Mt. Hood, Round 2

A couple weeks ago, an email went our to my climbing club asking if anyone wanted to climb Mt. Hood. I was free that weekend, but I wasn't about to jump on to a climb if the weather was going to be bad. I had no desire to repeat my previous experience with the mountain. As the week went on, the forecast continued to look favorable, so I accepted Gabe's prodding to see what the mountain was like in good conditions with him. In addition, two students from this year's climb school would join us for their first full climb of Hood. While summiting a mountain once doesn't make you a guide, Gabe and I certainly have the experience, route knowledge, and technical skills necessary to help novice climbers make it to the top of Hood.

The four of us left the climbers' parking lot around 12.30 am, pretty close to our planned departure time. The parking lot was packed and there was practically a conga line of head lamps dancing up the mountain. In good weather, climbers flock to the second most climbed glaciated peak in the world.

Our spirits were high, though, and we made good time on the long slog up the Palmer Snowfield. We cruised by several other climbing parties and before we knew it, were at the top of the Palmer. The hike we'd normally dreaded had seemed like a breeze this time around. Gabe and I both remarked that it had been our most pleasant hike to the top of Palmer (a gain of 2,500 feet over two miles).

At the top of Palmer, we strapped on our crampons and began the ascent toward the technical portion of the mountain. Here, the going was a bit slower, as a steady, cold wind blew across the mountain. One of our new-comers was struggling, partially from exhaustion (he had climbed Mt. St. Helens a day earlier) and partially due to poor caloric management. He didn't have enough food and water easily accessible. We worried he might have to turn around, but with a few sugary snacks and encouragement from the rest of us, he made it to the Devil's Kitchen, the start of the technical portion of the climb. 

We rested and refueled in a small windbreak that previous climbers had built, glad to get out of the wind, but eager to start moving again to keep our muscles warm. It was just after sunrise that we began our trek up the Hogsback. Perfect timing. In stark contrast to our last experience on Hood, this time a highway of boot prints led us straight up the Hogsback. Though we had to pass a couple of slow moving rope teams*, we made good time up the Hogsback. At the peak of the Hogsback, Gabe looked back at me, pointed at the Pearly Gates (a slightly more technically challenging and quicker route to the summit) and asked what I thought. It's a route that I have wanted to climb for a while and looked perfect today. After a few minutes of debate, we opted for the standard Old Chutes route to accommodate our less experienced climbers.

As we traveled along the Hogsback, I marveled at the beauty of the surrounding mountain (you are litteraly walking through the cauldron of a once active volcano) and the perfect sunrise.

(click on the panoramas for a larger view)

The well traveled path and well cut boot steps made for easy traveling along the traverse below and up the Old Chutes. Here's the rest of my team ahead of me, climbing up the Hogsback. The small dots on the left of the photo are other climbers making their way up to the Old Chutes.


Today, our biggest challenge was ice fall. Chunks of ice ranging from golf ball to soccer ball size came bouncing down the slopes. I was hit by a few smaller pieces, which stung sharply. Being hit by a medium or large chunk would have knocked you off your feet. I developed a meticulous rhythm on the traverse: plant ice axe, step, step, look up for ice fall. Plant, step, step, look up. This continued for the next hour, until we gained the relative safety of the summit ridge.

Looking down the North Headwall after gaining the summit ridge, my ice axe sticking all the way through the thin snow ridge (my feet were firmly planted on solid snow).

Again in stark contrast to my previous Hood climb, the treacherous catwalk had been reduced to a relatively wide, stable walkway with ample sturdy snow to support a solid ice axe placement. This time, I walked easily across it, even pausing to take pictures.

Here's Matt, one of the new climb school students, demonstrating good self belay while walking across the catwalk.


Despite the dozens of other climbers that we had passed (some on their way up the mountain, others on their way down), our group of four had the summit to ourselves for near ten minutes, unheard of on a beautiful day on Mt. Hood. While we waited for someone to come along and take a group photo, we basked in the warming sun and took in incredible views, ranging from Mt. Rainier to the north, all the way to the Three Sisters to the south.

I'm on the far right in this picture.

Only a few clouds below us. Mt. Adams in the distance.


After a brief rest and a quick bite, we began an uneventful descent of the mountain. With the great visibility, Gabe and I could see how we'd made out navigational error on our last descent and could clearly see the cliffs that swallow stray climbers.

Here's a shot of the whole crater I took on our descent. Pretty much sums up the great weather and climb we had.


Our car-to-car trip time was just under nine hours and we'd helped two beginning climbers on their first summit of Hood. By 11 am, we were at a local bar, eating a couple thousand delicious calories, enjoying cold beverages, and basking in our success.

