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.

Father Dyer Peak (13,615') and Crystal Peak (13,852') - Attempt

Seeing others out there enjoying couloir season was excruciating. It's my favorite time year, the two months when ice axes and crampons are actually useful in Colorado. I put it off as long as I could, but I finally couldn't take it anymore. My shoulder is healing quickly and the time had come to at least try a nice, mellow 30ish-degree climb.

I rounded up some partners at the 14ers.com happy hour and we were on our way to Breckenridge at 4:30 a.m. Sunday, May 4. The Dyer Straits route on Father Dyer Peak and Crystal Peak is rated a *Classic* in Gerry Roach's 13ers guidebook, with a few hundred feet of moderate snow-climbing in a gorgeous hanging amphitheater. It's been on my list for years.

Bill and Tony have joined me on countless adventures, and Shara, who's new to the state, would be attempting her first climb at altitude. It was a great crew for a leisurely day on a fun route.

We set off from the Spruce Gulch TH at 6:30 a.m. Bill and I started with snowshoes, but they were more hindrance than help on the extremely hard-packed snow. We felt comfortable ditching them after a quarter-mile. The forecast was for very warm temperatures and moderate wind, which seemed to hold true early in the day. We stripped down to T-shirts the minute the sun hit us and the wind was hardly noticeable below treeline.

T-shiiiiiiirt Tiiiiiiiime

The breeze picked up a bit as we emerged from treeline near Francie's Cabin, a luxurious backcountry abode maintained by Summit Huts. We were thankful for the wind at the time. It would keep the snow from heating up and dry the sweat-bullets that dripped from our brows. Occasional strong gusts were annoying, but if that's all we would have to deal with, it was destined to be a fantastic day.

We followed a solid ski track to keep from sinking into the snow and made steady progress to the lefthand turnoff just south of Lower Crystal Lake. Into the hanging basin we climbed, connecting patches of dry ground and ankle-deep snow. The Dyer Straits finally came into view as we rounded a corner, which should have been an exciting moment. Instead, our hopes were sapped.

Father Dyer (center) and Crystal (right)

Heading into the hanging basin

Dyer Straits

Spindrift -- swirling tornadoes of loose snow -- danced along our entire route. The gusts were moving several inches of powder onto our line, stacking it on top of the firm spring layer and increasing the avalanche danger. To add insult to misery, the wind chose this moment to really start kicking. It slammed us in bursts up to 40 miles per hour, occasionally knocking us off balance. Still, if we could claw (literally) our way up to the ridge, there was a chance we'd reach a windblock and calmer conditions.

Tony and I set off in front, hugging the extreme lefthand slope of the Dyer Straits, which appeared shallower and safer. By connecting rock islands and staying on firm snow we managed to avoid significant avalanche danger. Still, we didn't spend much time dallying, making as quick a sprint as we could for the safety of the ridgeline. Our hopes were dashed again when we reached it. The wind had built to a sustained 25-30 miles per hour, with gusts to 45 or 50. Worse, it wasn't coming from any one direction. The swirling wind meant a windblock would be unlikely, and we'd be exposed to it for another couple hours as we traversed ridgelines to Father Dyer and Crystal. After a short discussion, Tony and I decided to head down.

Conditions continued to deteriorate. We were hit several times by spindrift so intense that they were basically miniature 10-second whiteouts. All we could do was slam our axes into the snow and hunker over them, waiting for the bastard to pass.

Looking down from near the top of the Straits

Retreating from the wind

Back on safer ground, the wind continued to prevent much of a break. We opted to high-tail it down to try and find a more pleasant resting place. That didn't come until we came upon the ruins of an old mining cabin at Lower Crystal Lake. Even hunkered behind this supposed shelter, it was an unpleasant stop. The one good thing the wind did for us was keep the surface layer of the snow firm. We were able to make a hasty retreat to treeline without any postholing. That's a rare treat on a spring afternoon, especially sans snowshoes.

The attempt was technically a failure, but none of us saw it that way. Shara shattered her old altitude record, reaching about 13,200' for the first time in her life. Tony and I did in fact climb the Dyer Straits route to the top, we just didn't go to the summit. Not to mention my shoulder felt great on moderate snow with almost no pain or discomfort. Finally, Bill and I got the workouts we both desperately needed as we whip ourselves back into shape after winter injuries. Summit or no, I'd call that a successful day.

