we made it to Wiley, I began to feel tired. Maybe the prior two days’ effort was catching me, the lack of sleep, etc. Was I eating and drinking enough? Sure… the unavoidable truth became clear: this was my lack of training and declining fitness in the prior 6 months! Well, this was happening, and nothing would stop me now. Still, when we pulled in to Wiley at 7:27 AM, just over two hours since leaving camp, I really did feel pooped. The lake was frozen on the edges, with some beautiful blue liquid water in the center. Yesterday, we had considered coming here to camp, and it was clear now that we’d made the right call. Coming here with a full pack, exhausted after the bushwhack ascent would have been cray-cray.

We filled our water bottles at the lake and took a proper break. And, we made the transition to the next segment of the climb: Snowfields and glaciers. Wiley sits in a bowl immediately East of a small mountain, which rises a few hundred feet above the water. Cresting it would be easy… but, what lay on the other side? Justin’s read of the topo suggested that the far side would be a chossy, exposed, steep drop. We all agreed on the alternative route: Skirting around the north side of this rise, which involved no substantial elevation change but required an additional mile (or so) traverse on snow and ice. It seemed the better approach to all of us. And, indeed, I think it is the better way to go.

The traverse mostly involved corn snow. The runout on our left was no big deal: A gradually-steepening drop towards Little Beaver Creek about 3,500 feet below. We were  very safe. Only one section of steep water ice slowed us down, necessitating a quick rope up, although it was perhaps 10 meters wide. Immediately beyond that, a transition again to rock scrambling… then more snow… then more rock.

By 9:20 AM, about an hour after we left the lake, we arrived at the rim of the summit basin, and our route to the top was revealed: A beautiful glacier climb that led straight to the summit block. Across the basin, my old nemesis: Perfect Pass. John, Tom, and I had been so close to it, within a mile the last time we tried from the other side, but had been flummoxed by dense fog. As if on queue, we watched a fog bank rise up and spill over the pass into the basin, like dry ice welling up from a witch’s cauldron decoration on Halloween. The other side is less painful than this approach, no question about it… but, at least we would not get trapped in that fog bowl again!

One last break at a rock band at the base of the steep glacier slope. I stashed a pole and got ready for the final section. The sun was up now, and it got hot. No worries, all I have to do is hydrate, eat…. but, my stomach was not having it. Just, not having it. Most anything I put into my mouth triggered waves of sudden, legit nausea. This is very rare for me, and I have never had it this bad, not even close. This is not good. Was it… Food poisoning? Dehydration? Reflux? Stress? I could not suss it out. I managed to put some fluid in my belly, even some calories… but, not much. There was nothing to do but climb the mountain. And so, we did.

A spectacular section, with sweeping views all around. One foot, then the next. The snow was soft enough to take the axe spike, but firm enough to prevent us from sliding backwards. Essentially, perfect conditions.

In the distance, a totally unexpected site: Another party of three, heading for the summit from Perfect Pass. We had heard from the rangers of another party up here, who left a day before we had, and wondered if we would see them: Sure enough, here they come… headed for the top at the exact same moment as us! We would get there first, but not by long.

As we approached the final Summit Block, I said, “Wait, that’s it? The damn thing can’t be more than 30 feet tall!”

“That’s not the summit,” Justin said, “It’s farther ahead.” Indeed, what we could see from the glacier was in fact the little end of a larger ridge, extending away to the West… like the view an ant would have of a rooster’s comb when looking at it from the front while sitting on its beak.

A predictable problem came into focus: How would we transition from glacier to granite? The North Cascades are notorious for the “moats” that separate snow from stone. As the stone soaks up solar radiation during the day, it melts the snow, just a bit, day by day, until eventually a big gap opens up. Sometimes, the gap is truly big, man-eating size. Here, on Challenger, the moat was not bad at all, and a big step onto the jumbled debris of the Block would do it. The trick was to not fall on the way there, because a snow ridge about 10 meters long separated us from the moat… and it was very exposed to the right, where the glacier pitched steeply down hundreds of feet into a ravine, the bottom obscured from view by clouds. Justin reminded me what I already knew: If I fell, all I had to do was holler and he would dive into the moat, arresting my fall, a classic alpine maneuver for au-cheval ridges that everyone understands and no one wants to perform. But, no matter: We would not slip here. Justin kicked wide steps perpendicular to our direction of travel, right across the snow ridge, and they were easy to match with my own steps. Forrest of course had no issue at all in third position. Once Justin was across the moat he slung a horn and provided a quick belay for me as I matched his moves: Clatter, scrabble, and scrape went my crampons and ice axe as they touched stone.

A quick transition to get the spikes off and leave them and our poles and axes behind, and we began a scenic traverse in the shadow of the final block. The route was a bit slidey and scree-ish, but there were beautiful hands on our left. Eventually, this pathway petered out, and there was nowhere to go but up. Justin looked up to his left and spied a nice ledge about at eye-level. Quick scramble up and he was able to establish a horn-anchor and belay us up from above.

Video of the summit section:

Tight quarters on the ledge, and all the awkwardness of having three dudes with backpacks on a space smaller than a kitchen counter, but very safe and it worked fine as a  spot for a quick break while we prepared for the last push. Above, a beautiful dihedral rose steeply up towards the sky (which was intermittently bright blue and filled with wispy clouds scooting past silently at an alarming speed). For the first time I wondered how much room would be on the summit, which was still obscured from here. Justin reassured me that there’d be room for all three of us.

A thin crack separated the left from the right dihedral faces, like the deep cleft in the pages of a book stood up on edge, and it made for a happy home for a series of ancient pitons that Justin was able to clip for protection. There was one obvious problem about 20 feet above the ledge, a relatively blank section of granite that would require some “finesse,” which Justin climbed with ease, thanks in part to his supernaturally long legs. Forrest shook his head while belaying, “How in the hell are we gonna do that?”

It was actually no worries, even for those of us with “normal” strides, just a bit of a mantle move and nothing more required. I reached the belay station and Justin welcomed me to the final ridge. I got settled while he prepared to belay Forrest up, and I took in the scene: A world out of the shadows, dazzling blue sky, clouds scudding quickly past, and the Northern Pickets Ridge finally revealed up close: Severe, razor-sharp, oh-so-very-spectacular. We presided over the deep basin of glaciers, talus, scree, and tarns hundreds upon hundreds of feet below. “I have been in that little office for all these months, that little 7′ x 7′ x 7′ cubicle… I wasn’t sure I’d ever get outside again, really outside like this….” The contrast with my fluorescent-lit hospital office was so stark. I had been in there for so months, focused on COVID-19… the relief at being up high again was almost more than I could bear, and I took deep breaths, literally breathing in the freedom, the joy of the high mountain air. So many lives lost, so many protocols built, so many colleagues to be reassured and comforted… so much sadness, rage, fear, and inspiration, day after day, week after week, month after month… all the death threats and hate mail from the cowardly legions of scrotus, the deep and unrelenting embarrassment for what we had become as a nation of weak, whiny morons… I was totally, completely spent, in every way. And now, Challenger would start filling me up again.

There was little time to reflect at the belay station, because Forrest made quick work of the climb. Next, Justin needed to traverse a short ridge, about 3 feet wide, to the final true summit, which looked like an old sedan lying on its side. A rap station consisting of a cord and some rings flapped in the breeze. He built a new anchor (using some insanely light BD cams, these things are cray-zee light) and I belayed him out to the summit. He slung a horn and then belayed me out. This was so very reminiscent of Forbidden’s North Ridge (although that climb has more exposure). I laughed as it felt like I had stepped 2 years back in time to that expedition.

I topped out at 12:48 PM. From the summit, it seemed we could see forever. I had envisioned this view for years now… I really wished that Teresa had been able to make this last section, but knew she had decided wisely. We looked back at the traverse, and imagined where camp would be… could she see us here, miles away? We sent her a message via InReach. I wished John and Tom were here, too. We had always planned to do it together… breaking that plan was painful, but the right call. It was worth it. I thanked Justin and Forrest for their guiding and friendship. It was a great moment.

I looked back at the green ridge to the East: High Camp. Teresa was there, probably basking in the sun and snoozing. Well, we were halfway home, and eager for the comforts of camp. Just… one foot in front of the other, and we would get there.

Video of our descent:

Our prediction came true: As soon as we reached the summit, the first member of that other party gained the belay station. By the time we climbed down to it, we had a veritable traffic jam, with five people on a small piece of rock. We all marveled and laughed about going days without seeing another soul, then getting into a jam up here at the top. Nice people, and easy to negotiate around them as we set up for our rappel.

After we regained our packs, we traversed back along the base of the shattered summit block, crossed the moat, and plopped down in the snow for a break. It was really hot here, and again I felt dehydrated and under-fed. I tried to remedy both issues, while taking in the really incredible views on all sides. We saddled up and descended easily, no trouble identifying a handful of snow bridges. The conditions remained essentially perfect.

