Author:
Gary Clark
Participants:
Gary & Lynn Clark (Los Alamos), Rich Strang (Santa Fe), Rick
Whipple (Denver)
Mt. Hunter Attempt II Slideshow:
click
here.
This is the third year in a row we've had this route in our sights. In May
of 1998 we cancelled the trip on the day we were to leave after seeing the weather
reports for continued heavy storm activity in the area. In May of 1999 we went,
we saw, we had good weather, but snow conditions were so poor as to make climbing
all but impossible. We decided to give it one more shot in 2000, fully realizing
that the problems we had encountered to date are the very reasons the route
has had only a handful of successful ascents, and none at all since the early
1990s. We planned for a slightly later departure from New Mexico, hoping we'd
still have good weather and also snow conditions more typical of later season
- consolidated nevŽ and ice rather than bottomless powder.
Unloading on
Thunder Glacier.
We flew to the Thunder Glacier late in the evening of June 4, only about 24
hours after leaving New Mexico. We set up our tents for a couple hours sleep,
then began climbing at midnight. Light is not a problem at these latitudes in
June, so the safest time to climb is the coldest - right through the heart of
the "night." The initial couloir is 2500' of some of the most dangerous terrain
imaginable - perfect avalanche angle for it's complete length, with unstable
rock walls above. Our strategy worked well, as there had been no recent snow,
and we topped out in only about 4.5hrs; a big improvement over the 1999 effort
when we were knee-deep in snow most of the way. The last bit of the couloir
is the crux of the first day, and this year it was very tricky indeed. Steepening
gradually to near vertical, the ice finally dwindles to bare rock. We had to
climb 10' of 5th class rock with crampons, full expedition packs, and two ice
tools hanging from our wrist loops. Overconfidence and momentum conspired to
keep me moving through this section without placing any protection. As soon
as I was over it, I realized that a fall would have been fatal for me and my
ropemate. I quickly placed an ice screw and then a belay.
Although we were still fresh and the day yet young, a rest was mandatory here
at the 9600' col. We set up the tents and began melting snow. By the time we
had re-hydrated and had some breakfast, a nap seemed in order, and then it was
mid-morning. A blazing sun rendered foolhardy any plans of continuing on this
day. We slept through the heat of the day, then started the exercise again in
the wee hours of the morning of the 6th. The mandatory objective was camp II,
another saddle on this long ridge at which every previous party has camped.
Again we had hopes of shortening the climb by continuing past camp II, but the
weather made the decision for us. As we started from camp I we could see major
lenticular clouds over Mt. Foraker; it was only a matter of time before the
storm hit. We had time to set up camp II and build a rudimentary protection
wall before climbing in the tents for 48 hours of sensory deprivation. Our tent
is only about a foot longer than I am. As the winds whipped the walls I felt
like I was being hit on the head with a tennis racquet about every 10 seconds
for the next two days. However, we were tired, and in some ways the rest was
welcome.
I was amazed to hear voices outside the tent late in the first storm day. We
had been following the tracks of Dan and Nick from Seattle to this point. Dan
had initiated an e-mail correspondence about his plans for the climb almost
a year ago, so I knew on arrival that they would be starting up the route a
day or two before us. It was good to finally meet Dan after scores of e-mails.
He and Nick looked like apparitions in the howling blizzard; full down coats
and ski goggles, all covered in rime ice. They had descended the very difficult
third day of the climb in terrible weather. I got dressed and helped them reestablish
their camp; just keeping the tent from blowing away while pitching it was a
2-person job. Their story came out; they had been on their summit push until
the storm became imminent and unignorable. They turned around about 500' below
the false summit, which is 1/2 mile and 800' short of the true summit. In good
conditions the summit would have been a 4- or 5-hour round trip. It was a great
effort, particularly for their first Alaska route attempt.
We stayed at camp II for 3 full days; two of storm and one of clearing. Early
the next morning we began the crux section of the route - a section of very
steep mixed climbing, followed by a long knife-edge ice and snow ridge. The
mixed section was tricky and dangerous. Rock protection was very scarce, and
we'd often dig 3 or 4 deep pits in snow to reach a patch of ice for a screw
placement. The need for speed was great as well, so Lynn and I simul-climbed
the entire section, often with only a single point of protection per rope length.
This is the kind of climbing that is not particularly difficult, just dangerous.
Finally we were on the knife edge, and there were two bits of good news; first,
Dan and Nick's tracks were largely intact, and second, they had already dug
the pits to place ice screws and V-thread anchors, which would save us lots
of time. We simul-climbed this entire section as well; about 8 rope lengths
of 60-degree side slope below the knife edge. Conditions were about 18-24" of
consolidated snow over extremely hard ice. However, coming up the final section
to the ridge, I noticed the snow conditions deteriorating; where there had been
nevŽ before, the top layer was now turning to powder. The threat of avalanche
began to intrude on my mind.
Camp 3
Atop the knife-edge at last, we were now at the usual camp III. However, the
place didn't quite match the description I had in my head, and there was no
evidence that Dan and Nick had camped here. Although their tracks had disappeared,
there were still wands leading up and around a steep slope, so I persevered,
hoping to put in the highest camp possible to maximize our chances for the summit
the next day. We skirted some overhanging seracs, then my heart sank as I looked
at the next slope we'd have to negotiate. It was very steep; 50-60 degrees,
but most importantly was completely unconsolidated. I moved up it about 10 feet,
then called down to ask both rope teams to tie together and be ready for a team
arrest. Below me I could see that the slope was concave, and ran out about a
rope length below. Importantly, the rest of the team was still around the corner
on stable ground, so nobody else was endangered by a potential slide. I continued
up gingerly, plunging both axes deeply in front of me before taking each step.
