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The drive from Iowa to Alaska is a long
one--some 3,800 miles in fact. Joel and I had plenty of time to think
about what exactly it was that we wanted to accomplish with this
summer. Over the miles of road and hours of discourse we came to the
conclusion that it was most important to us not only to climb the East
Face, but to do it completely self-contained. No radios, no satellite
phones, no air support (which isn’t a legal option anyway, as the park
service doesn’t allow airdrops or landings on “our” side of the
mountain), and no pre-established caches. We wanted to climb this
mountain from the ground up. We felt as Bradford Washburn did, that
“The East Face of Denali is still the most exciting first ascent
opportunity left in Alaska--possibly even the Western Hemisphere.” This
was not some “sport route” in the Alps that you could waltz in and take
a shot at. This was the ultimate commitment that we felt Denali would
demand from anyone who considered themselves deserving of an attempt at
such a beautiful virgin face. Anything else would be dirty pool, or
trying to take on the mountain by unfair means.
Sure, our convictions may have seemed a
little unfounded considering that we hadn’t yet been to the base of the
mountain, and it had all been conjecture entertained by two flatlanders
from the comfort of the car. At the same time, we knew, as if guided by
something bigger than us, that it was the only way that we could live
with ourselves or our potential success. We did a lot of reading along
the way, and hearing about Mugs Stump’s ideologies, and the way that
he’d get that gleam in his eye when talking about new potentials, or
ideas that others considered crazy strengthened our convictions even
further. It also didn’t hurt to know that Backes, Twight, and House had
pulled off the Czech Direct with similar ideologies.
Thus we arrived in Talkeetna, with high
hopes, and even higher motivation. We were pleasantly surprised to find
out from Ranger Miller that there was actually an old horse pack trail
all the way to McGonagall Pass. This was even better than we had
imagined. With this knowledge we made our way to Fairbanks where we
bought canoe dollies with rugged off-road wheels upon which we would
strap our sleds in order to make a single carry to McGonagall a
possibility. When we tried them out at the parking lot while waiting
for the bus to take us to Wonder Lake I thought, “What a genius I am,”
as I casually hauled around more gear than I had ever imagined hauling
into camp. This of course said to me that we should take as much as we
could carry in order to put ourselves in prime position to climb
numerous satellite peaks. Can you sense the foreshadowing in my
overconfidence?
Well, the bus arrived, and all the
backpackers marveled at our mountains of gear, and our contention that
we were headed all the way up. When we finally arrived at Wonder Lake,
it was after 10 p.m. As the days had been hot, we figured this would be
the perfect time to start our trek in, as the McKinley would be at its
lowest, and the weather would warm as we gained elevation. After firing
down some shells and cheese, we set off.
When we reached the McKinley Bar Trail,
we were unpleasantly surprised to find that there was an 18-inch-wide
trail with thick brush and alder growing up on both sides of it, the
unfortunate problem being that our dollies were 22 inches wide. This
led to us pulling our “trailers” for a bit, and then having them upend
and having to drop the packs to right them again. Initially it wasn’t
so bad, as we could go a quarter of a mile without having to stop. I
thought that if we could just make it to the McKinley Bar, it’d all be
downhill from there. Little did I know just how far downhill, and how
negative a connotation that actually carried with it.
Joel and I pulled, dragged, and grunted
our way through narrow ruts, marshy tundra, and across narrow 2x12
boards that were the bridges over standing water. Of course we had to
drop packs and help one another over the narrow bridges, since the
wheels hung freely, and would occasionally hang up on the support posts
that held the planks up out of the water. One jarring shot from the
wheels catching the posts had me standing in water over me knees as I
felt my feet sink further as I tried to right myself against the wishes
of the spanner bars that kept the sled from ramming into me while
traveling downhill. Joel had to come and help me once again, but we
learned, adapted and overcame.
When we finally reached the McKinley, it
was obvious why in most route descriptions for the Muldrow Glacier they
oftentimes made the comment that crossing the McKinley was the most
objective danger to the route. We knew that our single carry system
would have to be broken down into what subsequently turned into a
quadruple carry to get everything across the river. This first crossing
went without incident, and if anything built our confidence, as we had
each harbored a bit of apprehension about how easily we would make it
across this first obstacle. Not that we shared any of that apprehension
with each other until after we had safely surpassed it, of course.
With every bit of success or ease there
came a heavy price to pay in the form of what could go wrong. Almost
immediately after we crossed the McKinley, we were welcomed by a bit or
rain. Not so bad we thought, at least it waited until we had crossed
the river. Unfortunately, this little sprinkle of rain seemed to drum
up a whole new adversary in our little excursion to this point: the
infamous mosquitoes.
Now again, Joel and I are from the
Midwest, Iowa in fact. I’ve spent some time in the Boundary Waters of
Minnesota, and I’ve seen mosquitoes that you would swear are big enough
to carry you away, and swarms that threaten to eat you alive, but I’d
never seen anything like this. The mosquitoes that the miniscule amount
of precipitation drummed up, and thereby alerted to our presence, were
so thick and relentless they had me to the point of panic. If you
stopped moving any part of your body for even a second, and in some
instances even those parts of your body that you just moved around
slowly, those parts would become completely engulfed in stinging
mosquitoes. They could sting through clothing, and even the places
where the mosquito head-net touched the skin. We figured that this was
a temporary situation, as we were close to the water, and as we moved up
it would take care of itself.
Our next move was to make the carry from
the McKinley Bar up over Turtle Hill. As we could not initially find
the horse trail that the ranger had told us about, we set off trudging
uphill over some of the softest, mushiest, most unstable terrain that I
had ever seen. One second we’d be standing on a tuft of land, and the
next we’d be struggling to remain upright. Without the use of trekking
poles I’m sure one of us would have been seriously injured. It was like
walking in a mine field, never knowing what our next step would bring,
as there was no rhyme or reason as to how good any footing would be.
All that we could know was that it was going to be wet.
When we had made it to just short of
Turtle Hill, we found what was left of the horse trail. This definitely
made the going easier, as the tundra had been worn away in these spots,
and solid ground lay beneath. It didn’t take more than 400 yards or so
until we found ourselves attempting to plow through alder so thick and
dense that when Joel got more than ten feet ahead of me I lost sight of
him completely. This definitely added to any grizzly bear paranoia that
we might have already been experiencing. Not being able to see where
you’re going or know just what’s making that rumble in the brush ahead
of you definitely gets the blood flowing, and you can bet that there
were more than just a couple of “Hey Bears!” thrown out as we made our
way through those sections.
When we did finally top out on the back
side of Turtle Hill, it was definitely a relief. From there we got our
first glimpse of the terrain that separated us from McGonagall Pass.
For the most part it looked to be pretty straight forward, with
relatively little dense brush. I should have know better however,
especially after spending the previous summer climbing Mt. Logan, the
largest mountain landmass in the world, that when you’re looking at
something that vast, your mind just can’t comprehend the scale of
things. Nevertheless, we were in high spirits, and made the three
subsequent carries to move our camp up to Turtle Hill. We opted to
cache the dolly wheels and a dry bag full of those things we deemed were
just not necessary enough to warrant making the approach a quadruple
carry, and moved on up.
The next day started with heavy rains.
