Mt. Baker's North Ridge
Climbed 2024-05-27
A long day on a Washington classic
Climbed 2024-05-27
A long day on a Washington classic
In the days leading up to a big climb, the question I am most often asked is, “are you excited?"
"Something like that,” I typically reply, unable to communicate the true sense of the feeling.
Rather than excitement, it is as one feels as they have spent weeks away, and they step into the airport for the journey home. The anticipation of familiar smells and comforts, a bed long eroded to perfectly fit their form. Though they have enjoyed their time away, they are at last bound for where they belong.
This feeling was especially heightened as I flew off to Seattle, a city I have quickly come to love. Its people and flowers. Its ceaseless energy, humming down the streets in perfect chaos. The ever cloudy sky, and the immense warmth of a sun’s rare visits. I have thrice flown out to the PNW for Rainier, each time stopped by the weather. Truth be told, I do not mind if the pattern continues, as I will not soon fall out of love with my visits here.
I bought my plane tickets at the end of March. The Denali trip had just fallen through, and determined to still make the most of this year, I planned to climb Liberty Ridge on Rainier, a dangerous but classic route which graced the front page of Washington’s Mountain Project page.
The big 3 WA alpine lines
However, as the date neared, it was evident that Liberty Ridge was not to happen. According to ranger reports, the route was already out - my only shot would’ve been a month earlier. So I moved one listing up on that front page - the North Ridge of Mt. Baker.
Mt. Baker, also known as Koma Kulshan, is the 3rd highest peak in Washington, at 10,786ft above sea level. To a Colorado mountaineer, that elevation may seem low, but the peak should not be underestimated. It is heavily glaciated, and even the standard route, Coleman-Demings, involves crevasses, steep snow, and avalanche risk. Baker was first climbed via Coleman-Demings in 1868. One can only imagine the difficulty of such a summit at that time.
The North Ridge was sent far later, in 1948, by the one and only Fred Beckey. It is well regarded as a North American classic.
The route follows the same initial approach as Coleman-Demings, diverging at the Hogsback Camp around 6,000’. From there, climbers must ascend another 600’ and traverse the treacherous accumulation zone of the Coleman Glacier, lined with the lateral crevasses that run parallel to the direction of travel. In late season, as the snow melts and crevasses open, this section is a nightmare - I heard one horror story of a team taking 6 hours to make a safe crossing. In the early season, as when we went, the danger is far more insidious. The crevasses are completely hidden, and there is no telling when one might punch through.
About 1.75 miles into the glacier, the climber begins up the steep snow on the right, which stays a consistent 45º+ all the way to the serac.
At the base of the serac, there are two choices:
Enterprising climbers may choose to ascend the apex of the ridge, overcoming multiple pitches of overhanging ice.
Alternatively, if pressed for time and energy, one may choose to bypass it, facing no more than WI2.
The final stretch to the summit plateau is 1,000’ of steep and exposed snow, rising as sharply as 70º. Large crevasses often bar the way, but there is little chance of retreat - a descent would be as dangerous as completing the climb.
General route and POI on a topo
Predicting weather conditions is oft more an art than a science, especially in the Pacific Northwest. From a variety of tools and a lifetime of experience, one can get a general picture of what to expect, but ultimately, these mountains create their own weather and are subject to change at a moment’s notice. As such, in the final days leading up to the climb, our window was enigmatic.
These two forecasts were recorded a day apart. Ultimately, neither provided an accurate picture of conditions
Friday and Saturday were certain to pour rain and snow, and would not serve for our approach days as initially planned. Even climbing on Sunday would be dangerous, as the fresh snow could cause instability in the snowpack - a recipe for avalanche. Yet there was a glimmer of hope - a possible window on Monday. Our only worry was the cloud level, which was forecasted to completely cover the two cruxes (the Coleman traverse and serac climb) in a whiteout:
The Windy forecast. Note the cloud level (gray is coverage, and the red lines relate to key altitudes on the climb)
This uncertainty was enough for two members, Ellen and Zach, to drop out and try their lot a different weekend. But Matt and I were committed, for better or worse.
