Gallery: Fall Foliage in the Catskills

Fresh off my ski trip up to Crater Lake, I hopped on a redeye flight to NYC as I started making my way to Europe to attend CSCW. My first stop was the Hudson Valley and the Catskills, where I spent a brief 36 hours gallivanting around snapping pictures and linking up with two of my good Seattle friends. Driving out of the city, I stopped by Minnewaska State Park for a few hours before heading up to the Kaaterskill Falls area for sunset and sunrise before heading back to Bear Mountain before heading back to the airport. I got super lucky with the weather and had a great time!

Lookin down from the top of Awosting Falls

Awosting Falls

A small fall on Peters Kill

Looking towards Shawangunk Ridge from Peters Kill

In the forest on Peters Kill

North-South Lake at sunset

Morning light on the trees in Kaaterskill Clove

On Spruce Creek below Kaaterskill Falls

Bastion Falls on Spruce Creek

Kaaterskill Falls

The upper tier of Kaaterskill Falls

The Bear Mountain Bridge over the Hudson from… Bear Mountain

The New York City skyline from Bear Mountain.

Trip Report: Early Season Skiing in the Larches above Crater Lake (not the Oregon one)

The past 10 days have been a photographic and travel whirlwind, starting in Washington and ending in Iceland, with many stops along the way. I’m excited to share more pictures soon, but for starters the first leg of the craziness was an early season ski trip in the Sawtooth mountains east of Lake Chelan.

I had wanted to do another trip to get some more Washington fall in before being out of the state for a bunch of travel, and the Sawtooths are a great place to hang out in the larches. But once the the first big early season snow storm popped up in the forecast, I figured it was time to pull out the skis. There was a twist though: of everywhere in the state, the place forecasted to get the most snow was… the Sawtooths, with the National Weather service calling for 20 or more inches on Sunday! This seemed a bit fantastical to me, but in retrospect I think it was probably spot on.

Monday morning I headed up 153 with a decidedly minimal plan. It was still pretty cloudy, but the forecast called for clearing as the day went on. I headed up the Gold Creek road and pretty quickly ran into snow, then pretty quickly got a flat tire. Booo to changing out the spare in the cold slushy mud. I continued up to the trailhead, which was deserted, with only one or two other cars. There were 4+ inches of snow on the ground at the trailhead, so I felt optimistic about my skiing ability, and I was able to ski all the way from the car. I had initially been toying with the notion of going to Cooney or Eagle Lakes, but I wasn’t sure how quickly I’d be moving with the snow, so I took the conservative option of heading up the Crater Lake trail, which was completely untraveled. It was easy skinning up the trail, but still slow going, breaking trail through a bunch of fresh snow, and with my flat tire delay and slow start I didn’t reach lower Crater Lake until almost 3:30 pm.

Partially-frozen lower Crater Lake, with larches mixed into the forest and the south side of the Crater Creek valley in the background.

I took a quick break, filled water, and waffled about the right strategy. It seemed fun to try and summit either Bigelow or Libby, but I didn’t have much daylight and wasn’t sure how quickly I’d move. Once again, I took what I thought was the conservative strategy, and decided to head to the Crater Peak-Libby col, which seemed like the easiest point to gain the crest of the ridge for views to the west. I ‘schwacked around the lake and continued through slow, brush forest before getting on easier terrain as I approached the talus near treeline. Skirting the edge of the talus, I climbed up to the col without skiing on too many rocks and without too much trouble, passing through some beautiful larch forest.

Looking back east from just below the Crater-Libby Col, with lower Crater Lake in the distance below.

With about an hour until sunset, I decided I’d try and climb up the ridge towards Crater Peak, for a nicer vantage point. In the summer, this would be an easy talus scramble, but it was a different story in ski boots with 12+ inches of fresh snow. I strapped my skis to my pack and started what quickly became an absolute wallowfest. I skittered off icy rocks in my boots, postholed up to my chest in places where the snow had drifted between rocks. In 45 minutes I had made it barely 200 horizontal yards, so I decided to bail and retrace my steps to back to the col. It hadn’t cleared up quite as much as I had hoped, but it was still a lovely sunset, with nice views to the west over the Buttermilk Creek drainage.

Evening sunlight on the larches below the North Ridge of Crater Peak, looking down towards Buttermilk Creek. Star in the clouds behind Seance.

Bigelow’s western subsummit at dusk, with Hoodoo Pass hidden behind, and the snow in the foregrounded covered in larch needles.

After it got dark, I pulled out my trusty bivy sack and trompled out a flattish spot just below the ridge before hunkering down to get out of the wind. I made dinner and settled in for a properly chilly night - I’d guess it was in the upper teens based on how it felt and the WA pass weather station. When I woke up after a not-too-cozy night at first light, it was crystal clear (and cold!) bluebird morning. I struggled to cram my feet into my frozen-solid ski boots and started snapping photos of the amazing sunrise and light on the larches.

The Buttermilk Creek valley at dawn, with Star and Oval to the right, and Earth’s shadow clearly visible above the horizon.

The sun pops over the horizon to the east, with lower Crater Lake frozen over in the valley below.

Raven Ridge and Libby Peak to the north, lit with brilliant morning light that made the larches pop.

Seance Peak (Pt. 8067) catches the first rays of the rising sun while Star Peak, taller and farther away, remains shaded by Raven Ridge.

Larches above lower Crater Lake look amazing when backlit by the rising sun.

Gorgeous larches on the south ridge of Libby Peak.

The eastern subsummit of Bigelow (Pt. 7890) looms over larches above Crater Lake.

Morning light on the rocky ridge above my campsite, with lower Crater Lake below.

Once it felt like I was just taking the same pictures over and over again, I headed back to camp to make breakfast and pack up. With the cold overnight weather, all the water I had carried up from the lake had frozen solid, and I ran out of fuel melting snow, so I finished my hot cocoa and decided to scram. I packed up, clicked into my skis, and started gingerly skiing down towards Crater Lake. It was stunning skiing among the larches, but I did hit rocks at just about every turn—still worth it. A but lower, the skiing got better, and I threw my skins back on to ski through the brushy forest. On the way out I went around the south side of Crater Lake, which was much easier going than the north side. The lake was noticeably more frozen-over than it had been the day before, and I snapped a few more pictures before ripping skins for the final ski down the trail. It was a bit flat in spots, a bit exciting in others, and before long I was back at my car. I drove down into Twisp where the nice folks at Les Schwab fixed my flat for free, and then I drove back to the west side over beautiful snowy Highway 20 and had just a few hours to unpack and repack before going to the airport to catch my red-eye to NYC and eventually Norway. More on that soon!

Sharky pow-skiing among the larches.

One of the last patches of open water along the shore of lower Crater Lake. Crater Peak in the distance - I camped at the saddle to the right.

Fun and fast skiing down the Crater Lake trail back to the car.

Gallery: Mount Pilchuck and Wallace Falls

I’ve been trying to take some time off after my defense, but somehow I seem busier than ever. Last week I was hoping to get out for a bigger trip, but only had a little bit of time here and there, so headed to some places nearby Seattle. Mount Pilchuck is a classic, but I hadn’t been up it since high school. With only a few hours until sunset, I drove up the Mountain Loop and was rewarded with a really nice sunset with some dramatic light. Later that week I went for an hour or two to Wallace Falls, a familiar spot, but every time I visit I am reminded how pleasant it is in the forest.

Evening light below the summit

Mount Pilchuck casts a shadow down the Stillaguamish Valley

The Pilchuck Lookout and the setting sun (yes I have since cleaned my filter)

A bit of rainbow to the south

Dramatic light and rain squalls on Whitehorse and Three Fingers.

Dusk over Possession Sound, Puget Sound, and the Olympics

The Twin Sisters and Mount Baker to the north

A detail of the top of Middle Wallace Falls

The bottom of Middle Wallace Falls

Looking downstream at Deception Falls, a bit further along Route 2 past Skykomish.

Gallery: Autumn Color in the Methow

The first weekend in October, my family went to the Methow to belatedly celebrate Dad’s birthday. We got super lucky with the weather: crisp and clear, with a fresh dusting of snow up high and the larches nearing peak color. It was super nice to spend time with family, see some friends, and do a bunch of different activities: bouldering, mountain biking, hiking, and a quick overnight to Copper Glance Lake. Here are a few pictures from the weekend!

Brilliant foliage along Nason Ridge

Adam, Becca, and Dad riding along the Buck Mountain Loop

Becca riding above a copse of Aspens

Becca ripping down the final descent on the Buck Mountain Loop

Fall colors near Patterson Lake

Morning light on Golden Horn with a fresh dusting of snow, from Slate Pass

Clouds blowing over the Slate Peak Lookout

Becca on the trail to Copper Glance Lake

Sunset at Copper Glance Lake

Kiva staying cozy in her coat at Copper Glance Lake

Larches catch the morning light high on Sherman Peak

Sunrise at Copper Glance Lake

Larch detail, Copper Glance Lake

Larch forest carpeted with crimson blueberries above Harts Pass

Slate Peak in the distance at sunrise, above Harts Pass

Morning light on Silver Star Mountain, with larches in the foreground

Morning light on Cone Mountain, with Silver Star in the distance.

Trip Report: Bears Breast "Mega-Slab"

Two weeks ago, I headed out with Matt and Anton to climb Bears Breast Mountain, a spiky peak right on the Cascade Crest in the heart of the Alpine Lakes Wilderness. Bears Breast had intrigued all three of us: it was one of the few summits Anton hadn’t climbed along the jagged ridge running from Snoqualmie Pass all the way to Mount Daniel. Matt and I had both separately looked over at Bears Breast from Hinman and Daniel earlier this summer, and it looked like a fun climb. Bears Breast is also notable for an unusual geologic feature: its southeast face holds a clean and continuously steep sandstone slab that stretches about 3,000 vertical feet from the base of the mountain at Shovel Creek all the way to just below the summit. This is one of the taller slabs in the lower 48, and there’s also very little sandstone in the Cascades, so it seemed like a doubly cool route to take to the summit.

We planned to climb in a single day. It’s a long way in to Bears Breast, no matter which way you come in, but we decided to come in along the Waptus River from Salmon La Sac, with 12 flat miles one way to reach the base of the mountain. After one last practice talk for my defense, I drove out to Cle Elum to link up with Matt and Anton, and we camped at the trailhead for an early start. We started hiking about an hour and a half before first light. The approach went pretty quickly in the dark, and we had a lovely sunrise somewhere along the river valley. Just after it got light, we startled a rabbit on the trail, which ran towards us, smacking into each of our feet in turn, then it turned around and smacked back into us on the way back. I think I was more startled than the rabbit!

Matt managing to keep his feet dry crossing the Waptus River, with some wisps of fog clinging to the water in the chilly morning.

We reached Waptus Lake just as the morning light was lighting up a nice view of Bears Breast through the hazy sky. The handful of parties camped near the lakeshore were just about the only people we saw all day. We continued around the lake to hit the PCT, then continued a few miles further to the bridge over the Waptus River before leaving the trail and following the east side of Shovel Creek.

The Cascade Crest from Waptus Lake, with Summit Chief, and its subsummits on the left, and Bears Breast looking spiky on the right.

An annotated view of our route up the mega-slab from the forest near where we left the PCT.

It took a bit of bushwhacking, but eventually we picked up a faint-in-places fisherman’s trail heading up towards Shovel Lake. On the way out, we realized that a more-defined trail leaves the PCT earlier than we had, where the trail makes a defined turn to the west about .4 miles before it hits the Waptus River. We followed the trail through open forest until it started climbing up onto a bench above the east side of the creek around 3,400 feet. When the bench ended, we dropped fifty feet out of the forest and into talus near the creek. Here the tread disappeared into the rocks, and we just boulder-hopped easily through open terrain to reach the base of the slabs, stopping to fill up water. It was a beautiful morning with fall colors in the forest. We reached the base of the slab at its lowest point a bit before 10am, about 4.5 hours after leaving the car.

Anton and Matt near the base of the slab, summit far above.

We started climbing up the broad slab—it seems like it goes pretty much everywhere. The climbing was super fun and easy, and we did the whole thing in trail runners, only using our hands in a few spots. The scale of the terrain is huge. The slab is hundreds of yards wide, with a massive corner on the ridge, and only a few patches of vegetation. The only shame was how quickly the climb went by. After about an hour and twenty minutes we topped the slab out on the south shoulder of Bears Breast, about 600 vertical feet below the summit, with great (albeit hazy) views to the south.

