Wolf Rock Round II

I'm way behind on updating my blog, but my most recent adventure is one worth writing about right away.

Two weeks ago, one of the climb leaders, Fritz, in my climbing club introduced me to Wolf Rock, a 1,000 foot high monolith a couple hours from Portland. Our first trip down there, with a group of five, was largely exploratory. There are several sport climbing routes on the rock faces, some of them leading all the way to the top of the rock. We decided that day to attempt a route known as "Gigantor" that eventually leads to the top, as we were all interested in working on some multi-pitch rock. It was slow going and we only made it up two of the seven technical pitches before we decided there wasn't enough daylight left and it was time to turn around. After a couple of long rappels, we were back at the car relatively quickly.

The southeast face of Wolf Rock. Our route is just under the Great Roofs on the right edge of the rock.


We had fun that day, but not summiting and feeling like we could have had left a bug in us. Incredible, dry, sunny fall weather gave us another chance at that rock yesterday. We decided a small group of competent climbers had the best chance of summiting. Fritz, Ty, and I made up the threesome.

This time, we knew exactly what we were in for and prepared accordingly. We packed light, bringing only the gear we needed, expecting a few hours of climbing, then a relatively easy hour long hike down a different side of the rock and back to the car.

We left the car around 11.30 am and were on the rock by noon. Here are Fritz (in blue) and Ty getting ready for the first pitch.



And looking straight up our route, over 500 feet of vertical rock.



Fritz led the first pitch, as he had on the previous trip. I belayed him. About half way up the first pitch, Fritz was a foot or so above his last piece of protection when one of his handholds broke, sending a softball sized rock down at Ty and I. I immediately locked off the belay and in a mere instant, Fritz dropped 15 feet before the slack and stretch in the rope arrested his fall. Our adrenaline was definitely flowing now, but everyone was ok, so we continued our climb.

It took us over four hours to get to the top of the second pitch, up about 250-300 feet and as high as high as we'd made it on the first trip. We weren't moving quite as fast as we'd expected. Here's my view while belaying Ty from a small ledge at the second belay position. You can see Fritz at the top of the first pitch.



After the first two pitches, which were the longest and most difficult, we began to get a rhythm and move much more efficiently. I would lead the next pitch, quickly set the anchors I had pre-made, then belay up the next climber, who would clean our gear from the route. I'd rest while the third was climbing (and the second was belaying) and the third climber would pull the lower anchor, then climb up to meet us. I'd take the necessary gear and anchors, then set off on the next pitch.

At the top of the third pitch, we knew we were running out of daylight. We had to decide whether to continue up and risk descending an unknown path in the dark, or back off and begin a long, somewhat cumbersome and risky series of rappels back to the base of the wall. We decided that the rappels (statistically the most dangerous part of climbing) were unappetizing and continued upward.

Though the upper pitches were technically less difficult than the first two, they were also not protected as well, meaning the spacing between bolts to clip your rope into as you climbed became significantly larger. Being 20 or 30 feet above the last place you clipped your rope to an anchor would mean roughly a 40 to 60 foot drop if you fell. Each hand and foot placement became critical and I was hyper aware of the importance of not slipping or weighting a loose or broken hold. I checked each piece of rock before placing a foot or hand on it.

Despite the slight nerves, the weather was great, the views were spectacular, and I took the time to enjoy them. Here is our view of the Three Sisters, a trio of volcanoes, two of which I've climbed.



And here is Ty traversing under the Great Roofs to meet Fritz and I at the top of the 4th pitch, about 450 feet up the wall.



We had just one more technical pitch to the top of the 500 foot shear wall. I led the pitch, traversing left and up a series of ledgy boulders. I hadn't been eating and drinking enough during the climb and in the middle of one move up onto a large boulder, my left hip cramped and locked up. I was several feet from my last piece of protection and didn't want to take a long fall. Shifting all my weight to my arms and right leg, I quickly relaxed my left leg and waited for the cramp to subside. I spent a couple minutes stretching my hip before continuing, being careful with each move to not put too much force on my left leg.

When we all three topped out the 5th pitch, we saw the climbing got easier (though still class 4/5 rock) and thought we were close to the summit. In reality, we had climbed 600 feet, but still had another 400 feet of scrambling up a rocky ridge to reach the summit. And the sun had just set.

