Glaciers Are Beautiful

Glaciers Are Beautiful

     If you had a chance to glance at "LOCAL ICE: Photographing Cascade Glaciers.....", I hope you will enjoy this follow up piece about the surface features of glaciers and those within.  It is a cold and wondrous world of textures, color and light.  Having the skills of an alpinist and photographer has enabled me to safely capture the images you will see in  this article.  

     From Alaska to the Alps, and the Cascades to Patagonia, glaciers mantle the peaks in a white and blue drapery of snow and ice.  The riven ice fields are however not without hazards, and I have enjoyed scampering across them on foot or skis to climb a mountain, or complete an alpine traverse.   From the 70 mile long (probably shorter now) Kahiltna Glacier below, to the ice rivers near Mount Blanc, and the tributary glaciers flowing off the South Patagonia Icefield; glaciers are truly amazing.  To paraphrase photographer James Balog: "they are like an endangered species that is vanishing, and any photographic documentation may be the only way future peoples will know of their existence."

     

Seracs on the Kahiltna Glacier, ALASKA

Climbers (lower right) traverse the Mer De Glace, Alps, FRANCE

Cerro Torre rises above seracs on the Torre Glacier, Patagonia, ARGENTINA 

     In this article I will illustrate three types of glaciers: the Icefield (covering less that 19,000 Square miles) which is a completely ice-covered area on land, with the ice flow radiating outward from the center (Patagonia), the Alpine Glacier that forms on the crests or slopes of mountains, and the Valley Glacier which is an Alpine Glacier that fills and flows down a valley, (Alaska, Alps and Cascades).  There are Icefields in Alaska, but they are not represented here.  

     From where glaciers are born high on mountains, their flow down and outward, to their terminus I have selected photos from four decades of mountaineering trips.  Let this primarily be a visual journey interspersed with some fascinating glacier trivia about the features we will see. 

Beginnings

     Whether a glacier begins as a small ice field that is perched on the side of a mountain, or in a basin at the peak's base, it provides an awesome spectacle to the weary climber clinging to a steep wall.  The photograph below was taken in 1978 while completing a New Route up the Northwest Ridge of the Citadel in the Cathedral Spires of ALASKA.

Northwest Face of Kichatna Spire and the Cool Sac Glacier, ALASKA

     That same year friends and I climbed a New Route on Mount Hunter, also in ALASKA.  On the climb we traversed beneath a tremendous wall of snow, its many layers representing storms of heavy snowfall.  Here the Alpine Glacier is getting its start, hoping someday to join the great Kahiltna Glacier in the distance. 

Climber traversing at 13,000 feet, Southwest Ridge Mount Hunter, AK

      Winter snowfall (video below) in the Cascades feeds our glaciers, and provides a source of fresh water.

                                                                          

     The North Face of Mount Buckner below, gives rise to the Boston Glacier.  At Buckner's base one can see a long horizontal crevasse at the head of the glacier and just below the rock face.  This is called the Bergschrund: a large semipermanent crevasse at the head of a glacier accumulation zone which separates actively flowing ice from stagnant ice above.

Climber descends East Ridge of Forbidden Peak, Mt. Buckner in distance, WA

Interior of Bergschrund at dawn, Cerro Stanhardt, Patagonia, ARGENTINA

     On Mount Rainier a curtain of icicles from the upper wall of a Bergschrund, frames a climber in the morning.

Climber, icicles and Bergschrund, Mount Rainier, WA

     From halfway up the mile high North Pillar of Fitz Roy in 1984, we could see the beginnings of many small Alpine Glaciers flowing off the peaks of Pier Giorgio, Cerro Pollone and Aguja Pollone.  These smears of snow and ice rasp away at hard quartz monzonite rock, and with the help of the ferocious winds create a sea of amazing spires and razor-like ridges.    

    In the distance a portion of the South Patagonian Icefield is visible.  This 6,500 square miles of ice is the largest of its kind outside of Greenland and Antarctica.  It receives 25 feet of precipitation annually, mostly in the form of snow, and creates the fearsome winds and storms famous in Patagonia.  The Icefield acts like a gigantic cooler to the moisture laden winds coming off the Pacific Ocean, that combined with the narrow land mass lying between two oceans in that region, spells difficulties for hikers and climbers.

Approaching storm, Patagonia, CHILE

     The Icefields of southern and northern Patagonia are in a state of recession (like most glaciers worldwide), with the exception of the 40 mile long Bruggen Glacier.  The Bruggen Glacier is part of the smaller Northern Patagonian Icefield, and probably due to localized climate is advancing.  In 1998 on a flight home, I was very lucky to have visibility and capture this photo of the Southern Patagonian Icefield showing the peaks of Fitz Roy and Cerro Torre in the top center of the image.

