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You'd have to ask Mike. I wasn't around on that particular climb. Once he got to where he could get both strands, he prussiked up to the sticking point.

Trip: Khao Jiin Lae, Thailand - Waltz for a Lovely Wife, 6 pitches 5.9+ Date: 1/1/2007 Trip Report: It is difficult to feel anything but serenity in a Wat, but I'm a talented person and can pull off any number of tricks to astound myself and my friends. The smiling monks and the yapping dogs couldn't distract me from the fact that I was about to do something very unnatural and possibly quite lethal. The quite of the grounds and the numerous flowers did their best to soothe that part of me that was out of balance, but the feeling of trepidation remained. It wasn't like I was trying to do something especially hard or inherently dangerous. I wasn't going to swim with tiger sharks or try to feed lions by hand or jump off a bridge or take a walk in Baghdad. We finished signing in with the monks, left a donation, and headed for a staircase leading up through the woods to the base of the mountain Mike and I had been civilized about the climb: There was no stupidly early start while it was still dark outside. Bangkok was still cool, a mere 80 degrees, as we sat in traffic at 7:30 am, battling our way toward the highway. Mostly we sat still, but occasionally we moved. When traffic did manage to move, it was like a pack of hungry dogs pouncing on a scrap of meat: Every driver battled, threatened, and forced there way into the open space. All done, of course, with that politeness that comes to the Thai so naturally and unpretentiously. Mike hung tough and we eventually made the on ramp to the highway, which was quite deserted as most people in Bangkok do not want to pay the 60 baht (about $1.75) to use it. Mike gunned the little Honda's microscopic engine and we were soon racing at 130 kilometers per hour, bobbing and weaving around slower moving vehicles, and getting passed by muscular BMWs from time to time. We were heading two hours north to near the town of Lopburi, famous for its troops of monkeys, bound for a place called Khao Jiin Lae, or Chinese Mountain. There are many transliterations of the place, one popular one being Khao Cheen Lair. Regardless of how you spell it in English characters, the mountain, and its environs, are striking. Thailand, at least central Thailand, is flat like Nebraska is flat. As we drew near to Lopburi, veering off away from it, large limestone towers began to shoot up from the flat fields of rice or sunflowers, much in the same way that large "haystacks" jut up from the Pacific Coast of Washington and Oregon. Towering more than 200 meters above the fields below, Khao Jiin Lae is an ascethetic peak. Phallic to a rather shocking degree, it boasts steep faces on all sides, though Mike speculated that there was a walk up route somewhere that the monks from the wat used from time to time. I pondered what I had gotten myself into and why man seems unique among the animals of this planet for his ability to consistently do silly things We were going to be climbing the mountain via a six pitch bolted sport route called Waltz for a Lovely Wife that was rated at 5+ in the French system. Mike and his wife, Wallapak, had climbed via the same route a month earlier, and had been, perhaps, the second or third party to make the ascent. On the descent, a rappel down a different, steeper route called Corcovado, with fading light, the double rope got stuck, forcing Mike into a free solo ascent of a 6a+ route to unstick it. Cramping massively from dehydration, the ascent was not "fun", in his words. We were carrying only a single this time, though the only route guide that we had said that it would not get us to the ground. Faith is required some times. On the hike up through the bamboo forest to the base of the peak we were accompanied by one of the dogs of the wat that I had played with to dispel my trepidation. We geared up, I smiled as best I could, and Mike set out to lead the first pitch. I watched Mike make his way up the dihedral, clipping bolts along the way, and the out across a face and up and over an overhanging portion, past which he was out of sight. The two hardest pitches are here, he told me, right off the ground, and at the very top. I fed out rope as I felt him move, and was alone with my thoughts in the shade of the quiet forest. I heard Mike call out and broke down the anchor, preparing to climb. The face traverse, after leaving the dihedral, was, indeed, the most difficult bit of climbing, requiring balance, footwork, and skill, all of which I lack. After a few shouts to Mike, I made it through, grasping the jugs on the overhang, and pulled myself up onto mere vertical terrain. Crux 1 done. My trepidation was gone, replaced by concentration. I didn't have enough mental capacity to both worry and climb, and it seemed like climbing was the more important activity. My previous multi pitch rock climbs consisted of easy alpine climbs such as The Tooth and South Early Winter Spire, done in moutaineering boots and never breaking the 5.4 level, and rarely vertical. I was going to be vertical or overhung the entire way up and pulling through the first crux helped my mood considerably. The rest of the first pitch was straightforward, the limestone presenting many features to use for foot or hand holds, and I reached Mike smiling. The second pitch proved easy, with a massive belay ledge for me to use as Mike led the third pitch. "There is a great purple flower up here! Make sure you look at it." I was actually relaxed enough to consider looking at a small purple flower growing up hard on a rock face. The third pitch traverse up and then out to the right and Mike was quickly out of my line of sight. A few minutes later, I heard a ruckus. Time slowed to a standstill. I didn't know what the ruckus