We figured that this might be an opportune time to take a rest day, and
maybe eat some of the food that w e hadn’t allowed ourselves to eat, or
more realistically couldn’t bring ourselves to eat, because any removal
of the head nets meant numerous and repeated mosquito stings. Having
moved away from the McKinley Bar, we were sure that the mosquitoes
couldn’t possibly be as bad, and with the added insurance of the rain,
we were set to lighten our load. To my astonishment however, the
mosquitoes were as persistent, if not worse on Turtle Hill. We made an
attempt to cook, and were successful, if you don’t mind a nice peppering
of mosquitoes with your shells ‘n cheese.
Our next objective was to move our camp
to Clearwater Creek. The morning actually started with snow, and then
shifted to rain. We figured time was wasting, and decided to move
anyway. When we got to Clearwater Creek, we ran into a NOLS group that
was headed in for an attempt on the Muldrow Glacier Route. In talking
to one of the guides, he related to us that the weather had been so dry
the previous winter that they hadn’t planned on encountering snow on the
glacier until the first icefall. This was not reassuring news to us, as
we had been toting skis and sleds as part of our triple carry up to this
point. He reassured us though, just as our ranger in Talkeetna had,
that there would definitely be use for them both further up the Traleika.
The next day we finished our carries up
to Clearwater Creek and scouted out what our next plan of attack would
be. That night it rained again, but the showers were light, and we were
less concerned about the upcoming water crossings of both the Clearwater
and Cache creeks, as they were mild by comparison with the McKinley.
So, we rested, and feasted on the rest of our perishables, i.e. bagels
and cheese.
Our crossing of Clearwater Creek was
definitely easy compared to the McKinley, and the fact that it was only
a hundred yards across as compared with the McKinley’s mile or more
width, made crossing it five times in a row almost enjoyable as the
morning sun started to heat everything up. The fact that we could see
the bottom of the river, and somewhat avoid holes made the crossing all
the better.
When we rounded the bend that was the
little alcove that Clearwater Creek ran from, we found more standing
water then we’d found on the trail to this point. The flooding of the
trail, combined with the numerous game trails in the area, caused us to
have difficulty staying on the trail at all. We knew, however, that
having had any trail up until this point had been a gift, as there
weren’t supposed to be any trails in this part of the backcountry, and
we’d already experienced just how miserable it could be with no trail
whatsoever. So we pushed on, and made our way to and across Cache
Creek.
The rest of the day we spent ferrying
loads between Clearwater Creek and our newly established camp at the top
of Cache Creek. At some point during all this hiking we found what was
supposed to be the main established trail. This allowed us to move
significantly faster than on the initial carry to Cache Creek. The
weather was beautiful, and we thought that maybe the heat would deter
the mosquitoes, as nothing else had yet. We were wrong.
By this point, we were suffering a
little from our lack of sustenance. All we could bear was pulling our
head nets up to pop a GU, a granola bar, and occasionally when we felt
exceptionally sassy, a pop-tart. I had suggested that we could cook and
then eat in the tent, as I was getting desperate, but to his credit Joel
remained a staunch defender of following the guidelines for traveling in
grizzly bear country and would not allow it. It must have been all
those years that he hiked in Glacier National Park that had him brazenly
against breaking the rules for just this instance. Either way, cooler
heads prevailed, so we again didn’t eat more than we absolutely needed
to survive.
Our next objective was to get to the top
of McGonagall pass, where we prayed that the mosquitoes would be abated
by the cooler temperatures that we knew the glaciated area would bring.
We came up with the idea of carrying further on that day, and made a
first cache at the base of McGonagall Pass. Here we left our sleds,
skis, plastic boots, technical climbing gear, and extra fuel. We
planned to return the next day and carry past this cache up to the Pass
where we could establish a new camp, and hopefully do some much needed
cooking and more importantly eating.
The next day we did just that, carrying
our first carry up to the top of McGonagall Pass, and establishing a
camp area. When we descended back to the bottom of the pass and our
cache, we were unpleasantly surprised to find that some rodent had
chewed into our goods. I didn’t initially find anything to be wrong
with my gear, but Joel did. I could tell immediately from his swearing
in frustration that it was something not good. When Joel had opened up
his cache bags to see what had been hit, he found pieces of his inner
boot littering the inside of the bag. I was sorry for him, but only in
a way to maintain solidarity, as my gear hadn’t been touched. You can
only have so much sympathy, but empathy was a different beast all
together, I would soon find.
I had not been feeling well all day, and
decided to return to camp. I had picked up some of my cache on the
initial carry to the pass, and I was sure that I could make a single
carry past this point and to the pass on the following day. Joel decided
to carry on, looking stronger than ever as he motored up the pass in
some 45 minutes and back down in under thirty. That’s some serious
hauling of ass, and I envied his strength as I found myself vomiting on
the solo return trip to camp. It was most likely a combination of lack
of food, and a bit of heatstroke that had me down. Although it was only
in the 80-degree range, it was much more like 110 degrees inside the
head-net, bug shirt, full pants and gaiters that we had to don in an
effort to prevent being eaten alive by mosquitoes. Regardless, I was
ready for some R&R that emphasized nourishment as part of the pastime.
The next day as we made our carry up to
McGonagall Pass, I stopped to pick up what was left of my cache at the
base. In it was technical gear, skis, cold weather clothes, my sled,
and of course my plastic boots. You’d think that I’d have learned from
Joel’s misfortune, but I didn’t, as I was sure my cache was protected by
my Mountainsmith sled shell. I guess that little rodent wanted in more
than the sled could prevent, because I opened the sled to find about one
fourth of my left boot liner missing, and better than a third of my
right boot liner missing. For me, this was nearly a trip ender, as I
couldn’t imagine that these boots would be worth anything at 20,000ft.
I thought about it for a minute, and then realized that this was some
kind of test that the mountain was putting us through. “It can’t all go
this wrong, something has got to turn our way,” I said to Joel. He
agreed, and I figured that I could make do with the boots, as I should
have learned from our previous misfortune and so was now responsible for
working through my error.
When we got up to McGonagall Pass we
quickly moved into camp, and relished the idea of being free of
mosquitoes until we made our victorious descent back down into the bog,
but of course we were immediately foiled by the arrival of thousands of
mosquitoes coasting in on the unusually warm drafts of air that were
also responsible for the deterioration of the glacier that lay before
us. To say that we were a little disappointed about the amount of snow
that covered the Muldrow and what was visible of the Traleika glaciers,
was an understatement. Having just hauled skis and sleds all the way to
camp, some 20 miles, and then to think that they may be completely
worthless, well, I can’t really describe the feeling. It falls
somewhere between disappointment and disgust, but remembering our luck
to this point, there definitely wasn’t any surprise mixed in there.
The campsite that we’d chosen was at the
very lip of the pass, and gave us a good overview of the terrain that
lay before us. When we first arrived we could see all the way to the
corner of Carpe ridge, where the Muldrow and the Traleika meet, and we
had an excellent view of Mt. Brooks which lies on the far side of the
Traleika. Unfortunately this view was not any more reassuring that
carrying our sleds and skis was not completely futile, as there was
little or no evidence that there would be any kind of consistent snow on
our route up the Traleika. Very frustrating considering that they were
essentially one trip in our triple carries. One can only speculate just
how much it had taken out of us, having to carry that extra load, having
to make the two way trip to bring them up-all of which meant traveling
through the mosquitoes, through the “bog” one more time. Just the same,
as Jim Donini had said when we ran into him in Talkeetna, our greatest
asset would be our short memories. He was right, and it wasn’t a matter
of what had transpired to this point; but about what we were going to do
now.
