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forrest_m

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  1. so am I the only one who thinks that it's worth the extra money to support local shops, particularly those that go out of their way to support serious climbers, like feathered friends or pro mountain sports? in any case, if you are getting beta from real live salespeople and then going home to shop the internet for a better price, you are an evil person and your karma will pay the price.
  2. As I understand it, you have two issues: 1) As routes are published in the guides, they become more popular, to the point where it seems like people *only* do the routes in "selected climbs" 2) You are worried that the comprehensive guide books a la Fred Beckey will fall into disrepair as all energy is focused on a few routes. My response is as follows: 1) If you are an explorer, why do you care if the majority of the climbers are concentrated on a few, easily accessible routes? More space for those of us who are willing to go a little further off the beaten track. There's a lot of good climbers out there who are years ahead of the guidebooks, but keep a low profile. Maybe you had never heard of Watusi Rodeo or the New York Gullies until Nelson's new guide came out, but among the certain circles, they've been known for years. There will always be people who go beyond the "selected climbs" - and the routes they find will be in the next edition... and those who aren't interested in looking further than the latest guide probably aren't the type to explore anyways. That said, I would also admit that probably half the alpine routes I've attempted over the last couple of seasons were in one or the other of the recent guidebooks. I've got over 15 years of cascades experience and an extensive list of potential routes and future enterprises - researched with maps, recons, word of mouth, and the CAG - but I don't always feel like going to the effort of being off the beaten track. Maybe I want to concentrate on moving fast, or having fun, or I just want to know that the route is going to be high-quality. A lot of exploratory climbing means shitty routes with long approaches... 2)As for fred's books, I'm sure someone will emerge to take over the mantle, if only to have access to the archives in fred's basement. Jim Nelson and Fred go way back together, and I wouldn't be surprised if he picks up the baton, but if not him, someone.
  3. Well, those of us who have a list of good winter possibilities are hardly going to hand our hard-earned black books over in a public forum, are we? ;-) Actually, it's a constant frustration of the NW. I've been waiting for the Eve Dearborne route on Index to come into condition for years, but I don't know that it has actually come into shape since Nelson's first guide came out. The fabled "arctic express" isn't very reliable, and anyway, even if it gets extremely cold for four or five days, all that gets you is brittle chandaliered ice... The only saving grace is that because it rains even to high altitudes every couple of weeks, avalanche danger tends to settle down pretty quickly, and there's little depth hoar formation like in colder, dryer climates. Here's my take... the biggest obstacle is automobile access. There's tons of attractive winter routes, it would just take 5 or 6 days to ski in, climb them and ski out. You can map out what's accessible pretty easily. N. Cascades highway is open to Ross Dam all winter, Stevens & Snoq. Pass, Paradise. You can be sure that if it isn't a N. face, it'll never reliably freeze up, so from your winter high points, scour your topo map for steep N. faces within a day's travel of plowed high points. I've taken a look at the north side of snoqualmie mountain and there's a lot more there than the "New York Gully" (though low altitude so unpredictable). I think the greatest potential in the cascades are the peaks accessible all winter via the n. cascades highway, ie. Colonial, Pyramid, Paul Bunyan's stump, etc. I know that the north face of Pyramid Peak had been done. When we did N. Face of Colonial last winter, there appeared to be tons of potential in that valley - too bad it's super avalanche exposed, low altitude approach, unreliable ice. But who's complaining...
  4. I have to disagree with the previous recommendation. Here's my take: you want the bivy for one of two reasons: a) lighter weight or b) you're using it in places where you can't find space to set up a tent (i.e. alpine climbs). However, for a) unless you're by yourself, it's going to be lighter/same weight to go with a lightweight tent split between you and your partner. There are many tents out there that weigh in at just over 4 lbs (single wall tents like the bibler and also lightweight "3-season" tents"). Since most bivy sacks (even the light ones) aren't much less than 2 lbs, for two people, it's the same weight and far more comfortable and weatherproof to have a real tent. In the case of b), if you're actually climbing with the thing, you want the absolutely lightest sack you can find with a minimum of bells, whistles, poles, zippers, etc. I've used the bibler a lot - if you pull the useless carbon fiber stay out of it, it's pretty close to perfect. The waterproof tie-in point and factory seam taping eliminate the worst sources of water penetration. I don't trust elaborate designs - you don't have the tension that makes that kind of thing reliable in a tent. For a sack that works well sitting up/squeezed onto a shitty ledge, the envelope design is definately the most versatile and reliable.
