10 Things You Need to Know for Hiking in the Snow

Most Coloradans consider "14er season" to be June through September, but such a viewpoint is severely restrictive. The fall, winter and spring months are often the most rewarding times of year in the high country. There's nothing quite like having a popular summit such as Quandary Peak to yourself, looking out over a sea of white-capped mountains as you sip hot tea that warms your body from the inside out. Like many novice mountaineers, a few short years ago I viewed the gap between summer and winter climbing as insurmountable. I had too many questions, and the answers were too hard to find. The truth is, like many things in life, it really doesn't have to be that difficult.

Kickin' back on the summit of Mt. Massive.

1. An introduction to winter layering

This was one of the most confusing aspects to me when I was starting out. Hard shell or soft shell? Down or synthetic? How many layers do I need to carry? This stuff isn't cheap, and with my limited disposable income, making the right choices was crucial. Everyone has their own system. I'll offer mine as a guide, along with the reasoning and a more general perspective.

• Polyester/spandex short-sleeve T-shirt: Avoid anything with cotton. I don't like long sleeves here because it's uncomfortable when you're layering on top of other pieces, which are almost all long-sleeve as well.

• Fleece 1/4-zip pullover: This is my outer layer most of the time in winter. A simple T-shirt and a fleece gets it done when I'm moving, even in frigid temperatures. The other stuff piles on only on the windiest, coldest days or when there's precipitation.

• Midweight synthetic pullover: Down would be fine here as well, but I prefer synthetic because it might get a little sweaty if you're working hard. Synthetic insulation stays warm even when wet. I leave this one behind to save weight when the forecast is warm and dry.

• Soft shell jacket with hood: Hard shells are fine too, but soft shells are generally more breathable. A cheap hard shell is often like wearing a garbage bag, and you want to avoid sweating as much as possible in the winter. Soft shells hold up just fine in Colorado's dry snow.

• Down over-it-all puffy with hood: Wearing a down jacket over a shell seems kind of weird, right? It's not. I promise. This is the jacket that will stay at the bottom of your pack 95 percent of the time, but will become your best friend during long rest breaks, on summits or in an emergency situation. Don't skimp. Again, synthetic works fine, but in general down is warmer and lighter.

Down puffy as an outer layer, worn over a shell.

2. Basic avalanche education is free

Several local organizations, such as Friends of Berthoud Pass, offer free one- or two-hour avalanche awareness seminars. A proper AIARE Avalanche 1 course wouldn't be a bad idea, but as a hiker the most crucial piece of your avalanche training is learning what terrain to avoid altogether. Don't go out in the winter without at least attending one of these free classes. I highly recommend Mountain Rescue Aspen's Public Avalanche Seminar, which is held every year in January. For just $30 you get a three-hour lecture followed by an on-snow day practicing terrain recognition, beacon searches and more. Can't beat that.

3. Winter is ridge season, spring is couloir season

People often equate winter with ice axes and crampons. Most of the time, that's simply not true. You're far more likely to use snowshoes and trekking poles than technical gear. Ascending wind-swept ridgelines keeps you out of avalanche terrain. Just look out for cornices and make sure there's terra firma under your feet. Snow-climbing season typically begins in April or May, when it's time to bust out the ice ax and crampons for those tasty couloirs. Microspikes are likely all the traction you'll need in winter and snowshoes with a heel-lift and built-in crampons are the way to go for steep ascents.

The glories that await in spring.

4. OpenSnow.com and the CAIC are your friends

Check these two sites daily, even if you're not planning on heading out. It's incredibly beneficial to your overall education and awareness. OpenSnow.com meteorologist Joel Gratz provides spot-on weather forecasts and the Colorado Avalanche Information Center posts updates daily on avalanche conditions.

5. Water freezes

No duh, right? But it's shocking how often someone will be stuck four miles from the trailhead with a solid chunk of ice as their water supply. This is easily avoidable. For starters, leave the Camelbak bladders at home. Water will almost always freeze in the thin hose and block your access, even if you have an insulator sleeve. I prefer to keep a Nalgene, turned upside down, in an insulated sleeve clipped to my pack's hip belt for easy access. My other water bottles are in my pack, wrapped in extra layers and pushed against my back for the additional body heat. A bit of Gatorade powder (or vodka, for the adventurous) also protects against freezing.

6. Pluck the low-hanging fruit

Many of the same 14ers that are considered easy in August are still considered easy in January. Mt. Elbert, Mt. Sherman, Quandary Peak and Mt. Bierstadt don't require much more mileage or elevation gain than they do in the summer, and there are virtually avalanche-safe routes on each. Search the 14ers.com Trip Reports section for your intended mountain and click only the checkboxes for the winter months. There are dozens of quality TRs on the easier peaks in December, January, February and March.

Mt. Elbert summit in winter.