Well, later that evening the weather
moved in, and pounded us with rain, and snow, and sleet and forms of
precipitation that seemed to metamorphose between the point that you
first caught them in your sight and where they eventually made contact
with ground, tent, or skin. As we had hauled an overabundance of food
all the way up to camp, we decided that we could afford to sit a few
days and refuel our bodies. Seeing as this side of the mountain wasn’t
known for its storms, we figured it’d be a day, maybe two at most, and
dug into the food.
The one good thing about the weather was
that it finally did give us the upper hand against the mosquitoes. No,
believe it or not, the mosquitoes didn’t go away; but the unusually
quick change in temperatures made them very slow and easy to swat,
whereas lower on the mountain we had dubbed the local variety the Steven
Seagal of mosquitoes, as they were hard to kill. On several occasions I
would crush a mosquito with my bare hand, and watch it fall to the tent
floor, only to lie there for a minute, roll over, stagger a bit, then
take flight once again. Unbelievable, but true. Up here in the
weather, though, they were at our mercy. Although I don’t consider
myself to be a cruel or spiteful person, I enjoyed crushing those
buggers as they lazily flew around the inside of the tent looking for
blood.
We managed to stay in the tent for two
days, doing nothing but eating and drinking. We were feeling more
recharged, and on the third day of weather, we decided to hell with it,
we were at least going to make a carry as far as we safely could, in an
effort to check around the corner and get a look at the snow
conditions. So we got into full regalia for a party in the storm, and
ventured out onto the glacier, most of which consisted of scree and
choss. Visibility was less than 75 feet, but every now and then there
would be a small opening, and we could get our bearings once again and
move on.
It wasn’t long before we came to our
first major obstacle. Where the Muldrow and Traleika glaciers meet, at
the corner of Carpe Ridge, and where normally there would be crevasses
and large rifts in the glacial snow, there were instead giant fissures
of snow and ice pushing their way unevenly up from the depths of the
glaciers. In doing so, they displaced tons of rock and essentially
created a labyrinth of glacial rivers, lakes, and vertical ice walls.
Finding our way through this initial section was probably the most
difficult thing we’d done yet. The fact that the visibility was so low
definitely did not help anything.
Making it to Traleika proper involved a
particularly hairy move. Seeing as we couldn’t find another way around,
over, or across, we agreed on the plan that we’d jump from a low hanging
tongue of the glacier, across a glacial river, onto a lower set chunk of
glacier. The gap between the two was probably only about 4 ft, and the
distance down was only about 8 ft, but the fact that the upper part of
the tongue off of which we planned to jump was covered with loose scree
and sloped down at about 60 degrees, and the landing consisted of a pile
of talus that had deposited itself there from sliding down and launching
itself off the tongue definitely added to the level of difficulty.
Joel went first, and made an excellent
leap, and about as graceful a landing as one can make when trying to do
the long-jump in plastic boots while carrying a 70+ pound pack.
Essentially he did not completely face-plant on the far side. Graceful
by my standards. Then came my turn. Seeing Joel nearly peel his face
off in the talus I knew that landing a bit more upright would be to my
advantage. So I leapt. Landing squarely on the slanting talus pile,
with maybe a little overcompensation against the falling forward. I
immediately fell backwards, splashing pack first into the glacial river
that undercut both glaciers. I was stuck in a precarious position, as
the base of my pack was still supported by the talus pile, while my
outstretched arms couldn’t find any purchase on the bottom of the
river. I was flailing like an upended turtle, as Joel stared at me with
a most inquisitive look in his eye, like he was watching some weird
nature film. Of course all I had to do was say “A little help here. A
little help would be in order if it’s not too much to ask.” Almost as
if waking from a daydream Joel jumped over and dragged me out.
This ended up being the crux of our
route-finding to the Traleika Glacier, and aside from the low
visibility, the rest of the day went without incident. We made our way
up the glacier in rapid fashion, looking for a proper cache point.
Along the way I thought to myself, this is where everything becomes even
more beautiful. After all, every step that I took was likely to be
previously touched by human feet, especially considering how much the
glacier had melted out in the recent past. Seeing as I couldn’t find
any record of anyone having been there since Tom Bubendorfer had been
there in 1998, it was all the more likely that we were on virgin
ground. I embraced this part of the trip wholeheartedly, as how many
times will one be able to say that in their life? It’s more likely that
astronauts will be the only people to say that in the coming years than
climbers will be able to. Nonetheless, it was not long before my
romantic idea was spoiled.
After we’d traveled about a mile up the
Traleika, hopping over glacial streams and meandering through boulders
the size of houses, we came upon the first evidence of prior passings.
It wasn’t some great rustic piece of nostalgia, no, it was a neoprene
toe cover. We thought, “Wow, what’s this doing out here?” We picked it
up to find that all the writing on it was in German. More than likely
Bubendorfer’s. Not another mile down the glacier we found a most
peculiar deposit. On top of a large flat rock we found some weathered
tubular webbing, and believe it or not, a pair of blue jeans. They
weren’t actually blue anymore, as the glacier had had its way with
them. Very weird things to be finding some 24 miles into nowhere. We
made a small pile of all the trash, and vowed to come back and pick it
up on the way out.
After we’d hiked another hour over the
now more leveling terrain, we found the most pronounced rock outcropping
we could in the limited visibility and decided to make that our cache.
We had hoped to push all the way to the West fork of the Traleika, but
low visibility made it hard to gauge exactly where we were. So making
the cache here was our best bet. We divested ourselves of everything
that we didn’t absolutely need, and made the tallest cairn we could
muster, out of the top of which we propped a couple of wands with
surveyor’s tape, and a large blue shovel blade. As we periodically
looked back to see just how visible our cache would be, it reminded us
of a communications tower, so we dubbed it Repeater Rock.
The weather had started to lift as we
buried our cache, but it had now done a complete 180 as we started to
make our way back to camp. What had previously been heavy clouds and
light rain turned into a full-on blizzard. The flakes were small and
sharp and stung our eyes as we made our way back down the glacier. I
said to Joel, “If I get one more shot to the--shit, well, I guess I’m
putting on the goggles.” No matter, though, we had made good progress
in a day that we knew most others wouldn’t have moved at all. I felt
reassured that making this carry in inclement weather meant that we
would be awarded at least one more day of good weather when it really
mattered--during the climb.
We staggered back into camp, mostly
through the guidance of our GPS, which had fondly taken on the name
“Gippus,” as having to read a 200-page manual during the drive up had
caused me to become more intimate with it than, say, a tent stake or a
carabiner. As visibility dropped to 10 feet or so and the snow
continued to pile up, we rolled into camp to find that the majority of
the stream that we had gathered water from had frozen over. We thought
we might possibly be in for a big storm. That was fine with us if it
patched up the glacier and made us carrying our skis and sleds to the
pass something other than an exercise in futility. We battened down the
hatches and settled in for who knew how long.
The next day was anything but stormy.
The sun came out and it was beautiful. The sun’s rays quickly dried
everything out, and for once things were looking up. We loaded up the
rest of camp, opting to cache the skis, sleds, some extra fuel and food,
and headed up glacier. On the return trip to camp the previous day we’d
somehow found a route that brought us back without having to negotiate
“the tongue,” and tried to cover that same ground. Traveling through
scree has absolutely no redeeming qualities. It doesn’t leave much of a
trail to follow, especially since this was previously undisturbed scree,
it’s so loose to the touch and seemingly bottomless that you’d take a
step, lose sight of the lower two thirds of your foot, and then pick it
up and never know where you’d just stepped. It didn’t help that most of
the ground we covered was slanted and uneven. The scree on most of the
terrain we crossed was like a crazy game of Jenga. Every step would
bring down a different amount of loose rock that would sometimes be so
much that it’d crawl over the top of your gaiters that you hadn’t
fastened down since you’d underestimated the prowess of said rocks.
