Always A Work in Progress (Sticky Post)

Posted on October 6, 2014 by evejakubowski

Thanks to the guy at Marathon Sports back home who made the logo! I think it’s going to have to stay here because I cannot for the life of me figure out how the hell to get it next to the title above. Eventually I’d like to have a few things added, like lists (everyone loves lists), hike of the month, and a few more categories, but for now it’s all about learning to hike, climb, and run. Elevation profiles are in the Strava links when provided, and if anyone would like a GPX file of my route, comment and let me know, I usually have one. Comments, blog suggestions, and recommendations for peaks are always welcome! Doesn’t matter whether it’s a hike, run, or climb.

Recent updates: I have added a rock climbing category as well as an Archives page so you can see hikes by month with brief notes! Figured it was about time I get organized!

Glacier Peak via Gerdine & Cool Glaciers

Posted on August 28, 2017 by evejakubowski

Glacier Peak over a White Chuck tarn (Eve Tarn)

It might have been nice as a three day trip, but who has that kind of time? Two days it was. And it ended up being possibly the most casual two assault on Glacier Peak ever known to man. So chill, awesome relaxed group, exactly the type of trip I was hoping for. And as usual, I have too many pictures for the words here. Hiked/Climbed 8/25-8/27.

Distance: 36ish miles
Elevation: 8200ft net gain (10,541ft highest point)
Weather: 60’s-80’s and sunny
Commute from Seattle: 2:30 unless you get trapped in the black hole that is Everett
Did I Trip: 7 times for an average of one trip every 5.14 miles

Mackinaw Shelter

John had to drive up from basically Portland, so even though our goal was to meet in Darrington at 6pm we finally all arrived at 7pm, finished packing (and changing in my case) and finally hit the trail a little after 8:30pm. It was already dark, so I put fresh batteries in my headlamp and we took off at what I considered a blistering pace. I kept my mouth shut for like an hour before finally asking to slow down. I didn’t want to a) burn myself out immediately b) set unrealistic expectations for the next two days and c) walk fast because I’m lazy. Also, all of my water spilled in the car so I had no water until the first gross little trickle of a stream where I might as well have been licking a mud puddle. Shit. But slowing that first section down resulted in the chillest 42 hour trip ever.

Indian Head peeking over White Pass campsites

Long story short, we made it to the Mackinaw shelter in a little under 2 hours, missing out on some enormous old growth trees, leaves the side of my body, and dozens of feet of hanging moss. I had been excited for the shelter, until we saw it in the dark. “Well that’s fucking creepy.” “….we should check it out.” “Okay, you go first.” Everyone else fell asleep while I began a several hour long faceoff with a mouse (or a ghost, but pretty sure it was a mouse). I had like 15 bags of cheez-its that crackled every time the mouse got to them. Hang up your food, guys. Bears don’t give a shit but mice are fucking ruthless. They will eat all your food, shit in the food bags, and tear up your belongings. Okay, it only got into my crispy M&Ms, but that’s because I did a great job of defending my 10 square feet. I hate the forest. And wildlife.

North lobe of White Chuck Glacier used to end here (Eve Lake), Sloan back right

We got moving a little after 7 Saturday morning. Yay sleeping in! I was very happy to be going up the 2.7 miles of switchbacks in the shade before the sun hit, because they were dry (the only water source is a few feet off the end of one switchback) and mostly open. And steep. They went by surprisingly quickly though, and soon enough we were on a lovely eastward traverse with plenty of small streams and blueberries everywhere. The peak I climbed last weekend, Sloan, dominates the horizon behind you, Indian Head Peak starts to peek above the rolling green meadows of the White Pass campsites. As you round the corner above the campgrounds, Foam Creek comes into view, cascading into White River which has got to be one of the prettiest valley views I’ve had out here. And somehow no one got a picture of it. Occasionally I’m tempted to do sections of the PCT, but I’d have to take 3x as long so I could bag all the peaks off to the side. You can see the White River Glacier hanging to the northeast, which has created three new lakes as of late on the south side of Kololo peaks. We crossed a low point between White Peak and Kololo peaks. Earlier in the season you can cross immediately east of White Mountain, in summer the trail traverses over second skyline ridge before one final climb to a saddle where you finally drop down into an alien basin. I mean, you could hit the saddle immediately east, but why not stay on the trail? Amazingly, there is a genuine trail (not bootpath – an actual well kept trail) all the way to this point. And the saddle we went over had a campsite for those who are interested. Oh, and it’s like your first glimpse of Glacier Peak. Cue the “oh shit, that’s so far away” panic.

North and south lobes of the White Chuck on the left over the basin they used to cover (taken from the north)

Car sized boulders with ~~Dane Lake~~ Eve Lake in the background

The basin is wild. It used to be completely covered by the White Chuck Glacier (I know, you’d think that glacier would be on White Chuck Peak, but I’ve already complained about how people suck at naming glaciers). Brad did point out that the White Chuck Cinder Cone, a simple small volcano, is just west of the glacier, so maybe that has something to do with it (though they do not touch), or the White Chuck River that begins at the White Chuck Glacier and flows west (so they just ran out of names and slapped White Chuck on the coolest peak along the river). The White Chuck Glacier has been retreating from 1850 to 1930, retreating quickly from 1930 to 1960, and retreating wicked fast from 1960 to now (wicked fast is the fastest glacier speed obviously). Prior to 1955, the glacier was one awesome ice sheet. By 1955 it had three sections, and now it has 1.2 (I don’t want to call the northern ice patch a true glacier, and neither does wikipedia). In August of 2017, not a single part of our traverse touched the White Chuck Glacier, despite it still being marked as such on most maps, and the directions for this route say “cross the White Chuck Glacier.” Now it’s just a basin of tarns and lakes of varying colors draining the lifeblood of the glacier. This makes crossing a pain in the ass (walking on snow/glacier is easy going, walking through volcanic talus and sand is tedious), but it also feels like you’re on Mars, especially if there’s wildfire smoke everywhere.

From Death of a Glacier: this is a pic of White Chuck taken from the west. Left shows the White Chuck in 1988 and right shows it in 2005. Already in 1988 the northern lobe was receding quickly (wicked fast, if you will). In 2005 you had a small patch of ice above the lake and by that upper left ridge, today you only have the piece by the upper left ridge. Glacier Gap is just above the north lobe in the left picture.

~~John Pond~~ Eve Pond (wild color!)

We filled up on water several times here since we were baking in the sun and streams from the glacier were abundant. Hey maybe we’ll even camp down here and swim if we’re fast. There were ample bivvy sites in the basin, and campsites if you’re willing to move some rocks around. We swapped nerdy glacier ideas. I mentioned I wanted to explore the basin if we had time, and would take a hundred pics and laughed knowing I was the only one who gave a shit about dying glaciers. Except then Brad turned around. “…I printed a map of the whole basin.” Fuck yes, glacier nerds. Bring on the pics.

Glacier Gap came up quickly (1pm), and we dropped our overnight stuff in a campsite with a huge windbreak already built. There were probably five or six established campsites there, two of which were occupied. Glacier Gap used to be nicely poised between the northern section of the White Chuck Glacier and the Suiattle Glacier on Kololo Peaks, but since the northern White Chuck Glacier is gone, it’s now just a rocky campsite next to a mellow glacier with sweet views east to Kololo and Tenpeaks and Clark and west to well… everything. Sloan especially, damn. And Whitechuck looks awesome from this angle. I can’t believe people who climb Glacier don’t immediately climb Sloan the next weekend. We deliberated whether to leave the summit to Sunday morning or just do it Saturday, and after a long break we decided we should just go for it so we could take it easy Sunday. The alternative was sitting at camp for 8 hours, so why not? We’d just be slow and steady on the way up, worst case we come down with headlamps. But we had a solid 8 hours of daylight left, so I figured we’d be fine. After a few shots of straight Mio for electrolytes, we packed up our gear, I finally took the rope off Dane’s back (he carried it all the way to freaking Glacier Gap before we stopped being assholes) and we started up for a sunset summit.

Glacier Peak from the ridge above Glacier Gap

Mellow Gerdine glacier, Kololo peaks in the back. You can also see Jolly Mountain Fire haze

From Glacier Gap you head up to another saddle just north of camp, drop down across a small snowfield, and then follow the ridge of Glacier Peak up to the Gerdine glacier. There’s basically a trail again. It’s a 15 foot scramble to drop onto the Gerdine glacier, and then you gain around 1500ft on the glaciers. As of now, you climb up to the base of Disappointment Peak, where we crossed zero crevasse. Here you can rope up if you’d like, head east crossing some gnarly rock fall territory (one group saw a car sized boulder fall… yikes) until you can gain elevation again. You’ll walk over some exposed glacial ice (also wildly cool) that looks tough from below, but as you get closed it’s like the ice equivalent of rolling slabs or a talus field. This is where you gain the Cool glacier, which I think is rope worthy. Swing back left around Disappointment Peak, over one legit snowbridge and a few crevasse hops, and you hit the final ridge of Glacier Peak. Honestly, we did not rope up for this stretch because it looked mellow from below and we had heard as much, and the rockfall danger is very obvious. So I figured speed would mean more than rope.

Guys, it’s still a glacier!

And arguably it did, since just as we finished the Gerdine glacier rock fall crossing a car size boulder came tumbling down and came to a rest 5 feet from where we had been standing 15 minutes prior. And the group ahead of us said they had seen an even bigger one tumble across the path. If we had roped up, we might have been standing right there. But I gotta say when you hit the Cool Glacier (after the exposed ice) there were a few crevasses that made me wonder why the hell no one had roped up. At that point, there was no good place to pull over and do so, so I carried on until the ridge, telling the voice in the back of my head reminding me I was dumb I know I know, it seemed like a good idea at the time! Famous last words. But please don’t get complacent or fall victim to the “oh everyone else is doing it.” It’s a real glacier, and one of those snowbridges might not be around for much longer. The exposed glacial ice section doesn’t make a significant difference, it’s only 20ish feet long, and if you slip you’ll just fall into a pothole and get wet and be grumpy. But the crevasses above it do matter, and when someone punches through that bridge I think is right on route I hope they’re on a rope. I’m sure the other groups all fell victim to the same “oh everyone else says it’s fine and it looks fine” only to realize duh, you’re on a glacier you idiot, when it was just a little too late.

Exposed glacial ice

Our shadows along the ridge

Stash your rope and glacier gear at the ridge. Maybe save the helmets. We did, no one else did, but I like my skull the way it is, and a good friend recently got stitches after being hit in the head on a stretch I probably wouldn’t have worn a helmet on either (separate climb). This ridge is like hiking a sand dune. Save your bitching for the last few steps because many of them will be one step up, half a step back, rinse and repeat. Towards the top of the sandy shit you get loose rock, there’s a light trail but just about anything will go. There’s a short snow field to cross but the bootpath is so beat it’s like a staircase, and far better than the scree shit. Just when you hit your “fuck this shit” point looking at the last 50ft of scree, you reach the summit saddle, and the true summit is to your left, on the west side. We met a two person party who carried a tiny dog to the top(!), and swapped photos with them. There are a few bivvy sites on the summit if you are so inclined. Brad and Dane lounged around, I snapped more pics, and quickly shooed them back down because I was cold and wanted to be back before dark. Yeah I could have put on a jacket. Shut up.

