Mount Hood Excursion II: The Summit Push—"Finish the Drill" vs. "I’ll kill you if you die up there."
The first thing I noticed is that the stars were breathtaking. It was a clear night and a new moon, so more stars were visible than I can remember seeing at any other time in my life. The Milky Way was clearly visible, and the sky itself was incredible. I looked up every so often just to take in the beauty, despite the effort of the climb.
It was immediately apparent that we had underestimated the speed and difficulty of the climb—Dustin’s prior climbing/hiking experience had not been in snow, nor had it been in the dreadful hard plastic climbing boots we had rented from the local REI. I soon began to regret that I had not been able to keep myself in especially good condition during the prior month, most of which had been taken up with term-paper writing and other end-of-semester activities. The difference in altitude between 6000 feet and sea level was already noticeable, and my lack of having kept up with my wind conditioning was becoming painfully apparent.
Dustin had it even worse; he also had not been able to train as much as he would have liked the prior month, and when he had been able to train over the last year, he had focused much more on strength and mass gains than upon overall conditioning. That extra mass, while probably beneficial in a fight (and certainly reflected by major strength gains), turned out not to be so helpful for mountain climbing. We quickly discovered that our original thoughts of climbing at a relatively steady pace, one right behind the other, was not happening. Instead, I was climbing at about double Dustin’s pace, getting a couple hundred feet ahead and then having to turn and wait for him to catch up.
We hadn’t climbed especially far (making sure to follow the lights above us from the climbers having left before us, since we weren’t especially confident about the path) before we were passed by another climber, moving at a much faster pace than we were. It was becoming readily apparent that we were less well conditioned for this climb than the repeat climbers who continued to pass us. Around an hour or so in, we looked back and our hearts sank to realize how little we had actually climbed—the lodge was still visible and we could see the taillights of a car driving in the parking lot from which we had set out. It was about this time that we realized that we had both forgotten to calibrate the altimeter Dustin had brought with him (a loaner from his roommate Jason). Great. So now we had little objective idea of how far we had actually progressed, only the indicators known by looking back at the lodge. I determined that we hadn’t climbed far at all—perhaps less than 3/4 of a mile, I reasoned.
Our hopes of reaching a decent altitude for an extended break before making the summit push were beginning to appear about as likely as one of us actually levitating on the way to the top. From the looks of the other climbers’ packs, we also hadn’t packed quite as lightly as we had initially thought, and I at least was beginning to regret bringing some of the extra food bags we had packed, as it was becoming clear that eating while climbing (and wearing ski gloves) was not exactly a simple proposition. But we continued to plod on. By this point my boots were starting to become rather painful—every step they felt as though they were cutting into my legs, and the plantar fasciitis I’ve been fighting for months in my right foot was becoming a problem also.
We consulted the map at several of our stops, each time concluding that we had traveled significantly less than it had seemed. We kept waiting the “hut” on the map that signaled we had ascended 1000 vertical feet, but it never seemed to come (I never saw it even on the way down). It was, of course, pitch black, and we couldn’t see beyond the range of our headlamps. So we remained convinced that, despite what our bodies were telling us, we hadn’t even climbed 1000 vertical feet. Dustin’s hamstrings were now starting to cramp, meaning an even slower climb and longer breaks. It was getting significantly steeper at this point. My boots were KILLING my lower legs and feet by this point. As slow as the climb was going (we hadn’t even yet climbed 1000 vertical feet yet, so we thought!), we were beginning to question whether we could make the summit. Dustin, knowing he was struggling at this point and that I was having a somewhat easier time, suggested that I just move ahead if I wanted to make the summit instead of waiting, to which I responded, “No, man, we came up here to climb this thing together; I don’t want to leave you behind.”
Another couple rookie Hood climbers caught up with us shortly after this point, with one of them having prior climbing experience elsewhere while the other was struggling to keep up. They climbed at about the same speed with us for quite a while; these guys already had their crampons fastened on their boots. After a while, the more experienced fellow began to put some distance between himself and his partner, who was a little behind me. The slower one told me that he didn’t think he’d make the summit but that his partner was going to try for it. At this point, I was further ahead of Dustin than I had been up to this point. The snowpack was also changing, getting firmer, slicker, and steeper. Soon I passed through what I later recognized as the end of the trail markers—I was now on Palmer Glacier.