7. You don't need $500 mountaineering boots
Sure, they're yellow or orange or some other fancy color, and they make you feel like a badass. They're also overkill for winter hikes and surprisingly not all that warm. Run-of-the-mill winter hiking boots are cheaper, lighter, warmer and more comfortable. As long as they have insulation and come up to your ankle or above, you're golden. Such boots are even compatible with strap-on crampons. The big caveat is that you'll want at least a heel welt, and likely both a heel welt and a toe welt, if you plan to try climbing ice. Those are for attaching hybrid or step-in crampons, which are more secure. Expensive mountaineering boots are also more rigid, saving your calf muscles while standing on vertical ice.

8. The "Other" Four Essentials
The 10 Essentials list is even more important in winter, when the stakes are higher. I'd like to add four more: a thermos, a Buff, goggles and mittens. The thermos might be a luxury, but there's nothing better than hot soup or tea on a cold, windy day. I often joke that a thermos is the best gear purchase I've ever made. A Buff is a close runner-up. These little pieces of fabric have myriad uses, including as a facemask. You need to be able to cover every inch of exposed skin in the winter to prevent frostnip or frostbite. That's where the goggles come in, too. You need to see even if it's windy and dumping snow. No need to break the bank here, a simple $20-30 pair will suffice. Finally, buy a good pair of mittens. Even the nicest gloves can't compare to mittens for warmth. I recommend Black Diamond Mercury Mitts to anyone who will listen.

The agony of snowblindness.

9. The sun is your enemy

OK, not really. The warmth of the sun feels pretty damn good in the winter. It's just doubly important to have proper sunglasses and apply SPF30+ sunscreen every two hours. The sun reflecting off the snow is lethal, and if you don't take the steps to protect yourself, you're in for a world of pain. I'm speaking from experience. Pack sunglasses that cover your full field of vision (glacier glasses are best, and they're really not that expensive). Keep sunscreen easily accessible, such as in your pants pocket, to limit the excuses against applying it regularly.

10. Carry enough to survive a night out
Like a layering system, this will vary depending on a person's risk tolerance, attitude and experience. The key is being confident in your ability to live through a night in the open. For some that means a tent and a sleeping bag, for others a bivy sack, and for still others simply extra layers. I fall into the latter category. It would be far from comfortable, but I trust my down puffy (on top of all the other layers I carry) to get me through a winter night. I also carry a tarp/blanket to wrap myself in should I need protection from the elements.

Getting the Band Back Together

Marble Mountain (13,266')
ROUTE: East Ridge
RT DISTANCE: ~7 miles
RT GAIN: ~3,500'
RT TIME: ~7.5 hours
CLIMBER(S): Dan McCool, Ben Shulman, Jeff Golden

I’ve always held the belief that the people with whom you share the trail are the best part about hiking. Lifelong bonds are made in the hills. The common goals, the shared risks, the glorious successes and the crushing defeats -- mountaineering pulls us together in a truly profound way.

I’ve formed one of those lifelong bonds with Dan. Ben, too, but we used to live together so I've had my fill. Though our priorities have shifted and we’re no longer able to meet in the mountains nearly every weekend, when we get together it’s always as if nothing has changed. That goes for most of the folks I regularly hiked with in 2011-2012 while we all raced toward the 14er finish line. Unfortunately, as it often does, life has taken us in different directions.

When the idea materialized of a reunion hike on Marble Mountain, I knew it was something not to be missed. Prior commitments and injuries got in the way of it being fully attended, but still, getting out with Ben and Dan is about as perfect a day in the mountains as a man can reasonably expect. It’s guaranteed to be a memorable outing.

We arrived at the Rainbow Trail/South Colony Lakes Road junction late Friday night after a necessary pitstop at Phantom Canyon Brewery. Terrified of the swarms of ATV-riding Bubbas in camouflage, Dan and I opted to sleep in the back of his truck. Ben, the bravest of our trio, pitched his bivy sack off to the side of the road. Expecting an easy day, we decided on a gentlemanly start of 7:30 a.m.

The morning began with a short jaunt in the wrong (...but right…) direction on the Rainbow Trail. It’s an odd feeling walking away from the mountain you’re trying to summit. Luckily it’s less than ¼-mile before you take a right onto a climber’s trail and start hiking up Marble’s East Ridge.

The trail is strong in places, and impossible to follow in others. The line is pretty obvious, however; as long as you’re hiking upward and staying near the ridge crest, you can’t go wrong. Good thing, too, as a heinous amount of deadfall had us weaving every which way. We were sporting dozens of new nicks and cuts by the time we finally emerged from treeline. Oh well. Bushwhacking builds character.

Dan enjoying the morning bushwhack.

Snow was unavoidable for a couple hundred feet after treeline, about six inches over slick tundra and wet rocks. This was the most tedious part of the route. Higher on the ridge the wind had blown it mostly clear, and in many ways it was reminiscent of summer. Dry tundra, T-shirts, sweat and size 14 boys jorts.

The walk to the summit probably took an hour longer than it should have thanks to the copious amount of Crestones photos that needed to be taken. Marble is a benevolent lump of tundra, requiring only a very minor false summit before the ridge ends in the true highpoint. After drooling over the Crestones all morning, we were pleasantly surprised to see that the views in the other directions were just as breathtaking.

Ben models his size 14 jorts while sizing up the Crestones.