There were many lessons both given and learned on this trip; this was
but one of many.
After about an hour of this desperate
scrambling we were out onto the Traleika proper, and were rewarded for
our toiling with something special, our first glimpse of the upper East
Face. It was beautiful, a sight that I’ll never forget. The sun came
out in full force, and made the traveling fun for the first time I could
recall since leaving Wonder Lake. I was above the mosquitoes, in the
sun, with a great friend and partner covering ground that may never
before have been touched. The packs felt lighter, the motivation
stronger. What could be better?
It wasn’t long before we motored past
Repeater Rock and further up the glacier. We could now see with perfect
visibility that we were still about 3 miles short of the West Fork of
the Traleika when we had stopped with the cache. We decided to move the
camp up as far as we felt was safe to travel un-roped, as we were now
moving back into something that resembled a glacier. When we found what
seemed to be an adequate site, we settled in. On both sides of our camp
there were boulders the size of tractor trailers, most of which balanced
precariously on unbelievably thin chunks of ice.
As we looked up the glacier we could see
three different prominent rock bands that divided the Traleika into four
parts. The first two were of the same type and color, while the last
two were different from both the first and each other. When I looked
down the glacier I thought, “Man, how things must have changed.”
Especially considering what Washburn had to say about how the “utterly
crevasse-less Traleika Glacier would permit a DC-10 to land.” I said to
Joel, “Land in one piece, doubtful, take off again, never.” The glacier
was an upheaval of change; uneven, churned, and scoured by the effects
of global warming and mild winters. There were definitely some holes in
our plan of attack, but none that anyone else could have foretold, I
reassured myself.
That evening we got our first taste of
avalanche activity, as parts of the large icefall on Mt. Carpe crashed
down as their own weight pushed them over during the contracting state
that passes during the night. Nonetheless, we slept as well as we had
yet since we could finally crawl into our 20-below sleeping bags for the
first time this trip.
The next morning we were awakened by the
loud roar of prop planes and their deafening echoes off the mountain
walls. We actually crawled out of the tent just to see what all the
commotion was about. Joel and I both joked that it was probably our
mothers flying over to check on us, having threatened a pilot or two
into taking them there, as we had been told that no commercial flights
were allowed onto that side of the mountain. There must have been 12
planes that flew over throughout the morning. None of them landed,
which made me feel better, as seeing some tourist land in a pair of
jeans and walk around where we’d so ardently been working to get to for
over two weeks would have made me want to tear my hair out. Of course
they could never have the same appreciation for standing on such
hallowed ground, but just the same I was glad not to have to deal with
anything but the invasion of our privacy.
That afternoon we went back and
retrieved the cache. It was a nice hike back down, aside from the
deafening prop planes, and the weather seemed to be making a turn in our
favor. I was sure that our initial difficulties were just a testing
ground, one that was albeit frustrating to a degree that I’d never
before experienced, but behind us just the same.
By the time that we reached Repeater
Rock I knew without question that something needed to be done about the
sorry condition of my boots. They were wearing against my shins so hard
that it felt like someone was taking a hammer to my legs on every
weighted step. I tried lacing them in different configurations,
thinking that it might take some of the stress off that particular
point, but nothing worked. I ended up having to implement the ultimate
tool: duct tape. The duct tape, in conjunction with a severely
mutilated and reconfigured capilene expedition-weight sock, was enough
to make travel bearable.
When we were fully loaded with the
cache, we decided it was a good idea to continue our leapfrogging, and
planned to carry the cache at least to the fork in the glacier. We
figured that we could go as far as we felt now that we had picked up the
technical gear, most importantly the ropes for glacier travel. So we
moved past camp, half expecting that we’d have to rope up, but finding
that the rock band that flowed almost immediately out of camp and
towards the West Fork was sustained enough that we could move along the
top of it without having to rope up, or sacrifice safety.
Joel led out, and we were continually
surprised just how far we could go without having to worry about the
terrain. There were no crevasses that we couldn’t step over, and for
the most part just large rocks that we’d have to weave in and out of
trying to guess which ones would be stable and which ones would topple
with out weight. For the most part it was the least stressful glacier
travel I’ve ever been a part of. It was however very monotonous, as you
really never could look up, as the rock was far from level. It reminded
me of the Ani DiFranco lyrics, “When I look down I miss all the good
stuff, when I look up, I just trip over things.”
I periodically stopped to take some
photos to document our progress, and it didn’t take long for Joel to get
out in front significantly. I had just stowed away my camera and
started to hustle after him when I found a most peculiar item. At my
feet was a plastic wrapper. I stopped to pick it up, partially
disgusted, and partially surprised. As I hurried ahead, I saw Joel come
to a quick halt, and bend down to pick something up himself. He turned
towards me and waved a large red tarp towards me. In usual Joel fashion
he added “Toro, Toro, andale!” I laughed and hurried to see what it was
that he’d stumbled onto.
When I arrived at Joel’s spot I found a
large “cache” of everything from tea bags, a fuel can, chalk, mylar
blankets, hand-warmers, and even a Koflach boot liner. It was more like
a yard sale than a cache, as everything was spread out within the rock
band, and one could only speculate just how much other gear had actually
blown away in the wind and deposited itself throughout the Traleika.
Needless to say that we were both pissed. Here we had come to a point
so far in, having earned it with every step, and some jackass had ruined
it for us.
I originally speculated that it may have
been some kind of dump from a plane that had flown overhead. After all,
the amount of gear left behind, and the strangeness of its contents made
me wonder why someone would just leave all this behind, as it was
obvious that whoever it had been had no intention of retrieving it as
there was no cairn, wand, organization, rock pile, anything that would
suggest an attempt at caching. Then, the ultimate piece of evidence
presented itself to us. Upon further review of the “cache”, we found
the writing “T Bub.” on the boot liner.
This “T Bub.” was a sure sign that this
“cache” had been left behind by Tom Bubendorfer, revered Eigerwand
ascensionist, and now great Tralieka garbagist. He had apparently been
in on the hopes of making a solo ascent of the East Face in ’98, and as
it looks, “prudently backed off,” and lazily left behind. Realizing
that there wasn’t much we could do to scold him for his less than
adequate leave no trace ethics, we decided to plan for the future. We
gathered up all of the trash that we could find, built a fire ring, and
burned down the trash so that we might be able to carry it out on the
return to Wonder Lake.
Of course while doing this, we came up
with the great idea of taking some choice pictures of us showing “Boob”,
as we had taken to calling him, exactly what we thought of his
desecration of this sacred ground. We figured if nothing else, we could
send him a lovely X-Mas card every year that reminded him of his
laziness. So, we took some pictures and decided to move on.
We only went about another half mile
before we found ourselves at the end of the rock band, and as we could
no longer see camp and the clouds were moving in from ahead of us we
decided to make our cache there. We deposited our cache at what was
effectively the Traleika’s West Fork break, from which we got a few
shaded glimpses of the East Face. It was definitely an eye opener, as
it looked huge even from that distance. It became apparent to us that
this was most likely as far as “Boob” had gotten, as from here on the
glacier was noticeably open, and would require some serious crevasse
laden travel. So we made the tromp back to camp and feasted on more
high-carb goodies. It was actually a cool night, and it helped us to
sleep better.