Coming up the final ridge

Sunset along the ridge

What took us over an hour to go up took us literally 20 minutes to go down (summit to glacier). It had taken us just under 4 hours total from camp to summit (including a long break since Dane ran into a friend soloing the peak), and we were back at camp in about two hours. Plunge stepping down scree was phenomenal, we cruised down the glaciers (decided not to rope up, figured we knew the conditions and wanted to save time – still on the fence about that choice), saved an abandoned camp light that we later returned to the girl who lost it, and regained the ridge back to camp where we were treated to one of the best sunsets I’ve ever had in the Cascades. Since so much of the final climb is a mellow ridge walk, it was easy to meander and get distracted and enjoy the views, savoring the feeling of being done with the climb and walking on top of the world surrounded by peaks in every direction.

Goodnight Glacier

Sunset! Sloan on the left

Wildfire smoke had been moving in for a while, so the entire sky was bright red. Kololo peaks and Tenpeak and Clark were all reflecting the sun, and Sloan and the Monte Cristos looked ridiculous. We floated over sparse grasses and dusty trail back to a stream where we filled up water for the last time since Glacier Gap has no easy water source (you can melt snow, but you have to walk to it and that’s hard). At first I complained because I didn’t want to lose elevation or go out of our way, but I knew the team was right and I’d be happier not melting snow for water. And it was like 50ft out of the way, not an issue. And it ended up being awesome, because the snowfield we crossed to get to the stream was covered in mother fucking ice worms!!! Here’s a snazzy Seattle Times article on them too. They’re pretty neat.

Ice worms! (Thanks for the pic Brad)

Yeah, did you even know those existed? I thought they might have been a myth. We couldn’t figure out what they were, and I was like holy shit they might be ice worms, I think I’ve read that those are real. Someone reached down and poked one, and it moved! So we all started poking them, and they all moved, and here we were stomping across all of them, destroyers of worlds, thrashers of delicate ecosystems. They only come out at dusk and dawn, and they literally melt if they’re over 41 degrees Fahrenheit (aka in the palm of your hand). And scientists aren’t sure how they move through the ice – do they release some sort of antifreeze, or move through tiny gaps we can’t see? If they liquify in heat but stay in one place, can they revive once they’ve been cooled again? Could their physiology help us with organ transplants (keeping organs frozen but alive), or drugs preventing frostbite, or even freaking weight loss?* They’re specific to Alaska and the Pacific Northwest, and it’s pretty neat we had a chance to see them. They don’t look like much and it’s a bit weird to think you’re walking on hundreds of worms (they’re like tiny threads, each 1.5″ long and super thin) but I’ll just add it to the list of otherworldly, alien like things we passed on this trip.

Last light on Tenpeak and one of the Kololo peaks(?)

So we filled our water (stream was so low we could only fill bladders and would pour into nalgenes) and trekked back to camp just as it got dark. A group we had passed on the way up had been keeping an eye out for us, which I always appreciate. We were met at our campsite by more mice (bring back the glaciers dammit) and a deflated sleeping pad (mine). Ah, shit. Of course this happened. I had been talking about how going to sleep at an alpine campsite after an awesome day is my favorite part of camping, and now I’m going to be sleeping on a pack and a rope. Luckily Dane (MVP) had repair tape (I NEVER carry repair tape) and I managed to turn the fast leak into a slow leak. Dane looked so cozy in his sleeping bag, and announced his watch said we had done 48,000 steps that day and something like 510 flights of stairs. Let’s just continue to bask in our satisfaction.

Smoke moving in Sunday morning

We devoured dinners. Brad had his own homemade dehydrated meal, Dane and John ate two dehydrated meals apiece. We admired the Milky Way and saw several shooting stars and I said how with infinite space aka infinite possibilities there’s something on another planet on a mountain looking up thinking the same things we are. Dane pointed out that even though there’s life out there it’s so far away that it’s a moot point to all of us. Brad snapped some effortless night pics, which blew my mind because I thought night pics meant like hours of planning. That’s the last thing I remember so I must have fallen asleep shortly after, only to wake up to the resident mouse terrorizing my pack. I took out my contacts, shook the mouse out of my pack, and went back to sleep. 15 minutes later that fucker was on my head. I shot upright and flung it away. Did I though? Or did it just fall into my bivvy? I froze, listening for the sound of a rodent running around my sleeping bag. No, it’s quiet, I’m safe. Well hopefully I flung it far enough it never comes back because I am done with this shit.

Mars! Back across the basin

John ready to pole-vault the river, Glacier disappearing in smoke

I woke up around 3am to re-inflate my poor sleeping pad, and then officially woke up at 6:30 and sat up half an hour later. The mouse had given Dane a hard time too so at least it wasn’t just me. Wildfire smoke was officially closing in, and there were tendrils of it wrapping over Kololo and Tenpeak. We started moving around 8am, and the sun felt weak. It smelled like grilling. On the bright side, this made White Chuck Basin look even more like Mars, and meant we were only 70% baked by the sun not 100%. We knew it was supposed to be a hot day and I was happy to have the cold breeze coming off the ice with a sickly sun. We had a looong day ahead of us though it turned out to be far shorter than I expected.

Dying glacier

We took two hours back to White Pass, where the haze had settled into a blatant layer. Dane whipped out cheese and sausage he had been carrying the whole time, and passed it around while we all sat there drooling because sausage and cheese is the best thing in the backcountry ever. The traverse back to the switchbacks smelled like blueberry pie because of all the berries, and bugs that sounded like cicadas buzzed in the August heat. When I picture summer this is what I think of. We sporadically filled up water and then hit the only part of the climb that I would call true suffering: going down those god damn 2.7 miles of switchbacks. In the sun. With no water. Oh my god. I felt bad for everyone going uphill. And it felt SO much longer than it had on the way up. I ended up going into survival mode and hustling and not talking until I got to the shelter in the shade. Whew. Luckily they were minutes behind me. Brad was so in the zone he didn’t even realize we were at the shelter. I lay down on the trail and put my feet up on a log and savored the feeling. 5.5 miles left of easy rolling trail.

Brad’s awesome pic of the Milky Way

Dane being bad ass

Except every mild uphill killed me. My feet hurt and I had hives all over my legs (or heat rash, could be either, I’m obviously allergic to fun). And I was out of water. I filled up at the large stream with the bridge across it even though it meant losing and regaining a whole 10 feet of elevation. I asked Dane what the temperature was. I guessed 85 degrees, mostly whining and exaggerating because I was suffocating through every sunny brushy section of trail. His response? “It’s…85 degrees.” Barf, nailed it. We passed a sign for Sloan Creek Road and the PCT, and Dane said that sign was 2 miles in. I could have sworn we had passed the sign only 10 minutes ago and I cursed. That meant we were still so far away. I resigned myself to another 45 minutes of walking (because if you set the bar low, you’ll never be disappointed). Except five minutes later John said he smelled the pit toilet. I laughed and said ha, I wish. And then suddenly we came around a corner and I saw the trail register!! Yes!!! And it wasn’t even 3pm! We were back so early! That means burgers!! I’m never back early enough for Burger Barn!

~~Brad Lake~~ Eve Lake below White Peak and Red Peak

We dropped packs at the car, savored the pit toilet (especially Brad, who ran the last mile as the pit toilet called his name), changed into sandals, and sat. I love sitting. Dane has fantastic taste in music and we drove back down the road with the windows down listening to tunes and I gotta say I had a 10/10 moment. Satisfied, exhausted, thinking back to that sunset, it was amazing. What these guys didn’t know is that this was my first trip with completely new people this summer, and I didn’t know how it would go mentally after everything that happened in the spring. Grief can be physical, and you never know when it’s going to smack you in the face. But the answer is it went great. It was possibly the first trip I had where I felt back in the groove. There were emotions but they weren’t overwhelming and they didn’t manifest physically and it was easy to admire our surroundings and just relax. I’m sure it’ll still be up and down but it was great to have another trip that reminds me why I like climbing and why I do what I do.

Old growth forest

We covered like four different ecosystems on this trip. Old growth forest with enormous trees, rolling alpine meadows and ridges, extraterrestrial exposed glacier basins, and finally a massive peak with cascading glaciers (though who knows how long they’ll last). Glacier Peak has a neat summit, sure, but the cool thing about it is everything you cross on the way there. Once I started looking at it as a backpacking trip instead of a climb, it became a worthy objective, and far surpassed my expectations. So huge thanks to Dane for tossing out the idea, and John for braving the drive from Portland (barf) and Brad for geeking out about glaciers with me. And then extra to Dane for saving my sleeping pad. Awesome team, awesome weekend, so glad it happened.

Summit shot!

*one of these makes more money than the others

Sloan Peak via Bedal Creek

Posted on August 25, 2017 by evejakubowski

Monte Cristo group from the shoulder of Sloan

3-glimpses-of-sloan-peak-through-the-trees

This is Sloan. That’s the glacier crossing. Taken from Northwest Blazer, another awesome blog for the area.

Not to be confused with the equally beautiful woman from Entourage, Sloan is a peak off the Mountain Loop Highway with a striking silhouette from almost any direction. I’ve done hikes where every single person one at a time asks “what’s that one?!” and the answer is usually Sloan. So it had been on the radar for years, but tends to get very broken up as soon as weather warms up. Since it’s usually a day trip, it’s easily overlooked as a weekend destination. Luckily this year has had a fantastically long glacier season, and Sloan by some miracle was still in pretty damn good shape, and I haven’t been dedicating every weekend to crazy 48hr trips this summer. Our friends Lena and Steven had gone the prior weekend, so we knew we’d have a shot this weekend, and wanted to get it done before it was too late. Hiked (climbed?) 8/19/2017.

Distance: 9 miles round trip
Elevation: ~5000ft gain (7,835ft highest point)
Weather: 50’s and sunny and windy
Commute from Seattle: 2:15 without traffic
Did I Trip: Yes, walking uphill through blueberries, so I faceplanted into brush.
Comment for GPX file – dropbox is down so I have no easy way of sharing it here

Sulphur Shelf aka Chicken of the Woods (tastes like chicken! I wish I had known when I saw them!)

Jennifer neck deep in blueberry bushwhacking

Anyone who knows me knows I’m terribly at dedicating future weekends to anything. I fret when all of my weekends are booked. It is arguably one of the largest sources of stress in my obviously charmed life (for example, I only have two open weekends in September and have been panicking for days). So Rob asked if I wanted to climb Sloan, and a few others pitched their own ideas, and in classic asshole Eve fashion I ignored everyone who pitched plans to me and simmered in my analysis paralysis until I woke up Friday morning and said Eve, if you don’t make a damn decision now you’re going to end up not doing anything this weekend. So I messaged Rob. If you’re still down for Sloan I’m in. And luckily, he was, and so was Jennifer, an awesome woman I hadn’t met yet. But I trust Rob’s taste in people.

Alpine meadows

We met at 6am at the Green Lake Park n Ride. Last time I was at this park n ride I was dumped (this was in 2016) for saying “god dammit” a few too many times (he didn’t read my blog apparently), so it was nice to override that memory with a way more awesome one. We piled into Rob’s Subaru and hauled off toward Darrington. We were aiming for the Bedal Creek approach, not the standard route via Cougar Creek which is longer (12mi round trip, 800 more ft of gain) with some river fords (along with being crass, I’m also lazy).