Flow

       As the glacier gets into the rhythm of flowing the ice cracks and splits, giving rise to a plethora of natural sculptures.  From the surface of the glacier to deep down, snow bridges, icefalls, seracs, cryoconites, glacier tables, dirt cones, moraines, ogives, and crevasses grace the moving ice.

     Snowbridges (although not glacier ice) are especially tricky formations for the alpine climber to cross.  They are the remains of winter snow that has blown across and covered a crevasse; eventually they melt and collapse as the summer progresses.  It is usually preferable to skirt around these unpredictable snowy spans, unless there is no other way.

Climber crosses snowbridge on Coleman Glacier, Mount Baker, WA

     Icefalls are a steep reach of the glacier with a chaotic crevassed surface and rapid rate of flow.  These jumbled masses of old snow changing into ice (firn) or dense glacier ice, are hazardous travel for climbers.  Viewed from a safe distance however, they are spectacular.  From the same return flight in 1998, I shot images of the Southern and Northern Patagonian Icefields.  The Northern Icefield provided a classic example of an icefall flowing down off the small continental ice sheet.

Icefall coming off Northernn Patagonian Icefield, CHILE

     

     Within an icefall are seracs: blocks, towers, or pinnacles of ice or firn formed by the intersection of crevasses.  Their sheer beauty is captivating, but playing in among them is somewhat like treading a mine field.  It matters not whether it is hot or cold out, seracs can topple over anytime.

Climber on serac, Squak Glacier, Mount Baker, WA

     On the surface of the glacier in late summer dust and morainal debris (including small rocks) are blown by the wind or transported by glacier flow and settle into depressions on the ice.  Heat from the sun causes the darker material to melt deeper into the ice creating small melt holes (cryoconites).  On the Coleman Glacier in June of 1996 there were many of these cryoconites visible.

     Later that year in October I was on the Coleman Glacier again.  It had been cold the night before, and each melt hole had a layer of ice over it.  Using Skala Black and White slide film, I captured some interesting photographs.

Ice-covered cryoconite, Coleman Glacier, Mount Baker, WA

   

Ice crystals in cryoconite, Coleman Glacier, Mount Baker, WA

     A rock that is left perched on an ice pillar by ablation of the pedestal and the surrounding unprotected ice is called a Glacier Table.  The first time I encountered one of these peculiar phenomena was skiing up the 22 mile long Lacuna Glacier in the Alaska Range.  It was April and the Glacier Table had a generous dollop of winter snow mantling it.

     Years later while hiking up the Mer De Glace in the French Alps, my friend and I walked past a huge one enroute to do a climb.  

Climber and Glacier Table, Mer De Glace, Alps, FRANCE

     Once the boulder slips off the ice pinnacle a Dirt Cone may form.  Rain then washes dirt down from the surrounding area and shapes the cone.  In 2008 the lower region of the Torre Glacier below Cerro Torre sprouted numerous Dirt Cones, and raging meltwater channels that were difficult to cross.

Climber and Dirt Cone, Torre Glacier, Patagonia, ARGENTINA

     As the glacier grinds away the bedrock and moves forward it creates Moraines; deposits of rock debris shaped by glacial flow and erosion.  There are Lateral Moraines, like the one below of the backpacker hiking on it, and the Blue Glacier behind.

Blue Glacier, Mount Olympus, WA

      Medial Moraines are long strips of debris on the glacier surface, usually parallel to the flow, which originate at the juncture of two glaciers.  A classic example are the ones below of the Northern Patagonian Icefield, and the Torre Glacier below Fitz Roy.

Medial Moraine on the Northern Patagonian Icefield, CHILE

Fitz Roy rises above the Torre Glacier, Patagonia, ARGENTINA

     And as if our eyes are not tantalized enough, nature creates Ogives on the glacier.  Especially visible in late summer or autumn, these arcuate bands or undulations of the surface of the glacier recur in a periodic pattern.  

Climber above the Mer De Glace, Alps, FRANCE

     What often forms a barrier to glacier travel, is rarely more than 100 feet deep, and is sometimes unnerving to gaze into?  A Crevasse: a large crack in the surface of a glacier produced by the stresses of glacier flow.  With the exception of the very large continental ice sheets, Crevasses do not reach a depth of more than 100 feet, since below that depth the ice is plastic and not brittle.  With a bit of mountaineering skill one can climb down into these cold fissures to get some cool views.

