7/3/14
‘This fucking
mountain is going to swallow me!’ I thought, as my legs flailed wildly
attempting to run in nothing but thin air.
My waist continued to disappear.
In to the mouth of the glacial boa constrictor now unhinging its jaws
and working its way to my chest. My body
had not spared the adrenaline, flooding my entire body with whatever it had
held in reserve. Normally I was a burn
out when it came to epinephrine release, never getting much in any situation no
matter the intensity. My primal instincts took over. Between fight, and flight I had chosen
flight. The wrong answer in matters that
involve a higher level neurologic function for survival.
 |
| Snow bridge I fell through on the left |
Chris, my
climbing partner, and I set out at about 04:30. Dad stayed behind with
Alfreda, my trusty great Dane/best friend, and operated the base camp.
Chris was excited. The kind of excited that can only be compared to a kid
on Christmas morning.
Chris is 6’2”
with short black hair, and a pasty complexion.
His lean and muscular Ichabod Crane body suits him. He is by far one of the kindest individuals I
have ever encountered, though his reputation to be quick to anger is somewhat
legendary. For a stoner, he is by far
one of the most productive members of society I have ever met. His focus to detail is impressive, almost
bordering on obsessive. I have rarely
met someone who researches gear as thoroughly, though sometimes his indecision
can delay necessary purchases. When we
arrived at the base of the mountain we took the same parking space we used before.
That expedition was thwarted by rain that could only be understood by someone if
they had spent a rainy season in the PNW.
 |
| Chris above the last ski lift and silcox hut |
We set out at 4:30 AM. Our start time delayed because of a heavy rain
storm moving through towards the south. I got the weather via text from
my friend, an accomplished airline pilot, he said the lightning would cross
south of us and that a summit attempt was reasonable. I was glad to have
his input, his aviation experience gave him insight in to inclement weather
conditions. Better still he didn’t give a shit one way or the as far as a
summit bid was concerned. In a region with unpredictable weather, an
objective third party is critical to promote safety via objectivity. This
was especially true during the time of year we were climbing, admittedly the
most unorthodox time of year to try for the summit. We left the bus fully
cocooned in our rain gear.
 |
| Me looking south towards Jefferson |
As we passed the point where we turned back last time Chris told me he knew
he had to come with me.
“I knew you would
just go by yourself”, he said.
He told
me that when I asked for my extra gear back, he knew I was planning to go.
We reached the 8,500ft (2590.8M) mark now past
the well-traveled slopes. When we hit the 10,000ft (3048M) mark I
squeezed my hand. My fingers possessed a lovely sausage like quality.
No longer the slender and dexterous violin
playing digits that were they at lower elevations. Normally I noticed
this physiologic change at about 7,850ft.
I looked at Chris when we crested the first ridge, and asked him to make
a fist.
He had never experienced
altitude related physiologic change before.
He quickly noticed his sausage fingers with a big smile, a chuckle and a
“fucking far out man!”
We continued on
our way. Both of us living at sea level, the altitude gain was
significant. A decreased atmospheric pressure resulting in increased
capillary permeability, was a wondrous phenomenon.
Pretty “fucking far out”, I thought.
 |
| South view of Jefferson, verga and rainbows. |
We had seen three climbers on the way back while still on the well-traveled
slopes. They all had turned around because of the storm. On the
ridge at 10,000ft we met two climbers descending from a successful summit
bid. They were very pleasant, and we had a nice visit. The first
climber was very informative.
Full of
technical data. He seemed embarrassed that they had roped up for the high
portion of the climb. They unroped at around 10,500ft (3200.4M). He
told us that "some of the ice bridges over the deep crevasses were very
soft." I looked at him, "its free to use the rope that you
already carried up, death is a high price for pride" I said. This only
reinforced my plan for us to rope up well before we reached the first
crevasse. A decision which would pay big dividends later. We met up
with two other climbers from England. They had no experience with
climbing in ice, or snow. They carried a rope, but were not roped, they
carried helmets, but were not wearing them. One of the climbers remarked
that they had "never had water on their climbing boots before."
I thought, and then remarked to Chris “how embarrassing it would be to be found
dead in a crevasse with a neatly coiled rope, and safety equipment in your back
pack?”
We roped up before the steeper
portion of the ascent, and ice bridges, began.
We entered some loose snow fall adjacent to a fumarole, where a crevasse
extended laterally feathering out and disappearing under the deep snow and ice
of the glacier we were crossing.