Google Maps led us slightly astray. I know Steven and Lena (who provided beta, here’s Steven’s blog) had only checked the GPS like twice the entire trip, and there we were checking it while still on the road to make sure we found the trailhead. Well we did, after some bumps and some scrapes and some bottoming out on the road. Any high clearance vehicle will be fine. Rob’s car was a trooper.

Scrambling towards a moody Sloan

We started off down the abandoned road, and crossed a river where the trail fizzled into nothing. Check GPS. Off track already. Shit. Backtrack. Get to a campsite, take off through the woods, trail fizzles into nothing. What?! Pay attention! Backtrack down the abandoned road, realize the Bedal Creek trail is actually off the road to the North, shwhack through some bushes, and pop you’re on the trail. Okay, NOW we’re off. So in the first 45 minutes, we’ve used the GPS like 20 times. Dammit Steven.

Robert’s team coming up the glacier

The Bedal Creek Trail is fast easy moving besides some overgrown brush that’ll get you nice and wet. There’s an orange blaze marking the turnoff about 1.5 miles in, and from there just follow blazes heading up and slightly right through mostly open forest. Not a big deal if you get off track. There are wasp nests all over the ground, so be careful. I fell victim first. Two stabs to the leg, ah shit!! Run! 15 minutes later staring at some paper on the ground, “wow, that looks like a wasp nest!” I looked at Jennifer, who was staring at me slack jawed obviously thinking “how can she be such an idiot.” Realization crossed my face. Bail! Too late, that was three stings later. My poor ankles.

Snow traverse to avoid the snow bridge

One got Jennifer on the hand, Rob was spared. But he had a wasp sting the inside of his mouth the prior week, so I guess we’ll let that pass. At the top of the forest, we made the mistake of trending hard right too soon. You should keep going up until you hit a rock wall, and then head hard right (like a literal 90 degree turn). There’s a boot path through all the brush. We did not find the boot path, and lost probably 45+ minutes schwacking up through blueberries following interesting poops (thank you, bear) until we found the boot path. From here you go through patchy open forest (Rob got stabbed in the head by a rogue branch) until you cross the saddle, and woohoo you’re in the alpine!

The snowbridge in question (about 15′ thick, just 18″ wide)

Two options here, stay around your elevation and don’t head up until you hit the ridge on the skyline, or head up as you traverse (in which case you’ll end up crossing a short patch of steep snow) along slabby rock and streams. There are several camp/bivvy options at the saddle and beyond, and this really would make a very pleasant two day trip. Once we hit the glacier we scrambled up as far as we could before putting glacier gear on. We saw another team on their way up, and it turned out Rob knew the team leader! It was the guy Rob had previously attempted Sloan with, but they had to turn around!

Nice crevasse

We caught up to their team, traversing across the highest section of glacier we could reach, and all crossed the snowbridge. You could do a snow traverse below the snowbridge if necessary, but the snowbridge was stable for the time being. Beyond the snowbridge it was an easy 10 minutes to the ridge where you begin the corkscrew scramble part of the route.

Alpine bootpath!!

On that right, views of the Monte Cristos (another range I apparently underestimated) open up. Spectacular. The corkscrew route tours nearly every side of the mountain, so you go from snowy rocky peaks to deep green valleys and rivers. Glacier Peak stayed in the clouds (that bum) but damn, this is an unbelievable area. The scramble is pretty clear, there’s a boot path through the alpine meadowy sections and the rock on the 3rd class parts is fairly well traveled. I think it’s fairly rare seeing this sort of high alpine boot path. Usually once you’re up high it’s rocky, or all scrambles. Pugh has trails like this towards the top (my favorite hike/light scramble off Mountain Loop).

Rob on one of the few 3rd class moves

At one point there’s a lightly colored gully you scramble up. When you get to the top, keep going up to the ridge, don’t go hard left or you’ll be off track (though you’ll see the path behind you and feel dumb dropping elevation to get back to it). If you get off route you might end up pulling a 4th class move here and there, which is where I messed up my previously injured arm (I tweaked it driving, shut up, it was an aggressive and awkward right turn). Okay, so my left arm was rendered useless. Whatever, we’re 50ft from the top and I can butt-scoot everything on the way down.

More alpine boot paths

We topped out to an old school brass summit register with several familiar names. Rob brought curry and wraps which were amazingly delicious and I took someone else’s advil because I left mine at the car (crass, lazy, and a glutton). Rob got to summit with his original climbing partner, which still cracks me up. We snapped a bunch of summit photos after our snacks and headed back down since it was a bit breezy up there and I was getting cold.

Jennifer enjoying the views with her sweet sun hat

Back across the short snow slope

Descending was way faster than I thought. The scramble was quick (careful not to knock rocks down the gully), and we roped up at the edge of the glacier where we had stashed our glacier gear. We went all the way to the toe of the glacier so we didn’t have to scramble down the rocks we had climbed up (plunge stepping down snow is faster), and backtracked the same way across the slabs and meadows as we had taken up, steep snow traverse included. Downwards traverses on steep snow are so annoying.

No giardia for these guys

We cruised across the meadows, stopped again for water, and soon enough were back at the blueberry brush traverse. Jennifer had an AWESOME filter that I need to get – a Katadyn water bottle (it’s on sale!! Hurry!) that squeeze filters a liter of water surprisingly quickly. We followed the boot path most of the way through the brush this time, though lost it descending in the trees. If you follow the boot path as far as it goes, there’s a small talus ish field below you, which we crossed and then entered the woods. The forest opens quickly, and descending is very quick since it’s all soft dirt and the blazes are (for the most part) easy to spot. Rob finally got stung by a wasp halfway down, near where we had been stung. Now we’re all even.

One more alpine bootpath

Dappled sunlight through the trees

We were back at the trail way faster than I expected, and made it back to the car probably 30 minutes later where we all relished changing into flip flops and enjoying the smell of crisp pines and the dappled sunlight streaming through the trees (that’s the best part of forests). This had been an awesome day trip. Totally doable in a day. We took a little under 12 hours, and we had been going a pretty casual pace, especially on the way up because I felt like shit for the first few hours). Not to mention the probable 2 hours we lost between taking the wrong trails in the beginning and then fighting uphill through blueberry bushes (yes we stopped to eat some too). Honestly, this whole trip was so surprisingly to me. I had been saving Sloan for “a lazy day,” not expecting anything mind blowing, but it’s just a pleasant mix of open forest, alpine meadows and slabs, glacier crossing, and 3rd class scramble with great views. It’s a big climb packed into a small package. And Sloan is always the one that people ask about when they see it from other peaks, because it looks so neat. “The Matterhorn of the Cascades.” So not only does Rob have good taste in people, he has good taste in climbs.

Three happy climbers!!

P.S. the title rhymes 🙂

Lake Edna

Posted on August 23, 2017 by evejakubowski

Lake Edna

Trail up through open pines

Lake Edna was another fairly last minute idea. I was once again going cragging in the morning since I couldn’t convince anyone to get out in the alpine. You know how you have plan A, plan B, plan C….. well cragging in my brain is like plan K. But the weather was questionable and no one wanted to hike somewhere just to end up bailing and not climbing, so cragging it was. Simon agreed to meet me Saturday night (8/12) for a hike up to a campsite by Lake Edna, where we would have a lazy morning and hike out Sunday. This hike had been on my list for a while since I had been turned around on this hike back in 2015, when I was a shy newbie. I was hiking solo, I had no buddy system, I was tired, mosquitos were swarming, and eventually I heard thunder and said you know what I’m lazy and this isn’t fun. So I went back to the car, and lamented the fact I had driven like 5hrs round trip for a ~4mi bail hike. Lake Edna: 1, Eve: 0.

Distance: 12.5 miles round trip (feels like more)
Elevation: 4500ft gain (also feels like more)
Weather: 50’s and foggy, 50’s and sunny
Commute from Seattle: 2:30 (or 6:20)
Did I Trip: Actually no. I’ve gotten too good at walking.

Simon’s sweet bivvy, easily surviving the rain

We got burgers and beer in Leavenworth, drove out to Icicle Creek Road, and joined 3 cars at the Lake Edna/Chatter Creek trailhead. We started hiking up around 8:30, knowing we didn’t have much time before sunset. I was already out of water since I drank half of it at Index, so I stopped at the first stream to fill up my camelback. And thank you to Simon for reminding me how destroyed I was starting out this hike. I had strugglebussed up Godzilla thinking the 5.10b variation looked easier than the 5.9 layback and I can now attest to the fact that 5.10b is not easier than 5.9, in case anyone was wondering. Also, I learned I have no idea how to climb offwidths, I wish I had bigger hands (said no one ever, except me that one time), and despite all of the struggling, I at least got complimented on my forearm veins as Robert (my belay bitch, thank you for putting up with my struggles) lowered my sorry ass down after I finally topped out.

We passed a campsite with three tents and a hammock (I was jealous until it rained) and they informed us that there was no one else up there. Damn I have good taste in hikes. The best part of this hike is that it’s the entrance to the Mormon Ladies Lakes. Here’s a sampling of names: Edna, Flore, Mary, Grace, Brigham, and Charles. One of these things is not like the others. I’ll let you make your own theories, given the names.

Rocks within rocks where we lost the trail in the dark

I was hoping we’d break above treeline before sunset, but I swear we were in the trees forever. This was likely due to my dragging pace. I was full-body-fried from cragging, and had been hoping for an easy stroll, not mind numbing switchbacks that seemingly take you nowhere in the dark. The trail takes you up through open pines that smell wonderful to a forest in a valley below Grindstone, where you switchback up to a small pass around 6,400ft. This threw us off, because we knew the trail was supposed to intersect with the Icicle Creek Ridge trail around 6,400ft, and from there it would only be another quarter mile to the lake. But in the dark, we didn’t realize that we were at the saddle and not at the intersection. Apparently I had also lost the ability to read a topo map. I couldn’t figure out why we hadn’t met the intersection, why we were suddenly dropping elevation, where the hell the lake was. I finally pulled out the map again and realized how much farther we had to go. Ah, shit. It was only a mile and a half, which sounds like a piece of cake, but I was tired. Even at my worst I’m usually moving 2mi/hr. We definitely passed through the twilight zone on the way up.

Green into fog

We hit a small talus field and lost the trail near the sweet rock pictured above (twilight zone guys). It reminds me of the cheap concrete that has small stones in it. I (scientifically) asked my friend Emma “what is going on with this rock?” and realized she’s backpacking for like 3 weeks. So I posted the question in WHC, and here are the responses I have received:

Conglomerate (possible)
Aliens (…can’t rule it out)
Breccia (also possible)
Concrete (manmade so no)
igneous, metamorphic, conglomerate, sedimentary if you have an elementary school education (apparently I didn’t)
Sedimentary breccia (I like this one)

More greenery

Conglomerate has the most votes so I’ll start with that. I don’t think that’s what it is. It often forms where there’s high running water (or glaciers!), and clay/sand sinks into the interstitial space between rocks and packs them all into one big rock. That’s all plausible. However, conglomerate is characterized by rounded fragments within the rock, whereas this appears jagged, meaning it’s probably sedimentary breccia! Breccia is formed wherever broken pieces of rock stack up. Could be a river, could be rockfall from an outcrop, all we know is the fragments didn’t travel far, because they’re jagged and not rounded. Either could be true in this case. I will await Emma’s expertise.

