lukeh

Update 8/25/2012: I just compared GPS data from both attempts this year. It looks like we hadn't exactly visited the icefall area in May (it would've been on our left after we took the lower part of the ridge). In May more of the North Ridge rock was covered in snow and we ascended left of the large crevasse guarding the base of the steeper, western section of the ridge. In hindsight we should've tried to taken the steeper section on the east of the ridge, then taken the snow gully up the south-western piece which looked doable.

Thanks everyone for reading! Gary for more equip/technical info go here and look on the right

Trip: Mt. Baker - North Ridge (Attempt) Date: 8/19/2012 Trip Report: Click for a larger picture. Cecil solo ice climbing in the lower Coleman Glacier icefall at midnight. We spent a couple hours in here, listening to seracs settle and collapse, rocks fall, and water flow and drain. See below for a wide shot of this location. Saturday we set out to climb Baker's famous North Ridge route with its massive ice cliff. The plan was to camp near the lower Coleman icefall, sharpen our ice climbing skills, then meet up with Alin the next day to cross the torn-up Coleman to get on some steep stuff. This was technically the 3rd attempt for Alin and I, although I don't really count the first attempt where a team member's crampon malfunction ended the climb before it even began. Read about that here, and about the "real" first attempt here. Playing around in the lower icefall at night was a unique experience for me. We ended up camping on a rock area near the glacial border that turned out to be a giant, solid ice block covered in rock/dirt. It was relatively out of the way of other rocks and seracs, but the whole thing could've moved at any time. I probably won't do that again, but it allowed me close proximity to the motion-controlled time-lapse I had setup deeper inside the icefall. Thankfully by the next morning nothing had yet collapsed on my gear, which spent all night beneath some tenuous structures. The next day we climbed up to about 6,000ft past some gorgeous terrain filled with wildflowers and waterfalls. We setup camp next to a stream overlooking the valley near some large moats and crevasses. After taking a nap, Alin arrived and some route reconnaissance got underway . The Coleman looked extremely broken up in places, and the path to take the North Ridge looked uncertain. I used my telephoto lens to try and find a way through a couple of the worst sections. It looked iffy, but probably doable, so that meant we were gonna try it. We slept in a bit later as some light would be necessary to actually find our way through the maze of crevasses on the glacier. Cecil did a solid job of navigating through some of most difficult sections. A couple spots involved jumping to thin ice bridges from already melting platforms. I probably wouldn't have done it if I was leading, so props to Cecil for braving these sections, some of which involved some serious leaps to tenuous landings. As we approached the ridge's typical early-season paths, we found they looked extremely steep and exposed to rockfall and gaping, rock edge-to-rock edge crevasses and moats. We opted to go low and around the corner to where we had taken the ridge in mid-May. After finally getting up over some large crevassed hills to get a clear view, Alin and I did not recognize anything. Compared to what we saw in June, it looked like someone had taken a billion tons of dynamite (yes exactly "a billion") and set it off everywhere up this side of the mountain. Massive seracs toppled over one another and left gaping holes in between. A huge piece of the ice cliff had broken off on the left side, and what remained of the left was overhanging ice above. The right side looked vertical with an insane looking rock base and crevasses protecting it. We saw a potential path far left, but navigating up near the ice cliff was the first obstacle. There were two potential paths, one left, and one right that traversed back left. From our vantage point we couldn't see if either were doable, so we climbed to about 8,600 feet only to realize neither would go. All paths were cut-off by huge gaps between some of the largest pieces of broken ice I've seen. After realizing we would need to turn-around, we took some pics and were off back down the 45 degree slope we'd climbed that put us deep in the mess of seracs. None of us felt bad because the trip so far had already been so much fun. I had not yet climbed seracs in an icefall at night or navigated through such ridiculously broken-up terrain. Looking at the pictures now I can see that the ice cliff looks doable if you can get up to it. I think a really strong team willing to take on more risk than I could do it. Taking the ridge on the lower part was just a bit too much. It's extremely steep and just under an active rockfall area with a huge crevasse waiting for you at every possible fall point. Plus it's not clear what's these alternate entry points, so you'd be fully committed. Strong, experienced climbers I'd love to hear your thoughts (see the bottom of this entry for high-res route pics). If our party would've found a path through the upper icefall area, however, and taken a closer look at the ice cliff, I think we would've stood a chance, especially with Cecil on lead for the cliff proper. Click for a larger picture. Scouting the terrain we'd need to cross to get to the North Ridge. We're forced to turn around here for obvious reasons. Above this icefall was a clear, albeit heavily crevassed path to the chaos below we'd cross in the morning. One of the most broken-up sections on the lower Coleman. We had to jump a a couple of sections from thin ice protrusions to tenuous landings, some on other thin ice protrusions. Some sections were shallow here, others disappeared into black holes. We found this glacial Anvil just below the North Ridge. On the way back we spent a lot of time here consoling our failed attempt with some tomfoolery and ballyhoo (pardon the language). Video still. Long-shot of the lower Coleman icefall. I ran up here as quickly as possible to show the scale of this place with Cecil still climbing inside. We camped on the border of this thing on a rocky area which turned out to be a giant cracked serac with rocks on it. Don't try this yourself. Our camp at about 6,000 feet. We had a stream of running water right next to us. flowing through perfectly carved out rock. Immediately behind us was the crevassed Coleman glacier. Flowers, low-flowing clouds...yeah probably the best campsite I've used yet. Alin before dawn contemplating snow bridges and bottomless crevasses. Ice climbing by starlight (no moon this weekend). After packing up our camp (down next to the icefall on the left), we head up past wildflowers and waterfalls towards our second camp. Cecil contemplates Mt. Baker's impressive terrain. A closer look at the ice cliff which is at about 9,000 feet. If could get across the incision on the right, the cliff looks doable by climbing up the left side of the arete, then either taking the ramp on the left or just climbing straight up hugging the left of the arete. We could not find a suitable path up to the cliff. Dignity in defeat. Also yes the cover art for our upcoming album of ice tools being played on seracs of differing thicknesses. And by ice tools I mean dead chicken carcasses. And by dead chicken carcasses I mean string cheese. More pictures: For even more pictures from this climb go here. Climbers: For high-resolution route pics click here, and for a closer look at the where the green arrow points in the first pic (it's a whole different world behind that rock), click here. Once we got closer to the red arrow locations, they looked less and less doable, although they look promising here (at least the left variation sort of does). Time-lapses: I took two time-lapses on this climb. One inside the ice fall on the lower Coleman Glacier at night, the other at our camp of the sun setting. They will become a part of my Untitled Time-lapse Project which I hope to release later this year. Gear Notes: Brought six screws, a picket each (3). Approach Notes: Lots o' crevasses. One pretty nasty creek/river crossing.

Congrats on what looks like an awesome climb. Nice meeting you guys on the way down the DC (me = solo climber headed up to the crater to camp).