Matt climbing low on the slab

Can you spot Anton?

Easy walking a bit higher up

Waptus Lake poking out as we near the top.

From the top of the slab, we needed to traverse around the west side of the mountain to reach the base of the easiest route up the final summit block. Rather than dropping a hundred feet to cross a gully, we traversed on some exposed scrambling up high, then walked up an easy heather bench for ~300 yards to reach the notch in the ridge immediately north of the summit. We dropped packs here, changed into rock shoes, and soloed up to the summit, accidentally making things a bit trickier by going too far climbers left at the start. When on route, the climbing was pretty easy but exposed and on chossy rock. The chimney itself was super fun, and it was easy above it to the true summit at 12:20.

Easy heather benches traversing to the notch north of the summit block.

Anton and Matt just below the chimney, with additional breasts (nipples?) in the distance.

Matt tackling the bottom of the chimney.

Summit selfie—-Hinman to the right.

We downclimbed without any trouble, staying on easier terrain below the chimney than what we’d come up. It was nice to have rock shoes, but we didn’t feel like we needed the bit of rope we’d brought. We descended pretty much directly to Shovel Lake, descending loose dirt up high (would be more pleasant with snow earlier in the season) then lovely open slabs, then brush and cliff bands (moderately unpleasant) down low to reach Shovel Lake. It took us 1.5 hours from the base of the summit block to the lake, and I’m sure micronavigational optimizations could make this easier/faster.

Matt facing his nemesis: steep loose dirt.

Matt downclimbing dirty cliff bands above Shovel Lake

Bear tracks along the shore of Shovel Lake.

Once at Shovel Lake, we traversed around the shoreline then downclimbed the western side of the outlet (east goes too) then boulder-hopped down the valley (I don’t think there’s much of a trail here) until we were back at the base of the slabs where we’d filled water earlier, where I managed to break one of my brand new trekking poles. We picked up the trail as it climbed up to the bench, the followed it easily back to the PCT. Once on the official trail, we ran most of the many miles back to the car, which were surprisingly deserted. We reached the trailhead a bit before dark, and took a nice jump into the swimming hole before heading back home.

Nice fall colors along the Waptus River Trail for our run out.

This was a super fun climb that I think should get done more often - the first ascent was in 2005 and only about 7 or 8 parties have reported doing it in the summit register since then. Bears Breast as a whole seems to only get about 1 party per year. Matt liked the climb so much he went back and did it again the next weekend! And it’s worth noting that he just descended the ascent route up the slabs rather than messing with the route down to Shovel Lake. He said he preferred this strategy.

Gallery: Mount Ann Overnight

Two weeks ago, I snuck out for a quick overnight on Mount Ann, a beautiful summit right between Mount Shuksan and Mount Baker, making for amazing views in both directions. I’ve been up Mount Ann a few times in the winter, but never before in the summer, so I was excited to get out and see some fall foliage.

I was a bit late leaving town and as such was tight on time to make it up above Lake Ann before sunset, and I didn’t leave the car until after 5pm. I booked it over to Lake Ann and started climbing up the ridge towards Mount Ann, with amazing views of Shuksan and and Curtis Glacier. I did some stargazing from my homemade bivy sack near the false summit, then the next morning tagged the true summit (and saw a Ptarmigan nice and close) before cruising back to the trailhead.

Mount Shuksan above Lake Ann

Last light on Shuksan’s summit pyramid.

Mount Baker at dusk. Mount Ann’s summit is to the right.

Milky Way panorama above Mount Shuksan, with Baker Lake at the right.

Mount Baker poking out at sunrise

Ptarmigan on Mount Ann

Sherman Peak and the crater below the summit of Baker

The Pipe Dream couloir drops straight down from the summit of Mount Ann…

…and the same view in the winter, taken when Matt and I skied it in 2023.

Lenticular clouds over Mount Baker, with Coleman Pinnacle in the foreground.

Trip Report: Tantalus Traverse

I’ve been a bit quiet as I’ve been working hard preparing for my PhD defense, which was on Tuesday. The good news—I passed! To celebrate, I want to tell you about a great trip I did with Austin, Matt, Becca, and Eric over Labor Day weekend. We completed the Tantalus Traverse, a north-to-south traverse over the Tantalus Range, a rugged part of the Coast Mountains in British Columbia right next to Squamish. Despite being only an hour or so from Vancouver, the Tantalus Range feels quite wild, rising straight from sea level to over 2,500 meters before dropping right back down on the other side. Surrounded by fjords, Tantalus has intrigued me for a long time, and one gets a great view of it every time you drive down the Sea to Sky from Whistler. Looking at maps, the extent of the wilderness in the Coast Mountains also captures my imagination: heading north from Tantalus, the Coast Mountains stretch for nearly 500 miles to the Alaskan border, and by my count there are only three highways in that entire stretch.

We thought there was a chance we could pull off the traverse in 2 days, but we brought 2.5 days worth of food in case we needed to camp a second night, which, it turns out, we did!

We drove up from Seattle and camped nearby for an early (or just earlier) start, which was still slow with some faffing setting up the car shuttle. We started up the Sigurd Creek trail a bit before 10am, climbing through steep forest for a few miles before crossing Sigurd Creek. The old bridge had washed out years earlier, so the four of us where about to pull our shoes to wade through the calf-deep water, but Matt, ever the construction manager, dragged a log out of the woods and threw it across the creek to make a rickety bridge.

Crossing Sigurd Creek on Matt’s makeshift bridge.

On the far side of the creek, we followed the trail for a bit further until it busted out of the treeline and crossed the lateral moraine coming down from the nameless (?) glacier on the north side of Ossa Mountain. We climbed up the moraine, and then up easy slabs, and a bit of mellow glacier, before crossing the north shoulder of Pelion Mountain, where we were rewarded with our first views of Tantalus herself, shrouded mysteriously in swirling clouds. We descended more slabs, snow patches, and talus to reach the high ridge linking Pelion to Tantlus, where we picked up a climber’s trail through lovely heather. We continued a bit past the low point on the ridge (Tantalus/Pelion col) before deciding to camp at a lovely tarn just below the ridgecrest.

Becca descending from the shoulder of Pelion, with Tantalus shrouded in clouds.

Slab scampering towards the Tantalus/Pelion col, with Tantalus lurking.

We took a quick dip in the tarn and had a lovely evening hanging out at camp and watching the sunset. The views were amazing, even if we couldn’t actually see the true summit of Tantalus, which was hidden behind a subsummit at the end of the long North Ridge. The next morning, we got up at first light and got off not too much later, continuing along the climbers trail and staying below the ridge crest on the west side to bypass two little bumps before regaining the ridge at the northernmost margin of the Rumbling Glacier.

Pelion looking pretty in the morning light.

Matt and Austin at our camp, with the summits of Garibaldi Park glowing in the slightly smoky sunrise.

Mount Tantalus and the quasi-detached northernmost lobe of the Rumbling Glacier. This isn’t even the true summit of Tatnlus, just the northernmost end of the mile-long North Ridge.

Leaving camp with Pelion in the sun in the background.

We climbed up the glacier, weaving carefully through late-season cracks and a ‘schrund to get back on the rock. A few dozen meters of loose but easy rock led to a ~2,100 meter notch at the north end of the North Ridge, and here we crossed back on to the west side of the range, staying low on easy snow for about 1/3 of a mile to bypass some rock. This snow led easily back to the ridge crest at about 2,200 feet, where we got on the North Ridge in earnest. The half mile or so of ridge was delightful, mostly easy and beautifully exposed scrambling, right on the ridge crest, with a few thoughtful spots bypassing a handful of notches, minor gendarmes, and snow patches.

Austin climbing up easy snow on the west side of the North Ridge, with Ossa and Pelion in the background.

The North Ridge stretching onwards to Tantalus’ summit, with the gorgeous Rumbling Glacier on the left. Spot Austin on the ridge crest at the bottom of the frame.

Two strategies for bypassing a snow patch: Becca, the rock climber, elegantly takes the snow, while Austin, the ice climber, grovels in the moat.

This first stretch of ridge went fairly quickly, and before long, the summit of Tantalus was looking much closer. At around 2,400 meters, 200 meters below the summit, the Rumbling Glacier rises all the way to the ridge crest, inserting two short sections of snow and ice into our path to the summit. The first one was pretty easy to cross with a not-too-bad moat and gentle snow, but the second one was quite a bit steeper, with a deep and wide moat at this point in the season (early September). Here we whipped out the rope, belayed folks across a nubbin of snow that bridged the moat. We climbed up the steep snow back to the ridge crest, got back onto the rock on the far side without much trouble, and climbed some steep and dirty but easy rock to surmount the next step on the ridge. From there, it was easy and beautifully exposed scrambling to hit the standard ascent route (and rap anchors) just below the summit, which we scrambled up to at 14:00, 6.5 hours from camp.

Eric crossing the deep moat to get onto the Rumbling Glacier

Becca on some amazing exposed (but easy) scrambling close to the summit of Tantalus. Alpha Mountain at left.

Eric just below the summit of Tantalus, with Serratus behind him and Alpha at left. The party of the three on the snow is the only other group we saw on the whole traverse. They climbed Dionne.

Cognizant that we still had a long way to go, we started our descent, downclimbing past several rap stations and making a total of four rappels with a single 60 meter rope. With five people in the group and only one rope, this part was definitely slow, but the views were amazing, particularly the incredible Witch’s Tooth spire.

Matt setting up a rappel in front of the Witch’s Tooth.

After doing a bit more downclimbing to reach the snow, we continued along the ridge on easier terrain. I got my hopes up that it would be quick going from here all the way to the Haberl hut, but we had to do some more loose downclimbing to reach the Dione Glacier. Once on the glacier, it was only about 1.5 miles to the hut, but with lots small ups and downs, this part dragged a bit. We finally reached the hut at 19:00, only an hour before sunset, and with 7,000 vertical feet of nontrivial descending remaining, it became pretty clear we were going to be camping for a second night. We faffed around a bit looking for a descent camp site, and found one with running water not too far from the hut. Just as the sun dropped below the horizon, it started raining torrentially, and thankfully the downpour stopped as quickly as it started, which was a relief. None of us were looking forward to the prospect of spending a rainy night in our bivies. The excitement for the evening wasn’t over, however, as a thunderstorm formed in the dark and rolled over the area, with a few roars of thunder that felt right over head. We watched with sympathy the headlamps of a party descending Serratus in the dark, rainy, and lightning-studded night. There were a few more brief showers, but thankfully it never really rained too much more. We woke up the next morning, slightly soggy, and packed off for our last push down to the Squamish River, far below.

Eric above the Dione Glacier, which we are about to descend to.

Becca and I in our homemade camping quilts the morning after the thunderstorm.

From camp, we set off traversing around the west side of Serratus, making our way towards the key col immediately south of Serratus that would let us descend to the east towards Lake Lovely Water. The going was never too difficult, but with lots of exposed ice and rock slabs, there were many crampon-on crampon-off transitions which made for slow going. Eventually we reached the notch (and the warming rays of the morning sun) and were faced with one last steep snow descent that posed more of a challenge to the less surefooted among us.

Eric looking small as he traverses above exposed ice on the southwest side of Serratus.

Austin and Matt descending steep snow on the west side of the range, with Lydia, Pandareus, and Ionia Mountains (from left to right, far to near) across the Crescent Glacier.

Below the notch, more slabs and some easy snow led us to the steep heather slopes that descend to the valley bottom. We walked/plunged/tumbled down the heather, hand-over-handing down brush at times, and did a touch more downclimbing and talus hopping to finally reach the valley floor in a hanging basin at 1,400 meters or so. On the far side of the basin we picked up the blazed and easy-to-follow trail down to Lambda Lake, and then down to the steep shore of Lake Lovely Water, which is aptly named. The lake is huge and gorgeous, and Matt and Becca were thrilled to take a quick swim before the descent to the Squamish River.

Becca descending a particularly steep, muddy, and brushy section of vegetation.

Matt emerging like a swamp creature from Lake Lovely Water. Lydia, Pandareus, and Ionia across the lake.