Lake Edna in the fog

There were cairns everywhere, which we started following, but they seemed to only be leading us further away from where we knew the trail should be (like I said, TWILIGHT ZONE). In hindsight I could have pulled out the gpx track but my phone and inreach were too buried and I was grumpy. After following pointless cairns for 15 minutes, we had definitely gone in a spiral. I declared that this is stupid, and we’re wasting time, and I bet once it’s light it’ll be an “oh, duh, it’s right there” situation and we should just camp here. It’s a lake, it’s not like we’re racing time or need to wake up to alpine views. There were some wide open campsites with wind barriers already set up and everything, so we dropped our stuff and went to sleep. Lake Edna: 2, Eve: still 0. You sly fox.

Beads of water ~~(not sure what the plants are)~~ it’s lupine sans flowers, please never let me live this down

Turns out we set up camp just in time, because ~~an hour later~~ okay Simon TWO hours later our nice starry skies covered with clouds, the wind picked up, and the rain started. I hate wind. I had only guyed out three corners of my tent because I’m lazy. Obviously it’s not going anywhere with me inside of it and several large rocks holding it down, but I still dislike the flapping. And the noise. And camping in the woods. Every creak in the woods is something evil. There was a mouse or some small rodent sniffling around my tent. I woke up to move the hot chocolate to a hanging pouch. If that ass chews through my tent I’ll cook it over a jet boil and eat it for breakfast. Suddenly I heard rocks fall over. And footsteps. Not two feet. Four feet. Hooves. Oh shit. Goat. I turned on my headlamp and stuck my head out the door. Do I wake up Simon? No he’s snoring away happily. I stared the goat down. Make a move, I dare you. Have you ever read the horror story “goat man?” What if Simon isn’t Simon?! We’re still in the twilight zone!! GET YOUR HEART RATE BELOW 105 EVE. Yeah, don’t read it. Forests are the worst.

Bottom left, avy debris field

I finally relaxed and fell asleep around 3:30am and slept soundly until 7, when I woke up to thick fog. Oh, yay. Worse than expected. I left hte tent to explore, and as predicted, we camped like 5ft from the trail before where we had left it (so we had gone in a spiral), and it was quite obvious where the trail went. We had lazy breakfast and started towards the lake, enjoying the rolling hills and green meadows after our “duh, there it is” moment. Don’t follow the cairns. They’re misleading. We meant to knock them over on the way down but completely forgot.

I got anxious thinking about how pretty it’ll be when the larches turn yellow and how I won’t be there to see it. We reached the lake pretty quickly, and passed several other campsites on the way. The lake was socked in by fog, so we did a lap and waited for the fog to clear. The clouds lifted slowly, and after an hour we started back to camp since they weren’t lifting quite fast enough. We went through a mix of sun, clouds, even some light rain, but the scenery was beautiful regardless. This is a fantastic trail and a well kept secret.

False summit of Grindstone

We packed up camp slowly and headed back over the saddle. Grindstone looks like a nice talus-fieldy walk up this time of year, though the tippy top was hidden in clouds and I hear it’s more of a loose mess of scrambling that’s better saved for spring and snow cover. There is a cluster of flattened, dead trees just below the west face of Grindstone, memories of an avalanche long past given the new growth popping up between downed logs. It’s somewhat sobering picturing an avalanche on that scale, large enough to rip up century old trees and sweep them into a pile of pick-up-stiks whenver it comes to a rest.

Blueberries!! Bring it on, bears!

Shortly past the saddle, we realized what we had missed the night before. Blueberries. Blueberries EVERYWHERE. Our pace slowed from 3mi/hour (okay, 2mi/hr) to like 1mi/day as we stopped at every patch to grab handfuls of berries. Every cluster tastes different so you have to try them all and take advantage of the good ones. I have no idea how anyone collects these to take home for pies, because it’s tedious work and I’m way too impatient to bag them when I could just eat them. We also found salmonberries and thimbleberries and where were all the bears?? We must have scared them away from their heaven. We estimated 2 hours back to the car. I laughed. That hadn’t accounted for the number of pictures I was going to take or the number of berries Simon was going to eat.

Late season wildflowers

More wildflowers

We hiked through patches of late blooming wildflowers (I thought the season was over!) that I had to photograph. Wildflowers are like rainbows on the ground, aka my third favorite thing after rainbows in the sky and steaks. Back in the open forest I savored the crisp smell of pines and dappled sunlight. Afternoon is the best time of day for pine tree hikes. We stopped one last time for water, and soon enough were back at the car. It’s a weird weekend when I’m back at a reasonable hour on a Sunday.

Oh wait, I sat in traffic for SIX FUCKING HOURS BECAUSE I5 WAS NARROWED TO ONE LANE FOR CONSTRUCTION. No one told me. And Simon had a rough time on highway 2 as well, since it was basically a parking lot from Sultan to Monroe. So basically, no matter how much you want to, don’t hike out east. Go north. Or just hike until 9pm and then drive home. You’re welcome.

One last field of wildflowers

Edit: I forgot to mention that I wanted to puke up that damn burger for the first few hours. That’s what you get for enjoying a meal. Maybe digest first, or don’t eat until you feel sick in the first place. Rookie mistake.

Vesper Peak via Ragged Edge

Posted on August 20, 2017 by evejakubowski

Sperry from the hike route on Vesper

Last minute plans are sometimes the best plans. On Friday night I was bitching about no one wanting to go on an alpine climb (we were going cragging at Index on Saturday) when JT suggested Robert and I go do Ragged Edge after cragging. I thought Ragged Edge was a 5.9 route, so I laughed and ignored the idea. Turns out, Ragged Edge is a 5.7, and lucky for me Robert brought all his overnight gear to Index. So when I said “hey, wanna drive to Vesper and hike up after this and do Ragged Edge in the morning?” the answer was uhhh, hell yeah! Climbed 8/5-8/6, in the midst of the near-apocalyptic smoke from the BC wildfires.

Distance: 8 miles
Elevation: 4200ft gain, 6200ft highest point
Weather: ~~90’s~~ 70’s and smoky
Commute from Seattle: ~2:30, 2 hours flat if you drive like Robert
Did I Trip: No! Suckers

Smoky pink sunrise over Morning Star

We got to the trailhead around 8 after a round of post-index burgers, and started up the trail at 8:30. The road is reported as closed, but it’s not. There was a sign but everyone was driving past it. Do so at your own risk. We settled on bringing hiking boots and rock shoes, and left traction and ice axes at the cars. The bright side of hiking up at night is that the heat doesn’t break down your mind and body and soul like it does from 11am-3pm, so we cruised up to the talus field below Headlee Pass without issue, minus some whining about the soft kitty litter scree on the trail. The cairns along the trail were actually helpful(!) and perfectly spaced out so that when I stood by one, my headlamp just barely illuminated the next. Headlee Pass itself was a series of surprisingly pleasant switchbacks in the dark. I reached the top, went to pee while Robert caught up, and then we took off across the talus traverse to the lake. We agreed to camp at the first damn spot we found, and that spot was a nice flat grassy clearing just above the outlet stream. We popped open some cider, talked about how incredible everything was, and spent the next 6 hours alternating between fighting off mice and dozing while the mice got back into our packs. Okay, my pack.

Robert checking out the hazy sun over Sperry on the approach

I woke up to a mostly eaten doughnut (…dammit) and a partially consumed apple cup (DAMMIT). I did a bad job of defending my food. Apparently nudging it with your foot when you hear munching isn’t enough to get mice to run away. Plus now they’ve tasted the glory that is Sultan Bakery, and they’ll be hungry for more. We debated whether we should pack up the bivvies and stash them in bushes (risk an unsuspecting hiker carrying them down or back to town thinking we forgot them), or leave them there to be clear it was a campsite (risk them being stolen or eaten). We settled on the latter and headed off to the start of the route.

Dying glacier, not sure if it has a name

Whatever directions you’ve heard about the approach, forget them. Just follow the regular trail towards the summit until you finally get above the last clump of trees (~5500ft) and cross slabby rock to the right. The notch is very, very obvious, with several cairns, and the route is so popular you’ll probably pass campsites the entire way. From the notch there’s a series of ledges you follow until you’re at the start of the route. There were two groups already there, one that was starting up the layback variation and one starting up the original. The guys on the layback were already climbing whereas the group on the original was still roping up, so we figured we’d follow the variation.

Robert leading the second pitch

The first pitch of the variation starts with a sweet layback (that can also be climbed just as jugs besides the last move, which I forgot) and then follows basically some nontechnical terrain to the base of the second pitch, which honestly… we never really found it. I just sat in a comfy spot on some 2nd class ledges with only a horn slung as an anchor and belayed Robert up, who continued onto the second pitch. You can sling or thread an enormous boulder as well. Robert scrambled up a diagonal ledge behind me trending west, up and onto slabs, where he could clip bolts (turns out this route is half sport) and finally discovered the “faint white dyke” that supposedly marks the start of the pitch (lies, I tell you). From the slabs he traversed right and up a short gully to the bolted anchor. The slab traverse sucks, but if you go nearly to the top of the slab there’s a nice horizontal crack you can follow with your hands for a bit instead of just smearing sideways forever.

Robert waiting at the second belay

I took the third pitch, which goes one step right and then up and left across (woohoo!) more slabs! Keep heading left until you reach the arete. I stayed just right of the arete, where there is a crack for gear, a bolt, and a fixed pin (I’m not confident in my pin-evaluating skills so I backed it up with a nut just in case). The mini arete takes you to a short ledge, where you traverse right for an awesome gear anchor in a corner crack below the blocky boulders of the fourth pitch. If there’s already a party in the right corner crack, then there’s another crack right above where you top out on the ledge just barely to the right of the arete. Coordinate with the other groups and make new friends, there’s plenty of space. This pitch was a blast, possibly my favorite of the whole climb. And it lends itself to awesome photos.

Robert coming up the third pitch

Robert leading the fourth pitch

Robert led the fourth pitch, which was blocky climbing to a variety of choose-your-own-adventure cracks to another bolted belay, where I followed after taking like 50 pics of the group below us. We swapped gear and I continued up onto the fifth pitch (can you tell how amazing swinging leads is from this), which I had read was exposed but honestly it’s not that bad. It follows thin cracks and edges (which might as well have been slabby feet with finger cracks, ugh) up and right to another bolted anchor on the arete. The first few steps were awkward, I remember being very aware of the exposure until Robert started singing Gaston (yes, from Beauty and the Beast) and naturally I joined in, clipping a cam while admiring how many eggs Gaston eats for breakfast. The pitch ended up being more traversing than up, yuck, but it was a fun one. At the chains I belayed Robert awkwardly (made the anchor a bit too long so it was hard to pull up slack quickly and he’s a damn fast climber) up and we decided I’d lead the last pitch too. Awesome. Nothing like topping out on the final pitch of a climb.

Robert coming up the fifth pitch

I started up and it was all going smoothly until I dropped the entire carabiner of nuts on my feet. Well, my foot. Which was nicely jammed in a crack. How do you squat to pick shit up when you’re hanging in a crack with a hand jam and a foot jam? God dammit. How did I let this happen. I tossed in a cam and clipped into it just in case. And then I started the awkward process of collecting the various pieces, which miraculously hadn’t fallen off my foot. Don’t lean left, don’t lean right, don’t even breathe on them. It probably took me a solid 5 minutes to collect everything and get moving again. Apologies to the group behind us – we had always been stuck behind the group in front of us, but while I took my sweet ass time scattering gear like dandelion seeds the burden of slow-ass team was on me.