I awoke Thursday at 03:00 to catch my early flight out to Seattle. Here, I must give my utmost thanks to Bryan. Time and again he has supported my adventures, driving me to flights, loaning me gear, and just generally being a rockstar, always without complaint. He would be joining us out there a week later for a different climb.
At 04:00, at the Denver airport, I met up with Matt and threw both our skis into the bag loaned to us by his brother. Laden with 150lbs of gear, I marched into the airport, eagerly drinking in that wondrous concoction of new and familiar sights and smells - the energy of hundreds of individual lives each off to their next big adventure.
Next I knew, I was descending through Seattle’s shield of clouds and hauling my gear up into Scott’s spare room. Once again I must thank my friend, as it is by his generosity that these climbs are made possible. The remainder of the week I spent packing and unpacking - shaking down my weight to the bare minimum, obsessing over weather reports - willing Monday to remain clear, and memorizing the route, beta, and itinerary.
The beta printouts we would carry up the route
Come Saturday, I could not bear to wait any longer. Although I had planned to pick up Matt late in the evening, in order to minimize our downtime at the trailhead, we were on our way well before noon.
Discussing matters of life and death, love and ambition, we soon found ourselves on the winding and bumpy road up to the Heliotrope Ridge trailhead.
We arrived around 17:00 - time enough to cook decent meals, play a game of chess, and enjoy the majesty of that mist laden forest. In the company of a climber such as Matt, one finds a brother, and there is not enough time in the world to grow tired of conversation. Such is the bond of the mountain - each alpinist has been privy to its ineffable secret, which though unspoken, suffuses every word in those hours before a climb. That bond would be invaluable in the coming days, as Matt and I relied time and again on the other’s energy to push through to the summit.
Settling into our mattresses in the back of Stanley, Scott’s Honda Pilot, we enjoyed a final night of sleep and peace, and awoke to a lazy drizzle of rain.
We took no haste in setting down the trail, first enjoying cups of coffee and warm milk with granola. We knew of the suffering that awaited us, and took every chance to enjoy these fleeting moments of comfort. But at last, time had come, and at 09:30 we were off./ The rain, though light, was ceaseless, and covered the forest in a thick blanket of fog. Even more so than the trailhead, it felt a mystical place, as though we had been transported out of Washington and into a fantasy world where elves and fairies ran amok.
2.75 miles in, the snow was at last continuous. With great relief, we moved the skis and boots off our backs and to our feet, stashing our trail-runners in the trees. The route rose quickly from there - we had climbed only 1,000’ in those first few miles, but would rise almost 2,000’ in the next mile. This exertion was soon forgotten though, when I had my exhilarating first look at the Coleman glacier ablation zone.
Although I had traveled on glaciers before, I had never before seen open crevasses and ice falls. Suddenly I understood the power of the glacier - an overwhelming mixture of fear, respect, and certainty rushed into me. Truly, I was home.
Under no sort of time crunch, we stopped at the top of the rise for a rest and lazy lunch, around noon. We broke out the stove, intent on eating one of the extra Mountain House meals that Scott had given me. It was strange to take our time in such a manner, but we had the whole day to waste, and we were already nearly to camp. As I heated water to boil, I asked Matt to pull out the MH meal.
”I thought you had it?"
"Nah dude, I told you to grab it”
After a moment of silence, we both laughed, picturing that meal left in a nest of blankets in the back of the car. Nothing to do but continue on.
An hour later, we arrived at the Hogsback camp. It bustled with activity - a dozen 4-season, expedition style tents were laid out on snow platforms, with climbers wandering this way and that. It was a strange feeling - the snow shelters and heavy tents, the busy parties preparing for the weather window; it was as though a warp in reality had brought me to the slopes of Denali after all.
We spoke with one of the groups - this camp was lower than the standard at Black Butte, but evidently conditions up there had forced them to stake on lower ground. Matt and I considered following suit, but instead agreed to move up to 6,600' where the Coleman-Deming and North Ridge routes parted ways.
We arrived on suitable ground at 14:00. Rocky flats poked out of the deep snow like molehills, offering a place to sort gear and cook. The slopes above us were low angle, so we had no risk of an avalanche sweeping our camp. And the knife blade that marked the Coleman Headwall (an adjacent route) and N Ridge were in sight, allowing us some insight into our next day.