I got a lot of great photos from this trip. To see the rest, check flickr.

South Sister and Memorial Day Weekend

For the past two years, it's been a tradition for me to visit friends in Houston for Memorial Day. This year, I wasn't able to make the trip. So the week before Memorial Day, when I realized I had Monday off, I started scrambling to figure out how to make use of the long weekend. I decided to cram as much in as possible. An offer to climb South Sister, the tallest of a group of three volcanoes in central Oregon, on Sunday came up part way through the week. I tentatively accepted, knowing that the forecast was calling for generally poor weather, including up to a foot of new snow and steady 20-30 mph winds.

Saturday, I joined a few friends around noon to cheer on Bayern München in the Champions League final. The day started out well with a victory for Die Roten. During that game, one of  my friends invited me to a pickup indoor soccer game at 6:30 that evening. Not one to turn down an invite to soccer, I gladly accepted, still debating whether I'd be climbing the next day, or not.

Because of the pain and swelling from the toe I broke a couple months ago, I'd been unable to wear my right rock climbing shoe until about a week ago. After the Bayern game, I met my rock climbing partner, Dante, at our gym and sent a few routes that I had previously been unable to climb. Being able to wear both climbing shoes and use my right foot more has improved my climbing.

After climbing at the gym, I came home to begin checking the weather for the potential climb on Sunday. It was still a poor forecast, but didn't sound like anything that would make summiting impossible. Still unsure of whether I was going to attempt the climb, I loaded the route coordinates into my GPS just in case.

The pickup soccer game at 6:30 was a lot of fun, and good exercise (to help toward the Tough Mudder I'm signed up for in June). It wasn't until I was on my way home from the soccer game that I finally decided I was definitely going to attempt the climb. I'd been playing the quote,

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do."

in my head most of the day (which is why I say "yes" to just about anything) and decided to let it guide me once more. After a quick shower and very fast packing, I threw all my gear into the back of my Jeep and by 9 pm was on the road, heading South.

A 5 Hour Energy and a Tom Clancy audio book kept me awake and alert for the four hours of driving, mostly through rain and over the lower mountain passes. I reached the parking lot of the Devil's Lake Trailhead by 1:30 am.

I unfolded my sleeping pad and laid out my sleeping bag in the back of my Jeep (with the back seats folded down, the back of the Jeep is exactly 6 feet diagonally). The 5:30 alarm came too soon, but I was excited for the climb as I began to cook breakfast while still in my sleeping bag. Just after 6 am, my climbing partner, Gabe (you might remember him as my climbing partner for summiting Mt. Hood) pulled up behind me. A light, but steady rain had fallen all night and continued through the morning.

We got a slightly later start than we had planned, but by 6:40 am, we were at the trailhead (5,500 ft elev). We hiked at a brisk pace through the lower, dense forest, following the sometimes faint footprints along what we assumed was the climbers' trail. After about 40 minutes, we'd climbed to 6,000 feet, where the rain turned to a wet snow.

Despite the less-than-ideal weather, we considered ourselves lucky that it wasn't sunny. The overcast skies protected the snow from the sun, keeping it firm. With the exception of a few knee deep postholes, our boots rarely sank more than a few inches into the fresh snow, so the hiking was relatively easy.

An hour-and-a-half and 2.5 miles after our start, we'd reached the first major waypoint of our climb, Moraine Lake. By this time, we were out of the forest and the forecast 20-30 mph winds manifested themselves. We bundled up as we stopped to get our bearings. Comparing our position to the track I'd downloaded to my GPS for the climb showed us on the wrong side of the lake. Gabe pulled out his map and confirmed that the climbers' trail was about a half mile west of us. The footprints and trail we'd been following was actually a hiking trail that veered off to Green Lakes, several miles east of South Sister. We resolved to check the map more frequently and follow the GPS route more carefully.

As we set off on the correct course, Gabe and I noticed that we were squinting, and opted to put on the sunglasses that we hadn't needed while hiking through the forest. We didn't wan't to get snow blindness, after all.

Over the next two hours, we battled the wind and steep terrain to gain another 1,400 feet over three miles. We had donned our snowshoes on the the steeper terrain to make the climbing easier. There was a persistent ridge to our right that we new we would have to gain. It didn't take long to spot a couple of weaknesses in the shear rock faces that made up the west side of the ridge. We chose one and scrambled up the even-steeper snow and through a rocky section at the eve of the ridge. For a brief time, the higher, west side of the ridge shielded us from the wind. But despite the steepening terrain, we moved quickly and were soon away from the protection of the ridge and back in the relentless wind.