Luckily, we'd made it to the top of the technical section before sunset. It would have been very difficult to make our way up through the rocks and find the small anchors in the dark. At that point, around 7 pm, we had a few options; 1) rappel/down climb the way we had come back to the base of the cliff, 2) find a level spot and stay put for the night, 3) continue up the the summit and find the non technical route down.

Risking a series of rappels that would have been dangerous during the daytime, in total darkness, was out of the question. Fritz and I didn't like the idea of spending the night on the rock, so under the full moon and with headlamps on, we decided to continue upward and search for the easiest route back down.

There was just one problem. Ty hadn't brought a headlamp, fully expecting to be back well before dark. He also only brought prescription sunglasses. When he had to take those off at sunset, he was nearly blind. Fritz and I had to climb closely in front of and behind him, often pointing out exactly where to place a foot or a hand. The going was slow. We made it to the summit ridge around 7.30. We paused for a while to take advantage of the elevation and associated cell phone coverage, contact anyone that might be worried about us, and consult some route descriptions and topographical maps to find the best way down.

We'd climbed the southeast face and needed to get to the southwest gully for our descent. The only way there was to climb along the summit ridge until we got to the west side of the rock. So, at 8.30, despite not necessarily intending to, we summited. There was even a geocache at the top for me to log.

Now, it was just a matter of finding the southwest gully. Easier said than done

Each time we found a gully that looked relatively easy to descend, we decided to climb the ridge on the other side to see what was over there and make sure we'd found the furthest west gully. And each time we did that, we found a gully that looked more promising than the previous one. Though, in the pale moonlight, it was impossible to tell which was the best way down and really see what we were getting into.

When we finally decided to descend one of the gullies, we found a small cairn, a man made pile of rocks used to denote a trail. It was the first bit of good news we'd had in hours and we were ecstatic that it was now only a matter of hours before we'd be back at the car. The way down was very manageable class 3 terrain, though without being able to see, Ty spent most of the descent sliding and crab walking on his butt.

A few hundred feet down the gully, we hit a dead end. But it wasn't a dead end, it was a 40 foot cliff. Though the cairn signified we had found the correct route, the lack of a distinct trail made it too easy for us to get off route. And somehow we had.

We'd gone to a lot of trouble to avoid rappelling in the dark, but now it was our only way down. Of course we had all the gear, so we tied an anchor around a tree and rappelled down into a dry creek bed. The descent from here was relatively easy, with solid boulders offering good foot and handholds.

Until, as our luck would have it, we came to the edge of a 100+ foot waterfall. With headlamps as our only light, we could barely see to the bottom of it, and it was impossible to tell how far down it really went. We tied another anchor around a tree and began the rappel into the abyss. Fritz went first. He reached the end of the rope before he reached solid ground. Our prospects weren't looking good. Luckily, off to his left was a higher platform that he could traverse over to and safely down climb from. Ty and I each rappelled and we continued our trek down the drainage, at this point overgrown with trees and shrubs. We were bushwacking every step of the way down.

Then we hit another waterfall. We couldn't catch a break. This one was smaller, though, and we were able to down climb the steep, muddy slope around it.

Another hour or so of bushwacking... and we ran into the road. A few more minutes of easy walking and we would find the car. Of course it was all up hill. But finally, at 1 am, after another 13 hour Fritz epic, we'd made it back to the car. We were hungry, tired, and dehydrated, but we'd made it back safely and with a story to tell.

The rest of the pictures are here. More to come soon.

Wolf Rock

This is a prequel to the much more exciting story of Wolf Rock. This turned out to be largely a reconnaissance mission. Fritz led me and four other climbers to this great monolith he'd never climbed before but had seen and heard about. We decided to spend a day down there either climbing sport routes or doing a mutli-pitch climb.

None of us had done a lot of multi-pitch climbing but in the car on the way down there, we all decided we'd like to try some out, even if we didn't make it to the summit. We only made it two pitches up the 600 foot face that day, but we had a lot of fun and knew that with better planning, we could make the summit. All this foreshadowed the events of Wolf Rock Round II.