The return trip felt long. We had all the daylight in creation, with perfect conditions, and a clear path home. All that was required was stamina. And yet, I admit that I was genuinely exhausted. Oh Pickets, you are a harsh taskmistress! I just could not put enough water or food in my stomach without triggering waves of nausea… so very unpleasant. Was there ever a time on the way back to camp when I thought I would just sit down and collapse, when I would just “give up” and crump? No. I’m not very strong, and I’m certainly not fast, but I never stop. My buddy John said that once, that this was my “super power,” the dogged determination to just put one foot in front of the next, until the objective appears. Sensible breaks periodically? Hell, yes. Water, calories, sunscreen, foot care… the basics… then, saddle up and go. But no unplanned stops or misery sessions. How could one be miserable here? The valley is so, so spectacular, truly an alpine wonderland. And, no matter how rotten my stomach felt, and no matter how stiff my legs became, no matter how clinging the branches we ‘schwacked through, no matter how cloying the biting flies and insects, no matter how merciless the sun, the truth could not be denied: We had just climbed Challenger, and the comforts of camp drew closer with every step.

At 7:20 PM, 14 hours after departing, we arrived back in camp. Teresa was doing great. The water source was flowing again. All was in order. The boots came off (what Justin calls “bootgasm”). A fresh top layer. Evening light. And, a decision: Would we move camp now, and avoid the rain that was forecast for tomorrow morning? Or, would we stay here and risk a wet traverse and downschwhack the next day? I was cooked… We chose to risk it, and get an early start. This turned out to be the right call. For tonight: Dinner. And sweet, blissful rest.

We were all tired, and it was soooo tempting to sleep in that morning, but there was much ground to cover (none of which was on trail), and the slope would get hot early when hit by the AM sun… we resolved to start walking by 7 AM. So, up at 5:30 it would be. I slept pretty well, and awoke feeling largely replenished. This was good news, because I predicted day 2 to be our most challenging day of the trip. It would involve (slightly) more elevation gain than the other days, we would still be relatively heavy, and it involved climbing a slope that was notorious for its difficult terrain: would there be Devil’s Club? Nettles? Sumac? Thistles? Slide Alder? Moss? Rotten tree limbs? Loose rock? Time would tell. I recalled how bad my buddies looked one season after they had tried to take a shortcut down from Hannigan Peak, and I did NOT want to look like that. Ever.

On went the boots, and we were off. First stop: The Emergency Shelter a few meters uphill, where we chose to cache a bit of gear we planned not to touch again until we returned here for the last night. Losing the approach shoes and our last meals lightened our loads nicely. This is probably against regulations. I did not care.

Nothing left to do but leave the trail and head into the woods! We had a track from a prior party, who was kind enough to leave it online. It helped… mostly. But, really it was Justin who figured things out, with a skill that is hard to describe. I guess guiding outdoors for a whole career will do that… he just seemed to know the least bad way forwards. We were very grateful to follow him. Initially, the terrain was actually OK, meaning lots of tall trees and little brush in between. And, the slope was not too steep, either.  We discovered the truth: There is no Sasquatch, for if there were, then truly he would live here. It was quite beautiful, and deeply shaded.

Eventually, of course, things changed. First, the pitch steepened substantially, and it felt like climbing a ladder of loose dirt and pine needles, punctuated with roots and chossy rock. While carrying > 40 lbs on your back. In the heat. Under assault of a jillion, squillion biting insects. So, so many bugs! Getting bitten was actually not the top concern, because we could cover most of our flesh under clothing. No, the worst part was their tendency to enter our eyes, ears, and respiratory passages. Breathe through your nose, and they will get caught in your turbinates, or occasionally make it to a sinus and buzz for a while until they died. Breathe through your mouth, and they will certainly become swept into the trachea and mainstem bronchi. They did not stay long, of course, because this triggered violent wet coughing fits. But, an unpleasant feeling for sure. Put on more bug repellent if you choose, but it will sweat off in a hurry. For me, 20% picaridin worked well but only in camp; underway, it just could not fend them away well enough, nothing would have. And all the while we crashed and thundered through branches that reached out and grabbed us, getting snagged on our gear, whipping us in the face with their leaves, tripping us up on their slick, lubircated bark. The only good thing about the trees seemed to be their ability to afford shade… and their offer of abundant, reliable veggie belays. Oh, and I’m allergic to whatever tree pollen they have up there. Still, we made fine vertical progress–we had to, considering how steep the terrain was.

There were three distinct mossy cliff bands that required extra negotiation and effort. One in particular was so steep that we chose to take a drainage to the right, meaning we climbed up a waterfall for over 100 vertical feet. This was daunting given how overgrown the canopy was, and how slick the mossy bottom. But, the handholds were firm and there was really no other option. Up we went….

Eventually we emerged from the World of Moss into a bright, shiny meadow of wildflowers. Perfect place for a break! Food, water, sunscreen, picaridin, and other self care. This included clearing my nostrils of the most curious obstructions: Casts of an unspeakable mixture (inspisated mucus, blood, mosquitoes, sunscreen, dirt, and other horribleness) blocked both airways. Snot-Shots alone would not clear them, this required deep probing up to what felt like my first knuckle. For those who consider climbing Challenger via Big Beaver, please remember my tale of the Big Boogers. You have been warned.

Anyhow, after saddling up again we made our way higher and higher, and enjoyed ever greater views. More forest scramble time awaited us, but eventually we truly broke free into an alpine landscape of heather, scrub, boulders, and all the fresh air anyone could ever hope for. (And still, the mozzies persisted.)

Our next problem presented itself: A large gendarme blocking our progress towards the ridgecrest. Justin reviewed the topo lines and felt that there was no reason to go higher here; instead, we could traverse at our current elevation (roughly 6,400 feet) and enter a series of ravines in the distance. But, below the gendarme we faced a new issue: Exposure to climber’s left. This was a steep meadow that fell away precipitously… truly, a “no-fall zone.” Absolutely no worries, we could handle it: Just proceed carefully, step by step, and eventually we would make it across. And, of course, we did.

Beyond the traverse, another surprise: Steep, terrain separating us from the deep ravine beyond. We determined that the least bad way down was to follow the ridge nose, to our left, through a world of choss and scree and sharp, catchy conifer branches, until eventually we made our way to the top of a steep meadow wall, which we could safely descend towards a rocky stream, perfect place for a break.

In fact, it was the perfect place for high camp. This was short of our planned camp location, at either Eiley or Wiley Lakes. But, they were probably 2 hours away… it had been a long day already… we were within striking distance of the summit regardless… and camping here meant a lighter traverse and ascent the following morning. We put our packs down and settled into one of the world’s great campsites.

The bugs were still aggravating, but it did not matter. We were in position for Challenger! The re-re-match was going to happen. All I had to do was take care of myself and rest up. Although this day should have been tougher than the prior one, I actually felt better. This was happening. I dreamed of the upper mountain, preparing myself for what we would find.

In fact, the true upper mountain was even more beautiful than I had imagined. But, I would have to wait until the next day to find out.

Our Reality: COVID-19 made travel to Seattle unsafe for Ann. This was such a disappointment, especially after she had already missed a shot at Everest for the same reason.

Our New Plan: Invite another amazing friend to join us: Teresa (AKA T$). IMG has a rigorous infection prevention protocol that I approve of. This could be done safely.

T$’s Answer: She was IN and super psyched to climb with us!

T$’s Reality: Injured in a hit-and-run car wreck some weeks before. Carrying a heavy pack for $50 miles, with thousands of feet of vert gain and loss would have been a mistake.

Our Synthesis: Bring a second IMG guide to help share the load. Forrest fit the bill, and was eager to climb for the first time in the Pickets, too. We had five days. The forecast was perfect except for that pesky fourth day which looked like rain… no worries, that should be on our way down, anyhow. THIS WAS HAPPENING.

A video synopsis of the first day:

Pack is packed. 44.8 lbs. #painful #couldbeworse

We met Justin and Forrest at the Marblemount RS at 7 AM Monday. I have been there many times… never have I seen a line at 7 AM. But, today there was indeed a line of people waiting to register. One poor Ranger was stationed under a tarp, part of the new COVID-19 austerity. These strategies really work, and I am glad to see them taking this seriously. T$ and I had done the same, wearing masks and riding with the windows open all the way from Seattle. Anyhow, while waiting our turn we did a quick gear check and ate our mega-burritos for breakfast. I could trim a few odds and ends, and picked up a couple tiny times of shared gear, but basically my fate was sealed at 44.8#. This was my first expedition since Ecuador in January 2020, and I knew it would hurt, so the goal had been to come in under 40#. I just could not make it happen.

Quick work getting registered, and it turned out that there was one other party registered to be in the Challenger Basin at the same time as us, although we did not know whether they would approach via Hannigan. We loaded the cars and caravanned up to the Ross Lake Trailhead, where we secured the vehicles, saddled up, and started auspiciously downhill towards the water taxi landing.