The next morning we were once again
awakened by the buzz of prop planes overhead. Only this time when we
crawled out of the tent we found that the clouds that had been moving
our way from the Traleika Spur had settled into the entire glacier
limiting visibility to a few hundred feet. Thus we could not see the
planes flying overhead, and didn’t feel quite so much like our privacy
was being invaded. We figured if the planes were out flight seeing,
then the weather above must be better. So, we proceeded with breaking
down our camp, and planned to move up to what we figured would be our
main camp until we were finished with the climb itself.
It didn’t take us long to be back at the
cache, and we quickly roped up and got ready to take on the more
intensive part of the approach. The sunlight which had flirted with us
all morning finally crept away as we moved out onto the West Fork
proper. Joel led us over and around numerous crevasses that littered
the break in the fork. The majority of crevasses we could still easily
jump over, but there were so many that periodically we’d jump over one
and land in another. We got off pretty easy though, and never sank much
past the waist, and made relatively good time because of it.
The West Fork itself was littered with a
number of rock bands that mysteriously rose out of the snow. We made
our way up to the furthest-most rock band, the one that sat closest to
the base of the East Face. Almost immediately when we reached camp I
realized that I had left my camera sitting out on a rock completely
exposed at the cache. As it was looking like we might get some pretty
good weather I was a bit nervous about leaving it out, and Joel
consented to making the last carry up to base camp as soon as we could
divest ourselves of our camp goods. We quickly set camp, and made our
way back down to the cache site at the fork it the Traleika.
When we arrived back at the cache, it
wasn’t long before we were loaded up with the remaining bits of gear,
food, and fuel, as well as my camera. We motored back up to camp in
under 45 minutes, and were there just in time to secure camp and crawl
into our bags as the first storm hit. We were definitely glad to have
all the gear in one location, as you never know just how long one of
those AK storms would last, and without a radio to give us the inside
info, we were at the mercy of the mountain.
Late the next morning the weather
cleared, and we were rewarded with a nearly unobstructed view of the
East Face. Aside from one band of clouds that bisected the face we
could clearly make out the majority of our intended route. Now came the
waiting game. We’d have to wait and see what the avalanches were like.
When did they come, what did they hit, and was there anything we could
do to increase our chances of both success and survival? Washburn
suggested that we watch the route for at least a week to be able to
follow the avalanche patterns. Seeing as we had eaten very little on
the approach through the bog, we were currently stockpiled with food and
fuel. A week would be easy, and if it meant increasing safety, then I
was all for it.
We watched the route all day, and the
next, and the next. It seemed as though the route was clearest just
before midnight, and most clouded first thing in the morning. The
weather was beautiful, and had started a warming trend that had me a bit
worried. Periodically at night we’d wander out on the glacier just to
see how it was setting up. With the days so clear, and the nights not
unbearably cold, the glacier seldom set up in such a way that we didn’t
find ourselves post-holing more than a couple of yards out of camp.
On the fourth day of watching the route
we decided that we’d go early the next day and make ourselves a route
through the rest of the crevassed glacier that would take us right to
the base of the climb. As we had seen absolutely no avalanche activity,
and had great weather, I was getting anxious to say the least. It was a
gamble to go early, as at any point the avalanches could come, and not
knowing where they’d come from made running headlong up to the face a
serious game of Russian Roulette. Of course sitting in perfect weather
also gave us the the anxious feeling that we could be going for it, when
weather might close in one of the following days, and never open us up
to the opportunity to try and take it on again.
Of course the next morning the weather
came in. We sat for three days as the snow fell, the sleet slid, and
the rain inundated everything. We seldom came out of the tent for any
reason other than to relieve ourselves. The rain that fell for the
majority of the time over those three days was so intense that you could
visibly notice how much it had settled the snow pack on the glacier. I
knew that this would be a bad sign for the snow that was hanging
precariously from the Traleika Spur. Late into the second night the
avalanches started to fall from nearly every surrounding face.
On the morning of the fourth day the
weather finally cleared. We were surprised to find that there was avi
debris under nearly every face, with the only exception being the East
Face. Regardless, we decided to make a run towards the base of the East
Face, as we were suffering from cabin fever, and knew that with nothing
in our packs, and a whole day to do it, we’d build ourselves a safe
route to the base that in the near future we could utilize when it was
time to go for it.
We loaded up with the bare essentials,
rope, ascenders, tools, crampons, pickets, water, energy bars, and GU.
The going was definitely slow, as all the rain had made the snow pack as
sticky as starchy mashed potatoes. Great for snowball fights, but not
much fun to walk across. To top it off the rain had also deteriorated
the under layers of snow so considerably that nearly every step was a
posthole. The frustrating part being that it was “nearly” every step.
A kicked step that had held Joel would suddenly collapse on me, and I’d
find myself buried to the waist and vice versa. To say that the going
was frustrating would definitely be an understatement. Yet, gluttons
for punishment that we were, we reveled in it as we got closer to the
base of the East Face.
Finding our way through the initial
difficulties was not so bad. The majority of crevasses were narrow and
well defined. Still, we were tentative in our route finding, as the
remoteness of the area added a new level of awareness about safety. If
we were to cut ourselves deeply while doing something as simple as
opening a can of tuna we could be putting ourselves in great peril. But
as we approached the run out zone of the East Face we found more
consistent snow pack, which led to easier and safer travel. Almost on
cue the sun came out from behind the clouds that had hidden it away for
days. This new found warmth was definitely a blessing, but did not come
without its consequences.
The sun not only came out, it came out
with an intensity that we had not yet experienced, and as we approached
the lower flanks of the icefall we had to stop to shed layers. We
decided that as we were very nearly at the start of the route, and now
had earned a new vantage point at which to study our potential line,
we’d take a much deserved break. We threw down our packs, reapplied the
sunscreen, and enjoyed a Clif bar or two. Not five minutes into our
little picnic lunch did everything get more interesting. Joel called
out to me from the other end of the rope that a particular cornice that
hung off the Traleika Spur which he’d been studying was finally coming
down. Feigning interest I looked in the general direction of the
collapsing cornice. What I saw gave me a pucker that didn’t quickly go
away. The falling cornice ripped down the wall of the Spur, and
exploded on the floor of the West Fork, causing a plume several hundred
yards wide, and a couple of hundred feet tall to race across the glacier
directly parallel to us while directly bisecting our recently used route
of approach. Fortunately for us we were at least a mile and a half from
the deposit area. Due to the size of the plume and its speed we
couldn’t immediately tell how well camp had faired however, and were
pleased to see that the slide was not as wide as we had originally
anticipated. We would most likely have sleeping bags to crawl into
later in the evening. Yeah for us.
Once we finished our break we motored up
to the very highest part of the glacier, where it effectively became the
lower ice fall. From here we captured a number of pictures, as well as
took an account of the recesses that lurked around the inner flanks of
the proposed route. We contemplated a number of different options, and
discussed scenarios that might lead us to success. It wasn’t more then
a couple of minutes of this before numerous other slides were triggered
by the sun’s intensity on the already weakened snow pack. Then almost
as quickly as it had all cleared off, the East Face once again became
obscured with light cumulous clouds. We got what additional pictures we
could before we prepared to retreat.
Just as we turned to leave the route
behind with our newly laid plans in mind, we heard a tremendous crack,
and then what sounded like thousands of tons of gravel being poured down
the East Face. As the clouds had already obscured most of the face, we
could only guess where this newest ruckus was originating from. After
about a minute or so of the rumbling did we see huge quantities of snow
dumping down the East Face in a loose snow form. I traced it back
through the clouds to its origination. A large hanging glacier that
overhung the largest couloir could be seen to losing a couple more
pieces that then fell hundreds of feet to where they pummeled one of the
few prominent rock bands, and then deflected into the couloir that runs
right of the prow at 11,000ft.