Spartan Race

Before I did a Tough Mudder over the summer, I'd always thought obstacle racing looked like fun. I hate running, but I love being outside, challenging myself, and trying new things. I also have a bit of self described outdoor ADD. So obstacle racing turned out to be a perfect fit for me.

In August, Dante, Brian and I worked as volunteers for a Spartan Race in Washington. That weekend was a Spartan Sprint, which is a short (~5k) race with lots of obstacles. Volunteering got us free race entry. We didn't run the race together like we had during the Tough Mudder. Instead, after the first hill climb, I got in stride and took off. None of the obstacles required teamwork, so I was able to move at my own pace and really push myself.

The race had a lot of challenging obstacles and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I finished the course in just over an hour, significantly slower than racers in the first heat that got to run before the course got muddy, but overall a fast time. I spent about half of that time on one obstacle, trying to crawl under barbed wire up a 100 yard long hill covered in mud that they were constantly spraying down with hoses. Dig fingers in to mud, climb up two feet, slide down one foot (sometimes slide down three feet), repeat. At one point I teamed up with another racer to make better progress up the hill. We'd act as human ladders for each other. One of use would cling to the mud while the other would climb up him. We'd trade positions and keep going. It was tough work, but eventually we made it to the top. We got to slide right back down the hill on a giant water slide, definitely the most fun part of the course.

I managed to keep running during the entire race. Except for one section; carrying this heavy sandbag up a long, steep hill. 

Clearly the guy behind me has the right strategy. I was a rookie for this race. I'll be back.

Climbing Mt. Adams

A couple of my climbing partners have been training for Mt. Rainier (near Seattle, the most prominent glaciated peak in the lower 48) and were climbing Mt. Adams for training. I was also supposed to be training for Rainier, but I was out of town for their climb dates. When they brought up climbing Mt. Adams, I was instantly on board. By volume, Mt. Adams is the second largest volcano in the Cascade Range and rises to 12,281 ft, with a prominence (height above the surrounding terrain) of 8,117 ft. It is by all measures a large mountain.

Most climbers hike the non technical route halfway up the mountain to a broad shelf known as Lunch Counter in one day, then climb the remaining way to the summit and descend on a second day. Gabe, Jeremy, and I planned a variation of the standard South Spur Route that would include glacier travel, crevasse navigation, and steep snow and ice climbing.

However, when we arrived at the Mt. Adams ranger station Saturday morning, we were informed that the route we'd chosen was closed as it entered seasonally open Indian territory. Also conspiring against us was an oncoming low pressure system and rain forecast for Sunday.

We decided that the summit was our real goal, so we traveled the standard, dog route. We left the trailhead just before 11 am, slightly behind our initial goal. Though it was late June, we hiked less than a mile from the trailhead before hitting snow. The snow was melting in the heat of the afternoon sun, but was firm enough that travel was relatively easy and we made good time.

We made a friend on the way up.


By 3.00 pm, we made it to lunch counter, a 3,900 ft climb over four miles. We were tired from carrying heavy packs loaded with technical climbing and overnight gear. However, with rain in the forecast for Sunday, we decided to set up camp, refuel, then make a push for the summit while we had good weather. We still had a few hours of daylight left and decided  a sunset summit would be a great idea.

Unfortunately, the climb from Lunch Counter to Piker's Peak (the false summit) is the longest, steepest section of the climb. It's a sustained slope with sections as steep as 45° that rises 2,000 feet in only one mile. Fortunately, because we were climbing in the evening, the snow on the slope was soft and made for easy steps without crampons. Climbing the frozen slope in the morning would have required crampons and been much more strenuous.

Despite the long day behind us, we made relatively good time up the slope, gaining Piker's Peak in two hours.

From there, a short, slightly downhill hike, then uphill slog gains the summit. This turned out to be the longest part of the day. The altitude and exhaustion were catching up to all of us and our progress slowed. Still, we made reasonable time and gained the summit 45 minutes before sunset. We'd gained 6,900 feet over 5.5 miles in about nine hours. None of us were feeling great and the wind wasn't very friendly, so we took the obligatory summit pictures then began our descent.