The taxi driver was awesome, and gave us some beta on the quick trip to Big Beaver TH. He had taken one other party up that way a couple days ago, but by LITTLE Beaver. It sounded as though we might have this side to ourselves. “Challenger? Yeah, almost nobody climbs it. It’s not that hard of a mountain, I think.” We knew this was a single pitch of 5th class climbing, so there is no doubt the pyramid would be “not that hard.” The question is, can you survive the approach? As we zipped along in the speedboat, we passed scenic campsites on locations such as Cougar Island (“Ann would have loved it here!”) People were fishing, canoeing, kayaking… lounging in the sun. And I thought, That’s not a bad option, actually. But, as always, we had chosen the path of pain.

This day is pretty straightforward: March “12 miles” to Beaver Pass, on a maintained trail, to an established campsite about 2,000 vert higher. And, it truly was spectacular. Just, incredibly beautiful, so reminiscent of the Hoh, but without other humans (we saw a single party of teenagers on their way back down, unclear where they had been but certainly not off-trail like us.) There were so many beautiful features, such as a meadow surrounded by beaver-chewed trees, and every teeny-tiny baby toad on the planet crossing our path on their way to the water (we called it The Toadening). The issues are: Firstly, according to Gaia it was closer to 15 miles, not 12. Secondly, man, it was a hot, heavy, buggy approach. SO MANY BUGS it was DAFT. The only worse place I have encountered is the Boundary Waters. This was by FAR the most buggy I have come across in the PNW. They did not bite every time, but wow they were aggravating. And, it was a hard day for me. I chose to ascend in Altra LonePeak trail runners, with my Trango Cubes lashed to the pack, and it was a reasonable decision. But holy moly those LonePeaks have a soft, supple sole that did me no favors with such a heavy load. Plus, I am too heavy myself now (Covid-Bod) and it was too much to ask of the poor trail runners to keep my feet from feeling like clay. And, no matter how much I drank I could not keep up with the sweat output, and as often happens I fell behind in my calorie intake. With less than 2 miles to go before camp, on the final section that is slightly uphill, I just had to take an unscheduled break. #sad.

By the time we pulled in to the Stock Camp (human camp was booked, although I suspected empty), I felt baked. Or, at least, nicely toasted. Dinner was my usual first night special: cold Margherita pizza from Cafe Lago. (No shared cuisine this trip as part of COVID-19 prevention bundle). It was really good… although I could not finish all my pizza crusts, a bad sign for my calorie intake. Anyway, a beautiful if mad-buggy camp, with great people, and clear skies shaded by majestic trees. I slept pretty soundly in the QuarterDome lent to me by T$. And I thought of our next day’s tasK: Bushwhacking > 2,000 feet up a dense slope of forest to the mountain proper. This would be our crux, our hard day. And I already felt so tired! Let’s see if sleep will make everything better….

Ecuador! I had visited Galapagos years earlier, but knew almost nothing about the mountains of the highlands, other than their reputation for being tall and austere and beautiful. Oh, hell yes… I had to invite myself onto that expedition. Somehow I managed to do that, and whether it was actually welcome or not we will never know, because each of them is so kind and polite that they made it seem natural that of COURSE I was welcome to join. Anyhow, I am forever grateful to them for allowing me aboard. And for allowing me to invite so many other friends, too… I wish that everyone I knew had been able to join, but in the end we had a wonderful crew of seven who were all one degree of separation from each other, with me as a link between everyone, plus two new friends who were longtime buddies. And our guides would be incredible too: Romulo Cardenas, master of all Ecuador’s volcanoes and culture, and Jay Lyons, a wonderful guide who was a veteran of these ranges, among many others. It ended up being a sensational crew!

The lead-up to this climb challenged me in many ways. My work obligations piled up in extraordinary ways, interfering with my planned fitness regimen. I work hard, and I’m proud of what I do. In this case, professional responsibilities really hampered my training plans, and that is my fault and mine alone. It is an occupational hazard that I am fully aware of. Just not enough free time to get into the mountains like I had wanted. I knew this was coming, and purchased a NordicTrack exercise bike, which I really recommend (seems superior to the Peloton for a variety of reasons). Hooking myself up to the Hypoxico generator and riding at simulated 10,000-13,000 feet helped get things going. But, still not as much training as I wanted.

Still, I was excited for this vacation, and pulling my gear into the duffles was a happy chore.

And then, several days before departure, I caught 2019 Influenza-B. I’m certain of it. I had planned to arrive a day early, just in case of such an issue… by the night before my scheduled flight to Quito I was febrile and had a tough time sitting up. We tried to move the flight back by 1-3 days, but there were simply no seats available, and besides such a delay would have moved me out of synch with my team. Reluctantly, I got up at 4 AM and headed to SeaTac… I did my best to control my fever and secretions, scrubbing my hands and seating area regularly with Purel. If only the dipshit who gave me this infection had done the same thing…. Connecting through Dallas was a strange experience: Texans, you are an odd lot. Not all of you… but, what an odd lot. Who flies with the window shades pulled during flight, including takeoff? Aren’t you interested in the view?

I actually flew pretty well, almost never sneezing or coughing, thanks to a variety of symptomatic remedies.

Landing in Quito was a real joy—a modern airport, immediate clearance through immigration and customs, and a super snappy cab ride to our hotel downtown. I had forgotten that the Chinese had built a network of highways here, which looked and felt like home. (The actual price of this infrastructure is unacceptable and should be outlawed by the World Bank, but that is another story.) Ecuador chose to use the US $ some years ago, and that makes traveling there as an American very easy. Their electricity is even identical to ours. Connectivity was good, and I was able to plow through several dozen emails that had arrived during my trip. I prefer to chip away when possible, rather than arrive home to hundreds of unseen messages. The taxi cruised along through a dense cloud, then descended into a large basin filled with sodium street lamps: Quito. A new city for me, and very exciting.

By the time I reached my hotel I felt WORKED. Four of my friends had arrived a day earlier, and I was eager to connect with them. Maybe I will feel better tomorrow.

I did not. By Jove, it felt as if my head would literally crack open every time I coughed: Holding my skull like a vice seemed to counteract this intracranial pressure. Before coming down to breakfast, I laid out some ground rules via text: “On my way to breakfast. Rules for interacting with Paul: Do not touch Paul. He is infectious. Do not let Paul touch you, which he might try to do in his viral fog. Talk to Paul but note that he should not talk back much, because talking may trigger a cough. Love Paul but be tough! #noviraltransmission #lungbutter”

From London, Paul Devaney replied, “Well there goes the long anticipated romantic reunion of the Pauls. Thanks a lot, infectious disease.” It had been 6 years since we had climbed Vinson together, but thanks to FB it seemed like no time had passed at all.

I proposed that we call ourselves Team Sputum but that did not seem to stick, for some reason.

So great to see Marjorie, Jerry, Chris, and Teresa. They had been in Quito for a day already, and were planning another fun day out, including a hike to ~13,000 feet. I had trouble lifting my head from the breakfast table. Clearly, they could acclimatize without me. I think they were relieved (Teresa said I sounded “like a dying walrus”). I climbed / crawled back into bed. A moment later I checked the clock: 12:43 PM. I’ll just close my eyes for a moment. When next I checked it was 5:15 PM. A text awaited me from my friends, asking if we were still on for dinner at 6:00 PM. I slithered into the shower, feeling like an iguana with hibiscus poisoning, and tried to come back to life. Always a bad sign when a hot shower makes you shake uncontrollably… but, flu be damned, I would eat a meal with my buddies.

Romulo recommended a fabulous restaurant for us. Sad news: No Lyft yet in Quito. Good news: They have Uber! More sad news: The drivers do not use GPS, preferring instead their own knowledge of the city. This would be fine… if they would only ensure that the address they have in mind is the one we want. Which, in this case, it was not. We gave the driver the correct address online and again in person. And warned him that there were TWO restaurants with the same name in Quito. Still, he charged up steep hills and down narrow alleys, and delivered us to the incorrect location. A beautiful location, to be sure, and they were happy to seat us. But our buddies awaited us at the other site. Thus, we called for a cab and limped back to the center of town.

Totally worth it: Lovely location, great food, and my good buddy Paul Devaney (P1) awaited. Together, we form The Entity. The last time I saw P1 was in 2015 in Pheriche, when our teams headed down the Khumbu after the quake. Now, it was as if no time at all had passed.

The next morning we met with our other team members, including the lovely and amazing Hui Ling McCarthy, whom I had not seen since January 2014, at the end of the Vinson expedition.

This was a busy day: We met as a team for breakfast, then toured the center of Quito, then drove North several hours to Otavalo, our staging area for a couple warm-up climbs. Oh, how I wished for another day—just one—to lie in bed. But, this trip has a very packed agenda, and there was no time to wallow in my own misery. This turned out to be a good thing, as it was a super fun day.

So much history and cultural heritage in Quito! A vibrant, interesting place, to be sure. And at about 9,000 feet AMSL, just walking around provides an opportunity for the lungs and body to acclimatize. Romulo was the perfect tour leader, providing unique Ecuadorean perspectives gleaned over a lifetime of guiding.