Around
us perpetual avalanches echoed through the caldera, as seracs, stones, and lacey
powder cornices freed themselves from the vertical walls of the crater and came
crashing down.
 |
| Steel cliffs with active avalanches |
 |
| Avalanche path from a huge boulder |
The sounds blended
together and echoed through the bowl, making it hard to tell which event was
giving birth to which sound.
Chris was
in the lead.
Tied off with a tail, a
figure eight on a follow through around the waist linked to his packs main
waist strap by a 28 kilo newton binner. He had not yet gotten around to buying
a harness, far too much information to compare still before he could make a choice.
He crossed, while I sat anchored to the other side, once he had crossed I
directed him to anchor and started towards him. I thought about how silly
we were being, silly and over cautious. New to ice and glaciers, my green
was showing through. Maybe the climber we had talked to was right to be
embarrassed. I should have been living in the present moment.
 |
| Scree path to the fumarole |
 |
| Snow bridge across the fumarole |
 |
| Fumarole #1 |
Mid way though crossing the bridge my right leg sank over the shin in to,
what I thought, was loose snow.
How
wrong I was. I took a wide stride with my left leg, thinking I could
avoid this loosely packed spot. My left leg pushed down. I thought
my right leg would pull free. I gripped my axe tightly, as my left leg
sank to the hip. Instinct took over.
I pushed down hard with my right foot. My right leg finished going
through the snow bridge, or what was left of it, and I was over waist deep in
snow.
I was at face level to the
grade.
My eyes and brain now keenly
aware of what was going on. My feet dangled in to the thin air
below. Kicking wildly at first, and then stopping immediately as my brain
took over. I dug my axe in deep, and as far in front of me as possible, as
still as a dear in the headlights I assessed my situation. "Chris
dig in!” I shouted, as I thrust my hands out in front of me clinging
desperately to either end of my axe holding it horizontally to avoid sinking
further digging it in as deeply as possible to the snow which was now
threatening to finish swallowing me whole. I could smell the sulfur
dioxide percolating up from below now.
The
unmistakable smell of rotten eggs filled my nostrils. I thought about the
obligations that would go unfulfilled if I fell to my end.
Most of them were not things I had been
looking forward to anyway.
A stupid grin
crossed my face. Jokes on them, I thought. Chris dug in.
I hoped he would be solid enough. I
pulled gently on the rope. Working my axe to purchase some traction I
slowly crawled out of the icy quick sand.
We should have worked on digging in before starting our ascent, but I
thought there would be more time. There was not. But wasn’t that
always the way?
 |
| Fumarole #2 |
We continued on our ascent past the first fumarole. The smell of
sulfur dioxide was overpowering in the still air, nauseating. The micro
bursts and down drafts of the encroaching weather patterns had made the air
stagnant.
There was a flat space to
rest, this is where several climbers had met their fate. The sulfur gas
makes a poor substitute for oxygen, even in the open craters of the
volcano. In the still spaces, and in the crevasses, the sulfur dioxide
turns in to sulfuric acid when inhaled damaging lung tissue.
Resulting in swelling, fluid secretion and
ultimately hypoxia. We continued on to the next ridge. On the 1M
wide ridge we threaded our way between the two large volcanic vents.
Bald domes, adorned with bright sulfurous
yellow haloes. The nearby boulders, some new debris, were speckled yellow by
periodic jets of sulfur.
 |
| Fumarole #2 |
One vent to the east, one to the west, and the summit lay ahead protected by
a tremendous crevasse. In front of us a large slab of rock and ice separated
from the head wall. As it crashed down the near vertical slope a river of ice
and rock followed. With a thunderous roar the slide continued down slope
in to, the maw of the crevasse.
 |
| Pearly Gates to the right, our route to the left |
The massive gap in the glacial face of
the mountain sat, its self, atop a vent effervescing smaller amounts of
sulfur and other gasses in to the air. The flow, carrying ice blocks the
size of refrigerators, and stones the size of a VW bug, filled a corner of the
fissure. Which was a hundred yards long, and at least twenty wide.
The vent was blocked temporarily.
 |
| Steel cliffs above fumarole #1 |
I pulled the monocular out and glassed for a potentially safer route.
The more common 'pearly gates' route, our original plan, was no longer an
option. I found a route which would lead us through the west fumarole, up
the slope over a yellow sulfur stained patch of scree, and then finally to the
ice/snow wall that was 780ft (237.744M), and about a 60-65degrees angle.
