It's been over a month now since I returned to Boulder after my first climbing trip to one of the worlds greater ranges, the Alaska range, and I'm still trying to mentally grasp the whole experience. At this point, a lot of the trip is a blur, and mostly seems like a dream that may or may not have really happened. The location of the Alaska range is so remote, more so than anywhere I have ever been, that the whole time I was there I was in constant disbelief at how it was my actual reality at the time. Whenever I looked up and saw the serac laden 6000 foot north face of mt. huntington or the broad hulking massif of Denali towering above the whole range in the distance, I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't just having one of my usual dreams of visiting these places. It was sensory overload for me, especially after fantasizing about climbing here for the past 5 years. Everything about the trip completely exceeded my expectations and I've returned with a fresh perspective on what it's like and what it takes to climb much larger mountains than what I am use to in Colorado. These mountains have completely humbled me. My determination and ambition to climb harder and bigger peaks is now greater than ever and I plan on making Alaska an annual routine each spring until I feel ready to try my hand on the mountains of places like Pakistan, Nepal and China. I'm in no rush, however, to get to those places anytime soon, Alaska has endless world class climbing to offer and I've already developed a few obsessions that I must return for (mt huntington mt huntington and mt huntington to be exact)
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I'm anxious for a long day of flying. I've always had a slight fear of flying and now I have to take 2 separate flights just to get to Anchorage with a 4 hour layover in Seattle. While waiting at DIA, I re-read the chapter in Steve House' book, "Beyond the Mountain," about the 60 hour single push ascent of the Slovak direct on Denali's massive south face he did with Mark Twight and Scott Backes in 2000. Reading about such a ground breaking climb in the Alaska range gets me even more psyched that I will actually be looking at this mountain in less than 24 hours. At this point, the Alaska range still seems like a mythical place to me and until I see it with my own eyes, it exists as a fantasy in my mind. I finally board the plane and the flight goes quick and smoothly. In Seattle I read more of my book and eat an incredibly mediocre personal sized pizza at a sports bar near my gate for the next flight. I tell myself that its one of the last real meals I'll have for two weeks, but that doesn't enhance the taste of the lukewarm sausage and dry, tired looking bell peppers one bit. Before I know it I'm on the next plane and headed to Alaska. The 3 hour flight drags on and on with my excitement building by the minute. When the pilot announces that we're starting our descent, I eagerly look out the window in hopes that I'll see some mountains. I catch a quick glimpse of a beautiful glaciated range on a peninsula before the teenager sitting in the window seat grunts himself awake and realizes the scenery. He quickly sits up and looks down at the peaks and ocean, his head occupying the entire frame of the window. This frustrates me, but when he finally moves from the view, I look over and am welcomed to Alaska by a view of Denali, Foraker, and Hunter bathed in warm evening light. I can't believe it. They ARE real!
After meeting the team at the airport and organizing our luggage, we hop on our shuttle, a beat up van with an old rickety trailer attached to it, and are on our way to Talkeetna at 12:30am. I'm delirious from the flight, but almost too excited to sleep during the 2 hour drive. Plus, our driver was a bit reckless and a little tired himself and, well, had a few screws loose. Along the way I can occasionally make out the silhouettes of Denali and foraker in the alaskan twilight. Upon arriving to Talkeetna, we have some trouble finding the bunk house we are to stay the night at. We make a wrong turn on a road that dead ends and then proceed to watch our driver struggle with turing his van and trailer around in a tight space. He literally tried and tried for 20+ minutes, making absolutely zero progress until Steve suggested detaching the trailer and manually pushing it away from the narrow road. It was rather comedic, but at the same time it was now 3am and we wanted to get to bed already. After roughly 4 hours asleep, we awake in the cabin style bunk house and walk through town to the Road House, the traditional breakfast spot before flying onto the glacier. All four of us ordered half standards (endless coffee or tea, juice, scrambled eggs, thick peppered bacon, honey whole wheat toast and home fries) and were plenty full afterwards. Maybe next time I'll go for the full standard! We then stroll over to the ranger station to register and then to TAT (Talkeetna Air Taxi), repacked our bags, changed into our climbing clothes and boots, and patiently waited for our plane. The whole time I had a huge pit in my stomach, mostly from excitement that I was finally going to see these peaks in person and do the biggest climb of my life thus far, but partially from anxiety of flying on a small plane. Our pilot arrived and we climbed into the beaver plane.