P1’s bags had been left behind in Madrid by Iberia, so he needed to wait in Quito for them to arrive that night, then would rejoin us. For the rest, it was on to Otavalo! Up into the hills we drove… making a stop for lunch, of course. (Yes, the potato soup in Ecuador is as good as you have heard). At one point, on a nondescript stretch of road just below a pass, Romulo ordered the bus to pull over and asked us to follow him for a “little hike.” This led us up sketchy / chossy slopes to an abandoned brick pyramid, which was a marker of the equator built years ago by the Ecuadorean government. Except, this was clearly NOT the equator, according to my phone and everyone else’s GPS. And, that was the joke: traditional survey techniques had led the government astray! “Let’s find the real equator,” Romulo called. “Vamanos!” Up and down a ridge, into a valley, surrounded by tall grass and Agave plants making their hundred-year flowers… to an unremarkable spot in the sand. The only thing that made this spot interesting was a man-made cave, an abandoned pumice mine, that provided cool relief from sun and wind.

Back on the bus, we eventually crested the pass and began to descend into Otavalo, a beautiful smaller city nestled between—you guessed it—more volcanoes. Towering over the town: Imbabura, the “Fish Volcano.” Legend has it that during an eruption many years ago, most of the Imba fish in the city’s lake died, and floated belly up to the surface. The natural conclusion was that the fish had flown out of the volcano and landed in the lake! And… who can prove them wrong?

Otavalo is an interesting town that we would have more time to explore the following day. That evening, before dinner, we visited longtime friends of Romulo, a very impressive family of weavers. Everything in their shop was created by hand, including the dyes used for their alpaca wool clothing and wall hangings. I was delighted to find two items that my wife Julie would love.

Over dinner in an historic (and very posh) hacienda, we got to know each other better… the infectious diseases doctor stricken by flu… the anesthesiologist who grew tired of seeing so much violence and chose to become a pyrotechnician… the former pyrotechnician who almost died in an explosion… the aircraft engineer whose bag was lost on a flight… the telecom guru who could get scant phone service… our team name became clear: Team Irony. Less repulsive than Team Sputum, and more suitable to all.

I collapsed in bed, in a fog of exhaustion. An incredible day. And I was incredibly tired. I wondered how would I do the next morning on Fuya Fuya, 13,986 feet AMSL.

True, the weather was predicted to be grody, with heavy fog in the area, but that is no issue for us. We thought it auspicious, and might help ward off other interlopers from our adventure.

In fact, that it did. That it did indeed. Not a single other hiker did we see all day.

With good reason. In fact, with multiple good reasons.

First, these woods are haunted. Or stalked by serial killers. Or both.

Second, the fog. Did I mention that?

Third, the mud.

Fourth, the Slide Alders.

Let me show you….

After leaving the cars (with some regret, engendered by the overwhelming creepiness of the scenery) we marched for a couple miles along Bessemer Road, a logging road closed to motorized traffic. But, apparently not closed to serial killers… at least, that was our conclusion upon discovering two perfectly preserved, laceless leather boots in the middle of the road. Filled with moss (and no feet… we checked). This truly was BOOTalicious. Or perhaps they belonged to Big Foot? Had a moonshiner heard the authorities and run from his still for hills? Hilarious / terrifying.

From there, the road continued until it intersected with a creek, which we promptly crossed. We knew that the best trail peeled off soon after the creek… but where? No proper trails to be found here, let’s poke around in the trees a bit more….

“Hey,” Chris said, “Is this a toy? A Tonka truck?” He rooted about in the rotting leaves and revealed an oddly-shaped piece of tan plastic.

“No,” I said, “It looks like an old chainsaw! What does it say?”

“Takes multiple fuel sources….”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “both the souls of damned and the innocent. Very versatile.”

He said, “I guess the souls go in here.”

“Yep. That’s the SoulHole.” And thus, a hashtag was born. #SoulHole. You are welcome.

There was a trailhead near the SoulHole, but it went impossibly steeply up a slick, muddy face. No way could that be the intended trail, but just to be sure let’s check the GPS… yep, Gaia shows the intersection a bit farther over… here we so. (Little did we realize, dear reader, that the proper trail is indeed marked by the SoulHole, defended perfectly by that steep muddy incline… by far the steepest section of the entire trail. The tall trees interfered with our GPS reliability… and thus we began the day off-route.)

Up we went, into a silent world of old-growth stumps, beautiful needle carpet underfoot, enchanting ferns… and, soon enough, no discernible trail. It looked like the proper way up was on climber’s right, but a steep creek filled with alders blocked our path. The solution: Climb higher, and bear right ASAP. Thus, the seduction of the unknown, an imaginary route that never materialized, and terrain that grew ever steeper. The creek became a cataract, and eventually cliffed out. There was no way but to go LEFT towards a different trail that appeared on our maps.

Fine. Or, not. We needed to cross a couloir full of alders and cold water… only to find a dense thicket of alders on the other side, flanking steep, wet, slippery granite. And if the alders were not bad enough, the mud here was severe. Mud? More like quicksand. More like Lindsay Graham puckering up to the Orange Goon on a Saturday Night: It really SUCKED. At one point, while trying to clamber up a dripping-wet grantie face, I felt my foot begin to sink. I looked down… and there it went, my boot disappearing beneath a layer of brown ooze, resisting my desperate tugging to get it out again. I instantly thought of Ross Perot, and said, “Hey Guys! You know that sucking sound you hear? It’s not our jobs going to Mexico….” Eventually the muck did give up the booty, so to speak. Each of us found our way up independently, always in hollering distance of the others, though shrouded in cloying fog.

Our reward? An abandoned road, littered with more alders, apparently not touched by human influence in decades. But, passable. In fact, we soon found an intersecting trail that would, eventually, come close to linking up with the intended route. My mantra became, “All trails lead to the summit.” In large sections of the upper mountain, the trail was actually in great shape, and took us through charming second-growth forests with soft dirt underfoot. This part of the hike was fun.

So, too, was the moment we broke out from the woods and gained the upper section of the forest road we had left behind all those hours ago. Like all forest roads this one was wide, easy, and headed towards the top in a meandering way that will drive all hikers crazy. But, eventually, we reached the literal end of the line: The road stopped cold at the edge of a massive boulder field. To our left, rare glimpses of Cascades, hidden mostly in thick cloud. Ahead: Suggestions of an upper mountain which we could not see. Per topo, we knew that our objective was about 700 vertical feet above, and perhaps half a horizontal mile away. Can’s see it? No worries. Just follow your nose to the top.

Up the boulders we went. Easy scrambling… seductively easy… much easier-looking than crossing a treeline to climber’s left. Why not just gain the summit ridge and then ridge-climb to the top?

Because it is impossible, that is why. Because slide alders blanket every square meter of the upper mountain, thickest along the ridge… hidden from view by dense conifers, only to be revealed when we were upon them. Those of you who have climbed in the Cascades are well acquainted with the slide alder… but, I hope, not as acquainted as we became that day. Intimately acquainted. Branches probed for any holes they could find. Nostrils… tear ducts… yes, the nether regions, too. Slippery with moisture from the fog, and angled down the slope at a wicked, man-killing angle. Occasionally, it was interrupted by devil’s club, or poison sumac, or wet smooth granite clad in breakaway sheets of moss, but mostly there was just more and more alder. The good news here was that a handful of them was certain to protect against falling backwards down the face, because they were rooted so deeply. I trusted them like I would trust a bolted route on 5th class terrain.

At one point while I paused to catch my breath, a beautiful pair of birds alighted just out of reach. They nibbled on alder buds without a care in the world. Stout and mighty, they looked almost like parrots, although I suspect they belonged to the finch family. Often, they roosted next to each other, looking like lovebirds. A nice respite from the work at hand.

The ridge was literally defended from assault by these alders. At least, I thought of them in military terms. Chris had a different idea: This was Gaia attempting to cross-breed with humans. His perspective is understandable, because the alders literally ripped his pants off. Various body cavities were probed deeply, and intimately, by the alders. Why they preferred Chris, we will never know. He decided that if he delivered children through some unconscionable mechanism, he would name them Alder and Hemlock. Thus, his proposed name for this peak which I greatly prefer: AlderSex.

The hour was growing late—it was past 1 PM and we still had a few hundred feet of ridge to negotiate. Turn for home? NEVER. Bootalicious would give it up for us… press on we did, until the proper route revealed itself: A wide, beautiful boulder field on the East side of the mountain, the way we should have ascended in the first place. If we had known it existed, we would have done that.

Lovely views awaited us. A short break at the summit, quick change into dry top layer, and we were off again. This descent would be easier than the way up (it could not possible be harder), due mostly to the wisdom we had gained in the prior hours.

Down we went, into the fog, into the gloaming, into the night. It was so dark that we needed headlamps by 4:30 PM. It mattered not. All that mattered was the car… and Rhodies Smokin’ Barbeque thereafter.

You may have questions. Questions such as, “Why do you do this?” “Should I climb Bootalicious?” “Is Beyonce really there?” And, “WTF?”

Our replies: “You will probably not understand why we do this, because we ourselves do not understand.” And, “No.” And, “No, not that we have seen.” And, again, “We cannot explain.”