We resolved that rather than following the well-traveled route, up the ridge
ahead, past the west side of the large crevasse and then up slope. We
would mitigate the danger of being caught in a slide, by skirting the slide
area by about a quarter of a mile (402.336M). We crossed several more
fissures using the, now softening, ice bridges. We watched the vents as
they emitted plumes of sulfur dioxide, steam, and god only knows what kind of
other gasses in to the air. The big vents melted the snow away, leaving
only the yellow tinged rocks, and a bald dome exposed amidst the sea of snow
and ice on which we traveled. The small vents were indeed another matter, extensions
of the larger vents, they hid themselves in the crevasses awaiting the foolish
climber who did not rope up. Falling down a crevasse, a small one anyway,
it is not the fall that is the problem. In a small crevasse the climber
is soon caved in upon by the slushy ice and snow above that gave way.
This drowns the climber, or simply causes asphyxiation by pressure. If
that is not enough, it is likely that the flow of sulfur dioxide would
eventually irreparably damage the lungs anyway. The moral of the story? I like
my rope and harness.
 |
| Old Chute route, avalanches on either side |
We arrived at the bald cap of the vent, which we quickly hurried to the top
of. Horary for being up wind! We had arrived. The base of the
last vertical push, which would yield the summit. Thus far only the two
climbers we encountered who were roped up had attained the 'glory' of the
summit that day. There were some footsteps meekly kicked in to the side
of the ice wall. Chris took the lead. I worked rope lengths with
him. We headed up the center of the wall, with two large cornices and
walls of rock and ice to the east and west of us, in the center there was the
knife edge summit, less than meter wide. Two weeks before us a man, an
experienced climber, had reached the summit, not tied in on a solo climb, he
had fallen down as a cornice gave way. His body came to rest several
thousand feet to the north side of the mountain. Though it is the second
most climbed peak, its number of fatalities rivals that of Everest.
Respect of the mountain, and the weather is compulsory if a return to base camp
is mandatory.
We made forward progress. Chris had been hiding his exhaustion, afraid
to admit he was human, as though I would care. "Do you feel it
yet?" I asked. "What?" He shouted back over the increasing
wind. "Is your heart beating in your neck?" I asked.
"No", he said. We continued up the south face of what was left
of the massive mountain. Our pace was ten to twenty steps and then a
break. I would dig in to the mountain burying my ice axe, and Chris would
work out to the end of the rope while I watched the hillside for avalanche or debris
falling. We pressed on, I was sitting resting and I heard the familiar
sound of water, though with a distinct rattle snake like quality. It
sounded like someone playing with a South American shamans rain stick.
That distinct rattle of solid objects smoothly flowing as a liquid. As
deadly as a rattle snake, we heard the crackling above and the rattling became
more ominous. More dangerous than a snake, there was nowhere to run on
the slope so step, with the only escape down to the rocks, and maybe the
steaming hot vents. “Dig in!” I shouted, "To the left I added",
that was our west. Both of us locked in to the hill side and watched,
hoping against hope that the slide in progress, would stick to the west side
and not progress to the middle of the slope, where we now clung. The
rattle passed, the slope was again calm. We began our progression, flies
on the side of a massive beast which shuttered to drive us from its
flesh. Crawling like an inch worm up the side of the head wall, all the
while listening to the warnings that the mountain gave us as the sun approached
its apex and shone its light on the ice and rock walls above us became
real. Boom! crack! Hiss! The sounds of the ice walls on either side
giving way, or allowing the energy stored on the vertical walls above to
release, thundering down slope. We stuck to the center, with chutes to
the east and west of us collecting the torrents released by the changing
temperatures of rock and snow. We continued up like the tiny inch
worm.
 |
| Last portion of steep head wall |
In all 2 baby avalanches and 2 big ones protested our ascent of the
slope. I anchored, Chris climbed, Chris anchored, and I climbed.
Inch worms knew what they were doing, we could just copy them. We moved
up 30M of rope at a time ever closer to the razors edge that was the
summit. Chris's pace picked up when we were a few lengths away, we
reached the area where the avalanches would not be able to vector in to the
center of the slope, I felt my hyper vigilance fade. It was too exhausted
to stay alert when the air was so thin we were at 11,000ft but the
exertion added to the hypoxia. Hyper vigilance added to the
exhaustion.
 |
| Lighting storm approaching from the south. |
Chris hit the summit. He crested it, and shot back to the south
side. Is axe and crampons dug in to the side of the ice wall, like a
kitten clinging to the shirt of its owner? “OH SHIT! OH SHIT!” Shot
out of his mouth a few times. “What? What? What’s wrong?” I said. “It
just falls off!” he gasped through several quick breaths. He had peered
over the cornice and in to his own mortality. He had done the exact right
thing, he freaked out. He should have freaked out, so he dug in to the
hill and did not move. I took a look over from a ways back, and saw the
clouds, heavy with rain, and thunder heads carrying lightning. It was dark
the world fell away, a thousand feet below was the first black rock I could
see. His face was frantic, the lack of oxygen and fatigue could not have
helped. I knew he could feel it, I could feel his panic. This was
no place for panic. There was no way we were treading the ledge to the
true summit today, I thought. The wind was ripping my hood back and
pushing me in to the side of the mountain. Let’s get some pics, I joked,
full well hoping he would grab the reigns of his nerves and pull that fucking shit
in!
