I slot one of our few pieces of pro and clip the rope to it; may as well stay connected to the face. This steep snow requires focus. Within a few pitches I can see the exit notch blocked by a huge, menacing cornice. Shortly, we’re presented with a decision of left or right; we confer. It’s my partner’s move so off he goes, a young mind in serious terrain.
Mount Stuart, at 9415’, is the highest peak of Washington state’s central Cascades. A couple days prior, Ken Goodreau and I had wandered to the west of the upper reaches of Mountaineer’s creek with the intention of climbing the mountain via the complete North ridge. When you approach the northern side of Stuart from the north, the goal is a small, timbered meadow at approximately 5600’. Along with being a fine camping site, from here one can see portions of the Sherpa couloir and glacier, our intended descent, the buttress and upper part of the spur separating Ice Cliff and Sherpa glaciers, the awesome East/NE face of Stuart, and most of the North ridge.
Above the meadow, the predominant ground covering is rock; immense talus and scree fields consisting of everything from glacial till to stones the size of houses. Upon finding copious amounts of snow still perched high on our proposed route, we decided to “have a look” at the curious little basin to the east. We hike old moraine towards the innermost reaches of the North face while making our up our minds. The decision to switch routes was not to be taken lightly. We were minimally geared for rock, and now contemplated taking on a serious snow and ice route.
Above the meadow, the predominant ground covering is rock; immense talus and scree fields consisting of everything from glacial till to stones the size of houses. Upon finding copious amounts of snow still perched high on our proposed route, we decided to “have a look” at the curious little basin to the east. We hike old moraine towards the innermost reaches of the North face while making our up our minds. The decision to switch routes was not to be taken lightly. We were minimally geared for rock, and now contemplated taking on a serious snow and ice route.
Ice Cliff Glacier lays nestled in a deep cirque created by the North ridge and Northeast faces to the climbers right, the East ridge of Stuart directly above, and the Ice Cliff spur to the east; it is an intimidating place, surrounded as it is on three sides by steep walls of rock and ice. From the toe of the N.ridge, we angle up and left toward a weakness in the wall to wall barricade of ice formed at a break in the glacier, where it falls over a step several hundred feet above our heads. The terrain below the break is a 40 degree slope of hard snow, sparsely littered with chunks of ice. Once committed we never looked back, and stormed over the cliff and onto the glacier proper, a 30-35 degree patch of snow and ice the size of a couple football fields.
After a short break, we climb on, avoiding some small crevasses, then arcing right to avoid the broken ground around the impact zone under the final couloir. The right side of the bergschrund, the final break in the ice between the glacier and couloir (there can be more than one), appeared the most reasonable. As we got nearer, the pitted and broken ground forced us left, then back right; we climbed mixed terrain around the start of the 1960 route on the NE face before being forced back onto the snow by unstable conditions.
The making of drifts and glaciers and cornices and couloirs takes some description, and is well documented elsewhere. Simplified, wind and gravity play major roles in the process. Snow rarely falls unassisted in the mountains, even if it snows on a calm day; eventually the wind will pick at it and move it someplace else. Aspect is another factor, along with temperatures; in the northern hemisphere, one typically finds glaciers and couloirs deep in the shadow of the north faces. Here in the winter months, and much of the summer the sun never shines, allowing the wind blown snow to swirl and compress and form and freeze, shaping the very features we were clinging to.
We were now in the final couloir, above the bergschrund on a uniform sheet of hard snow (alpine ice), nearing 50 degrees. We each had crampons, one ice axe, some slings and carabiners, and a handful of rock pro between us. We stayed on the right side for a couple rope lengths before traversing left to a rocky spine that was beginning to split the couloir.
As one gains elevation in this type of environment, an interesting psychological effect becomes noticeable; that of exposure. The unusual, consistent steepness and lack of anything in close proximity combine to create a mental anxiety; I feel exposed; to falling and things falling on me.
The immense N.E. shoulder off the false summit rises abruptly to our right and the rock spine on our left becomes more pronounced, dividing the upper couloir. We take the main line, immediately feeling more enclosed. We’ve been roped together since we began, simul-climbing, occasionally swapping leads or belaying when the need arose. Now our way gains a new severity as the slope angle increases; I seem to place more pro and the belays come more frequently. The top of the couloir comes into view, a small icy bowl seamed with rock ribs and icy chutes, capped with a respectable cornice. On we climb, taking the logical line until finally presented with a choice of left or right.
The decision is left, up and out a small, snowy tributary to the main line. I wait impatiently under a large rock, my belay somewhat exposed to the threat above; in fact, now it’s all exposed. The chute ends suddenly below a steeper slope; the base of the huge, suspended wedge of snow above. It’s effect is somewhat lessened here on a more in-line orientation with the wind, but the cornice all along the ridge is none the less intimidating. Kenny reaches a point where he no longer cares to proceed. He returns slowly, lessons being learned.
After swapping gear I climb up, eager to escape this place. I reach the top anchor and pause, looking ahead. The best way out seems to be further up and left, onto the snowy buttress splitting the upper portion of the couloir; it is so exposed that even from here I’m frightened. Right off, I realize I’m going to need both axes.
As I lower back to Kenny, our predicament seems to intensify. As usual, the weather has lent a hand. The sky has become overcast, and, although we’re on the opposite side of incoming weather, we can hear the wind beginning to pick up on the ridge not far above us. I take his axe and we dream up some idiotic plan to get them back down to him.