Was it painful? Sure. Did it “suck”? Yeah. But, truthfully, I have not laughed so hard in a long time. This was a hilarious, profane, knee-crushing, crotch-thwapping, sufferfest. And we loved it.

#Ecuadoriscoming

It has been a great summer for my mountain pursuits. So far I have been fortunate to bag a number of training climbs, plus Wy’East… Tahoma… Olympus… Loowit… backpacking in the Alpine Lakes…. What more could I ask for?

Kaleetan, that’s what.

Tom proposed a group outing to the North Cascades, but only I was able to join… and the weather really did not look like it would cooperate, with thunderstorms predicted for Saturday afternoon… these are very unusual here in Western Washington. But… perhaps we could thread the needle and get up and down Kaleetan before things turned ugly. I had climbed the “Little Matterhorn” years earlier with Doug, so I knew the route and we could be efficient. We decided to give it a go.

And so we did.

Just perfect conditions, and almost no one else up there. On the way down, below Melakwa, a sea of humanity… but, up high, only a handful. Beautiful cap to a really special summer climbing season for me. That night we were amazed to watch scores, in fact hundreds, of major lightning strikes land all around us. Better to watch this from the comfort of home than atop a mountain.

https://www.cnn.com/videos/weather/2019/09/08/seattle-washington-lightning-strikes-vo-vpx.cnn

That night I tossed in the sleeping bag, made a bit of urine, dreamed of the route, adjusted my layers when chilled… I slept in total for a few hours. Another party passed by quietly circa 12:30 AM, but otherwise there were no surprises that night, except for the tent getting buffeted by gusts of wind that felt slightly ominous.

The wakeup call came at 2:20 AM, which seemed perfect to me.

We got right to business by packing and simultaneously eating a quick breakfast of oatmeal and instant coffee. My bowels were quiet, no need to visit the latrine except to empty the cold, gnarly looking contents of the pee-squared bottle. The ominous breeze turned out to be no big deal—actually, it was surprisingly warm outside. Our blue bags remained squishy and fragrant in spite of being buried in the snow since before bedtime. Breaking camp went fine… the usual chaos of getting packed up in the dark was no issue, and we were more efficient than the prior day. By 3:55 AM, 90 minutes after waking up, we started walking.

Conrad, Teresa, and I left Camp Hazard third in line that morning. While we waited for our buddies to ascend ahead of us, I looked to the East… and there it was: A deep burgundy sunrise beyond the Muir snowfield. No sign of clouds aloft… katabatics only, no true wind… it would be another spectacular, clear day. Just as forecast. Can we make it out of the Chute before the sun hits?

Our first objective was the Sneak, an unofficial, unmarked transition point between the Turtle and the Kautz Glacier. The rocky ridge that separates these two snow features can be down-climbed in a variety of locations… you can even do it right from the kitchen at Camp Hazard. But, our guides knew the ideal spot, a small rocky step that allowed us to “sneak” onto the Kautz without much fuss or hassle. And they had intentionally set camp just a few minutes below it.

The Sneak was a jumble of dark volcanic rock that jutted out over a very steep snow face that fell away for hundreds of feet. This is the Kautz Glacier, finally revealed. The step was not high—perhaps 20 vertical feet—but the exposure to the snow face below was spicy. This was a no-fall zone, for sure. At the bottom of the step a narrow catwalk of snow abutted a tall rock cliff on the right. This catwalk led up and away, towards a broad, open section of glacier above. We stayed warm and snapped photos while waiting for our teammates to negotiate the step. The dawn brightened, revealing our volcano neighbors in the distance: Klickitat, Wy’East, and Loowit.

The Sneak formed a bottleneck: Each of us had to down-climb it one at a time, protected from above by a belay set by our guides. Well, not really one at a time… we were tied together at a couple armspans’ length, so this turned into simulclimbing after the first person was halfway down. Just like Forbidden. A stout static rope was fixed in place, which we could use as a hand line. For me, this was a dream come true: I trusted the hand line 100%, leaned out into space with my arms straight and relaxed, and focused on my footing. Plenty of fine footholds revealed themselves. Most people hate rock climbing in crampons, but I kind of like it. Anyone can climb in shoes… crampons make it harder, especially in the cold of morning, carrying 40 lbs, at 11,000 feet, with just a couple meters between you and your partner on the line. How fun is this?

Teresa and I reached the snow ramp, plunged in our axes to their heads, and waited for Conrad to join us. He down-climbed smoothly without a top belay, then passed above us in an awkward transition on the catwalk. Once again, Conrad was in the lead, T took center, and I brought up the rear. We traversed up and to the left, crossing a portion of the Kautz Glacier. This was a wild place, for sure. Directly above, the mountain was littered with icefall spilling over a band of rotten, chossy rock. Up to our left, beyond the West side of the Chute, another stone face rose towards the sky, band after band of brown rock punctuated by layers of snow and ice, undeniably reminiscent of a chocolate layer cake with vanilla frosting. This must be the Kautz Headwall… the feature I had planned to climb this season with a friend, although our arrangements had not worked out for several reasons. Climbing via the Kautz Ice Chute instead now seemed like a wise move for my first time on this side of the mountain. And, so much fun to be a part of this expedition with these teammates.

When we reached a slightly more stable position on the face, Conrad adjusted our rope interval, in light of the steep stuff to come. Below, in the distance, our shadow stretched across the dark green land and pale sky.

After a short time we were finally on the Kautz Ice Chute: a steep, triangular snow ramp, bound on two sides by compact snow ice. The walls were dirty, complex, and tortured by snow-melt cycles into penitentes and sun cups. Even at its narrowest point at the top, this was exponentially wider and more open than the Pearly Gates of Wy’East. In fact, it looked like we could just climb right up the center of the snow field, which seemed like an obvious, direct, seductive option… although I had to admit that it was littered with lots of recent slides. Maybe the penitentes are a better option.

The Goonies and Rowers of Rowan went left… teams She-Wee and Big Agnes went right. T and I watched Conrad start up the ice. The slope was not vertical, more like 60 degrees for the most part, and he threaded a route between the ice spires with ease. Then, it was our turn.

Teresa and I climbed together, just a couple meters apart. This was so reminiscent of climbing Forbidden’s North Ridge with Justin and Ann, but here we were higher… colder… heavier… less exposed… and climbing ice. And those first few moves out of the gate felt very, very steep indeed. We labored in synch. The ice was still very firm from being in the dark all night long, and it usually took more than one swing to set the picks. Often, the best spot for my tools were Teresa’ foot positions… landing my tools into her feet would be a very bad move, for all sorts of reasons. I swung hard, and I never hit her. Not once. Afterwards, she told me that the most stressful part of the climb was imagining what would happen if she kicked me in the head, or peeled off and landed in my face. But T is a very strong climber. “Oh,” I said, “I knew you’d never lose your position. It never worried me.” I suppose she did all the worrying for both of us.

That first pitch really was the toughest. Conrad shouted encouragement from his belay stance above: “It moderates soon, trust me.” Sure enough, the face went from about 70 degrees to less than 60, I would guess. Still exhausting, but doable. As we reached Conrad at that first station, he looked at my Raven Pro and asked, “How’d it go with that thing?” I carried a Nomic in my right hand, but just the standard old Raven Pro in my left.

I caught my breath. “Yeah… it wasn’t designed for this, no doubt. But, it went fine!” I actually liked the long shaft, which allowed me to hook penitentes that would otherwise have been out of reach. But, as for really setting the pick in verglas… not nearly as useful as the Nomic.

While Conrad re-racked the screws I had cleaned, and got situated to lead the next pitch, we had a few minutes to take in the scene: Airy… open… wild. “Here comes another team,” I said, after spying a roped party heading right up the middle of the Chute. These were independent climbers who looked strong, and I’m sure they were very nice folks. But, damn… they could have used some pointers from IMG. Their interval was many, many meters, and often the rope curved below the followers in great oxbows of more than 10 meters. This is a real no-no, because if someone falls it will allow the line to get shock-loaded, and dramatically increases the risk of others getting pulled away with them. I recalled Nickel’s clear command from the prior day: “Never climb above the rope in front of you.” So simple….

We started up the next pitch: Smoother, less steep, easier to catch my breath. There’s something about setting the front points, trusting them, standing on them with full confidence that is so inspiring. The Baturas and Vasaks behaved themselves, mostly. I have big, wide feet. It’s not my fault, I was just born this way. Anyhow, it turns out that most mountaineering boots are not available in wide widths; some are, and I have found the ones that work best for me. But, when it comes to technical ice boots… not so much. The LS Baturas are fine, totally fine for general mountaineering and also acceptable on steep ice so long as I can shake out my feet periodically and allow arterial blood supply to return. I was careful to do this every few steps that day, and it worked out fine. This was definitely the highest, and heaviest, multi-pitch ice I have climbed. And it was amazing.

