Moose's Tooth, Ham & Eggs (attempt)

By: Thom Pollard | Climbers: Thom Pollard, Jed Workman |Trip Dates: April 26, 2002

Photo: Gary Clark

® The author(s) and naclassics.com | Back to climb page NAC Home page

Our team was small, consisting of me, Thom Pollard of Williamsburg, Massachusetts, and Jed Workman of Salt Lake City. I was there filming a story for the National Geographic Channel's Today program. We had only four days. This is always a problem on climbing trips, especially in Alaska, where waiting out bad weather is something we all must go through to achieve a route. We were aware that such a short turnaround might present problems, such as not finding a window to climb in, or even worse, choosing to climb in less than optimum conditions. We are both experienced climbers and felt comfortable with this arrangement.

Randy of K2 Aviation dropped us off on the glacier just beneath Ham & Eggs. Randy is one of only a handful of pilots who will land climbers there. Most pilots prefer the safer landing areas at Don Sheldon's Mountain House, or below the West Ridge on the Ruth Glacier. Another pilot who lands there is Paul Roderick of Talkeetna Air Taxi, the first ever to put climbers right down in that area. Of course, landing right there saved us days of hiking.

From our camp, situated away from the mountain about 300 yards outside of the landing strip, the summit loomed 3,000 feet above us. The Moose's Tooth is a jagged knife blade mountain sticking straight up from the glacier. It is an awesome mountain with no easy route up it. We were set on the "easy" route to the top, the Ham & Eggs Couloir. While I wish there was something I could do to change the name of this route. Ham & Eggs is an impressive route - 2,800 feet of ice and rock rising straight up to the summit ridge. The climb is steep - about 70 to 90 degrees all the way, with mostly ice, but a good amount of rock. Most or all of the protection can be put into rock, which seemed like a lot of fun. It reminded me of Cherie Couloir on Mont Blanc du Tacul in the French Alps, which I'd climbed in the late 1980's, but Ham & Eggs is much longer and has more objective hazards.

Randy took off only minutes after dropping our gear onto the snow. Once the loud buzz of the plane faded from earshot we were totally alone with the mountain to ourselves. Having little time to wait out bad weather we planned to wake the following morning at 3 a.m. and leave for the climb at 5 a.m. The date was April 25, 2002.

We had a couple nice bottles of Brandy all set for our celebration, which we anticipated would be about 24 hours later. However, we had our sleeping bags in our packs, well prepared for a bivuoac up high if it got dark. We hoped to move fast, but my video equipment and production needs can often slows things down.

3:00 a.m. came way too fast. Jed didn't hear the alarm, so I could've easily pretended not to hear either and sleep for a while. But in Alaska the light comes up pretty early and I could soon begin to see around the inside of the tent. The thought of coffee was too much, so I fired up our little MSR stove and put a nice brew on. This coffee was no typical camp crap. We had a little percolator that sputters out a strong cup in just a few minutes. It smelled good and tasted better. We powered a couple cups each and grew really excited when we spotted the full moon sitting inside the deep blue sky just over the Ruth Gorge. It was beautiful and we were almost jittery with excitement. Jed was nice enough to fire up some home fries with pepper and cheese and we munched in silence. The skies were clear. Not a breath of wind. Things were looking good. I've had mornings like this in the mountains before, but not too many. It was picture perfect.

By 5:30 we were off. After about a ten minute walk over easy terrain a snowy incline eases onto the rock start to Ham & Eggs. (Who named it that anyway?) Jed and I were roped up, because God knows what the hell we would do if one of us fell into a crevasse. We were short of climbing gear, particularly another climber, who would make crevasse rescue a lot easier. Reaching the very base of the climb we could begin to see more clearly as the sun began to paint orange and yellow on east faces of the rock spires across the Ruth. We were under the route now, fully aware of its steepness.

We angled up quickly, finding ourselves in 50+ degree snow on top of rock. Our thoughts were of an avalanche, so we kept far left of the route, thinking that we should reach the rock face, then traverse right, with all the snow and avalanche potential below us. I filmed Jed as he ambled up a bit, then as he set a snow picket deep into the snow slope. I continued filming as he called out "I don't want it to 'lanche here so I'm checking the shear of the snow layers." By now the snow slope was 70 degrees steep, snow over mostly rock. We were at least 400-500 feet above the floor. I thought at that moment about how a hasty retreat would not be fun on such a steep slope. It would be a slow climb down after 24 hours of effort. With a day or two more time we could easily have fixed some lines of the rock diretissima directly below the route for their descent. I strongly advise this of climbers who have the time to spend avoiding avalanches.

Jed cut between two rock buttresses and started straight up for the rock face. Ham & Eggs was about 250 feet right of this. His rope paid out the full 165 feet as Jed disappeared above. I stashed my video camera, took a still shot with my 35mm and pulled the first snow picket. Moving up, I could see we would be traversing within fifteen minutes. The slope was steep and my ice axe was only psychological consolation resting against the rock beneath about two feet of snow. The view was absolutely beautiful. I could only imagine what it would look like atop the ridge or mid-route. Moving up between the two buttresses I stopped to survey all creation. What a beautiful thing these mountains are. I was loving this experience, breathing slowly and confidently, taking in my surroundings and my physical and mental state. Just observing, not reacting.

Suddenly and unexpectedly I heard a sharp and loud crack, as if someone had hit a baseball inches from my ears. Knowing we were in for it, I looked to my right as if to throw the avalanche away from us. A heavy whoomph immediately followed. I looked up just in time to see a two-foot blanket of snow rushing toward me. Knowing it would take me down, I raised my arms up high to try and ride atop the slide. The force of the avalanche was overwhelming. It hit my face and blackened my vision as if someone had just swung a pillow full force into my face. My entire body flew backward, flipping fully at least once. My head was downhill, face to the slope. I was amazed at the power and violence that enshrouded me. Suddenly I was aware of how powerful snow can really be. "So this is how people die in the mountains", I thought. Realizing that I had not taken a breath since I was first hit, I pulled my fists to my face to create a pocket of air. A snow plug formed in my throat, choking me desperately. I swallowed, spit and coughed, then gasped a breath. All the while we were still rushing down the slope.

As if from God, a story came to mind. Andy Politz, the climber who accompanied me to the site of George Mallory on Everest in '99, told me a story of seeing a teammate die on K2. From a mile away he watched his friend slide downward, with his pack sticking above the snow the entire time. While I felt the weight of a thousand pounds on my back, this story motivated me to make one huge effort to push myself skyward out of the snow.

Awaiting a slowdown in the slide I pushed up with all that I could give. Wouldn't you know, my head popped up from the debris. I was mostly buried and immediately aware that my right elbow was in very bad shape. Looking up I saw Jed staggering toward me, absolutely caked in snow. His long hair and beard were white, his eyes peeking out. I wanted to laugh, but thought he might believe I was a madman, so I commented that he looked like the Abominable Snowman. Jed said he'd hit his tailbone sliding down and flew in the air at least two seconds. He was in a lot of pain, but nothing was broken.

Needless to say we made it out. We had been hugely fortunate and hopefully only wiser for the experience. By 8:30 we had begun brewing up in camp and wondered if our shortness of time had almost cost us our lives. The two days of waiting was almost enough for us to sneak back up the route to have a go, injuries and all. But, as they say, boredom can be a climber's worst enemy.

What a ride!