Breaking out the bivy sack and thru-hiking tent, hilariously misplaced compared to the expedition tents below, we flattened out a wide platform and set to building a snow wall. Peeling off layers of the slab (a disconcerting sight in regards to avalanche danger) to use as blocks, we build high and thick in an effort to ward off the high winds that might assail our ultra-light gear. I felt as a child on a snow day, with all the time in the world to build my fort.
We prepared our bags and made dinner, enjoying marshmallows roasted over a white gas flame paired with slabs of dark chocolate. If only all mountaineering trips could be so leisurely.
Yet in knowing the day to come, we could not fully embrace relaxation. Though far from dusk, I settled into my bivy at 17:00, and Matt and I enjoyed a cocktail of Benadryl and Nyquil, hoping for a full night of rest before our start at 01:00.
Around 22:00, I was rudely awoken by a raging wind. It roared up and over our snow wall, blasting through Matt’s tent and slicing through my down. Such was its rage that I worried that my bivy might fly away with me inside. Matt and I shared a few words in jest, but both too drowsy to do anything about it (what could’ve caused that, eh?), we rolled back into our separate slumbers.
I awoke throughout the night at increasing intervals: every two hours, then one, then 30 minutes, and then 15, as the snow and condensation slowly seeped through my down bag to leave me shivering. At last, at 00:50, I’d had enough, and I began dressing for the day. I peeked out of the bag for a sight of the stars, hoping for that favorable omen. I saw nothing but flurries amidst white clouds.
Matt awoke to my headlamp and the crinkle of waterproof fabrics, and soon joined me outside the tent. Operating on auto-pilot, I made coffee, roped up, and prepared to set off. However, Matt moved slow. Patience left me when I looked to my watch to see that it was already 02:15 - I asked Matt to pick up the pace and pre-tied his knots while he gathered his last few things. Finally, a few moments later, we were off across the Coleman.
As often is the case of those early alpine mornings, I remember little. We simply did as necessity demanded, sliding forward one ski after the other, well-spaced and staggered on our glacial line, so as to protect against pendulum swings into those hidden lateral crevasses. Although there was a full moon, she made no showing, and the flurry of clouds and snow continued through the morning.
Despite the limited visibility, we were fortunate and swift in our crossing. We made it across in just 2 hours, passing not one open crevasse, our skis floating safely above the treacherous caverns.
At 04:00, first light greeted us and began to sweep away the white out. At last, we could see ridges ahead of us, and we began to rise sharply.
Within the hour, the slope steepened too much for skis, and we stopped to switch over to crampons. Here, I made a grave mistake. I had plunged my skis into the snow, but not deep enough. One of them flopped over from a gust of wind, and as though in slow motion, began to roll and orient itself tip down. Both Matt and I tensed as though to lunge for it, but we were still tied together and unable to make quick movements. Time stood still for a heartbeat. Then the ski aligned with the slope, picked up speed, and descended into the night.
The damage now done, I sat down to un-rope and throw on crampons, unhurried. But Matt, hero that he is, leapt to action. He charged down the slope, and returned 20 minutes later with my ski in tow. I must once again express how grateful I am to have this man on my team - I have met no other partner so selfless, and his action saved a tremendous amount of strain on my knees and hip, which would already be pushed well beyond their limits by the end of the day.
Soon after, at 06:15, we crested a slope at 8,300’, and the serac came into view at last. At its sight, all of our exhaustion melted away.
Matt boasted of how he would climb directly up its center. It was, after all, no more than a massive and remote ice crag - what self-respecting ice climber could resist conquering that face head on.
Not wanting to curb his enthusiasm, I withheld my own judgment. Should conditions allow, it would certainly be a pitch to remember, and I had no doubt in his capabilities. However, those lessons learned on Split Couloir were still fresh in my mind. Often, the alpinist must forego these aesthetic and challenging lines in favor of time, energy, and safety.
We still had a long way yet to climb though, and the ideal of those technical pitches invigorated us both as we drove our bodies ever upwards.
