[TR] Mount Shuksan - Fisher Chimney 6/21 - 6/22

[i_like_sun]

June 21, 22, and kinda the 23rd:

 

MOUNT SHUKSAN, FISHER CHIMNEYS

 

 

Mitchell and I originally had the plan to climb Mount Rainier’s Gibraltar Ledges during the weekend after our final exams. This plan was schemed months ago during the first week of our microbiology lectures, and in truth was the prime reason I was able to stay alive this quarter, let alone pass any of my courses with decent grades. A few weeks ago we climbed Mount Baker via the Coleman and Deming glaciers as a training endeavor (this should actually be its own trip report seeing as that turned into its own mini epic). This gave us the chance to get to know each other and learn about our climbing styles and strengths. When the weekend of the 21st was only a few days away, it quickly became apparent that we were both dead broke, and in all veracity probably couldn’t even afford the gasoline it would take to get to Rainier and back! We met up on Friday afternoon and started chatting about reality. Mitch said, “why don’t we just go bang up the Sulfide Glacier tomorrow?” Seeing as I have already experienced that slog, I mentioned that either the Fisher Chimneys or Shuksan North Face direct are both considered northwest classics, and that I have my dad’s old climbing notes on at least one of those routes. A moment of silence brought us to the conclusion that the Fisher Chimneys route is in all likelihood more realistic for success, and the idea that it has remained, according to the ranger station, unclimbed this season gave us an extra sense of “badassness”. The final plan was therefore formed: we would leave Saturday morning for Lake Anne, and on Sunday attempt the wandering traverse to the Upper Curtis Glacier where we could meander to The Hourglass, gain the upper Sulfide, and rock and roll up the summit pyramid.

 

 

A slurry of blueberries, oatmeal, peanut butter, and four cups of coffee strong enough to rip a man’s face off switched my brain to the “ON” position early Saturday morning. At 9:00am I found Mitch at his house grinning widely as he stuffed a giant steak into his climbing pack. We did our final gear analysis, loaded up his haggard Honda Civic, plugged in some Alice and Chains to the Civic’s homemade, completely smashed speakers, and floored it up Mount Baker highway 542. A massive wall of snow ended the road at the ski area’s upper parking lot, and within fifteen minutes the squishing of our feet in the snow signified the beginning of the adventure.

 

 

We made short work of the ski area’s slopes, and arrived at the Lake Anne trail head to find the sign still up to its neck in snow. There were no footprints or signs of previous climbers, so I pulled the map out and found our baring: ninety-eight degrees East. Steep downhill plunge stepping quickly brought us to the valley floor were we crossed reasonably fresh avalanche debris. I remembered hiking to Lake Anne years ago during the summer, so I had a vague idea of where the trail should be under the snowpack. An hour or so later found us plodding through the forest following a contour on the south side of the Shuksan Arm, which I knew should bring us eventually to the last valley before the climb to Lake Anne. A two-degree error in my compass skill brought us to a knoll about half a mile north of the lake, and below a series of avalanche chutes. Lake Anne was still fully covered in snow, and instead waddling around like beached whales in the deep snow at the lake, we decided to plod on and try to actually find the Chimneys (which seemed important seeing as neither of us had ever seen them before). We must have set some kind of human speed record crossing the avalanche debris, because another forty minutes of traversing found us at the base of a very suspicious looking ice filled chute. A session of intense map examination brought us to the conclusion that we were indeed at the Chimneys, and as soon as I caught sight of a good sized tree well I found myself inappropriately excited as I whipped my new BD snow shovel into tent-platform duty. Dinner for me was instant Mexican rice pilaf, tuna fish, and cheese, while Mitchell knawed into is bloody steak, gourmet tortillas, and finely sautéed vegetables like some wild grizzly bear. Sleep came sporadically as we both seemed to be hitting new records for nighttime urine volume, and the neuroticism of taking pictures of the moonlit Lower Curtis Glacier gave us infinite reason to stay awake.