After another hour and crossing a snow covered scree field, we reached 9,000 feet and the saddle at the bottom of the summit ridge. The wind and snow picked up as we gained the unprotected ridge. We were in near white out conditions. Luckily, I brought goggles and the switch from sunglasses made the difference between night and day, allowing me to see clearly and protecting my face from the brutal wind. I felt bad for Gabe, who had only sunglasses, which by now were fogging and freezing badly, making it difficult for him to see.

When we gained the ridge, our path converged with a couple of other climbers on AT gear (backcountry/uphill ski equipment). We remained just behind them for the rest of the climb to the crater and their presence gave us a good visual reference for the trail ahead.


At around 12:30, we reached a steepening, wind blown scree slope on the summit ridge that marked the last push before reaching the crater. Gabe and I removed our snow shoes and began the steep climb to the caldera. On our way up, we passed two other pairs of climbers on the way down from the summit. Some had chosen to wear crampons, but the snow was still soft and stable enough to allow our boots good purchase in the slope.

Just after 1:00 pm, we reached 10,190 feet and the caldera rim. Now, it was only a short walk across a frozen lake (the highest lake in Oregon) to reach the true summit. But the winds in the caldera were even more intense, I'd estimate around 40 mph or more. I hadn't eaten or drank much in the last couple of hours, not wanting to stop for any amount of time in the brutal wind. I decided we needed to find a sheltered spot to stop and refuel. It was challenging, but we found a small ledge behind a few rocks on the caldera ridge that blocked most of the wind. We hunkered down and ate sandwiches, drank water, and each added a layer of insulation to help warm us before the final push to the summit and the descent.

While we were stopped, Gabe's hands and toes began to go numb with the onset of frostnip. For several frantic minutes, he struggled to warm his extremities. The chemical hand warmers he opened were taking too long to warm up and he had to put each hand under his coat, in his armpits to warm them. We considered ending the climb and descending. The summit of South Sister isn't worth an injury.

When feeling returned to Gabe's hands, we decided to see if moving would help warm him up. We moved in the direction of the summit. The wind an snow were so bad that Gabe couldn't see anything out of his sunglasses. I navigated with my GPS, searching almost hopelessly for the summit. The visibility was so poor that after leaving our sheltered spot, despite being a mere 500 horizontal feet (and only 20 or so vertical feet) from the summit, we had no idea we were so close.

I barely realized we'd found the summit until I was practically touching it. When I stood on top of the small, craggy peak, I realized where all our problems had stemmed from. We were literally climbing in the clouds. With my feet on the summit, my head was above the tops of the clouds and I could see blue sky and the tops of white, fluffy clouds for miles in every direction. A small, single engine plane just 1,000 feet above banked and turned away from the summit. I waved.

After just over seven hours, 6.2 miles, and 5,000 vertical feet, we reached the 10,358 foot high summit.

Despite the inspiring view, I spent less time on this summit than any other mountain I've climbed. I stayed only for the 60 seconds it took to snap a picture of Gabe's signature summit pose. It took all that time to get my phone to take a picture. Despite not being able to see the screen and having my bare hand numb from the cold, I think the picture turned out quite well.


With zero visibility and our previous tracks completely covered by the blowing snow, we trudged back across the caldera nearly blind, barely able to read the GPS screen to keep us on course.

After reaching the south rim of the caldera, the rest of the descent was fairly straight forward. Having learned from our mistake descending Mt. Hood, we checked the GPS frequently to ensure we stayed on course. On our way down, we discovered that our navigational error around Moraine Lake had made our climb a bit longer and more difficult. We discovered that the climbers who had been ahead of us ascended the proper climbers' trail, which climbed much gentler slopes than we had. Ascending straight up from our detour, we bypassed one of the trail waypoints, missing the other climbers' footprints and the climbers' trail by a mere 30 or 40 yards. Another valuable lesson in poor weather navigation.

After over 11 hours and 13 miles, we made it back to the trailhead just before 6 pm. I wasn't looking forward to the four hour drive home. But I needed to be back in Portland that night for an Ultimate Fitness Class the next morning (more Tough Mudder training).

Not ten minutes after leaving the trailhead, on my way into Bend, the ground was dry and the sky was clear. After stopping for food in Bend, I had to drive back across the mountains to get back to the West side of the range. I got a clear view of the weather phenomenon that Gabe and I had climbed in. This picture shows North Sister, veiled in a thin cloud layer, the mountain range trapping all the weather to the west.


The next day, I realized just how thin that cloud layer was. I woke up with the second worst sunburn of my life (the worst also happened in the mountains, while spring skiing). I regretted my decision to not wear sunscreen as the thin layer of clouds offered little protection against the UV rays that beat on my skin for 11 hours. Another lesson learned.

Here's a link to my trip log that shows the track and elevation profile of the climb.