Mt. Hood, approached from Hood River, Or.
Forgive my long windedness, and change of format. This was written very shortly after the summit trip, while vivid details remained in my mind.
For five months I trained for this one. At first just doing the treadmill and the stairmaster, after Dave had discovered a treadmill that went to 30 degrees incline. Two days doing cardio, then another two doing resisitance training to strengthen up the core.
It was still unfullfilling, as I wasn't working those downhill muscles, or getting used to the impact of decent.
Then we started working out on "the hill", just outside downtown Houston on Allen Parkway. It was steep enough, 40 degrees in places. It was only about 60 feet tall, so we would go up and down for an hour and half, waiting till near sundown so the temp would drop into the low 90's. Definintely worked out the downhill muscles around the knees. Looking at the skycrapers would inspire us to think of mountians.
We arrived in Portland on a Wednesday nite. Just in time to find a hotel on the eastern outskirts. On Thursday we'd get a nice view of Mt. Hood from the Columbia River. We stopped for a brewski in Hood River, at the same microbrewery Eric and I had visited two years earlier. Hood stood out like a white beacon, visible for 50 miles in all directions. It looked quite formindable.
The Big Horse Brew Pub, Hood River, Or.
As we got closer, it loomed larger and larger. In fact, much larger than I had remembered. Dave had a look of disbelief on his face. "You mean we're going to climb that?" he asked.
"Absolutely" I replied, trying to retrace the route up the face as best I could remember it.
The lodge looked bigger too. We now had two days to aclimate, at over 7,000 feet at the lodge. We checked in and drove down to Government Camp for some carbo's. Pancakes for me, a wonderful dinner indeed! We got back to the Timberline Lodge early, and sank into the nice soft mattresses, breathing in the clear, crisp air. It was in the high 50's, with an expected low just above freezing at the lodge. Tommorow morning we would meet our guide and our rope team. We were pumped..
8AM came early, and we reported to the Timberline Guide office. We gathered up our rental gear: crampons, helmet, harness and ice axe. Today we would "play in the snow", practice our steps, practice short roping, moving belays, and talk about our plans. Our guide was Rodney, an Oregon local. He asked us about our climbing background, and he spoke at length about the mountain, the weather, and his snow training. It was obvious he had extensive knowledge about snow and avalanches. This would serve us well tommorow.
On the nearby training slopes we practices our basic steps on snow that started out somewhat firm, but got softer and wetter as the morning wore on. Unlike the training I had at the same spot last year, Rodney focused more on climbing than falling, and explained that anytime there was serve consequences to falling, we would be roped in, so that falling wasn't too much of an option for us on his watch. He demostrated that he could easily control and lower all 600 plus pounds of us using a belay he sat in a snow pit with a small pick and his ice axe. Very reassuring!
We met the third climber in our group, who was Tim, who worked for the local TV channel 6. Tim was a very experienced skier and also had spent lots of time on Mt. Hood over the years. He would play a very important role in our climb the next day. He is one of those guys who seems to know everyone in Portland, a very pleasant guy.
Rodney, our guide, from Timberline Guides
Rodney had been guiding for eight years, had attempted Denali, had many successful attempts at Hood (he never gave a number, but we figured 50 plus) He also told us of 5 failed attempts at Ranier, and Jefferson, (weather) and it seemed he was preparing us for the fact that a summit is never a garuntee, even for a pro. The reality of that wasn't something I was ready to hear, but, I knew from experience that conditions aren't always ideal. I had told my family and friends I was staying in Portland until I got the summit. In retrospect, I don't think I'll ever make a statement like that again. Not summitting isn't really failure, it's learning. You just keep going and learning each time.
For example, a week after my first Hood attempt, I don't think I could have repeated one of the steps they taught us. Now I don't think I'll ever forget the side step, the "American" step, or the twelve three, the ten-two or "duck walk"
Tim Graham, from Portland Oregon
I'm sure in the first ten minutes he had us all sized up. Tim was obviously the most capable in our group, probably ten years younger than I, and a solid skiier. When Rodger put me behind him on the rope I assumed he had picked me out as the weakest. This was fine with me, as I knew my will to climb was strong, and I didnt think I would slow the team down on the ascent. In fact, for me, climbing is exhillerating and caused my energy and spirit to soar. Since my knee surgery, I'm not so strong on the descent, but at my own pace, I can go all day.