Trip: Little Tahoma - Camp on Summit (Night Photography) - Frying Pan/Whitman Date: 8/12/2012 Trip Report: Click for a larger picture. Getting to camp much later than expected. We settled for Meaney Crest despite the plan of camping in the middle of the Frying Pan Glacier for the best views. I hadn't taken this approach before as early season has quicker, snow-filled approaches. We had to scramble and route-find in the moonless night, but we finally made it. I woke up in the middle of the night to see a crescent moon had subtlety illuminated the rocks and glaciers, and meteors were sailing across the sky. These moments... I'll let the pictures mostly tell the story for this post. I had tried Little Tahoma before, but bailed when we were running out of light and ended up just snowboarding down the Frying Pan all the way to the Frying Pan Creek bridge crossing (more here). This time I had brought an alpine newbie (but experienced rock climber), Sveta. If I would've known how sketchy and long the crevassed, steep snow/ice slope was on the upper Whitman Glacier before taking the rocky summit block, I would not have gone with someone new. This was at the very end of an otherwise pleasant, leisurely climb. I ended up kicking the most elaborate staircase for over 1,000 feet up the hard, exposed slope, hoping the rope-attached Sveta would not fall as self arrest would've been difficult/impossible on much of this. Due to the step-kicking it probably took us 3x as long, but I don't regret a single swing of my foot. A mistake could easily meant a ~2,000ft. fall that would probably ended in a deep, crevassed tomb. My tension focus-level was at an all-time high, but taking it one step at a time got us to our goal. I really felt responsible for someone else's life at this stage, and it was a heavy burden. The rocky upper section was her element, albeit we had overnight packs on which made things really interesting (especially climbing some 4th class sections with 65 pounds on my back). I don't know if anyone has ever camped on top of Little Tahoma. Why would you? You'd have to be crazy because there is not a single reasonable spot to bivy. Not one. But we made it work after scouring the whole upper ridge for a spot that I dug out of dirt/rock. We couldn't camp lower due to rockfall danger, so the big packs went with us just short of the tippy-top. A giant rat made it clear it wasn't shy and would sometimes come with in 6 inches of Sveta. Sitting up in my sleeping bag without a tent and shining my light into the eyes of the biggest rat I've ever seen wasn't comforting. I was a little sick with fear in the morning. We had to now go down the steep section, roped together. After a benign fall by Sveta almost right away (thankfully in a safe spot), I opted to have us move to a scree field on the far right for the upper steep section. I belayed her out to it over a shorter, really steep section that would've been better with 2 tools, then I soloed after her. This scree field was in the worst rock fall area I've ever seen. Huge boulders were suspended above by what? I don't know, they looked like they were floating. I pictured them with brains and eyes just watching us through crosshairs. They were massive, intimidating. It took a long time to slide and down climb this area, but I prefered it to the steep, hard snow with someone who probably wasn't ready to win any self-arrest contests just yet. A couple of softball-sized rocks whizzed by my head. When we were halfway down I traversed back on the snow and found our tracks down the steep, crevassed bottom section. By this time the snow was soft. The steps I kicked the day before felt luxurious going down. I deserved them. We made it off the crevassed steep section quickly now that things were soft and a self-arrest would be easy. Sveta did a good job leading us through/over the crevasses near the bottom. I was elated being out of this section. The rest was nothing compared to this. Passing through Summerland on the way back was a gift. Wildflowers were everywhere. The place was an oasis within an already beautiful landscape. I wished I could stayed and watch the sunset again, and fall asleep under the stars. But life isn't that easy. Sveta near the summit of the 11,138ft. Little Tahoma, overlooking the Emmons and Ingraham Glaciers. The exposure/down straight down to the Emmons on the right here was so ridiculous (2-3,000 feet) it made me laugh. The summit scramble was super exposed, we ended up rappeling back down to the less exposed regions. On the way back we pass through Summerland again. This place is beautiful. A sight for sore eyes. Well the whole park is really. The forest beyond here is also mesmerizing in the late afternoon as the lights dim and things grow quiet. Three peaks, one mountain. Little Tahoma (11,138ft) left, Rainier middle (14,411ft at Columbia Crest), Liberty Cap (14,112 ft) right. Little Tahoma looks almost as big as Rainier here, but see here to put things into perspective from Rainier. The weekend before I camped on top of the Disappointment Cleaver (rock outcropping middle left on Rainier at 12,200ft), then on the summit crater. The Frying Pan glacier offered a B-line to the Whitman Gap without any crevasse crossings. The mountain from Summerland. Chipmunk's tried to ravage Sveta's pack here. Near the summit of Little Tahoma as climbers make their way up the Disappointment Cleaver route as daylight draws near. A late climber is just about to reach the DC, and is in the most dangerous area on that route right now for rock/ice fall. The Perseids meteors shower was in full effect tonight. Sveta close to the summit of Little T. There were zero bivy spots up here so I dug as much out of the dirt and rock to make something workable. A giant rat was not shy about hanging around. Sleeping without a tent with a huge rat around you was not comforting. I would sit up, shine my light, and there he was, getting as close as 6" away. The biggest I've ever seen. He ended up eating Sveta's unfinished freeze-dried meal we stored 30 feet away. Hearing him eat that made me feel good as it meant he wasn't right by my head. I also killed a few big spiders near the sleeping bag before going to bed. If I hadn't already gone through a white knuckle journey getting here it would've bothered me more. Two time-lapses were taken from this trip: One from Meaney Crest overlooking the Frying Pan Glacier, and the other from the summit ridge of Little T. Trailer for this project is here. Gear Notes: 1 picket (didn't use), 1 screw (didn't use), crevasse rescue gear. Copied from my blog. More photography here .

Wow! I didn't know it was even climbable.

Added some new pics I took last year from Mt. Ruth of this route/mountain.