The only way off the razors edge was to climb back down, backwards, which
was the hardest part. "I will go down first, and lock in at the end of the
rope, and watch the slope for debris, then you come down to me” I said.
He nodded in agreement. I started down. Not more than one length of
rope, and I heard him curse. One of his crampons, which had not been
tightened in the last 2,500ft had come off. I saw the panic rise, there
was no way to cling to the slope without them, and he now had only one, and the
other was loose and flopping off, this left him with his axe, and me, the only
two things keeping him from falling to the volcanic vent and crevasse below,
with its soft sulfuric rocks to break his fall, should he slip.
 |
| View south, steel cliffs left, fumarole and ice bridge right |
I made my way up to him. I looked down when I got to him, my left
crampon was hanging on by a thread. It skittered down the slope and I
caught it with the toe of my boot and pushed the spikes in to the slope by
pushing down on the top of it. “Oh shit. Zach your crampon.” I thought
about it. I still had one crampon firmly attached, which was more than my
partner had. One was reasonably secured in the ice. "Dig in,
and give me your left side” I ordered. He did, I worked the crampon
slowly back on, not hurrying. Knowing that if this skittered down the
slope the day would be much more difficult. I positioned my axe, and bade
him to give me his right. He did. I looked up as my thermos shot
down the slope to my left, the east side, where the big avalanche had passed by
less than an hour earlier. My reflex was to reach for it, sense and
training kept me from making that mistake. I finished Chris’s right
crampon. Then assessed my situation, my left crampon was loose on the
heal. I tried to reposition, and it worked loose the rest of the
way. I began to slide down the slope. There was nothing to stop me.
“Make sure your dug in Chris.” I said. As I thought about what to do
next. Imagining my body flying down the head wall, like an unstoppable
block of ice had earlier, and crashing in to the rocks and crevasses below.
 |
| Summit euphoria |
I buried my axe up to the head. I was thankful for the leash and heavy
carabiner on it, when it pulled tight and stopped my slide. My loose
right crampon, I resolved was the most logical triage decision, it was most
likely to serve my stability to gain purchase on my other crampon. With
difficulty I cleared the ice mass from under the heal of my boot, and re
secured it. Each time I tried to secure my other crampon I slid.
Chris was still amped up, still anxious, this situation had not helped to quell
what was residual from his view of the abyss where he had met his mortality.
I thought about it, I heard the thunder in the distance, and saw the clouds
which had strayed from the south, where they had concealed the summit of mount
Jefferson, they were near enough to be drenching us with harsh rain and high
wind gusts, they taunted me “GO FASTER! This summit belongs to us.” I
struggled several times the leash on my axe stayed my slide down the
face. Finally I told Chris to dig in, and began me digging a bench in the
ice and snow. I groped with an outstretched arm, hanging from the leash
on my axe, which was buried in the snow, for my lost crampon. I caught tail
of the side tie by the edge of the material with two fingers and worked it in
to my hand. I cleared the clear diamond like ice crystals that had become
lodged between my boot and the top of the ice shoe.
I tightened the strap with what little
strength I had, flexing my foot to take all the slack out of the straps.
 |
| Sitting on my carved bench |
We again began our descent. I moved on my hands and knees, and then
started on my hands and feet. It took Chris a several hundred feet to
gain the confidence to speed up. We moved 30M at a time. One watched
the slopes, and one dug in while the other descended linked together by the
rope, our 8mm blue pattern woven umbilical cord. We got good at calling
out what side, that the ice, rock, or small slide was occurring on.
My father had trained me well for this. I did not need direction.
Do as your told first, ask questions later,
that’s survival in high stakes situations, he would tell us. “Zach!
Right!” Chris shouted. I drove my axe in to the snow.
Ice sprayed out of the hill side as the shaft
of my axe plunged in as deep as I could drive it.
My feet dug in below me, my crampon tips
burrowing in to the clear diamond ice like it was as soft as cheese.
I covered my face and head with my left arm
as an ice block about the size of a small microwave whizzed past my right side.