Crevasse pattern on the Roosevelt Glacier, Mount Baker, WA

Climber practices prusiking out of Crevasse on Coleman Glacier, WA

     Often in the summer after the seasonal snow has melted, it is fun to practice ice climbing in the shallower Crevasses.  Below a climber bridges a small crevasse, while I got into the best position for a photograph.

Climber in Crevasse, Easton Glacier, WA

     And once down inside I couldn't help but notice how the evening light illuminated the icy walls 

Crevasse wall, Easton Glacier, WA

     Of course on Mount Baker we do not have steel ladders going down to the glaciers; but it is a typical scene in the Alps where the alpine environment is altered and manicured to enable easier travel.

Climber descends to the Mer De Glace, Alps, FRANCE

End Zone

     On the glacier's lower reaches below the firn line, is where much of the meltwater runs off the ice.  The bare ice in late summer or early fall  disgorges any ground up bedrock material, or any objects that have become interred in the ice river.  Its like being at the county dump and watching bulldozers move around piles of garbage, but on a slower timescale.  In August of 2004 while hiking on the Mer De Glace, I observed bits of broken glass on the ice surface: the remains of beer and wine bottles thrown down onto the glacier from a hut high above and many decades before.

Beer and wine bottle fragments, Mer De Glace, Alps, FRANCE
   

     The snout of a glacier is usually benign, with a tapering gentle slope of ice.  But if the terminus ends above a drop off or cliff, chunks of ice may calve off and litter the ground below.  In July of 2000 the Roosevelt Glacier was such a place; dangerous to hike through with the threat of falling ice from above.

Icefall debris at snout of Roosevelt Glacier, Mount Baker, WA

     And in 2008 a lobe of the Marconi Glacier in Patagonia was spitting off chunks of ice, making travel difficult.  We also found interesting terrain along the edge of meltwater canyons, of the dry glacier.

Climber below Marconi Glacier, Patagonia, AR

Climber and meltwater canyons, Marconi Glacier, Patagonia, ARGENTINA

     Meltwater channels form on the lower surface of the glacier in summer, carrying water down in sinuous little streams and sometimes into moulins.  These meltwater holes can go all the way down to bedrock, but some don't.  On the Easton Glacier this last autumn, I climbed 12 feet down into a small one just for a photo op of the meltwater channel in the bottom.

Moulin on Easton Glacier, Mount Baker, WA

   

        With  crampons and an ice axe I descended into the hole.  Should have worn my rain jacket and didn't, and got very wet in the icy chasm.  It was September and there was not much water pouring in; surely that was not the case back in July and August when it was hotter.  Using a high ISO (sensitivity to light) setting on my Nikon, and a vibration reduction wide-angle lens, I was able to shoot these images hand-held without a tripod.  Reminded me of the time portal in a Star Trek episode "City On the Edge Of Forever", where the voice from the machine said to Captain Kirk: "Many such journeys are possible, let me be your guide."  As long as you know what you are doing that is!

Meltwater channel, Easton Glacier, Mount Baker, WA

     Finding pleasing colors (like the image above) at a glacier snout is difficult.  It is generally a dirty region where the ice machine is constantly releasing and dumping morainal material.  Like a pig in garbage, most receding glaciers have "their" snouts in piles of debris, or snuffling about nearby.
     Below the dark and dirty terminus of the Coleman Glacier is a typical scene in the Cascades.  Once a bit of organic material accumulates, plants can get a start.  Then a few vibrant wildflowers will colorize a drab palette.

Terminus of Coleman Glacier, Mount Baker, WA

Fireweed blooms below Coleman Glacier and Mount Baker, WA

     If the snout of a glacier is thick instead of thin, the primary meltwater stream underneath can form an ice tunnel and sometimes spectacular ice caves.  I haven't found any yet on Mount Baker's glaciers, but I'm still searching.  And if one climbs back into a large crevasse and climbers pass by, you can get an idea of how amazing glacier ice caves can be.

     Next summer I will continue my quest for unusual photographs of glaciers and their unique features.

Mount Sefrit's West Peak In Winter

     So close to home and yet so hard to get to; that describes Mt. Sefrit, a craggy peak just over 7,000 feet high and just north of Mt. Shuksan.  Bordered by Ruth Creek to the north and the Nooksack River on the south, there is no trail up to Sefrit.  Like so many North Cascade gems it requires off-trail hiking through forest and some brush (less of the latter in winter when its covered by snow).  Several years ago I tried getting up to the main summit from Ruth Creek, but was thwarted by brush, rock slabs, and eventually a waterfall with a big dropoff below.  Winter I decided might be the better time to try the peak.
     That same year in early May I climbed towards Sefrit's East Ridge on skis as part of a three day ski traverse over all the peaks on Ruth Ridge and ending at Ruth Mountain.  It was hot that first day and the huge cornices on Sefrit's East Ridge didn't appear as though they would stay put; I chose to climb the peak another time.