Trip: Mt. Shuksan - North Face - Fisher Chimney Descent Date: 7/20/2012 Trip Report: Things are about to get steep. Mick at about 6300ft. on Shuksan's North Face after a lucky break avoiding some morning ice fall debris. Shuksan North Face route (picture taken last year from Mt. Ruth) Shuksan North Face route (picture taken last year from Mt. Ruth Summit) Shuksan from Mt. Ruth summit with a tidal wave of a cloud between us (picture taken last year).North Face route on the right.Click for larger version. Around midnight on July 20th I received a call from a friend living in Europe while getting into my car. I wasn't in a normal mind state. I had just walked over 3 miles in the rain at night, alone, right down the center of the paved road that goes from the Lake Anne trailhead, through the Mt. Baker Ski resort entrance, and down to the White Salmon Lodge parking lot. I had been climbing for the 16 hours straight in the freezing rain, and this was after taking a ~55lb pound pack up and over Shuksan's North Face route the day prior (I brought too much beef jerky and a few 10-pound dumbbells just in case I got bored and needed a work out). While trying to have a normal conversation, my mind drifted. I felt like I had just been through a traumatic event, like a Republican National Convention or something. When I returned to work on Monday everything felt trivial. Nothing seemed to matter compared to what I had been through. Now thinking about it a few weeks later it doesn't seem that bad. The mind and body must purposefully reduce our memories of extreme events as a survival mechanism. Anyway, I'm sure a lot of people reading this have been through much worse, but it's all relative, and relatively speaking this was one of the most intense experiences I've had. Certainly the most intense in climbing, even though my Mt. Baker North Ridge attempt in May seemed hard to beat. I remember calling out to the only soul I saw on the way back to my car. He was going into a private lodge near the ski area. I just wanted a ride to my car. He pretended not to hear me, then closed and locked the door behind him. I dunno, maybe I would've done the same. What was someone doing walking down the middle of the road at 11pm when the resort was closed and not one other person was outside? When I finally made it to my car it was still raining. Mick, Catalin, and Alin had setup camp in their wet clothes back at the Lake Anne trailhead. If I was to continue to the car, they insisted I take a tent, sleeping bag, etc. just in case anything went wrong. I just couldn't bring myself to try and setup camp in wet clothes. I would've walked 10 more miles just to be able to turn on the car heater and get into something dry. The car to me also represented the removal of any further variables that could go wrong. It was some kind of peace of mind that I needed. I was obsessed with getting to the car and no one else understood. This idea of the car as safety, however, was problematic. My car had died about 10 times on the way up here due to a faulty aftermarket remote start system. We kept pulling over on I-5 as the car died, but eventually we just accepted it as the cost of getting this trip completed. We had already postponed it once due to weather, and other trips had been compromised early this season due to unpredictable early season weather patterns. We were going to make this one happen, 15-20 minutes at a time, which was the interval in which the car would die. To make matters worse, sometimes the car wouldn't start after dying until I performed certain button-pushing and waiting rituals with the remote. We were really risking getting stuck out here, but fate dictated that we were going to get on this route come hell or car-dying-a-lot water...I think that's how the saying goes. Given all of this, you can only imagine the grin on my face when--after stumbling to my car late that night--I tried the remote...and the car actually started! I went straight for a cooler Mick had brought and drank this peach-flavored canned drink that tasted like the nectar of some goddess (I've had goddess nectar before, this is how I know). I ate and changed into dry clothes and pumped the heat. After 16 hours of freezing in the rain, the feeling was indescribable...but here I'll try, "good" and "warm". Yes, "good" and "warm" is exactly what it felt like. My friend called as I drove back to the Lake Anne trailhead. The road was closed and I wasn't going to hike another half mile back up to where they were camped, so I parked and eventually passed out in the back seat. 2 days earlier we had weighed our packs at the White Salmon Lodge parking lot. Mine was 60 pounds with one of the 60 meter ropes. I thought I must be crazy to carry that heavy sack over the this route. The photography equipment adds 10 pounds for me easily. At least wasn't bringing the dolly and all of the battery/equip that goes with that, I rationalized. So yeah let's just get on the move. For this climb we had enlisted the help of Mick, a professional guide who came highly recommended from Alin/Catalin. Our failed Baker North Ridge attempt left us wanting someone more experienced to help fill in some gaps in how we ran things on harder routes. The original plan was then to follow up the Shuksan North Face immediately with our own Liberty Ridge adventure. Then the trip was postponed due to weather, so Liberty Ridge still awaits maybe next year. Anyway the idea was to have Mick there as more of an adviser, not as someone to hold our hand. He really came through, especially when things got dicey near the end of the trip. We started bushwhacking almost immediately after parking the car near the White Salmon Lodge's outer gate. It felt like we were in a 70s swingers' club, so much bushwhacking over such varied terrain. We'd come to these stream/river drops and have to navigate down, through, and over to the next one. Catalin took a scary fall on one after perhaps miscalculated how steep it was. Branches kept trying to rip my gear off my pack, and were successful at least once with my camera tripod. After hours of bushwhacking, our legs and arms looked like something that has a lot of scratches on it. Like a scratched up leg...or arm. Hi mom. A hop, skip, and a jump later we made base camp around 6,000 feet overlooking Price Lake. There was a water source a few hundred yards back down the slope where we camped. I made sure to drop my nalgene bottle just before filling it up. Catalin and I watched it tumble down into oblivion for what felt like several minutes. I had done the same thing on Baker's North Ridge. Never ask me to hold your Nalgene bottle if you actually want it back. Clouds began to roll in and a thick moisture began immediately soaking everything that was left uncovered, including my sleeping pad. That night was the most miserable night of my life sleeping on a soaking wet pad, halfway out of my tent in my rain shells. I had brought the 2-pound outer tent of my Hilleberg Akto to use as a 2-man tarp tent. It kind of sucked this first night. Mick's Indian Food was good for dinner, but not for after dinner if you kids out there know what I'm saying. I put on some Chopin in the headphones and thought about a happy place, like the exact same situation, but with just me in the tent and everything dry. Mick had scoped the route earlier and could see that the route was mostly doable. There was one hidden section he wasn't 100% on, so we'd just need to go for it. We woke up early with the stars still shining. Price Lake below was now fully covered in clouds, which meant it was time to start the route (it didn't actually mean that, but that's how I took it). To be truthful, I was a little sick from nerves, but I just pushed it all down, took out my tools, and yelled a few lines from Braveheart (well, mumbled them to myself after everyone had already started towards the route). An hour later Mick was showing me the low/high dagger ice axe positions (I believe that's what you call these - more pushing the axe into the snow vs. swinging) which I'd seen Ueli Steck use in Reel Rock 2010. It changed my life on this route. I had been swinging my tools like an idiot, using way too much energy unnecessarily on snow that was penetrable with much less. I had done some ice climbing in Ouray a few years ago, but I generally haven't done much in the way of steep routes since and in Ouray I was mostly swinging away at hard ice. Baker North Ridge caught me off guard in terms of how steep it was, so I need some practice and the remote North Face of Shuksan seemed like the safest bet (there is no ice climbing video game for the Kinect yet). Anyway Mick was moving across the lower, exposed part of the route, occasionally putting down a picket. All of a sudden ice debris started coming down the route directly in front of us. Alin yelled "Avalanche!" and I started moving backwards. "Avalanche" was probably an overstatement, but there were some deadly chunks coming down this face right in front of us. We all paused and Mick asked if we wanted to continue. Affirmative. We kept going and crossed these 15-foot wide slide paths, maybe 3-4 of them. We would have to cross them once more higher up, and no one really wanted to do that. Things started to get steep, and on our second crossing of these slide paths we moved as quickly as possible. Stepping through them made your stomach ill. You knew stuff that would kill you had bowled down these and would do it again without giving a shit about your little adventure. We started to get into some steep terrain. 