Robert coming up the last pitch, Copper Lake and Big Four in the background

Past that I cruised up the arete (which must be the only “ragged edge” of this climb) overanalyzing gear placements and one-inch heather ledges until I was at the top, where I whooped and slung a fat horn. That’s an easy anchor right there. Robert asked me if I had built anything. Don’t trust the horn? I threw two cams in a crack too and brought him on up where we raved about how amazing alpine climbing was and how cool it was even with the smoke and how it was addicting and why would you ever go cragging and I can’t wait until next weekend. We finally took off our rock shoes and put on the hiking boots we had carried on our harnesses (hahaha… ahaha… ah… bring trail runners), downed some snacks, and headed back to see just how much of our gear the mice had eaten.

Summit!!

You can avoid the snow on the way down if you want to, but it’s not bad. The slabs are quick moving, and we were back at camp to rescue our gear from the vermin. I filled up my water bladder at the outlet stream as a guy jumped in for a swim right upstream of me. Now I have all your slick sweaty body grease in my water source you jerk. Robert didn’t fill up (I offered him my iodine tablets, to which he responded “yeah but I want to be able to DRINK the water” – iodine tablets taste like dump), but requested my “giardia water” several times on the way down. I haven’t been sick out both ends yet, so I think we avoided the giardia. Knock wood.

We were back at the trailhead around 3. My legs were surprisingly tired. Robert had mentioned chicken bacon ranch sandwiches on the way down, and I had not been able to get the image out of my head for hours. We needed to know where the closest Subway was. We didn’t have cell service. Okay, whoever gets service first googles the closest Subway and tells the other. Robert took off, passing two other cars on a gravel stretch while I laughed in my car because I knew I had no chance of passing them. I might have made it past them like 35 minutes later in an actual passing zone, but by then Robert was way ahead.

Rolling down easy slabs with Morning Star, Del Campo, and Gothic in the back

We rolled into Subway basically drooling. Robert drank a gatorade before even reaching the counter. The cashier laughed as we lit up over sandwich ingredients, and apologized when she saw Robert had taken an empty beverage from the fridge (“he drank it he didn’t find it!!!”). That sandwich was one of the best things I had ever eaten. And it was still sunny out. I was home at a reasonable hour, in bed at a reasonable hour, crazy shit was happening. It was amazingly nice to have a whole weekend go that smoothly, that successfully. Ragged edge is a sweet route, probably a softer 5.7 in my opinion, and somewhat crowded. But if you’re the type to complain about crowds, you shouldn’t be on that route. Oh, and I strongly recommend bivvying, because it makes everything that much more pleasant.

Sweet silhouette pic on the approach

Tormented on Torment & a Liberty Bell Redemption

Posted on August 8, 2017 by evejakubowski

You know you’re in for a long night when this is the view while rappelling

Looking at the entire traverse from Boston Basin

How did my last post start? Murphy’s law? Well this one is similar, but more along the lines of “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” We had big dreams to do the Torment Forbidden traverse, which I had done last year. Last year I had followed all of it, so it was super easy in my head. I didn’t understand why everyone took three days and not just two. I was also in better shape with more exposed climbing under my belt, whereas this year I haven’t been out as much. But it’s also because seconding puts you on autopilot. This year, for whatever reason, was a different story. On the way up I joked about how 30% of my North Cascades trips are bail trips. Jinx, I owe myself a soda.

Calvin coming across the basin, Johannesburg back right

We car camped in Calvin’s awesome rooftop tent by the river flowing beneath Cascade River Road the night before (maybe a half mile from the trailhead) and woke up at 5 to get started. The hike up to Boston Basin was less miserable than the last year, though we still had to contend with bugs and a surprisingly high level of humidity. Calvin was having some struggles. “Shit! Fuckin tree branch-” I heard the buzzing. “Ah, shit, SHIT!” It wasn’t a branch stabbing him. Three bee stings to the right arm. Let the swelling and itching begin. Is that enough of an issue to count towards my three strikes rule? (3 things go wrong, I bail). Meh, he can probably tough it out.

Wildflowers everywhere

The basin was even more gorgeous this year, with wildflowers and trickling streams and sparkling glaciers. I honestly have no idea why more people don’t just do this as an overnight backpacking destination. I checked out the toilet, hoping I’d utilize it before I was in bluebagging territory, and stashed my walking stick with the rangers’ shovel. I expected more snow than last year, but the dry streak out here has nearly caught up to summer 2016 conditions. We restocked water at a stream running across slabs just below the glacier and trekked our way up to the notch left of Torment, not bothering to rope up as the glacier and snow bridges were still solid. We could see a team on the traverse above us, just by the ledge where I had bivvied last year. We made some nice crampon-on-rock moves to get across the small moat separating the glacier from the gulley, strapped crampons back on our packs, and scrambled up the gully to the notch where the rock climb begins. The gully is fourth class, arguably a fifth class move here and there. Time to remember how to climb, baby!

Crossing the glacier, Torment on the left (photo credit Calvin)

Oh no, wait, first I dropped my glacier glasses all the way down the gully and into the moat. I cursed and laughed. Hey Calvin… can you go get those? He was below me, and therefore closer to them, and I was definitely not downclimbing the moves I had just made if I didn’t have to. To be fair, not having glasses on something like this is basically a dealbreaker. So he dropped down under the moat, probably cursing my existence, and retrieved my sunglasses. Thanks buddy.

Cal retrieving my glasses

We were already set on me leading, for whatever reason. I was in my head about the first move, remembering it being the single hardest part of Torment. It was just as awkward as last year, but I muscled through it (who needs technique). We were off. I forgot that the hardest part of leading is freaking routefinding. I’d stare at two options, both of which would probably go, but is one better than the other? If I saw rap slings or belay station slings I’d aim for those, otherwise we’d trend up and left. My new shoes were killing my feet and we weren’t moving fast, Calvin kept catching up and then there’d be too much slack so I’d end up just belaying him up to me before re-starting simulclimbing. Might have been helpful to have him just toss a grigri on his end of the rope to pull his own slack through as he caught up. The only slack management we were really using was a microtrax at the top of legit pitches, a trick I learned last year. I squeezed up a left leaning crack and heard a series of “clink…clink, clink, clink, clink” behind me, and turned around to watch my can of spray sunscreen go tapping off each rock below, landing on the glacier a thousand or so feet below. Great, that’ll be there in 30 years when the glacier dies. SPF 30 banana boat can lying on a slab. I’m an asshole. I’ll send some young whipper snapper after it in a few decades.

Over the crux right off the notch (photo credit Calvin)

As I started getting tired, route finding became trickier. Analysis paralysis was a problem. Instead of just making decisions I’d stare at two options for 2 minutes, for 5 minutes, wishing someone else was making the calls. I finally scrambled up through a a tunnel which I didn’t remember from last year and into a chimney with an overhung chockstone to contend with at the top. God dammit. Nothing was this hard last year. I set up a near-hanging belay at the bottom of the chimney and brought Calvin up. “I don’t like where I am, can you see if the route wraps left around the bottom of this instead of up it?” Calvin grunted through the tunnel unnecessarily and quickly found that you can drop down on some 4th class ledges to a bivvy platform. Unless this is a sidetrack for a bivvy, it’s gotta be the route. I downclimbed the chimney to a horn and brought up a bunch of slack on the rope so I could toss a loop around the horn and effectively fake-rap down to Calvin, who then belayed me across to the bivvy ledge. Fuck I need snacks and water and I can’t stand on my feet because my toes are crushed, we’re taking a break.

Calvin coming up with Johannesburg in the backdrop

I dropped my pack and took off my shoes and had some almonds and water. Damn this would be a nice bivvy ledge if we had more water. I told Calvin maybe he should lead, we’d be going so much faster. He refused. Trying to give me the lead, dammit. He poked his head around the corner and it was another set of 4th class ledges to get down to the white gully I remembered from last year. And the gully itself is just a loose piece of shit scramble, so you dance up it trying not to destroy your partner’s helmet. We got to the notch and followed footprints (another mistake – whoever made those prints did not know where they were going) instead of dropping down to the nice grassy ledges that would take us to the summit. We reach the saddle between summits after excessive profanity, scarily loose rock, an abject lack of solid handholds and footholds and nowhere to place trustworthy pro. I found a great flake for a nut. Oh, the whole flake moves? Ahh! A great crack for a cam. Oh, a light tug makes the whole crack expand?! Ahh!! A great horn to sling with a runner. Oh, the whole horn tilts forward when I pull on it?! Fuck this shit!!! I hate everything!! There hasn’t been anywhere to sit besides the bivvy ledge for the past 4 hours and I swear last year we did this in like 3 hours and why are we so slow and how did I not notice how loose this was last year and I know all we have ahead us is rapping into a moat to climb out of followed by gnarly exposed 4th class traversing for literally days and you know what? I’m not having fun anymore. The expletives streaming up the ledges from Calvin below me confirmed he was on the same page. I brought him up to my hilariously shitty anchor (I threw in pieces, yes all of them moved, but at least I could sit sort of). Calvin had been in a nice position where all four points of contact were loose, and I’m sure he was thrilled to find out he was roped up with a grumpy chick sitting on a shitty downsloping ledge with an anchor that probably wouldn’t hold the weight of a duck.

Calvin topping out at the top of the white gully

We agreed to bail. I think if we had mentally committed three days to the traverse maybe we’d have kept going, but we had only committed two, and we were both just not feeling it. Calvin had been in his head for the past few days, I had a downward spiral over the past two hours and was basically hobbling (it’d be limping if it was one foot being problematic, but it was both), the remainder of the climb was no joke, and I wanted to be down. Calvin had promised Tricia that if anything felt off we’d bail, and here we were both pissed and stressed. Who cares. I’ve already done it, it’ll be there next year, I felt bad not bringing our memorial wildflowers for Sue (who had passed on the TFT a week prior) but they were already crushed. I remembered Torment being the easiest part of the traverse last year, and didn’t want to commit the next two days to a similar or higher stress level.

Sun starting to set on Boston and Sahale

Calvin scrambled ahead to see if he could find rap slings. No dice. We saw some below us. Apparently most people rappel down to the grassy ledges that lead to the saddle you take to rap down onto the north side for the traverse. Last year we just downclimbed with no rope. Ha. I switched back to mountaineering boots, which I probably should have done at the bivvy site, because my feet were utterly destroyed. I could walk again!! I demolished a bag of peanut M&Ms, not realizing how badly I had needed fuel. Wow. We started rappelling into the unknown, hoping at the end of each rap that we’d find a new nest of slings. Hey, we’ve rapped into the dark before, we’re ready for this. The glacier looked so close, there must be a rap route down.

The first few went smoothly, since we still had daylight. Calvin went first. We got pretty quick about setting up rappels. Find the tat nest, Cal lands, I land, untie knots,Cal starts feeding one end through the rap ring, I pull the other end, each tie off one end and lap coil that half, both toss rope, repeat. As sun began to set, it got darker, and both Calvin and I have shit vision. Finally we took out the headlamps and it was my turn to go first (I guess his night vision is even worse than mine). He had just missed a rap station and had to climb back up the rope. He wished me luck, and off I went. Into the abyss.