Another break atop this pitch, while Conrad set up and led the third pitch. Ultimately we traversed up and left until we were out of the ice and rejoined him on the snow above the chute’s bottleneck. The terrain here was steep, so Conrad quickly chopped a bench out for us to sit in. It was a beautiful place for a break. As we got sorted out for the glacier travel above, I looked down on the Chute we had just climbed. It was gnarly, steep, and very beautiful. The moment deserved a shaka, no doubt about it. I saluted the mountain, and thought of Lloren’s lyrics:

It’s a high I can’t come down from,
It runs electric in my veins.
A drug I can’t come around from,
And I know you’ll feel the same.

There’s a fire in my body,
And it’s burning up my skin…
A kind of fever and I can’t fight it…
Now the fire’s getting in.

Can you feel it? It’s just the start.

There’s no greater form of worship
Than this holy kind of prayer.
Every bruise and break was worth it,
Just to feel something so big.

I’ve been tempted, I’ve been tortured,
Just to taste what I want.
They can’t take my new religion,
I’ll only come on back.

I am restless, it keeps me breathless
And sets a fire in my soul.
I keep it burning, beneath the surface,
Until that fire consumes me whole.

It makes me needy, and keeps me greedy,
I fear that fire that I know.

Can you feel it? It’s just the start.

—Lloren: The Start

Welcome to the belay.

We were in the sun now, just perfect timing because the rest of the day promised to be steep glacier travel, no more ice climbing, which would make it easier to manage our temperature. The next objective sat in plain view: Camp Wapowety, a spot of snow atop a ridge of dark rock at the origin of the Wapowety Cleaver. That location meant lunch… and, if people felt baked, it could also be a spot to overnight. All we had to do was put one foot in front of the other, and we would make it. Beautiful, untrammeled snow on the upper Kautz greeted us, split periodically by crazy deep crevasses. The snow bridges seemed stout enough, and indeed they were. This section was incredibly beautiful, and very interesting because it brought a new view of the upper mountain into focus. Point Success, the false summit climbed by Kautz himself back in the day, grew closer and closer. The Kautz Headwall turned out to be just as steep as it had looked from below. The Cleaver seemed closer than it was… this is always the way up high, where terrain features provide precious little—or misleading—information about scale and distance. We made fine progress, and I guess it took us an hour or so to reach Camp Wapowety, which is just right.

By the time we pulled in, the pack felt heavy and I was ready for a break. We had climbed 2,000 feet since leaving Hazard, and I was starting to feel it. Lovely spot for a break: Broad, unobstructed views for miles and miles, and plenty of room to stretch out and eat, drink, and rest. A rock band served as a makeshift latrine. It was a bit breezy, but just a bit, and in fact I was able to get my boots and socks off for about 10 minutes. By the time I got them back on, the socks were dry and my feet had begun to burn in the sunshine.

Behind us, the upper mountain awaited… we could see a rim of dark rock above, which must certainly be the crater rim. It looked close enough to touch, less than an hour away.

But, this was an illusion of course. Those last 1,200 feet are not easy. We navigated between seracs above Wapowety Cleaver, then began climbing the upper Nisqually Glacier. It felt familiar, so similar to my prior 5 climbs on this mountain… and, just like on the other two routes I have climbed, this one was deceptively long. When the guides called for a break after an hour, I was truly surprised. Food and water are always welcome, but I was eager to simply make the top. The crater’s just there…. Do we really need to take a break?

As it turned out, about an hour remained. During this final stage of the climb I allowed my mind to drift to a place it has gone before. As a child, perhaps 6 and 7 years old, I studied Barry Bishop’s photographs of Everest in National Geographic, and watched mountaineering documentaries on TV… I imagined the mountains as a foreign environment of snow, rock, cold, danger, oxygen cylinders, goggles, fear, joy, challenge, homesickness, and searing vividness—a vision so sharp and clear that it played like an Imax film in my mind. Often, in these visions, I was dying, or helping someone in trouble. All these decades later I sometimes have flashes of those early mountain impressions. They are not always disturbing, but… odd. And searing. When climbing Everest and other tall peaks, on occasion, I have seen myself from above, at oblique angles, revealing for a moment the context of our surroundings, and the audacity, even the madness—sheer, unbridled madness—of what we are doing. I usually shoo these visions away. Today, I allowed them to linger during the final steps to the crater rim. Mountaineering is joyful, but also painful, difficult, time-consuming… perhaps moments of introspection are part of the entire experience. The sastrugi were remarkably beautiful here—they looked exactly like the cover from Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures. The sky was an unexpectedly deep, unbroken blue. We are just minutes away from the Crater. Take it in.

I was the last expedition member to reach the rim. Everyone greeted me warmly. It was a wonderful feeling for everyone… and a bit odd, because what we all really wanted to do was get to the center of the crater and drop those packs! And so we did, picking our entry route carefully, for fear of plunging into a steam cave where snow met rock. The snow up here was smooth, and looked like a milkshake that had spilled and then frozen in place while dribbling along the floor. This was probably exactly what had happened, when volcanic steam had partially thawed certain areas which then froze again in the cold of the night. Anyhow, we tested every step, and all were solid. In minutes we made it to the far eastern side of the crater, and we were home. We had done it.

I was gassed. We took a short break in the sunshine, and I promptly fell asleep. This is a skill acquired during many years of medical training, and indeed is one of the cardinal rules of medicine: Sleep when you can. I snorted awake a few minutes later and realized that the guides were starting to build camp. In my haste to help I forgot to secure my foam pad, which a friend saved from blowing away. We stamped out a large rectangle, suitable for all 4 tents, and set to erecting them while the guides dug a kitchen and a latrine.

We had the crater and summit to ourselves that day. It was like a fabulous retreat, a private fortress in the sky. We enjoyed a delicious dinner of Thai noodles, and then lay down for a short time before heading to the summit, where we would watch the sun set.

It was cold crossing the crater, and the snow was very uncompacted, loose powder underfoot. We reached the main trail which stood a foot above the surrounding snow, raised up because it contained so much compact snow ice after being stepped upon by hundreds of feet that season, making it slower to melt than the surrounding powder. We made it to the register and signed in, marveling again at the delightful lack of sulfur stink here, so different from Wy’East. And then we went up to the summit proper.

Below, in the distance, human society raged on, in all its beauty and horror, simultaneously inspiring and despicable. The forces of stupidity and darkness continued to disenfranchise us, to threaten our health, to spoil our world in every conceivable way. And yet… there was good there, too. I thought of a speech I had given two weeks earlier, the commencement address at UW Med School, a great honor for me. The students were so inspiring, such a bright light to the world. I hoped that my concluding comments encouraged and inspired them, too:

“And now, graduates, please close YOUR eyes too. And focus on each of those same moments: When you realized you were going to medical school… meeting your classmates on the first day… sitting for that first exam… interviewing and examining your first patient… presenting your first H&P… nailing that differential diagnosis for the first time… spending time with your patients, listening compassionately to them, making a genuine difference in their lives.

That darkness that you see behind your closed eyelids is not emptiness, it’s a world of infinite possibilities and accomplishments yet to come. When you close your eyes at bedtime—and yes, you will be allowed to sleep during residency—what will you choose to see? When I go to bed I see my family, accomplishing great things… I see the mountains, tall, austere, so alluring… I see my colleagues—and that includes all of you—brilliant, energetic, dedicated… and I see the faces of my patients—both the ones I have saved and the ones I have lost. Each a unique person whose life I have touched in some small way—and who in return has enriched my life exponentially more so. I hope you will choose to see your patients too, and your incredible, inspiring colleagues. Being a part of their lives is a doctor’s unique privilege, a privilege each of you has earned.”

Above all else, I am a humanist. I believe that we can—and we must—do better. And no one, and nothing, will do that for us. I attended a Quaker grade school, and am now a devout atheist who is married to a non-observant Jew. And yet, I do think that some places are sacred, and I do have moments of spirituality. Perhaps MARS provides a more eloquent summary of these thoughts:

And I noticed…
I now know this:

In the end, there is no one…
There is no one to call your bluff.
In the end there is no one high above.

Who really can say there’s only one way to play the game?

In the end there is nothing…
There is nothing beyond the truth.
In the end there is only what we do.

Try, try as they may…
Running in circles with nothing to say.

See, only one thing’s for sure:
I’m not knocking on heaven’s door.
What’s up above, or underneath
Is not for man alone to breach.

Sometimes fail, and sometimes win…
With all the powers here within.

And I’ve noticed…
I now know this.

—Overwerk, MARS: Know

The sunset dazzled us in pure, golden light. Everything seemed to be lit from within: The tortured water ice underfoot, the shadows of sastrugi, Puget Sound in the distance, the strange cirrus clouds over the Olympics, even ourselves—we were glowing with happiness and pride at our accomplishment. We had climbed Tahoma via the Kautz, and now we had the summit as a reward. This was my 5th time on top of Tahoma, but never before at this time of day. I had seen this place at sunset so many times in my mind… and it had always looked this way. Precisely like this. In my mind, I’ve seen this before. The pain of the next day’s descent… the agony of driving home while exhausted… the challenge of seeing patients first thing after I got home… all could wait, out of mind, for another time. For now, we had the summit, and we had each other. This is why we do this.