Ben and Dan working their way up the East Ridge.

It was cool to see Dan reach the top. He hadn’t been on a high-altitude summit hike in nearly a year, and he wore a child-like expression of wonder on his face. It was a great reminder not to take these adventures for granted. Going out most weekends, it’s easy to lose perspective on what drew us to the hills in the first place. Dan’s awe and joy after a lengthy time away were palpable.

We lounged on the summit for about an hour, drinking a couple beers and watching a storm roll in over Kit Carson and the Crestones. If possible, the clouds made the Sangres even more beautiful.

Crestone Needle and Crestone Peak.

Summit shot. (L-R me, Ben, Dan.)

We started down the deceptively long ridge just as the first flurries were starting to fly. We stayed well ahead of the full brunt of the storm. Regardless, it was simply a tundra stroll back to treeline and the trail. Many stops were again necessary for even more photos of the Crestones.

With a light mist falling back at the truck, we decided to delay our planned post-hike beers until back in Westcliffe. South Colony Road was much rougher than I remembered, but we made it safely down the 2.5 miles to the 2WD trailhead without incident. We got to-go pizzas from Tony’s (the Western is the best BBQ chicken pizza I’ve ever had) and popped open our beers at an undisclosed and probably illegal location with great views of the Sangres. Great ending to a much-needed jaunt with old friends!

Pizza, beer and a fine view.

A Winter Preview on Quandary's West Ridge

Saturday was one of those times everything just comes together.

As of early afternoon Friday, I still had no idea what I wanted to hike over the weekend. I would have loved to make the 14ers.com Fall Gathering in Lake City, but with a three-day trip to Vegas right around the corner, I wanted to spend a bit of time Sunday at home with Kate, Remy, yardwork and Carolina Panthers football.

What I did have was interest from two of my favorite climbing partners, Ryan Kushner and Matt Speth. We bounced ideas back-and-forth until it seemed unlikely we’d ever reach a consensus. I was starting to resign myself to a mellow solo hike when a mutually interesting goal finally emerged: the West Ridge of Quandary Peak.

Quandary Peak - West Ridge

Ryan also recruited a few of his other friends, local climbing celebrities Alan Arnette (fresh back from success on K2), Jim Davidson (author of The Ledge) and Chris Tomer (FOX31/Channel 2 meteorologist). They agreed to join after their original goal of the Bells Traverse fell through due to last week’s snowfall. It was my first time hiking with all three of them, though I’ve rubbed shoulders and shaken hands at various events over the years.

We opted for a gentlemanly start of 8:30 a.m. Saturday. The route generally takes 6-8 hours roundtrip, and with no more fear of monsoonal thunderstorms, there wasn’t much reason to set an alarm for zero-dark-thirty. Ryan, Matt and I met Alan and Jim at the trailhead and decided to set up a car shuttle, leaving one vehicle at the base of the East Ridge and piling into the other to head to the Blue Lakes Dam near the start of the West Ridge.

The trail was mostly dry as we followed it up into a hanging basin toward the saddle between Quandary Peak and Fletcher Mountain. The majority of our time was spent discussing a potential fundraiser event and spying ice lines, which are starting to form all over the high country.

Ice is coming.

Chris was waiting for us on the saddle after starting early to tack on Fletcher Mountain. Most of the route came into view for the first time, with a largely mellow-looking ridge interrupted by a few daunting rock spires. The top -- and the route’s two cruxes -- remained out of sight beyond a false summit.

Easy scrambling and narrow Class 2 sections led to an old mining trail on the north side of the peak. I used the mental break to chat with Jim about The Ledge and reminisce with he and Speth about our Rainier experiences. Once over the dominant false summit, the cruxes came into view and our minds returned to the task at hand.

Taking shelter from the wind.

Speth skirting a rock spire.

Snow conditions dictated that we stick to the ridge. Easier options exist in the summer by dropping down a ways, but the mountains had received a decent dump of snow earlier in the week. The north face in particular looked almost winterish. With Alan, Ryan and Chris leading, we took turns negotiating several exposed Class 4 and 5.easy sections. The first summer “crux” was actually a nice break in the action. It was my first time on the route, and I naively thought we’d bypassed all the difficulties by the time the worst difficulties actually started around 14,000’.

After another short, narrow Class 2 ridge walk, we found ourselves going up and over several spires. The last one required a steep 15-foot  Class 4 downclimb with a couple long steps to reach the relative safety of a lofty notch. From there we could see the second summer crux, which was said to be the most difficult section of the route. We were well to climber’s right of it, on the ridge proper. An ascending traverse across snowy Class 3/4 ledges put us back on track right as the climbing laid back to easy Class 2 walking.

Me and Ryan on one of the climbing cruxes.
Photo by Chris Tomer.

The final section of ridge to the summit.

The wind had howled steadily between 15-25 miles per hour most of the day, and near the summit it nearly doubled. We staggered the last 100 yards to the highest point and gratefully cowered in a wind shelter to eat, drink and rest.