was, but I knew enough to know that it couldn't be good. The ruckus increased to something like a roar as I crouched next to the rock face, locking Mike off on the rope. I heard Mike shouting something, barely audible over the roar, which was now like a jet engine. About 15 feet from me, I saw a huge boulder, bigger than a man, come screaming down the mountain. All of this took about 2.5 seconds, though it seemed like much longer. When the sound of the boulder had finally faded, I called up to Mike to let him know that it had missed me. We shouted back and forth for a while. "It missed me. Are you ok?" (You bastard!) "Blood is soaking my pants." (Hey, I'm a little sissy.) "Do you want to come down?" (Quit 'yer whining.) "No, I'll just trail blood up." (Sissification fails) After a few minutes, I felt the tension released from the rope as Mike started climbing once again. I was nervous once again as I set out to follow him up. I traversed across and noted the purple flower, but it didn't seem quite as magical now as I thought it would just a few minutes before. I climbed as rapidly as I could to the spot where the boulder had cut loose. The route went up through some rather dirty climbing, past cacti and trees and I emerged onto the belay ledge covered in dirt. I clipped into the anchor and had a seat in order to rest for a bit as Mike told his tale. He had reached the boulder, which appeared to be part of the mountain itself and began to climb up it, as he had a month before. He had both feet and hands on the boulder when it began to lever over on top of him. Yelling as he went, he jumped off to the side of it, crashing into the face of the mountain. One doesn't think of elegance and grace at such times. In the process, he had torn a deep patch of skin off of the middle finger of his right hand and had left pools of blood on the rest of the route. His legs had numerous deep bruises from various impact points and several wolverine like scratches on his legs, deep and bloody, though not serious. He had hurt his groin muscles as well, which meant that after we taped his finger, it was off to the races immediately as he didn't want the groin to tighten up any more. I took numerous photos of Mike and his wounds, wishing that I had my Nikon with me to get better close ups of the gashes, scrapes, and cuts. I had to settle for a few further back and a shot of the flatness of Thailand. The plan was to run the fourth and fifth pitches together, making a run of 55 meters to get to a solid belay ledge. Both Mike and Wallapak had missed the belay anchor between pitches 4 and 5, and neither had seen a reasonable place to belay from until the top of the fifth pitch. After several minutes of feeding rope, I heard Mike's yell, broke down the anchor, and headed up the longest single pitch that I'd ever climbed. The indoor rock climbing gym that I go to maxes out around 13 meters. My longest climb at Vantage was perhaps 25 meters. I moved up slowly, trying to conserve as much strength as I could. Midway through the fourth pitch, we left the forest for open air. The steep rock walls of Khao Jiin Lae and the massive exposure finally truly hit me. The mountain was beautiful from afar, but nothing compared its beauty from up close and on high. I brought myself up through the fifth pitch, grunting and huffing from the exertion, arms pumped and fingers hurting. One final mildly overhanding arete and I was able to traverse laterally over to Mike and spot the top of the climb. This last pitch was the most difficult on the route, and looked it. After a straightforward dihedral, I watched Mike traverse out across a blank looking face, then up to an off-width, overhanging crack. Mike moved smoothly across the face and worked his way up the crack to a better set of jugs and, a few seconds later, called out that he was on top. After receiving a few words of encouragement, I followed. Dihedral, no problem. Blank face, problem. I mixed up my feet, tried to switch, got my hands in the wrong place, tried to switch, let my body swing, and off I came, my first fall outside. Mike had me completely locked off, but the stretch of the rope brought me nearly 20 feet down, almost to the start of the climb. Stupid, I told myself. Just don't be stupid again. I quickly got back on the rock and the tension in the rope gave me enough of a boost to fly up to the traverse. I moved slowly this time, being more careful with my feet and balance, and got across in good style. The overhang, however, was less stylish. I moved up, relying mostly upon arm strength, and failing to keep my feet high. I was, however, moving upward, despite the lack of huge jugs, when I felt a rather strong opposition to my gain. Looking down, I saw a quickdraw still attached, locked solidly against my harness; I had forgotten to clean it. Arms failing, I tried to get it unclipped and managed, with my last bit of strength, to get it off the rope. And then I fell once again. Hanging on the rope, I shook out briefly, then re-climbed to the draw and cleaned it before starting the hard part of the overhang. Up I went another meter, arms bursting again. Running out of strength, I was also running out of patience and tried a standard gym move; Deadpoint up to something that looked good. So, deadpoint I did. And when that something turned out to be not so good, down I came. You're being stupid again, I told myself. I shook out, got back on, and concentrated on moving my feet better. I came grunting up over the overhang and onto a nice, low incline with plenty of big jugs. A few minutes later, I was anchored into the top, all smiles. The exposure and the views during the climb had been magnificent, though my appreciation was fuller on top without the worry of climbing. Mike pointed to a large, prominent lake. "It isn't a lake. It used to be a rice field." There had been massive rains this fall in central