A softball sized chunk of it smacked my forearm
and exploded on my helmet. Score one for my lance arm strong biking, I mean
climbing helmet! The afternoon sun was heating up.
The clouds had broken, revealing the black vertical
rock faces that had been painted with snow and icy cornice by the winter wind
to its rays. The black rock absorbed heat, and the snow separated,
sometimes taking various sizes of stones with it.
I was staring at the marvel of the cliffs.
I called out, Chris put his head down, and protected his face with his arm as a
chunk of ice the size of a baseball smashed his arm. “That fucking hurt,
even for a small piece.” He said. Behind us two alpine skiers had ascended
in the steps we had kicked in to the ice cliff. I waited, exhausted, for
them to pass. “There are a lot of avalanches here today. The snow
is soft from the noon sun, we have had several close calls” I explained.
They happily ignored us and continued up, using our steps.
At 10,758ft (3279.0384M) we saw my thermos lodged in the slope. It was
to the west, the place we had seen the bigger of the two avalanches
before. Only 20-30 meters form our route. I thought about having Chris
lock in and swinging out on the rope to get it. Then I thought about the
snow and rocks, the size of toaster ovens that had been falling down the slope
less than an hour ago. The frontal lobe element of my brain envisioned both
of us being pulled to our deaths for a $20.00 Stanley thermos. ‘Not worth
it.’ I thought to myself. ‘Even though it’s a really nice thermos’ I
left the it where it lay. We continued down the slope to the vent which
lay about 740 ft. below. We took rest and refreshment there, and watched
as the use our steps to crest the wall. They waited until four more
skiers entered the caldera and then signaled to them and started to ski down,
vanity is the most dangerous of all sins, I thought as I watched them descend
hoping that no cornices or boulders would decide to come loose.
I always find myself saying I won’t help, but
then I always end up helping. When they got to the bottom they told their
compatriots about the avalanches 'they' had seen, and how they should be
careful on the slopes. As they looked at us the other skiers asked them
if they needed crampons, they told them there was no need for them on the
ascent, this could have been a dig at Chris and I, but we were too tired to
care, and the steps were so deep after our ascent that anyone could have
climbed them.
Even an 80 year old goat.
We cautiously recrossed the crevasse that tried to eat me and continued our
descent. When we reached the end of the scree ridge that lead to the top
of palmer glacier, I started the glissade down towards the top of the ski
lift. Chris looked on and was fearful and hesitant to follow. He
eventually did and quickly took to it. He flew ahead by about
400ft. We stopped at a scree island where the glacier flattened out, and
reminisced about playing ‘butt machines’ in the garden when we were kids.
Sliding around in the mud on our bottoms,
destroying our mother’s gardens. We had just put two thousand foot ruts
in the mountain, with our butts, just like when we were children. Both of
us smiled uncontrollably. Chris admitted, grinning like a Cheshire cat, that
that was the coolest thing he had ever done. We began the slog down the
mountain. I had repeated the mantra several times that ‘there was no need
to hurry’, that ‘there was no prize’, ‘no parade’, and ‘no recognition’ for
climbing Hood. After all, teams had already summited that day, and it was
not exactly a first ascent. We swaggered towards the ski lodge, the one
where Steven Kings
the Shining was
filmed.
On the slopes we took off our
rain gear and continued our descent. It was like a breath of fresh air to
pull the rain gear.
My skin rejoiced as
the humid wrapper was removed and my sweat could finally evaporate. We
continued to slog towards the bus, talking about why people die on the
mountain. How the fuck is it possible people don’t understand that the
reason people die on the mountain is sheer mental retardation? Like that of the
skiers. No helmets, no ropes, no equipment, just skis!
We ranted.
It made me upset that so many lives are lost for such silly reasons.
We reached the parking lot and high fived. A family stopped us and
asked if we summited. I told them we had, I was exuberant in my account
of our climb, and Chris was also stoked. They were from Texas, here on
ski vacation. Their daughter had her picture taken with us! Chris
thoroughly enjoyed giving me a little shit about my mantra.
 |
| Fan club |
“No fan club hu?” he laughed. “I was
wrong about the fanfare.” I conceded, as we continued our zombie like shuffle
back to the bus, where dad had prepared us a sumptuous dinner. I had a
reunion with my Alfreda and took a hot shower, after she thoroughly sniffed all
of the strange mountain smells off of me. The perfect end to the perfect
day, as we described in detail our adventure to my father, he looked on in
horror at some parts, and excitement at others.
Great reference about fumarole gases!
http://www.sfu.ca/volcanology/pdfs/Hazards%20of%20Volc%20Gases'15.pdf.
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