[TR] Mt Jefferson- Whitewater Glacier 8/11/2005

[Crevasse]

Climb: Mt Jefferson-Whitewater Glacier

 

Date of Climb: 8/11/2005

 

Trip Report:

As the last light fades across the horizon, a chill sweeps through me as a gust of wind blows down from the peak of Mt Jefferson, across Whitewater glacier and pierces down to my skin. I chew on the remaining piece of my last candy bar and let the realization sink in. On a day that had already seemed to last forever, we were not going to make it to a trail by nightfall. We would have to descend the rubble filled moraine in the dark. It was going to be a long, painful, and dim hike out to the car...

 

 

 

Mt Jefferson had been left for Mark and me. One by one the others dropped out. Brad had to work. Chris was “triple” booked and Steve called the day before expressing the need to spend some quality time with his wife. A trip planned for several weeks and that is the best they can do. No missing limbs and they still have a heartbeat. They are dead to me and probably buried in dresses. Epithets will be sent their way throughout the trip.

 

Powered by a triple shot latte we moved along the trail with the ease that can only come from nearing middle age. Our only goal is to reach Jefferson Park before we are lapped by a six year old girl and her family that we had met at the trailhead. What kind of steroids have they been giving that girl? I want some.

 

Satisfied with out demonstration of strength and speed over that of a six year old, we settle in and think of how much we need this climb. Whiteouts, early retreats, and outright weather induced cancellations have littered most of our earlier trips in the cascades to either glorified workouts or to weekends working on the yard instead. This is our first time on Jefferson. A trip last year was canceled when and early snowfall forced us to Smith instead.

 

On Friday we make out way up a mazed array of boulders and scree to the Whitewater glacier. Dutifully we follow Thomas’s instructions and move higher on the glacier to avoid crevasses but they are everywhere. We cross into areas where the soft snow has sluffed over the gaping cracks leaving us doubtful of every step. Some are obvious as if a large butter knife has scraped the glacier leaving clear contrast between the dangerous fill and mushy but solid glacier but in other areas the knife skipped letting the outlines disappear under the sluff. The snow is soft. Crampons ball. I do not like it.

 

We gain the moraine between the Jefferson Park glacier and the Whitewater glacier glad to leave the days roulette behind us and set up camp. I notice the burst blister on his heel. It looks very painful but he has said nothing.

 

We are high on the glacier now, almost the headwall but we cannot see across a low rise. Surely tomorrow Thomas’s promises will keep us out of the lower crevasses tomorrow.

 

The summit looks so close. As the sun sets we contemplate how long it will take us to reach the top. Mark says three hours. I say five. Mark guffaws at my padded estimate. I set a turnaround time of 11am in my head. I hate the marathon walks out in the twilight. I have had too many in the past and I have to get out to catch a flight on Sunday. Besides, I told my wife I would be out Saturday night and she does not understand the timeline of mountains.

 

I guess the time to be around 1am as someone starts the rather large jumbo jet parked outside and targets the tent with the jet blast. It is impossible to sleep as the fabric snaps and crackles in the wind. The temperature drops as the wind scrapes across the glacier and slams our tent. As the sun finally lights the sky I can tell neither of us wants to leave the tent but we say nothing as we continue through the motions of getting ready. We quickly plunge out, drop the tent poles, and pile the rocks on. I silently hope it is still here when we get back.

 

As if the ice is a switch, the wind slows as we touch the glacial ice with our crampons and the temperature quickly rises. My spirit elevates and I suddenly become optimistic until we see over the first crest. Mark mutters something about Thomas never climbing Jefferson. He surmises that Thomas sat on a hill and glassed it with his binoculars as he obviously could not see this part. Crevasses line the glacier top to bottom, both seen and unseen under the soft snow. I check the knot on the rope. It seems as tight as the one building in my neck. We are not going to cross as fast as we thought.

 

We slowly navigate the minefield and finally reach the SE Ridge. I begin picking a line up the up the scree and rubble and the slog begins. I eye the South ridge it seems temptingly easy compared to what we have gone through. We join the SE Ridge and clamber up to Red Saddle. It is 11:30am. I do not mention my turnaround time to Mark. But inside my confidence in reaching the top drops. We are running out of time. If we turn back now we can be back at the car before dark.

 

I wait and judge how Mark is feeling. We eat some food and look at the pinnacle and the traverse. No tracks and no hints. It is all up to us. It looks steep and sloppy wet. I ask Mark what he wants to do. He grabs his pack and says he will lead the traverse. My doubts vanish and I commit to the top. I do not care how long the day is. I want this mountain.

 

Mark places three pickets as he moves across under my belay and sets up his anchor. As my first foot reaches the snow, Mark yells “rock,” as softball size rocks rain from the chute and explode the snow around the rope midway between us. I tell myself that the chances are small that will happen again and I move across the snow. My flesh is in the game.

 

I lead the first pitch up the pinnacle. I move across unsound rock and my breath sends a wheel barrel load of rocks down the west side. We listen as the crack of rocks rattle for more than a minute. I set no pro in the crumbly rock, move up and right, and run the rope until I am sure I have solid rock where I set the anchor. Mark moves up and repeats my trundle. I cannot see it but the top looks like it might be close. I am hopeful he can reach the top and we can avoid another time consuming anchor. Mark nears the end of the rope and notifies me that there is still quite a bit left. I think of the time another anchor is going to cost us but begin to covet the last pitch to the summit. I climb up to Mark. It seems tougher than 5.1. Mark states the same to me and seems giddy that we used some of the cams we brought along.