We took advantage of some glissading to speed our descent, but the conditions were less than ideal. The snow had begun to refreeze, so the glissade paths were hard and fast. Gabe and I both managed to break buckles on our packs and I wore a hole through the mesh on one of my side pockets, nearly sending my Nalgene down the mountain ahead of me. Despite some difficulties, there was some good glissading to be had and the trip back to Lunch Counter and our camp was relatively uneventful.

Except for one thing.

Though I had forgotten, we were climbing on the night of the super moon. And just as the sun was setting, we were treated to the most incredible view of a mountain shadow I've ever seen. The few clouds in the sky gave way to the moon, making for one of the most awe inspiring views I've ever had and one of the best pictures I've ever taken. The view for this shot was only there for a few minutes and I was fortunate to look up and see it and more fortunate still to capture it.


We made it back to camp just before dark, ate dinner, then promptly climbed into the tent to sleep. When I woke briefly at 3 am, rain was pummeling the tent walls. We'd made the right decision to summit Saturday evening.

Sunday morning came around 6.30 am when we all woke, listening to the rain. It would be a miserable, wet day and our plans to explore the Mazama Headwall and do some technical climbing were instantly cancelled. We took advantage of a lightening rain around 7 to break camp and begin our descent. Just after 9 am, we were back at the car, having descended 3,900 feet and 3.75 miles in an hour-and-a-half. We didn't linger in the rain.

Despite the poor weather on Sunday, we had a great climb and accomplished most of what we wanted to. And I got to check off one more of the Cascade volcanoes.

Tough Mudder Oregon

When my rock climbing partner, Dante, mentioned interest in doing a Tough Mudder, I was instantly game. I'd been wanting to do one for a while. For those that don't know, Tough Mudder is basically a 10-12 mile long trail run with ~20 obstacles throughout the course. Right up my alley.

I didn't really have to do any special training for it. I'd been rock climbing three days a week since the beginning of the year and have been playing 3-5 indoor soccer games a week for a long time. I did participate in a couple of Ultimate Fitness Classes through my gym, which are basically an hour-and-a-half circuit training that included flipping tractor tires, dragging tires, swinging sledge hammers, rattling heavy chains, and many other plyometric exercises. Again, right up my alley as far as working out goes. I'd also climbed several large volcanoes, which turned out to be great preparation for the event.

We had a team of three for the run, including one of Dante's high school friends. I'll spare all the details of the race and just mention a few highlights. Our start time was 10:40 on Saturday (third heat), which was good because we started well before it got too hot. The event was held at Wilson Ranch Retreat in central Oregon and the weather was 70s with not a cloud in the sky.

For 20 minutes before your race starts, you listen to an MC discuss the Wounded Warrior charity and course rules. He explained that it was a team event, not a race and that if you saw anyone injured or in need of help to stop and hold your arms in an "X" over your head to notify medical staff to come over. We got to use our Xs right away. As our heat of ~100 people left the starting line, a few members of the Wilson family rode in front of us on horses. One of the horses stopped and stood up on its hind legs, attempting to throw its rider. The horse fell back, on top of the women riding it. Dante, Brian and I were at the front of our heat, with a first row view. Our whole heat stopped and held our arms in Xs over our heads, not knowing whether to continue the race or wait for help. The woman got up, saying she was ok. We found out after the race that she had broken a couple of ribs.

Many of the obstacles required climbing over wooden walls and logs and crawling through mud or swimming through muddy water. In some places the mud was knee deep and smelled like manure.

The second obstacle of the race was called Arctic Enema. It's basically a giant dumpster full of water and ice that you have to jump in, swim through, duck your head under a log, then climb out the other side. By the time I was climbing out, all of my muscles were tight and felt like cramping. With the warm weather and running ahead, though, I warmed up quickly.

There were two electrocution obstacles on the course. Each had dangling wires carrying up to 10,000 volts of electricity. The first, Electric Eel required you to crawl through muddy water while being shocked. It is impossible to avoid the wires. I probably got shocked a dozen times, despite crawling as quickly as possible. With each shock, your muscles contract involuntarily and violently. The worst were the shocks to my head. They felt like a combination of being punched in the head and blacking out. Some people described it as a "brain reboot". That's pretty accurate.