Less then a minute into take off the entire Alaska range came into view and my anxiety instantly diminished. I've never seen such a breath taking landscape anywhere in my entire life. It was more than I ever imagined it looking like in person, I almost wanted to cry. Denali is centered perfectly, reigning over hundreds of smaller peaks, some gently sloping thrones of snow and glacier, others with several thousand foot vertical granite walls strewn with veins of ice and capped with hanging seracs. The flat, lush alaskan woodlands and sweeping tundra, littered with hundreds of lakes and braided rivers, provide a stunning contrast to the dramatic uplift of Denali and her brethren. I remember looking down at the vast wilderness and thinking, "I'll bet there are so many grizzlies down there!" 15 or so minutes into the flight, we enter the mountains and their winding glacier systems and I start recognizing all the famous peaks I've read so much about. The granite monoliths of the ruth gorge, the jagged massif of the mooses tooth, mount Huntington, mount Dan Beard, and of course Denali. I'm star struck. Usually celebrities don't look as good in person, but in this case they look like gods. We make a turn past Dan Beard and peak 11,300 comes into view, nestled between the elusive north face of mount huntington, the rugged rooster comb and the south buttress of Denali. Next to these 3 peaks, 11,300 looks pretty modest, but the southwest ridge is a beautiful and compelling line and my excitement to climb it burns fiercely upon seeing it.
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My alarm goes off, but I've already been awake for a while trying to snooze. The excitement is too much to be sleeping. Our packs are already packed, all we need is some hot water to make breakfast. After a quick meal and some hot caffeinated drinks, we rope up and set off for what we think will be 2 days. The approach is already familiar and it takes us about 20 to get to the base of the route. Once there, Martin and I continue on while Steve and Bill get there ropes out. We're climbing as two separate teams of two. Martin and I simul-solo up the access couloir and Bill and Steve follow behind us all while Mt. Huntington and the Rooster Comb get the first rays of warm Alaskan morning light. A few hundred feet of steep snow climbing takes us to a beautiful, almost flat, snow ridge that we carefully walk across to the base of the first technical section. Still in awe of where I am, I almost struggle to stay focused on the easy ridge walking, constantly looking around me completely mesmerized. The first technical section is mostly dry and loose rock, very reminiscent of the rocky mountain national park climbing we're so use to. Clearly the route was not in prime condition, but still plenty climbable. A few more pitches of easy to moderate terrain pass quickly and the first 5.8 pitch up a beautiful white granite corner is before us. I put my GoPro on, press the record button, and set off on the lead. The climbing is fun, not too challenging, and well protected. Absolutely brilliant! After making the last tough move having to awkwardly step across onto a slab of granite, I look down to delicately place my front points on a small rock ledge. When I lift my head back up, my helmet grazes the rock and my entire GoPro along with the mount it's on gets knocked square off. "What a piece of shit mount!" I watch it ricochet off the walls of the steep corner I just climbed up and eventually take a 1000 foot plunge off the side of the ridge. I'm bummed and pissed for about 5 seconds until I look up and see Mount Huntington looming above us in all its glory. "I'm in Alaska! Fuck the GoPro!" I laugh and I climb upwards.
The rest of the first day goes smoothly. Pitch after pitch of stellar mixed terrain, mostly of moderate difficulty with the occasional spicy, exposed move. As we climb higher, the surrounding peaks that were once foreshortened as we stood below them from base camp, are now revealing their true scale. One section, probably one of the most technically difficult on the climb, involved challenging but secure drytooling, and tip-toeing on our front points across and up a smooth granite slab. RMNP has trained me well! Bill and Steve usually remain one pitch ahead of us, and we all maintain a steady pace. I've never climbed this many pitches on a single peak before, and the fluid rhythm Martin and I fell into was something I was so happy to finally be experiencing. It's truly a "zone" you get lost in, and its phenomenal. At around 4pm or so we arrive at the first col. From here it is "easy snow" and some moderate ice up to the gray rock bivy, our camp site for the night. The last few hundred feet of terrain up to the gray rock consisted of a precarious, unprotected and exposed traverse across snow covered rock into a steep snow gully with some of of the worst conditions I have ever seen. Isothermal and exhausting to climb through. This was definitely one of the crappier pitches on the route, but somehow I remember it vividly. Martin and I arrive at the spacious ledge to the purr of Bill and Steves stove. They had already melted some snow and offer us some water upon arrival. Great and efficient partners! It felt amazing to take off our harnesses and crampons and enjoy the scenery while eating dinner. The ledge was a surreal place to be sleeping and I continued to be in disbelief that this whole experience was real. This day, my first ever climbing in one of the worlds greater ranges, exponentially increased my love for alpine climbing and the mountains more than I can ever express. It was further reassurance that this is what I will do for the rest of my life.