Slopes above Ruth Creek leading to the Nachaktsen/Sefrit Saddle

     This winter we had a good spell of weather before Christmas, but somehow I didn't manage to get out much.  Then in early February another dry spell came along and I made plans to get up Sefrit one way or another.  From a summer scouting trip I discovered that a wooded spur rose above the confluence of Ruth Creek and the Nooksack River, and might be a good way to get up into the high country quickly and directly.  And although Beckey does not describe this approach in his alpine guides; even he doesn't know everything.  There were a few bits of orange flagging from hunters maybe or possibly other climbers?  And as it was June, I ran into snow quickly and didn't have any skis or snowshoes with me.
     Gil Laas had off Saturday Feb. 4th, that is without family commitments, and we made plans for an early start and one day climb of the West Peak.  I'd have liked to tried the main summit (about 300 feet higher and to the east), but the temps were looking very warm.  I figured the recent foot or so of new snow would not remain on the slopes very long in the hot sun.  Getting to the true summit would have involved traversing about a half mile of steep south-facing terrain.  So we planned on the West Peak.

Gil takes a break at 5600 feet on approach to the West Peak

    Once we had hiked about two and half miles of the Hannegan Road to the Nooksack Cirque trailhead, it was all uphill and in the woods.  We chose snowshoes for this little winter adventure, cause I didn't think we could skin much of the spur and would be mostly carrying our boards.  Gil charged on ahead breaking trail as I lauded his fine workmanship.  Our path went straight up and finally popped out on the ridgecrest below the West Peak.  The scenery was of course spectacular; Goat Mountain and Larrabee to the north, Shuksan to the south, and the perfect glistening white symmetry of Mount Baker to the southwest.  A mass of tiny metallic specs blanketed the ski area parking lot, like so many alien devices planted there.  How incongruous they seemed in comparison to the sparkling surroundings and craggy peaks of the backcountry.  And yet it was best for all that they stayed there, and we were up here.
     I dumped my puffy coat and stove into a garbage bag and left it at 5600, where if we needed it, it would be there on the descent.  No matter how fine the weather, I've found it prudent to carry these two items in the mountains in the winter.  Things happen and weather changes. Gill stripped off even more clothes as we were now marching in the sun; we figured it got up to 60 degrees that day.  On up the ridge we marched until the first rocks of the West Peaks Southwest Ridge.

Gil nearing Sefrit's West Peak

          At the first rocks we ditched snowshoes and ski poles, harnessed up, ate a snack and drank.  It was hotter than ever and the trick was to try and skirt the top edges of the steep snowfields, staying close to the rock, and not trigger any slides.  With me first (the senior avalanche poodle), one at a time we crossed the first 50 degree chute sinking into our thighs in places (no crampons today even though we brought them).  A tiny clump of Mountain Hemlocks on an arete between snowfields felt like an island of safety.  Then Gil took over and waded on up another slope to a second clump of trees; higher he could make out the ridgecrest running west to east between the summits.  The way was clear, we just hoped the slopes wouldn't slide.

Gil plows upward toward the ridgecrest

     We ditched our packs on the ridge, slung a boulder for a belay and uncoiled our 35meter 7mm Tendon rope.  It looked as though one lead might just reach the summit.  The pitch had some good bare rock where I place the occasional Stopper or sling, and patches of warm slippery snow over heather.  And although there was a very slight breeze, Gil was belaying in his T-shirt.  Some winter ascent!  At least it looked like winter, as eastward the many jagged spires of Sefrit were cloaked in snow and rime from the last storm.  In the distance Mt. Redoubt, Mt. Challenger and the Pickets were etched against a perfect blue sky.

Gil close to the summit, Sefrit's main summit in the background

     As Gil reached the top to join me, the eastward slopes started sliding in the hot sun.  It was a  place not to be.  We shouted with joy, took some photos, and slung a block for our first rappel.  We had spent seven and a half hours getting up, and still had a long ways to descend before it got dark.

The summit of Sefrit's West Peak with Shuksan and Baker

     Gil paid homage to the great ones; Nooksack and Koma Kulshan.  He thanked them for allowing us to trod on one of their lesser neighbor, and probably would have left behind some sort of human sacrifice if one were available ( a politician, tax collector or developer would have done nicely).  Instead we left a piece of nylon and began our descent.  Back down the even mushier snow, past the Hemlocks, deharnessed at the packs, snowshoes back on, and down the snowy ridge as the evening light washed over Shuksan's grand North Face and Nooksack Tower.