Training went well. We kept watching the weather. Rodger asked us what we thought our chances were (that the weather would co-operate). 50-50 was the consensus. He made it clear that his job was to determine as we made our way up the mountain the next day, he would study the snow, watch the weather, and he would let us know if he thought it was safe to climb. He also made it clear that his decision was final, and that he respected us, but we had to respect him and let him do what we paid him to do. Lead, and make the decisions. It was obvious we all respected his knowledge and understanding of this mountian.
The mountain is a living, breathing thing. It has a personality, and a disposition. It loomed strong, rigid and formidable today. In fact, we had heard that earlier in the week a climber had perished on the mountain. It turned out that it was actually a skiier who had ventured into the wilderness area. His party of six had gotten seperated during a sudden white out, and he had followed the fall line right off of a cliff. Then there was the memory of the two climbers that had gone missing in December, still not found, some six months later.
In spite of this, I didn't feel we were in any immediate danger. We had experience on our side, and no chances would be taken.
The training class ended, and we headed back to "Gov Camp", and another hearty pancake meal for me. Those delicious Huckleberry pancakes! Dave and I returned to the Lodge, and took a nice long soak in the hot tub. We dicussed the mountain, and relaxed. Later we just basked in the sun beside the pool, with eight foot snowbanks nearby, and the roof of the Timberline Inn piled high with snow. It was hard to imagine the 95 degree heat in Houston, and the swealtering humidity. We were on another planet now.
We grabbed a nice bown of Mac and Cheese at the bar, a glass of wine, and some cheese. Life was at it's finest moment. Here we were in this beautiful old lodge, surrounded by art and fine wood, in the warm glow of the fireplace. This is a stark contrast to where we would be just hours later.
We met at the climbers register at 12:30AM on Saturday morning. We came fully geared out, with our climbing harness on, headlamps mounted on helments and bags packed. I chose to bring my 2 liter camelback, in spite of the written warnings that the tube could freeze. I opted not to bring my spare liter bottle of water in order to reduce weight. I had almost decided not to bring my down jacket, but figured if we got into any trouble and had to hunker down, it could come in handy. Typically in weather over 30 degrees, I can't wear my heavy duty winter gloves, as they cause me to sweat and overheat, then the sweat causes me to chill. However, my light glove liners I use for skiing aren't wind proof, so they turned out to be too light.
I ended up going to the heavy gloves after all.
I digress. Rodger sized us up again and asked us one at a time what our gut feeling was. I really respect someone who listens to their gut, as I have done this for many years in running my business. In fact, it's those times when I don't listen to my gut I tend to get into trouble. One by one we each said we felt good about this, and we thought our chances of a summit were still very strong. I was thinking 80 percent, but stuck with the 50 percent from the day before. A part of me felt that we were ready, and that the mountian would smile on us today.
The snowcat was ready for boarding.
One wonderful perk of the Hood summit climb with the Timberline Guides is the snow cat service. Obviously, the mile from the lodge to the top of the lift would be a pretty tame hike. It's very nice to skip the scramble up the service road. Someone asked if we weren't cheating to start on the snowcat. Dave informed them that unless we used a helicopter, it wasn't cheating..
As the cat growls and crawls up the slope, the adreniline starts to flow freely. You check your gloves, your headlamp, and your nerve. The mountain is dark, and all you can see is the silloutee of the other riders (we had two parties with us, some had gone an hour earlier) but you can feel the power and energy of the mountain.
Before we know it we're there. It was much like my first attempt. Only, not quite so foreign. This time, I knew which way we were starting, and, I knew my guides name, and everyone in our small party. Rodney took the lead, kicking steps, followed by Dave, then I motioned Tim ahead and took up the rear. I was pumped, and felt as if I was leviating a foot off the ground. The snow had a nice firm crust. The temperature was just around thiry degrees at the top of the lift, and the wind speed was 9 -10 MPH. The wind chill was in the mid twenties. We could see stars. Things were looking up.