Last real meal for 2 weeks! (photo by Bill McConachie)
Loading up (photo by Bill McConachie)
The team before take off, Bill sporting the long johns! (photo by Martin le Roux)
Less then a minute into take off the entire Alaska range came into view and my anxiety instantly diminished. I've never seen such a breath taking landscape anywhere in my entire life. It was more than I ever imagined it looking like in person, I almost wanted to cry. Denali is centered perfectly, reigning over hundreds of smaller peaks, some gently sloping thrones of snow and glacier, others with several thousand foot vertical granite walls strewn with veins of ice and capped with hanging seracs. The flat, lush alaskan woodlands and sweeping tundra, littered with hundreds of lakes and braided rivers, provide a stunning contrast to the dramatic uplift of Denali and her brethren. I remember looking down at the vast wilderness and thinking, "I'll bet there are so many grizzlies down there!" 15 or so minutes into the flight, we enter the mountains and their winding glacier systems and I start recognizing all the famous peaks I've read so much about. The granite monoliths of the ruth gorge, the jagged massif of the mooses tooth, mount Huntington, mount Dan Beard, and of course Denali. I'm star struck. Usually celebrities don't look as good in person, but in this case they look like gods. We make a turn past Dan Beard and peak 11,300 comes into view, nestled between the elusive north face of mount huntington, the rugged rooster comb and the south buttress of Denali. Next to these 3 peaks, 11,300 looks pretty modest, but the southwest ridge is a beautiful and compelling line and my excitement to climb it burns fiercely upon seeing it.
The 5000 ft east face of Mt. Dickey. Maybe in a few years? (photo by Martin le Roux)
A clutter of walls and ridges, Denali in the distance, Dan beard on the right up close (photo by Martin le Roux)
The granite walls of the Ruth Gorge (photo by Bill McConachie)
Beautiful glacial patterns (photo by Bill McConachie)
Landing on a glacier was the smoothest and quickest airplane landing I've ever experience. These guys are amazing. Within 2 or 3 minutes of landing, our pilot, Trent, had unloaded all out baggage and was gone. It was now the 4 of us in an isolated mountain paradise, completely on our own. I've been to some pretty wild places throughout Colorado, Washington, Canada, etc, but nothing compares to how far out and disconnected from the rest of the world this place felt. Instantly my whole world was 100% refocused on this area, the upper west fork of the ruth glacier, and its guardian peaks. Nothing else mattered. This was my entire universe for the next 2 weeks. I was completely overwhelmed with what was surrounding me. Mt. Huntingtons infamous 6000 ft tall serac laden north face. Perfect mountain symmetry, its sharp ridges elegantly cutting their way through the sky to conclude as the elusive corniced summit that few stand on. This face has had one ascent, and for good reason. Its Russian roulette. The north buttress of the Rooster Comb, looking extra rugged, its gullies of ice all threatened with huge overhanging seracs, dividing its soaring, vertical granite pillars. The massive south buttress of Denali with its 7000+ foot tall Isis face, the golden bands granite glistening in the sun. My contribution to setting up our camp feels half-assed because I can't take my eyes off the scenery. I snap the same photos over and over again feeling like the last one didn't capture the scale and mood of the place properly. Eventually, I give up realizing that no pictures will ever do a place like this justice.
Once camp is set up, we make a plan to wake up at 3am and start our climb. We estimate it will take us 2 days camp to camp, with 1 night 2/3rds of the way up the route. Martin starts the stove to melt water for the team and we all enjoy our first of way too many freeze dried meals for an early dinner. I can care less about what I'm eating, I'm so happy to be here and am still in awe at the majesty of the place. After dinner we take a quick ski tour up the glacier and basically do the approach to the base of the route to see what its like and how straight forward the glacier travel will be. We stop just short of the start of the route and head back to camp to get some sleep. As we descend a short slope, it gives the illusion of the peaks rising higher and growing taller around us. I really can't believe I'm here.