  5. Mt. Adams, Lava Glacier Headwall 6/17-18, 2000 Summary: Chris Fast, Dan Aylward and Forrest Murphy made an ascent of the Lava Glacier Headwall on Mt. Adams, encountering firm snow and very windy conditions. We climbed with only one tool, placing pickets every ropelength for a running belay on the 800 foot headwall. Time high camp to summit: 6 hours, summit to high camp: 4 hours. The three of us planned for a two day ascent of Liberty Ridge. Conditions seemed perfect: the weather prediction was good, it’s practically the longest day of the year and it’s a full moon. Unfortunately, a lot of other people came to the same conclusion. When we arrived at the park, we discovered that all the permits for every high camp on the mountain had already been given out. Thumb Rock was full – and you would have to share the route with as many as 10 other people. We sat in the car at the White River entrance, trying to decide what to do. It was hard to get motivated for another objective, especially one that necessitated driving back to Seattle. We flipped through the new Nelson guide, and we settled on the Lava Glacier Headwall on Mt. Adams, a route I had never heard of before tonight, but that seemed to fit the bill: steep and icy, big mountain. We pointed the car southwards. The driving directions indicate that you drive 5.7 miles beyond the turnoff from the Forest Service trunk road to the trailhead. Thus, we were dismayed to hit an impassible snow band about a mile after the turn. We were on the trail by 8:30 the next morning. We carried snowshoes, crampons, pickets, four tools between the three of us and one ice screw each. We also had shovels and beacons, since several feet of new snow in recent weeks indicated that avalanche danger might still be considerable. The snowshoes were the only real wasted weight, since we didn’t use them and in fact ditched them 1,000 feet below our high camp. The extra tool and ice screws stayed in the packs as well, but conditions could well have demanded them. Ski poles, on the other hand, were worth their weight in gold. Perhaps 80% of the road was drivable, but there were numerous long patches of deep snow that no truck could have passed. Eventually, we reached the real trailhead, and set off up the trail. At first it, too, was mostly dirt, but slowly the snow patches grew to be a continuous slushy mantle. We were following tracks and arrived in the glades of open trees around 5,500 feet without too much of a struggle. We split off from the track to contour more towards the east, striking a diagonal line in the direction of the route. The trail had seemed to strike a straight line directly for the Adams glacier; we still had to cross over to the North Ridge, quite a bit further to the left across Adams’ broad face. We continued to gain elevation while traversing strongly, crossing from one identical-seeming streambed into the next, then following a series of moraines up the flanks of the mountain until we arrived at a scenic plateau at around 8,000 feet, where we made camp around 4 p.m We were walking away from camp at 2:25 the next morning. The snow was firm and the full moon rendered headlamps completely unnecessary. We continued yesterday’s leftwards traverse around the rounded toe of the North Ridge until we were able to move horizontally onto the lower flanks of the Lava Glacier. Features of the headwall were vaguely visible in the high-contrast white light. We roped up, and after dodging quickly around a wide bergshrund, moved out onto the low angle slopes of the glacier below. It was far longer than it had appeared in the half-light, and dawn had completely broken by the time the slope began to steepen in earnest. I led up on a rising traverse to the bergshrund, and crossed it where a solid self-belay was sufficient to kick the one vertical step required to move past. I placed a picket shortly above, and began switchbacking up the slopes above. I’m not used to encountering slopes that consistently steep and icy on Cascades volcanoes. The slope was 50 degrees and solid snow/ice. We kept one picket on the rope for most of the steep slope until the route began to wander among rock pillars at the top that would hopefully arrest a fall. As we neared the top of the slope, we veered leftwards up a narrow gully that passed behind a tottering tower of brick-red shale. Above us was a menacing black cliff, undercut below by unstable rock. Frozen dribbles of water ice poured down its face like the remnants of a balloon filled with white paint thrown against a concrete wall. After 15 minutes of passing from one gully to another, the slopes opened up again, and after a short break, they ever so slowly began to ease off in angle. Soon we were on the wide open plain of the summit plateau, leaning into a wind that increased with every step. I could feel the altitude, suddenly, as a slight nausea, which increased sharply as strong gusts of sulfur from the crater began to assail us. I was prepared for the first several horizons to be revealed as false