The second electrocution obstacles was the last obstacle of the race, Electroshock Therapy. For this obstacle, you could stand up and run through the dangling wires. Per the suggestion of one of the race coordinators talking to the spectators at the obstacle, Brian, Dante, and I linked our arms before entering. We starting running and made it about half way, getting shocked simultaneously, before a shock sent Brian to his knees, pulling me down. The last half of the obstacle was an every-man-for-himself dash to escape. The shocks hurt.

Three hours after we started, we'd finished the race and received our free beer. We watched other competitors run through Electroshock Therapy (and some chicken out). I flipped a 400 pound tractor tire 10 times to get two more free beers. All in all, it was a very fun event and I look forward to doing another.

Since a lot of people ask, the hardest thing about the event wasn't the obstacles. Team work is highly encouraged, often necessary and makes the obstacles relatively easy. The hardest part was the hill running. I was in pretty good shape from soccer and mountaineering, though, so the hills and running didn't phase me too much.

Here's our team picture just after crossing the finish line.

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.

Standing on Top of Oregon

I realized a year long goal last Sunday, though it didn't come easily. It was my third time attempting to climb Mt. Hood (you may recall the first). Over the past year, I've probably planned half-a-dozen attempts on Hood that were either weathered out or that I became sick before.

With a stretch of good weather in the forecast, one of my climbing friends, Gabe, proposed at the beginning of the week that we make a winter attempt on Hood (we'd planted the seed with each other a couple of weeks earlier at the Santiam Alpine Club's annual banquet). Despite my broken toe, I was eager to make the attempt, given what appeared would be perfect weather. It's hard to get such great weather windows in the winter in the PNW.

As the week rolled on, the good weather in the city belied what was happening on the mountain. In the 48 hours preceding Friday morning, two feet of snow had been reported. With the great weekend weather forecast and the decreasing avalanche danger, I knew that by Sunday, someone would have climbed Hood and broken the trail.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Gabe and I met in a Safeway parking lot around 2 am on Sunday morning. We drove together the rest of the way to the mountain, the clear sky and full moon silhouetting the prominent peak. We were excited by our plans for a sunrise summit on a clear day working out. 

Here's a map of the South Side Route, for reference.

Timberline Lodge, our starting point (just off the bottom of the picture) sits at an elevation of 5,960 ft.

The new snow showed itself from the start, requiring us to don our snowshoes from the moment we left the climbers' parking lot at 3.30 am, headlamps illuminating our path. We were both familiar with the long slog up Palmer snowfield (roughly the yellow ski area in the above picture) and the recently packed snowcat track made the trek somewhat easier. We reached the top of the Palmer snowfield by 5.45 am. Shortly after, the snow changed drastically to wind-blown ice. We swapped our snowshoes for crampons and continued our climb. At about the same time, the winds picked up and we were climbing through the clouds in blowing snow. Visibility was terrible, not more than 30 feet or so, and we couldn't tell the difference between ground and air. What happened to our forecast of clear skies? 

The low visibility and challenging surface conditions made route finding more difficult and slowed our progress. Around 8.30 am, we reached 10,200 ft, just below and east of Crater Rock. While pausing for a brief rest and to get our bearings, a group of three climbers were descending toward us. We asked if they'd summited. They hadn't. They'd turned around after talking to another group higher up the mountain that had  turned around after running into thigh deep powder. Looking around for a few minutes, we noticed that every climber ahead of us was turning around and heading back down the mountain, deep snow and white-out visibility to blame. I counted nine turning around. Gabe and I were certain we wouldn't make the summit and nearly turned around ourselves. But, we decided to press on and see what the conditions were like first hand.

After climbing another 150 vertical feet, to just east of Crater Rock, we discovered exactly why all the other climbers had turned around. My assumption that with the great weather, other climbers would have summited before us, turned out to be wrong. No one had climbed the mountain since the last snowfall. There were two climbers just ahead of us also assessing the snow and the climbing route.

Andrew was a beginning (but strong) climber on his first attempt of Mt. Hood. Lon was a veteran of the South Side route on Hood, having climbed it dozens of times. The four of us teamed up to tackle the challenging snow and weather conditions in a concerted push for the summit. Lon's experience on the route proved invaluable as we couldn't see more than thirty feet in any direction and it was impossible to see the difference between snow and cloud.