Looking back, I now could barely see Dustin’s headlamp—I was at least 100 yards ahead of him, and he was moving slowly—his hamstrings were really taking a toll on him. At this point I had a decision to make: do I wait however long it’s going to take to let him catch up, or do I keep pushing in the hope of making the summit? Many factors went into my decision. Obviously, I didn’t want to leave him behind—as I had said earlier, I had come out to climb Hood together. That said, it didn’t look like we would make the summit at our current pace. If I pushed, perhaps he would be forced to push harder as well, just trailing back further. And if he couldn’t make it, maybe I could. After all, I had flown all the way out there and didn’t want to fall short simply because we were moving too slowly. And after all, he had already suggested I move ahead instead of waiting. I eventually decided to just keep climbing at my present pace rather than waiting for Dustin to catch up. (In hindsight, I should have waited at least long enough to let him know that I was going to move ahead; it wasn’t right to just bail on him without discussion. We figured that he ended up making it to somewhere around 8k before his hamstrings and the fact that I had bailed on him, forcing him to climb alone, caused him to give up the push.)
At this point I started climbing significantly faster. If I had been climbing around 15-20% capacity when climbing with Dustin, I was now climbing closer to 30%. It was now around 4 AM, and the earliest indications of sunrise were beginning to show. The other climbers’ lights were no longer visible. The footing eventually came to where I needed to use crampons—this was definitely glacier travel by this point, regardless of whether I had seen the hut or not. So I sat and put my crampons on, also taking the time to eat a bit and rehydrate.
By around 4:45, dawn was becoming more obvious, and the headlamp was becoming less necessary. At around this time, I noticed some other climbers (who were camped in a rock formation and had skis) beginning to move around ahead of me. As I got to their elevation, I moved towards their camp to ask whether they thought it still possible to reach the summit safely from that spot so late in the morning. The most experienced of the group answered with a laugh, saying that it most certainly was, that other climbers would be reaching that spot even later than I. They informed me that I was at 9200 feet (significantly higher than I had guessed—all my previous guesstimates had clearly been wrong throughout the climb) and that they were setting out within a few minutes. I was welcomed to follow them.
I stripped off some of the excess weight of my pack and left it in the rocks: no more need to carry the sleeping bag, bivy, trekking poles, etc. that were simply adding to the difficulty of the climb at this point. I would simply pick these up on my way down. I was now beginning to regret how Dustin and I had divided the packs as he had virtually all the safety elements (rope, GPS, altimeter, compass). By the time I had emptied my pack (and scanned the terrain below for any sign of Dustin following at a distance), they had climbed a good bit, so I set out to follow their tracks.
By this point, however, I was starting to suck air quite a bit. Ever since around 8500 feet, I had been having to take more regular rest breaks, and now I was taking eight or ten steps and stopping. I was simply trying to match pace (or slightly better) with the climbers I was following, who were doing essentially the same thing. By around 9600 feet, I was starting to stumble a bit; at one point I stumbled a bit to my left, with my feet crossing over one another, thinking, “Wow, I’m stumbling like a drunken fool at this altitude.” The fatigue of not having slept in about 20 hours was also starting to catch up with me.
Soon clouds began to roll in, with the winds picking up substantially. It was dawn, but the visibility was quite low as we were in the midst of white clouds and some blowing snow. The group I was following turned back. When they passed by me, they explained that they had made it to a little above 10k and decided that the conditions were too poor to continue. That said, they encouraged me that the weather just might break enough if I were patient that I could still have enough visibility to make it. The middle-aged gentleman that Dustin and I had first met in the climbing registration area also was making his descent from the summit shortly after I had met these climbers. I stopped him long enough to learn more about the conditions (and long enough to discover that he was in the process of writing the Mt Hood Climbers’ Guide) and to get his suggestion as to the best route to the summit once I got to the Hogsback.