We stayed on top for about 15 minutes, snapping a couple group shots before heading down the standard East Ridge route. A few weeks had passed since I’d last visited the mountains, and seeing them coated with snow brought pure joy. Summer climbing is enjoyable in its own way, but I won’t miss the crowds. There’s also nothing more uplifting than looking out at a sea of white-capped peaks in all directions. It’s the definition of beauty.

Bring on the white stuff.

Ryan, Speth, Me, Chris, Alan and Jim on the summit.
Photo by Chris Tomer.

The walk down was uneventful. We encountered 15-20 other hikers making their way up or down the East Ridge, a far cry from the 100s that tackle Quandary every summer Saturday. The car shuttle ended up being a godsend, as most of us were pretty wiped from spending so much time in the wind on exposed terrain. Not to mention, my mountaineering boots had turned my feet to mush. It was my first time wearing anything but trail runners in months. Time to toughen up.

A familiar sight on Quandary.

It felt good to succeed on a fairly challenging route after a summer spent on Class 1, Class 2 and easy Class 3 peaks due to my ongoing recovery from shoulder surgery. It’s mostly a mental thing now, and Quandary’s West Ridge was a big step forward. I just hope I’ll be full-go by ice season, which looks to be starting here shortly...

#iceupson

#winteriscoming

Thanks for reading.

A Walk to Remember

Mt. Harvard - South Slopes

RT Distance: 14 miles
RT Gain: 4,600'
RT Time: 6.5 hours
Climber(s): Jeff (SurfNTurf)

Mt. Harvard has crooned its siren song in my direction all summer. Of all the 14ers, it was the one I’d least-recently visited, way back in March 2011. I’d also never seen Horn Fork Basin in summer, and because I’d forgotten my camera during that March excursion, Harvard was one of the few 14ers on which I lacked a summit photo. I’ve even toyed with the idea of writing a TR for every 14er. All of those reasons are good and all, but in the end, who needs an excuse to go hiking on a gorgeous summer Saturday?

I woke up at 2:30 a.m. to meet colokeith and a few others for a climb of Kendall Mountain. I’d only managed an hour or two of sleep, and I was so tired I actually felt nauseous. An apologetic text to Keith later, I was back in bed with a new alarm set for 5 a.m. Finally getting in my car, I had no firm idea of where I was going. The I-70/C-470 junction forced me into a decision. Knowing that the forecast in the Sawatch was best, and that Harvard was near the top of my list to repeat, I chose to head down to U.S. 285 and streak toward Buena Vista.

Arriving at an overflowing parking lot at 8 a.m. is an odd feeling. I was always a stickler for starting early, and I still am when it’s warranted, but the forecast was good and the plan was to move fast (for a hiker; I don’t usually run). It actually worked out pretty well. If you want some solitude on a summer 14er, just start super early or super late. I only saw 6-7 people all day until I caught the peloton just short of the summit block.

Walking along the initial trail was like a jaunt down memory lane. Sadly, many of the friends I made that weekend of the Winter Gathering 2011 aren’t around anymore. It was the first time I hiked with James Graham (aka Fletch, now living in California), who would go on to become one of my favorite partners. Terry Mathews, Jim DiNapoli and Steve Gladbach, all three of whom I was encountering for the first time, are no longer with us. I’ll never forget the feeling I had when Steve approached our tent. I was like a 14-year-old girl meeting Justin Bieber. It was my first winter camping trip, and Harvard/Columbia were only something like Nos. 15-16 on the 14ers list for me. I was new to the game, and Steve was a legend.

Because it turned into a reflective walk, I’m going to include some of Jim’s pictures from the March 2011 trip – with credit to the talented photographer, of course.

The trail was surprisingly flat, nothing like I remembered it was we snowshoed in at dusk with 60-pound packs three years prior. The miles melted away. It would be hard to get lost on the well-marked route, but when in doubt, take a right and follow signs for Horn Fork. Campsites start to appear pretty low and continue on up to the highest reaches of treeline. There are some gorgeous spots up there, and I saw a ton of people taking advantage of it. Horn Fork Basin is definitely going on my list of places for a summer overnight. Try as I might, I couldn’t identify the exact meadow that served as base in 2011. The trail seemed to stay too far to hiker’s left.

Breaking timberline, the well-defined trail remained fairly gradual. There are some sections where you have to walk through a veritable willow tunnel, but just look over your shoulder at the stunning views of Mt. Yale every few minutes and the misery will fade.

 

 

 

The route finally steepens at a rocky headwall. After talus hopping for a few hundred feet, you arrive back on a dirt path in a high upper basin. The remaining trail to the blocky summit becomes obvious. There’s a short reprieve on flat ground before it gets very steep as you slog up toward the ridge. I remembered this section being a moderate avalanche concern back in 2011. We took turns sprinting up to the ridge as fast as possible, and then followed the ridge proper instead of the trail down on the face.

About 500 feet short of the summit, I caught the main body of climbers. I’d almost thought Harvard wouldn’t be crowded. Wrong! The standard summer conga line ensued. It wasn’t too bad except for a bottleneck up the Class 2+/3 section right at the base of the summit. It was much more straightforward than my previous ascent, when snow covered the obvious path and we faced a terrifyingly exposed scramble to the top.