From Lake Lovely Water, we had merely to follow the trail down 3,700 vertical feet in under 3 miles to the Squamish River. The trail follows the lake outlet creek, which is essentially a continuous series of cascades all the way down to sea level, surrounded by classic lush PNW forest. It was a beautiful ambiance, even if many of us were ready to be done at this point. But we weren’t done, we had one final challenge: to cross the wide Squamish River in order to get back to our car. Our plan was to haul ourselves along the cable for the Water Survey of Canada cable car, which is a classic way to finish a Tantalus traverse. Matt and Austin had gone on a few minutes ahead, and by the time we reached the riverbank, we couldn’t see them anywhere. We did, however, hear plenty of shrieks of entertainment/horror, and we bashed through the brush to the edge of the river and looked up to find them both clipped to the cable, 50 feet above the river, swinging back and forth comedically. It was awesome to watch them struggle as we knew that we would soon be in their position. Becca and I clipped in to the cable and made our way across with Eric as the boys went ahead to get the car. It was an exhausting, hilarious, and memorable way to finish a great trip.

Lovely cascades along the Lake Lovely Water outlet.

Matt and Austin, high above the Squamish River, swaying back and forth as they attempt to cross the cable to the far side.

Trip Report: A White Chuck White Out

Twoish weeks ago, Helene and I snuck out for a little mid-week excursion to climb Whitechuck Mountain, the northernmost of a chain of spiky summits that extends from the Monte Cristo group to the Suiattle river. Whitechuck has many logging roads on it, meaning you can drive to almost 5,000 feet, making it an ideal quick climb with easy access and great views (assuming clear weather, an assumption that didn’t entirely hold for us).

We set out from Seattle just past 5pm on Monday evening, cognizant of the earlier and earlier sunsets as we cruise towards autumn. After bumping our way up Forest Service Road 2435, we started hiking with just an hour of daylight left, and just a few hundred vertical feet of clearance between us and a thick cloud ceiling above us.

Helene inspecting the remotely-operated snow height gauge and weather station installed by the Northwest Avalanche Center.

We hiked along the crest of the gentle Northwest Ridge of Whitechuck. With the clouds just above us, there was a brief but dramatic sunset, with the bottom of the clouds glowing orange through the trees. The views from the ridge were lovely, and before long we dropped off the ridge as it steepened and entered the talus basin to the west of the summit. Here we made a brief detour from the climbing route, hopping talus to find a small tarn that I hoped would make for a pleasant campsite and nice views at sunrise. Darkness fell as we climbed into the clouds, and our headlamps illuminated beams of fog. We found the tarn and a nice place to camp, quiet in the clouds, and I fell asleep hoping we wouldn’t be too socked in in the morning.

Helene and a cool rock outcropping along the NW ridge trail.

Boulder hoping by headlamp on the way to our campsite.

We woke up to a beautiful, crystal clear dawn, with a few lingering blobs of clouds hanging around the summits to the south. We had a fun time scampering around taking photos and finding not only a few mountain goats, but a few game cameras placed by the Tulalip Tribe to track said goats.

Pugh and Sloan Peak at dawn, with the Monte Cristo summits partially obscured by trees at the right.

Dorado Needle and Eldorado to the northeast, an intriguing angle.

Glacier Peak to the east, with a cool rock pinnacle on Whitechuck’s SE ridge in the foreground.

The 10-second self-timer strikes again - despite Helene’s assistance I wasn’t quite fast enough.

Second time’s the charm for this self-portrait of Helene and I, with Pugh in the center of the image, Sloan looking spiky to the right, and the Monte Cristo Peaks to the right of that. Forgotten Peak closer at far right, with Del Campo and Rainier faintly visible behind it.

We returned to camp and packed up, then made our way back to the climbers’ route up Whitechuck, much quicker going in the daytime. We dropped our overnight gear at the base of the gully descending from the saddle between the NW and main peaks, and started climbing. Despite being quite spiky, the standard route up Whitechuck is mostly a walk-up with a few spots of very easy scrambling. As we climbed, clouds built over the summit above us, and pretty soon we climbed up into them, making for an atmospheric final scramble to the true summit.

This ground squirrel was enjoying salad for brunch. Thanks to everyone who responded to my last email with helpful pointers on rodent identification!

Helene on the way up Whitechuck, with the Northwest Summit to the left, and Baker and Shuksan visible in the distance.

Climbing up into the clouds

Whiteout on Whitechuck! Here Helene cruises the last “crux” just below the summit.

Descending the flower-filled gully on our way back to the trail.

Despite the lack of mountaintop views, we had a grand time filling out the summit register before heading back down to the trail, cruising back to the car, and blasting straight to work.

Trip Report: Cowlitz Chicken and the Patient Banshee

Two weeks ago, Matt and I set out for some shenanigans in Mount Rainier National Park. I only had one day, and I haven’t spent much time in the park this year, so I thought it would be fun to try and climb Banshee Peak and the Cowlitz Chimneys as a through-hike along the Wonderland Trail, starting at Fryingpan Creek and finishing at Ohanapecosh. Prominently visible from Crystal Mountain, the Cowlitz Chimneys have always intrigued me, and this trip would let us go light and cover some distance, while doing some easy cross country travel and a tasteful amount of scrambling to bag two summits with nice views. Or so I thought.

In practice, we had whiteout weather with “atmospheric” views, and my knee issues kept me from summiting Cowlitz Chimneys (hence I am the Cowlitz Chicken), but Matt had the patience of a saint (the Patient Banshee) and we were even able to run the last few miles - still a great trip!

We dropped Matt’s truck at Ohanapecosh and headed back over Cayuse Pass to the Fryingpan Creek Trailhead before sunrise, where we enjoyed watching a true clownshow of parallel parking attempts while we enjoyed breakfast. Under overcast skies, we busted up the Wonderland Trail to Summerland, where the clouds accentuated the color of the wildflowers, which were still going strong for mid-August. We reached a socked-in Panhandle Gap (the highest point on the Wonderland Trail, which circumnavigates Mount Rainier) and set off cross-country, aiming (with some compass assistance) for Banshee Peak.

Matt is the nicest guy you could hope to run into on the trail, he’s thrilled to take your photo.

Genuinely unsure if this little guy is a Pika or a rodent, either way he was cute. Maybe one of y’all can correct me.

Meany Crest looking murky in the clouds.

Matt doing some classic moat-groveling on the Wonderland Trail (still snowcovered!) just below Panhandle Gap.

The meadows in the mist were gorgeous (in a moody sort of way), and the off trail travel was easy, but unfortunately, as we neared the summit of Banshee Peak, my knee started hurting again - quite frustrating after a good number of more difficult trips over rougher terrain without incident. We reached the summit of Banshee Peak, still totally socked in, but I decided to bail on the Cowlitz Chimneys to minimize the amount of off trail travel. The silver lining is that when I eventually do go back for it, hopefully I’ll be able to actually see something!

Heading off the Wonderland Trail towards Banshee Peak, hidden in the clouds.

Mountain Goats on Banshee

Matt and I on the summit of Banshee Peak, with the Cowlitz Chimneys hiding in the clouds behind us.

The Sarvant Glacier in the fog below Banshee Peak, looking like it’s only got a few years left :(

I desperately tried to talk Matt into tagging the Chimneys and catching me up, but he would have none of it. So, we started heading back towards the Wonderland Trail, going slowly through the mist. We made it back to Panhandle Gap and continued south, following the trail as it wraps around the headwaters of the Ohanapecosh River. I felt badly that after pitching Matt on a “trail run” I was barely keeping a decent walking pace, but Matt, like an overly-loyal dog, was content to trot a few paces ahead of me, occasionally stopping to look over his shoulder to see how far I had fallen behind.

Matt using his sniffer to find the route back to Panhandle Gap in the fog

Matt trotting ahead of me on the Wonderland Trail

Ever notice how Matt is ahead of me in every single one of these pictures?

By the time we got near Indian Bar, we had descended below the clouds, and we got some lovely territorial views, along with beautiful flowers. The stretch of the trail along the Cowlitz Divide was gorgeous and perfect for running, and after a few false-starts, we were able to run the last few miles back down to Ohanapecosh and Matt’s truck. While it was disappointing to bail on the Cowlitz Chimneys, it was still a great day out in the mountains, and I’m lucky to have a great friend like Matt to spend time with.

Dropping below the clouds on our way down to Indian Bar

These creeks emerged straight out of the cliffs below the Ohanapecosh Glacier

Matt looking casual on the Cowlitz Divide trail

Trip Report: Camping on Pilot Ridge Loop

Not adequately tuckered by an ascent of The Three Dicks in the first half of the weekend, I called up my buddy Marco and asked him to help tire me out. We set our sights on a quick hike of the Pilot Ridge Loop, a classic backpacking lollipop in the Glacier Peak Wilderness. The hike stays up high along the ridgetops for most of its length, and I was excited to go light and get some miles under our feet, while strolling through meadows with flowers and great views.

We left Seattle at a civilized hour on Sunday morning and rattled up the road to the North Fork Sauk Trailhead, then cruised through beautiful forest before powering up the switchbacks to the intersection with the PCT near White Pass. The meadows along the ridges are gorgeous, and as we worked our way south on the PCT, the views just kept getting better.

Marco on the PCT, the trail itself not visible through all the Hellebore. White Mountain above at left, and the very summit of Glacier Peak poking out at right.

Marco and flowers on the PCT south of White Pass.

After a few hours of pleasant romping, we reached Dishpan Gap, where we left the PCT and began climbing up towards Pt. 6562, where we got our first views of Blue Lake and Johnson Mountain, our tentative sunset viewpoint. Blue Lake was gorgeous, tucked in a steep-sided basin, and Marco even took a quick dip before we grabbed some water and headed up Johnson Mountain.

Descending towards Blue Lake.

Marco taking a cheeky dip to cool off before heading up Johnson.

An hour or so before sunset, the light got absolutely gorgeous, and we had a grand time snapping countless pictures from the site of the old fire lookout (built in 1939 and apparently abandoned in 1959). Just before sunset, we started slowly making our way back down the trail, photographing flowers and meadows. The light faded as we continued a bit further along the Pilot Ridge trail, but it was one of those magical evenings where the color seems to linger on the clouds forever. Absolutely stunning. Eventually, though, we pulled out our headlamps to find a pleasant campsite just off the trail, and we tucked in for the night.

Pilot Ridge backlit with sunbeams. Bedal at left, with Three Fingers just to the right further away.

The sun setting just behind Sloan Peak, in a panorama from the summit of Johnson Mountain. Bedal and Pugh are the next major summits to the right of Sloan, with Whitechuck peaking out from behind Painted Mountain, and Mount Baker to the right.

Evening light on the slopes above Blue Lake.

Marco heading down the Johnson Mountain trail beneath a magical sunset.

Enjoying the flowers and pink sky on the way down Johnson.

Flowers below Johnson Mountain.

Flowers blowing in the wind in a long exposure at dusk.

Sloan Peak silhouetted against a glowing skyline during a sunset that seemed to last forever.

It was dark enough for us to pull headlamps out as we looked for a campsite, but the clouds still glowed orange.

After a cozy night, we got up before dawn and packed up camp for a quick departure. As the sun came up, we photographed another lovely sunrise, with beautiful Asters and other flowers and views of Glacier Peak.

Glacier Peak above White Mountain in the distance, with Asters and Hellebore in the foreground.

Morning light on Three Fingers, peaking out above the saddle between Sloan and Bedal.

Sloan and Pugh getting in on the sunrise action, with Three Fingers and Whitehorse in the distance.

Morning sunlight bathing Pilot Ridge, with Glacier Peak looking dry and dusty in the shade to the right.

We slammed a quick breakfast, then hopped back on the trail and continued through miles of beautiful meadows, before finally dropping off Pilot Ridge and descending back into the North Fork Sauk valley, finally crossing the river and jogging the last little bit back to the trailhead by 10am, before heading straight into work. A great way to start the week!