Trent pointing out peaks to us (photo by Martin le Roux)
The north side of the Rooster Comb. (Photo by Steve Towne)
The very foreshortened 6000 ft north face of Huntington
The way of travel in these parts (photo by Martin le Roux)
Steve with peak 11,300 (photo by Martin le Roux)
The first glacier meal (photo by Bill McConachie)
Gearing up for a short ski tour (photo by Martin le Roux)
A timeless landscape
Heading back to camp (photo by Bill McConachie)
My alarm goes off, but I've already been awake for a while trying to snooze. The excitement is too much to be sleeping. Our packs are already packed, all we need is some hot water to make breakfast. After a quick meal and some hot caffeinated drinks, we rope up and set off for what we think will be 2 days. The approach is already familiar and it takes us about 20 to get to the base of the route. Once there, Martin and I continue on while Steve and Bill get there ropes out. We're climbing as two separate teams of two. Martin and I simul-solo up the access couloir and Bill and Steve follow behind us all while Mt. Huntington and the Rooster Comb get the first rays of warm Alaskan morning light. A few hundred feet of steep snow climbing takes us to a beautiful, almost flat, snow ridge that we carefully walk across to the base of the first technical section. Still in awe of where I am, I almost struggle to stay focused on the easy ridge walking, constantly looking around me completely mesmerized. The first technical section is mostly dry and loose rock, very reminiscent of the rocky mountain national park climbing we're so use to. Clearly the route was not in prime condition, but still plenty climbable. A few more pitches of easy to moderate terrain pass quickly and the first 5.8 pitch up a beautiful white granite corner is before us. I put my GoPro on, press the record button, and set off on the lead. The climbing is fun, not too challenging, and well protected. Absolutely brilliant! After making the last tough move having to awkwardly step across onto a slab of granite, I look down to delicately place my front points on a small rock ledge. When I lift my head back up, my helmet grazes the rock and my entire GoPro along with the mount it's on gets knocked square off. "What a piece of shit mount!" I watch it ricochet off the walls of the steep corner I just climbed up and eventually take a 1000 foot plunge off the side of the ridge. I'm bummed and pissed for about 5 seconds until I look up and see Mount Huntington looming above us in all its glory. "I'm in Alaska! Fuck the GoPro!" I laugh and I climb upwards.
The rest of the first day goes smoothly. Pitch after pitch of stellar mixed terrain, mostly of moderate difficulty with the occasional spicy, exposed move. As we climb higher, the surrounding peaks that were once foreshortened as we stood below them from base camp, are now revealing their true scale. One section, probably one of the most technically difficult on the climb, involved challenging but secure drytooling, and tip-toeing on our front points across and up a smooth granite slab. RMNP has trained me well! Bill and Steve usually remain one pitch ahead of us, and we all maintain a steady pace. I've never climbed this many pitches on a single peak before, and the fluid rhythm Martin and I fell into was something I was so happy to finally be experiencing. It's truly a "zone" you get lost in, and its phenomenal. At around 4pm or so we arrive at the first col. From here it is "easy snow" and some moderate ice up to the gray rock bivy, our camp site for the night. The last few hundred feet of terrain up to the gray rock consisted of a precarious, unprotected and exposed traverse across snow covered rock into a steep snow gully with some of of the worst conditions I have ever seen. Isothermal and exhausting to climb through. This was definitely one of the crappier pitches on the route, but somehow I remember it vividly. Martin and I arrive at the spacious ledge to the purr of Bill and Steves stove. They had already melted some snow and offer us some water upon arrival. Great and efficient partners! It felt amazing to take off our harnesses and crampons and enjoy the scenery while eating dinner. The ledge was a surreal place to be sleeping and I continued to be in disbelief that this whole experience was real. This day, my first ever climbing in one of the worlds greater ranges, exponentially increased my love for alpine climbing and the mountains more than I can ever express. It was further reassurance that this is what I will do for the rest of my life.
Starting up the first snow slopes with Mt. Huntington showing off as per usual. (photo by Martin le Roux)
Photo by Bill of me coming up a low 5th class section (photo by Bill McConachie)
Right after my GoPro fell to its death (photo by Bill McConachie)
(photo by Bill McConachie)
Me on the first technical pitch, the flake gully. Much drier than pictures I've seen of it. (photo by Martin le Roux)
Looking back down the top of the flake gully. (Photo by Steve Towne)
Martin starting up another steep pitch, the Isis face peeking up behind reality ridge.
(Photo by Steve Towne)
(photo by Martin le Roux)
Stoked beyond belief! About to lead another mixed pitch (photo by Martin le Roux)
Looking back down a tricky section. Great drytooling on this one!