I didn't have to wait long. The slab broke nearly at the top of the slope and
encompassed an area about 100' wide by 100' long. I was in nearly in the middle,
and had the impression of crossing a river that was just a little too fast and
deep. The entire event lasted about 8 seconds - the length of a bull-ride, and
I would guess a similar adrenaline-producing experience, although I'm not dumb
enough to ever try riding a bull, so I can't be sure. I was convinced twice
during the 8 seconds that I was going along for the ride, but in the end was
left standing where I started with a big pile of snow up my chest, spitting
snow and unable to see because my glacier glasses were full of snow. My first
thought was: "Great, that's over with, now I don't have to worry about it any
more." I climbed on the now pristine layer of well consolidated snow toward
the crest, noting with consternation that there were several large slabs still
hanging, seemingly ready to go with just a touch since their support beneath
was now gone. It was particularly unnerving climbing over the boundary where
the slab had broken - although only about 8" deep, it seemed a nearly insurmountable
obstacle psychologically.
Finally on the crest I continued on all fours toward a small saddle visible
above. My concern was now that my rope mates below would initiate further slides,
and I'd have to hold the entire team on my axes. This was incredibly nerve-wracking.
I dug a deep belay pit, a poor substitute for a real anchor but better than
nothing, and brought the others up, a process that took about an hour. I had
plenty of time to look around. The glacier where we had started was now about
6000' below. The entire southern half of the Alaska Range was spread out in
front of me. There were steep drop-offs to both sides. In short it was one of
the most spectacular spots I've ever found myself in, but I was not celebrating
the spectacle. The stress of the previous couple of hours had done serious damage
to my state of mind, especially since I could see that nearly all the terrain
above us looked very similar to the slope I had just triggered. The upper slopes
terminated in cliffs rather than a gentle runout.
The others eventually arrived, I pronounced that we were in camp, and shortly
indicated that I thought we might be at the high point of the expedition as
well. We dug in and made dinner, and I began to relent, realizing that we wouldn't
be able to live with ourselves if we didn't give it a go in the morning to evaluate
the conditions. As Alex Lowe once said in a similar situation "There's no
reason to conjecture about that which we cannot know." We set the alarm
for 3:00a. When it rang I was not only not anxious to relinquish the warmth
of my bag, but my stomach was feeling like it was headed for serious problems
as well. I told Rick and Rich to go ahead; we'd follow if I started to feel
better after a hot drink or two. We set the alarm for 5:00a, which would be
responsibly early given that Lynn and I would have the advantage of their tracks,
and we had only 1500' to go to reach the summit from this camp at 12,400'. The
final slopes present only a few serious crevasse and bergschrund crossings in
the way of technical difficulties; primarily they are just big, open, but steep
snow slopes, the easiest terrain of the entire climb. At 5:00 we began to get
dressed with substantial optimism. I didn't even have my boots on before we
heard Rick and Rich outside the tent. They had made good initial progress up
the knife-edge where we had our camp then on up the slopes to the first schrund,
all on good snow. 50' above the schrund the leader began breaking through. After
about 20' of unrelenting post-holing, he stopped to do a serious evaluation
of the slope. Let's see . . . 50 degrees with a hard slab on top of 8" of depth
hoar - this was a slope begging to be triggered, and the resulting avalanche
would be mammoth and unsurvivable. Mark Twight had impressed me when he signed
a book for me earlier this year. The inscription read:
"To Gary - come back alive, come back friends, and bag the
summit - in that order."
We had adopted this as the guiding philosophy for our climb. Two out of three
isn't bad.
Postscript:
The descent in good conditions from a high camp has been done in a long day.
Due to continued warm, sunny conditions leading to a rapidly deteriorating snow
pack, we spent longer each day descending each section of the climb than we
had spent in the ascent. Descent from high camp at 12,400' to camp II at 10,600'
took almost 11 hours, most of which were spent sharing one set of 60-meter ropes
on 4 rappels of the mixed section just above the col. We simulclimbed all but
one of the ice pitches on the knife edge rather than rappel as other parties
have reported; otherwise it would have been even longer. We had to treat the
final couloir with tremendous respect; whereas in 1999 we faced out and walked
down unroped after the initial steep section, this year we rappelled two full
pitches then simulclimbed the rest on front points, placing screws, pickets,
and the odd piece of rock pro. This carried the descent into the early sunny
hours of morning, and had us dodging frightening amounts of rockfall in the
final third. This is one of the more dangerous descents I've ever done.
After arrival (deliverance?) on the Thunder Glacier, we stayed 3 more tent-bound
days in fog and snow before our pilot could land. The highlight of that period
(in fact, perhaps of the trip) was watching a large wolverine travel the length
of the glacier.
In retrospect, we may have gone a little too late; colder temperatures would
have helped a lot. The route is big, beautiful, challenging, but unfortunately
quite dangerous in less than perfect conditions. In short, it's a typical big
Alaska route.