Shuksan in the evening

     It was the end to a fine winter day in the mountains, and I was reminded of the Scottish climber Tom Patey and one of his verses:

                                               Let the pitons rattle as we go to battle.

                                               Sound the ever ringing peal of steel on steel.

                                               
                                               Let the happy chink of the old snaplink.

                                               Echo oer the mountains and the snow.

Mount Berge, Southeast Buttress, New Route, July 2011

Mount Berge, Southeast Buttress, New Route, July 2011         

     I had climbed Berge's long East Ridge in August of 2008 with Tana Beus and my old college buddy Chuck Sink.  Yes that would be the Sink of the Sink/Gerber Route on Dragontail's North Face.  When he and Eric Gerber put up the route on Dragontail, I had just arrived at WSU, and although strong and enthusiastic, I didn't know much about placing pro.  I learned a lot from Chuck and Dave Neff, and we did a number of good climbs together, including the second ascent of Mount Stuart's Northwest Face in 1972.  Here we are on the summit skinny, strong, and young; no marriages yet, hence no divorces, and none of our friends had been killed in the mountains.  Time has a way of altering all that; and Chuck and I are fast friends to this day, getting together for climbing trips every couple of years (even though he lives in Anchorage, AK).

Alan and Chuck Sink on summit Mount Stuart, 1972.

   

      When we climbed Berge in 2008 it was obvious there were a couple of other unclimbed buttresses on the south side of the peak that was comprised of decent granite.  Although I had never been to the top of Berge before 2008, I was familiar with the area.  In 1967 at age 16, I joined a group on 25 Mazamas including my parents, for a week long outing at Buck Creek Pass.  I was fascinated at being in the midst of a sea of mountains, and even got to the top of Helmet Butte and Napeequa Peak with the group.  Twelve years later I led an Outward Bound patrol up and over the Louis Creek High Route to High Pass, and across the steep heather slopes of Mount Berge's west side.

Mount Berge from Buck Mountain, new route is far left buttress

      In 2008 we approached Berge from Buck Creek Pass and High Pass; virtually all good trail hiking, but a long ways.  Then last summer when my friend Matt Demey from Denver showed up, we went in the same way with plans to exit the bushwhack back down to Buck Creek at the climb's end.  With the heavy snowpackpack of 2010/2011 we encountered the white stuff over the trail before we reached Buck Creek Pass.  And that was the last week of July!  

     After a grueling ten hours of marching, the last bit on snow, we found a dry patch of ground to camp on just before the sun went down.  In the distance I could see Napeequa Peak that I climbed in 1967 with the Mazama group.  We were there in August of that summer and wildflowers carpeted the slopes and meadows, mosquitoes whined in the air, and every night we sat around a roaring campfire; back when fires were still allowed.
     Marsh Marigolds were the only blossoms popping up after the snowmelt where Matt and I placed our camp, and the tiny dentist drilling bloodsuckers were noticeably absent. We ate the largest dinner from our heavy packs, and contemplated tomorrow's route to High Pass and up around Berge.  The route to High Pass followed a trail on the east side, but that was covered in snow.  I was hoping that the crest would have some bare sections where a climber's path snaked along, saving us a lot of extra effort.
     Luck was with us next morning as we discovered that the west side of the ridgecrest was bare, and we picked our way along a narrow path up and over several humps leading to the pass.

Matt on approach to High Pass

      The remnants of cornices were draped about the ridge as the hot July sun created  rivulets of meltwater; it was going to be a long day.  Beyond High Pass we dropped into in snowy basin just north of Berge.  It was time to refill water bladders ( a half gallon gone), and for Matt do some first aid on his heels.  Rising south of the basin was the final climb of the day up snowslopes on Berge's Northwest shoulder, over the Southwest Ridge, and down into the basin where we planned to camp.  It looked to be hot so I changed into shorts before the ascent.  Westward rose Clark Mountain, the jagged summit of Tenpeak, and Glacier Peak's perfect snowy cone.  The high alpine slopes slumbered white from winter, leaving only dark ridges of rock exposed. 

Matt crosses the shoulder of Mount Berge

      The slope turned out not as bad as it looked, and we were soon off the snow and hiking up heather and scree to the ridge overlooking the basin on the south.
     It is always this point in the story of our heroes that they wish they were somewhere else, (enjoying happy hour in camp for instance), but the weight of a full rock rack, 60 meter rope, camping gear and six days of food created that bone- crushing load of reality.  Any sign or porters, sherpas or helicopters was distinctly absent from the scene.