Our upward progress was excruciatingly slow as Andrew, Lon, and I took turns breaking the trail through two feet of powder. Gabe had been fighting a cold all week, but is a strong climber and was able to keep up with the group. It took two hours to work our way up the 40° slope to the summit ridge, a gain of 800 vertical feet. We ascended one of the Old Chutes, the left most route to the summit ridge in the photo above.



I broke the trail for the last 70 or so vertical feet, up the chute, and upon topping out on the summit ridge, was greeted by a knife edge cornice with a front row view down the 2,500 foot drop of the north side headwall.







Most of the hard work had been finished, but the scariest section of the climb was the next thirty feet. It is often described as a highly exposed, two-foot wide catwalk with a 2,500 foot drop to the left, and a 150 foot drop to the right (though if you fell, you'd tumble nearly 1,000 feet down the steep snow into a fumarole). Though in reality (at least at the time we climbed), the path through the gnarled ice was barely wider than a large mountaineering boot in many sections. Half way across the catwalk, the narrow footing caused one of the points of my crampons to catch on my gaiters, sending me tumbling forward. Only a solid, steady ice axe placement separated me from the fumaroles. If the adrenaline wasn't flowing yet, it certainly was now.

After we safely crossed the catwalk, it was a short, easy walk to the summit. And in a turn of luck for the day, the clouds broke long enough to give us a much deserved, beautiful view from the summit. After almost a year (mostly the last seven hours) and 5,400 vertical feet over 3.6 miles, we'd reached the summit of Mt. Hood.


Lon, Gabe, and I (left to right) on the summit.

The hardest part may have been over, but we still had to descend. Crossing back over the catwalk was no more entertaining the second time around and descending the steep Old Chute and snowfield may be more challenging than climbing up it. Facing away from the slope, it's more difficult to get a solid ice axe placement and the downward momentum of each step tends to make you slide down the slope, which is exactly what you're trying to avoid. Nonetheless, we made it back to the Devil's Kitchen (just east of Crater Rock) and off of the technical portion of the mountain without incident.

Andrew snapped this picture of Gabe and I on our descent, just after exiting the Old Chutes.


We rested for a few minutes at the Devil's Kitchen, but the clouds settled in again, so we began our descent in zero visibility. This is a challenge on Mt. Hood, because if you follow the natural fall line, it leads you away from Timberline Lodge, to the cliffs of Mississippi Head. Even being aware of this common mistake, we headed down the fall line for several minutes before referencing our GPS and realizing we'd traveled quite a ways off course. After that, being prudent with our navigation, the descent was simply a matter of putting one tired foot in front of the other. Unfortunately, snow conditions didn't permit glissading.

Finally, 12 hours after leaving the parking lot, we made it back to our car. By some standards, in some conditions, Hood's south side route is an easy one, but Gabe and I earned our summit the hard way. It was by far the most physically, mentally, and technically challenging climb I've completed to date. 

Christmas in Colorado

Colorado was having another bleak snow year until just a couple of weeks before we were scheduled to go up to the cabin. Some time in late November/early December, it was 70° up in the mountains. Luckily, shortly  after, it started snowing consistently until right before we got there. Not much of Loveland was open when we first started riding, but by the end of our trip, a lot of new terrain had opened.

Trey and I arrived late Friday night, planning on getting a couple of days of riding in before the rest of our family arrived Sunday afternoon. We had planned on meeting at the Denver airport when both our flights arrived at midnight, picking up the rental car, then driving to the cabin. This plan had worked pretty well for us for our 4th of July trip, but this time, it backfired pretty badly. My flight out of Portland was delayed by three hours. Luckily, the car rental company let Trey pick up our car (which was in my name), but he still had to wait nearly four hours for me to arrive.

By the time my flight landed, I got my snowboard from the checked baggage, and we were leaving the airport, it was after 3 am. We decided not to stop for groceries, which was our original plan, and head straight for the cabin.

Arriving at the cabin near 4.30am, we had decided to forgo turning on the water and just get the heat running so we could go to bed faster. Unfortunately, the world had other plans for us. We opened the cabin door to find packrat poop everywhere. Literally. Everywhere. There was poop on every surface imaginable  from beds, to tables, to the back of the couch and every chair. The rats had chewed the wax from a candle on the table and the mats in the bottom of the sink. The vacuum crapped out on our last trip to the cabin, so we were left with using a tiny, half-broken dirt devil to suck up the frozen turds.