45-60 degrees was the norm for the rest of the face, and it felt like most of it was on the steeper end of that scale. The snow was getting softer too as the sun rose higher, so we really wanted to get up and off this thing asap. Mick and I were on one rope, Alin and Catalin on another. Mick would mostly solo up, and I would follow being belayed. As we got higher I would take the lead a couple times on some of the super steep, then set anchors and belay Mick up. We probably should've done a lot more simulclimbing, but the belay breaks were nice, especially when carrying this ridiculous amount of weight. After running the 60m rope out on a 55-60 degree slope it was hard to find the calf strength to keep that up without at least a short break. We worked our way around a few crevasses/moats and finally made it to the top. I was so happy to be alive. I was also feeling really comfortable now on this terrain. It wasn't lost on any of us that a fall during a large portion of our climbing would've probably killed both rope mates. You have to wonder if it's safer in a lot of these situations to just solo the thing, rather than be exposed to rock/ice fall longer or trust that a picket would actually hold a 180 foot whipper on a 60 degree slope. I think we all actually felt pretty comfortable on the terrain, however, and if we didn't we would've put in some intermediate pro. Mick was good about having these types of conversations post-climb, discussing pros/cons, things we could've done differently, etc. Anyway at the top Mick decided to hang a left around the summit pyramid. He thought about going straight up the pyramid from the North, but wasn't sure about our rock skills and I wasn't sure about climbing in boots with a 55-pound pack up some harder rock. It seemed to take forever to get back on the Sulphide, mostly because we were out of water, the sun was in full force, and the wind was gone. We tried to move quickly under some big seracs on the SE side of Shuksan, but we were nearly finished from dehydration. Mick wanted to continue to the summit before camping due to time, but we conspired against him and forced a mutiny that involved us boiling water asap. We agreed to camp closer to the southeast to save time, then the water started boiling. I just can't go fast if I'm completely dehydrated or way too hot, and climbing just isn't that fun for me when unnecessarily forced into pain. I can take it when it's necessary, but I'm not trying to climb miserably thirsty if it's not 100% needed. To help speed the water situation, I tried to get creative and had Catalin lower me into a moat/crevasse where we could see water drops. I ended up untying from the rope when I saw a ramp out through some holes. The drops ended up being too small and it was taking 20 minutes to get a half liter. After setting up camp, drinking and eating, we hustled up the summit pyramid. I had been there two years before from the Sulphide (blog entry here). I had tried to solo it after Brendan's blisters rendered him unable to continue. I turned back about 300 or so feet from the summit when I no longer felt like I could comfortably down climb the 5th class stuff. We reached the top and the view was amazing. You could see our basecamp, and the parking lot, and Mt. Baker, and trees, and other stuff that you have in a mountainous landscape. Would you believe goats? Yeah, we couldn't really see any goats. Well, it was really satisfying to be up here after doing such a remote route. We hadn't seen a soul on that route at any point until we reached the Sulphide, where there were droves. Standing on the summit was nice, but then I kept hearing the voice of Ed Viesturs. No, not "Getting to the top is optional..", his other quote about sharing a sleeping bag with another dude "spooning is OK, forking is not". I'm paraphrasing. The next morning the light was so gorgeous I wanted to throw my Canon 5D MKII off a cliff. The shutter had stopped working with "Err 30" at the base of the North Face route, and I haven't mentioned it until now because I still am pissed about it. It meant no time-lapses, and no cool pics from me above about 6500ft. Anyway the weather started coming in quick, and in no time we were lost in a whiteout above the descent to Hell's Highway. My GPS was brought out and saved the day. In no time we were rapelling down the super steep onto the Upper Curtis, Mick soloing like a madman behind us. It had started raining and things were getting miserable and cold. If I known this would last until midnight that night (it was around 9am) and I would've immediately jumped into a crevasse like it was a Mario Brothers warp pipe and hoped for the best. Things cleared up for a quick minute as we descended toward Winnie's slide. Mick belayed Alin and Catalin down a steep, icy slope to the rocks above Winnie's slide, I opted to solo down feeling really comfortable at this stage. I wish I could also say fast, but I just mean "comfortable" (I was the last one down). It had started raining hard again and Mick was getting super cold. We all were, but I was a little bit better insulated at this stage. I built an anchor at the top of the steepest part of Winnie's slide and we all rappelled down, with Mick cleaning and soloing down. Entering the Chimneys, I didn't know what to expect. I had tried this route as an ascent route last year (more on that here with some of my favorite pics), but we couldn't find the right entry point. We now had similar problems, we couldn't find the descent route. Mick had done it multiple times so we were all pretty puzzled. Good thing it wasn't raining and we weren't freezing. After exploring a few options, Mick setup an anchor and rap'd down to check out an unlikely steep descent. He emerged a while later and said it was way too steep. We tried a few more paths, and finally re-ascended and found that a snow wall had hidden the route in the most cruel, perfect way. It was ridiculous how cunningly this snow wall cut off the route at the just the right point such that you would follow a different game path. Easily forgivable route finding error in my opinion. We were off down the chimneys. There were one of two spots where Mick helped lower us, but otherwise it was totally doable down climbing, even the spots there were rap anchors could be down-climbed without much difficulty. The rain had subsided for a bit, but it started in again as we got lower and lower. We met a handful of moats that were ridiculously technical to get onto. Underneath them was a gap that would seriously injure or possibly kill you. Mick helped protect these as we used two tools to mount the snow over the intimidating gaps. We were all completely soaked by now and freezing, and the obstacles kept coming. Sketchy moat after sketchy moat. We stopped taking off crampons because we'd have to put them back on again, sometimes in the worst spots. I was miserable by this time, and could not even think of stopping again to pull out the ropes and setup pro. Mick remained super calm and calculating, bringing out the ropes and dutifully protecting all of these sections. If I wasn't with him, I probably would've just taken the risk and solo'd due to just how uncomfortable standing in the freezing rain that long made me. I'm like a cat - I just hate being all wet like that. If you would've offered me $100 to take off my pack and put it back on, I would've told you to F off. That's how uncomfortable I get when cold and wet. But we got through it. Seeing the frozen-over Lake Anne was not pretty, but it meant the worst of it was behind us. Now please stop raining? Nope. One last mistake before the long hike back from Lake Anne. I had been following the trail on my GPS, and had initiated an argument with Mick/Catalin about the route. I started taking my own route, then realized too late that the trail had forked. Mick and Catalin were trying to cross a raging river higher up, now that was impossible. Mick started to talk about camping out here as it was getting late. It was simply not an option for me. I was going slowly, but I had a ton of reserves and the motivation to get someplace where I could be dry was huge for me. Mick lead us right to the river, had us unstrap our packs, and just plowed through the icy currents up to our knees. We kept moving but Alin was slowing down a lot. He was carrying a wet 60m rope, which must've weighed over 10 pounds with the water weight (I don't know how exactly much weight water adds to ropes, but it's a lot). Tensions were running high as the group was leaning towards camping and I just did not see it as an option. We stopped for 10 minutes so Alin could rest. It started to get dark. We kept moving, with Alin transferring the rope to Catalin. Later Catalin would say he wanted to abandon the rope and just write a check to the owner for the amount, it was that trying to carry it after 15 hours of climbing. Later that night after walking down the center of the road alone in the dark, thick rain, I was sure that--after all of this--a cougar was going to jump out of the woods and eat me. Bushwhacking towards our route. Someone needs to fire the landscapers responsible for this part of the North Cascades. Mick makes his way through dense brush. After 3 miles of 'Nam-like bushwhacking incurring tick bites, gashes, strangulation and gear pick-pocketing by branches, we noticed a clear trail 200 feet south of our path. Kidding there is no trail here, only pain. Hope. But also a lot more bushwhacking. Photo by Alin. Catalin, refusing to let me initiate an immediate airlift, settles for a band-aid. Sunset at base camp. Disgusted with the subpar North Cascadian views, I shortly retire to my tent (kidding, this place is beautiful). I think this is me returning from scoping the base of the route the night before. The route is that mess of crevasses in the top-right that drops down several thousand feet to Price Lake. Looking out from Shuksan to Mt. Ruth (far right) and friends. Last season Catalin and I were looking over here from Mt. Ruth. After hearing huge rockfall sounds the entire night on Ruth every hour, I remember thinking that people must be crazy to climb these parts of Shuksan. Well maybe I was looking more at the Price Glacier, which I'd love to do someday. Alin and Catalin are either putting the tent up, or taking it down in the morning. I can't remember. Either way they are doing a great job . Mick leading out the more moderate base section of the North Face. Moderate in relative steepness to the rest of this beast, but the exposure here was deadly. Alin - probably the last smile of the day until we reached camp that evening and realized we were still alive. Mick continues on the base of the route. Alin yelled "Avalanche!" and we saw big chunks of ice come down on our intended path. Mick asked for confirmation that we wanted to continue. Yep. My stupid camera breaks just after I take the first picture in this post. My camera, tripod, lens, batteries, all probably close to 10 pounds. I'd carry up an extra 10 pounds on the Shuksan North Face for nothing. Very frustrated at this point. This picture is of my broken SLR shutter being worthless. As we top out the route, my camera somehow manages to take one last picture of Mick contemplating going left around the summit pyramid. 3/4ths of the way up the North Face I was able to search online for the error on my camera (just like John Muir would've done). I would need to send it in was the consensus on the forums. As Mick approaches this crevasse he comments "Wow I really love crossing snow bridges at 1:30 in the afternoon" . Fisher Chimney descent in the most miserable of rainy conditions. Here I think we got a 40 minute respite from the soul crushing rain. Taken using my iPhone, just like old man Fisher probably did on his first ascent. Mick on the Fisher Chimneys. So many miles to go before we slept. Taken using my iPhone. From base camp to the summit via the North Face route. Mt. Baker sits and watches us with complete disinterest. Full route from the White Salmon Lodge parking lot, over Shuksan, and back to the White Salmon Lodge parking lot. My GPS didn't get the approach so I drew it in here. Overall I think the whole thing was well over 20 miles, which included me walking the last 3 miles back solo on pavement with mountaineering boots to the car from the Lake Anne trail head. Hell's Highway and Fisher Chimneys descent. The moat crossings after the Chimneys may very well have been the most trying parts of the trip. Hell's Highway is something to see. Luke Blog | Photography | Video Gear Notes: A few pickets, 2 60m ropes for the way up. A couple screws were used on any icy section above Winnie's slide on the descent. Some rock pro for anchors on some of the sketchy moats below the Chimneys. Approach Notes: A lot of bushwhacking. Bring a machete.