Off I go a second time. Reaching the top anchor, I shore it up and climb further, angling up and left over an intervening rock rib. From here I can see down the entire plunge of the couloir and glacier; the perspective is humbling. I reach a point just below the cornice and stop; I can smell it. It is at least 25’ high and rears out over my head like an anvil.
My denial kicks in, but the record skips (Tool, 46 and 2, I think), and gets diverted to something I read long ago by Peter Habler. About recognizing danger beforehand and doing something about it. A couple other books on mountain disasters flash by, then an image is frozen in my mind’s eye. A climber, suspended irretrievably on the North face of the Eiger, body encased in an icy shell. Why must I read these things?
I can’t see my partner, can’t even see my last anchor; I’m alone with my demons. I begin chipping a foot hold; then bit by bit, I began shaping the holds, trying to guess the best placement. Up and down I went, several times, to reach as high as possible, to cut as many steps as possible before I go for the last time. I get a last chip about 10 feet up and come down for a final rest. The next time I go I don’t intend to stop; if I can only get my axes over the edge of the cornice I can pull it.
I take a big breath and yell at Kenny to give me some slack as I yard on the line. I get it and go, the cut steps lining up perfectly. I gain the last one quickly and continue, swinging and sticking. I cleave for the top, an insignificant speck on the side of this giant wave of frozen water. Exhaling loudly, I shout at nothing, at everything. Animal sounds come out of me, frightened sounds as I finally plunge one, then both axes over the top. I’m exhausted as I haul myself up, rolling over and away from that terrible edge, laughing, crying my angst.
The wind is strong up here on the ridge. My energy abates and I suddenly feel very cold and vulnerable. I scurry over to some rocks to make an anchor, then back to the edge to complete my belay. After straightening the line, I hunker down and go zen. Ken arrives, duly impressed, and even with the weather turning, we decide to chance a dash for the top.
It takes us an hour to reach the false summit, a high point on the East ridge at 9160 feet. We’ve been steady but simply too slow. The view from the false summit over to the peak is discouraging; fresh slides are obvious as well as the hour and ½ to reach it. The weather continued to deteriorate; the day, which had begun sunny and clear, had turned by mid afternoon into something quite different. Strong winds, a steely grey to the sky, and multiple lenticular clouds over Rainier and St. Helens; I was beginning to think we were not welcome here. I was also a bit anxious about getting into the top of the Sherpa couloir, given the conditions found at the top of Ice Cliff.
As we turned to descend, I briefly considered taking the ridge line as the snow was sloppy and the ground steep. But it would take longer and we didn’t have a lot of time. We were not roped up as we started down just to the side of our up track; Ken was in front and I was just mentally choosing the spot where I would turn to face the slope and begin down climbing. My partner was just about to that spot when he slipped and began to fall.
“Stick it Kenny, c’mon man!” I screamed, as he ripped away from me out of control. He was headed for a band of rocks that would surely break his body, then several hundred feet of steep snow into talus. Somehow, just above the rock band, his left leg plunges into the snow and he stops, not moving.
I took a deep breath; I had lived a thousand terrors in that few seconds, even beginning to decide the quickest way out of the mountains and how to get help, so sure I was at the moment he was falling that I’d be helping him somehow. When he stopped, it was as if all this suddenly placed weight was lifted from me, so palatable was the relief. He seemed okay; physically. He’d only tumbled about 70 or 80 feet. Mentally he was taking a beating this trip. The mountains have a way of testing you.
Concerned for my friend I turned, and with a renewed cautiousness, began downclimbing, thinking how lucky we were. My concern for him was unwarranted though, when halfway to him I heard, “Hey… hurry up, slowpoke.” Apparently he hadn’t seen it as I had.
We finish the slope and begin the traverse to the top of the Sherpa Glacier couloir; approximately 1200 feet of 40 degree alpine ice. We can no longer see the surrounding peaks. This storm is moving fast. The wind continues to increase; now we’re getting a ground effect, decreasing visibility even more. It will be good to drop over the ridge and escape this wind.
We get near and ease over to the edge; don’t want to mess up here. Using my axe, then my boot, I bash at the lip, trying to break the edge out in front of us and getting a feel for the snow. Pieces break off and are instantly blown away. We find a way in near the western edge, down climbing a vertical 20 foot step with nothing but iron in the slope.
By this point we were whipped, but could not yet let up. The 40 degree snow seemed reasonable after the vertical step, yet nonetheless demanded our focus. The wind had increased instead of diminishing and visibility was minimal; at times, I couldn’t see even see Ken, lost in his own struggle only a few meters away.
Not long after getting in at the top, I stopped to consider the strange ripping and cracking noises I was hearing. I front pointed over to the wall of rock on our right to lean closer, watch and listen. The wind, in it’s final state of compression, was being forced into the minute surface cracks of the rock with such intensity that it was screaming.
The bergschrund this time of year was not an issue and we were able to scamper, quite safely, through a short, scary broken section. Then the endless down; by now our legs just move on autopilot. At this point all I wanted was a hot drink and possibly some food, and to get out of this storm. We had not attained the summit, thus failure, but had nonetheless completed a very demanding route with a minimum of gear. And in the process we had grown somehow.
Note: We did this route, a fair 14 hour day and one of Ken’s first serious mountain climbs, in the spring of '99. We had many other adventures. We’ve since drifted apart, but he was a fine friend, and is now a flight nurse based out of Reno, NV.
Scott A. Lewis
Wallace, Idaho