The first thing I noticed was that my heart rate was much more controlled than it had been on my 2008 attempt. I had remembered that the climbing to the Hogsback had seemed pretty simple the first time. It was even easier this time. I was wearing just my thin poly thermals, a thin light fleece top, and my thin hardshell Marmott jacket. On the bottom I had just my poly thermals underneath and a pair of breathable Mountain Hardware pants on top. We couldn't go fast enough for me. At some point I found myself in front of Tim,spirits soaring. It must have been obvious I was in a zone, "You're really enjoying this aren't you?" Tim asked. "You just don't know" I replied. But I think he did know, it must have been written all over my face.
The group behind us started coming around. We stood by and let them pass. "Let them cut us a path," Rodger grinned as they blasted by. Shortly afterward, we would see them again.
We paused, took a drink and a leak, and looked up again. With headlamps off or covered, you could still see a few stars peeking through. My harness was working it's way down my thighs. Crap. Gear problems already. I mentioned it to Rodney, he immediately noticed I had missed the main loop when passing through my strap. I fumbled with hands quickly losing control, Rodney quickly stepped in and fixed it. Time to take off again. I gulped water, and downed a pack of goo. It was off to the races again.
We quickly came across a large group of climbers. They appeared to be in a discussion, including several guides, and customers. As we approached, and someone asked who we were there were a few friendly shouts, and lively conversation. Several of the guides seemed to know Rodney or knew of him.
Everything in the following paragraph is a little sketchy. It comes from bits and pieces of what Dave, Tim and I overheard from the "Guide Pow-wow", and from what Dave and I recollect Rodney telling us.
The guides were all gathered discussing the results of their snow conditions test. Suddenly things weren't so upbeat. One of the guides was an older forest service guide who had trained Rodney. There were also what appeared to be at least two or three other parties, and the party that had passed us up and ridden up in the snow cat with us. After a few moments with the other guides Rodney returned to where he told us to stand by. He explained that the other guides had done a snow test, and that he didn't feel that they had done it in a reliable spot. Dave had overheard the older guide state the snow was solid at hip level and loose at knee level. Rodney further explained that he was going to check the snow in another spot. We were to stay put exactly where we were, With that he dropped his pack, and bounded quickly uphill to a spot just out of our circle of light and started digging. He had told us to get comfortable, and get into our puffy jackets if needed, take on some food and water. I decided to not do the puffy jacket, as I was already plenty warm when we were moving. I would just have to take it off later.
While he was gone, the three of us discussed how confident we were of Rodneys knowledge, and that we would happily follow his advice, even if it meant turning around. Tim mentioned his children, and that no summit was worth risking anything less than 100% assurance of a safe return. I told Tim I would go with whatever his gut feeling was. Dave laughed, knowing full well I would have proceeded with a safety margin as low as 70%. I only would have agreed to turn back on news of a 95% chance or 90% chance out of respect for Tim, and would have never put pressure on him to continue and risk him not returning to his family. In fact, I admired Tim, and his commitment to his family, and felt ashamed of my own selfishness and greed to summit. This trip taught me so many lessons, and I'm still sorting them out as I write this.
I had a breif flashback of Rodney telling us the day before that the mountain was not a static but a dynamic, ever changing climb. What might be happening at one moment with the weather and snow conditions, could change at any moment, and you would be on a new climb. He had also told us that we were no longer individuals, but part of a group. Unlike a hike, in this environment, we all summited, or no one did. He had also described the last 750 feet after the Hogsback, and how most of our efforts would be expended there. For the first time ever, I saw Dave's spirit drop a little. He had heard more of the guide-speak than I did. His prediction of our continuing forward had now dropped to 50-50. I was all hopeful.
We waited, and listened for his return. We could hear the constant digging, as he gathered information, in order to make an intelligent, informed decision. Just as quickly as he left, he appeared again. He gathered us around. He re-explained why he didn't like the previous tests that were done, and explained the benefit of checking the snow from different aspects. He advised us that his test conclusively showed good solid snow, and he felt like at this point that we could decide to move forward if we wanted to. Dave and I looked at Tim. "Looks like a green light to me." I was again happy, after a brief moment of doubt.
As I looked around, all the other guides and clients had already disappeared and headed back down.
It was just us, and Mt. Hood. Life was good.