Thanks all for reading and for the comments! Luke thanks again for looking after my lens, wow what a great feeling getting that note was after being sick from thinking I lost it. If I ever climb with you the after-climb beer + meal is definitely on me! My best wishes to the woman with the leg injury - I hope she makes a quick and full recovery.

Trip: Sahale Mountain - Video/Pics of the Aurora - Sahale Arm/Glacier Date: 7/14/2012 Trip Report: [video:vimeo]45819280 Above: The Northern Lights show themselves behind Sahale Mountain and Boston Peak. Clip was featured on the NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams on July 16th. I didn't know the Northern Lights were supposed to make an appearance the weekend Brendan and I were heading up to Sahale Mountain. I think he mentioned it on the way up, and it would influence the direction I would point my camera on the second night. We were originally going to do Glacier Peak, but road closures and the desire to take more pictures and do less hiking turned us towards Sahale. My plan was to camp on the Sahale Arm the first night, and camp on the summit the second night. I'd seen pictures from the summit of Boston Peak and the surrounding area and it looked beautiful. When you pull up to the trail head you're already treated to spectacular sites such as the hanging glaciers on the north face of Johannesburg Mountain. In the parking lot we spoke with some skiers returning from a day trip just as an ice avalanche rumbled behind us off of one of these hanging glaciers. The approach starts out through a beautiful wooded area full of moderate switchbacks that open up often to gorgeous views east and west. We crossed several sketchy moat/streams that would soon collapse under some poor soul's feet sending them into the creeks below. As night approached we crossed some sketchy hard, slippery snow-filled gullies which we'd later cross using crampons. We pulled ice axes out mid-gully after realizing a fall with a heavy pack would have severe consequences. We avoided a second crossing higher up by bushwhacking straight up towards the Sahale Arm. It was pitch black by this time, and we kept seeing flashes we assumed were our headlamps out of our periphery. When we reached the Arm and had a view of the summit, we saw that the flashes were lightning from a very active storm that appeared to be just behind Sahale's summit, which was probably 2-3 miles away. The storm seemed to be almost level with us, so it freaked me out a bit to be on a ridge so close to it. If it floated over towards us it felt like we'd be smack in the middle of a lightning storm. This all said, we heard no thunder so the storm must have been extremely far away and it just looked close. The lightning would light up the entire valley, however, including the mountains behind us every few minutes. Anyway I setup a time-lapse of our tent with Magic Mountain behind it and a bit of the Milky Way then went to bed. Brendan was getting some cool shots of the lightning behind Sahale. I told Brendan I would collapse the tent if the storm started to come our way. We picked a lower part of the ridge that seemed to have plenty of higher objects around. I had just read about a bunch of people dying in the Tetons from a lightning storm, and they included a bunch of warnings about staying off ridges and summits. The next day we made our way up toward the Sahale Glacier, passing several friendly-looking marmots along the way. The glacier looked pretty small and roping up seemed like overkill, but we did it anyway. We saw a few parties half-way up the steep section just before the summit sort of linger there for a while. I couldn't understand why they were staying in one place for so long vs. moving towards or away from the summit block. Finally one party came down and passed us. Someone had dislodged a large rock at the summit block and it had broken a woman's leg pretty badly. The passing party had a way to "satellite text" the Marblemount ranger station to initiate a helicopter rescue. We then passed the woman who was being assisted down by a man, her leg was done up in a makeshift splint. I have a picture that includes her in the frame if she wants it, but I won't post it here as it feels like bad form. We kept going towards the summit with our heavy packs with a possible plan to sleep as close as possible to the top. Another man was down-climbing and I noticed his knee looked really bloody/battered. He was near the rock as it dislodged and it had hit him before the woman. We offered assistance, but they had everything they needed. Continuing towards the summit, we made it to the rocky area at the very top where the accident occurred. I wanted to chop out a platform and set camp, but Brendan wasn't very excited about the idea. I'm glad he wasn't because--while I'm fairly sure no one has ever camped that high on Sahale therefore the photos would be original--we would've missed the northern view of the Aurora. Before we left I scrambled up to within about 30 feet of the summit. It's definitely 4+ class rock. I didn't feel comfortable down-climbing the last section, so I bailed and we headed back down to some flat terrain on the glacier to take pictures. We noticed the glacier indeed was crevassed, we had narrowly avoided some larger crevasses on the way up without even seeing them from our POV. We setup camp and began taking pictures of the setting sun as a helicopter arrived to evacuate the injured party on the glacier. The helicopter made several trips over the course of a couple hours, sometimes baffling us as to what it was actually up to due to seemingly strange flying behavior. Night came and I had found my time-lapse location. I took a few test pictures and noticed purple and green colors in the sky via the camera LCD. I though my white balance was messed up. It wasn't. The Aurora was approaching and you couldn't yet make it out with the naked eye. I thought about being on El Dorado (El Dorado can be seen from the lower Sahale Glacier) the year before the Aurora had appeared before my eyes on the summit just after I had setup once of my favorite motion-controlled time-lapses of the iconic knife-ridge El Dorado summit. The Aurora can definitely be seen with the naked eye, but like the milky way and starry night, a long exposure on a good DSLR depicts the scene in much more vivid detail. In the morning thunderstorms surrounded the mountain and we could hear frequent rumbling as we descended. I retrieved my equipment that had been rained on, but was undamaged. The images I flipped through were amazing to me. I was so glad for the opportunity to capture such vivid pictures of this rare site for WA state. As the morning progressed, we captured a few pics of the awesome clouds surrounding Buckner Mountain and the adjacent valleys, then set off into the clouds below. I had though I lost my 70-200 lens the day before and had backtracked searching everywhere. Upon returning to the car a note was on my windshield. Someone from the party of the injured climber (I believe) also named Luke had found my lens on my hitch and took it to the ranger station. A big thank you for doing that, I was a little distraught at losing a $700 lens on that trip. Positive Karma hopefully comes your way in future climbs. Finally, after posting my time-lapse of the Aurora on Vimeo Sunday night, someone from the NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams discovered it and asked if it could be shown on that night's broadcast. It was featured on July 16th for their audience of ~7 million viewers. Kind of cool. What a great end to an exciting weekend adventure in the mountains. I only wish I could've seen a bear which I understand are often spotted in this area, including one post I always read about where a grizzly was spotted. A study in tent emergence on the Sahale Arm on the first night. I recorded a time-lapse of Magic Mountain behind us as the Milky Way floated past. Lightning from behind Sahale Mountain would frequently light up the entire landscape, including all of the mountains around Magic Mountain (e.g Johannesburg). ...when most are already fast asleep.... A spectacular drop (2,000+ feet?) to a heavily crevassed area below (Horseshoe Basin?) that approaches Buckner Mountain, the ~10th highest mountain in the state. Mt. Baker at sunset from above the Sahale Glacier. A helicopter rescue of a woman with a badly broken leg takes place around sunset (Helicopter just above center frame, injured party on the glacier just left of center frame). A rock had come loose on the summit block and landed on her leg. We passed them on the way up and thankfully someone had a satellite device that could be used to alert park rangers. Boston Peak behind the Sahale summit, with Buckner to the right. The starts are coming out and the effects of a solar flare from a few days ago on the sun are about to manifest themselves in the most beautiful way in these dark skies. Midnight stroll from a lonely camp on the edge of a cliff. The aurora creeps in behind me. Did I get scared and run and try to hide from the Aurora? No comment. Peak aurora around 2:30 AM just before the moon rises. No Photoshop or color changes here, I know it looks almost fake, but this is pretty much straight out of the camera. Dark, strangely shaped clouds pass between Sahale and Boston Peak as we sleep. Another shot from the Sahale Arm. I later learned you should not camp here. Some spectacular clouds appeared everywhere in the morning before we left (Buckner Mountain here). Thunder rumbled all around us as we descended the Sahale Arm. I could see no lightning, but ominous clouds were everywhere. Setting up a time-lapse for the Aurora with Kessler Crane equipment. I carry all of this on my back up these mountains in a backpack that is usually ~70 pounds. Photo by Brendan Dore. Stubai Crampons, a ton of random camera equipment in a waterproof bag, a Kessler pocket dolly with motor and controller, a Gitzo tripod, and Brendan above the Sahale Glacier near the summit. [/img] Our path up to the summit block. 14 miles round-trip with ~5700ft of gain. Rescue map. Luke Blog | Photography | Video Gear Notes: Ice floss 37m rope, one picket, gas-powered weed-whacker (more for show). Approach Notes: Watch out for marmots.