In Puyallup mythology, Loowit (AKA Mt St Helens) was the object of affection from two god-brothers: Wy’East (AKA Mt Hood) and Klickitat  (AKA Mt Adams). When they could not stop their quarrels, their father Sahale struck them all down, and they formed into the volcanoes we see today.

In Cowlitz mythology, things are different: Tahoma (AKA Mt Rainier) had an argument with his two wives, Lavelatla (AKA MSH) and Pahto (AKA Adams). Lavelatla became jealous, blew her top, and knocked the head off Tahoma.

So, Loowit has always been a special place, long before 1980. Each of us had climed it before… for me, the last time was in the runup to Vinson, in November 2013. But we were all excited to be back. This day was a chance to explore a spectacular mountain with friends… to bask in the grandeur of one of nature’s most sacred places… to challenge ourselves with a brisk day hike… to be unplugged. And, to ensure the experience was not sullied by the exhaustion of work, we arranged to spend the nights before and after at a hotel nearby in Woodland. #posh

Up at 1:00 AM… out the door at 2:00 AM. As we started out, it was obvious that this would not be ideal weather conditions: Misty, moody, wet, warm atmosphere. As we went higher, the soup became thicker. By the time we reached Climber’s Bivouac, it was a true dense fog, with about 20 foot visibility. Had we brought the right gear? Would we summit in a whiteout? Would we summit at all? There was only one way to find out.

Yeah, it was foggy and still… not cold, really, but certainly not comfortable climbing weather. We had the mountain to ourselves. We had each other. And there was nothing to stop us.

Eventually we saw hints of sun, even blue sky above. As the sun rose, so did my confidence that we could get on top of the moody brew and into crystalline sunshine. And so we did.

Up we went, climbing rocky bench after bench. The basalt and pumice provided excellent handholds, and most of the boulders were very stable underfoot. We were doing this, and nothing could stop us. Nothing, except the spectacular cloud cap growing on the summit.

I was surprised to see persistent snowfields near the top, which sported young suncups and even some creavasses ~20 feet deep. Snowfield with cracks? Legit glacier? You decide. Chris used his eagle eye to spot a piece of fabric flapping in the wind below the trail, near one of the snowfields. We agreed to get it on the way down.

The wind grew, and although it was never ferocious it was legit. I thought, Loowit is coming and She is Pissed. Once again my GoPro 7 stuttered and froze just at the wrong moment, precisely as it had on Olympus a couple weeks earlier. I need a new camera!  As we approached the top, I thought of the last time I had been here. It was a totally different experience in winter, intentionally so: I was preparing for Vinson, thus climbed with a heavy pack, in Olympus Mons boots. At this location I had felt whipped with exhaustion, really struggled to make the last steps in snowshoes, with the heel stops all the way up. Getting to the rim was a big deal for me, and I was elated to have made it with my brother and buddies John and Doug. I was sorry only that we could not creep to the edge to peer straight down, for fear of breaking a cornice. Today I felt fine, just perfectly fine and dandy. Older… lighter… warmer… more experienced… wiser. The Seven were under my belt, and I had nothing to prove to anyone, not even to myself. This was all about enjoyment. And we enjoyed the hell out of it.

We had the mountain totally to ourselves for some time up there. We found refuge from the wind in a small valley and took in the scene. Again, as always, I was amazed and grateful to realize that this is my state, my home. We live here. Some fun folks came up behind us. Then some folks who seemed less prepared but still had a great time. Then I fell flat asleep on my back, snoring and dreaming deeply of the volcano. I recalled the final minutes of Fantasia 2000… I urge you see it in full HD. We ate and rested and chatted. And then, inevitably, we had to descend.

A beautiful, relaxing, inspiring, fun climb. Is there any other kind?

This version with the soundtrack that hummed in my mind during the ascent…

I slept fine that night. For the most part. An odd feature of being guided is that I’m not in charge of our start time each day. Nickel wanted to be sure that everyone got a solid night’s sleep, and apparently some climbers get stressed out by watching their watches all night, counting down the hours until the appointed time. For me, the opposite was true: I wondered when we would get a start so that I could head to the latrine before the morning rush. I guess there are benefits both ways… for me, relinquishing control was strange and a pleasure overall. Remember, you are on vacation this time!

A very chatty party did come through our camp before dawn, hooting and hollering, and waking me in spite of my foam earplugs. Alpine starts do that to you: It is so cold and miserable that gossiping helps to soothe the senses. I have been there. But… please, folks, shut the fuck up when walking through camp in the middle of the night.

Nickel got us up around 6:00 AM, as I had predicted. Perfect time for a run to the latrine, which was established a short walk down the ridge. A secluded and auspicious location for sure. For all these years of defecating into blue bags, I have shouted “Point Success!” every time. Now, for the first time ever, I was doing it right under the real Point Success. This has to be a good omen.

Quick breakfast of instant oatmeal and Trader Joe’s instant coffee (it’s actually pretty good) and we set to breaking camp. It went fine… 2 hours from the wakeup call to being ready to walk. This was very reminiscent of the timing for our first camp-breaking on Denali. We figured it would probably go a bit quicker the next time, but not by much.

The conditions were exactly as predicted: a bright, cloudless sky… no wind… it would be hot. In fact, as we left Camp 1 circa 8:00 AM there was just one small cloud in the sky, and it served to partially shade us for the first half hour or so. Every scrap of shade was a blessing. Again, a good omen for today.

Crevasses were predicted to be scarce for most of the day, but we roped up again, not only because of the risk of crevasses but also because there would be some steep sections with long runouts, meaning a risk of falling and sliding. Besides, with such warm temperatures avalanches were possible, too. In fact, there was evidence of recent slides on the slopes above Camp 1, and also towards the top of the Turtle Snowfield. This was the rationale for wearing beacons, which we were glad to do… although the entire aspect seemed quite consolidated after several hot days. Besides, this gave us an opportunity to rehearse our technique for climbing the chute in short-rope style. Conrad led out, followed by Teresa and then me. Having her on a cow’s tail knot helped to reduce the tug-of-war from above and below, but it also meant that her trailing section tended to fall below

The snow felt good underfoot. But man, it was hot. And the pack felt heavy. Just like the day before, I tended to get a cramp in my right trapezius muscle, especially when traversing to the right, which has never happened to me before. I really like the Hyperlite 4400 Ice Pack, although there must be some axis of evil with the way its shoulder straps fit me, and it could use some low-profile side pockets to stash gear lashed to the sides. I suppose I just need to train harder and get stronger.

In spite of the heat, we left Camp 1 with less than 2 full liters; this was intentional, because it saved weight and the guides anticipated finding meltwater at the High Castle. I knew we would have enough to drink… especially because Conrad set a deliberate, sustainable pace.

We passed the rocky ridge above camp, then turned left to traverse below the Low Castle. This is a rock formation beneath the toe of the Wilson Headwall, in effect a vestigial remnant of the Wapowety Cleaver, analogous to the relationship between Little Tahoma and the DC. The route pitched up steeply to the West side of the Low Castle, and we pulled in briefly for a break in the shade. It was a steep, awkward snow formation that was essentially the top of a moat, so packs stayed on… but it felt so good to be in the shade, even for a few minutes.

We saw the upper castle, perhaps 300 vertical feet above, and angled for it. I was tired and thirsty by the time we arrived there shortly before 10 AM. It was time for a proper 20-minute break in the shade. The overhanging rock was a bit manky, but I did not care. I had to cool off in the shade.

Nickel moved ahead on his own to scout out prospects for running water at a spot which had served him well before. Sure enough, he contacted us by radio a few minutes later with good news: Water was indeed running. We saddled up and ascended a snowfield on the left, skirting the Castle’s West wall, until we go on top of it and clambered onto its gently sloping roof of talus and scree. The guides took our empty bottles and walked downhill a bit until they found the trickle of snowmelt and filled them for us.

Above the Castle, only the Turtle separated us from Camp Hazard. This is a huge, steep snowfield that pitches up towards the Kautz Ice Cliff. The West side of the Turtle is a rocky ridge that tops a wall that drops down to the Kautz Glacier beyond it. Camp Hazard sits near the uppermost section of this ridge. (NB: It’s named for Hazard Stevens, one of the first people to attempt to climb Rainier.)

Up the Turtle we went. For me this was beautiful terrain, but it was also hot, exhausting work. The pace was perfect, and we followed the best line… and still I felt it. I thought of Suzanne Sundfør’s lyrics in White Foxes:

Poses, poses… that’s all you are to me.
Roses, roses… that’s all you’re offering me.

Hunger, hunger… is the purest sin
It is an empty church in a crowded bin

I’ve whipped and I’ve stumbled, I’ve fought and I’ve prayed
For the gravy of your soul…

But all I want to do now is walk along the barren trees and fields of snow.

Breathe….

My eye is my sanctuary.