My goal had been to top out in three hours or less, but it took me roughly 3:15. I’m still carrying a bit of surgery weight and I haven’t gotten out as much as usual this summer. Ah well. Good motivation to train harder. I lingered on the summit for 20-30 minutes, snapped the coveted #summitselfie, and started down just as graupel was beginning to fall at 11:45 a.m.

As usual, once I finally gave in and put on my rain gear, the precipitation stopped within minutes. I thought about jogging down the trail to see what kind of RT time I was capable of, but I was enjoying the hike too much. Long-forgotten memories from 2011 came flooding back. It was great to remember friends and experiences that seem a lifetime ago. Not to mention, Horn Fork Basin is a pretty special place.

I returned to the car at 2:30 p.m., roughly 6.5 hours RT with a very casual descent pace. I had to stay in the hills (not complaining) to lead a Colorado Mountain Club hike Sunday, so after a pizza and a couple beers at Eddyline, I set up camp at the free dispersed sites across from the Avalanche Gulch TH. I sipped a few Dale’s, made a small fire, and read Anatoli Boukreev’s Above the Clouds in between periods of continued reflection. I’m a social hiker and I enjoy exploring the mountains with friends, but sometimes, a little solitude can cleanse the soul.  

 

Mt. Adams: Adams Glacier (Grade III, Steep Snow, AI2)

Adams Glacier (North Face), Mt. Adams.

Mt. Adams (12,276’) is known as “Washington’s Forgotten Mountain.” Less than 50 miles from the legendary Mt. Rainier, poor Adams is often lost in the shadow of its larger cousin. It doesn’t help that the standard South Side walk-up route is the Pacific Northwest equivalent of Quandary’s East Ridge, one of the easiest climbs to the top of a major Cascade peak. Mountaineers are quick to dismiss Adams. Even Mt. Hood, more than 1,000 feet lower, garners more attention.

But for those willing to venture to the more remote North Side, the second-highest mountain in Washington offers bountiful rewards. The crown jewel is the Adams Glacier, a tortured 4,000-foot icefall that requires diligent routefinding, steep snow climbing and several pitches of alpine ice. Sam and I began targeting this climb in early 2014.

We departed Denver at 10:20 a.m. Sunday, June 29. The original plan was to have a leisurely day Sunday, hike in Monday and summit Tuesday. Record-breaking high temperatures in Washington on Monday/Tuesday, complete with overnight lows in the upper 40s, spooked us into an audible. Falling rock and ice, tumbling seracs and collapsing snow bridges already had us worried enough; we didn’t need those threats amplified by baking heat.

Instead, we rushed straight from the airport to the trailhead, beginning the approach hike at 5:45 p.m. Sunday. As luck would have it, a snow drift blocked the otherwise dry road about two miles from the proper trailhead. Hooray for impromptu road slogs! At least the promise of a solid overnight freeze partially allayed our fears. The negative was we had to stop about 500 feet short of our planned campsite due to impending darkness.

Here we experienced another setback. Despite brand new batteries and being in lock mode during travel, both of our Black Diamond Storm headlamps died almost immediately. I still don’t know what went wrong. I carry a spare 35-lumen Black Diamond Gizmo in my emergency kit, but that wasn’t going to do us much good trying to negotiate a tricky route in the dark. We agreed to start around first light at 4:30 a.m. instead of the normal 2-3 a.m.

We followed a patchy trail past the traditional camping area and slogged toward the start of the glacier at around 8,000’. As with most of the Pacific Northwest volcanoes, the scale on Adams is immense. Features we thought we’d reach in 15 minutes took 45. We eventually found ourselves roping up about two hours after setting out, just as the sun was starting to hit the upper glacier.

Sam about to start up the initial steep snow slope.

The climb started with 45-degree snow slope followed by a 50-degree chute of hard snow, which had been called the crux by prior trip reports. The normal line stays right up most of the glacier, followed by a long traverse left to access the summit plateau. Tracks from a Sunday party veered left way early, and having spoken to them on their way out, we knew they were successful. A teetering serac looming over the right-hand option convinced us to follow the bootpack left. This option immediately led to much more technical terrain.

The Adams Glacier is described as a moderate-to-steep snow climb with perhaps a few steeper sections of alpine ice, depending on varying conditions from year to year. Most guidebooks put the maximum angle at 45- to 50-degrees. The left-hand line, however, put us on a rolling hump of 55- to 60-degree neve and alpine ice. In some areas the ice probably touched 65 degrees. We were comfortable simul-climbing it, with the expectation the steep stuff would only come in short bursts punctuated by moderately angled snow. We couldn’t have been more wrong.

The middle of the route was a sustained 500-foot section that never relented to less than 50 degrees. The only rest we found was a T-slot someone had chopped out for a belay. With some careful maneuvering, we were able to sit in it for a few minutes to eat, drink and rest our screaming calves.

Simul-climbing steep alpine ice (AI2).