Thailand and much of the country side had flooded. The farmers in this area had been wiped out. Even after a month of dry weather, the lake was still there, submerging the livelihood of the local farmers. We had a few cookies and then decided that it was best to start the rappel. Mike had epic-ed on this before and he cautioned me to be careful, lest it happen again. We scrambled up a few rocks and then over to Corcovado, our descent route. The first rappel brought us through lots of bush to a steep drop off. So far, so good. A long rappel got us to a nice big ledge and anchors. Excellent. A third rappel got us to a hanging rappel, but with enough foot support that it wasn't uncomfortable. Fine. This was where Mike had to free climb to unstick the rope on his previous ascent. A fourth rappel got us to open air, the next ledge still 20 feet lower. When I got there, Mike seemed somewhat puzzled as this hadn't happened on the last descent. We were at a single chain and Mike had gone through a few hoops to get enough space so that I could anchor in. Some tense moments passed, but down we went, under control. Two more full rappels and we were back on the deck, safe and sound. My hands were bloody in places. The sharp limestone had punctured the skin on the tips of my fingers. Its rough edges had scraped through places on my wrists and forearms. I was filthy, sweaty, and tired. But I was happy. We relaxed for a little while and then descended back down the trail to the staircase and eventually to the wat, where we found a senior monk. Mike spoke to him in Thai, animatedly at times. Monks tend not to show much emotion, but this one was clearly happy to see us alive. He had heard the roar of the boulder and Mike's shouting and figured that the worst had happened. He looked up Mike's emergency contact number and called Wallapak to tell her what had happened. Fortunately, he reached someone in Sukhothai, far from Bangkok. One of Mike's 4s had looked like a 7. Wallapak had been spared a traumatic shock thanks to Mike's poor hand writing. We drove in to a setting tropical sun, huge and orange in the haze of Bangkok, racing to pick Wallapak up at her university so that we could eat some dinner. Neither of us had had too much to fuel us during the day and I now had a raging appetite. When she proposed that we dine at her cafeteria, I was flooded with my own traumatic memories of university dining. What I found, however, was essentially a large night market. Minced pork with chilis and basil, fried chicken, squid salad, pickled fish sausage (surprisingly excellent), and other delicacies satisfied the hunger in me, allowing my body to concentrate on my various aches and pains. I made it through a bottle of Chang back at their apartment before sleep overcame me, glass in hand. Gear Notes: This is pure sport with nice bolts and some dubious threads. A single 60 meter rope will not get you to the ground easily. We managed anyway. A double rope has a reasonable chance of getting stuck, as happened to Mike previously. Bring up to 17 draws to run pitches 4 and 5 together to get an excellent climbing spree with tons of exposure and views. I wore a helmet and would definitely take one again. A cheater, ATC, and biner are also necessary. It is hot in Thailand, so take plenty of water. 2.5 liters was enough for me. Approach Notes: Find your way to Thailand first. Then, do an internet search for Lopburi Climbing and find some hand drawn maps that will get you to the Wat. The Wat is near Lopburi and is about 2 hours north of Bangkok. Register with the monks and then head up the stairs to the base of the wall. Waltz for a Lovely Wife starts about 5 meters to your left. Corcovado starts about 7 meters to the right. The rock is generally pretty clean, but this is a new route and stuff will come down. There are several inconveniently placed cactic along the route. Solid, very textured. limestone. Vertical almost the whole way, with a few minor overhangs and a couple of less than vertical sections. The hardest pitches are the first and the last, at 5.9+. The last pitch has a very short stretch with two 5.10a moves on it. The rest is mostly 5.7-8. Rappel Corcovado to reach the ground (to the right of the summit from where you came up).

A few other posts have refered to the Sierra High Route, an off trail scrambling version of the John Muir Trail. I hiked a portion of this over the course of about two weeks in July and have put up a lot of photos and text about it at http://www.pierce.ctc.edu/faculty/cwillett/shr/index.html To be short, the scenery is unbelievably grand and the land extremely remote. Cross country travel in the Sierra is generally much easier than in the Cascades, though this does not mean it is easy. Routefinding and scrambling meant that a 12 mile day took about 12 hours. For reference, I hiked the PCT in 3.5 months. Three to four solid weeks of hiking is a reasonable amount of time to complete the SHR, I think. Most of the passes were class 2 scrambles with some class 3 sections. When we made bad choices, we ended up on class 4 and, sometimes, low class 5 sections. Snow was a great friend, as it allowed us to descend from the passes in style as opposed to scree skiing. Here are a few pics to whet your appetite.

Sorry, got my mountains mixed up. I had thought the big spire like thing was Bears Breast, but apparently my map reading skills were not quite there in the morning.

Hmm, missed this one. A trail on the descent would have been very helpful indeed! There were a few cairns in a sub gully that we descended on our return, but the gully was very loose and rock fall from people above was a serious concern of ours. We found evidence of an old tram at the top of the gully leading to La Bohn lakes, but didn't go all the way to La Bohn Gap. There was plenty of old mining equipment in the basin down near Opal-Emerald-Jade lakes as well.