Rodney advised us that he would be doing at least one or two more tests. We would continue to the Hogsback. I was relieved. At this point, I at least wanted to make it to the point I did last time, just to peer down over the edge of the Hogsback again, down to that vast, dark pit that lies over it's spine. If only that, I would have some comfort in knowing we pushed on as far as we could. Off we went.
The going got steep quickly. I don't remember the order, other than Rodney led and Dave was in second position. This is where Dave had a few slips, as the pitch made it easier for a foot to slip. A few slips and groans, and Rodney reminded Dave we had to keep up a decent pace. After what seemed like just a hundred yards or so, Rodney made the decision to put on crampons. I struggled with cold fingers, and again Rodney helped first Dave, then me get our crampons on properly. It must suck babysitting newbies! I felt bad for Rodney, having had taken off his gloves and working on both our gear. His hands worked the straps and buckles swiftly and skillfully, and we were off again. Sidestepping now became more natural, as did moving with trecking poles and axe. There was a certain rythem to it. Step, step, place axe, step step, place axe. Axe in uphill hand, pole in downhill hand, as we lived in our little box of headlamp light.
The fog had started to settle, and we had gotten above the blowing snow. Visibility was 40-50 yards. Up and up we climbed, with very few traverses, mostly up, following footsteps.
Gear dropped on the Hogsback
Before I knew it, there was the familiar ridge of the Hogsback. What a welcome site. I remembered my first atttempt. When the guide left to do his tests, I really had no clue what exaclty he was doing. Some magin hocus pocus. Now I understood perfectly. Rodney would dig, evaluate the layers of snow, and decide if travel was at an acceptable level of risk. The consequences were greater now. Deja vu. I was comfortable to be here again, it looked so familiar. I remembered this was where the last guide turned us around. I never really understood why. Now, if Rodney came back and said it wasn't good, I was prepared. I would have never questioned his choice, or second guessed him like I did the last fellow. (who's name I can't remember, as I'm sure he doesn't remember mine)
Again, we waited, and talked amoung ourselves. The wind had quietied down. The silence was heavy. I was thirsty, but could only get a small amount of water from my frozen cameback tube. I downed a cliff bar. No matter which way we went when Rodneyr returned, I would need more energy. I emptied another goo packet into my mouth. Seven hundred and fifty feet of scrambling, if we got to continue.
We heard him dig. Again, he appeared with his shovel. Dave commented first, that it looked to him like Rodney had a "negative face on'. My heart dropped. So close. Again. Then I saw Rodneys face - didn't look so much like a no to me. Tim said it best " you should play poker man, you're hard to read."
His demeanor was serious. Another good read. We were go for a summit run, if everyone was agreed. Another gut check. It was unanimous, we would go for it. Finally, I would get to see the last 750 feet. We left our trecking poles behind. From this point forward, we would rope in, and use ice axes. A few feet forward and we began a traverse. In a few feet, Rodney looked frustrated. The GPS wasn't responding well to our slow movement. He stopped us, and looked around. Then I saw what seemed to be a glimpse of recognition in his eyes. Rodney ordered Tim to backtack the traverse. Tim hesitated only about half a second, and started moving across the fall line. Then Rodney directed him to turn up, and continue forward. Now we shifted, with Rodney moving back across and taking the lead. Dave was just behind Rodney, then me, then Tim on the back.
Things were getting very steep now. I made a smart ass remark, thinking this was as steep as it would get, and asked "so when does the hard stuff begin?", just a little further Rodney replied. Crap, so it does get harder than this. We pushed and pushed. More American style punching in, often sliding backwards on every third step. This is where I noticed Dave starting to get frustrated. He was slipping backwards on two of three steps. I could hear the frustration in his groans, but couldn't figure out why he was losing his grip with his crampons so often. Later we concluded it was the altitude that caused him to suffer in his technique.
Rodney advised us we were now in the last 250 feet of the summit. It was a steep pitch now, like climbing straight up a wall. I couldn't see the top, and had no sense of where we were. There was no way I could have navigated to this point. I remember passing a fissure that was spewing hot gasses, and the strong smell of sulfur from the "Devils Kitchen".