Finally, just when I thought my calves were going to start cramping, the angle laid back. We were able to walk again rather than frontpointing. Hallelujah. Of course, we still had about 1,000 feet to go over snow bridges, under seracs and around crevasses, and the day was becoming stiflingly hot. Our tensions were eased, however, by the end of technical difficulties and the mostly obvious route to safety.

We took the time to admire the stunning environment. Glaciers have to be among the prettiest natural places on earth, and our previously neglected cameras found themselves in overdrive. Some of the crevasse and serac formations high on the route were simply spectacular.

A final challenge was presented in a heavily broken section directly underneath the largest serac band on the face. We nervously crossed a few thin, sketchy snow bridges and had to reverse a couple times when we came upon an insurmountable gap, but before too long we’d escaped the threat of the ice cliff and were starting up the mellow unbroken snow slopes to the summit plateau.

Crossing a thin snow bridge.

The Amphitheatre Crevasse.

The final slopes, though completely safe, brought their own degree of difficulty. What we’d thought all day was the summit turned out to be a very minor subpeak, and a second false summit taunted us as well. We took a long break to eat, drink and improve morale. The true summit eventually made itself known when we saw small dots of people who had come up the South Side.

Like on Mt. Hood in 2013, I was lucky enough to enjoy a bluebird summit with clear views and no wind. Rainier was just to the north, with the Kautz Route (our next objective) obviously visible. Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson and the Three Sisters were all easy to make out to the south, along with the remnants of Mt. Saint Helens to the west. We only shared the top with about four or five other people during our 45-minute vigil.

I'm getting paid for this, right?

Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson and the Three Sisters.

#summitselfie

The descent was via the infamous North Ridge, a steep and sometimes exposed cleaver of shattered pumice. It ended up not being all that bad, probably because we were able to stay on snow most of the way. Even the few sections of rock we negotiated weren’t as terrible as advertised. I guess us Coloradans cutting our teeth in the crumbling Rockies translates well to other areas, haha.

We bailed off the ridge about three-quarters of the way down, glissading a gully to reach our morning tracks. An hour-long walk saw us returned to camp, but relief was not to be had. The previous night had been cold enough to ward off another huge negative aspect of this route: mosquitos. Now, in the early evening of a muggy day, they were out in full force.

The sheer number of the damn things was mindblowing. At times it was hard to inhale without swallowing one or more. Sam had bought some Jungle Juice (98% deet), which the salesman said was illegal in some stores and and should be applied conservatively. He suggested a dab or two on a bandana should do the trick. Having done this and still wearing a coat of bloodsuckers, we threw caution to the wind and showered ourselves in the toxic liquid. It still didn’t really help.

Seeking relief, we dove into the tiny Black Diamond Firstlight tent and stripped down to our skivvies to make the heat tolerable. It was extremely romantic. We passed a long few hours until nightfall, boiling in our own juices, counting the mosquitoes on the tent wall and trying not to touch each other. I escaped the tent to take some sunset photos and melt more snow once the temperature dropped and the buzzing assholes disappeared.

Camp at sunset 6.30.14.

Not to worry! They were back with a vengeance the following morning, even at the early hour of 6 a.m. We packed our gear as fast as we could and got the hell out of there. The hike out went fairly quick to the actual trailhead, but the remaining two-mile road slog to the rental car was soul-crushing. What had appeared flat on the hike in turned out to be largely uphill on the return. We probably gained 500 feet on the way out in the rising heat of one of the hottest Washington days on record.

On to the next one.

The sufferfest was worth it when we rolled in to Morton, Wash., just in time for the USA vs. Belgium soccer match at The Bucksnort Pub. It took a little charm to get the bartender to warm up to the two smelly cityfolk asking to watch a Euro girl-sport, but after a while she and the other bar patron at 1 p.m. on a Tuesday, a fellow called simply Skeeter, embraced us like old friends. The beer probably helped. We even summoned the courage to order burgers after about an hour.

All in all, the Adams Glacier was an amazing route that was definitely one of the finest of our lives. Surely our next objective, the Kautz Glacier on Mt. Rainier, would be a comparative cakewalk. We even had two full days to recover! Basking in the afterglow of Mt. Adams and regarding Rainier as halfway in the bag, we contentedly passed the next 48 hours visiting the Wylam family in Centralia, Wash., and putzing around the touristy areas of Seattle. As it turns out, the Kautz wouldn’t be so easy...

Time To Climb

"Write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know." - Ernest Hemingway

Most writing, especially that by mountaineers, fails to follow this simple mantra. The essence of an experience is often lost somewhere between the rampant self-delusion, passive-aggressive posturing and bleeding need for external reinforcement. That's why the question of "why we climb" is often impossible to answer. I'm not trying to point fingers. I am as guilty as any, if not a chief offender. 

My goal for this blog post is to write one true sentence. And then another. And then maybe a couple more.

Sam and I leave tomorrow for a week in the Pacific Northwest. I'm more nervous than I've ever been before a climbing trip. Neither of the routes we're planning is particularly harrowing, but compared with my past resume, they'll rank among the toughest of my life. The difference between those previous endeavors and the present is that I now have something to lose. For the first time, I'm truly happy -- happy enough to have an eye toward the future.