    Once we topped out on the ridgecrest, we could look down to the southeast and see the basin of our intended campsite.  Bright green Larch trees dotted the otherwise snow-covered terrain.  We hoped to find a patch of dry ground to pitch the tent on, and in this we were not disappointed.

Matt approaches the Southeast Buttress

 

     Enroute to our camp we passed the unclimbed buttress, and it looked like good clean rock.  And like the baby bear's bed that Goldilocks slept in, (not too hard or too soft) and in our case just right; not too steep and not too big.  
     Once settled in camp (on dry ground) we plunged into happy hour and fixing dinner.  Not trusting to the wonderfully lightweight Nextex material of BD's Firstlight tent, we brought a big nylon tarp to put over it in case of rain.  So much for modern technology in the Cascades.  Odd isn't it that most of those single-walled tents are manufactured in Utah or California!  But based on the weather prediction we'd brought the tarp, and it looked as though we were going to need it as high cirrus clouds moved in over Berge that evening.

     A sullen thick blanket of grey blotted out the sky on the following morning, but as Matt and I were itching to climb something, we racked up for a damp adventure.  I figured if we could even get in a couple of pitches before it rained, we could fix our one rope and make it to the ground.  And the first two leads looked blankish and wandering. 

Matt cleans the first slabby pitch

     Small Stoppers, tiny cams and a knifeblade or two helped immensely on my first pitch up out of the moat.  Regardless of how high we made it, it was a great feeling to be on the rock moving and out from under our backpacks.  I worked my way up and right to a small stance and anchored in.  A thick, dark, nasty cloud was shrouding Buck Mountain to the south, as veils of moisture began their descent into Buck Creek southeast of us.
     Matt was having troubles extricating one of my small cams from under an overlap, and all I could think of was we were going to get soaked and nowhere on the route.  But he pulled it, scurried up and we exchanged gear for his lead.  "Where to?" he asked.  "Well I think if you go up to that block, work left across that roof, and then up into that corner system, we can still reach the ground with our rope." I replied.  Moisture was imminent.  It looked as though he might beat it, but I was surely going to be cleaning the pitch in the rain.  
     At least we were not far above the ground, which is a much different feeling than being very high on a big 

Matt leads pitch two just before the storm

route when the weather goes bad.  The uncertainty of getting off, turning blue from cold or making a fatal mistake because you get in a rush are always a possibility.  On Berge we looked right across at our camp only minutes from the route's base.
     There wasn't any hot porridge or feather beds in our temporary home in the woods, but plenty of dry clothing and makings for hot drinks. 
     Matt made quick work of pitch two as the clouds grew darker, and it began to sprinkle.  A pin driven in here and there made the lead a lot safer, as I became anxious wondering whether I'd be cleaning his pitch in a waterfall.
     It was a close thing when I reached his tiny belay ledge just as the rain poured down hard.  Our single 60 meter rope just reached the ground, so we fixed it, donned raingear, rapped off, and headed for camp.  The hope was this little storm would pass on through tomorrow, and we could reascend our rope and finish the climb.  In camp there were hot drinks, books, and a cozy tent, but we hadn't brought enough food to hang for more than a couple of days.

Getting ready to rap in the rain

Camp in the Larch forest

         It rained hard that night and well into the next day.  Around 1 pm patches of blue began to appear through ragged rents in the clouds and the south-facing light-colored granite was drying quickly.  Still, we were unsure if this was a stable bit of clearing or not.  By 2 pm it was looking even better, and although it was late to try and finish the climb, I figured we only had three steep harder pitches left to go to reach the easy slopes above leading to the summit.  I said to Matt "hell with it, let's go finish this thing off before it gets dark."   We were over at the base of the route by 3 pm, and at the top of yesterday's rope by 3:30.  The sun was out as I led up good cracks and grooves.  We each carried rain jackets, water, headlamps and a couple of candy bars.

Tossing off a loose rock on pitch 4

        New routes sometimes require some tidying up, and on Matt' s next pitch he sent a few stones earthward on the otherwise perfect rock.  The climbing was not difficult, and we were following a set of crack systems that looked as though they would carry us to the top left side of the buttress.  As the sun began its slow descent in the sky, a cool breeze brushed the wall.  In one more pitch I scrabbled past a lichen-covered overhanging slot, and on up to low-angle terrain leading to the summit.                                                                                                      

Matt scrambling toward the summit

Matt near the summit

      In less than an hour we were below the final summit rocks, 
where we dumped our gear, and scurried toward the top.  I had descended this side three years before after climbing the East Ridge, and knew it was easy.  Waves of fog rolled in and out, but high above the sky was blue.  
     To the south the gigantic North Face of Buck Mountain loomed above the valley.  And although Cal Folsom and Mark Moore climbed it in 1976, they warned others away saying the face was; "extremely loose and dangerous."  I had scrambled to the top up the backside two summers before, and at one point I peeked over the north side to try and see where they might have climbed up.  For over 2,000 feet black schist dominated the scene; rubble on every ledge, teetering chunks of unstable rock, and the paucity of cracks gave the wall a creepy feel.  This was no hidden prize that climbers coveted, it was something to avoid.
     Matt and I had a couple hours of light left, and as the descent to camp was easy, we knew we'd make it back before dark.  He was excited about reaching the top since he had never done a new route before, and he liked the idea that we picked our own line, and each pitch was an adventure.