Martin pulling over the same crux from above pic
Steve on the same pitch (photo by Bill McConachie)
Shot taken by Bill of Steve climbing up to the first bivy site and then Martin and I lower on the ridge, just above the first col. One of the benefits of climbing as 2 teams of 2 is that you get cool shots of the other team lower on the route, like this one! (photo by Bill McConachie)
Martin arriving at the grey rock bivy site, happy to be done dealing with the crappy snow conditions (photo by Bill McConachie)
Bill setting up tents
Terrible views from our first camp! (Photo by Steve Towne)
Easily the coolest place I've ever slept. (Photo by Steve Towne)
this picture gives you a good perspective of the exposure of the site. (photo by Bill McConachie)
Martin getting ready for some much needed sleep
We wake up at 2am, and its a cold but calm morning. Our weather forecast says the day will eventually get some snow, so we hope to be on the summit sometime in the afternoon and then start our descent quickly after. I eat a chocolate covered coconut bar for breakfast and wash it down with some hot tea. It's really all I can stomach at this miserable hour working off of 4 half assed hours of "sleep." It takes us about an hour and some to get organized and tear down camp. Soon enough, we're climbing again. Watching Steve lead off up the gully with Huntingtons haunting north face in the twilight looks just…amazing. I lead off and follow closely to Bill, who is now following Steve. When I look back at Martin belaying me, I see the sunrise illuminate Denalis Isis face with an orange and pink fiery glow. After climbing a hundred feet or so of steep snow, Steve and Bill start up a narrow rock gully, but Bill suggests to us that the gully right of them might be easier and quicker to climb and most likely intersects with the notch above the second col that we're aiming for. Instead of waiting for them to get all the way up the pitch and then follow them, I decide to take the right gully and hopefully meet Steve at the belay. The pitch is steep but isn't hard, just typical insecure mountain terrain. At the top I find no right of passage over to where we thought the pitch would end up. I quickly rig the ropes for rappel and head back down.
By this time Steve and Bill are both done with the pitch and are already traversing towards the second col. I start up the narrow gully, beginning with having to surmount an awkward boulder at the bottom. Above that was, what I think to be, the hardest single move on the whole climb. It involved tricky dry tooling to a small dabble of ice. The ice that wasn't very confidence inspiring or well bonded and I unfortunately broke the bottom half off while swinging my tool, making the move even harder, all with a blank slab of granite for shaky and scratchy front pointing. It was actually a ton of fun to figure out, especially in the given setting, 3000 ft up our route. Arriving at the second col, we thread our ropes through the mess of slings we find and rappel 80 feet to the second col, which was apparently heavily corniced, thanks to Steve' vantage point now being almost finished with the following pitch. I start up more tricky rock terrain, which felt awkward and harder than the grade suggested. I probably was messing up a sequence. Typical of me and my poor rock climbing technique! After building an anchor, I struggle to belay Martin up the pitch as the rope drag is HEINOUS! We then start swinging leads up easy-moderate mixed snow ice and rock terrain. The summit is in sight, but deceivingly further away than it actually looks, with plenty more ridge line and steep mixed ground to cover.
Martin just below the crux move. You can see the little bit of crappy ice we had to snag at the bottom of the photo.
Awesome shot taken by Bill of Martin and I getting ready to rappel into the second col (photo by Bill McConachie)
The next section is absolutely spectacular ridge climbing. I follow Martin past cornices and over knife-edge snow aretes and the exposure and views are stupendous. The climbing is easy, but very exposed and a little nerve racking, with the lack of bomber anchors and knowing that the other side of the ridge was very corniced. Martin and I then find ourselves in front of a huge headwall where we know from the description that we're suppose to do a short rappel that should access easier ground leading up to a final pitch of 5.8. We look down to where the rappel should go and don't see any probable options, the most being a dirty and dangerously loose gully. We contemplate where to go for a bit and eventually realize that Bill and Steves footsteps go up the loose gully. Any other way would be much more technically hard and time consuming and the weather was now moving in. I down climb to the base of the gully and start up it. Its easy, but I closely watch every rock I grab and step on as I wouldn't want to dislodge anything here. I'm almost certain that this short section is usually filled with snow and less precarious, but not during this dry year. I take Martin up and quickly start the last hard pitch, eager to be done with the technical difficulties and finish this climb already. The climbing is still good and despite being pretty knackered at this point, I'm still able to admire the quality and diversity of the route. Mount Huntington and the Rooster comb are now mere silhouettes in the building clouds, making me feel even more disconnected from reality and committed than I already did.
Me on the last technical rock pitch with the last of the blue skies for the day (photo by Martin le Roux)
Finally, after weaving our way through more snow and ice gullies, we're below the final pitches of 45-60 degree ice that leads to the summit. I think the last of the climbing will go quickly, and boy was I wrong. I don't know exactly how long it look us to climb the last few hundred feet to the summit, but I do remember having the realization that 60 degree ice slopes can be excruciating. My calves were on fire and we only had 4 screws, one of which Martin was using as a belay anchor, so the run outs get pretty big. No falling here. This type of terrain is a breeze when you're fresh, but after climbing for 2 full days it was spanking me left and right. I desperately try using french crampon technique whenever I see what looks like a somewhat flat area in the ice, but it usually fails and I end up on my front points anyway, forced to endure the burn. Instead of trying to figure out comfortable resting positions every 10 feet, I just suck it up and finish it off, Martin now simul-climbing behind me. With only 25 or so more feet to go, I turn around to see if it's still a white out. The clouds briefly clear, revealing patches of dark rock and hanging glaciers from the surrounding peaks as well as the sharp ice arete 5 feet to the left of me with a huge drop just behind it. I feel like I'm in a movie about climbing mountains. Despite my exhaustion, I actually laugh to myself at how epic and surreal the moment is. It is something I will always remember vividly.