At 07:45, we came to our first open crevasse. It was a little thing, marked by two small holes in front of us, plunging into darkness, and a wave of rolling snow some 30ft to our left. Matt stepped easily across, fearing little since I was in a good position to arrest a fall. As I followed suit, I foolishly opened up my phone camera to record my first crossing, throwing off my balance and focus. I began to cross. That first step held, and then the second. But as I lifted for the third, my back foot punched through. I threw myself forward, and sprawled out on the far side, desperately scrambled away on all fours, lucky to have not been sucked in. And we continued on
By 08:45, we reached the foot of the serac. As Matt racked up for the climb, still intent on sending straight up the center, I gave it a few whacks with my tools. The ice came off in sheets - the only solid purchase to be found hid 3-4 inches behind a layer of rotten, wind-blasted rime.
Though easier, this pitch was far from disappointing. We got a full rope length of sweet sticks and good pro - some of the best ice climbing I have done in the alpine.
I topped out to join him and swung the lead. We had a long ways yet to climb.
There is this ineffable quality to an alpine climb. So tremendous its impact upon those who venture, yet words fall flat when one tries to share the story. I can sit here and rattle off numbers: the weight I carried, the distance I climbed. I can boast of brushes with death: dips into the crevasse and near falls. I can take pictures or hone my mastery of language. But not will suffice to share the sensation of being swallowed by clouds and submerged in white. Those long moments where not a picture is taken and not a word is said, as one enters the hypnotic embrace of rest-stepping up thousands of feet. That:
Inhale. Plunge left ax. Exhale. Kick right foot. Inhale. Plunge right ax. Exhale. Kick left foot.
Until there is only the rhythm of crunching snow and expanding lungs. As even the wind howling across the ridge and over my back fades into the background. A total oneness with the body.
And the rage of that body, exasperated with the never ending climb.
Inhale. Plunge left ax. Exhale. Kick right foot.
”When will we rest?” it begs of me.
Inhale. Plunge right ax. Exhale. Kick left foot.
At the next ledge, I lie.
Unbelieving, I sink to my knees, for just a moment.
Unrelenting, I plunge my left ax.
Such was the next 2 hours of this climb, until we at last collapsed for lunch, and I broke out our secret weapon: a bag full of marshmallows and peanut M&Ms.
There we rested and shared in high spirits. Joy is a simple thing in such times - a floundering bird scooped easily into the hand and marvelled at. For, despite all our weariness, we knew the summit would be ours.
Looking ahead, it seemed we had only one pitch of steep snow left.
”Take us to the top,” Matt told me.
And I set off. 50ft up, I found myself beneath the steepest snow I had ever seen. It rose sharply above - I would wager for a 70º angle. Though slightly overwhelmed, I did as I had been doing. I plunged my ax. I kicked my foot. I breathed.
As I crested, I was assailed with an overwhelming view. A crevasse stretched out in front of me. To the left, it wrapped around the slope and out of sight, like a mighty fault in the Earth's crust. To the right, it wrapped back and down a thousand feet, all the way to the serac.
For a moment, I froze. My inexperience hit me in the gut - the solution not yet instinctual. I called to Matt on the radio, warning him of an impending fall, though we were now a full 70m apart. The feeble makings of a snow bridge seemed to lie just ahead, and I crawled up to them. Again, I froze in shock. Beneath me, the crevasse plunged ever downwards, the bottom far out of sight. The "snow bridge" was no more than two thin cornices.
I dropped a safe distance from the opening and put Matt on belay.
As Matt climbed to join me, I thought up three options:
The mere thought of the third sent my morale crashing. I did not suspect we could downclimb the previous snow pitch without leaving gear behind. No, the only way down was up.
Thankfully, Matt was not so shaken. Keeping a level head, he crawled up to the thing and peered down in, determining that first option to be our best candidate, and he set off on belay. With hardly a pause, he made it across, and our last big obstacle was overcome. We had only 400’ more to reach the summit.
As we popped out onto the summit plateau and switched back over to skis, another whiteout swallowed us. Relying heavily on my GPS and brief glimpses of the summit through the fog, we topped out at 14:40. Almost 13 hours from camp to summit. And we were still only half done.
The rest of this report will pass in a blur, as it did in my head. It is the unfortunate reality of these long and epic climbs: they are so exhausting that one’s mind stops recording part way through, and the story can be only half told.