Sure enough, the clouds eventually broke, and I continued to plod along. At this point, I was occasionally letting out a scream as the boots were excruciatingly painful. I was having to stop sometimes simply because it was too painful to take another step. Not wanting to turn back, I was sometimes crawling on my hands and knees, trying to travel as far as I could with as little strain (and as little pressure on my painful feet and ankles) as possible.
By around 9800 feet, human waste was everywhere. It was disgusting. Urine stains and small pits in the glacier where people had deposited feces (the little “pits” or depressions were obviously caused by the heat of the feces) were present every few steps.
I finally reached the “Devil’s Kitchen” around 7:15. This is a crater area on Mt Hood that is known for its many fumeroles, which release large amounts of sulfur dioxide and carbon dioxide.
I was, however, finally in view of the Hogsback formation, which is the gateway to the summit. Reaching the Hogsback meant that I was around 10,400 feet and within view of the summit.
After another half hour or so (having made a good bit of progress up the Hogsback toward the area everyone was traversing from), I received some advice from experienced descending climbers, who said it was still possible to climb, but that the footholds were getting a little mushier thanks to the sun getting higher. I decided to wait a little, gather as much strength as possible, and then make the push—as long as the footholds still looked good as the last group to ascend was descending. I took some of my best pictures from this spot—about 10,600 feet.
When watching the climbers descending, I began to notice more ice breaking off and rolling down the hill. At that point, Kari’s voice prevailed over that of my old coaches—better to return down the mountain than to die or get injured trying to reach the top. My pride said that I needed to make it. But I knew she’d actually be more proud that I was willing to turn back when it was the better choice. Disappointed and beaten, I began my descent, recruiting a fellow from the group ahead of me to take a picture of me on the Hogsback.
Once I got below smelling distance of the fumeroles, I laid in the snow for a good 15 minutes, eyes closed. Soon it felt as though I could breathe again. Shortly, I was glissading down the glacier (it’s sort of like sledding without a sled). There were little chutes in the glacier where many others had already glissaded down, and I followed those.
Unfortunately, I didn’t take exactly the same path down that I had up, so I couldn’t find the stuff I had unpacked and left in the rocks. It took another half an hour of ascending and descending before I finally located the right spot.
From this point it was simply more glissading and a lengthy trek down the trail to Dustin’s car (where he had been sleeping for about three hours waiting for me to make it down). I arrived at 12:30 PM, exhausted and drenched in sweat. Upon taking my boots off, it was clear that they had done some damage (two weeks later, my right big toe is still numb, though some feeling is finally returning).
Upon flying over Hood on my way back east, I took some pictures of the mountain; in this last picture of the summit, you can see the Hogsback and the very place I turned back.
In hindsight there are several things I/we would do differently. First of all, we over-packed, despite thinking we were packing light. We took about a liter too much water apiece (extra weight), and the trail mix/beef jerky combination was a poor choice for food. That stuff was frozen by the time I wanted to eat it. It would have been better to take carbohydrate “goo” packets—much lighter and more practical. Secondly, I would like to have been in shape; my lack of aerobic conditioning was definitely a factor (I think Dustin would agree on this with respect to him, too). Thirdly, the rental boots I got were unacceptable, making the climb a real pain and much more difficult. I would choose both different boots and different socks if at all possible.
Fourthly, we should have split the survival gear evenly between us, even if that meant he had to carry a little more of my gear for equal weight. Fifthly, I would have taken some anti-altitude-sickness pills because of the stress of going from sea level to 11k feet in only a few hours. I also would obviously change my decision to move on without Dustin without first notifying him of my choice. And finally, we were already relatively tired by the time we started the climb due to a lack of sleep and the general tumult of getting out there. As a result, all other factors were magnified. We needed to have gotten some sleep later in the day to prepare us for the lengthy climb without having had to be awake for so long.
Another possible option for a future climb (as Dustin commented afterwards) would be to climb to 9k feet and camp, gaining some acclimatization, before moving to the summit. I would still prefer trying to go straight from Timberline up, but this option would make success much more likely (if a bit more expensive due to needing more gear).
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