Trip Report: Three Dudes on the Three Dicks (aka The Triad)

The weekend before last, Adam, Shawn, and I set off to attempt The Three Dicks, a relatively obscure but rugged three-summited mountain on the edge of North Cascades National Park. According to the U.S. Board on Geographic Names, The Three Dicks are (is?) officially known as The Triad, but folks in the know call them by their original name, The Three Dicks, which was bestowed by the 1949 first ascent party, which included three men named Richard. Apparently, however, “The Three Dicks” was deemed unsuitable for the delicate sensibilities of the midcentury American public, and so we ended up with the diluted “Triad.” A shame.

The Three Dicks are an engorged hunk of rock on the high ridge between two more well known mountains. To the northwest is Eldorado Peak, a classic NCNP mountaineering objective, while to the southwest of The Three Dicks sits Hidden Lake Peaks, which, while lower in elevation than The Three Dicks, has a Instagram horde-summoning fire lookout and an easy trail. The Three Dicks, on the other hand, seems to see only a handful of ascents a year, and has relatively little information available about it online. Nonetheless, I had wanted to climb it for years, and I thought that it was a truly delightful climb that ought to be a classic: short approach, beautiful ridge walking, a tasteful amount of off trail travel, and a clean, easy, and incredible exposed scramble to reach the summit. A taste of the full North Cascades experience, no suffering required.

In a fit of quintessential Weld-boys last-minute planning, I talked Adam into joining, and he talked Shawn into joining as well. The three dudes were assembled and ready to take on The Three Dicks. However, before we even left town, I threw our team into disarray. I wanted to catch the sunset and sunrise from up high, but Adam and Shawn had Friday evening commitments, so I set out by myself, with plans to bivy solo on the ridge and link up with the two remaining dudes Saturday morning.

I set out from the Hidden Lake Peaks trailhead under more-overcast-than expected skies, and quite tight on time to reach my intended viewpoint before sunset. I cruised up the trail then headed up towards Sibley Pass (rather than climbing the drainage directly, go a few dozen yards further along the trail, then find a climbers path which goes all the way to Sibley Pass), enjoying the lovely array of flowers strewn across the hillside. As I approached the pass, the sun burst out of the clouds to the west, and cast beams of light down into the valley below.

Paintbrushes below overcast skies and Hidden Lake Peaks.

The setting sun bursting out of the clouds, high above Sibley Creek. Mount Baker to the right, along with Little Devil.

I frantically snapped photos as the sun dodged clouds near the horizon, and made my way along the stunning and steep heather ridge, following a climbers’ path. The views were stunning, with dramatic clouds to the west, and pockets of sunlight on the Cascade Pass peaks to the east. It was a shame to not have been there 30 minutes earlier, but I had a great time snapping photos in the fading light. After sunset, broken clouds formed in the valleys below me, and blew along the ridges. Having forgotten my tripod (oops!) I balanced my camera on a rock to take a long exposure of the clouds forming on the dramatic West Face of Eldorado before getting out my bivy sack for a cozy night.

Sunset from the ridge above Sibley Pass, looking down the ridge that divides the two forks of Sibley Creek. Baker, Little and Big Devil, and the Southern Pickets in the distance.

Clouds flowing below camp, with Baker in the distance, partially shrouded.

A long exposure of clouds blowing around the impressive West Face of Eldorado as night falls, with Dorado Needle to the left.

My alarm went off before sunrise, and I was thrilled to see color on some beautiful high clouds to the east. I had a grand time scampering around, snapping pics of backlit dewy flowers and the great views in all directions.

Boston, Sahale, and Johannesburg at dawn, with Cascade Pass hidden behind a cloud.

The rising sun lights up the sky behind Dorado Needle and Eldorado.

Dome Peak, Spire Point, Mount Bruseth, and Glacier Peak fill out the skyline to the south above the steep ridge just south of Hidden lake (not visible).

Morning light on Hidden Lake Peaks’ highest summit, with lovely asters in the foreground.

By 6:30 or so, the sun was high enough in the sky that the light was starting to get flat. I knew that Adam and Shawn were planning on leaving Seattle around 5am, but I figured it would still be a few hours before they made it up to the ridge. On the hike in, I had floated grand plans to go tag the summit of Hidden Lake Peaks, or to hike down to the trailhead and join them for their hike up, but all those ideas fizzled out when confronted with my own laziness. In the end, I climbed back into my bivy, and went back to sleep, knowing that the boys would practically have to step over my sleeping body to continue further along the ridge. I eventually woke back up around 9:30, and made myself some breakfast before packing up. A few minutes later, I spied two figures strolling along the ridge, and Adam and Shawn popped up, having made great time up the trail after battling their way up the Sibley Creek road in Adam’s VW Golf.

My first glimpse of Shawn and Adam as they headed towards our morning rendezvous.

I left my overnight gear at camp, and the newly united three dudes set off for The Three Dicks. We continued along the lovely path on the ridge for another 10 minutes or so, before the ridge steepened and looked more challenging. Here, we dropped easily onto the north side of the ridge (a short bit of 30 degree snow), then walked on easy snow to the “key col” (48.51726, -121.17455) where we crossed back to the south side of the ridge. It looked pretty steep on the south side of the ridge, but it went easily with a tiny bit of class 2/3 scrambling. In the basin below, we traversed talus and snow, crossing an easy rib and staying at around 6,500 feet to stay below the South Buttress of the Western Dick. Once in the main basin south of The Three Dicks, we climbed up easy snow and slabs to the saddle immediately south of The Eastern Dick, between it and Pt. 7,200+.

Shawn boulder-hopping with a lovely view of Mutchler, Snowking, and Hidden Lake Peaks.

Shawn and Adam climbing snow in the broad basin south of The Three Dicks. Check out the impressive slab/slide on Razorback Mountain at right.

Above this saddle, we began the fun scramble to the summit. We worked our way up and then across an easy ledge system guarded by a single fourth class move (probably the hardest move on the whole route), then climbed easy slabs to the intra-Dick saddle (between the diminutive East and larger Central Dick). From here, we stayed very close to the ridge crest, enjoying beautiful clean scrambling, no harder than class 3, with stunning exposure and views of Eldorado to the north. The last hundred yards or so to the summit were easy walking.

Shawn dispatching the class 4 move to gain the ledge system.

A short segment of downclimbing on the ridge crest, with amazing views of Eldorado. The East Dick is the shaded summit above Shawn and Adam.

Easy terrain just below the summit. Cascade Pass in the distance, just above and left of Adam’s helmet.

Downclimbing easy slabs on the descent.

Adam descending easy slabs towards the bottom of the scramble, with Forbidden in the distance, and Boston/Sahale in the clouds.

After enjoying the view, we retraced our route without incident as we started our descent. We made good time boot skiing snow in the basin below the Dicks, and before long we crossed back onto the north side of the ridge, where Adam was thrilled to spot a human-shaped tarn in the upper Sibley Creek Basin below us. He sped ahead to stand on a rock and demonstrate to me the humanoid resemblance. From there, more lovely ridge walking and mercifully brief bout of hacky-sacking brought us back to the main Hidden Lake Peaks trail, and the trailhead not long after.

Adam gleefully demonstrating how the tarn below him is shaped like a person.

Beautiful and easy ridge walking on the way back to Sibley Pass, with the Backbone Ridge at left, Dorado Needle and Eldorado in the distance, and The Three Dicks at the right.

Trip Report: Sea Kayaking in (err... next to) the San Juan Islands

Earlier in July, I joined a handful of good friends on a 2-night sea kayaking trip in the San Juan Islands. People who know me well already know that I am not a particularly strong (or experienced) kayaker, and I think most of the boys in the group would say that kayaking is not their strongest discipline. But perhaps that was the point of the trip - it was ostensibly my bachelor party, and it’s no fun doing a bachelor party where everyone is already good at the planned activity! So Friday morning, the seven of us set out from Seattle. With fairly strong winds, we were a bunch of buoyant boys ready to get blown and broadsided.

Adam kindly volunteered to devise an itinerary that felt ambitious for us landlubbers, but seemed unlikely to lead to us requiring a rescue from the Coast Guard. We started our paddle in Anacortes, saving us the need to take a ferry, and on day 1 we planned on paddling north up Bellingham Channel to the east side of Cypress Island to our first camp, before circumnavigating the island counterclockwise and camping on James Island for night 2 before heading back to Anacortes. Geographic pedants will note that technically almost the entire proposed trip is on the east side of Rosario Strait, making it technically not in the San Juan Islands. This is true, but we ended up briefly setting foot on Blakely Island not once but twice, in addition to camping on James, so I’ll happily say that our trip was “in” the San Juans, not just “next to” them, which frankly sounds way cooler.

After causing a ruckus in WinCo getting groceries for the trip, we set off from Cabana Park, loaded with 5 pounds of carrots, 5 pounds of candy Lego blocks, and some Mac and Cheese powder (it’s amazing what you can get in bulk at WinCo!). Our first leg took us west through Burrows Pass, then we wrapped around Fidalgo Head, before dodging ferry traffic in front of the terminal as we crossed Guemes Channel and pushed into Bellingham Channel with the wind at our backs. Even with a tailwind, the swells approaching Cypress Island reminded me how little I am in my little kayak, and how powerful the ocean can be. I was happy to pull onto the beach on the leeward side of Cypress Head for a little break.

Adam, Alex, and Matt working their way through our substantial supply of carrots.

It was really quite windy at Cypress Head, and after a little bit of exploring and stretching our legs, we piled back in the boats. Pieter, the sole true sailor among us, had paired up with Matt, the true engineer among us, in their double kayak, and before we knew it, they had rigged up sails using their paddles and two plastic garbage bags. In retrospect, it was a mistake to let those two get in a boat together, but before we knew it, they had pulled far ahead of the rest of the group as we continued north along the east side of Cypress. Eventually, though, we managed to catch them, and we found a nice secluded campsite just north of Cypress Beach.

Pieter expertly trimming the jury-rigged mainsail (or is it a spinnaker?) as he and Matt pull ahead of the rest of the group.

With camp set up and a few more hours of daylight, a bunch of us set off to climb up to the summit of Eagle Cliff, a nice little viewpoint 750 vertical feet above the ocean. In classic fashion, Matt led us on a nice bushwhack past the northern tip of the island, then we climbed steeply through the mossy woods to hit the main trail near the summit. We enjoyed great views out over Rosario Strait in the evening light, before heading back down to Cypress Beach. The few hundred yards of bushwhacking parallel to the beach were surprisingly ‘schwacky, but we made it back to camp just enough light for Matt to take a quick dip.

Selfie just below the summit of Eagle Cliff.

Matt doing his best Loch Ness monster impression at dusk.

Looking north from Cypress Island at sunset. Tiny Towhead island in the middle of the picture.

The next morning, we realized that catastrophe had struck: our stash of candy Lego blocks had gotten splashed with some seawater, and were starting to lose structural integrity. We had to eat them as quickly as possible, before they were completely reduced to mush. Feeling slightly ill (and slightly nervous about the currents crossing Rosario Strait), we set off, paddling counterclockwise around Cypress Island.

Lovely paddling on the NW side of Cypress Island.

Adam paddling below Eagle Cliff.

As we neared the aptly-named Tide Point, our second catastrophe struck: the rudder on Matt and Pieter’s boat failed, a clear case of karmic playfield leveling after their overpowered performance the previous day. They pulled ashore to make some hasty repairs, where they were surprised to be greeted by of the island’s most asinine residents, who kindly offered to help.

Four asses documenting their rudder repair handiwork.

The resulting selfie (thanks Matt for the pic!)

After the friendly island residents were generously compensated for their hard work (5 lbs of carrots, remember?) we headed out into the ripping 3 knot current in Rosario Strait as we pushed over to Blakely Island and the San Juans proper. Once again, Matt and Pieter blasted ahead, we all regrouped in a cove on the shore of Blakely to take a quick break. After eating some lunch, we opted to let the tides take us through Peavine Pass and down the west side of Blakely, which was very pleasant paddling. We took another break just east of Willow Island before again dodging the ferry traffic as we paddled through Thatcher Pass before quickly arriving at James Island.

Ferry big, kayak small.

We found a lovely campsite and hung out for a while before Matt started to grow restless. James Island, while beautiful, is too small to provide adequately challenging bushwhacking, so we needed to come up with a more creative way for Matt to get his wiggles out. We walked over to the public boat dock, then Matt and I talked one another into swimming back to camp, while Luca and Adam kindly offered to carry our shoes back. Now, the swim was only a mere 300 yards or so, but I am not an open water swimmer, and I think Matt was genuinely concerned that I would drown. Honestly, it was very touching. We both made it back to our campsite without incident, however, to find Pieter (fresh out of fire academy) drilling Mike and Alex on medical emergency scenarios. It’s nice to have such well-prepared and caring friends. After drying out, we crushed a massive pot of mac and cheese before a lovely stroll to take in the sunset views.