I have the love and support of a woman who makes me smile every hour of every day, even when she's being purposely difficult; a dog that makes me feel like the center of a universe; dozens of great friends who could keep me partying eight nights a week if I let them; a relationship with my parents that's finally starting to make me feel like a respectable adult; two great jobs and a million other positive influences.

I used to climb to fill a hole in my being. I craved respect. I needed to prove to myself and others what I was worth. I wanted girls to swoon over me and men to want to be me. It's a harsh self-critique, but it's real. A few true sentences. I suspect I'm far from the only climber who's had such a mindset.

I don't need that anymore. Somewhere over the past year, I moved past it. I view life through a new filter. 

The deaths of those six climbers on Liberty Ridge in early June hit home like never before. I found myself reading all about them, browsing their Facebook pages, peering through a partially cracked window into the world they left behind. They not only lost their lives, but shattered dozens that surrounded them. For what?

Death in climbing has touched me more than most. I've seen what it does to families, and I've personally experienced the heartbreak of lost friends. Loved ones can display incredible strength, picking up the pieces and stitching their wounds as best they can, but no one can fully recover from such trauma. The thought of my family going through that makes me sick.

The Adams Glacier, and to a lesser extent the Kautz Glacier, include sections where we'll be sticking our necks out. No matter the skill or speed we possess, if a block of ice breaks away at the wrong time, it's curtains. For months I've struggled with this thought. If that's the case, why bother at all? What draws the human spirit to deadly challenges?

Life contains a surplus of everyday joys: season finales, family get-togethers, boozy weekends, promotions, vacations, kisses, hugs, laughs. I can't speak for anyone but myself, but forays into the mountains amplify the feelings associated with these wonderful moments a hundredfold. It's like taking an old black-and-white photograph and colorizing it. From atop a lofty mountain summit, especially one that was hard-won, you view not only the endless countryside but also the depths of the human experience. You can see forever, including inward.

I'm nervous. It's a familiar feeling that will fall away as soon as Sam and I are tied into a rope, staring up the 5,000-foot icefall that is the Adams Glacier. With every swing of the ax, kick of the feet and friendly joke, the world will become more colorful.

We are prepared, we are able and -- I've failed to mention through all this -- extremely excited. It's going to be the trip of a lifetime. Something to tell the grandkids about. Feeling a little anxious isn't a bad thing; it's when you get too cocky that you get into trouble. Time to go to work.

Jeff

Chasing Ice: A Dress Rehearsal

MOUNTAIN: Longs Peak
ROUTE: Flying Dutchman (Steep Snow, WI2)
RT GAIN: ~4,100'
RT DISTANCE: ~11 miles
RT TIME: 10 hours
CLIMBERS: Keegan, Sam, Jeff


Sam, Keegan and I had never climbed together as a team. Keegan had a little jaunt to Alaska to worry about, I was recovering from shoulder surgery and #SSSala was always busy trolling Facebook. With only two weeks before our trip to the Pacific Northwest, we figured at least one dress rehearsal probably wouldn’t be the stupidest thing we’ve ever done.

We settled on the Flying Dutchman because it replicates what we’ll be facing up in Washington (Kautz and Adams Glaciers) -- a multi-hour approach, steep snow and a brief section of WI2/3. The Dutchman ended up being one of my all-time favorite routes. Better yet, we spent the day in solitude while party after party swarmed Dreamweaver. As an extra bonus, if you're a teenage French-Canadian, you can climb it in tennis shoes!

We set off from the trailhead a little after 5 a.m. and reached Chasm Junction on a dry trail in about two hours. I’d been up that way several times before, but somehow this was my first trip ever taking a left and heading toward Chasm Lake. Always love treading new ground. Snow patches began to appear, but most of the route remained dry and easy to follow. We crossed around the left side of the lake on boulders and snow to arrive at the base of the route.

 
By the time we’d taken a break, geared up and discussed tactics, it was about 9:15 a.m. We decided to rope up from the start to practice glacier travel and pacing. Sam was to lead, so we saddled him with all the gear and rejoiced as our backpacks dropped dramatically in weight.

The fun started from the get-go with a small, low-angle ice and mixed patch  to enter the couloir proper. From there it’s an ever-steepening snow climb up about 1,000-1,200 feet to the ice crux. I’d estimate it started around 40 degrees and maxed out at 55 or 60 degrees on the WI2 step. Sam carried a couple pickets for protection, but we never felt the need to place any. We pulled off to the rocks a couple times when a good rest ledge presented itself, belaying each other in and out.

Finally, the ice step appeared. We weren’t really sure what to expect and were thrilled to find what looked like good ice, though a bit sunny and wet. It was much shorter and lower angle than we were anticipating. A few sticks saw us over and back onto lower-angle snow. Sam briefly considered building an anchor for a proper belay, but it looked easy enough that we just simul-climbed it. Sam placed two cams (one below, one above the ice step) and a picket for peace of mind. It was my first time swinging tools since shoulder surgery in January, and even though I was horribly inefficient, the stoke levels were off the charts. 