I stumble on to the spacious, flat summit and see Bill and Steves tent already set up. Its been the plan for most of the day to camp on the summit, considering our slow progress through certain sections. I give Martin a hip belay as he finishes the last few feet of ice. When he steps onto the summit, we shake hands with a smile, proud of our accomplishment and then quickly turn to the task of getting camp set up and water brewing in the now white out conditions. I'm completely drained after that final effort on those never ending ice slopes and feel extremely fatigued. I don't think I ate or drank enough throughout the day either. The fatigue masks my hunger, but I force myself to eat. After taking several huge bites of a freeze dried meal of red beans and rice, I instantly feel woozy. I crawl into the tent to lay down, but it's only minutes before I feel a huge bubble of nausea flip my stomach upside down and proceed to vomit everything I just ate, losing calories that I really need. It must have been a combination of eating too fast on an empty stomach while also being extremely exhausted. I actually feel much better after throwing up and am able to finish most of whats left of the dinner. Martin kindly stays up and brews more water for me and soon we fall asleep, anxious for what the descent will bring.
We awake to partly cloudy skies and can now see Denali looming above all as well as much of the Alaska range. The view is absolutely staggering and once again I feel like it's all a dream. It really is too beautiful for words. Not too sure about what the weather will do throughout the day, we pack up camp and get organized as fast as we can, eat a quick breakfast, and start down immediately. This is now our 3rd day and we were only planning being out for 2. We all still have some food and fuel for water left, so it's not too disconcerting yet. Just after leaving the summit, we can already see the weather rapidly deteriorating into more whiteout and snowy conditions. The first 3rd of the descent is working our way across and down a huge ice face, that when theres enough snow, should make for easy plunge stepping. Quickly realizing that there will be no walking down this section, we start setting up V-threads to rappel across the face from. Occasionally, we get too close to the bergshrund, which the description said to stay above while also staying at least 100 feet below the ridge. When this happens, we climb a traversing pitch to a spot where we hopefully can continue down from. Traversing 45 degree ice slopes in a white out after climbing for two 15 hour days is brutal, but we're on auto-piolet now. Bill leads every rappel and is an absolute v-thread drilling machine. His years of experience in the big mountains really shows. It's definitely comforting being with three such experienced partners.
By this time Steve and Bill are both done with the pitch and are already traversing towards the second col. I start up the narrow gully, beginning with having to surmount an awkward boulder at the bottom. Above that was, what I think to be, the hardest single move on the whole climb. It involved tricky dry tooling to a small dabble of ice. The ice that wasn't very confidence inspiring or well bonded and I unfortunately broke the bottom half off while swinging my tool, making the move even harder, all with a blank slab of granite for shaky and scratchy front pointing. It was actually a ton of fun to figure out, especially in the given setting, 3000 ft up our route. Arriving at the second col, we thread our ropes through the mess of slings we find and rappel 80 feet to the second col, which was apparently heavily corniced, thanks to Steve' vantage point now being almost finished with the following pitch. I start up more tricky rock terrain, which felt awkward and harder than the grade suggested. I probably was messing up a sequence. Typical of me and my poor rock climbing technique! After building an anchor, I struggle to belay Martin up the pitch as the rope drag is HEINOUS! We then start swinging leads up easy-moderate mixed snow ice and rock terrain. The summit is in sight, but deceivingly further away than it actually looks, with plenty more ridge line and steep mixed ground to cover.
Steve leading off from the gray rock bivy, huntington dominating the background
A breath taking sunrise on Denali and reality peak while Martin belays from the gray rock bivy
Reality Peak (photo by Martin le Roux)
Martin starting to follow the crux pitch, the glacier 3000 feet below us. (Photo by Steve Towne)
Martin just below the crux move. You can see the little bit of crappy ice we had to snag at the bottom of the photo.
Awesome shot taken by Bill of Martin and I getting ready to rappel into the second col (photo by Bill McConachie)
Martin following a steep gully just after another tricky dry pitch
Big cornices, and incredible views! (photo by Martin le Roux)
Too EPIC! (photo by Martin le Roux)
Me on the last technical rock pitch with the last of the blue skies for the day (photo by Martin le Roux)
Martin doing the first pitch of the endless ice slopes to the summit. CALF BURNER!
