Please enjoy this entertaining and long awaited guest post…
There are various skills for travelling in the mountains that you pick up over the years. Things like sussing out the approach that involves the least nasty bushwack, navigating scree or boulder fields, choosing the best descent route, and the like. You can’t point to a specific occasion when you learned such things, or how you did. They are simply the result of experiences accumulated over many trips. On the other hand, there are some bits of knowledge that you acquire and you know exactly when and where that particular lesson was learned. Often this is because either some humorous or some unpleasant consequence marked the moment. In my experience I would say “unpleasant” tends to be the dominant of these two reasons.
Reading Offwidth’s article recounting an ascent of Mt Shuksan (“Aye Laddie”, Feb 2015) had me reminiscing on another Shuksan trip that took place at about that same time, which is to say several decades ago. On that trip I can distinctly recall a couple of these learning experiences.
In my mind Shuksan was the Big Leagues of our local mountains, and an ascent of such a classic alpine peak was the real deal mountaineering-wise. But I also found it a bit intimidating, so I was both keen and a little apprehensive when with my two friends, Jeff and Colin, we figured we should have a go at it. Jeff was less than a year older than Colin and me, but had been climbing for several years, beginning with his dad and the BCMC back in the day when he and pretty much everyone else still used pins on the Apron routes of the Chief. Colin was also a good climber, extremely fit, and had an industrial first aid ticket to boot…not that any of us felt it was ever going to be needed on a climbing trip, but it was still somehow comforting to know.
The August weekend of our trip was by far the hottest of that summer, breaking temperature records throughout Northwest Washington and the Fraser Valley. Partly for logistical reasons, but primarily as an attempt to avoid the heat, we started our approach well after sunset. The approach to Shuksan from the west is unusual as it begins with an immediate drop of about 450m to Lake Anne. We arrived at a camping spot near the lake shortly before midnight, thoroughly drenched in sweat despite having travelled downhill and at night. In my case the heat was exacerbated by the thick, heavy wool work pants I was wearing. I had purchased them at a thrift store the preceding winter and they had now become my all-purpose four season mountain pants. (I had finally learned that jeans were less than ideal for bushwacking through soaking coastal undergrowth).
There must not have been any bugs out at Lake Anne that evening, or I was simply so hot that I felt bugs were more tolerable than lying inside a down sleeping bag, but I ended up flaked out on top of the bag in my sweat soaked clothes. “You’re gonna be cold,” Jeff matter-of-factly advised, but whether I believed him or not, I was too hot to care. Of course he was right. Anyone who has spent a night out, even the warmest summer night, knows this. I crawled shivering into my bag within 15 minutes. Lesson learned.
Before dawn the next morning we headed up the Fisher Chimneys. We had gleaned some info about the route from friends, and our understanding was that the Chimneys would be the trickiest bit of the day. It was also rumoured to be loose, with some rock fall danger, so we should probably wear helmets. Helmets? Since I didn’t yet own one, I borrowed a construction hard hat from a friend.
It turned out to be a fun scramble on gullies and ledges following a reasonably footworn route. When we emerged onto the Upper Curtis glacier above the Chimneys I was thinking “Hey, that wasn’t so bad. We’re home free!” I was by then definitely superstitious enough to know that voicing such thoughts aloud would guarantee the trip was doomed; the Mountain Gods are only too gleeful to teach a lesson or two about hubris. Just thinking it was bad enough, yet incredibly there I was, silently counting my chickens.
One of Jeff’s boots had fallen apart on a recent trip and he had not yet bought new ones. He was wearing his backup footwear, a pair of vintage ca. 1970 high-top Royal Robbins rock shoes. He had earlier figured out that he could secure his crampons to them, which he somehow did, and wet-feet-be-damned we started up the Upper Curtis glacier heading for Hell’s Highway.
The Upper Curtis Glacier
The sun was now up. Although we were in the shadow of the summit the day was already warm, clearly destined to be another scorcher. And about half an hour up the glacier, it looked as if all those imaginary chickens I had been counting… just…went…poof.
Hell’s Highway is a steep constriction of the Upper Curtis glacier between the main peak of Shuksan and a rocky outlier. To our dismay we discovered that a bergschrund had fully opened up, splitting the glacier across its entire width, running on our left from the west face of Shuksan until it disappeared at the far edge of the glacier to our right. The last easy crossing was a now collapsed snow bridge. Uh-oh.
Footprints in the snow led off to our left. We duly followed them to the edge of the glacier that abutted the rocks of the west face. Some rappel slings on the rock high above the crevasse indicated this must be the detour route. Upon further inspection we saw that the route dropped into the crevasse, which at this point only about eight feet down onto a floor of collapsed snow, then up about 15-20 feet of low class 5 rock followed by a jump-step to regain the glacier above the crevasse.
OK then. So it’s down into the crevasse, which was easy from our side, then up the rock, hop back onto the glacier and Bob’s your uncle.