summits, but I was still surprised at how far we had to walk across the endless dome of ice. The wind continued to increase, and came at us just on the corner of our faces, so that it was not completely blocked by our hoods. Soon, I was walking at least half the time with my mitten covering one side of my face. I soon learned the pattern of walking without being knocked over, lean forward, move one leg, lean further, move upwind leg. It was fascinating to watch the lenticular clouds condensing out of the air as they swept down the far side of the gently rounded peak. At 8:30, we reached the summit; we immediately turned around and headed for lower altitudes. Descending the North Ridge, we were in the path of the wind most of the way down. After the first thousand feet, the way alternated between broken rock and hard snow, with an increasing proportion of scree the further down we got. We pulled into camp at 12:30 and took a brief nap. We packed the bags and headed down, stopping briefly to load up our snowshoes left at a lower elevation. At first, we followed tracks, but soon lost them in the suncups and began traversing leftwards across the snowy meadows. It was easy travel, tromping across the downwards traverse. Chris and I began to get an uneasy feeling and tried to trend more rightwards. A short time later, feeling that we were still off, Chris and I whipped out the compass and discovered that we were travelling almost 90 degrees to the direction we thought we were. The contours of the multiple valleys had just kept shoving us further and further west. After 20 minutes of hard right traversing (even uphill at times) we encountered tracks and soon thereafter, wands. After dithering for a short while, we began to see signs of the summertime trail, and an hour and a half later, we reached the parking lot. Our woodland shenanigans cost us about an hour. We limped as fast as we could towards the car. Five miles of mostly-bare road later, we reached the car, glad to be finished with a very long day.
  6. Chianti Spire, East Face 7/16, 2000 Summary: Dan Aylward and Forrest Murphy climbed the East Face of Chianti Spire (III, 5.10b) in just under 12 hours car-to-car. The route is one of the best in the Washington Pass area, very solid and much more sustained that is typical on an alpine rock climb. Even the 5.8 pitches are continuous 5.8, rather than low fifth class with the occasional hard move! Sorting the rack at the pullout below Burgundy Col trail, I couldn’t find the #3 Camalot. We did some reconstruction and figured out that the last time we’d seen it, Dan had used it for the anchor on the summit of Juno Tower the afternoon before. Shit. We were a bit nervous about doing Chianti Spire with only one big piece, since the topo indicated several 5.10 offwidth sections, but we figured we’d get by somehow. At around 6:30, we dropped down from the road cut, crossed the stream, and started up the trail. I’d forgotten how steep it was; along with the Eldorado Creek approach, it is the archetypal Cascades climbers’ trail. Just over two hours of steep trail and loose sand brought us to Burgundy col. We dropped down 80 feet on snow, then traversed the top of the small bowl below Burgundy Spire to another pass, then turned the corner of the rock buttress above and approached the East Face of Chianti spire directly. The face looked awesome, and big; the upper pitches were blindingly obvious, following a continuous crack system directly up the center of the smooth headwall beneath the summit. Getting to the headwall was less clear; there appeared to be a steep angling dihedral leading in from the right, but followed the base of what appeared to be a steep wall of poor quality rock and looked intimidatingly wide. After gearing up balanced on the narrow crest of the burgshrund, Dan led off and I followed him up. Dan was set up at the base of a looming wide crack, almost a chimney, that went straight up for 20 feet before leaning back above. “I have some bad news,” Dan reported: the only piece in the belay was the #4 Camalot. I digested this as I stared up at the maw above. Well, it would have only fit at the top... I started up and after a body length or so was able to fiddle a yellow alien blindly into a fissure within one wall of the crack. Face holds on the right wall allowed me to mostly stay out of the crack. The rock was interestingly different on the two faces of the dihedral; the back wall was mustard colored, with almost no quartz content and yielded frequent incut handholds. The left wall was a separate formation of compact granite, more stable but less broken. The two didn’t quite meet, forming the aforementioned ugly slot. Stemming high, I was able to get one leg above the lip of the offwidth and move up onto the slab above. I followed the corner up for another 80 feet, continuing to combine stems and smears to link the better rock. I finally pulled up onto more broken ground and quickly ran out another 50 feet of low fifth class terrain as the corner dissolved into a series