This gives a good perspective of the steepness of the summit ice slopes. Denai in the back (photo by Bill McConachie)
Surreal. (Photo by Steve Towne)
Martin arrives at the summit!
Tired but so happy to have summited my first alaskan peak! (photo by Martin le Roux)
We awake to partly cloudy skies and can now see Denali looming above all as well as much of the Alaska range. The view is absolutely staggering and once again I feel like it's all a dream. It really is too beautiful for words. Not too sure about what the weather will do throughout the day, we pack up camp and get organized as fast as we can, eat a quick breakfast, and start down immediately. This is now our 3rd day and we were only planning being out for 2. We all still have some food and fuel for water left, so it's not too disconcerting yet. Just after leaving the summit, we can already see the weather rapidly deteriorating into more whiteout and snowy conditions. The first 3rd of the descent is working our way across and down a huge ice face, that when theres enough snow, should make for easy plunge stepping. Quickly realizing that there will be no walking down this section, we start setting up V-threads to rappel across the face from. Occasionally, we get too close to the bergshrund, which the description said to stay above while also staying at least 100 feet below the ridge. When this happens, we climb a traversing pitch to a spot where we hopefully can continue down from. Traversing 45 degree ice slopes in a white out after climbing for two 15 hour days is brutal, but we're on auto-piolet now. Bill leads every rappel and is an absolute v-thread drilling machine. His years of experience in the big mountains really shows. It's definitely comforting being with three such experienced partners.
Moon over Huntingtons french ridge. (Photo by Steve Towne)
Mt. Hunter illuminated. (Photo by Steve Towne)
(photo by Martin le Roux)
Packing up, enjoin the views of Denali above the clouds. (photo by Martin le Roux)
Denali! (photo by Martin le Roux)
Panorama of the summit
Steve on his way down from the summit. Weather quickly turning to crap.
Had to down climb some of the steeper slopes. (photo by Martin le Roux)
(photo by Bill McConachie)
An alien world (photo by Bill McConachie)
This is pretty much how the entire 3rd day looked (photo by Bill McConachie)
Getting ready for the last rappel of the 3rd day. (photo by Bill McConachie)
Somehow, I'm still loving everything about this adventure despite the suffering. I knew very well that being cold, and hungry, and suffering from it was a possibility before embarking on this journey. At one point I actually try to worry about our situation and lack of food left. I imagine worst case scenarios unfolding. I try to think about my life outside of this tent and mountain. I can't. This whole experience is so immersive that it's practically the only thing that seems real anymore. I can only focus on the task at hand; getting down safely. I can't dwell on the negatives even if I try. I'm completely stuck in the zone. It was a weird emotional state that I've never had happen before. I guess being in a place like this, so far away from reality, you just go into survival mode and enter a different realm. It's actually a very calming and "zen" state.
We awake to clear, blue skies and the majesty of mount huntington, the rooster comb, and the ruth gorge can now be seen again. Its been about 24 hours since these mountains were visible and seeing them again after a day feels like seeing them for the first time again. It takes my mind off the hunger for a while and makes me smile. Packing camp up goes quickly this morning as we don't have much fuel left to brew water and all eat a very small meal for breakfast. I eat 2 GU gels and now have 1 more and half an energy bar left for the day. Steve starts down and finds the first rappel anchor on a small rock outcropping. The day drags on, rappel after rappel down snow covered rock and sometimes steep overhung sections. Thankfully many of the anchors are already in place, saving tons of time it would take having to build new ones. The only thing on my mind is the log of peppered salami and thick slice of brie cheese waiting for me at base camp. I fantasize about eating that for an appetizer before a freeze dried meal of lasagna. Doing the final rappel and jumping over the bergshrund feels like freedom. Even though it's still 1.5 miles down 2000 feet of crevassed glacier travel to base camp, the repetitive task of looking for anchors and rappelling is final over. We all tie into a rope and Bill takes the lead, navigating his way over and around depressions in the glacier, which indicate there might be a crevasse. We soon pass underneath a large, threatening hanging serac and are in its line of fire for about 30 minutes. We were already aware of the risks involved, but we didn't care and desperately wanted to be back at the comfort of base camp. Taking the alternate descent would have added on many more rappels and several miles. 30 minutes of high risk was acceptable at this point. A few times one of us lightly punches through a snow bridge covering a crack, but no serious crevasse falls happen. Even though there are 4 of us, trying to imagine having to haul someone out of a crevasse in this tired, hungry state hurts to think about.