I dropped into the crevasse and a lesson that I knew only from book learnin’ was immediately crystallized by reality: it’s cold in a crevasse! The air temperature only ten feet above my head was a balmy 15C and rising, but in the crevasse my fingers became numb almost instantly. I suppose it’s no surprise that two walls of ice in close proximity can have that effect. I dug my purple and red Mack shirt “insulation layer” out of the pack, and with cold hands had a go at the cold rock.
What ensued was a situation that I expect is familiar to many climbers at one time or another. A route that looks so straightforward from below takes on a whole new level of seriousness once you actually get on it. Without any protection, and after a few moves, you get to the point where you start thinking “Hmm… I can still get back down without toooo much difficulty, but one more move and I’m totally committed. If I don’t make it to the top I’ll be royally screwed.” Not directly related to the situation at hand, but still an added psyche-out factor, was that just a short distance away the crevasse could be seen dropping down towards the gates of hell. The impending onset of sewing machine leg made the decision easy. Bail. That decision probably sums up why I have always been a crummy rock climber.
Both Jeff and Colin had a go too, with basically the same result. Colin had fixed a wart hog (do they still exist?) into the ice immediately adjacent to the rock in what turned out to be the somewhat optimistic hope that we could use it as protection. In hindsight I suspect he might have done it in part just for the manly fun of placing the hog into that hard, blue ice.
So there we were, humming and hawing about how we were going to get up this thing when a couple of mountaineering old timers came upon us from below. These ‘old guys’ had to be all of 35 years of age. “Mind if we have a try?” asked one.
The lead guy was up the rock in short order, and even made use of the wart hog. His buddy followed and not only pulled our rope up behind him, but also graciously used it to belay Colin to the top of the pitch. I was new enough to this game that it didn’t even cross my mind to be chagrinned that we owed our success in overcoming this obstacle to two strangers who just happened along at the right time.
Topping out of Hells Highway
Once above the crevasse we proceeded to the top of Hell’s Highway. It ultimately pops out onto the gently sloped Sulphide Glacier, the standard route from the south, where we unfortunately arrived shortly after a party of 11 on a Mazamas Club trip had passed by. We caught up to them as they began ascending the loose, 150m summit pyramid. They had fanned out eleven abreast across its entire width to avoid avalanching rocks on one another. However, they gave no such consideration to anyone immediately behind them. With no way to get around those slow pokes we were forced to wait until they were all happily munching sandwiches on the summit before we could start up.
Below the summit pyramid
After a short stay on top to grab something to eat, take a few photos and get assurances from the Mazamas that they wouldn’t start their descent until we were off the pyramid, we headed down.
Back at the bergschrund, we set up for the rappel. It was common practice for us in those days to use what we called a body rappel, aka “dulfersitz”, whereby the rope passes between your legs, wraps back around the hip and chest, then beside your neck and across the back to your controlling arm. Granted, this description is hard to visualize for anyone unfamiliar with the technique, but the key takeaway here is the part about the rope passing between your legs.
A digression: a lesson that I had previously learned during these rappels is to ensure there is always a piece of clothing between the rope and your skin. Collared shirts are definitely preferred over tees.
The three of us had finished the rappel and were readying to continue down the glacier when the two old timers appeared above us and likewise began setting up for body rappels. Moments later there was a scream.
The words to politely articulate the horror that unfolded above us elude me. So I must be direct. Old Timer No.1, who was wearing shorts, had somehow gotten himself, er, “hung up”. The rope had twisted as it passed between his legs, and now, with the force of his weight, was pinching his balls against his thigh. They were visibly emerging from his shorts, and even more visibly turning purple! In mid-rappel he had no way to unweight himself and correct his horrible predicament. To rappel further appeared to invite imminent castration. He could do nothing but scream and curse.
How long his torment lasted I cannot recall. How he was able to disentangle himself I cannot recall. What I do know is that to this day, when I recall that scene, I involuntarily pinch my knees together and cringe.
Ultimately, we three recovered from this dreadful spectacle and continued down under the now roasting mid-day sun. The rock of the west facing Fisher Chimneys had been baking all day and had become an oven. After retrieving our gear at Lake Anne we faced the 450m, waterless slog back up to our vehicle.
My wool pants had been hot enough going downhill at night, but the prospect of wearing them while trudging uphill in that afternoon heat was truly grim. What to do? Colin had donned a pair of shorts, and this had me thinking that I should peel off those pants and hike out in my (ratty, tighty but not whitey) underwear. So I did. It was an acceptable solution for dealing with the heat, but was not without a few drawbacks. For one, the waist belt of my pack constantly slid the underwear down, and I was constantly yanking them back up. Worse, the Lake Anne trail is a popular hiking destination and whenever another party was seen or heard the potential for high embarrassment resulted in my taking wide, scratchy-legged, off-trail berths through bush. I was particularly concerned about making a bad first impression on any unattached females we might meet.
But it turned out there was an upside to this underwear episode. I learned that wearing shorts instead of underwear under those wool pants was a dynamite, multi-purpose clothing combination for mountain trips, one that I used for well over a decade. But never, not once, did I ever dulfersitz in shorts. That was a lesson very well learned indeed.