Group photo at sunset.

James Island shoreline at dusk.

Adam and I goofing around.

I got up early the next morning to walk around the southern tip of the island and enjoy the sunrise, then we packed up the boats for an early start with calm currents crossing Rosario Strait. Before setting off, we spent an obligatory 15 mins exploring the tide pools near our campsite. I loved watching all 6 of my friends spread out around the beach, all engrossed in the interesting fauna. A small brightly colored starfish was the crowd favorite.

Matt showing off the tiny crab he found, with Luca and Alex busy with their own discoveries in the background.

Our boats ready for the last paddle back to Burrows Pass and Anacortes.

We set off across Rosario Strait, which was a straightforward crossing, before the final crux of our voyage, paddling against the current a short distance up Burrows Pass to reach our take out. The currents in this area can easily be 3-4 knots, which doesn’t sound too bad if you don’t realize that a comfortable paddling speed is about the same (at least for us newbies). Anticipating this, I had exercised my groom-to-be privilege and kicked Pieter out of his boat so I could finally benefit from being in Matt’s boat. Each of his paddlestrokes sent us surging ahead, and we quickly left everyone else in the dust as the current strengthened. We reached the last beach and regrouped with the other boats, and everyone was in high spirits. I’m so lucky to have such a wonderful group of friends.

Trip Report: Torment-Forbidden Traverse

The weekend before our wedding, Becca and I needed some quintessential Cascades trouble to get into. Somehow, we were able tease our good friend and talented climbing partner Eric away from the crags and into the alpine (why even bother with something easier than 5.10??) while simultaneously duping Matt into tagging along. Eric had pitched the Torment-Forbidden Traverse, a classic alpine traverse in North Cascades National Park which starts on the summit of Mount Torment and traverses a mile of jagged ridge, finishing with an ascent of the uber-classic West Ridge of Forbidden Peak. Matt had previously been up just the West Ridge, and I’d climbed the North Ridge of Forbidden many years earlier, but we we all excited to tick off a classic with amazing views and at least some clean rock.

The four of us set out from Seattle around noon on Saturday, planning on hiking in the evening when it was a bit cooler before bivying somewhere along the route. With an entire WinCo pizza stuffed into out bags, we headed up the familiar Boston Basin approach, making friends with a Black Bear just below the upper campsites (the same bear that resulted in the closure of the cross country zone last month?).

Our new bear friend enjoying the lovely meadows in Boston Basin.

We headed past the upper campsites to the dying remains of the Taboo Glacier, beneath the South Face of Torment, and grabbed some water before starting up the South Ridge route up Torment in lovely evening light. The “South Ridge” route name is a bit of a misnomer, as the route actually mostly stays on first the east and then the west sides of the South Ridge before finishing up the Southeast Face of Torment, spending almost no time on the ridge itself. We had an easy time climbing up the gully which provides access to the west side of the ridge, and the scrambling on the west side was beautiful, exposed, and definitely low-fifth.

Becca heading towards the Taboo Glacier, with the impressive North Face of Johannesburg in the background, above the Cascade River valley.

Eric enjoying the evening light high on the South Ridge of Torment.

We crossed back onto the Southeast Face as the light faded, and made our way over to the notch in the East Ridge which accesses the Forbidden Glacier and the rest of the traverse route. Most parties rappel onto the glacier to get around the moat and bergschrund, but we hadn’t yet tagged the summit of Torment. We couldn’t skip Torment, and it was getting fairly dark, but there wasn’t a great place to bivy, and we didn’t want to deal with ascending a rope in the morning to backtrack to get Torment. Instead, we found a few cozy spots to stick our bivy sacks at the East Ridge notch, and we all settled in for the night, Eric and Matt sleeping tied in for extra security.

Eric and Matt, with headlamps on, scouting for bivy sites on the East Ridge of Torment at dusk, with Forbidden’s summit shrouded in clouds to the right.

Our peaceful night was only marred by the simultaneous puncturing and deflating of both Becca and my Thermarests (coincidence?). A few mid-night reinflations later, we awoke at dawn to an absolutely stunning undercast filling the entire Cascade River valley, with Johannesburg and many other summits sticking up through a sea of clouds.

Sunrise on Spider and Formidable, with Glacier Peak in the background, and Johannesburg in the middle-right, all rising above an amazing undercast.

Matt at sunrise, waking up after a peaceful night snuggling his trail runners.

We roused ourselves and headed up to summit Torment, just a dozen minutes of scrambling above our bivy. The view to the west from the summit was stunning, looking over to Eldorado and the Inspiration Glacier, and down thousands of feet to Moraine Lake. We returned to camp to make breakfast and pack up, then rappelled onto the Forbidden Glacier where we paused for a little bit to melt some snow for drinking water before setting off on the traverse in earnest.

Becca making quick work of the last few hundred vertical feet below Torment. The rest of the traverse route over to Forbidden (spiky summit in the middle) stretches out behind her.

This time of year, the bergschrund didn’t pose any challenge, and we got off the glacier and back onto the rock without trouble. We traversed on the north side above the glacier, with a few exposed moves of low-fifth, to regain the ridge crest at a saddle, then stayed closer to the ridge crest to bypass the north-side snow traverse. Except for few exposed low-fifth moves, everything was class 3/4, although with mediocre rock quality in places. The first part of the traverse felt very slow, and every time we looked around the corner it seemed like Torment was still just behind us.

Becca and Eric on a short exposed section of scrambling just before the first snow saddle.

Becca descending easy snow with the Forbidden Glacier and the lower part of the North Ridge of Forbidden in the background.

Matt and Becca at the saddle, with a lingering undercast below Johannesburg and Glacier Peak.

Past the snow saddle, we made a few more exposed moves then enjoyed some easy but stunning scrambling right on the ridge crest before making a 50 meter rappel to the south side of the ridge. From here, easy going on the south side led us to one more hard move (which Becca and I opted to belay) before we returned to the ridge crest and the classic “sidewalk in the sky” section. After spending hours to go what felt like just a few hundred yards, we cruised the much easier terrain to the base of Forbidden’s West Ridge, where the rock quality improved dramatically due to the traffic.

Becca making a few exposed moves above the Forbidden Glacier.

The whole gang cruising the knife edge ridge towards Forbidden.

Eric rappelling above a sea of clouds. Snowking in the distance.

Becca and Eric walking along the “sidewalk in the sky”, with Eldorado and Klawatti to the right.

We dropped most of our gear at the base of the West Ridge and cruised up towards the summit, passing a handful of parties on their way down. By some total coincidence, we reached the summit less than five minutes ahead of Becca’s friend Jack, who had climbed the NE Rib of Forbidden - we had no clue he would be in the same area as us!

On the descent, we made one short rappel past the crux, then downclimbed back to our packs. We dropped off the south side of the ridge to descend into Boston Basin, which also meant descending into the clouds that had been lingering below us all day long. The whiteout, which never made routefinding an issue, added an appropriately ominous mood to the really unpleasant loose downclimbing that separated us from easy slabs. Becca and I made one final short rappel to join our more confident friends below us.

Becca rappeling into the clouds on the descent off the West Ridge.

Back on the easy glacial slabs below, we descended snowpatches and rock, passing some beautiful patches of Monkeyflower. We spotted a proud mommy ptarmigan with her baby before catching the climbers’ trail at the upper campsites and cruising back down to the car. What a great way to spend a weekend with great friends!

Beautiful Monkeyflowers in the slabs below the West Ridge.

Can you spot the White-Tailed Ptarmigan and her baby?

Trip Report: Hinman and Daniel via a Dip Top Loop

Come mid-July, I was feeling like I needed to get some wiggles out. My favorite wiggling partner, Matt, had bailed on me (very out of character for him), so I found myself on the cusp of the weekend with no partner and no plans. The previous weekend (while we were on the Ptarmigan Traverse), Matt had run a cool loop over Daniel to Hinman and back via Venus Lake.

What vindictive plan could I execute solo that would make Matt ashamed for bailing on me? Do the same thing he did, but go farther and tag more summits, of course! Naturally, though, my penchant for photography meant that it would need to be an overnight trip (not to mention my vastly inferior cardio, relative to Matt’s). I was excited to try and go fast and light, covering some distance while exploring one of the most beautiful parts of the Alpine Lakes Wilderness, an area that I had never been in before.

I packed the bare minimum of camping gear into my trail running vest along with four slices of Costco cheese pizza and my little point and shoot camera and drove up the Cle Elum River on Saturday afternoon. It being a nice weekend, the 4x4 folks were out in full force, and I saw the most Toyota 4Runners I’ve ever seen, while simultaneously having the fewest returned waves to other drivers. Coincidence? Probably…

Cathedral Rock above Peggy’s Pond. Note Mount Stuart just to the right.

It was a hot afternoon, and I set out from the Tucquala Meadows trailhead thankful that it was late enough in the day for the climb to Squaw Lake to be mostly in the shade. The flowers and peak-a-boo views of Cathedral Rock were lovely, and soon I was traversing the steep hillside above Deep Lake towards Peggy’s Pond. I filled up some water and started up the climbers’ trail up towards Daniel. Once above treeline, the views, flower, and light all just kept getting better! What a cool angle of the peaks all along the Cascade Crest, with Lemah, Chimey Rock, Summit Chief, and Bears Breast all in a line. It was quite windy up high, and a descending party chastised me for not having crampons, two ice tools, and supplemental oxygen. I tagged the East Summit of Daniel, then traversed directly towards the main summit, which was somewhat chossy and unpleasant. Going slowly and taking lots of photos, I reached the true summit of Daniel and enjoyed the great views.

The Cascade crest all seen inline above Bears Brest from Daniel. Lemah, Chimney Rock, Summit Chief, Overcoat, and Little Chief.

Looking down the Lynch Glacier towards Pea Soup Lake, with Dip Top Peak and Lynch Peak separated by Dip Top Gap. Glacier Peak on the horizon in the distance.

I needed to get onto the Lynch Glacier in order to make my way down to Pea Soup Lake, but the top had melted out a little bit - nothing that a tasteful run-and-jump couldn’t solve. Once on the glacier, I cruised down the snow in beautiful evening light, then scrambled down some slabs on the skier’s lefthand side, aiming towards the outlet of Pea Soup Lake. The golden light and beautiful scenery were enough induce a state of near-paralysis, as I had to stop every 10 seconds or so to snap another photo. I spied a nice rock outcropping and balanced my camera in the appropriate spot to take a self portrait with the lake in the background, only discover that the remote shutter activation feature wouldn’t work without me signing into my Canon account, an impossible feat without cell service. WTF, Canon?? The 10 second self-timer would have to suffice, and after a few comical mid-sprint snaps, I finally got the photo I had imagined.

A hurried 10-second self-timer self-portrait above Pea Soup Lake, with Dip Top and Lynch Peaks in the background.

I continued down to the lake outlet, snapping far too many photos on the way. A little bit lower, the flowers were blooming in full force, and I found a delightful bivy site near the lakeshore just as it was getting dark. I filled up some more water, enjoyed a cold dinner, and snuggled into my bivy sack.

Looking down into the Foss River valley, with Paintbrushes in the foreground. It was very cool to have crossed both hydrologic (east to west) and accesso-logic (I-90 to Route 2) divides.

Dusk above Pea Soup Lake. Lynch Peak in the background.

Beautiful flowers on the shore of Pea Soup Lake, looking back at the Lynch Glacier and Daniel’s true summit (middle-right).

Having decided to forgo the sleeping bag, I was worried about being chilly, but by far the biggest impediment my sleep was the pre-dawn hour that my alarm went off. I dragged myself out of my nest and struggled into my trail runners. I boulder hopped up the morainal remnants towards Dip Top Gap, hoping to make it as far as possible before the sunrise would induce another bout of photo-paralysis. Unfortunately, the wildflowers made this case perhaps even more serious than the previous night’s, as every clump of blossoms presented a new foreground opportunity.