Climb: Mount Hinman-Hinman Glacier Date of Climb: 8/12/2006 Trip Report: Along with five others, I went up Mount Hinman this weekend. It seems Hinman doesn't see a lot of traffic, as I wasn't able to get much information on it before the climb. Located next to Mount Daniel, Hinman can be done as a basic alpine climb, following a (sometimes) cairned route, or combined with the Hinman Glacier for those who favor more snow. We did both routes, taking the glacier on the way up and the rock scramble route on the way down. There is a large gully above Opal Lake that is the first obstacle. Unless you elect to go through a narrow, loose sub-gully, you'll be on steep (35-40 degree) snow at some point. In the early morning and in the afternoon, the snow is hard and you'll want crampons. Above the gully the La Bohn lakes are found, and you can pick up the climbers track near the largest (and most southern) lake. Work your way up the wall above the largest lake via ledges and easy gullies. We didn't follow Beckey's route from La Bohn gap. Get onto the southern lobe of the Hinman glacier and descend to a small snow finger that pierces through the ridge separating the lobes. Ascend the glacier on the other side to reach a small gap to the left of a choss pyramid. Traverse on talus and other rubble on the left side of a minor ridge line heading for the main Hinman ridge. The right side will work, but the left is much easier. Aim for the low point to the left of the peak. From the low point, you can scramble up unpleasant rock to get to the top of a false summit. Or, traverse around the backside of the mai ridge on snow, ascending steely at times, heading for a peaklet far down the ridge (actually in the middle, but it seems far). Scramble 30 easy vertical feet to the top, where you'll find a summit register. It took us about 7.5 hours to reach the summit from our camp below the gully leading to La Bohn lakes, but our pace was leisurely and we climbed 2 false summits before finding the correct one. We did this trip over 3 days and that is what I'd do again. A long winded trip report, with many more pictures, can be found at http://www.pierce.ctc.edu/faculty/cwillett/local/hinman/index.html But, here are some photos. ----------- The view from the top of the gully leading to La Bohn lakes was impressive early in the morning, with lower valleys filled with fog, but blue skies overhead. ------------------- I'd only seen Bears Breast from the Waptus Lake side and didn't realize how large the massif really was until I saw it from above La Bohn Lakes. ---------------- From the top of Hinman, it seems that almost all of Washington is in sight. ------------------- This gorgeous lake by Mount Daniel doesn't seem to be named, and no trail seems to lead to it. Another trip, however. ------------------ Below Hinman sits another great lake without a trail to it. ---------------- I just couldn't stop smiling. Gear Notes: Standard glacier gear. Helmet, ice axe, and crampons necessary for a few parts of the scramble route. Approach Notes: Flat four miles, then steep 3 miles. Gully up to La Bohn lakes still holding snow. Cairned climbers track after the largest of the La Bohn lakes.

Climb: Mount Washinton-Route 1 Date of Climb: 7/8/2006 Trip Report: Two weekends in a row in the Olympics, two weekend of fabulously clear, blue skies. I knew that I was either getting the benefits of previous suffering from the weather, or I was incurring a debt that would have to be paid to whatever organization decides upon the weather in Washington. There were nine Mountaineers, myself included, standing in the dusty road beneath Mount Washington in the Olympic National Forest, gearing up for what was supposed to be a simple alpine climb up a prominent peak next to Mount Ellinor. Having been up Ellinor four times before, only once in good weather, I knew the views that were coming. Ellinor is a very popular mountain, for there is a solid trail all the way to the top, the climb is short, and the views superb. Washington, slightly higher, stands next to Ellinor and has a beat-trail for part of the climb. More scrambling, more scree, far fewer people. We took off through the woods, ascending the rooty trail rapidly, slowing only for the scree and talus slopes that began appearing with frequency. The scree was not so much a danger for the climber, but rather for those below. The people in the group did an excellent job of spreading out and being careful on the scree and no one took a shot from above. Views off to the west of Rainier, Adams, and St. Helens quickly came in as we left tree line for rock and snow. The snow obliterated the climbers trail we had been following in a basin, but it was easy to see where to go. A large ridge in front of us was the target, for it would lead directly to the summit. After climbing up a few class 3 gullies and traversing some remaining snow banks, we emerged onto the top of the ridge line and explosive views of the heart of the Olympic range, including my friend, Olympus, from last weekend. The ridge was snow free and the walking, though exposed, was simple and safe, assuming you were not prone to tripping over your own feet. Arriving at the base of the summit, we decided not to directly climb to the top, but rather to traverse around the block on a two foot wide ledge and then ascend a moderate gully to near the top. Two hours and fifty minutes, including breaks, had gotten us up from the road in good style. It would have been a feat of no mean magnitude for someone to spot a frown on any of the faces on top of the summit. Below photo courtesy of J. Myer It wasn't just the weather or the amazing views of most of the major peaks of Washington: Olympus, Baker, Shuksan, Glacier, Rainier, Adams, St. Helens. From the top we could see Seattle and Tacoma, various islands in the Sound, sparkling Lake Cushman far below. Everything in the state, it seemed, could be seen from the top. It wasn't just the normal summit euphoria that brought forth so many smiles. No, from the very bottom, from even the drive in, the entire process had been fun. The comaraderie of the group made everything, even the scree at times, seem fun. Washington was a peak I could do by myself. But the process of the climb would have been much diminished without the jokes, laughter, and constant bantering of the people involved. Across the way was Mount Ellinor and, with the help of binoculars, we could spot a large herd of goats rapidly descending the snow bank near the top. Several groups of hikers were on the top, lounging in the sun, enjoying the equally fabulous views from there. It was with some sadness that, after forty minutes on top, we began to shoulder our packs again for the descent back to the cars. It was still early in the day and the weather was so fine that one might be tempted to spend the night on the top of the peak, just for kicks and to see the stars and lights of Seattle come out. But descend we must, which meant facing the scree slopes once again, but which also meant that we were heading for cold beer and fatty bar food. Below photo courtesy of J. Myer Gear Notes: Helmets, ice axe useful for snow and scree descent. Trekking poles would work fine. Approach Notes: Bad scree in parts, ridgeline is solid and snow free.