of ledges. Dan’s next pitch traversed around two corners, about 40 feet, to a beautiful triangular ledge with a fixed anchor of bolts and pins. I cast off into the crack system above. It was generally hand sized, but formed in butt-cheek style, with crumbly lips and sandy smears. After the initial difficult moves, the rock quality improved and a good stance appeared. I shook out and pulled past a small roof. The crack began to round out, but another crack angled in from the right, providing solid sidepulls. Handholds got thinner as the two cracks converged; the 5.10 crux was highstepping onto a small patch of grass at the crossing, without much positive for the hands. Above, the two cracks merged into a single clean fistcrack. I fired in a #2 and climbed 25 feet up to a small stance below the menacing offwidth above. I fiddled for a while with anchors, trying to save the big cam for the next pitch, and finally got something I was happy with as I set up a semi-hanging belay using three equalized aliens and the quarter-inch bolt. The 4 inch crack above was scary looking, but obviously ended in a ledge after only 20 feet. Dan edged upwards, working in two cams into a small crack on the right, while sliding the #4 up above himself in the offwidth on the left. Towards the top, the difficulty eased off as you were forced to get directly into the crack, and then an easy mantle move put you onto a nice ledge with a fixed anchor. The offwidth continued above, but the incut of the ledge added a nice dihedral, so upwards progress got a lot easier. Dan continued up, getting creative with his gear; at one point 10 feet of old rope extended out of the crack where someone’s rappel rope had gotten stuck, and he clipped a draw into a knot tied near its frayed end. The climbing remained challenging but nowhere near as hard as the previous sections. I joined him 40 feet below the top, and led up through a few more 5.8 moves to a two-bolt fixed anchor just below the summit block. We took turns belaying each other to the top, 10 feet of unprotected 5.7, and we laughed at the old ring bolt on the summit block. From the bolts, we rapped 60 meters down, then downclimbed a full 200-foot pitch on lower angle terrain to a ledge with a small tree. At this point, we were directly above our packs. Another full rope rappel almost reached the snow; we rapped the final 40 feet off a knot wedged in the crack, got our shoes on, and were back at Burgundy col within an hour of leaving the summit. We ate and filled the bottles with snow, and seeing as how we had plenty of daylight still, prepared for the final challenge. Dan geared up for sprinting, carrying water and little else, and took off to run the ridge in search of our lost cam. It seemed like you could traverse as far as Juno tower without having to descend too far, then cut diagonally back down to intersect the trail. He ended up accidentally climbing Aries Tower, the next peak west and downclimbing its 5.4 east ridge, but didn’t have too much navigation trouble. I loaded Dan’s pack with both ropes and the rack and put everything light in my pack, which I then strapped to the outside, and set off down the slope carrying all the gear. I think he may well have gotten the better of the deal; it took him longer, but he got to do the knee-crunching descent carrying a quart of water, his rock shoes and a couple of cam units.
  7. Juno Tower, Clean Break 7/15, 2000 Summary: Dan Aylward and Forrest Murphy climbed the Clean Break (III 5.10b) on Juno Tower in 11 hours car-to-car. Leaving the car at 5, we reached the large boulderfield below the route in just under two hours from the car. There was only one short snow section leading up to the route, so we left ice axes, sweaters and extra food here, and carried only water, shoes, headlamps, windbreakers and food. As we made our packs, I heard some voices, and we spied a tent in the meadows alongside. As we started up the snow, the other climbers emerged, using our tracks, and the race was on. We gained the huge flat shelf below the route two minutes ahead of the other pair and immediately began gearing up. I whipped on my rock shoes and started up the first pitch with sweat from the approach still dripping into my eyes from the headband of my helmet. I didn’t get to enjoy the spacious, flat starting ledge, an alpine climbing luxury, but it’s beautiful pitch. The guidebook isn’t kidding when it claims that if this 10a were in Yosemite, it would have a line to get on it. What appears steep and strenuous from below yields to delicate stems and laybacks. I belayed Dan up to the base of the “Clean Break,” the most prominent feature on the wall. It is a massive rock scar where an airplane-sized flake had toppled outwards. Unusually, the rock behind was solid and well fractured; it was totally free of lichen. The rock was cold and smooth, speckled and crystalline like a kitchen countertop. The pitch began with a small dihedral, then followed two laser-cut diagonal cracks to the right: fist size for the feet, perfectly