Thanks all for the comments. Xerinae I followed that link in your post - great stuff. sourstraw - I hope you had a more comfortable climb than us!

Ah never mind I think I have the hang of it with the precip loops for WA. Thanks for the pointer!

We knew we had weather coming in at ~11am. We were hoping to be at the summit by then and then would descend the familiar Coleman Deming route. The ice wall attempt just took longer than expected. I think I will need a manual in order to make sense of the data in that link. What's the Cliff Notes way to find precip/wind data on a specific location/at specific times? I typically just check NOAA by clicking on a location on the map. Probably not as accurate.

JasonG - absolutely - a staple gun was a stupid idea for anchoring a tent, especially in snow. JK - hey I was randomly checking out some of your TRs, - the pics from the Reid Headwall climb are really cool.

Trip: Mt. Baker: North Ridge (Video/Pics) - North Ridge - Ice CliffDate: 5/20/2012Trip Report:Video: for an edited collection of clips from my GoPro helmet cam, and a few time lapses using my DSLR.Base camp on Heliotrope Ridge. Saturday, May 19th around 2am.The North Ridge of Mt. Baker was supposed to be our warm up climb for a 4-day Liberty Ridge climb we had planned June 2-5. A couple of us had attempted this same climb last year, but one of our party members had a crampon malfunction lower on the mountain so we opted to crevasse/icefall exploration instead. This time I meant business. All crampons were checked, re-checked, then checked again. Just when the party thought the checking was over, I'd jump out of the bushes and do a surprise 4th check. Needless to say, our crampons were in fully functional condition. Did I mentioned that our crampons worked?We got in late Friday night, May 18th. Piotr and I would go on foot. Kerwin and Isac would cheat on skis (Note to self: Get one of these insanely light AT ski setups right away, postholing and walking sucks). The ice climbing experience in the group wasn't fully articulated, but I knew Alin had done some guided ice climbing, and I had done a 4-day course in Ouray 2 years ago on WI3-5 water ice. We had both practiced in crevasses on and off. I wasn't going to lead anything long, vertical and exposed, so we were either going to "go left" at the ice wall like everyone had recommended, or someone was going to get brave on a more mild section.I had been out on the Heliotrope Ridge two weeks prior for recon, conditioning, and a snowboard descent. We had to walk and extra 2.5 miles to the trailhead due to snow, this time it was only 1.5 miles. I was doning full camera gear which meant a pack weight closer to 65-70 pounds. Due to this weight I left my splitboard on top of the car.Right away I could tell our group was going to be super strong. Everyone kept a great pace, and we were at ridge in no time. We setup camp around 5800ft under the stars, cooked some dinner, then went to bed. I had brought my new 3 season Copper Spur UL3 tent, and was enjoying the palatial dimensions with just 2 people. I took a few pics, realized our location sucked for a time-lapse, so went to bed hoping for better opportunities the next day. In hindsight I should've pushed for a different camp location closer to the mountain where I could justify bringing the 15 extra pounds in dolly/batteries. I'm still trying to gather a few more top-shelf shots for my Untitled Time-lapse Project.We got up late in the morning and set out to practice ice climbing, v-threading, and crevasse rescue. The sun was baking the mountain, and as Piotr made his way toward an icefall, he began postholing to an alarmingly deep level as we approached some crevasses. We decided to back off the icefall given the mushy snow, We backtracked to some large moats we had just passed where we practiced our v-thread anchors and ice screw-placements (thanks to Kerwin who had recently been doing quite a bit of research on various techniques). We also did some very short pitches of snow wall climbing. The only ice walls we could find were overhanging. Looking back we should've practiced on those as later we'd need it. We were all feeling pretty good about our refreshed skills. I looked up at the ice wall just below the summit, it looked easy.Three o'clock came and we returned to camp for some pre-climb shut eye (slang for "sleep"). We wanted to make the base of the ice wall by daybreak. Based on a recent TR, Isac had calculated an appropriate start time of around 9, which we pushed quickly to 930-10. Alin was supposed to join in the afternoon, but by the time we were asleep he was nowhere to be seen. We woke up at 8pm to Alin arriving. He made it into the tent where their was surprisingly a healthy amount of room. I was worried that he would not be strong enough to climb on 1.5 hours sleep, but I said nothing. He would prove me wrong.After getting up and starting out I soon realized that it was much warmer than the previous night. Unfortunately that meant postholing. A lot of it. Isac and Kerwin easily got 20 minutes ahead on skis. I was worried my energy was getting sapped and the bridges across the treacherous lower Coleman would be weak. We almost turned around in a moment of doubt, but kept going hoping for cooler temps as we gained altitude. That was exactly what we got, so I'm glad we didn't get discouraged.There were more crevasses than I was expecting given recent reports. The slog up to the steep ramps under the ridge was long, and littered with crevasses. There was an old boot track frozen into the snow that we more or less followed much of the way. Due to my weight, however, I would posthole significantly for the next 1,000 vertical feet. I cursed the lighter weight Alin and Piotr who did not seem to sink as far as me. I vowed to stop eating so much cheese.We finally reached a ramp to the North Ridge and it looked steep. It had started snowing lightly earlier, but visibility was OK (well it was still pitch black, but no thick clouds/fog). There was avalanche debris everywhere on this ramp. We started climbing over it almost right away. The steepness did not relent as we climbed higher. I realized how steep and exposed I was, and it scared me a bit. I had never climbed on something this steep that was sustained for this long. I wasted a lot of energy hugging the wall and driving my axe in deep with every step out of nervousness. The steepness did not want to end. The snow was very firm by now, but thankfully we were trailing someone who had kicked steps on an earlier climb. The slope seemed to go on forever. Finally we reached the ridge and things flattened out a bit. I needed to take a break. Someone brought up the possibility of worse-case down-climbing what we had just come up. I basically said "fuck that", thinking that it would be impossible for me. Little did I know I would be back at this spot some 7 hours later faced with that very prospect.We continued up as day broke. The sun lit the northeastern sky on fire as we approached a new crevasse system. Clouds were coming in and we could make out the massive ice wall in the hazy distance. We were forced to zig-zag through the crevasses, looking for a break left. Alin spotted what appeared to be a shorter section of the ice wall far above a steep rock and ice approach. It did appear more moderate, maybe 70 degrees with some steps. I wanted to go left to look for the easier path that avoids the vertical cliff. Unless someone would firmly agree to lead the pitch or two up the ice wall, I was definitely going left. Alin volunteered immediately, so I said "screw it" and we started climbing straight up toward the cliff.The climbing quickly became unexpectedly steep. Very steep. Before I realized it I was climbing what felt like a 65+ degree slope where self arrest was no longer a valid way to stop in a fall situation. Piotr had gone ahead solo up the steep mixed sections and had set a belay using a picket as an anchor. I climbed up past him, switching to two tools once above him. I was worried we were climbing ourselves into a trap, and we hadn't taken much time to discuss belay and exit strategies. That said, everyone else on the team looked very comfortable climbing this steep terrain. I did not feel so comfortable. We hadn't gone over running belays, or belays using vertically placed pickets as a team, so I was nervous that things weren't being done properly. I kept climbing and made sure to examine how anchors, etc. were being built as I passed.We eventually reached the base of the ice wall, then took far too long to select a climber, a strategy, and execute it. By the time Alin started leading the weather was really coming in and we were doubtful about getting 5 people up over the wall even if Alin was able to complete the pitch. We didn't know what lay above the wall either. 