 

 

At 3:58am we both forced down some oatmeal, and I once again brewed my dangerously strong coffee. I acknowledge that my efficiency in the early mornings doesn’t quite hit Kurt Hicks velocity, but we were on route by 4:45 am. The previous afternoon’s slush had morphed into rock hard ice, and due to the relatively low slope angle we decided to start off unroaped. This decision was rapidly reversed however once we gained about five hundred feet into the Chimney. I was leading, and found myself on very steep ice that my brain could only compare to the texture of waterfall ice (perhaps because of the steepness of the chute and the melt patterns, the snow has been saturated enough to take on such nature as it refreezes). Though I don’t possess very many of them, a few of my “self preservation neurons” (S.P.N.’s) began firing as I swung my front points into the slope. Mitch and I came to a cliff where a waterfall was running twenty feet under the snow, and where a ledge traverse followed by a short near-vertical ice pitch followed. We tied into each end of Mitchell’s ½ rope (35 meters) and I decided that I would climb on until the S.P.N.’s went off again. In retrospect, a second ice tool could have been useful on some of the moves, but for the most part swinging in one tool while balancing on my hand and points worked out just fine. The whole way up I just kept chanting to myself “don’t fuck up” because sure-footedness is the first line of defense to any mountaineering accident. From the tent to the top of the Fisher Chimney took us much longer than expected (about 2.5 – 3 hours). This is entirely due to our cautious style of belaying each other one rope length at a time.

 

 

Once at the top of the Chimney we consumed some much needed Gatorade, chocolate espresso beans, and cliff bars, and eyeballed our route under a perfect and brilliant blue sky. I knew of a route that follows the south side of the Shuksan Arm knife ridge, but instead of risking death by falling hundreds of feet off the rock, we decided to head down the White Salmon glacier to below a rock knoll where we could traverse to the base of Whinny’s Slide. Setting off from the top of the Fisher Chimney turned out to be a moment of divine sensation. Mitchell and I were in a place that was virgin wilderness to the both of us. Compounded by the fact that there were no other human traces, I thought to myself “this is what the first explorers must have felt like”; I was experiencing a sense of wondrous and timid excitement that I have only experienced a handful of times while wandering through the mountains. Two big avalanche crossings kept me aware of the easiness at which death can arrive in the mountains. With the exception of Mitchell finding himself hip deep in a crevasse at one point, traversing the White Salmon went uneventful.

 

 

At the base of Whinny’s slide we found a good-sized bergshrund where the glacier is pulling away from the cliff. We traversed east to where a snow bridge had collapsed into the crack, and where we could drop down onto its floor and hop onto the rock face, and then climb up and onto the ice sheet. Whinny’s Slide met my expectations of being darn steep, as any slip on this thing would have been bad news. The only bothersome part of the ice pitch for me was that I began experiencing an occasional cramp in my quadriceps and hamstrings muscles, and had to stop for an occasional stretching session. My theory is that I was probably dehydrated, and that my leg muscles were likely running low on stored glycogen. At any rate, at the top of the Hanging Glacier we found a fantastic lunch counter where we consumed more calories and fluids. By now it was already hitting 11:00 am, so this break was ended quickly. A scramble over some rocks brought us finally onto the Upper Curtis Glacier.

 

 

We found nearly all the crevasses still filled in with snow, however their hidden chasms were now becoming apparent with the ever so slight sagging of the slope’s surface. Once over the glacier’s prime hump, we made long down sloping strides to the Hourglass, a giant gap in Shuksan’s south ridge that links the Sulfide and Upper Curtis glaciers. We arrived at the gap in less than fifteen minutes, and started kicking steps up the steep snowy ridge formation appropriately named Hells Highway. Any unstopped fall down the Southwest side of this ridge would have sent us hundreds of feet airborne over the Upper Curtis ice cliff, so I made note to blare at Mitchell every time his lead tipped over that side. We gained the Sulfide glacier quickly, and at which time we received our first good view of the summit pyramid.