We reached the exit and regrouped on easier terrain at 12 p.m. The wind had been annoying all day, and now dark clouds were building to the northwest. None of us really cared all that much about a summit after having so much fun on the route. With burgers and beers at Oskar Blues beckoning, we unroped and set off down Lambslide. The snow was still hard enough to warrant crampons. No glissade, unfortunately.

The Chasm Lake cirque is simply stellar. I found myself stopping every few minutes to just stop and look around. You hear about all these famous features, but it’s a totally different experience when you see them in person, close enough you can almost reach out and touch. We went around the opposite bank of Chasm Lake this time, hoping for good views of the Dutchman. We weren’t disappointed.

The rest of the walk was pretty uneventful, with each of us retreating into our own thoughts (mostly of bacon cheeseburgers and Dale’s) for the slog out. The snow is melting quickly up there. Go get after it while you can!  

Gear Review: First Ascent Alchemist 30L

One thing I've never understood about gear reviews: most of them are done by people who just received the product and haven't put it through any paces. They cut the tags off, try it on, zip and unzip a few zippers and suddenly they're experts. I get it, the company probably sent you their hot new item for free and expects a timely write-up in exchange. That also means the review is almost certainly going to be positive. It only makes sense to keep that pipeline of free gear open, right?

I'm not going to review any item I haven't personally used for at least a month. In fact, to start off, I'm going to break down a backpack I've owned for nearly two years: the First Ascent Alchemist 30 (Retail: $129).

Alchemist 30 on Blanca Peak in winter

I'm what many would call a pack whore. I own and consistently use six, ranging from 9L to 60L. Each has a niche, but none matches the versatility of the Alchemist 30, by far the backpack I find myself reaching for the most.

I worked at Eddie Bauer for about a year in 2012-13. Obviously, I had the opportunity to inspect the company's packs in detail. To be honest, with exceptions, many of them felt like the designers were trying too hard. There were too many features, too many gimmicks, too much weight and too bright of a color scheme. The reviewed pack's big brother, the Alchemist 40, is a chief offender.

While the Alchemist 30 might be guilty of color options that could cause seizures in children (...that limeade...), it remains blissfully unmarred by the other aforementioned flaws. It's like Eddie Bauer made the Alchemist 40, cut away all the junk, and the more more effective 30-liter version was what remained.

Here are the roles the Alchemist 30 fills for me:

• Spring Couloirs
• Short Winter Dayhikes
• Long Summer Dayhikes
• Ice Cragging

That's impressive considering that each of my other five packs only has a niche or two. If I was starting over and could only afford one, the Alchemist 30 is what I'd buy.

My favorite feature is the quick-release tool carry. Flipping an ice ax in and out of a traditional loop can be a pain, especially on steep slopes. This system eliminates that hassle and keeps the sharp picks of ice tools hidden under a layer of fabric.

The interior organizer pockets are among the best I've seen. The Alchemist 30 swallows avy gear and bulky winter/spring layers with ease, and it's not hard to keep track of where everything's stashed. How many other packs can carry an avalanche shovel so well you almost forget it's there?

Other technical bonuses are gear loops on the hip belt (double as ice ax holsters if you briefly need your hands) and exterior side pockets perfectly suited to carrying pickets or wands. Several online reviews decry the exterior side pockets for not being large enough to carry a Nalgene, but that's not the point. This is a climbing pack.

Speaking of hydration, the bladder sleeve, tube exit hole and shoulder straps are designed pretty standard to support a Camelbak-type system. The tube exit hole can be a bit difficult to locate, but that's a non-issue after the first time. Eddie Bauer says the side pockets can also carry skis. I can't speak to that. There are several ways to strap on snowshoes, though.

I haven't used the Alchemist 30 in a rain storm (I live in Colorado, after all), but otherwise the ripstop material has impressed. It sheds snow well, and the pack still looks new-ish despite two years of being dragged abrasively across rock and ice.

It only comes in one size, so your mileage may vary in this regard, but the Alchemist 30 is the most comfortable pack I own. Pain between the shoulder-blades is a rarity, and it has never chafed my hips like several of my other backpacks. It somehow manages to make 25-pound loads feel like 10-pound loads.

Alchemist 30 performing well on a late fall dayhike

Not everything about this pack is positive. The four plastic external "hidden" gear clips are too hidden to be of any use. I tried rigging a system to carry crampons there, but cut it away after it almost resulted in a lost crampon.

The Alchemist 30, like many FA packs, is on the heavy side. At 4lbs 3oz, it's a full pound heavier than the comparable and larger Osprey Variant 37. It's almost double the weight of the average (admittedly less fully featured) 30-liter pack. The plus side is it carries that weight so well it's hardly noticeable.

Finally, part of me wishes the Alchemist 30 had a top-lid to make carrying a rope easier, but that would add even more weight and the wide-mouth entry system is pretty handy. I think I'd be happy either way.

So, what would I rate the Alchemist 30? Rather than assign an arbitrary number from zero to 10 or 100, I'll end all my gear views with the following simple question:

Would I recommend the First Ascent Alchemist 30 to a loved one? Yes.