Climb: Mount Olympus, Blue Glacier. 6/30/06-7/2/06-Blue Glacier Date of Climb: 6/30/2006 Trip Report: Below is a long winded trip report from Olympus with a lot of photos. The short version: Fun climb, great conditions, long approach. You can get the long version and other trip reports at http://www.pierce.ctc.edu/faculty/cwillett ----------------------- I was delighted to see the morning light battering its way through the dense rain forest of the Hoh River Valley, for it brought warmth and cheer to me. I was on yet another climb with eleven other people, members of the Mountaineers, I didn't yet know, heading up the long approach trail to Glacier Meadows, the jumping off point for Mount Olympus. Mount Olympus is the highest peak on the Olympic peninsula at around 7900 feet. While a small mountain by Cascade standards, the weather patterns in the Olympics make it seem much higher. Storms come off the Pacific and dump huge amounts of snow on the peninsula with a predictable result: Mount Olympus is heavily glaciated. The Hoh River trail would lead us for 18 miles, rising from 500 feet above sea level to 4300 feet at Glacier Meadows. From the very start, laughter was our constant companion on the approach in, which I took as a very good sign for the future. There were seven of us setting out, with five more already in the hills. Stories were swapped, and not just of the climbing variety: Everyone seemed to want to learn about the others in the group. Some knew each other already, others were in my position. The group was rapidly forming into an actual climbing party and everyone seemed thrilled to be exactly where they were. By the time we reached the last outpost of the park rangers, the Olympus Guard Station nine miles up the valley, we were well on our way to becoming cohesive. I had never before experienced so rapid a transition from stranger to acquaintance to friend as I did this morning. Part of the transition was no doubt due to the mild nature of the terrain, which gave us plenty of time to chat as we strolled through the forest. Part of it was certainly due to several extroverts who catalyzed the process. But mostly it was a mystery to me: Strangers a few hours earlier had bonded quickly. The problems of how and why would make for an interesting psychological research project. The warm morning merged into a hot afternoon as we began the actual uphill portion of the trail. Near the High Hoh bridge we encountered three more of our party who had started the long approach the day before. Also at the bridge was a young wanderer named Dan, who was out for a few days. I linked up with Dan and we ascended hard to Elk Lake, chatting about the our respective outdoor experiences. Dan was from Salt Lake City and was out visiting the area, taking a few days in the best areas of Washington and, eventually, the path back to Utah. Lathered in sweat at Elk Lake, I stopped to wait for the others and Dan charged off for Glacier Meadows, only a few miles above. After an hours rest, the whole party was again together, though we set off for Glacier Meadows in small groups. Slowly the forest was giving way, for treeline here was very low: 4500 feet. Views off to the Snow Dome, a prominent feature we would be climbing tomorrow, and Panic Peak, along with Mount Tom and its impressive valley, were had at a few select spots along the trail. A short bit of avalanched trail proved to be slightly heart racing, but we crossed it safely and arrived in Glacier Meadows. Parked in a campsite we found the remaining two members of our climbing party lounging about. One had hiked the PCT in 2004, which gave us plenty to talk about as we set up camp and ate dinner. I was unsurprised that we had had many of the same experiences despite our hikes being separated by a year. The hours passed pleasantly over food and chit-chatting about the climb ahead. My amazement at the cohesion of the group after such a short period continued on, though the odd fact had lost some of its wonder as I grew more and more familiar with the people that I would be climbing with tomorrow. I felt strong and confident about the next day and was eagerly looking forward to the cold morning air when we could begin our first steps to Mount Olympus. Indeed, as I climbed into my bivy sack at 8:30, I found myself sleepless not with fear or trepidation, but rather with anticipation, just like a kid on Christmas Eve. --------------- Three AM. O-dark-thirty. Whatever euphemism you give it, an alpine start to a glacier climb is rarely a pleasant activity. The air was cold at Glacier Meadows at 3 am and it wasn't any warmer at 4 am when we started up the last bit of constructed trail before we would take to the glacier and the land of snow and ice above. I led a moderate pace through the darkness, kicking steps up the remaining snow fields on the way to the lateral moraine of the Blue Glacier, which is normally the highlight for hikers coming to Glacier Meadows. When we crested out on the moraine, the word "highlight" seemed far too mean spirited to use in describing the sight. I almost choked when the Blue Glacier appeared: An obviously flowing stream of ice coming off of a jagged icefall, below rocky spires and yet more glacier. The Blue sat inside a fearsome amphitheater of rock, bounded on all sides by towering peaks that had once sat at the bottom of the ocean. The rounded bump of Olympus could be seen easily on the far right, looking rather smaller than the surrounding peaks due to its distance from us. Two small figures, climbers who had left much earlier than us, could be seen crossing the Blue far in the distance. Our route was clear: Drop down, cross and ascend the Blue. Climb to the right to gain the top of Snow Dome. Cross the top of the Snow Dome and split the main summit complex at Crystal Pass. A massive bergschrund could be seen near the top of the more direct route to the summit block, making that shorter route a rather dangerous proposition. We strolled along the morraine following a boot track, then put on helmets for the scramble down the scree of the moraine to gain the edge of the Blue, where we split into three