First light on Daniel and the Lynch Glacier, above Pea Soup Lake, with some nice asters in the foreground.

Looking north from Dip Top Gap down towards Jade Lake, with many prominent Cascades summits on the horizon, including Baker, the Monte Cristo Group, Sloan, and Glacier Peak.

I finally forced myself to put my camera away, and I scampered up towards the summit of Lynch, then retraced my steps back to Dip Top Gap and up Dip Top, whose lovely heather flowers brought on a brief rebound infection. Eventually, I dropped back towards Pea Soup Lake and grabbed the rest of my gear before dropping down to ~5,400 feet along the East Fork of the Foss River to circumvent steeper terrain before climbing up the dying glacier towards the saddle between Daniel and Hinman. Unfortunately, it was on this stint of off-trail travel that my knee started bothering me, a pain that would grow to become the dominant theme of the day.

Blooming heather below the summit of Dip Top. Daniel’s many summits all on display, along with some cool shadows on the Lynch Glacier.

Looking back at Dip Top from the saddle between Daniel and Hinman, with the dying easternmost lobe of the Foss Glacier in liquid form. Glacier Peak in the distance left.

From the saddle between Daniel and Hinman, I climbed easy talus and snow to the summit of Hinman, where I could eke out enough cell service for a brief appearance on the weekend’s family Zoom call. Here I faced a decision… I had originally planned on completing my loop back to Venus Lake by descending to La Bohn Gap, then heading over to Dutch Miller Gap and down into the Waptus River valley, a distance of almost 15 miles. However, Venus Lake was only a mere two miles of cross country travel away, and I was feeling awfully lazy. The knee pain nudged me towards the cowardly/conservative option, and I retraced my steps back to the Daniel/Hinman Saddle before heading around the top of the Shovel Creek drainage, through a tasteful amount of brush. I made brief conversation with a large frog while crossing the creek, then a few short and fun moves of easy scrambling brought me to the saddle NNE of Ares Peak. I said a brief hello to a fisherman on the shore of Venus Lake, the only human I had conversed with since leaving Peggy’s Pond, then headed cross country up towards The Citadel.

The sandy upper slopes of The Citadel were of the cursed “take one step forward, slide two steps back” variety, but soon snow made for easier travel on the east side of the ridge, and I dropped my pack for the short and fun scramble up to the summit. A summit register entry from the day before noted that Steve was worried about the downclimb, but I didn’t see any mangled human bodies, so I guess he made it down ok.

Cool topology looking south from the airy summit of The Citadel. Rainier in the distance.

From the Citadel, I could see my route up Daniel from the previous day, and it looked like I would succeed in closing my loop. I boot-skied down snow to the outlet of Circle Lake, where I surprised a couple sunbathing in the nude, then picked up the trail back up towards Daniel’s East Ridge and Peggy’s Pond. Around this point in the afternoon, the healthy dose of Ibuprofen I had taken earlier really wore off, and my knee properly sucked on the descent to Peggy’s Pond and back over to Cathedral Rock.

Cathedral Rock and flowers from the Cathedral Pass trail.

I had hoped that the superhighway of a trail back to Tucquala Meadows would be easier on the knee, but alas it was not. Thankfully I managed to stay ahead of the boisterous group of boys that I had passed back at Peggy’s, and I made it back to my car with only a few curse words. Despite the knee issues (a subsequent steroid injection and PT have me feeling optimistic), this was a truly wonderful solo trip!

Trip Report: A Long-Awaited Ptarmigan Traverse

Over four days surrounding the 4th of July weekend Jaclyn, Helene, Adam, Becca, and I set out to complete the Ptarmigan Traverse, one of the most classic alpine high routes in the Cascades, and perhaps one of the most historic. Originally completed in 1938 (over 13 days!) by members of the Ptarmigan Climbing Club, the Ptarmigan Traverse heads south from Cascade Pass, in North Cascades National Park, into the Glacier Peak Wilderness approximately 20 miles to Spire Point, above the Suiattle River. The route stays high above treeline the entire way, and crosses several glaciers, high cols, and the hydrologic crest of the Cascades many times, passing by many of the most beautiful summits and lakes in the North Cascades. Despite the ruggedness of the terrain, the route itself is relatively gentle, making it one of the most popular and accessible high routes in Washington.

I had wanted to do this trip for many years, partially because it was one of my parents’ very first longer trips in the Cascades, back in 1989, and partially because my family had attempted it in 2012, when Adam and I were 17, but had turned around before the halfway point after my mom’s boots suffered a catastrophic failure. We had actually originally planned our trip for last summer, but were stymied by fire-related road closures on not one but both ends of the route. This year, though, we were in luck, and had a fabulous time with relaxed days, mostly beautiful weather, good conditions on the route, and enough time to tackle some objectives on the side.

Morning light on Dome Peak, the One Eyed Bull, and Spire Point as seen from our camp at White Rock Lakes, the most stunning campsite along the traverse and arguably one of the prettiest alpine lakes in the Cascades.

On Friday morning, after dropping my car up the Suiattle River Road, we set out up the Cascade Pass Trail’s many switchbacks, surrounded by dayhikers. The weather was glorious, and before long, we had left the crowds behind as we made our way up Mixup Arm towards the Cache Glacier and Cache Col, the southern boundary of the National Park. On the far side of Cache Col we descended towards Kool Aid Lake. On the hike down, by total dumb luck, I was able to locate the exact rocks my parents stood next to for a photo back in 1989, so we had to recreate the shot with Becca and I.

Heading up the margin of the Cache Glacier, with Forbidden and Sahale in the background.

My parents in 1989, with the Middle Cascade Glacier and Mount Formidable in the background.

Becca and I in the same spot in 2025. Note the recession of the Middle Cascade Glacier, partially obscured by the ridge coming down from Arts Knoll.

On the far side of Kool Aid Lake, we faced the infamous Red Ledges, which we needed to traverse to get onto the Middle Cascade Glacier. Reputation not withstanding, they were very mellow, and before long we were heading up the glacier towards the Spider Formidable Col, as clouds started to thicken and descend, obscuring many nearby summits. By the time we reached the col, we were only a few hundred feet below the cloud ceiling, and we found a pleasant place to camp just on the far side of the col on some glacial slabs. Before long, the clouds descended further, and we were in a complete whiteout, which made for a slightly chilly evening.

Approaching the Middle Cascade Glacier.

Becca and Jac nearing the Spider-Formidable Col, with clouds billowing around us.

Descending steep snow on the far side of the Spider-Formidable Col, with Sentinel, Old Guard, and Le Conte mountains hidden in the overcast.

When my alarm went off at sunrise on Saturday morning, I had hoped for a clear morning, but I poked my head out of the tent to find that we were still very much stuck in a whiteout. At least this enabled some guilt-free snoozing, and after an hour or two, things began to burn off. After breakfast, the rest of the group set out to climb Formidable, while I headed in the other direction, hoping to climb Spider, having already climbed Formidable. Spider was not that pleasant, as Paul Klenke notes on Summitpost, but certainly far from the worst scramble I’ve done in the Cascades, and I was able to catch up the rest of the group just as they were reaching the summit of Formidable.

Sentinel and Old Guard above a little puddle near our camp.

The Flat Creek valley and clouds pouring over the Cascade Crest from high on Spider.

By the time we returned from our side mission(s), it was a bit later in the day than I had initially imagined, so we hoofed it down to Yang Yang Lakes and up a short snow gully to bypass Pt. 7004 and save ourselves a bit of distance. The stretch of the route along the ridge north of Le Conte mountain I thought was especially pretty, high on the ridge crest with views in all directions. It still hadn’t cleared up as I’d hoped, but it was a lovely afternoon walking along the Le Conte Glacier.

Becca and Jaclyn climbing steep snow above Yang Yang Lakes, with Formidable and Spider still shrouded in clouds behind them.

Traversing along the side of Le Conte, with the Le Conte Glacier in the distance.

Jac on the Le Conte Glacier, with Sentinel and Old Guard looming in the background.

After the Le Conte Glacier, the Ptarmigan crosses a small pass back onto the west side of the Cascade crest, and it was here that we got our first views of the South Cascade Glacier, the largest glacier on our route (albeit much smaller than it used to be). The South Cascade Glacier is one of the more extensively studied glaciers in the North Cascades, having been continuously monitored by the USGS since 1959. The USGS built a small cabin to host researchers on a ridge overlooking the glacier opposite the Ptarmigan Traverse’s route, and as luck would have it, when we got our first views of the glacier, the sun had just broken through the clouds and lit up the whole scene with backlit sunbeams, a lovely panoramic sight. In the late day light we traversed above the glacier before descending onto it, then crossed the glacier to reach the col above White Rock Lakes. White Rock Lakes is a spot I had always wanted to visit, having gotten skunked in 2012, and it has one of the most stunning views in the Cascades, looking across Agnes Creek to Dome Peak, the Chickamin Glacier, the One Eyed Bull, Spire Point, and several other summits. We descended snow from the col towards the lakes late in the day, with great light and some swirling clouds on the summits to add drama. This evening’s hike was one of my favorite moments of the trip.

Helene above the South Cascade Glacier and lake. If you look carefully in the middle of the frame, on the ridge on the far side of the glacier, you can see the USGS monitoring station.

Traversing the western slopes of Le Conte towards the South Cascade Glacier. Our route goes across the low col in the middle of the frame, below the Dana Glacier, the One Eyed Bull, and Spire Point.

Descending towards White Rock Lakes. Dome Peak at left is the tallest summit in the area, and the One Eyed Bull and Spire point are to the right.

For me, White Rock Lakes lived up to my expectations, with beautiful flowers, heather, and 10/10 views. Definitely my favorite of our three campsites on the traverse. I spent the whole evening and the following morning running around snapping pictures and enjoying the scene.

Lenticular clouds over Gunsight at sunset.

The view from the outlet of White Rock Lakes, looking across Agnes Creek to Gunsight, Sinister, Dome, the One Eyed Bull, and Spire Point.

Not wanting to leave, we got a veeerryyy relaxed start Sunday morning, delayed in part by a disagreement amongst the group: By now, I’ve mentioned several times the One Eyed Bull, the summit immediately across the Agnes Creek valley from White Rock Lakes. We all knew where the summit was, but the bull itself was less obvious. Two competing interpretations developed. I saw an entire bull, with the head to left, seen in profile, while Jaclyn saw just the head of the bull, looking straight at the viewer. We’d really appreciate your help resolving this point of contention. Take a look at the picture below and let me know if you’re on Team Galen or Team Jaclyn!

My artistic interpretation of two possible One Eyed Bulls, masterfully sketched. Wait a second for the animation to loop around to see them!

Eventually, we left White Rock Lakes and started descending into the Agnes Creek valley, climbing up onto the Dana Glacier. Here we left the standard Ptarmigan route and headed further east, directly to the top of the Dana Glacier to the Dome/One Eyed Bull Col, which provided more direct access to the Dome Glacier and Dome Peak, our climbing objective for the day. After a lunch break, we left our overnight gear and climbed up to Dome. The final few yards to the true summit of Dome requires an easy but very airy and exposed traverse along the ridge, which got some good giggles out of everyone.

Descending from White Rock Lakes into the Agnes Creek drainage to reach the Dana Glacier (to the left of the frame).

Approaching the Dana Glacier, with Elephant Head at left.

Becca, Helene, and Jac on the airy traverse to Dome’s summit.

After enjoying the views from Dome, we eventually descended back to our overnight gear, and headed down to Itswoot Ridge, our final campsite, with amazing views of Glacier Peak across the Suiattle River valley. We were treated to a truly gorgeous final sunset from our campsite on the heather ridge, and I had a lot of fun photographing nearby waterfalls.

Passing a neat meltwater pond on the way to Itswoot Ridge, with Glacier Peak in the background.

Group photo at Istwoot Ridge.

Glacier Peak, Itswoot Ridge, and the Sulphur Creek valley at dusk.

On Monday morning we woke up and packed up for the hike out to the Suiattle. From Itswoot Ridge we descended to Cub Lake, which beautifully frames Glacier Peak, surrounded by flowers. After a short uphill, we crossed into the Bachelor Creek drainage dropped below treeline for the first time since below Cascade Pass. We were thankful to have recently-maintained climbers’ trail through the slide alder along Bachelor Creek, and before long, we were on the official trail paralleling Downey Creek. Here we ran into a trail crew doing an amazing job clearing blowdown - thanks! The final 6 miles out to the car dragged on just the right amount of too long, and we took a quick dip in the Suiattle to get the dust off before driving home. An amazing trip!