We unroped, snacked, and took a moment to drink in our victory. I then prepared to sail off the summit cone. The slope angle seemed perfect for a novice skier, and fantasies swirled in my head of sailing down and across the plateau in one fell swoop.
At last, a window through the clouds appeared. Plateau in sight, I asked Matt to film me, and flew off down the slope for some epic turns. Except, on the first one, I fell and lost all momentum. I barely made it 100ft before I had to re-equip the skins. Apparently, my skiing still needs some work.
As we narrowed in on a line down the Roman Headwall, the white out swallowed us in totality. Unable to see more than a couple yards ahead, we had no way of knowing if our next step would take us out onto a cornice or into a crevasse. As such, we had to rope up once more, swinging 70m pitches all the way down the route.
Ultimately, we would miss our turn in the low visibility, and we very nearly ended up on the wrong side of the mountain. During those moments of uncertainty, worried that we had descended the wrong aspect of the mountain, my spirit faltered once more. I lacked the strength to pull myself back up over the Colfax saddle.
Just as I began to lose faith in our safe descent, the clouds released us, and I spotted safe passage under a band of cliffs to rejoin the standard route.
At long last, the camp came into view, but at this point, there was little joy left in the act. Each step ached, and my mind thought only of the ending.
Distant islands amidst the ocean of clouds
Matt bootpacks down the route after twisting his knee
I donned my skis for the final time and practiced turns down the gentler slopes. Matt, too exhausted to bother, bootpacked the whole way. Somehow, so slow was my skiing, we kept pace with one another.
Along the way, he found a songbird, which he would name Jade, freezing upon the surface of the ice. We watched for several minutes as she tried time and again to lift off, only to be caught by the wind and slammed back down. Finally, she gave up, and Matt effortlessly plucked her up from certain doom.
He would carry that bird all the way back to treeline, although she would eventually succumb to the cold. We left Jade to rest high in a tree, and hope only that her final moments were warm, thankful that we did not suffer the same fate.
Finally, at 19:45, nearly 18 hours after leaving, we collapsed at our camp. We had almost no food left - just some crumpled gluten free tortillas, crushed up Fritos, and a few packets of mustard and mayo. While I heated up snow to refill our water, Chef Matt would make me a fine gourmet meal. It is with absolutely no sarcasm that I say that those mustard/mayo covered Frito tortillas were the best thing I have ever eaten in the mountains. I hope I am never that hungry again.
The sun set and we finished packing. Only through sheer force of will did we lug on those heavy packs and place one foot after the next.
On the way down, both absolutely crushed by what we had endured, Matt and I wondered if it had been worth it. Matt voiced his shifting perspective of what the Denali climb would entail, and whether he truly wanted it. I longed only for a soft bed, with no energy left to speak or consider my future endeavors.
At 23:12, 22 hours after we had awoken, we stumbled into the now empty parking lot, our clothes tattered and soaked, our knees, hips, and backs barking, and our souls empty. To this mountain, we gave all we had.
In the weeks following, each time I’ve sat down to write this, I have grasped for an outstanding moral. A lesson to take away from this great journey and apply to the rest of my life, as I do with all my write-ups. Yet this time, I came away empty handed. To say that this has shaken me would be an understatement. This should be a great achievement, and yet I feel only that I have done as I ought.
Ultimately, this climb was the quintessence of alpinism. The brotherhood of two climbers united as one whole by a stretch of nylon. The delicious taste of low foods in high places. The unity of the self, pushing well beyond the illusion of limitation. And an unbreakable appreciation for life, knowable only by a brush with its fragility.
It is as the late Marc-André Leclerc said, “When you’re in the mountains […] it’s like all of the superficialities of life just sort of evaporate. […] You appreciate everything so much. […] It’s kinda funny, the actual achievement doesn’t really change your life like you think it might when you’re buildin’ up to it. But what you’re left with is the journey that got you to that point, […] you’re left with so much more of a story. […] That’s what I find is the most important.”
The mountains are how I tell my story. How I assert my will to live. The mountains are my home. Yet perhaps, for a time, I will enjoy good food and friendship in warm places and sunshine. And when I am ready to return, those hills will welcome me with open arms.