parallel with a finger-sized slot for a handrail. A small, square-edged roof was easier than it appeared, then stemming moves led back left. Technically harder than the first pitch, it was much less sustained. After passing a fixed pin, which signaled a scary slab traverse into a thin crack, we simulclimbed for several hundred feet to the base of a short, steep wall sporting a 4-inch crack. Dan led through, then belayed me from atop the slab above. The offwidth wasn’t very hard – one layback move - but the thin corner above was, with discontinuous square-edged finger pockets and insubstantial foot smears. Above, we began simulclimbing again, and this went a long ways. The terrain was mostly easy, with short sections of challenging climbing in the 5.8 range. Only one section was kind of hard, a vertical corner that took some thinking to figure out. When Dan ran out of gear, we were only 100 feet below the top, so it seemed just as easy to continue as we were rather than swap the pack and the ends of the rope. The final 5.10 pitch was a little contrived, involving an inobvious traverse to reach (neglecting the straightforward continuation of the ridge), but was pretty cool. Great exposure and a bomber hand jam. I joined Dan on the flat summit at 12:20. After a few minutes on top, we jammed downwards. A hundred feet of scrambling led to non-technical ground, and the remainder of the descent was primarily talus-hopping. As we reached the pack back at the cache, we could clearly hear the belay signals shouted between the two climbers who had started the day with us; they were just under halfway up. We shouldered our packs and beat it for the car, which we reached just after 4, for an 11 hour car to car time. The route has been done in even less time by traversing the slope to the Burgundy Col trail, and descending to a car/bike/skateboardstashed at the Hwy. 20 to zip back down the long hill to your car at Silverstar Creek.
  8. Mt. Logan, Douglas Glacier Ski Descent 5/27-29, 2000 Summary: Chris Fast & Forrest Murphy skied from the summit of Mt. Logan in three days round trip from the highway 20, via Easy Pass and the Logan Glacier. Basic glacier travel, great skiing, complex navigation, very remote and unusual route. Chris and I had originally planned to do the Ptarmigan traverse this weekend; because of the weather, we finally deciding to go with Plan B, to try to get in to Mt. Logan via Easy Pass. I’ve wanted to do Logan for a while, just to knock off another of the elusive 9,000ers, but had always figured to do it as part of a Goode-Logan traverse. We couldn’t find any information about this approach, but it seemed like it would be feasible, so long as there was still enough snow on the ground. By the time we had eaten lunch, packed our packs, and set off, it was almost 4:00 in the afternoon, and the sun was making limited appearances through the clouds. Right off there was a difficulty, as the bridge at the river along the highway was washed out. We found a good log 5 minutes right (north). We followed the trail as well as we could up through the forest until it disappeared beneath the snowpack, and we donned our skis and headed off through the woods. After the mandatory fight with thick avalanche debris and elbowing through resilient young trees with skis on, we broke out onto the open slopes on the north flank of Greybeard Peak and continued up a series of very skiable bowls, reaching Easy Pass at 7:30 as a light rain began to fall again. Failing to pay close enough attention to the map (the trail cuts strongly west immediately beyond the pass to avoid cliffy areas below), we headed straight down. After only a few turns in the mushy snow, we had to put the boards back on our packs and pick our way down through several hundred feet of third class dirt cliffs. Finally, we reached an open glade below and were able to knock off a dozen or so good turns through open stands of timber until the valley bottom flattened out. In the morning, we set off down the gentle valley on bare Ptex. We mostly traversed, though at first we could link two or three turns between each sidehilling effort. Eventually, the trees swallowed us up and we occasionally had to tiptoe carefully across bare ground. Several miles downsteam, we rounded the final shoulder into the second major side valley, and we had to carry our skis. The slope suddenly grew precipitous as we crossed into the lower drainage, indicating that the main river must hit some serious waterfalls where the upper valley hung up before its final descent into Thunder Creek. We plunge-stepped down through peat and mud and soon found ourselves on the flat valley floor. At a clearing made by a small rock slide, we got our first real look at our objective. We could see above timberline again, into the huge bowl below the long arm of the Douglas Glacier. Reaching the bowl took another 2 hours of fighting brush and steep slopes. We were racing the spring and the slide alders were springing up out of the snow even as we skied past. But far