Glacier Peak and Cub Lake.

Thankful for good trail through the slide alder along Bachelor Creek.

Gallery: A Quick Overnight at Gem Lake with the 6x17 Camera

After returning from Europe two weeks ago, I wanted to get outside for a quick trip. My flight landed in the middle of the day, so I didn’t have time to go far. I decided to grab my big panoramic film camera and head up to Snow and Gem Lakes, near Snoqualmie Pass, both of which are super popular destinations that I had been to countless times in the winter, but somehow never in the summer. The whole Alpental Valley and surrounding area is truly spectacular, even I often overlook it for more distant spots. Here are a few pics taken on both film and digital, let me know what you think!

A silhouetted Mount Garfield imposing over the Middle Fork. Digital.

Kaleetan and Roosevelt over Gem Lake at dusk. Ektar 100 film.

Evening light on Mount Snoqualmie, shrouded in clouds. Looks like coverage on the Slot and Crooked Couloirs is pretty thin! Digital.

Morning light on Chair Peak, above Snow Lake. Ektar 100

Bonus shot: Back May I took the 6x17 up to Deception Pass to photograph the sunset with Gantavya. Ektar 100.

Trip Report: A German Reunion on Großglockner

Two years ago, I met my good friend and ski buddy Jörn by chance, as he was the only other person skiing Lichtenberg Mountain on an early season December powder day. Jörn is German, and was living in Seattle, where we did lots of great ski trips together, until he unfortunately had to move back to Germany last fall. I’ve been hoping to visit him since he moved back, and last week’s ICWSM conference in Copenhagen presented just the right opportunity. Jörn lives right next to the Austrian border, very close to Salzburg, and with great weather forecast, we made plans to attempt to climb the Großglockner, the tallest summit in Austria, on the way to the conference. (I spelled Großglockner with the Eszett in the title of the post, because it looks exotic, but from here on out I’ll just use double “ss” as I’m way too lazy to go digging in the special characters menu every time I type it.)

Jörn reserved a stay at a mountain hut for us (because how can you climb in the Alps and not stay in a hut?) and even offered to pick me up from the train station in Munich. With the great weather forecast, it was going to be a great trip, but as we all know, when mountaineering, you can’t get too complacent. Just when everything seems to be going well is exactly when something is going to go wrong! And so, when I landed after a long flight from Seattle, it became clear that my suitcase with all my clothing and mountaineering equipment hadn’t made my connection and was stuck on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Tragic!

Quickly, we came up with a plan for this contingency, fueled by a somewhat generous reading of Air Canada’s lost baggage policy: We’d stop at a shop on the way on the way to the trailhead and buy or rent whatever gear I couldn’t do without or borrow from Jörn, hopefully to be reimbursed later. After a lovely night at Jörn’s apartment, where he and his wife were incredibly kind hosts (homemade pizza!), we headed off.

Trying boots on at a preposterously overpriced mountain gear shop.

Armed with 500 euros worth of overpriced new gear (that was a pair of boots, a t-shirt, and a pair of hiking pants), drove through countless picturesque alpine towns to the trailhead, where we immediately received a sweet view of our objective. After a few hours of pleasant hiking past several other huts, we arrived at the Glorerhütte, a lovely Austrian mountain hut constructed in 1877 that was to be our accommodations for the evening.

Our first view of the Grossglockner from the trailhead.

Jörn approaching the Glorrehütte. Notice the tramway at right for hauling supplies (not people) up from the valley bottom.

It was still early in the afternoon, so we headed out for a lovely little stroll over the Kastenegg, which disappointingly is not a type of egg but in fact is a small summit above the hut. We returned to the hut well before the designated 18:00 dinner time. “We cannot be late,” Jörn told me. “Austrians are like strict Germans,” he explained, “and so punctuality is therefore very important.” Dinner was lovely, and it was fun chatting (in a mixture of German in English) with various folks. I headed back up the Kastenegg for some sunset photos before heading to our bunkroom for an early start the following morning.

Evening light on Böses Weibl (at right) as seen from the Kastenegg. I gather that Böses Weibl translates to “evil woman” or similar - no clue how it got that name.

The sun setting above the Glorerhütte, with Grossglockner in the middle of the image. Our route the next day would go up the valley on the right, then climb up to hit the skyline at the second rightmost pass, then roughly follow the skyline to the summit.

At the unpleasant hour of 2:30, our alarm went off. The Glorerhütte doesn’t host as many climbers as some of the other huts in the area, and so we were up many hours before any of the other denizens, who had smartly decided to give us a private bunkroom so that we wouldn’t wake them up with our departure. The cook, in fact, had seemed mildly offended that we would be missing breakfast. We started hiking by headlamp, with a sky full of stars above us. We followed easy trail for a few hours, passing another hut, before the sky started to brighten. Just before sunrise we reached the first challenge of the day, 150 meters of via ferrata to reach the Hohenwartscharte, the pass above the Hohenwartskees glacier, which would provide us access to the rest of the route. The bottom of the via ferrata was the steepest, and we had a great view of the morning light spreading across the mountains below us as we climbed up beefy metal rungs towards the pass.

Jörn hiking towards the Hohenwartskees glacier in the predawn light. The Hohenwartscharte is in the middle of the skyline, with the Grossglockner at left.

Jörn climbing up snow to the base of the via ferrata, as the first light of the day hits the mountains below us.

The metal rungs of the via ferrata climbing up into the distance.

We reached the Hohenwartscharte quickly, and from there we could see all the way past the Adlersruhe to the summit of the Grossglockner, where the more technical climbing was located. Up until this point, we hadn’t seen a soul, but ahead of us our route would join the more popular routes, and, being a popular climb, we were worried about traffic jams on the narrow ridge climb to the summit. We could already see parties roping up at the base of the technical climbing on the summit pyramid. The Adlersruhe is a gentle subsummit about 350 meters below the true summit of the Grossglocker, and is home to the Erzherzog Johann Hütte, which many parties spend the night at for a short summit push.

A panorama from the Hohenwartscharte, looking south.

On the far side of the pass, we cruised along easy and well-trodden snow towards the Adlersruhe, with amazing views down to the massive Pasterze Glacier, the largest glacier in the eastern Alps. By the time we were approaching the summit pyramid, we could see a conga line of parties bunched up on the handlines on the face. Jörn and I were able to solo past many of them until the route reached the top of the face and climbed ridge towards the false summit. The ridge climbing was an easy but very exposed mixture of ice and rock with amazing airy views in all directions, but, because it was so narrow, passing people become a good bit trickier. With some patience, though, we reached the false summit Kleinglockner, only a few meters shorter than the true summit. We descended a fixed line into the saddle between the false and true summits, then roped up for the most exposed section of the ridge, balancing across a narrow ice bridge with hundreds of meters of exposure on either side. A few dozen meters of low angle ice took us to the true summit, with its beautiful metal cross.

Jörn walking towards the Adlersruhe. You can see the Erzherzog Johann Hütte on the skyline below and to the left of the summit of Grossglockner.

A veritable conga line of climbers on the route up the summit pyramid.

Jörn just a few meters below the summit of Grossglockner.

We opted to stay roped up for more of the descent, which was very slow. We encountered a gentleman who, woefully unprepared, had attempted to climb the mountain without partners or even a rope, and had gotten into a bit of a sticky situation when he realized that downclimb is quite a bit more challenging than ascending. We offered to let him join our rope team, which further slowed our progress as we needed to stop frequently to let other descending parties pass. Nonetheless, we made it down to the fixed lines at the base of the summit pyramid, from where our new companion could belay himself, and we cruised down to the easier slow below, relieved to be off the crowded technical terrain. From there, we retraced our steps back to the Hohenwartscharte, down the via ferrata, and back down the trail to the Glorerhütte.

Jörn hiking down the trail above the Salmhütte.

At the hut, as we repacked our overnight gear, I came to the horrifying realization that I had failed to update my sunscreen application technique to account for my lack of hat, and my forehead was solidly sunburned. What better way to show up at a professional conference than with a peeling forehead?! This realization also prompted the learning of my new favorite German word: Krebsrot, which translates "to “Cancer red,” as in the color of my forehead (thanks Helene for teaching me that one :)

Lovely mountain views from the trail below the Glorerhütte.

Epilogue: Upon recounting the story behind my sunburned forehead to a colleague at my conference, he pointed out that the last time we had chatted, it had been at CSCW last October in Costa Rica, where I had recounted to him the story of attempting to paraglide before the conference and breaking open an ant nest in a tree, causing my entire body to be swarmed by angry ants. When my advisors told me that conferences are good opportunities to build my reputation amongst colleagues, I’m not quite sure that’s what they meant.

Trip Report: Golden Horn and Hacky Sack

The weekend before last, Adam and I set out for a mellow camping and climbing trip with our good friend and wildlife expert Dunlin, and friend and hacky sack connoisseur Chris, who was visiting from out of state. We wanted to camp somewhere pretty and climb some mountains, and Golden Horn and Tower Mountains seemed like an ideal set of objectives: easy approach on a good trail, nice lake to camp at, and some scrambling to keep things interesting.

I had previously climbed both summits (with the same itinerary) on a solo trip in 2015 in awful weather and with no views whatsoever, so I was excited to return with some friends and better weather.

A self portrait on the summit of Tower in August 2015, 10 years before this trip, with high spirits despite the total whiteout.

After a relaxed departure from Seattle and the traditional pre-trip raid on Winco’s bulk foods department, we met Dunlin at the trailhead and headed north on the PCT. The trail was almost completely melted out, with just a few short snowy sections near Cutthroat and above Granite Passes. By the time we were traversing the steep south slopes of Tower, the light was lovely, and the hike up the last mile to Upper Snowy Lake was gorgeous, with Tower looming over us. We dropped our stuff at a campsite, and enjoyed the sunset from a nearby hill.

Dunlin, Chris, and Adam crossing a snowy section of the PCT just north of Cutthroat Pass.

Lovely views of Porcupine and Black Peaks from the Snowy Lakes trail.

Tower Mountain and the Lower Snowy Lake outlet stream.

Sunset over the upper Methow valley, with Mount Hardy impressive in the middle-left, flanked by Black Peak (left) and the Ragged Ridge summits (right).

Unfortunately Chris wasn’t feeling well, and Adam’s tentbound flatulence prevented an overnight recovery (it likely made his condition deteriorate further). I got up early to snap some sunrise photos, and after breakfast, Chris opted to stay at camp and enjoy the fresh air in Adam’s absence, while the three of us headed up to tackle Golden Horn. It was a beautiful morning, and we did made quick time on the talus slopes leading to the horn itself, with its infamous exposed boulder problem at the very summit. We enjoyed lovely views of Hardy from the top before heading back to camp to reunite with Chris.

First light on Mount Hardy from Upper Snowy Lake.

A neat view of Jack and Crater, with clouds pouring over Mebee Pass and evaporating in the Methow valley.

The rising sun over the shoulder of Tower, with clouds filling the Swamp Creek basin.

Dunlin and Adam below the false summit of Golden Horn.

Back at camp, the involuntary expulsion of various fluids out of various orifices had marked the nadir of Chris’ illness, and he appeared to be on the mend. Chris was well enough, in fact, to coach us in an extended (by my standards) session of hacky sack, and we had a wonderful time playing together. We were wowed by Chris’ skills, further emphasized by my utter lack of foot-eye coordination.

Dunlin, Adam, and Chris enjoying a little sack time for the boys.

Despite his substantial sacking skills, Chris still didn’t feel up to tackling Tower, so we opted instead to have a leisurely lakeside lounge. We played more hacky sack, pioneered some local bouldering opportunities, and eventually packed up for the hike back to Cutthroat Pass, where we planned on camping for a second night. We enjoyed the leisurely hike back south, during which the afternoon heat necessitated numerous breaks for snacking, rock trundling, and further investigation of potential bouldering objectives. Eventually we dropped our stuff at a nice campsite below Cutthroat Pass, and, after the obligatory rounds of hacky sack, Adam and Dunlin and I set off for a sunset romp.