 

We are moving up the west spine of the north gendarme I pass Mark and move towards the summit. After clipping into a few slings I rise above a large loose block and see nothing but blue sky past the spire a few feet in front of me, the top of Mt Jefferson. I move up set and anchor and call for Mark to move up. He joins me and we both feel a deep satisfaction at finally reaching the top. It is 2 pm.

 

The cameras come out but we do not celebrate. We both know, 80% of all climbing accidents occur on the descent and in addition, we have now committed ourselves to a very long day.

 

We rig out rappel and Mark heads down to set another anchor. Our anchor is a previous sling and our added sling around a large but loose block that is trapped on all sides by the summit blocks. Loose but secure by the surrounding blocks we are confident in the rappel anchor. I pause and look at the sling before I join Mark. Something does not look right. Both slings have worked their way halfway under the rock. The implication sinks in. Small things can matter a lot in these conditions. I block the image of my body skipping 3,000 ft down the west face fix the slings, apply tension so they cannot slip, and I rappel down to Mark.

 

The traverse is worse. Now downhill and the snow is much softer with the consistency of a Hawaiian ice flavored with fear. Each step feels like it will fall away and I loose footing with one crampon but the other precariously holds. Mark follows me and looses both feet and begins to slide but his axe handle holds. He dismisses it when he gets to me but the look on his face at the time was priceless.

 

We are both committed to making it home tonight for our own reasons. It is after 4pm we take a quick bite to eat and start moving down. The descent is fast through the scree and we make the glacier in less than an hour. The afternoon snow is softer still and even though we have our morning tracks to follow we probe like sewing machines. We are frequently rewarded with a hole plunging into deep darkness and eagerly adjust our course when it happens.

 

We make the tent by 7 pm and break camp quickly. I have spied a line down the glacier that looks crevasse free and easy. I hope we can blitz down and make the meadows in the valley below before light is gone. We make quick time but as we round the corner of a small moraine our hearts sink. It is further down than we thought, over a steep icy crevasse field. We have to stop to put crampons on. My feet complain but I am reminded of Mark’s feet and tell them to shut up.

 

The remaining glacier is a mix of sluff and hard ice with water running down its surface. The sluff balls with every step and in the span of 10 minutes I see Mark slide past me down the glacier at least four times. His arrest technique is perfect and he curses the snow. I develop a funny foot shake with each step slinging the clods under my crampons. I watch as each one skitters down the slope to their demise as they slip over the lips and perish into crevasses below us. The hard ice is just as unnerving as I hope the teeth on my feet keep their grip on the rigid surface. Each step burns my tired feet. We finally reach the bottom of the glacier

 

As the last light fades across the horizon, a chill sweeps through me as a gust of wind blows down from the peak of Mt Jefferson, across Whitewater glacier and pierces down to my skin. I chew on the remaining piece of my last candy bar and let the realization sink in. On a day that had already seemed to last forever, we were not going to make it to a trail by nightfall. We would have to descend the rubble filled moraine in the dark. It was going to be a long, painful, and dim hike out to the car.

 

We don headlamps and begin the journey in the dark. I had resisted my mp3 player until now so that we could connect and draw energy from each other. But in the dark we drift into ourselves, each finding our own will to make the next step. Damien Rice drifts in and I move my mind to places as far from this as possible, far from my feet and tired legs. Every step is a jolt of sharp needles. I try to block it out. The moraine goes on forever. There are drop-offs and walls. We work in the dark to find our way.

 

We reach the meadow and pump our last water. My thirst is unquenchable but we move on quickly. I do not want to know what time it is but Mark tells me anyway. The trail is a dream of crickets penetrating my headphones, and stars, and thoughts of family, and trying not to stumble. I make myself wait a certain number of songs before checking the GPS. The GPS is like a drug and my eyes want to take a puff every other step. The distraction works, and when I finally give in and look I can tell we are making good time. The parking lot appears and we drop our packs and finally smile. It is 1am.

 

The drive is uneventful. It hurts to shift. Mark is going to have beer and pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner when we get back. Well, he restates, no pizza for breakfast. That would be just wrong. We make it home. I shower and crawl into bed with my wife and grab a few hours sleep. Stepping out of the shower my little girl peeks around the corner and squeals as she jumps in my arms

 

“I missed you daddy.”

 

She gives me a big hug. I feel more joy than I have ever felt on any summit.

 

 

Gear Notes:

Axe

Crampons

Pickets

Rock gear

Slings

Double ropes

[ivan]

well written - seems like a climb best done in winter, no?

 

the comment on your freddo-esque friends buried in dresses is classic...

[sketchfest]

nicely done!

[downfall]

We both know, 80% of all climbing accidents occur on the descent

 

I beleive if you check ANAM you'll find that just over 50% of climbing accidents occur on the ascent.

[olyclimber]

Nice story...great first post!

[Chriznitch]

that is a special summit...glad you made it safely despite it being an obviously predicted choss-O-RAMA in Aug.

[Crevasse]

Thanks. I had a lot of time on airplanes to write it up. I have been surfing the board for quite a while and think it is a great resource. I felt it was time to start contributing.