sooner than I had dared hope, we stepped out of the trees onto a truly gargantuan cone of avalanche debris. We found ourselves in a wide open bowl, dead flat and oval shaped. The lower end of the valley was choked with the aforementioned avalanche debris, perhaps 200 yards across and deep enough to form its own mini-crevasses, among the largest avalanche paths I’ve seen in the Cascades. Two smaller valleys feed into the bowl, one leading up to Fischer Pass, a remarkably low divide providing access towards the Park Creek watershed, and a steeper ravine leading up to the extreme north end of the Douglas Glacier. Steep, smooth slopes surrounded the cirque on all other sides, with a healthy cliff band extending almost unbroken from the ravine to the shoulders of Thunder Peak. Technically a sub-peak of Mt. Logan, Thunder Peak dominates the bowl we are in and its upper slopes are the source of most of the avalanches that have swept all the way across the valley. We decide there is no point in camping any higher than we have to, and we head for a small hill at the head of the valley. It is probably the safest place in the bowl itself to camp, but the next day we notice gargantuan cornices at the ridgeline, 3000 feet above, that when they collapse will sweep all the upper slopes, shoot over the cliff band and bury the entire upper half of the bowl. Another warning to look at the map and make sure you’re camping in a safe spot – regardless of season. Camp is set up by 5:00 in an increasing drizzle. When we wake up at first light, the rain is still pounding and by 7:30, not relishing the thought of navigating the crevasses of the glacier above in a whiteout, we are resigned to a moderate ski tour. We eat a leisurely breakfast, lingering over coffee and prepare to depart at the alpine hour of 9:30. The clouds begin to swirl, opening up views, and suddenly they evaporate entirely, leaving us with coffee cups in hand on a bluebird morning. We curse our laziness, but decide to head up the route and see how high we get. A quick calculation yields a turn-around time of 11:00 if we want to be back at the car before dark. We ski up the upper slopes of the bowl towards the one major break in the cliff band, a narrow gully that we had counted on being less steep than it appeared from below. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, but it was relatively short, so with skis on our backs and ice axes out, we start up the 50 degree slope. The snow is extremely soft and a bit insecure, but in 15 minutes we top out; another 20 minutes of slogging and the slope kicks back enough to put our skis back on and we begin a long rising traverse across the hips of Mt. Logan. It’s an apt metaphor. If Mt. Logan has a neck, it’s certainly the high col where the Douglas and the Banded glaciers meet. The Douglas flows down precipitous and contoured slopes high on the mountain’s breast, then flares out along the long ridgeline and smooth alp slopes that extends several miles towards Fischer Pass like a dress draped over an outflung leg. As the clock ticks towards 11, we creep up the slope. Suddenly, we are high enough for Mt. Goode to appear beyond the ridge, from this vantage point a narrow blade of ice slicing through the fabric of the surrounding hills from beneath. We finally turn the corner of the terrain and are able to begin to ski up more or less in the fall line, arriving at the edge of the glacier proper and our turn-around time almost simultaneously. The summit hangs temptingly close in the perfectly still, sunny air. In full consciousness of the misery we are setting ourselves up for, we decide to tag the top. I calculate that if we reach the summit by 1, we might still make it out to the car tonight, although well after dark. “Well, it won’t be the first time,” I thought. I strap my ice axe to my pole with rubber ski straps, we don the rope, and I set off at the fastest pace I can muster. The routefinding is really fun. A swooping series of slopes and little bowls leads like a highway among the massive seracs and crevasses. What appeared to be the summit is revealed as a sub-peak; the glacier penetrates into a hidden bowl on the upper mountain. leading to the Douglas/Banded col. A classic wind bowl is formed just below the pass, ending on the right with an astonishing 100 foot wall of vertical snow capped by a knife-sharp arete. We dodge on the left, and head up the last bit on foot. 20 minutes of snow and 5 minutes of rock scrambling in telemark boots and we run out of up. We step onto the summit at 1:08, chilled in the sudden wind but marveling in the amazing views. The entire Ptarmigan Traverse is revealed, from Dome Peak, Gunsight and Sinister on the south, to the immensity of the Boston Glacier to the north. Goode and Storm King look like they belong in Alaska with their snow-plastered north faces turned towards us. We pound a candy bar, then point the boards downhill for our reward. The snow is very soggy, but if you kept your speed up and don’t over-turn, you could stay on top