2 pitches would take forever at our pace.As Alin started up the wall, reality started to set in. The view from below had been deceptive. The wall was vertical, or mostly vertical, not 70 degrees. It was also rock hard ice and he was having trouble with placements. Given the time, weather, and uncertainty, the call was made to descend.2 things went through my mind: My death getting down from the ice wall on the 400 vertical ft 50-70 degree slope we had just climbed, and my death down-climbing the steep ramp to the ridge we had ascended in the dark. I also thought about those vests Balki used to wear in the 80s TV show Perfect Strangers. I'm not sure why. Alin had seemed at home climbing on this steep terrain so I asked if he would protect a picket while the team rappelled, then he could down climb. He agreed without hesitation. We tied Kerwin's 2 60m half ropes together and were off. Alin down climbed after us, and then belayed me again 60m to the base of the steep section. Everyone else elected to down climb, something I wasn't comfortable doing.Piotr floated the idea of going left around the ice wall now that we were down, but given that visibility was non-existent, a storm starting to hit, and going left carried a lot uncertainty, we opted to go back the way we came. I was dreading down-climbing the ramp, but I put it out of my mind for now. I had just dropped my 48oz nalgene with the rest of my water and watched it move quickly down the slope into the mist, gone forever. My dry tongue tried to cry in vein as it saw watched its last chance at hydration disappear.I had the only working GPS and we needed it. I started to lead us back through the crevassed section. We noticed that our tracks were not there due to fresh snowfall. I could not see 10 feet, but had to try and wear sunglasses as I did not want to become snow-blind. The glasses reduced my visibility to almost 5 feet due to precip. I would've killed for rain-x at this point as drops formed on both sides of my lenses. I kept cautiously make our way down the ridge, despite visibility issues. I knew my heavy frame was going to break right through one of these bridges and I'd be dangling above a bottomless hole.I was surprised at how much snow had fallen. Our crampons would pick up big chunks of fresh snow and send us slipping unless we knocked it off using our axes every few steps. Piotr took a minor fall because of this snow balling phenomenon. I made everyone stop as a took out a legal pad and penned an angry hand-written letter to Black Diamond regarding their "anti-balling" system's limitations. It took me 45 minutes, but everyone waited patiently as I kept started over, trying to get the tone just right. They were all very gracious about picking up the crumpled up, discarded versions from the ground. Finally I finished, packed away my bi-focals, and we were off.We reached the steep ramp and I felt sick to my stomach in anticipation. Not only was it too steep for me to comfortably down-climb, it was now freshly snow-loaded and was an obvious avalanche slope (as you recall we had seen the large debris area on the way up). Kerwin and Isac started down first, asking to give them space. We started 5 minutes later after Piotr had graciously given me some gatorade, something I need badly due to dehydration. I climbed down first, and noticed it wasn't nearly as bad as I was expecting. It actually felt almost mild in comparison to the slope below the ice wall. Plus the fresh snow made it easier to kick steps and lessened the chances of a quick fall. Still it was an avy slope and we needed to get off of it quickly.I noticed Kerwin and Isac were off route. Here is where I realized that w/o our GPS, we really would've been completely lost and things would've gotten serious. The snow had wiped away all signs of our tracks. It had also filled in crevasses. It was also weak, and we easily postholed up to our upper shins. The snow had turned to rain as we reduced our elevation, and the wind gusts would push us off-balance. The rain completely drenched us in a way that no waterproof shells could handle. Due to crevasse danger, I let Alin lead as he was the lightest. Crevasses were everywhere, especially places where you couldn't see them. I do not even want to know how many bridges we probably crossed that were just stable enough to suspend us 200 feet above a chasm. Underneath the bridge I thought of how our steps must have echoed into the blackness below as the drips of water dropped into these bottomless glacial cracks.Body temperatures were dropping due to the rain permeating our clothes. A crevasse fall now would be very dangerous. If I stopped moving for 30 seconds I would get too cold and need to rock back and forth to stay warm. The lower Coleman Glacier seemed to never end. Someone commented that this was the worst experience of his life, I definitely understood that sentiment.Every time Alin stopped to check the GPS I became pissed off, wanting to just run ahead due how cold I was becoming in the wet, windy environment. But I appreciated accurate navigation was crucial to making it out of this alive.Anyway we finally made it back to camp after what felt like a lifetime of crevassed mazes, only to find out half of our worst fears had come true. Kerwin and Isac's tent was gone. We had felt the gusts since the descent started, and we weren't expecting them given the forecast and our planned return time. Thankfully my tent was still there. I had a couple thousand dollars worth of camera equip in that tent, so it would've been a huge loss. Alin, Kerwin, and Isac took off toward the car right away. They serendipitously found their tent down the main gulley in a tree, and Isac's keys could be recovered.I changed into what dry clothes I had and then Piotr and I packed up and left in wet clothes, in a rainstorm, with wind gusts collapsing the tent. I was hoping the storm would subside before we left, but that was not going to happen. I stumbled back to the car and we somehow made it home without dying. Piotr drove most of the way. I was too tired to drive and kept hallucinating due to exhaustion.I dreamt of the milder left route around the ice cliff. How much that decision would've changed things I do not know.We setup a base camp at around 5800ft on the Heliotrope Ridge. It's past 1pm and we're anxious to get some sleep. Baker's upper mountain looks in on us from behind the ridge.The first night (Friday) was clear, and cold enough to avoid much postholing. Saturday night was much warmer, causing the non-skiers to posthole significantly for almost all of the lower Coleman glacier, sapping energy early. Some ice climbing practice during the day in nearby crevasses/moats. Back to base camp to rest before setting out to climb around 10pm. Piotr packs away the rope. Resting after the first steep pitch to take the North Ridge. This was the steepest sustained climbing I had yet done. Near the base it felt like 50-60 degrees. Photo by Alin Flaidar.Kerwin and Isac approach a crevasse system before the steep flanks of the massive ice wall at dawn. Photo by Alin Flaidar.The sun rises behind the north ridge as Kerwin carries his skis toward the ice cliff. We had planned to be at the ice cliff by day break. Photo by Alin Flaidar.Piotr waits at the start of a new crevasse system. The ice cliff looms in the background. The thing is pretty intimidating once you get close enough to appreciate its scale.After rappelling/down-climbing the 400 foot section of 60+ degree slopes beneath the ice cliff, a storm approaches in and reduces visibility drastically. The precip was unrelenting for the rest of the trip, turning to rain as we approached the longest section of route on the lower Coleman. Photo by Alin Flaidar.Isac and Kerwin on skis at about 5800ft, our route above.Full route starting from around 2900ft., 1.5 miles from the Heliotrope trail head (snow blocked the road). We reached the base of a higher portion of the ice cliff around 9800 feet (per GPS). Baker's summit crater is around 10,700 feet.Base camp is just to the right at around 5800ft. The heavily crevassed section of the lower Coleman seemed to take forever to navigate in the pouring rain upon descent. A lot of snow had fallen and our tracks had been completely erased, not to mention some crevasses had been deceptively covered.Another view of the North Ridge. We climbed on all snow. Some tracks could be seen from base camp on the steep snowy section to the right of where we ascended.We took the blue path towards an upper, shorter section of the ice wall. It looked more mild from about 600 vertical feet away. It proved to be more or less vertical. The red path is probably the path of least resistance as it seems to avoid vertical ice climbing.Download our GPX tracks here.Gear Notes:Picket each, 9-10 screws. Snow shoes/skis would've been nice until 7k+.Approach Notes:1.5 mile walk to trailhead. Luke