Parry Peak (13,392') via Mt. Bancroft

On Saturday, I touched my first real summit since mid-January: 13,392-foot Parry Peak. It wasn’t a super emotional moment, to be honest. I was only sidelined about 12 weeks, which is absolutely nothing compared with most surgeries. If I’d had an ACL tear or a rotator cuff injury, my recovery time would have doubled or even tripled. I have nothing but respect and well wishes for anyone out there suffering through much worse.

Reaching the top also wasn’t a huge leap in my progression. It was the product of weeks of physical therapy and smaller hikes, including one to 12,100’ in the same general area. Still, it was an ethereal feeling to once again stand on an alpine summit, with miles and miles of unobstructed views of the mountains I love.

James Peak and Rocky Mountain National Park

I couldn’t have asked for a better crew. Kate and I had planned this hike for a week or two, but our friends James, Paige and Ben joined at the last minute. It was especially good to spend time with James, who will be moving to California in June.

We rendezvoused at the trailhead outside of Alice, Colo., a bit after 7 a.m. I hadn’t done much research, but I’d climbed adjacent Mt. Bancroft via the classic and technical East Ridge a couple years ago. I knew the Southeast Ridge of Bancroft was super mellow, and from the Bancroft summit Parry Peak was only a hop, skip and a jump away. 

My estimated time for the trip was six hours. Needless to say I was surprised to be staggering back to the car, utterly exhausted, nearly nine hours later. This was mostly my fault, as the required distance was much longer than I'd anticipated – somewhere between 10 and 12 miles. We also spent a lot of time socializing and lollygagging on summits.

At any rate, the weather was pretty darn good for mid-April. It was overcast and slightly windy as Sunday’s impending storm rolled in, but the temperature was downright balmy, skyrocketing into the 40s.

We snowshoed up a Forest Service Road to Loch Lomond, then traversed over Bancroft’s East Ridge to the plateau dominated by Lake Caroline. We gratefully stashed our snowshoes here, as the rest of the hike looked mostly dry. The route circled the bottom of Lake Caroline until we ascended a mellow slope to the crest of the Southeast Ridge. From there, it was a simple ridge walk on snow, tundra and talus to Bancroft’s summit.

False summit of Mt. Bancroft

Happy pups on the final snow slope up Mt. Bancroft

After a long break, we set off for the true goal of the day, ranked 13er Parry Peak. The connecting ridge went quick and easy, with the most interesting part coming near the top of Parry where one has to angle left around a large cornice. We found a safe line without much trouble and enjoyed the warm, windless summit. Our stay was cut short by darkening clouds.

The snow storm held nicely, however, and we took another extended break during our re-summit of Bancroft. Following the path of some skiers, we decided to descend straight down a moderate snow slope to Lake Caroline, rather than retrace our steps along the undulating Southeast Ridge. James glissaded, but I’m still babying my shoulder and the rest of the group joined me in plunge-stepping down. This decision saved us at least half an hour. 

Me, Remy and Kate on Parry Peak

The gang on Mt. Bancroft (again)

Parry Peak, from Mt. Bancroft

Unfortunately, James wasn’t wearing gaiters and his calves got pretty badly scraped when his pant legs slid up while glissading on neve. I got to put my recently acquired Wilderness First Aid certification to use patching him up. I’ll send him the bill for the gauze and bandages.

We located our snowshoe stash and staggered back down the road to the trailhead. Below treeline, the wind died completely and we baked in the afternoon heat. It was the first time since October I felt comfortable in only baselayers. We finally reached the cars, much more tired than expected, at about 4:15 p.m. James rushed home to tend his wounds, while I enjoyed a burger the size of my head with Kate, Ben and Paige at Capitol Grille in Golden.

Patching up James

With another recovery milestone reached, my plan is now to continue mellow 13ers in the coming weeks. The hope is to get on more interesting stuff by about mid-May. I need to get reacquainted with steep snow and a heavy pack before my trip to the Pacific Northwest in early July, but for now I’m content with whipping my fat ass back into shape and enjoying time with friends in the hills. Thanks to James, Kate, Ben, Paige and the pups for an awesome day.