rope teams. I was in the front of the last rope team, which was being run by John, the PCT hikers from 2004, and also held Mike, a retired community college instructor, and Perry, a Boeing engineer. It was the first time that I had been on the front of a rope while crossing a glacier, but the other two ropes in front would bear the brunt of the danger of crevasse falls. By the time we had all tied in, the alpinglow on the mountains was intense. We moved out slowly, well behind the other two ropes, gaining elevation on the Blue in a calm, non-frenetic style, stopping occasionally so that I could probe at the lips of crevasses or for photo opportunities for the others. Most of the crevasses were well filled in with snow bridges, though there were many small cracks, whose depths I did not wish to know. We rounded a corner and began the climb toward Snow Dome, collecting with the others at a safe, flat spot along the way. The climb up toward Snow Dome led over a short rocky stretch where, after I lost the direction the others went, we discovered a pool of fresh snow melt. I burned the location into my mind for the return trip, for I knew I would be thirsty by then, carrying only 2 liters of water for the ascent. The others were far ahead on the climb, but still within sight, as we started the main climb up Snow Dome. With big, solid steps already kicked for us by the hard work of the lead rope, we ascended easily the twenty five to thirty degree snow slope up to the huge flatness of Snow Dome. The large bergschrund that we spotted back at the moraine seemed even larger from here, but oddly enough there was a clear set of tracks that climbed up and around it on the steep snow. While the party clearly made it, and cut off a large amount of distance, they were also massively exposed to danger: A fall on the steep snow would, probably, result in a slide directly into the bergschrund and a rather cold burial place. We were going to climb below the bergschrund and to the left, splitting the complex at Crystal Pass, and traverse around and up to the snow below the true summit. Longer, but sure and safe. Bob, our fearless leader, led a direct and easy track around the bergschrund and up to the pass, which was gained with remarkably little effort on our part. A short descent and a quick climb gained us the back side of the complex, where we found the others resting, hydrating, and eating before we made the final 700 foot push to the top. Fresh coatings of sunscreen graced all of our faces and layers were shed in attempt to protect our skin from the harsh reflected light and to keep our bodies as cool as possible in the intense heat. We ascended slowly toward the false summit of Olympus, called Five Fingers, but were blocked by a moat at the top. Traversing around, we eventually gained solid rock and climbed through a fat-man-squeezer, which was easier to climb over than through. An exposed, narrow traverse on rock, with unsettled footing, was passed through without issue, though my heart was moving faster than it had on the climb up Snow Dome. And there we sat on the top of Five Fingers, looking out at the true summit just across the way. A party of two could be seen on the snowy east summit and another party of three was seen setting up a rappel off the true summit. John, Patrick, and I had planned on climbing the 5th class section of rock the rappelers would be coming down. The route was not supposed to be difficult (either 5.0 or 5.4) and the rock was solid. Moreover, with a solid rope and a belay, I feel very comfortable. But we would have to wait for the climbers to completely clear the area before starting up, and that meant an hour or more before we even started the climb. It was the scramble for us, something I was less comfortable with, especially as the rock looked terrible, even from here. Three elected to stay behind on Five Fingers while the rest of us set off down the loose, rocky gully that led to the snow and eventually the start of the scramble. Though I moved as carefully as I could, I started rocks cascading down toward the climbers below, who scattered out of the way after I bellowed out a warning. Unfortunately, I started a third one rolling slowly. Thinking it was not going anywhere, I concentrated on getting my feet right, only to look up and see it pass harmlessly by Patrick. A well earned rebuke came from him for my lack of a warning call. After crossing the snow, we stashed our ice axes and began the scramble. Moving confidently on the class 3 scramble, we gained elevation quickly. But a hundred feet off the ground, nearing the 1/3 or 1/2 way point, I began to feel less and less confident. The rock was getting more and more rotten, though the moves were well within my ability. What was lacking was simple experience and confidence on the now class 4 terrain. Class 4 terrain is more difficult and is frequently done unroped. A climber had made the difference between class 3 and class 4 terrain clear to me: Class 4 means if you fall, you'll die. There really wasn't any place to set a handline or a belay with a rope, for there wasn't anything solid to anchor onto. The rope would be symbolic, for if I had to hang on the rope after a fall, the rock would not support my weight. Myself and two others decided that the rest of the climb was not for us and, very nervously, down climbed a ways before we could get onto the snow and traverse above a yawning crevasse, then descend down to safe, flat snow. Before we began the scramble back up to Five Fingers, we watched the others struggling with the route, clearly on class 5 (normally roped) terrain, but without the safety of a belay. At one point we watched as Joe moved upward in a dihedral section, working hard, and had his foot holds break off. A tense moment ensued as we waited for Joe to regain his footing and finish the section. I was happy with my decision. Bob had reached the top and set a belay off of a solid rock near the summit for the other climbers to use on their own ascent and later on their descent. His goat-skills were impressive indeed. The three of us scrambled to the top of Five Fingers and lounged