I had been continually telling Joel that
I really wanted to see something come down the face, as having seen
nothing to this point, much less any evidence of slide activity, I was
definitely suspect of the whole deal. What was going on here I thought,
I thought that this was supposed to be some avalanche riddled face, and
now I come here and there’s nothing. Is the mountain just waiting to
get us into a compromising position, and then make us pay? It all just
seemed too odd.
As we watched the huge quantities of
snow dump down the face we wondered just how much more could fall before
it would all be spilling down onto us at our vantage point. We decided
not to wait around and find out. We quickly made our way back to camp
as the clouds once again closed in all around us. It was almost as if
they were engulfing us, with a short section of clear sky just over
camp, and funneling us back to where we came from. It was as if the
mountain was saying “Shoo, you’re not welcome here.” So we busted right
on back to camp, and brewed up once again as we waited for the dark-less
night to surround us once again. To our surprise, the weather actually
cleared almost immediately upon our return to camp. Of course that was
about as clear as it would be for some time to come.
We ended up rolling into the bags that
night with a new found enthusiasm about our chances at succeeding on
this route, as we had now seen quite a few more opportunities opening up
to us then we had prior. Of course it wasn’t long before we were once
again frustrated and tent bound. The next morning opened with the crack
of the vestibule as it snapped freely in the wind. When I couldn’t take
it any longer I crawled from the tent and tried to re-affix the
vestibule to the tent stake that struggled to keep its purchase in the
chossy terrain where we’d perched the tent.
Once outside the tent I found the
weather to be atrocious, and didn’t waste much time finding my way back
inside. Of course Joel had been awake the entire time, and it was
merely a waiting game, see who the annoyance would get to first, and
that person ends up doing the dirty work. Sure, we’d traded wins and
losses on that a number of different times throughout the trip, whether
it was shoveling out the tent, listening to the ravens come into camp
and drag around our empty cans of tuna, or washing the pot so that we
might eat. I had probably “won” the majority of these little battles,
but at some point it doesn’t feel so much like winning as it does like
becoming dependent. Just the same I had been out doing my part, and
once again the vestibule was silent.
It didn’t take too long for Joel to
magically awaken, as he had never been asleep to start, only more
patient. When he asked for the weather report, I told him just how
gloomy it had been on my little visit; but he would not be dissuaded
from getting a firsthand look, and his bladder could only take so much.
So out he went.
As is customary when spending quality
time in the bag, he staggered out into the blizzard in nothing more than
long johns and over-boots. It wasn’t long before he concurred that the
weather was truly crap. It wasn’t that it was snowing so hard, as much
as it was blowing what were essentially tiny ice flakes at a rapid rate
into and onto every part of our bodies, most annoyingly our eyes. The
fact that it was cold enough for the precipitation to take the form of
ice crystals was only partly comforting, as at least it wasn’t rain.
Regardless the weather was deteriorating at a rapid rate, and seemed to
be lending itself towards antagonizing us.
The first day wasn’t so bad, as we -I
guess I should say I, as I was the only one that had felt the need to
journal up to this point- actually had something to journal about now.
We’d actually been up to the face of the mountain, and seen just how
much more we had to work with, referring to the couloir that trickles up
the right side above the right icefall. Plus we now had a new vantage
point from the start of the route. From where we stood at the base of
the route on the previous day, the route seemed so much more attainable,
as the mile of distance that the route stretches horizontally from base
to summit is not so readily perceptible from a couple miles back, it
definitely gave the face more depth. Angles that appeared to be
overhanging were actually not so bad.
Don’t get me wrong, the route was still
filled with numerous atrocities, from the hanging glaciers that loomed
over most of the potential route, to the recurrent rockfall that
littered most of the lower part of the route. I hadn’t initially
realized just how far back the middle section of the hanging glacier,
which lies from just beyond the prow to the next section of the face,
actually ran. From a distance it looks as though it might be a hundred
yards or so, and even appears so from up close at the vantage point that
one has when standing underneath it. It wasn’t until a large portion of
the hanging glacier that overlooks the Ubercouloir cut loose while we
were checking out the route, and plummeted down on a crash course with
us only to deposit all of its fury onto the upper section of the right
icefall that I realized just how damn big the thing was, and how
committed we were going to have to be to pull this thing off.
The first day of journaling I spent
writing about everything from what Beer I missed most, to what foods I
thought I would eat and in what order of importance they fell. The next
day I got pensive about my future, and contemplated the works of
philosophy that have given me fits over the years. I even let myself
think about the love life that I had tried to keep from creeping into my
mind, as there is nothing more frustrating then thinking about something
that you’ve got no control over when you’re in the least possible
position to even influence it.
The next couple of days passed, and I
was less than excited. I had always been told that for every day of bad
weather you need at least two for the snow pack to consolidate and set
up so that it’s safe enough to travel on. Of course I hoped for some
major slide that just buffed the entire route down to size, and we’d be
the lucky group that happened to be at the right place at the right
time, and casually claim the first ascent. However, at this rate we
were going to need at least a week of good weather before we would be
wise to risk traveling on some of that terrain, and probably more if we
were going to think our chances were above suicidal.
The way that I saw it, the route was
essentially a game of Russian Roulette in the first place, just because
of all the inherent danger that the particular terrain on this side of
the mountain holds. The addition of all this new weather was changing
the game of Roulette from that with potentially two bullets in the gun,
to a game with five bullets in the gun. The third day of storming had
us hopeful as the sun peeked through on the main fork of the Traleika
that lay behind us. Unfortunately it never materialized.
The forth day the weather finally opened
up. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, but it opened up just the
same. I guess you could say that we were fickle with our emotions in so
far as motivation that we would succeed was considered. But, with the
weather and luck that we’d been having up until this point I guess that
I’d consider that a good thing. If any single emotion would have
dominated it would have been that of desperation, so being up and down
was much better, as at least up was included in the mix. We had a
positive motivational flux, though we were not necessarily optimistic,
because when things were bad we didn’t pretend they would get better.
It was initially more that we couldn’t believe that it could possibly
stay this bad, and as Jim Donini had suggested in town our greatest
asset was going to be our short memories.
I was getting extremely anxious, and
knew that we weren’t going to be able to wait until we were sure that
things had settled down to the point that we “knew” that we’d be safe if
we were going to have any type of a shot at this thing. We discussed
our game plan, and as always came almost immediately to the same
conclusion. This entire route was completely unpredictable, and
although the weather leading up to this point was anything but
confidence inspiring, we decided to go as soon as the avalanches
stopped. So we watched the slides roll down for a night, and plotted
our attack.
The next day nothing came down right
away, but it wasn’t long after the sun peeked out that the slides once
again started rolling. I suggested that we pass the time by cutting all
the superfluous tags off of everything and anything. I had heard of
people like Ed Viesturs doing it before, but never really could justify
that there would be any substantial weight savings. Of course after
about an hour of cutting, I could be dissuaded against my original
argument. By the time that I was done, I found myself with a gallon
zip-loc bag full of extra weight.
No sooner did I finish cutting tags and
drying out gear then the slides stopped. It’s like a sensation of
anticipation that one gets when you’re so used to being in peril, and
then all of a sudden nothing. Like the part in the horror movie when
the killer has already shown his face, but then disappears at a
seemingly opportune moment–one where he could easily strike- only to
reappear right after you think that he might actually be gone. It was
that same feeling of anticipation that had me staring pointedly at the
face for over an hour. Amazingly, nothing more came down.