Nice - thanks for posting this. Are snowshoes still required on the approach? Trying this weekend. Was out there on the ridge 5/6 later in the day and it would've sucked w/o them, but maybe it's consolidated enough by now?

Nice!

Thanks enthusiast. No image post-processing on video/stills. My arm acts as a good stabilizer though, maybe it's how you're mounting.

Trip: Mt. Rainier - Muir Snowfield w/Snowboard Descent Date: 2/4/2012 Trip Report: [video:youtube] NOTE: If you can't see the video embed above, to be taken directly to the video. I thought I’d test out my little $250 Go Pro camera up at Mt. Rainier Sat on a snowboard descent from the 10,000 ft base camp, Camp Muir. This little camera has a lot of potential: It’s tiny and light, you can mount it anywhere, and it’s super tough and waterproof. They quality isn’t as good as my 5D MKII obviously, but it’s not bad. I was excited to see how the test footage would turn out. Alin, Piotr and I started hiking at 11am from the Paradise parking lot. I had just purchased snowshoes but was hoping I wouldn’t have to use them. After 200 feet on the trail, I realized that if I hadn’t brought them, my climb would be over. I don’t think it would be possible for anyone but a professional climber to make it up to Muir before sun down without snowshoes in these winter conditions. My boot would sink a foot on the already compressed snowshoe pack. Wasn’t going to happen. We got up to the top of Panorama Point fairly quickly. For the last 30-50 feet of the steepest part it was rock hard ice. Thank god for the snow shoe crampons. Without crampons or snowshoes I can’t imagine anyone getting past this area safely. The wind here was deafening. It almost blew me over several times, the most inopportune being when I was relieving myself behind a rock. 1,000 vertical feet later and the wind subsided almost completely. It was perfect weather. If you stripped down to a t-shirt you could hike hard and hardly sweat due to the low temps. I hate sweating, so I was in heaven. Winter is the only time to do Muir during the day and not feel like you’re in an oven. We missed our 3:30 turnaround time. Piotr, having recently come back from a solo 2-week Aconcagua trip made it up first easily. I arrived at 3:51 and took the shortest break in my Camp Muir hiking career. 5-10 minutes of setting up to ride, then we were off. The first 800 vertical feet were awful. Hard snow/ice with 6-12” ice ridges everywhere to ensure your discomfort. After that it was super smooth. There were a few really icy/rocky sections, but they were usually short. That said, when there was ice, it was rock hard. The edges of our snowboards scraping it could probably be heard for miles. After missing the Panorama Point descent, we searched left near the Paradise Glacier, but were stopped by cliffs and cornices. We finally found a gully that looked steep, but doable. Alin was in first on skis. He didn’t die, so I went next. Keeping up speed would get me to the car with only 1 stop + 10 foot walk on my board. I wasn’t sure this was going to be possible off the main trail under Panorama Point, but it was. Alin took a really bad fall near the bottom due to having skinny skis in deeper powder, but we all made it back to the car alive. We made it back just before 6:30 PM and were able to get out before they closed the gate. We dined on surprisingly good food at a place Piotr suggested, the Copper Creek Lodge. That combined with a ton of water and Ibuprofen cured one of the worst post-climb headaches I’ve ever had. If the weather holds, we may be back next weekend for a winter summit attempt up the Gibraltar Ledges route. Going up. Hi mom! 4500 ft. and ~5 miles to the car. Riding a Lib-tech Skunk Ape. Love it. T-shirt if you’re moving. Big down parka if you’re not. Copied from my climbing/photography blog. Luke Blog | Photography | Cinematography Gear Notes: Required: Snowshoes that are good on ice, or skis with crampons. Approach Notes: Watch out for foxes and squirrels. They'll getch'a.

Trip: [TR] A Special Autumn Weekend in the Enchantments - Snow Lake Date: 10/21/2011 Trip Report: Lots of fresh powder and peak fall color transformed the Enchantments into one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. The pictures don’t do it justice. Matt, Brendan, and I spent three nights and three days here, but years wouldn’t be enough. You could die here laying out of the pristine granite as the clouds floated overhead behind twisting red larches against deep blue skies. The sun, moon, and stars must take special pleasure in casting their ancient light on this alpine paradise. The mornings brought granite covered in slick ice that sent many hikers earthbound. Travelers’ spirited shouts of “godd@mnit” and “f$#!” as they slipped echoed off of the glistening, deep blue lakes, and frosted peaks in the early morning alpenglow, waking perhaps a weary ptarmigan or arousing the curiosity of a grazing mountain goat. After close to 30 miles of hiking around, much of it with a 65-pound pack, our legs paid the very reasonable price of admission by turning into a thick, rubbery substance, incapable of moving with any semblance of grace or normalcy. The site of a leg press machine or someone doing squats would’ve induced vomiting in each of us. Click on any picture for a larger version with a description. Re-posted from my tumblr blog. Gear Notes: Crampons not a bad idea for early morning travel, especially leaving the lower enchantments towards Snow Lake. Approach Notes: Wasn't much snow until just before Lake Viviane.