with the others in the hot sun, watching the climbers celebrate on the top of Olympus. Though I had wanted to make the top, I was much happier here than I would have been there. After a short rest, Bob began a rappel down the side of the mountain, running out his rope as far as he could. Unfortunately, this didn't put him at the bottom of the mountain. Rather, the rappel put him just above where we had stopped climbing, forcing a downclimb that I would have been very, very nervous on. It took some time for the climbers to return to Five Fingers, for each had to rappel and complete the down climb before anyone else could start down: The rock fall coming off the summit, caused by the rappeler, had a high probability of killing, or seriously injuring anyone unfortunate enough to be below. Again, I was happy with my decision and even got Don to taking a summit shot of me, something I hadn't done for many trips. Perry, too, was very happy to be safe and sound on Five Fingers instead of on the rotten rock of the scramble. It was hard not to be happy: The views to Rainier and Baker in the far distance, the huge swath of the Bailey Range up close, and the snow capped, jagged peaks of the further ranges of the Olympics, broken apart by deep, glacially carved valleys, could not fail but to inspire even the most jaded scenery snob. Bob appeared the top of Five Fingers and quickly gathered together a rope team to lead out, as the day was getting on and we needed to get through the, now, soft snow of Snow Dome and the Blue. John scrambled up shortly thereafter, but we all agreed to wait for Patrick, the final climber off the mountain. A second Patrick and Joe came up, with the last Patrick following more than an hour after the rappel began. After resting for a while, the two remaining rope teams crossed the rocky traverse and the fat-man-squeezer, gaining snow once again. Although I was out in front, route finding was as easy as possible, for Bob's rope team had blazed the way down the snow and around Crystal Pass, back to the top of the Snow Dome. Thirst was beginning to get to all of us and I was concentrating more on reaching the pool of fresh water than I should have. When on the front of a rope, you have to set the pace based on the others behind you, rather than on your own desires. I wanted to move fast across Snow Dome and could feel myself pulling the climber behind me harder than I should have. Bob's team had followed a different, steeper route down Snow Dome, though still well within my comfort range for plunge stepping. As I moved down the slope, not fighting my momentum, but rather using it, I could feel the pull behind me intensify. The climber behind me was clearly not as comfortable as I was, but I was blinded by thirst until I pulled him off of his feet and into the snow. The spell broken, I slowed the pace considerably and we walked to the pool in more comfort, where I apologized for my thoughtlessness. The affected climber didn't seem to think an apology necessary, but I did. The cold, fresh water and the nearness of the moraine cheered everyone on the two rope teams. From here it seemed like a veritable walk-in-the-park to return to camp, though we knew this was still ninety minutes or more away. A huge rockfall, kicked off by a boulder the size of car, came screaming down the ice fall of the Blue, fortunately far away from our route. What caused the boulder to break loose just then would always be a mystery, serving as a reminder that one can never completely be free of dangers from above. We dropped to the Blue as quickly as possible, crossed the soft snow without any problems, and climbed as high on the snow as possible before gaining the side of the moraine. Unfortunately we were well off the line of descent we had taken this morning and had to work very hard, after unroping, to climb the loose scree to the top of the moraine. All were happy to be back on terra firma, with easy trails and no objective dangers left between us and our camp at Glacier Meadows. At the end of the moraine, I ran into Dan once again. He had camped above us the night before and was spending the day relaxing before heading out tomorrow. He wanted to know all about the route and what we had seen, what was necessary for the climb, and what dangers there were. Being from Utah, such easily accessible glacial regions must have been even more striking than they were to me. He was heading to Paradise and Camp Muir next, high on the slopes of Rainier. I suspected that he would be back as soon as he could, this time with more climbing gear and partners. My hunger and desire to get back to the luxuries of camp, such as shade, cut our conversation short after twenty minutes. I raced done the rocks and onto the snow slopes, boot skiing most of the way back to camp. I was tired, but delighted. Despite not reaching the top of Olympus, I didn't especially care: The process of the climb was the important thing for me. I had reached the top of something named, the Five Fingers, or false summit of Olympus, which was only a few feet shorter than the true summit. Standing on the top of something wasn't the focal point for me or, as I suspected, for any of the others on the climb. Rather, the process of getting to the mountain, the hours involved in the journey itself, were. Someone once said that the only thing you'll find at the top of a mountain is what you bring with you. I agree completely. As I stuffed myself with food and fresh water at camp, lounging about and joking with the others, I thought about how successful the climb had been. How much fun it was. About how much I wanted every climb to be just this way. And about how long the 18 miles out to the parking lot seemed. But that was for tomorrow, and today was all for today. Gear Notes: Standard glacier gear Approach Notes: Hoh River Trail is in good condition, no snow until Glacier Meadows and that is melting fast.

Thanks for the kind words about the TR and the photos. I'm heading out tomorrow to Little Tahoma and hopefully will have something to post next week. Weather looks solid, which means I'm going to fry on the Fryingpan tomorrow.