We decided that this was it. We’d wait
until the snow-pack consolidated for the evening, and then set off on
our assault of the East Face. We packed up everything. Unpacked, and
then packed again. Each time shaving weight, and cutting out this thing
or that trying to keep the scale balanced between safety and speed. We
decided that the tent was superfluous, and I doctored up the “shed” with
a couple of custom modifications so that we might use it as a two-person
bivy. We were sure that we’d have a much easier time digging a snow
cave than we would finding room for a platform higher up on the route.
So we left the tent standing as a solid point of reference while we were
up on the route, and anchored it down with numerous large rocks,
something that we would have done initially had we thought that we’d be
spending so much time at the current location.
We hadn’t fully decided just how we were
going to approach the route, but we decided just how committed we were,
and packed accordingly. We knew that spending more then a couple of
days on the route was just begging for trouble. However, we weren’t
completely adverse to the idea of spending a couple of days camped on
the prow so as to get a better look at the upper section of the route.
So we packed a little more fuel then we might otherwise have, and packed
a few more amenities then we otherwise would have, and before you knew
it we had 50-pound packs.
This was very disconcerting to me, as I
knew that leading some of the more difficult sections would only be
exaggerated by the weight of the pack. Or worse yet, we’d spend even
more time in compromising places if we were forced to haul. Either way,
I was not excited about moving up and waiting, but it was something that
we could both agree on, and went forward with that plan in mind.
We lay on our rock outcropping at camp,
and waited for the sun to go behind the ridge so that the snow would
set-up, and then we’d be on our way. Every so often I ‘d venture a few
feet out of camp to see if it had solidified at all, only to fall into a
small crevasse up to my waist.
Of course the weather had turned in our
favor, but now seemed to be turning so drastically that we were going to
have some real difficulty getting to the base of the climb. I wondered
if the snow-pack would ever set-up, and continually ventured out, only
to fall in again. Finally, as it was approaching dawn, we conceded that
the pack was just not going to set up, and loaded up to set off across
the glacier.
Now, getting out of camp wasn’t so bad.
It was once we got 50 yards beyond camp that it was bad. The trail that
we had so painstakingly ground out for ourselves on our initial trip to
the base of the face was only faintly recognizable. All the time that I
had spent kicking snow into Joel’s postholes, and then stomping down to
consolidate it, while trying to keep up the pace, was completely in
vain. We were actually falling in further then we had on our inaugural
trip across the West Fork. To say that the profanity was flowing would
be an understatement.
After about an hour and 45 minutes of
slogging through the slush we were back to within half a mile of the
base. Some light clouds had moved in to block out the sun, but also
held the heat in, continuing to deteriorate the glacier into glop. We
finally decided that we needed to adjust our attire to match
accordingly, and came to a rest. When we sat down to take a break, we
cooled down quick, and I was fast to pull my hat from my pocket and
throw it back on. Joel went to follow suit and made an unfortunate
discovery. Apparently his hat had fallen out of his pocket while we
were packing things up, and was still in the tent. Not wanting to turn
around and head back to camp after having struggled through such
inhospitable terrain, Joel dug through his entire pack, literally
dumping all of its contents out onto the glacier. When in our last bit
of hope he dug through his sleeping bag and didn’t find it, we realized
that we were likely making a return trip.
We dug in a spot for our packs, and
stripped of anything that we didn’t absolutely need, and headed back
down the glacier towards base-camp. Joel’s frustration level was high,
as he doesn’t make very many mistakes and takes it personally when he
does, so he motored us back to camp in under 45 minutes. Within a
couple of seconds Joel located his hat, and we decided that we were best
to keep moving, as we still had aspirations of getting up to the prow
that day.
We actually made the return trip from
base-camp to our pack in just less than half an hour. It most
definitely helped that we had blazed ourselves a solid trail, but we
frowned on it, as we knew that all the work of building a “trail” was of
little benefit while at the same time sapped us of the strength that we
would have otherwise turned on ascending the first icefall. Once back
at the packs we took a quick break, and realized that those light clouds
that had been creeping in were spiraling over both the Traleika Spur and
Karsten’s Ridge on a mission to meet with us. Within 30 minutes it was
snowing. Fortunately our short memories don’t completely preclude us
from learning from our mistakes or missing out on observational
knowledge, and we were 30 minutes into digging ourselves a snow cave
when the snow met us.
Since there was only so much room to
work I left Joel to his master trade of digging the initial part of the
cave while I dug us out a kitchen. When you’ve seen as many snow days
as we had already you expect the worst and provide accordingly. Thus we
planned that this was not going to be any overnighter, and dug in like
it was going to be a couple of days. Besides, it was still relatively
early in the day, and we had nothing better to do unless we wanted to
start wandering up the East Face in a whiteout.
When Joel picked the area for the snow
cave we first wanded it out, and then tromped around over the top of the
area to make sure that we found the most solidified snow, which of
course would be harder to dig out initially, but in the end would
provide the most stability as far as a roof was concerned. With the
East Face as close as it was, and us being just beyond the run-out
debris of all the previous avalanches, we decided that we had better be
prepared for the worst. We found a section that had a six-inch layer of
ice just below the first couple of inches of snow. This was ideal, as
we then wouldn’t have to dig the snow cave so deep to accommodate a
thick roof.
When we first started digging through
the layer of ice the snow saw was not enough to go through, as it was
more like water ice then alpine ice. Even after a couple of good whacks
with the axes we were worried that we weren’t going to be able to dig
in. When we finally did break through the going wasn’t much easier.
Joel makes quick work of those kinds of things though, and it wasn’t
long before he was cutting and chucking and I was scooping and
throwing. Within an hour Joel was in far enough that I had to go down
the two first steps onto the “landing”, and bend down to check his
progress. Things were going great, but of course they couldn’t possibly
last.
When we were nearly to the point of
finished, Joel came out of the cave to grab a break, and put on some
warmer gloves when something completely unexpected happened. Like it
hadn’t done to this point, and for no reason other than to spite us did
it ever again, the sun came out in full effect. Not on the route of
course, as it remained completely socked in, but the entire glacier from
just below the face all the way back to base-camp was bathed in
sunshine. Normally this would be welcomed, but as we had just dug a
cave, and were prepared for a storm, we were a little frustrated to say
the least.
The sun worked it’s magic as it so often
does, and turned the top of the glacier into a river. We watched as the
central section of the glacier turned a magic shade of blue. Within an
hour it increased in size by ten fold, as all the water from the small
crevasses that lie uphill on both sides of it fed what little water they
produced into this central section. All the while the snow-pack
weakened at a rate I had previously thought unimaginable. We watched
helplessly as the center of our snow palace began to droop and sag.
Joel was so frustrated that he decided that he was going to at least get
the joy of destroying his work by jumping through the top before it got
a chance to collapse. Not surprisingly though, the roof caved while he
was in mid air. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it, but thus
far on the trip there hadn’t been anything that I would have believed
could have happened, and yet it did.
We looked solemnly at what was left of
our palace, and discussed what we’d do now. I suggested that this could
be a nice opportunity to test out the effectiveness of the “shed”. No
sooner did I say that then the clouds started rolling back down the
face, and back up the West Fork. In a matter of minutes we were once
again engulfed in the clouds that had been so nice to part for us. Of
course the new warmth that we had so recently experienced was still
noticeably above us, and warmed the clouds as they moved in over us.