 

 

A ten-minute blue-bagging, chocolate, and water session allowed us to gain some much-needed rejuvenation. The clock read 1:38pm. Our last upward slog took us to the base of the pyramid in roughly thirty minutes, and for the first time during the climb we saw other climbers. They were a group of six belaying each other up the central rock and ice pitch, and I’m guessing they likely ascended the Sulfide. I lead Mitch and I over to the right hand ridge where I have read of easy 5th class climbing. What we found however was climbing like I’ve never experienced. On top of stable rock was frozen water ice clinging to nearly every cranny and nook. One crampon would be front-pointed into solid ice, while the other was desperately trying to find address on the tiniest of rock ledges. Similarly, one hand would be holding purchase on rock, and the other swinging my axe into hard frozen glass. All this combined with stomach churning exposure made for a fantastic experience. Our turn around time was set to be 2:00 pm with 3:00 at the absolute latest. Ironically, this mixed climbing took us to within seventy vertical feet of Shuksan’s true summit just as the hour rang 3:00 pm. Mitchell I were so fired up and so eager to top out that we decided to go on to for a few minutes more. I was so sure that we were going to make it, that when we were stopped dead in our tracks by another iced up rock cliff bordered on either side by more cliffs, I nearly had to pull out my second Bluebag. I looked Mitchell in the eye, and it was obvious that our thought were ringing identical. We could rappel down to a steep snow slope on the left, and then front point the last pitch straight to the summit. It would however, probably take at least another half hour. The thought that snapped me awake at that point was a memory of Ed Veisters’s account of his experience on K2. According to Ed, he and Scott Fisher continued to climb as the wind was picking up, temperatures were dropping, and dark clouds crawled up the lower mountain. Although they topped out and lived, Veisters has regarded that experience as the worst mistake of his climbing career. Afterwards he never consciously risked life for any summit, and to this date he is one of the longest-lived Himalayan climbers. Neither Mitch nor I were clinging to K2 at 28,000 feet, but Shuksan was telling us to get the hell out of there with increasing winds, cloud, and hours. Out of principle we shared a high-five and turned around. In refection of this moment, I find my feelings of disappointment being overcome by the feelings of satisfaction knowing that I made the right decision. I realize that it only takes one crime against good judgment to set off a mindset of carelessness, and only one mishap to end up dead. Down climbing turned out to be equally as fascinating as the ascent, and once we reached the easy slopes of the Sulfide I’m sure Mitchell experienced the same sense of relief that I did. Awesome photographic potential forced us to once again rest at the Hourglass, and our traverse back to the Shuksan Arm began a few minutes later.

 

 

At this point in the day our minds didn’t focus on time anymore, only to get back to the tent as quickly and safely as possible. We made set a blistering pace through the Hour Glass and back up the rise of the Upper Curtis Glacier. From the top of the Shuksan Arm we could actually visualize where our tent was thousands of feet below. Instead of heading back down to Whinny’s Slide, I got the brilliant idea to traverse to the top of the White Salmon Glacier and zigzag our way through the crevasses back to our wanded line of the morning. Later in the season this ploy probably would not work as snow bridges disappear, but it did save us down climbing the steeps of Whinny’s Slide and likely saved us the time it would have taken to traverse from lower down. From below the rock knoll we dropped below earlier in the day we could see the final Yellow Brick Road to the top of the Fisher Chimney. This last thousand feet of climbing was the first time in the day when I found my pace to slow a bit. Both Mitchell and I had eaten all of our food, and were both feeling that internal sensation of catabolism as one’s body runs low on reserves. We guzzled the last of the water at the top of the chimneys, and began the careful descent. We found the rock hard ice of the morning had softened just enough to allow side stepping down the upper chute, however, lower down I decided to face into the slope and use my front points as the slope steepened. At one point, Mitch decided to try using his heel spikes as he faced outward. I was leading down and watched him do this with a mild thought of “dude, be damn careful”. A second later I watched him slip into the narrow meltshoot and flip headfirst and upside down. We didn’t have any anchors in, so when I saw him sliding toward me my brain went ballistic and I instantly jammed my axe into the ice as fast as I could, just waiting for the massive impact of his 180 pound mass. To my amazement, Mitch got his axe point into the ice in perfect self-arrest formation and flipped around so he was once again facing up and into the slope. Although “not falling” is generally the best way to go, my opinion of Mitchell is now much higher having witnessed him stop a potentially fatal if not very harmful slide.