Climb: Mount Shuksan-Sulfide Glacier Date of Climb: 6/18/2006 Trip Report: Wandering into the Iron Skillet in the town of Sedro-Wooley, I was unsure what I might find in terms of climbers. I was about to embark on a glacier climb of Mount Shuksan with ten people I had never met before. One of them might have to haul me out of crevasse, or catch me on a belay when I took a tumble off some rock. It was a lot of trust to be putting to strangers. Tom, Jeff, Corey, and Chris were seated at a back table about to order breakfast, easily recognizable as climbers rather than locals. Joining them, I did my best to try to get to know the people that might have to save my life over the next day and a half. After a large breakfast, we met the rest of the climbing party at the ranger station and car pooled to the trail head. We split group gear and figured out who was tenting with who, and then hit the trail, an old, overgrown road bed.At 3400 feet, the trail finally began its climb to the alpine, leaving the dull forest behind. Nearing 3800 feet, we ran into the snow that was to be our constant companion for the rest of the climb. In good shape, the snow allowed a rapid ascent up to a ridge where the mountains truly began. Our route was obvious: Shoot the large gap in front of us and then climb to the Sulphide Glacier, which was to be our highway to the summit pyramid of Mount Shuksan. Viewed from the side opposite us, Shuksan looks like a difficult and ominous mountain. From the south, however, the climb is almost a walk. Baker lake, almost hidden by clouds, stretched out behind us. Mount Baker was somewhere in the clouds, but never really came out. After passing through the gap, we encountered several climbing parties on their way out. All had failed to make the summit due to poor snow on the summit pyramid. It seemed, however, that if we reached the pyramid before the sun had reduced it to a sloppy mess, we might have a chance at summitting. Rather than a casual stroll as a civilized hour, we would now have to get a 3 am start. After chatting for thirty minutes, we left the others and traversed on snow above and around a large cirque on the other side of the gap. Finishing the traverse, we climbed directly up, looking for a place suitable to put up the five tents that our party was carrying. While there was plenty of space, little of it was sheltered should a storm blow in. Fortunately, Tom spotted some disturbed snow above us and a brief climb brought us to a spot sheltered from the wind. Two tents from Alpine Ascents International were there already, but the spot was too good to pass up. The party quickly broke into tent groups and got to work on the innumerable number of chores that are required for snow camping. A platform for a tent gets dug out and the tent set up. A kitchen pit gets dug out of the snow. Stove gets fired up to melt snow into drinking water for the night and for the summit attempt. Hot drinks made and dinner cooked. While it takes some time, nothing is particularly difficult to do and the hours passed quickly as I got to know the various members of the party. Eventually the four members of the AAI team returned from a day of glacier travel practice and began their own process. There were two guides and two "uber clients" from Boston that were spending several days practicing various glacier and rock techniques in the mountains of Washington. While friendly enough, they mostly kept to themselves. After dinner we met to discuss gear for the next day and rope assignments. I would be on the lead rope team, directly behind the lead climber. This meant that it would be my job to stop the fall of the person most likely to break through a snow bridge and fall into a crevasse, not exactly the most relaxing position on a rope team. I tied my prussiks onto the rope I'd be on and set out my crampons and ice axe next to the spot in an attempt to make the 2 am wake up and 3 am start time go as smoothly as possible. Oddly enough, I felt none of the nervousness that I had expected gut to feel. I felt no trepidation, no worries. I was actually anticipating, with eagerness, my alarm going off in less than five hours. --------------------- My $13 K-mart watch went off as planned at 2 am, rousing myself and Chris, my tent mate, into action. The air was a bit above freezing when I got out of my sleeping bag and dressed myself for the two thousand foot climb on the Sulphide Glacier. I was a bit too efficient and found myself tied into the rope and ready to go fifteen minutes before our planned start. Others were less so, and I found myself sitting on my pack until nearly 3:20 am, when our rope moved out in front. A thick white mist hung about us and Jeff, the lead climber, navigated with a compass, following a perfect route up and along various features of the glacier. I should have been amazed at the time with the line he followed, and I was later, but at the time I was concentrating mostly on his body, fifteen meters in front of me, watching for any signs of a fall. Up we climbed and slowly the mist lifted, though only partially. We were in a small clear zone from the weather, with short views around us and plenty of clouds in the distance. Two and half hours of easy work got us to within sight of the summit pyramid, tantalizingly close and looking very feasible, as long as the weather held. Unfortunately, our weather break ended quickly as we made the last push to the base of the pyramid, and we were greeted by that feature with snow and complete white-out conditions. After thirty minutes of talking and waiting, we took a vote. The party was evenly split between trying the pyramid in the white out and returning to camp, which forced Tom, the climb leader, into casting the deciding vote. You don't climb into bad weather, and so we turned around for the walk back to basecamp. As we descended, of course, a large patch of blue sky appeared overhead and the sun obliterated the white out, leaving some to question the wisdom of our decision just 30 minutes early. I had no such issues, knowing that Tom had made absolutely the right call at the time. Besides, after thirty minutes of sun the weather returned, including winds and snow, even as low as basecamp. Although I had failed once again to get to the top of a mountain in Washington, I wasn't especially dismayed. Shuksan will be there another time. Gear Notes: Standard glacier gear Approach Notes: Snow starting around 3800 ft. Sulfide Glacier is in good condition with crevasses nicely filled in.