We climbed safely, smoothly, and securely. It took about 2 hours for us to reach “lower” Camp Hazard, our last break spot for the day. By the time we reached it, I was tired and dehydrated for sure. We could have stayed there, on this steep slope of scree and choss, but a more comfortable and auspicious site lay a couple hundred feet higher up the route. As we mounted up from that last break, a cold wind started, and we looked upwards at spindrift whirling violently above the Headwall, thousands of feet higher. Today, winds near the summit were forecast for 35 MPH, and it looked like that was spot-on. Down at 11,000 feet where we were, it was really just a breeze—just enough to send a chill over my sweat-soaked body, that felt still and weak as we regained the Turtle for the last few steps into camp.

It felt great to pull into Hazard at 2:30 PM and get the pack off. GPS indicated 11,167 Feet AMSL… meaning it had taken us 6.5 hours to ascend approximately 3,000 vertical feet. That is about half the pace I would usually shoot for on a day hike, but this was no day hike. We were heavy, it was hot, the altitude was adding up, we were traveling roped on short interval, and the snow was a bit squishy. Meaning, our pace had been perfect.

While we got our proverbial shit together, the guides started to improve camp. Several abandoned platforms could be revitalized, and one had to be cut anew from the slope. Nickel was clear that we were NOT to help during this process: By taking care of ourselves, and thus improving our energy for the summit later that night, we were helping in the most important way. He was right of course… still, it felt lame to have the guides do all this work on their own. Just get that tent pitched and take care of yourself.

While preparing the kitchen, we realized that Camp Hazard does indeed harbor its own special kind of hazard: human stool. Prior parties had left a series of fecal bombs littered around camp, just below the snow surface. Inexplicably, some of these were entombed in blue bags. Why the hell anyone would defecate and leave it there (explicitly against MRNP regulations) is unclear; why they would shit in a plastic bag and leave THAT there is even more vexing. I mean, this way there’s really no way to expect the waste to ever biodegrade. Our team agreed at the outset that we would carry down any trash we found, but only after the summit. This was just… nasty. Rowan cursed the situation and shoveled the raw feces out into the void, where it caught the sunlight during its flight to the glacier below.

The guides cooked a great meal of pasta and fresh broccoli. The food on this trip was excellent… and yet, I had to fill a second blue bag myself that evening. This is unusual for me… very unusual in the mountains. Did it portend a GI catastrophe? Only time would tell.

I sipped water that night, bit by bit, and waited for my system to catch up. Although I did add to the “pee-squared” bottle that night, it was not as full as I would have liked. The tent was warm, and my teammates were lovely. I felt more or less as ready as possible for the alpine start… although, again, we did not know when that would happen. I guessed 2:00 AM, meaning there would be about 6 hours of “sleep” that night. It would be enough. It would have to be.

As I drifted off, I imagined the route. It was so mysterious to me… In my mind, it looked like a wide, tall version of the Pearly Gates. T and I had climbed the Gates in April, and it went fine. We had nailed it. And we will nail this, too.

Tahoma (AKA Mt. Rainier) is one of my favorite mountains…  I am fortunate to be 4 for 5 up there, twice on the Emmons and thrice on the DC, most recently as a team leader in July 2017. It is a sacred place for me, actually, and always provides that unique combination of challenge and beauty and proximity to home.

Climbing via the Kautz Ice Chute would be a different kind of challenge:  A new aspect of the mountain… steeper terrain, including vertical ice… a full traverse of the mountain, meaning heavy loads all the way over the summit. Teresa invited me to join the expedition… what could I say but “YES!”

One of the great things about mountaineering is the way it allows us to make new friends. In this case, there would be 4 new guides and 5 new climbers to meet, which is great. Natalie was the first I got to know: She is a doctor moving from Australia to Canada, and decided to bag Rainier on the way. How cool is that? We were glad to give her a place to stay before and following the expedition.

The first afternoon at IMG was spent in orientation with Nickel, our lead guide for the trip. Every detail was covered, every aspect of the trip discussed clearly. It was such a pleasure to relax while he prepared us for the expedition… all the stress and details I would usually have to cover on my own were being laid out for us in a lovely, reassuring fashion. Based on the incredibly warm forecast (with no precip, freezing levels predicted at 16,000 feet on our summit day, and the only possibility of winds at 30 MPH on our second day), my kit could be trimmed a bit. I still came in just > 45 lbs at the start, but every piece of gear was carefully considered. I have never been guided on a Rainier summit attempt, so this was going to be a new experience for me. I know IMG very well, and was excited to learn some new techniques and see a new part of the mountain with them. The first thing that kicked me in the head was how little crevasse gear they wanted us to bring: Just a harness and a few ‘biners. No prusiks, no cordelettes, no tiblocks, no pulleys…. I ended up carrying an ATC at their request, but as anticipated we never needed it.

Everyone on the team was fun and experienced. And I thought, This will be a blast, and it will be posh!

After everything was arranged for the following morning, we took time to visit the guides’ memorial in Ashford. It was a quiet, sobering reminder of the price others have paid in supporting us in our pursuit of high places around the world. Each a unique individual, a brilliant life lost much too soon. I thought of the chortens of Thokla, and the catharsis and heartbreak that had overwhelmed me leaving EBC for the last time in 2016. The PTSD welled up briefly. But, not today. Today was about moving forward. And hamburgers. And Rainier beer.

The next morning we put finishing touches on our kits, loaded up, and drove up the mountain. At one point, near the Kautz Creek trailhead, we caught a glimpse of the Ice Chute: A white stripe of snow surrounded by dirty blue ice, thousands of feet above. Dude… this ain’t the DC.

The weather was perfect. Our spirits were high. The parking lot was jammed—positively jammed—with every stripe of humanity. Young, old, domestic, foreign, fit, flabby, you name it… everyone was making the pilgrimage to see this most majestic of mountains. Rainier is in my back yard, and it’s easy to take it for granted. But up close, there’s nothing ho-hum about this peak. It was soothing to see so many people who love and respect her the way we do, people flocking in from far and wide to bask in her glory. But, we were not there to bask. We had come to climb.

The trail from Paradise… how many times have I walked it? Today it was a pleasure, but HOT. I worried—as always—about sun exposure’s effect on my skin, and on my kidneys. The new OR sun shirt seemed to work perfectly, and I was reassured by the guides wearing the same shirt who said they had never been burned through it, despite the “SPF 15” label. Besides, my double-buff-plus-beko system was in order. Still, it was hot, and the thought in the back of my mind remained constant: When will some clouds roll in?

Just before the trail pitches up to Panorama Point there is a small rocky outcrop that overlooks the snow field spilling down below the Nisqually glacier. I have stood there many times, looking out at the untouched terrain, wondering about the best way to negotiate it. This was our first break spot… and the place where we would leave the beaten path and start making our way towards the Kautz.

After passing a marmot grazing on the trail, we dropped down to a long descending traverse in soft snow. We then curved along a large, snowy basin, paralleling the Muir snowfield ridge from below, for a short time before stopping on a gently sloping area for another short break. Crevasses lurked ahead, and from here forward we would always travel roped up.

We could see the objective hazard clearly from here: a bottleneck feature, with a vertical cliff above on climber’s left, and rotten icefall above on climber’s right. Our route would thread between these features, up a steep snow field that would trend left, to a broad bench above the cliff. Our guides were clear: This would be difficult, because we needed to get through quickly, and there would be no stopping. Damn right.

Such a beautiful section, with our first look at icefall up close as we hustled past: Dirty blue seracs jumbled together, bridged by fresh snowfall, leaning awkwardly like a pile of bayonets. It reminded me of the Khumbu… except that is 10,000 feet higher, and we would be walking straight into it. Underfoot, a single crevasse stretched across our path, easy to cross via an oblique snow bridge… this one was DEEP, with a second chamber below the first drop, a spooky room big enough to fit a school bus, lit by dark blue colors, too dark in fact for my GoPro sensor to pick them up. This is why we do this. Aside from the clatter of a few small rocks being spit out by the icefall, it was still and quiet, and the section passed by quickly.

Atop the cliff we found a broad, beautiful flat area, the Wilson Bench. Magnificent spot to camp, so long as tents are situated well away from possible slides from the bowl uphill. There was a single party camped there, including a dude who had just climbed Denali with IMG! They were kind enough to bring us some peanut butter cups while we took a break, which was super kind of him.

I was feeling it a bit now: the load was heavy, I was dehydrated, and some high clouds began to scoot in—precisely what I had prayed for, but now threatening to chill me. And yet, the snow remained soft underfoot. We could see the location of camp, so seductively close… but in fact an hour away.

Up we went, traversing up along a steep face, then cutting back to the right along a gentle ridge, punctuated by some beautiful dark rocks. On several occasions my downhill foot slid away in the soft snow; cheating steps uphill a bit seemed to help, but it was still like slogging through mashed potatoes. When we reached a flat spot on the route I was ready for a break; we thought camp would be another half hour above, and that would have been totally fine, but the guides decided to call it here, because the location was so great and the route seemed to be in good condition above.

Camp 1 was a beautiful, relaxing place. Dinner was delicious (curried veggies and rice). We even had flickers of 3G coverage. The next day’s route was plainly visible, and it looked very doable. We looked West towards the sunset and hydrated while waiting for the temperature to drop. Day 1 had been a success, by any measure. This is why we do this.