Adam demonstrating stellar spotting technique as Dunlin works the sit start of a futuristic boulder problem near Snowy Lakes.

Porcupine and Black Peaks from above Cutthroat Pass at sunset. Goode poking out to get in on the fun, too.

The Porcupine Peak at dusk.

The following morning, I hiked back up to Cutthroat Pass for sunrise, and had a nice time photographing some Glacier Lillies near our camp, before regrouping with the boys for breakfast and the short hike back to the car, where several celebratory rounds of hacky sack were compulsory before bidding adieu to Dunlin and heading back towards Seattle.

Glacier Lillies in the morning sun near our camp. Corteo Peak in the distance framed by trees.

Trip Report: Bladin' the North Ridge of Mount Baker

Two weeks ago, Matt, Adam, and I wanted one final ski mountaineering trip to cap off a great winter. After discussing various options, we decided to gun for the North Ridge of Mount Baker, a classic easy alpine ice climb that I had actually climbed once 13 years earlier, when I was 16 years old, as part of a guided climbing class. There was only one problem - despite my previous ascent, none of the present-day team had placed an ice screw in years. “Whatever…” Adam said, “the point is for this to be a learning experience!” To further ensure team bonding, all three of us decided to bring our ski blades.

Me following ice on my previous ascent of the North Ridge of Baker, age 16, in 2012. Photo courtesy of Everett Chamberlain, American Alpine Institute.

After a rainy Saturday, we drove up to the Heliotrope trailhead as it cleared up in the evening, spotting a black bear on the Glacier Creek Road and enjoying a lovely sunset. We car camped, and got up early. We were moving by 2:30am, hiking the superhighway trail through the woods by headlamp until we reached snow near the moraine of the Coleman Glacier at ~4,800 feet. We hiked for a bit longer before stashing our trail runners just below Hogsback Camp at transitioning to skinning as it was starting to get light. It was a beautiful clear morning, with a few remnant clouds swirling over Baker’s summit and the Black Buttes.

Matt and Adam starting skinning at first light.

We headed onto the Coleman Glacier following the obvious route to the base of the North Ridge, with crevasses mostly filled in, making for easy travel. We set the party ahead of us in our sights, and passed them before reaching the base of the North Ridge. We climbed some steep snow, passing another party that pitched things out, then cruised on up to the ice pitch, ahead of everyone else.

Matt and Adam soloing some steep snow low on the North Ridge, as we passed another party.

Matt and Adam having fun in the sun on the mellow snow below the ice pitch, which is visible high and left.

Great views of Colfax (snowy summit) and Lincoln (rocky summit) above the Coleman Glacier.

Matt and I were thrilled with our speedy progress, and doubly thrilled that there appeared to be a straightforward and easy route up the icy headwall ahead of us that would barely require any ice climbing. But when we checked in with Adam, he threw a curveball: “the point of coming up here was to have a learning experience! If we take the easy line, what will we learn?”

The ice pitch on the North Ridge, which presents a range of options. The easiest route was taking the snowy ramp above the rocks on the right, but Adam talked us into taking the steeper ice at far left.

Matt and I weren’t so sure, but Adam’s enthusiasm was admirable, and soon enough, we were heading left towards the steeper part of the headwall, and Adam was racking up to lead a ~20 foot pitch of degree ice up to 80 degrees. This was Adam’s first ice lead ever, and he did an incredible job, despite mediocre ice quality. Matt and I shivered at the belay below, but soon enough Adam had built an anchor on gentler terrain out of sight, and he put us on belay to follow the pitch. Matt climbed second, and I took the rear, cleaning the screws that Adam had placed. Just as I thought I was getting the hang of things, my tool popped and I weighted the rope - sure glad I wasn’t leading!

Adam at the top of the crux ice pitch on the North Ridge.

Relieved to be done with the ice climbing, Matt and I joined Adam at the belay, and we simuled for a few more rope lengths of steep snow before deroping and cruising up straightforward terrain towards the bergschrund at the top of the ridge.

Adam and Matt soloing easy snow towards the summit.

The bergschrung was easy to get around, and soon enough, we were on the summit plateau, the first party up the North Ridge that day. We put our skis back on to skin the short distance over to the true summit, were we joined the hordes of folks that had come up the more popular Easton and Coleman-Deming routes. The views down to Mount Shuksan far below us, poking out above an undercast, were lovely.

Mount Shuksan poking out through the clouds.

The boys and their blades on the summit. Thanks Lane for snapping the pic!

On the summit we ran into Lane, a friend of a friend of mine whose exploits I was vaguely aware of, and it was a fun small world coincidence to meet him as he and his partner almost caught us just below the summit. Apparently our reputation precedes us: “You must be the Weld brothers!” he said (kidding, Lane).

After enjoying the view for a while, we ripped skins and skied over to the top of the Roman Wall. We had considered skiing back down the North Ridge, but with the firm snow and cold temps, we figured the CD would offer better skiing. The Roman Wall itself was rock hard chunder, and we saw the aftermath (but not the fall itself) of another skier who had fallen, lost his skis, and slid the better part of a thousand vertical feet, unable to arrest, before coming to a stop not too far above a gaping crevasse - scary! And a good reminder for us to take it easy.

Adam skiing the upper Roman Wall, with Colfax Peak far below us.

Below the Roman Wall, however, the skiing was far better than we expected, with a few inches of fresh pow on top of firmer snow - ideal blading conditions. We had a ton of fun absolutely flying past other parties as we skied down to Hogsback Camp, with incredible views.

Adam skiing some late season powder, with Colfax in the distance.

Adam making a speedy pass on the Coleman Glacier.

Adam skiing mellow terrain on the lower Colfax Glacier.

Before we knew it, we were back at our boots, and we skied down until we ran out of snow before making the short hike out to the car - less than two hours after leaving the summit! For those of you that want to play, here’s the same riddle that Adam tortured Matt and I with on the hike out:

Two prisoners are given the opportunity to be released. Each prisoner is taken into a separate room where they are unable to communicate with one another. Before they are separated, they may discuss their strategy, but after that, they cannot communicate further. In their separate rooms, each prisoner flips a standard, unbiased coin, and then must guess what the results of the OTHER prisoner’s flip. If either (or both) prisoners are guess the result of the other’s coin toss correctly, they are both released. If neither one guesses correctly, they are both executed. What strategy should the prisoners use to guarantee their release?

Trip Report: Trekking the Huayhuash Circuit

Hi friends! It’s been a while since my last blog post, so my apologies for the radio silence - I was out on a two week trek around the Cordillera Huayhuash, one of the tallest subranges of the Andes Mountains in Peru. I went with Becca, my parents, and my aunt, and we had an amazing trek, meeting some amazing people and looking at some truly stunning mountains from every side. The Huayhuash are a rugged but relatively small mountain range, effectively a single ridge of glaciated 6,000 meter peaks running north-south, surrounded by relatively gentle, lush terrain with lots of beautiful pasture, lakes, and streams. We were fairly early in the “Andean summer,” which meant that everything was particularly lush and green, but also meant that we had our fair share of rain and hiking in some truly miserable weather. We also were supported by an amazing crew of donkey drivers, two cooks, Tonio & Lolo, our guide Jhon, and our assistant guide Hermalinda.

Days negative 4 through 0: we flew into Lima and then, after a little bit of sleep at an airport hotel, caught an early morning flight to Huaraz, the largest town in the area. I’d been to Huaraz once 10 years ago, before there was an airport! Back then we had to take a 10 hour bus ride from Lima instead. Once in Huaraz, we did a few day hikes to get acclimatized before our trek. Huaraz itself is over 3,000 meters above sea level, meaning we definitely felt the elevation even just walking up the stairs in our hotel.

Dan and Becca hiking through stunning forest on our way to Laguna Urus, on an acclimatization hike.

Day 1: a long drive from Huaraz down almost 1,5000 meters to cross the Río Pativilca valley before going right back up 1,500 meters on the far side. We hiked the last few miles of road to our first camp at Quartelhuain, and had a lovely sunset.

Sunset above our camp on our first night of the trip.

Day 2: we wasted no time, climbing up to Paso Cacanapunta, crossing the Continental Divide and entering the Amazon Basin. We saw a fox and hawks on our pleasant short walk down to our second camp at Janca, then we went out in the afternoon for a stroll over to Laguna Mitococha, with stunning views of Jirishanca towering above us. We headed back to camp and had another lovely sunset. The bridge over the stream near our camp made for a fun spot for group photos.

Our group at sunset at camp on our second night.

Day 3: I got up before dawn to catch the sunrise on Jirishanca, which was absolutely stunning. After breakfast, we set out on our route for the day, which took us high on a ridge above Laguna Mitococha. The clouds descended a bit, blocking our views of the summits, but it was still a gorgeous hike, and the rain held off until we reached our camp at Incahuain, above Laguna Carhuacocha.

Jirishanca and Rondoy before sunrise.

Hiking along the ridge above Mitococha, with the summits in the clouds.

Our temporary canine companion enjoyed a mid-hike snack on the descent to camp.

Day 4: in retrospect, this was the least pleasant day of the trip. We set out under overcast skies for one of the most famous segments of the trek, hiking past the “Tres Lagunas” below Yerupaja. As we arrived at the first lake, it started to rain, and the rain kept up for pretty much the whole day, turning to sleet as we climbed up over a high pass. By the time we arrived at camp at Huayhuash Camp, we were thoroughly soaked.

Enjoying our lunch sheltered from the sleet under a narrow rock outcrop.

Day 5: We barely dried out overnight before heading out to cross Paso Trapecio, on the Continental Divide, and return to the Pacific Ocean side of the range. The weather was a bit ominous, but the rain held off, and we had beautiful views from the pass. On the far side, Nevado Puscanturpa loomed over Elephant Camp (there was really an elephant!), a 5,500 meter peak basalt summit. The juxtaposition of basalt and glacial ice was very cool. That evening, we had a truly stunning sunset come out of the blue, one of the most memorable moments of the trip.

Our Guide Jhon, Margaret, and Becca descending from Paso Trapecio, on the continental divide.

Nevado Puscantrurpa lit up by fiery sunset light.

Day 6: We had beautiful weather for a short but steep day crossing Paso Santa Rosa, with amazing views from the top. That afternoon, we all explored a waterfall close to our camp, before another surprise sunset.

Descending from Paso Santa Rosa, with amazing views of Siula Grande and and Carnicero.

Becca at sunset on the moraine above Jahuacocha.

Day 7: For our “rest day” we set out to climb Cerro Gran Vista, a small bump that was our highest point on our trip, we amazing views across the valley to Siula Grande, the setting for the infamous Touching the Void story. On the climb up, we watched an enormous avalanche rip down the SW Face of Yerupaja.

A huge avalanche ripping down the SW Face of Yerupaja.

Group photo on Cerro Gran Vista, with stunning views of Yerupaja and Siula Grande.

Nevado Jurau above Laguna Juraucocha from the site of an abandoned mine.

Day 8: This day was the only day where we didn’t cross a pass. Instead, we headed down valley towards the village of Huayllapa, then climbed up to our camp at Huatiac. We arrived at camp just after it started raining torrentially, so we all hung out in the tent and played bridge. The rain let up just before sunset, so we went out and watched a mesmerizing scene as fog flowed up the valley below us.

Becca and Margaret above the clouds at sunset.

Nevada Auxilio above our camp, shrouded in clouds.

Day 9: We started the day with a short climb up to Paso Tapush, then descended through lovely meadows before climbing up to Paso Yaucha. The weather was ominous, but we decided to take a more exposed high route along the ridge before descending to our camp at Jahuacocha, which ended up being delightful, with great views. Jahuacocha was our last camp of the trip, and Dan and I were hoping for a stunning sunset to cap things off, but alas, the clouds didn’t relent.

Hiking along the ridge high above Jahuacocha, hidden below to the right.

Limestone cliffs above the Jahuacocha valley.

Day 10: For our last day, we had stunning weather. We hiked around Laguna Jahuacocha, then climbed slowly up to Paso Rondoy, with amazing views of Jirishanca and Yerupaja. As descended the far side of the pass towards our waiting bus, it was amazing how quickly the trip had gone by.

Lupine and Laguna Solteracocha and Yerupaja from our climb up to Paso Rondoy.