Everything was surrealistic now. For the first time ever, I could hear the frustration in Daves voice. I knew he wasn't bonked. He was frusrated. We were so vertical, and plowing through some pretty deep snow. Again, Dave seemed frustrated, and looked out of control in his technique. Then the reality hit me, that we may have to turn around. The selfish part of me didn't want to give up. I knew if we turned around now, Dave would feel bad about this forever, he didn't want to let me down.
Rodney then said "Look. I can see the summit." I looked up, I could see nothing but a white wall of snow and ice. I too was starting to slip. Dave kept slipping back into me. Then Rodney held up his axe and said "look, hold your axe with both hands, and plunge it into the snow as hard as you can, then pull yourself up." I tried it. It worked. It took some of the weight off of your boot and now the boot was slipping out less often. Six inches at a time, I was moving.
"Look up" we're only a hundred feet away now" Rodney blurted. We were fighting for each inch now. Remember, everytime we slid backwards, Rodney felt the full brunt of our 200 pounds each. "Dave are you going to be a climber who has to remember he made it within 100 feet of the summit," Rodneys words stung.
For the first time, I saw resignation in Rodneys eyes. Dave was now face down in the snow. We were about 150 from the edge. I couldn't give up. I watched Dave, and saw what was happening. 1. He wasn't using his axe to pull up. 2. He was leaning back on his heel, and his crampon was breaking out of the snow, and he kept slipping. I had an idea, I knew Dave I had trained with him, and it wasn't a matter of strength. It was frustration. I told Tim we could do this. He agreed, I could tell by the look in his eyes. I shouted to Rodney " We can do this." ," Let me kick steps for Dave, and help him quit slipping." I could see in Rodneys, eyes' he would let us try this, He motioned foe me to move over and around Dave. He had me belay in off my axe, unclipped me, and moved me to a knot on the rope just above Dave. He clipped me back into the rope, from my secure perch on my axe, and told me to move in front of Dave.
In a move I wasn't expecting, Tim then started pushing in the pick of his axe under Daves boot everytime Dave would gain an few inches to keep him from sliding back. It took Dave a few minutes to realize we were gaining elevation. Finally, I saw him look up, and there was hope in his eyes. We were moving again. Now we were truly about 100 feet from the top edge, so we started calling out "only 50 more feet!". I kept the rope between Dave and I as tight as a guitar string, and kept reaching out as far as I could stretch, and drive my axe in, holding and pulling myself as much as I could. Between Tim and I, we wouldn't let Dave move back even one inch if we could help it.
Finally, Dave started to respond and use his axe to pull himself up, and he was moving. After 15 requests, he moved his axe from his right hand to his left, and was gaining 3, 4, then six inches with each surge. By now the look of defeat was fading, and he was struggling for altitude. He would either reach the top, or pull the top down to him.
The last thing I remember Rodney saying was "Gentlemen, we're going to get ourselves a summit!"
There we sat. We got the obligatory photo, sitting down. The fog was so thick, you couldn't see over 20 yards. The only indication that we were on the summit was that there was nothing you could see that was higher. Rodney had us sit, and eat to rebuild our energy. I was too embarassed to admit I had no water, as my camelback tube was still frozen. I was feeling dehydrated. Now I wish I had brought along that extra water bottle.
We were on the summit, but there was still to be two big surprises for me.
On the Hood summit: whiteout, no view.
1. It was a hellish struggle to climb back down, my knees were weak and rubber-like. It was much steeper going down than I had imagined.
2. As we were downclimbing, a climber in an unguided party lost his footing, and slid several hundred feet, just missing us, and we assumed we were about to witness a man fall to his death. He seemed to have given up, and wasn't trying to self-arrest. We were surprised a few minutes later to see him on his feet, climbing back up out of the steep ravine he had fallen into.
After reaching the bottom, I was spent. After it was over, I was a little overwhelmed. I was happy, exhillerated even, but, for some reason, I just stood there for a minute and wept.
We drove down to Oceanside, Oregon, and stayed a couple of days in a little hotel on the beach. Life is good.
The beach at Oceanside, Oregon
BTW, I highly recommend Timberline Guides, and, ask for Rodney. He has an amazing knowledge of the mountain, and of snow in general.
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