and boogie down. We flew where we had slogged, figure-eighting down gentle slopes and steeper rollovers. The ambiance is great, casual slopes with these huge, impressive seracs on both sides. In twenty minutes, we’ve swept back onto the slopes of our traverse. As the slope begins to become convex, the pace slows. The snow is even heavier, and a massive sluff of waterlogged slush sluices away from every carve. You have to be careful as you turn back that it doesn’t overrun you from behind. I barely survive the impact of one of Chris’ donuts, pinwheeling freely down the slope. We sideslip as far as seems reasonable, including some respectably exposed hop-turns, but under these snow conditions, skiing the gully is obviously a very bad idea. Once more the skis go on the packs and we back down our tracks from the morning. Ten minutes later, we’re in camp. Five hours round trip to the summit, almost 5,000 vertical feet. By 3:00, we were on the road again, eking out what turns we could, then shooting out across the avalanche plain. We managed actual turns down the alder slopes, and made it to the valley floor only carrying our skis for one 20 foot section. Once again, we made it as far as we could on skis before bowing to the inevitable and beginning to slog warily on foot along the flat lower valley. As we approached the river, we were not surprised to hear the sound of a waterfall, but we were astonished at the number and size of the ones we encountered. We began contouring right and bushwacking up the slope alongside the gorge. As we pull up into the upper valley, the angle drops way back and the snow reappears. Skiing through the open woods and we soon encounter our old tracks. We estimate that if we can reach Easy Pass by dark, we’ll make it to the car tonight, but we’re both uncertain if we will be able to navigate through the cliffs below the pass in the dark. Except for some skin problems solved with duct tape and ski straps, the going is smooth and we break out into the open slopes around 8:00. Some more fuel and we slither down across the river and begin working our way up avalanche slopes on the other side. The location of Easy Pass is not nearly as obvious from this side; approaching from the highway, it is the head of the valley, but from here, it is merely the lowest of the lowpoints along a continuous ridge. The slopes above are more melted out than where we’ve been, due to their southern exposure, and we’re hoping to find the trail to aid in navigating to the pass. When I finally spot it, it is a bit below us. Once on the bare dirt, our pace picks up considerably, but snow keeps interfering with establishing a real rhythm. As the steepness increases, our pace diminishes, and by the time the trail reaches the apex of its swithbacks, we are making heavy weather of the deep and soft snow, trading the lead every few hundred steps. It is starting to get seriously dark as we crest the pass, done gaining altitude after about 7,500 feet in 12 hours. We barely pause at the pass, plunge stepping straight down through the deepening gloom and dropping down to treeline in less than 15 minutes. We had enjoyed dappled sunlight skiing up the valley behind Easy Pass and the sunset had been spectacular, casting alpenglow on the high slopes of Mt. Logan we had skied earlier in the afternoon, but now it began to rain in earnest. Nevertheless, as we reached the darkness of the forest, we dropped our packs and fired up the stove for an overdue dinner. We slurped as fast as we could, burning our tongues as we sat on our packs and tried to ignore the rain falling. We probably made a pathetic sight, and if I had been sure at that point that we were going to reach the truck that night, I would have laughed at us myself. After perhaps an hour, we were packed up again and began descending along the edge of the creek. We felt surprisingly energized with an hour’s rest and some hot food. As we descended further, the snow grew thinner and the brush thicker but we began to despair of finding the trail. I did a quick mental calculation and decided that we were a lot more likely to cross the trail if we paralleled the creek further inland. The extra effort of crashing against the grain for 50 yards was rewarded when I stepped out onto the trail – at the end of a switchback. Ten yards further towards the stream and we would have walked right by it. In what seemed like only a few minutes, we were at the river, picking our way along the banks in search of our log. The truck was a welcome sight, and we laid our packs down for the last time at 1 am. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the first strains of dawn as we pulled over for coffee in Arlington; it was already 4:30, and we shared I-5 with the first stirrings of the morning commute. Yes, we asked for it by tagging the top, but I still think it was a pretty good effort, all things considered, nailing one of the less-accessible 9,000ers on skis under less than ideal conditions.
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