Spooky moat cave (taller than I am)

To the rap station he didn’t see, like 20ft below us. Shortest rappel ever. We set up at that rap station and I got in the next rap, which was a full rope with some nice overhanging stretches. Good, that meant we were losing elevation quickly. But it also meant there was potential to rap off of gear and potentially even a hanging station if we didn’t find a ledge. Luckily, I saw a small nest of new tat off to the right, and traversed over to it. By now it was dark. Calvin joined me. Hoping this would be the last rappel, I swung around the slung horn (awkward entry to this rappel) and started over another overhanging section, followed by a sheer rock face. I focused my headlamp on the ends of the rope, which dangled a few feet above a slanted ledge that ran out 10ft to a ~20ft drop to the ground. There was a decent sized moat, and the snowpack was ~12ft from the wall. There was a nice snow ledge I might be able to make it to that was only ~6ft from the wall, and we could ice climb over it and flop on the glacier and boot our way back to camp. But would the ropes reach? I didn’t like seeing them dangle and twitch as I continued down. I figured with rope stretch on my side, I had a chance. I shouted back up to Calvin. I’m gonna give it a shot, might need to prussik my ass back up if it doesn’t go. I’m sure he cursed in response, I couldn’t hear him over the sound of my ~~awesomeness~~ determination.

Cal using his nut tool as a spoon for snow cones (attempt to rehydrate)

Well the rope stretch was just enough, and I managed to hit the downsloping ledge with my ass. It was sheer except for one tiny crimpy foothold, and the wall next to me had no handholds. Shit. So I was held in place by my autoblock. I prussiked my pack onto the rope so I wouldn’t drop it into the dark black yonder below me and took it off my back so I could put on crampons and get my ice axe. I needed to get onto the snow ledge. With some wriggling and one-handed-crampon-strapping action, I pulled a bunch of slack through the autoblock and scooted over to get my frontpoints onto the one crimpy hold on the slab and kicked a toe hold on the vertical snow. It should only take two moves, I should be able to basically stem it, god dammit why don’t I do more yoga, if I could do a split this would be so much easier. Deep Warrior II. If I fell I’d only go like 10ft down the moat, it would just suck and I’d have to prussik back up the rope to get onto my slab ledge and try again. I was too exhausted for that.

I finally managed to swing my weight up and onto the snow platform where I slammed my axe into the snow and kicked crampons in and loosened my autoblock and thanked the sweet baby jesus that the 2ft thick ledge was frozen enough I didn’t just punch through and destroy it. I anchored to a screw ~5ft up the side of the ice we’d need to climb to get out, took myself off rappel, and tied up the ends of the rope so I wouldn’t drop them into the moat (leaving Calvin to do the same shit I had just done, albeit probably more elegantly). Okay Cal, your turn. Put on your crampons and get your ice tool ready!

Our awesome bivvy site (photo credit Cal)

I heard the scraping of crampons on rock as Calvin dropped onto the rappel. He came over the lip of the rock face and saw the moat and released another stream of curses. I held the ends of the rope so he’d come straight to the snow shelf, and handed him my ice axe (should have brought a tool…) and pointed out the 7 or so ft he’d be leading. There’s my screw, you got a picket, we’re almost out of here. Calvin snapped into focus and was the happiest I had seen him in a few hours. Some people just enjoy being useful. He was up and over the lip in three swift moves and fewer than 12 f bombs (most of which were directed at my axe, because the pick wouldn’t stick to the frozen snow at all). He pounded in a picket, belayed me up, and we rapped as far down as we could off the picket since face-in-downclimbing steep snow is a pain in the ass and it was like midnight. I’m getting really good at leaving gear behind. Oh, we had rapped off a nut earlier too. Jesus.

Johannesburg over wildflowers

Back on plain mellow snow we retraced our steps to the first slab before the glacier where we had stopped for water. Every patch of rocks Calvin would ask “is this the water?!” We had been out of water for hours. I don’t drink water like at all, so I was in my usual persistent state of dehydration. We finally found the slabs and drank so much water and I went to the bathroom for the first time all day and we set up our bivvies and made dinner (it’s 2am at this point) and I used my medical tape on my dehydrated meal because there was a hole in the bag 😦 The meal never cooked but I was so hungry I didn’t care. Crunchy salt dry risotto anyone?

Going to sleep those nights is amazing. You’re just so content and it’s so gorgeous and you’re so cozy. We slept in until like 9am. That’s the latest I’ve slept in literally years if you ignore when I go back to the east coast. Calvin made coffee, we discovered that we had cell service, he facetimed Tricia, we debated what to do. Head over to Sharkfin and do that Sunday? Calvin wanted to leave. I didn’t want to go home, I had taken a vaca day for this! He suggested WA Pass. Beckey route up Liberty Bell. I needed to get my lead brain fixed so I could stop this shit. Great, let’s do it.

Going up the chimney on the second pitch (photo credit Cal)

We hiked back to the car, stopped at the first gas station we saw for benadryl (Cal’s arm was now quite swollen and itchy from the bee stings), and stopped at my car so I could grab my other rock shoes and leave the toe crushers behind. We drove to Schoolhouse Brewery in Winthrop for dinner, where we destroyed guacamole burgers and beer. We car camped in Calvin’s awesome rooftop tent at the Blue Lake trailhead, woke up at 6, and got moving around 6:30. The approach to the Beckey Route is super easy besides an annoyingly loose gully scramble to the notch where it starts, but soon enough we were at the base. We got gear set up waiting for the team ahead of us, and headed up as soon as they were at the top of the first pitch.

Belaying at the top of the second pitch

The first pitch is a fun low fifth class “chimney” that you follow beneath a chockstone, though it feels more like climbing a gully than a chimney since there are jugs everywhere with a sweet layback move towards the top. Good hands, good feet. We cruised up it and met the group ahead of us at the belay station. Plenty of room for two teams. The second pitch has a real chimney, requiring actual chimney technique, which I inched up while bitching about chimneys. Over a few chockstones it turns into blocky climbing, and you belay at a tree below the slabby pitch. We passed the team in front of us to get to a further tree, and waited there for them to continue up.

Heading up the third pitch (photo credit Cal)

The third pitch calls itself fourth class until the crack traverse, but I’d call it low fifth class slabs. The first 20ft or so are easy fourth class, but the 20ft leading to the crack felt technical to me. I placed a ‘panic piece’ (a piece that I usually know is shitty but I want to feel like I placed something, it’s a waste of time and energy) on the first traverse. The finger crack traverse itself was honestly not that bad, just a little side leaning and awkward. Good smears and a good hand in the crack were fine. I overshot the belay station here and went all the way up to the base of the infamous slab, and brought Calvin up.

There are actually two climbers in this photo

We wasted some time trying to get my cam unstuck, since I had yanked it out in a bad direction and gotten it pretty jammed in there. Then we waited for a team to lower over the slab, and then we were up. It looked intimidating, but was actually surprisingly short and really only one or two moves to get ahold of the glory jugs at the top. From there, we scrambled to the summit, where Calvin donned his summit hat as I sipped on whiskey.

Summit hat and whiskey!

Two rappels get you back to the base of the route (fastest descent ever and so refreshing after the 11-rappels-ending-in-a-moat debacle of the previous climb) where you can get your gear back, climb back down the annoyingly loose scramble, and hike back to the car on beautifully mellow well maintained trail. We were at the car by 3, stopped for dinner along highway 20, and I was in Seattle once again at a reasonable hour. Crazy when that happens.

Cal downclimbing to the first rappel

So the weekend was salvaged, and ended up being interspersed with great burgers, beer, benadryl for all, and luxurious car camping. But it was awesome to finally get past my mental block rock climbing and start to get my confidence back after the past few months, and we still enjoyed some pretty awesome terrain and views. We’ll be back for TFT next year when there are fewer mental games going on. Huge thanks to Calvin for putting up with my anxious ass and making me take the lead all weekend, even after the first trip was so rough. Finally coming to the light at the end of the tunnel after trying to get back into climbing the past few months!

Goat just chilling (photo credit Calvin)

Three Fingers via Bushwack & Meadow Mountain

Posted on July 31, 2017 by evejakubowski

Three Fingers from Tin Can Gap

Well you know Murphy’s law. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. We came out of it alive, but this was certainly a casual-hike-with-a-bonus-rock-climb-turned-epic-mountaineering-objective due to our unfamiliarity with the route. We improvised where it might have been faster to be normal, and we tried for normal when it might have been faster to improvise. Whoops! I swear not all trips are like that. And it wasn’t a shitshow, just longer than we expected. Hiked 7/15-7/16, here is the Three Fingers Lookout!

Distance: Roughly 18 miles. 7 up, 11 down.
Elevation: ~4800ft gain, 6,854ft highest point
Weather: 50’s and sunny, 40’s and misty
Commute from Seattle: 2 hours without traffic (but there was traffic)
Did I trip: Yes, mostly I fell uphill on the damn bushwack in the night

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I’m a spooky ghost (selfie credit: Haley)

We started up around 8:30pm on Friday, which was 11:30pm for the visiting Floridian (Haley). She was tan at least, so she had that going for her. Convinced I’d be last to the party, I went straight to the trailhead, where I met Calvin, Tricia, and Florida after getting myself lost on a gated forest road. Nailed it. The road to Three Fingers is truly blocked now, with enormous boulders buried in dirt so no one can tow them off like last summer. They really don’t want people driving down that road. There’s also an enormous cedar tree down across the road maybe a mile past the boulders, and I have no idea what’s past that besides an enormous washout ~2mi from the true trailhead. Probably more terrible things waiting to destroy your car.

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Bivvy morning (photo credit: Haley)

We took what we thought would be a shortcut up a ridge pretty much straight from the road closure to Goat Flats. Unfortunately, in the dark, that “shortcut” was more like “a five hour long epic” that didn’t quite get us to the flats because around 2am we decided we were just going to camp at the next flat spot we saw. The shortcut was steep, brushy, had some nice 3rd class scramble moves through the forest, a bleached goat skull (“a human skull?! I’m fucking bailing if it’s a human skull that’s just too creepy I hate the forest”) placed a little too perfectly on a rock, sticky green seeds from bushes that clung to my leggings like velcro, a plethora of spiderwebs, probably bears, and the echoing of gunshots from the rednecks on the forest road below (no offense guys, but between the guns and the thumping base at 1am you aren’t exactly making a great first impression). Haley and I apparently don’t like the dark or bumps in the night, Calvin and Tricia were way behind, and I can’t see shit in the dark, so that left Haley to be the brave one and scout out the flagging tape. We started classifying spiderwebs. Class 1 was a strand of cobweb. Class 2 was a legit cluster. Class 3 was a full formed web. Class 4 was a huge fucking fully formed web with the spider inside of it and I don’t want to know what class 5 would be and 5.12a would probably be enough to send me into cardiac arrest and flee this world for a better one. I had my usual “what are we doing here” moment around 12:30am when Haley took a bathroom break and I stood in the dark waiting for Calvin and Tricia. Why do we do this? Haley had hers an hour later when she bitched out a pinecone. You show that pinecone who’s boss, Florida.