 

 

Once at the tent, the Jetboil was instantly fired up and Mitchell and I both ate massive bowls of oatmeal jammed with peanut M&M’s. We lollygagged for about an hour, trying desperately not to fall asleep. Getting up to break camp was an act that went against every cell in my body. All I wanted to do at that point was eat more food and pass out, but at 9:45pm we were loaded and ready to head out. I had work at 8:30 the next morning, and Mitch had a flight to New Zealand he had to pack for, so staying the night was not an option. The clouds moved in and we hiked out into a complete and dusky whiteout.

 

 

Hiking out that night proved to be an adventure of massive proportions. Initially we could make out and follow our tracts from the previous day, but as the light disappeared from the sky all we had was my compass and the will to keep moving after seventeen hours of nonstop cardio. Our first goal was to make it across the giant snowbowl of avalanche debris before darkness fully took over. Instead of finding the easy line across the valley that would take us to the next ridge, the complete whiteout disoriented us enough such that my lead caught a case of “Ridge-itus” and climbed our haggard asses nearly a thousand feet too high. Amazingly, the night sky holds at least some light till nearly 11:00pm these days, and when we did finally reach the ridge’s summit, the clouds had lifted just enough so that we could make out the descent into the next valley. With a sense of urgency we extended our goal to making it to the forest before complete darkness.

I could vaguely make out the valley floor below me, and I realized that we could probably get away with ass-sliding all the way down. The slope was steep enough so that I could not see over its rolling descent, and what concerned me was the possibility of a hidden cliff band below. I opened my memory files from the previous day, and could not identify any recollections of cliffs lining this left side of the valley. Mitchell and I where so tired and so motivated to get the hell out of there that we just said “fuck it”. With a running start we both leaped forward into near-darkness and landed on our butts, full packs and still attached. The acceleration was insanely fast. Due to an unpleasant visualization of my ice axe penetrating my skull, the blade was kept safely pointed away to my left, ready to create drag at the sight of any major drop-off. Terminal velocity was reached within a few seconds, and because no cliffs materialized, Mitchell and I kept our hands off the breaks and let Newton apply his forces to their full potential. I’m curious about how fast we were going by the time the bottom of the slope was reached, because I’m theorizing about a second human speed record for this trip. The Dark Slide, as I’m calling it, ended with the gentle deceleration on flat ground and a loud squeal and cheer from both Mitchell and myself.

 

 

We exploded to our feet and made a beeline across the final 1/5 mile of the valley. At the edge of the valley the slope again dropped away, and marking the final descent that would take us to the cover of trees. The Shuksan Goddess graced us again because just as I switched my headlamp on, our previous day’s tracks glared up as us right from under our feet! We plunged stepped across and down in the direction of trees and threw in the occasional ass-slide to lose altitude. At one point I ended up with a tree branch nearly ripping me a new orafous in the dark, and I at once decided to retire butt sliding for the night. I was in the lead again, and within minutes it became apparent that my delirious brain was still under attack by an invasion of Ridge-itus, because I continued to take us higher than we should have been. To our left was the giant glacial valley that eventually leads to Baker Lake, and to our left was the continuance of the Shuksan Arm cliffs. We had to somehow remain on a constant contour without getting cliffed out up high or dropping too low and getting stranded down low. Mitchell quickly intervened and said “this way”, and led us straight down. Five minutes later we were crossing over the very same fallen tree we had tromped over the day before, and our tracks were blatantly visible on the other side. I could not believe my eyes! I said “Mitchell! You f***ing genius!” as this was the last spot I thought we would ever see again. Over the next two hours Mitchell lead while I corrected our general direction every hundred feet with the compass.