Alan and Matt on the summit of Mt. Berge

     In no time we were back in camp, under a star-filled sky, clutching a hot drink and scheming up more new lines to climb in this range of 1100 peaks.  On the summit my friend from Colorado had gazed about and then finally said;  "I had no idea there were so many mountains out here!"      

Night sky and Mt. Berge

                  

Mount Saint Helens Photo Seminar

http://mshinstitute.org/index.php/programs/field_seminar/photography_in_the_blast_zone_with_alan_kearney/

Join me at Mount Saint Helens this July 9th for a fun day in the outdoors with your camera.  The seminar is $50 and sponsored by the Mount Saint Helens Institute (they handle sign ups).  We'll cover some of the main features of your cameras, whether they are point and shoots or full on SLR's with interchangeable lenses.  With a few basics under our belts (exposure, white balance, shooting modes and color) we'll move on to lighting and composition. 

Including people in your landscapes provides the viewer with a sense of scale; an individual dwarfed by the immensity of nature.  I have a fair bit of knowledge in this area, as I've written and published photos of outdoor sports for three decades.  We can model for each other, and experiment with your ideas.

I will give students a list of simple assignments to shoot while hiking about. And as there are a plethora of subjects to point ones camera at, we'll discuss closeup work and abstracting elements out of the landscape.  Later I'll give students feedback on their photo assignments.

Because the 1980 volcanic event that occurred was so significant, the often asked question arises "Where were you on that day?"  I was living in Portland and fast asleep, after driving through the night from Wyoming.  My parents however were not.  As Ham radio volunteers they witnessed the May 18 eruption from 8 miles to the west, and dad got some amazing photos that day.

 
Add to the fact that we as a family had been climbing to the top and skiing off the mountain, ever since my mom's first climb in 1945.  It has become a special mountain for us, as I'm sure it will for you. Below is the link to the Mount Saint Helens Institute, and the photo seminar if you want to sign up.

 http://mshinstitute.org/index.php/programs/field seminar/photography in the blast zone with alan kearney/

Hope to see you there.

Alan Kearney                

Skiing Matier

     Gregg Cronn and I had a great two days skiing up near Pemberton.  The great snowpack this year guarantees skiing on into the summer.  And if you must go climbing later, at least the bivy ledges will have snowpatches for water.
     For the complete story go to: Skiing Matier And Vantage:  http://alankearneyphotography.blogspot.com/Skiing Matier

Skiing Matier And Vantage

     Here is the first of many SOS (seniors out skiing) episodes, although Gregg Cronn at 51 doesn't quite qualify for the age bracket;  myself at 59.97 years of age does.  It was "Kronnhoffers" (my nickname for Gregg when we were guides) spring break from teaching, and he wanted to ski the peaks near Joffre and stay in Keith's Hut.  Especially since the temps here in Washington were supposed to be warm, we were hoping for spring powder in the far north.  Any chance to get in some foreign travel without buying a plane ticket is fun.

     I had been to the hut 19 years before and enjoyed bony skiing, cloudy weather, and a ultra crowded cabin on New Year's eve.  Yuck!  Gregg and I chose a non-holiday, mid-week, and a good weather outlook for our two day outing.  At the Canadian border a rotund young man garnished with weapons, asked me if we were carrying any.  I said no. He said: "What will you do if you encounter a bear?"  I said: "It's winter and the bears are all asleep."  He replied: "It's not winter anymore!"  I could see I was in for a lot of tedious spadework if I had to educate him about mountain geography, elevation, spring snowpack, and meteorology.  I turned to Gregg and rolled my eyes, while the policeman tapped our passport numbers into his machine, and then handed them back with a frown.
     That night we slept at the trailhead in the back of my truck.  Up at 6 am for a quick brew of brown hot stuff, into chilly ski boots, and skinning toward the hut by 7am.  With hardly a cloud in the sky the mountains were etched in sharp relief in the dawn light.  Along the trail the many bear dens had "Do Not Disturb Until Late Spring" signs out.  Let it be said that my four and a half years spent getting a wildlife biology degree was not wasted.