Cal enjoying the views from Goat Flats

Goat Flats Throne

I was happy to snuggle down into my bivvy when we decided to call it before Goat Flats. I brought twice as much food as Calvin, Haley, and Tricia combined, which ended up being a good thing a day and a half later. They let me stuff it in their bear bags, which they hung off a tree. We slept for 5 hours and then had a lazy wakeup with breakfast, coffee, the works. And we started up to Goat Flats, which we reached after an hour of mellow hiking, barely even bushwacking.

I was told there was a toilet, and given my self admitted obsession with alpine toilets I decided I’d find it. I jogged in circles around the goat paths until I saw a sign. “TOILET” with an arrow. Ooh! It’s like a scavenger hunt. I jogged in that direction, looking for the throne. Another sign. “TOILET” with another arrow. Bust through those trees, jog in that direction, check every cluster of trees for a hidden shitter. Finally found it, surrounded by trees, maximum alpine privacy. That’s bullshit. I want views. I have no idea why they didn’t perch it on the slope 50ft away so you could enjoy looking at the lookout, which was way too far away for us to get excited. I’m not sure this one will make it to the 50 Classic Craps of Washington. Maybe because of the location and not the views.

Summer trail with patchy snow

We packed up our snacks and started down the summer trail to the lookout. Through the forest it was melted out, but when we popped out on the south side of the ridge it was snow covered. We kicked steps across mellow slopes up to Tin Can Gap, which was partially melted out, enough for wildflowers! At Tin Can Gap we got our first real look at the lookout, perched atop the south summit. Sweet! We weren’t making great time, so we ditched our original plan of traversing the three summits. Oh well. The ropes and cams were relegated to training weight. God dammit.

Tricia pulling some nifty moves in the moat

Rather than drop onto the glacier, we stuck with the summer trail. That was our mistake. We expected it to be more melted out, or more snow covered, not the awkward in between we ran into. Decent moats to negotiate, one of which involved a rock that slashed my thumb. It probably needed stitches, it still hasn’t healed, and I’m not sure my thumb will ever be the same shape again. Some steep snow to traverse. Some downclimbing third class scrambles, occasionally with crampons (the worst). Some goats, completely uninterested in us but making us look like slow bumbling fools while they dashed down the fields. And finally, a somewhat melted out trail, surrounded by wildflowers, switchbacking on top of the world. Yes. This is why I was here. I hadn’t been expecting wildflowers! We finally hit a snowfield that took us to the final scramble to the lookout. We had no idea where the ladders were, so we each scrambled a separate path to the top.

Calvin, Tricia, and Haley on moderate snow

I heard Calvin drop one of his classic F bombs. Shit, this wasn’t the top. There was a huge gulley. The good news was he could see the ladders, and we’re idiots, they were right around the corner. I was stuck on a downclimb, I went a little too far with an overnight pack and realized I was not going to be able to scramble down that I just did. Cal tossed me a rope (“what do you need?” “a #1 cam please!” “no, but here’s a few feet of rope”) which I looped around a small horn to fake-rap myself back to safety. Damn downclimbs.

Florida downclimbing in crampons…yay!

We scurried around the corner and bam, there were the ladders. Woo! But don’t be deceived, they’re crooked and squeaky with one or two rungs that feel like they’re toast any day now. And the airy step to the third ladder makes you pause for a split second. But once you’re up the third ladder, you’re at the lookout, and it’s time to relax.

Summer trail!!

The clouds moved in quickly, and we were soon socked in by fog. Total bummer, but hey it makes the lookout more cozy. We hoped it’d clear up in the morning, but until then it was dinner, hot chocolate, alpine cider, mountain trivia (there’s a mountain trivia book up there!) and Haley (still on east coast time) was snoring soundly within 30 minutes.

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“do any of these go” (photo credit: Haley)

The recommended waste disposal at the lookout is literally chuck-a-dook. I explained this in a blog post years ago. It’s the most hilarious method, and more convenient for everyone (besides the environment) than blue bagging. Elegantly explained by a piece of paper pinned to the wall of the lookout, you find a nice flat rock, shit on it, and toss it off into the distance, out yonder over the cliffs where the Glacier Waste Treatment Plant takes care of it (aka the Queest Alb Glacier will hide it until it melts out in 100 years, and then there will be slabby boulders scattered with turds).

Ladders! Yay!

The lookout had some old fire-spotting tools, emergency water in the “attic,” a bottle of bottom shelf tequila, some old first aid supplies, and summit registers/log books going back to the 70’s. The approach to this peak used to be via the Boulder River Trail, which I think is so freaking cool. It took you to Tupso Pass, then followed the “current” trail to the lookout. Then FR 41 to Tupso Pass was built, and suddenly the hike was only 16 miles round trip, and it became swamped with traffic. Even last year when someone towed the boulders off the road (hence the newly piled dirt on top of the boulders this year) the lookout saw a huge spike in hikers, which was painfully obvious on the WHC Facebook group and quite evident in the summit register when we flipped through it. The huge washout is only 2 miles from the trailhead, but the boulders and dirt block the road 8 or 9 miles back, effectively doubling the distance of the hike A few guys tried the old Boulder River approach, which I’d love to attempt someday when I have a week to dedicate to brutal North Cascades bushwacking. Yuck. There used to be cabins where Gerkman Creek joins Boulder River, so you could hike a ways in and stay in a shelter before continuing on to Tupso Pass and the eventual lookout. The trail was ravaged by logging and now has several decades of Devil’s Club and brush growth, and it sounds like there isn’t much left. I have to wonder if it would be a more interesting hike than walking/biking FR41 if someone were to blaze it and get some foot traffic started up again. Here is a map that shows the old trail to Tupso Pass (where FR41 currently ends).

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Coming up the last stretch to the lookout (photo credit: Haley)

We enjoyed out night of sleep in the lookout, and didn’t even get to meet Alpine Andy, the resident rat. He might be dead, cause I think his legacy started in the 70’s (he was there first!) and I doubt rats live for 40+ years. But we left some crumbs as a sacrifice to Alpine Andy and the mountain gods to forgive us for chucking our dookies onto the glacier.

View of the North peak in the clouds

In the morning we had another lazy start. I had coffee and felt absolutely amazing 30 minutes later. Is this what I’ve been missing my whole life?! Maybe I should start drinking it. We lit the sparklers Tricia brought that we had forgotten to use the previous night, and started down the ladders in the fog. They’re worse when they’re soaking wet, and the scrambley moves are that much more awkward. Haley wore all gray, which sucked for photos. Come on Haley. Florida is no excuse for all gray.

Ladders aren’t always easy

Ask her why she wore gray

We dropped down the snowfield quickly, and found the huge boulder we had scouted out the day before. We figured we could rap down to the glacier and walk across that instead of following the summer trail, which had been a pain in the ass. Cal and I set up a nice double rope rappel, Haley and I went down first to counter balance each other (one on each strand), and Cal and Tricia came next. We pulled the ropes, set up two teams of two, and started across the glacier. Honestly we probably could have downclimbed the talus field, but it was loose and crappy and we had 7 ACLs for 4 people so rapping was easier.

Wildflowers in the mist

That’s what we should have done on the way up. Take the glacier, not the freaking summer trail. It was an easy walk with some stretches of steep snow, but we kicked a sidewalk for everyone and even found a rogue water bottle from a previous party (which, in hindsight, I think we forgot to pick up. Shit). We were back at Tin Can Gap within a few hours, and carried on to Goat Flats. From there, instead of taking our shortcut back down, we took the Meadow Mountain trail. Tricia is just a few months off ACL surgery, and going down that steep ass shortcut probably would have sent her back to the table. The Meadow Mountain trail wasn’t bad to Saddle Lake, where it got a bit brushy for about an hour. The trail appears to bypass the true summit of Meadow Mountain, but it’s honestly not in terrible shape. I started fighting foot fatigue, and finally Haley and I ditched Calvin and Tricia and said we’d meet them back at the car. 20 minutes after we split up I realized I had just told Tricia to eat her last Gu because I had a bunch she could have (I knew Cal was out), and then I took off leaving them with nothing. So I found a nice log that had fallen across the trail, and left several Gus, some shot blocks, and a packet of advil for whatever pains I imagined they were enduring. “It’ll be like a mile to the road” Calvin had said, which had made me laugh. “A mile and 2500ft of elevation loss, right.”

Florida remembering how to walk on snow (taking the glacier back to Tin Can Gap)

It was several hours, with a gnarly blowdown that threw all of us off the trail. Haley and I found the shortcut relatively quickly since there’s a strip through the brush leading down to the next switchback (“nothing leaves traces that obvious except for people… it must be to the trail”) but Calvin and Tricia weren’t so lucky. It had occurred to me to maybe leave a rock arrow on the trail or some sign to turn off there to avoid the blowdown, but I’m a lazy asshole.

Calvin jogging across Goat Flats to get water

“I see the road!!” Haley sounded excited. Meadow Mountain would drop us off on the old road about two miles from our cars, so we wanted to reach the road by dark. But the “road” she saw was a log. Come on, Florida, you’re the one with the good eyesight. Finally she saw the road for real (“shut up I’m not listening until OH MY GOD IT IS THE ROAD!!!”) and we hustled down to it, only to begin the real slog. My feet were killing me in my damn mountaineering boots, and we had a forest road to walk. The cedar tree was the real relief, because it was so freaking cool. I started counting the rings but lost interest at ring #150, which was like 1/3-1/4 of the way across the log, ~~so we lowballed the age at 550 years.~~ EDIT: Another guy counted the rings and got 745!! A tree that was 745 years old! Hoooooolyyyy Shiiiit. Insane seeing something that massive. I want to cut a slice and make a table out of it.

Holy shit!! It IS the road!

We got back to the car just before dark, where I pulled out my car camping stuff and we sat down and destroyed a box of cheez its. We placed bets on when Tricia and Calvin would be back. I nailed it with a guess of 10:45. They got back to us and it turned out they had tried to radio and text and everything telling us to just go home, but we hadn’t gotten any of the communication. Oh well, it’s 11pm on a Sunday and I’m lying on a forest road looking at the stars, it could be worse.

745 years old!! Me for scale (photo credit: Haley)

I bailed pretty quickly. The drive out felt like it took forever. I passed a guy in a flannel on the side of the road just staring off into the dark. People are fucking terrifying. But hey, the trip was awesome, despite the surprisingly long days and abject lack of views at the lookout. There’s a fair bit of history up there, and now that I know the route (aka drop to the glacier if it’s early season or very snowy, it’ll save you SO much time) it’ll be faster next time. I’d love to see how much Goat Flats has been restored since the road closure. I am under the impression it used to be insanely popular, and the goat herds had actually migrated and are just recently returning to the area. It’s amazing that the lookout is kept in such good shape by volunteers, and I love that that’s the case. It’s too bad more lookouts like that one weren’t preserved.

Tough to be unhappy in such a spectacular place!

So if you have a two day weekend, it’s definitely worth checking out, especially as the trail melts out. The glacier would be a great ski too if it’s early season, and snow might make the approach through the woods easier (if it’s consolidated – powder would be a bitch). There is a limited supply of flat rocks up there for chuckadook though, so get up there while supplies last!

Working Our Way Through the Grieving Process: Rainier via DC

Posted on July 17, 2017 by evejakubowski

John coming around the corner on our rogue route up Dorado Needle

I had a long drawn out debate over whether to post this or not. On one hand, I don’t want to make any of us relive the past two months. On the other hand, this blog is basically a hiking and climbing journal for me, and the past two months have been a huge part of my climbing life. (And it’s my blog, and I can do what I want).