 

 

At 1:30 am, during the final valley crossing before we would reach the Lake Anne trailhead, we were quietly plodding across old avalanche debris when all of a sudden we heard a massive crashing and rumbling near by to our left. With cat speed reflexes we sprinted to the right desperately hoping not to get squished like pumpkins. Although we never got a visual on the avalanche itself, I said out loud “Shit man! That was way too close!!” Mitchell agreed. The positive side of this near-death experience was that our testosterone jumped fifty notches and our pace snapped out of a sleepy haze and into a raged out wartime march. We made incredible speed at that point. Mitchell and myself performed the final climb to the top of the Mt Baker Ski area in an exhausted stooper, but somehow, again by the grace of the Shuksan Goddess, my compass reading took us to within fifty feet of the trailhead. I said to Mitch “dude, I had my doubts about this the whole time!” The possibility of spending the night in the woods was never far off my screen, until now.

 

 

The final downhill plod through the Gostland of the ski area was an eerie experience. I recognized all the slopes I’ve shredded down on my snowboard during numerous winters. It’s amazing to me how the darkness of night changes one’s perspective completely. The last hurdle we had to surmount was to meander our way across snowy terrain that had been plowed into completely different shapes while we were gone. Apparently the effort to open the road to Artist Point has begun, and this completely disoriented us, no more than a quarter mile from the parking lot. To get lost now seemed like such a loser thing to do, but once again my handy compass saved our asses.

 

 

We arrived at the car in a messed up state of wired exhaustion at 2:45 am. We had been moving for twenty-one hours straight. Although it was probably a TERRIBLE idea, I had a pint of Port Townsend Pale Ale waiting for us under the dash. I cracked it open, and within seconds my depleted brain began hallucinating as if I were on acid. Mitchell, the designated driver, took four swigs and called it good. All the way down out of the mountains I guzzled beer and tortillas and proceeded to achieve one of the most-drunk states of my life – and only off of ¾ of pint. My body was in such a caloric deficit, and probably so massively dehydrated, that any ounce of alcohol hit my cortex with titanic force. I loved it.

 

 

I finally crawled into bed at 4:45 am, set my alarm for 7:30, and drifted away into oblivion. Two and three quarter hours later, I got up, ate some breakfast, and arrived at work as if nothing special had happened. The only evidence of my mini epic was some sunburn on my arms and cheeks, at which my colleagues simply said, “Hey you got some sun this weekend!” I replied “yep”. All I told my boss was “dude, you don’t know how lucky I was to make it into work today”, “I’m glad you’re hear man” he replied. Work ended ten hours later, and somehow my haggard stooper made it to bed in one piece. “Life does not get any richer,” I told myself as I drifted asleep.

 

 

In reflection of this trip, I am reminded of how crucial the Ten Essentials are when going into the backcountry. Without the use of a map and compass, Mitchell and I wouldn’t have made it more than a mile out of there. Also, climbing with the mindset that the mountains will always be present, I feel, gave Mitchell and I the ability to make good decisions. So many people have died over the years because of bad judgment; I constantly remind myself that I want to teach my children this game one day. Nothing in life excites my more, and nothing in life exhausts me more. The mountains are my one true love, but man, this game is so darn addictive! The trick, I believe, is living with constant humility. Because in the end not only is climbing still a silly human game, the mountains will always be more powerful. Thanks Mitch, I’ll climb with you any time buddy.

 

 

Edited July 4, 2008 by i_like_sun

[JoshK]

Good TR and nice climb

[dannycoolski]

Geez, don't you know a picture is worth a thousand words!

[rob]

nice trip. That's one of my favorite routes. When I did it, we also hiked out at night, in the dark, wearing crampons for traction in the wet heather. I feel your pain.