Awaking to a cold but clear morning. Behind us is the ice field we had traversed the day prior. (photo by Martin le Roux)
The mooses tooth on the left and mt. Dickey on the left. (photo by Bill McConachie)
Steve heads down to find the first rappel, the north side of the Rooster Comb looking massive. (photo by Martin le Roux)
Me heading down one of the many rock ridge rappels. (photo by Martin le Roux)
Great shot of Steve tossing the ropes (photo by Bill McConachie)
raps raps and more raps (photo by Bill McConachie)
The Don Sheldon amphitheater and mount Dan Beard on the left. (photo by Martin le Roux)
(photo by Bill McConachie)
Another beautiful ridge coming off of peak 11,300. (photo by Bill McConachie)
One of the last steep rappels. Look at that splitter above us! (photo by Bill McConachie)
Finally walking down the glacier towards base camp, absolutely knackered! (photo by Martin le Roux)
The team with the southwest ridge of peak 11,300. Thanks for the great time Steve, Bill, and Martin! (photo by Martin le Roux)
The following week almost felt like a vacation, with most of the time spent resting, eating and enjoying the views. The day after we got back from 11,300, we flew to the kahiltna glacier, the base camp and starting point for all big Denali expeditions, and set up camp again. It was nice to be around people again after our isolation on the upper west fork and 11,300. I did kind of miss that seclusion, though. After all, thats what draws me to the mountains in the first place. After a few days rest, the four of us made a foray up the east ridge of mt. Frances as a half day trip. The route was mostly easy snow climbing, but we were all still feeling the effects of 11,300 so it got us all breathing pretty hard. Steve and I then skied up the kahiltna to try the mini-moonflower via its north couloir. We only ended up climbing a few pitches of 60 degree ice before calling it. We were so exhausted, plus the crux was melted out and we didn't bring the rock gear. Martin and Bill also went back to mt. Frances to climb a few pitches on its southwest ridge. We were hoping to get one more big day in on the opening pitches of the north buttress of mt. Hunter, but the weather crapped out on us, so we spent our last day in the tent with more eating and resting! Heres a slew of pics from the last week!
Our new home, great views of mount Hunter (photo by Bill McConachie)
and mount Foraker, 2nd highest peak in the range. (Photo by Martin le Roux)
As well as Denali of course, now looming 13,000 feet above us and still many miles away. The center feature is the Cassin ridge, a classic alaskan test piece (Photo by Martin le Roux)
the beginning couloir of mt. Frances' east ridge (Photo by Bill McConachie)
Soloing high on Frances (photo by Martin le Roux)
Martin with Hunter partially obscured by clouds
beautiful flutings
Hunter showing off at sunset
Skiing towards the mini-moonflower, the peak ahead is actually the Kahiltna Queen. (photo by Martin le Roux)
My calves still hurt thinking about this terrain. Ice climbing on mini moonflower.(Photo by Steve Towne)
Steve following a pitch on mini-moonflower.
Skiing back to camp. Foraker in the distance looking massive (Photo by Steve Towne)
The 4000 ft. north buttress of mt. Hunter. Definitely coming back for this wall!
Arriving back to camp (photo by Bill McConachie)
Martin and Bill arriving back after a day on mt. Frances' southwest ridge (Photo by Steve Towne)
Back to reality. (photo by Martin le Roux)
(photo by Bill McConachie)
Returning to boulder has been interesting. I constantly find myself daydreaming about our trip. I try to remember what it feels like to be in the presence of peaks with such a scale. It's all such a blur. Everything seems a little less exciting after such an emotionally and physically intense journey. Having to ration out food, endure cold nights in a wet sleeping bag, and navigate our way up and down a mountain of that size was something completely new to me and although it was never completely desperate, the unpredictable nature of the situation was truly eye opening for me. It's all relative to ones experience, right? Never have I felt so alive and in the moment and with such heightened senses. Like I said earlier, you truly enter a different realm of awareness in such places doing such things. I know all of this has been written a million times by climbers after big trips and I don't mean to regurgitate it so word for word, but there's really no other way to express the value of alpine climbing and how it can make you feel, especially when it shows you its harsher sides. There will be many more trips, to Alaska, and to further away bigger mountains(karakoram!!!) and those might present even more serious situations than the one we were in. Who knows? I do know that I will always vividly remember the defining moments of my first Alaskan climb and what they've taught me about myself and my limits. I can only hope to continue having such high quality adventures. Even more, though, I hope to continue climbing with such great partners. Thats the most important part of it all. Thanks for the adventure gents!
one last pic of huntington… (photo by Bill McConachie)
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