As many of you probably know, one of my best friends out in Seattle passed away in a climbing accident. That’s all it was, an accident. One misstep. Nothing was done incorrectly, no one was unprepared. One slip is all it takes when this is your favorite hobby, and that’s something we all know. But no matter how often you talk about how it’s only a matter of time, no matter how much everyone says “well you’ll just make sure that never happens” (come on, let’s be real) nothing prepares you for when it does.

John and Rippley coming up Vesper

That friend was John. John who I met on Rainier two years ago, John who was thrilled to climb every following weekend and introduced me to Sam who was always down for spontaneous trips. John who finally let Simon into our meetup group climb 8 hours before we left because Simon was a stranger with a creepy profile picture, John who swore that even though Kacie might need a smoke break every 4 miles she’d kick my ass. John who finally got me to like dogs because Rippley is a bad ass, John who convinced me to hitchhike and taught me to rappel and laughed at me when I prussiked out of a crevasse I couldn’t ice climb out of only to immediately drop both ice tools back into the abyss as I crested the lip while he set up the world’s tiniest z-haul chatting with a random climber that (5 months later) would be Kacie’s tinder date when we climbed Eldorado.

So you can imagine how it went when I got the news. I had just gotten down from a climb, and I was catching up on my phone. JT told me first. John? John who? His last name passed through my mind, but I was trying to think of old people I knew named John. I don’t know any old Johns. And then I started seeing the Facebook messages that had collected on my phone. And the texts. Dozens of people saying I’m so sorry for your loss. Oh my god. The ground fell away and I was alone in outer space. I called Simon. Tell me what happened I need to know what happened and I need to hear it from you because everyone else is talking to me and I don’t know what happened.

John coming to terms with the fact he’s going to have to use Simon as a human belay

I cried the whole drive home. I got home at 1am and woke up in a sweaty nauseous panic at 4am wondering how the world still existed and how I was still there and why was I still there but somehow it was still real. My father flew out to Seattle since I had just been stuck out overnight on that climb and he hadn’t heard from me, and instead of me comforting him he ended up keeping me from falling apart. Little things. Alcohol and grocery run for everyone in a dazed fog at Shawna’s house, putting gas in my car, making it easy for me to leave work because the excuse was “my father’s in town” not “‘I’m sitting here staring into space and crying because I can’t remember how to send an email and I don’t know what 39+12 is.” It was simultaneously a whirlwind and an eternity. You’re a shell of yourself, a shell shattered in a million pieces held together by who knows what with nothing but empty space inside.

“I’m a black belt what’d you expect!?”

Every tiny task is suddenly an insurmountable mountain. Decisions are the worst. What should I wear today? Where should I get lunch? What do you want to eat? I needed someone to just make every decision for me for a few weeks. And work? I should have been with the rest of my friends at Shawna’s, helping organize the memorial, taking care of things around the house, processing everything myself as well. And instead I was sitting in an office sending emails that were about as important as an ant is to the function of the sun.

John doing his best Blue Steel impression on the Gunn Peak catwalk

But the world keeps going. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t taken a full breath in three weeks. Days still turn, bills need to be paid, you need to eat, you need to do laundry. So you figure out how to cope. All out of quarters for laundry? Cue panic, start crying. Okay, you can do this. Go to the cafe and get a tea and just get two dollars back in quarters. You can do that. And slowly, the decisions get easier. It’s just terrifying and not overwhelming, and then it’s just stressful and nauseating and not terrifying, and then it’s just anxiety inducing, and someday it’ll just be a random decision again and you won’t think twice. The small decisions are already better. But a week ago I almost puked in Manhattan at the idea of getting a new cell phone, despite mine being over 5 years old. It’s not gone yet. And then I cried for 30 minutes on the plane, too. I’m not drowning anymore, but I still get tossed around by waves.

Skin up, rap down, climb back up!

There are five stages of grief, that’s common knowledge. But there’s a stage no one talks about that we’ve deemed stage 3.5: “shit’s weird.” And that’s just it. Sometimes it’s just weird. Your brain does weird things. Random thoughts you can’t justify, random bouts of awkwardness even around good friends, wondering why you’re so uncomfortable even though you’re somewhere that’s always been comforting. You randomly suck at things, you’re easily distracted, you’re irritable, you drift off during conversation and want to run home and just be in bed. I’m basically manic depressive over climbing right now, from “hell yeah I’d solo that” to “no I don’t want to climb anything and you’re all assholes for suggesting it.” And everyone else is just as awkward and no one knows what to do or how to feel and there’s no answer to either of those. Shit’s just weird and it’s okay to take a step back and acknowledge that.

“Look it’s the perfect beer shelf!”

Last weekend, we climbed Rainier to scatter some of John’s ashes. I had no idea what to expect leading up to it, so I just… didn’t. We took it super slow up to Muir. JT carried probably a literal ton of food and supplies. A grill, a cast iron skillet, 24 burgers, buns, bacon, cheese, you name it he brought it. Capri sun juice boxes! We ate like kings at Muir that afternoon, and attempted to sleep in the climbers’ hut. I’m usually conditioned to immediately pass out upon snuggling in my sleeping bag, but not this time.

We got up around 9:30pm and got moving by 10:30pm. Cathedral Gap was oddly draining for me. We took a quick break at Ingraham Flats where I told everyone I didn’t feel well. I didn’t know if it was mental or physical or both. Halfway up the cleaver, I realized I physically felt fine. Okay, I can do this. The cleaver is like stage 3.5. Shit’s weird. It’s awkward. Short roping with crampons on rock, yuck. No one likes it.

Tsunami Wave on the way down

We took another break at the top of the cleaver, and then began the long traverse to the right (east? north? northeast!). There were no ladders, no major crevasse crossings. There was a large serac dubbed the Tsunami Wave, and there were a few fixed lines and pickets placed just in case your group needed it. The trail finally switched back, taking us to what felt like the longest, steepest part of the climb. There are no natural breaks after the cleaver, though the switchback was a mental one. The guide services shovel out benches around 13,100ft, but I always pass those without noticing. There was one large step-over crevasse followed immediately by a fixed line and some steep terrain, but nothing awful. Past that, it was a tiny bit more uphill, and then the final traverse to the crater.

Crossing the crater at sunrise, could not have asked for a more beautiful day

The tears started as soon as I realized we were nearly at the crater. I turned back to the team and shouted the usual “whoop whoop!” We dropped our stuff, huddled in sleeping bags for a bit waiting for the sun to rise, and went over to the summit register as the sun finally crept above the crater rim. It was a brilliant sunrise reflecting off the cloud deck below us. We took up a whole page in the summit register book. I didn’t know what to do. We went to the far ridge closest to the sun and clouds to scatter his ashes. The wind was whipping which was perfect, for once.* It was beautiful in so many ways, ways I never thought I’d see beauty. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s raw and it’s terrible, but it’s beautiful. My coworker (long time climber) told me when I asked for advice that this would always be part of me, part of my climbing foundation. But he also said that over time it would become a beautiful part, and that’s what I’ve been clinging to as I try to continue climbing while reconciling everything ugly that happened.

Scattering ashes over every peak in the Cascades

“I’m gonna cut really good side steps. Make sure you get a picture.”

We spent nearly two hours at the summit before finally heading down. Robert pointed out that thanks to the wind, John has now climbed most of the peaks north of Rainier. Despite a stupid bottleneck just below the crater rim (which is a lot more fun when you can bitch about it over the radios, sorry OSAT), we made it back to Paradise in decent time, including a one hour hut nap which was the highest quality sleep I’ve had in ages. I woke up a new person. We even jogged the last part of the trail to Paradise to fly past tourists and drop our stuff at Nat’s car where I promptly forgot to check out of our climb (yes, they called me Monday morning to make sure we were back).

I have come across two analogies over the past few months, both of which are very applicable in different ways. It depends whether you’re the type who sees themselves dealing with this alone, or sees themselves surrounded by a network of friends.

Guess who that is, sawing off a cornice so he can snowboard off the summit

The analogy that has helped me the most is comparing the grieving process to an ocean. It’s a rip tide on an early September hurricane weekend. You get pulled out, you’re drowning, you’re underwater and you can’t fight it you just need to swim with it and you’ll hopefully pop out. The waves are enormous in the beginning, and frequent, and you think there’s no way you’ll end up back on shore even if you’re out of the initial current. Over time the swells get smaller. It’s one every few hours, it’s one every few days. You’ll still randomly be overwhelmed and cry or panic, but those episodes are fewer and shorter with more time in between, and someday you’ll be standing on shore with the memories lapping at your feet.

Au cheval baby! “Ride the pony!”

But it’s also like a climb. In the beginning it’s insurmountable. You look up at it and think there’s no freaking way up that, through those crevasses, up those rock chutes, those ice gulleys. But there is, even if it’s long and winding with plenty of obstacles and shit to throw at you. And you’re on a rope team. You have someone to belay you if you panic or if the terrain gets too tough, someone to lead the way, someone to help manage the obstacles, someone to give words of encouragement. Your friends are belay stations. If you’re falling apart in the grocery store you just need to remember in 30 minutes you’ll be at a belay station with someone instead of struggling through a tough crux move. It feels like it will take forever, especially starting at sunset knowing you have every hour of darkness to work though. But the sun rises, and your team is still there with you, and eventually you start to get the feeling that hey, you might make it. There are ups and downs, and the hard parts seem like they’ll never end but they do. And everything still sucks and you’re still tired and maybe it’s still intimidating but it’s one step at a time and if you start struggling you know you’re surrounded by people willing to pick you up.

John and the Mountain Bastards

So here’s to John, and the awesome community that he brought together, and to my amazing family back home. I have no idea how I’d be getting through all of this without you guys. I’ve learned over the past few months that I have lifelines in the most unlikely places. My dad, flying all the way out here, or agreeing to help me pay for a last minute flight back home. Simon, upgrading my flight home to first class. Shawna, giving us her house and Wednesday night dinners and helping me get back into climbing in a healthy way. Robert, convincing me to stick with the EMT class. Kacie, cleaning my apartment (all I asked was for help with my room!) before a last minute inspection while I had a meltdown at SeaTac. Kristen, somehow making me laugh while I fell to pieces in a bar. Nat for running back across the crater to get sleeping bags when I didn’t even care how cold I was, I just wanted to mope. Tony for unknowingly telling me every step up Rainier that we could push through this. JT for the Ptarmigan Traverse and reminding me how much potential climbing has and why I chase it in the first place. The list goes on, and every tiny thing helps me take a slightly deeper breath. I used to think I had a few special friends, friends whose doorstep I could show up on out of nowhere, broken down and lost, and they’d take me in without hesitation and judgement. Now I know I have tons of those, across several states, and especially here in Washington.

*Robert didn’t have hard shell pants – “It feels like I’m wearing shorts.” That sounds nice, in 30mph winds at 14k,411 feet.

The summit that started it all!

Have Tent, Will Travel

Trail running, mountaineering, and the occasional wipeout

Always A Work in Progress (Sticky Post)

Glacier Peak via Gerdine & Cool Glaciers

Sloan Peak via Bedal Creek

Lake Edna

Vesper Peak via Ragged Edge

Tormented on Torment & a Liberty Bell Redemption

Three Fingers via Bushwack & Meadow Mountain

Working Our Way Through the Grieving Process: Rainier via DC