    In three hours we reached the hut (the junior member of our party made in two and a half), dumped our sleeping gear, melted some snow for drinks, and headed upward.  A number of youthful skiers passed me on the climb up, and I would have broken their legs if I coulda caught up with them.

 

     But it was beautiful day in the mountains, and time for me to get in shape.  The reason bears are skinny after a long winter is that they don't watch videos, eat buttered popcorn, and drink beer all the time.
     The antlike shapes of Bellinghamsters and indigenous skiers were far above on the Anniversary Glacier.  A wintry wind swirled about as I stopped for a chocolate bar at the Matier/Joffre Saddle.  A bit higher Gregg was waving his ski pole and beckoning me on.

     Higher yet and gasping for air, I ditched my pack and skis, and cramponed toward the summit.  Why was everyone else carrying their skis to the top?  The skiing on the upper slope didn't look too good to me; lumpy, icy and wind blown.

      I suppose I ought to have looked at a map or confirmed with Gregg about the descent plan.  All of those skiers ahead of me had dropped off the southwest side to a col, and were skiing a fabulous powdery slope down to the glacier.  They carved graceful turns in the fluffy white stuff, yodeled and generally behaved as though they were having fun.
      But it was tough to act like a curmudgeon on such a spectacular day in the high alpine.  The horizon bristled with peaks in every direction; some covered with ice, some with snow, many with snow and ice.
     And far below the bears slumbered in their icy dens dreaming of juicy ptarmigans, ground squirrels, anthills, huckleberries, and plump border guards.  Facing a perilous descent without a weapon was unnerving.
     Once back at my skis I tightened my boots, clicked into downhill mode, sucked some water, and headed downward into the white wonderland.  Turning was effortless in the April snow, and Gregg was having so much fun, he climbed back up to meet me for a second run.
      Below the saddle we encountered even lighter six-sided ice crystals covering the glacier.
      Back in the hut the day's participants (eight others) were commenting on the quality of the snow, and gabbing about this piece of gear or that.  Huts are nice unless you just want to go to sleep.

     Gregg was up early the next morning, and soon we were skinning up towards Matier, making a left turn and heading east toward Vantage Peak, and hopefully untracked powder. The day was going to be warmer than the previous, and soon we were stripping off clothing, only to put it back on when the breeze picked up later.
     We followed the West Ridge up Vantage, glad to have ski crampons for the lumps of rime and windblown hard snow.  Traversing around the south side we were able to skin right to the top.  To the west tiny dark shapes climbed toward Matier, while far below us a second group of black dots headed southeast toward a sea of mountains.
     We had left axe, harness and crampons behind, and with a lighter pack I didn't feel nearly so breathless as the day before.  It reminded me of skiing out of Mount Hunter on a hot day in May of 1978.
     Three of us crossed a low pass in the Peters Hills and gazed down into the snowbound valley to the south.  There about a half mile away, were three grizzlies Ursus arctos, a sow and two yearlings.  Out of their den, wide awake and HUNGRY, the three carnivores were digging out ground squirrels from beneath the snow.  They scented us and took off westward up and over a 1,000 foot slope; we were lucky.

      Had they wanted us, there is little we could have done.  No trees to climb, and no weapons.  Their vision is poor, and they smelled something strange and left.  No bears on Vantage, just a beautiful morning, with the mountains and hardy trees mantled in winter's whiteness.

 

      From the top of the peak it was necessary to sideslip down the West Ridge a bit to avoid the summit cornice, and gain access to a fantastic untracked slope.  Although a chopper had dropped some skiers the day before below Matier's summit, hence they skied the glacier and partway up Vantage's northwest side, below us the northeast bowl was pristine.

     This was some serious fun!
                                                                   

     I yelled at Gregg to make a few more turns for my camera, but he just kept going on down into the valley.  It was a good climb back up, but we had to gloat over our first turns high on the slope.

      Once up and across the North Ridge, we deskinned and skied the northwest slope.  Gregg sideslipped the upper part of a narrow couloir, and then carved out the bottom, while I went down the west side and joined him in the cirque below.

      There was nothing left to do but a bunch more powder turns to the bottom, skin back up to the hut, pack up, and ski out.  Nobody got hurt, or eaten by bears.  There were just tired muscles and fine memories of a perfect trip.

  
                                                   On the craggy peaks high overhead.
                                                   Dawn light is finally shed.

                                                   Where ridges snake to the mountain's maw.
                                                   A weary skier stands in awe.

                                                   And in the heavens high in the sky.
                                                   I dream of the sunrise and wings to fly.