The precipitation that had so recently been snow was now a light mist,
and threatened to be a down poor.
It wasn’t long before Joel and I
conceded that we were going to have to make another trip back to
base-camp, yet we weren’t willing to relinquish our newly gained high
ground. So we came to the conclusion that we’d have to make another
speed carry between base-camp and our newly established advanced base
camp. The idea of moving base camp to here wasn’t really so bad, as I
had often heard that the official translation of advanced base camp is
“where base camp should have been in the first place had we not been so
stupid.” So we emptied the packs, stashing the gear inside the “shed”
which was working out for us rather well, and headed back to camp.
The “trail” back to base camp was
actually worse then when we had crossed it only a couple of hours
earlier. In some sections we post-holed up to the top of our thighs.
It got to the point that we weren’t sure if we were post-holing or
plunging into the top of crevasses. It more pissed us off then worried
us, as we were hell bent on getting back to camp and getting the tent
before the weather moved in. As we had decided to go fast and leave
everything behind, our sleeping bags were still back at advanced base
camp.
When we reached the center section of
the West Fork, we were unpleasantly surprised to find that the glacier
had melted down so much that the top six inches were essentially slush.
Some sections ran deeper, and when we stepped into them unknowingly it’d
cause a splash big enough that the tops of our gaiters were struggling
to keep out all the water. While at the same time the consistency of
the slush was thick enough once out of its watery surroundings that it
stuck to the tops of the boots where the gaiters didn’t cover, and
inundated everything with water. It was hard to tell whether our feet
were just cold from the water/air temperature inversion, or actually
wet.
When we did get back to base camp we
were so frustrated that we decided that we could wait a bit until the
glacier consolidated a bit, as the clouds had set in, and tromping right
back through all of that was not anything that either of us wanted to do
right away. We broke down the tent, and Joel grabbed the last of the
food that we had cached back their as part of his “penance” for having
to have come back for his hat earlier. With the way things had been
going I wasn’t completely adverse to the idea of having some extra food
on hand either.
We waited for a couple of hours, and
then finally decided that the glacier would have to be in better
condition, as we were starting to cool down quite a bit ourselves, and
had actually taken shelter underneath the vestibule of the tent as if it
were a giant blanket. We decided that we were going to go regardless,
as we were not getting any rest where we were, and we had hopes of
moving the following day provided the weather cooperated. So we set
back across the glacier one more time.
The glacier didn’t set up any, and we
splashed and slopped our way back to ABC. When we arrived we realized
that the hole that we’d dug out was going to need a little modification
in order to accommodate the tent and its fly. It didn’t take more then
a couple of minutes before we were hitting another unforeseen
roadblock. After we had moved all the snow we needed to set up the
tent, except maybe a couple of square feet, we found ourselves trying to
chop into the most bulletproof blue ice that I’d ever seen. We moved to
the other side of the hole, and found the same. We dug back four feet,
and found the same. With much frustration we squeezed the tent into the
narrow gap between the two sections of ice, such that it folded a couple
of poles precariously close to the point of being damaging. It was
going to have to work though, as the weather turned right to shit.
Joel and I crawled into the tent without
having anything to eat, as we were both frustrated with our staggeringly
slow progress, and wasted energy in getting to the point that we were
finally at. So to some degree we didn’t eat as self punishment, and to
some degree it was a case of recognizing that the rations that we’d had
so much of that we had to initially triple carry were now starting to
dwindle down to a level that we could actually see the end of the
rainbow. Plus, with the weather that we’d been having to this point,
and the luck--or I guess I should say un-luck--didn’t well support our
hopes that this weather block would pass shortly.
The snow rolled in, and didn’t pass for
more then 36 hours. When it did finally start to let up, it once again
started to rain. We couldn’t have been more frustrated, and we listened
to the spattering of the rain on the fly for more then 60 hours. When
it quit raining it started snowing again. When I went out to shovel off
the tent the snow was so heavy and water laden that it was more like
shoveling cement then snow. I had hoped that the weather was going to
lift, and although our 3 days of good 3 days of bad pattern had been
completely destroyed sometime prior I thought wistfully that it might be
back on pattern.
We ate very little, and tried to spend
our time sleeping as much as possible, as lethargy and discontent seem
to settle in when you think about your situation and sleeping allows you
to be off enjoying your most favorite things regardless of your actual
situation. Hell, sometimes I think that I’d be better off living those
dreams of easy life, and just dreaming about the alpinism--how much
nicer would it be to just wake up from the nightmare that this trip had
been up until this point. I know that I said to Joel on numerous
occasions that I knew that this wasn’t even a nightmare, as my mind
couldn’t bend so far as to fathom such horrible chance, and consistent
disappointment in ways that I never could have foreseen.
It was late on the fourth night that we
were sitting in the tent listening to the slides come down, rehashing
old stories that we’d already told each other, but gladly shared again,
as anything to talk about after 25 plus days of sequestering with one
another should lead to an overstated level of comfort that sometimes
breeds contempt. I was in the middle of retelling some great story to
Joel when mid-sentence Joel said, “Wait.” He sat bolt upright in his
bag, and unzipped and moved to the front of the tent. He pulled the
door down a little bit, then tore it open without using the zipper
toggle. My immediate thought was that he was being rather rude, and
should show more respect for other people’s property. When he then
opened the vestibule completely, and jumped up out of the tent in only
his socks and long underwear I took it a little less personal.
I figured that whatever had motivated
him to jump out of the tent with reckless abandon must be worth checking
out, so I moved to the front of the tent, and started readying myself to
come out of the tent to play. I had figured that it was probably just a
sizeable slide that had attracted his attention, as he seemed to be much
more sensitive about the rumbling and cracking then I had been to this
point. Of course, I had seen more avalanche activity the previous
summer on Mt. Logan then any human might ever need to see in a lifetime,
and so was maybe a bit jaded towards the constant rumblings that
surrounded us on a daily basis. Regardless, I decided to follow Joel
out and see just what it was that was so enthralling.
I called out to Joel to see if he wanted
me to throw his boots out to him, as I was sure that his feet had to be
cold and wet. All the while I was going through the motions that one
does in order to go out into the elements. I threw on my plastic shells
and fastened the gaiters to keep out the debris, put on my coat, and
found my lightweight liner gloves. At the last second I thought that I
should grab the camera, as Joel was now really whooping it up outside.
So I reached back into the loft of the tent to grab the camera and
hustled out to the top of the stairs that rise to the top of our snow
walls. By this time Joel was screaming out to me “get the fuck out of
there man, get the fuck out.” I couldn’t understand why this was, as I
reached the top step of our camp. When I looked out towards the East
Face it wasn’t initially apparent just what Joel was so excited about.
Visibility was still poor at best, and I didn’t immediately make out the
difference between the lower part of the East Face, and the giant plume
of snow that was now rushing towards us.
For some reason my initial reaction was,
“Man, prime photo op!” and I quickly switched on the camera in the hopes
of capturing a Rowellesque photo. Seeing as I had left the camera on
auto focus, it just whirred and shifted as it tried to focus on the mass
of snow that was rushing at us. Joel then yelled at me as though I were
losing my mind, yet at the same time I turned around to see him no more
then 20 feet behind me holding up the “shed” for protection. I would
liken this “defensive maneuver” to holding a space blanket up to protect
oneself from a shuttle launch. More of a feel good act then anything
else. Of course there wasn’t much else available in the form of
options. Running w |