Luckily, because the doors had been closed to two of the rooms, their beds had been spared from the wrath of the rats. It was after 6 am before Trey and I got to crawl into those beds, me sleeping in full clothes on a frozen, rock hard foam mattress that didn't warm up until about 10 am.

Despite the setbacks, we woke up the next morning to a warm cabin, got the water running, and made it to the ski area around noon for a solid four hours of riding.

After the long night and first day of riding, Trey and I had one more mission to accomplish before the rest of the family arrived. We had to find the perfect Christmas tree. Just before dark, we set off up the mountain, ladder and saw in hand. We scouted several trees, but it seemed that every one was too thin to make a decent Christmas tree. Until we spotted the perfect one. We set the ladder up and were able to cut just the top seven feet of the tree, leaving the rest to grow, and giving us the best Christmas tree we'd ever found.



The snowy weather trend continued for the week that we were there and though not much terrain was open, we couldn't have gotten luckier with the conditions. We didn't take many pictures this trip, but I did get a lot of footage on my GoPro. I'm working on editing the video now and I'll post it as soon as it's finished.



Update 3/23/2012:
I finally finished the video. It took a couple months of editing, but I think it's one of the best results I've gotten . It's the first video I did full post production on, including editing, color correction, and motion graphic titles

Christmas In Colorado 2012 from Nathan Fletcher on Vimeo.

Flying in Oregon

It's been a little while since my last post and that is consistent with the amount of adventures I had over that period. After the rain started in October, it's been much more difficult to motivate myself to get outside.

Contrary to how it should be, I've use the poor weather as an opportunity to get back into flying. I found a small airport just outside of Portland and contacted a flight instructor there. I needed to get checked out in a rental plane so that I could fly on my own out here. It's taken three flights over the course of three months to accomplish that, mostly because of weather. We've planned to fly at least half-a-dozen times and been rejected by the weather. At least twice, my instructor and I showed up at the airport expecting to fly, only to find that the depression that the airport sits in is socked in by fog or a low cloud layer.

Just yesterday, we had the first clear weekend day that I've been in town for in the past couple of months. We took advantage of the opportunity and had a nice leisurely flight in the area so that Mike could show me the landmarks (on our previous flights, we'd been dodging low clouds at only about 1,500' AGL, so I couldn't get a sense of the area). The sky was incredibly clear and from our vantage point at 4,500', we could see out to the coast to the west and all of the nearby volcanoes to the east, some a couple hundred miles away.

One of the reasons it took three flights to get checked out was because of the unusual traffic pattern at our local airport. It's a small airport, with a short, 2,400 ft sloped runway. Normal procedure at Twin Oaks Airpark is to take off downhill on runway 20 and land uphill on runway 02 (different ends of the same runway, for those not familiar with runway nomenclature). As you can imagine, this can create some very interesting situations. It apparently doesn't happen too often, but on my first flight there, as I was on short final for 02, my instructor noticed a plane beginning its takeoff roll on 20, heading straight for us. We immediately pushed the power in and went around, narrowly escaping what would have been a certain collision.

The departing  plane had not been making radio calls, and even after our go around, was completely oblivious to our presence. Needless to say, I'm much more vigilant of other traffic now.

Avy 1 Course

For several years, I've been interested in backcountry snowboarding. The risk of avalanches has kept me in bounds until I could take a proper avalanche certification course. That was high on my list of things to do this winter and at the beginning of last October, I signed up for a course on Mt. Hood in January.

The course consisted of two evening classroom sessions and a weekend on Mt. Hood. During the classroom sessions, we learned about what causes avalanches, how to travel in avalanche terrain, and how to determine where avalanches live.

In the field sessions, we learned and practiced locating avalanche victims with beacons, probing for them with poles, then digging them out of the snow. We also did a mock backcountry tour on Mt. Hood, skinning around on the hillside assessing for avalanche danger, digging snow pits, and analyzing the snow pack.

I learned a lot and had a lot of fun, but more importantly I am now a safer and more aware backcountry traveler. Avalanches don't just affect skiers and snowboarders, they are a big part of mountaineering, too.

I only ended up with one picture from the course.