Sierra Solo pt. 2: Tenaya-Matthes-Cathedral Linkup

The morning after climbing Conness I took my time... eating, napping, eating, walking around, drinking water, drinking more water, using the out house, staring at the mountains. Conness already felt like an easy climb, amazing but fairly boring too, and I was ready for something more. I drove into the park around noon and headed to the Tuolumne Visitor Center. I badgered a poor volunteer with questions, made a couple phone calls, then headed to Lembert Dome. I couldn't resist and scrambled up the NW Corner route before getting promptly lost, sliding down some moss covered slab, and eventually walking the un-enjoyable road back to the car where I traded running shoes for Chacos and a good book and walked over to the river for a couple hours.

That night I dirt-bagged in the back of my car after a big dinner of potatoes and chilli. In the morning I drove to Tenaya Lake and B-lined from the car to the base of Tenaya Peak, a big buttress behind the lake. An intermittent climber's trail gave way to wet slabs, then dry slabs, then easy climbing. I romped up the buttress making terrible time. The problem with climbing in the Sierra is that every time you glance over your shoulder you waste about ten minutes staring and drooling out of your slack jaw. At least I was enjoying myself. About 1:45 after leaving the car I had climbed some 5.6 or 5.7ish lichen covered crack up the final headwall and scrambled over to the summit.

Tenaya Lake from low on the NW Buttress

Looking up the route from where the real climbing starts. "Real climbing" being a relative term on this route.

Looking to the NE at Tuolumne Meadows and the mountains beyond. Sawtooth Ridge is just left of the prominent pass on the horizon.

Looking down on Tenaya Lake from a snowy ledge... it's always nice to get above something like this.

Looking down at the Valley past Half Dome and Mt. Watkins with Cloud's Rest just out of view on the left.

Looking back down the NW Buttress onto Tenaya Lake from the summit.

Another shot of Tuolumne, this time from the summit. You can see Mt. Conness (right most peak on the horizon).

In the distance ahead I could see the dark outline of the Matthes Crest and off to my left the tip of Cathedral Peak nosed over a ridge. A fun little Mountain Project route page under Tenaya Peak had suggested that you use the NW Buttress of Tenaya Peak (which I had just climbed) to access the famous Matthes Crest Traverse (South to North) and then tag the classic SE Buttress on Cathedral Peak during the stroll back to the car. I had never climbed or even been to this area before. I had done some research before hand, however, and decided it was doable. Now I was on the ground and in position, I just had to go and see what the day had in store. That, and try not to waste all the daylight taking pictures.

The imposing fin that is the Matthes Crest. The traverse goes from right to left (S-N) and follows the skyline practically the whole way.

Cathedral Peak from the walk to Matthes. The SE Buttress follows the right hand skyline.

I walk/jogged across the basin behind Tenaya, eating and drinking while I moved. Then I dropped down into the deeper valley west of the Matthes Crest. I tried to keep my breathing in check, moving fast without blowing my load early. From the valley I side-hilled and scrambled over to the base of Matthes. An hour after leaving the summit of Tenaya I was looking up at the first couple pitches. I ate some trail mix and and started up the golden, knob-covered fins.

Golden knob climbing craziness on the first two pitches of Matthes Crest.

The climbing was easy with some minor route finding. The only problem was the grit. Little pieces of decomposed granite sand made a slick coating on some of the knobs and I meticulously brushed them off before using each one. Traversing out left to avoid a steeper section I placed my left foot on a knob. I felt the grit grind beneath my rubber. I started to grind to the side, trying to get the grit off, but the sensation continued. I changed the angle of my shoe and suddenly the knob rolled under my foot. I lifted it away and listened to the former knob bounce down the face. What happened to high quality Sierra granite? Suddenly I felt like I was climbing at Smith Rock... choss and chicken heads! I traverse back right looking for solid knobs, if I could find good rock and get up on the ridge top I would be fine. I saw a solid knob, it looked solid anyway. I reached out to grab it with my right hand... pop! That knob bounced down the face too. "What the fuck?!" I thought. Here I was in Yosemite National Park, on one of the most classic, most famous routes. Every hand and every foot was on these beautiful granite nubbins and they were just rolling out of their sockets like it was free gumball day at Chuck-e-Cheese! I want a refund! This play-place is not safe! Then I remembered, "Oh yeah, this is climbing. You could die. You knew that when you came up here and you came anyway. This is your choice, deal with it." It let my anger trickle out, just enough, focusing my attention. I tested the next knob. It held. I slowly oozed my weight onto it. One knob at a time, then a crack between fins. A shitty hand jam, then the edge of a fin, then a leveling. The ridge crest. My body let out a little shiver. I twisted my neck like a turtle trying to hide in a shell I didn't have.

The view from (relatively) level ground.

I stood there for a few minutes, numbly snapping pictures. "Why not? I'm here right. Might as well take a few photos." I thought about the climbing. Easy, yes. Fun? Not really. Why was I here? I had forgotten. I looked forward along the ridge. It was easy climbing. I thought about descent; there was probably more rap tat further down the ridge, so I continued. Then the climbing was easy, suddenly fun and not even exposed as I walked between large fins. The rock was obviously improving. I thought there must be a reason this route is so highly regarded so I decided to continue as long as I felt like it. Soon after, easy down climbing led to a ledge traverse. On the balls of my feet I scooted along with my arms over my head and a few hundred feet of air beneath me. My stomach clenched but I looked down anyway, comfortable but uncomfortable. The broken knobs weren't forgotten but neither was my enjoyment.

Looking along the ridge at easy ledge scrambling.

I continued along the ridge and nothing was as hard as it looked. It was like the rock version of Casaval Ridge on Shasta, just real climbing instead. I was finding the easy gaps through intimidating rocks in a fun exploration that seemed like it was part of a planned maze, each new space revealing itself to me as I moved. I passed over two other guys rapping off before the South Summit. They said it looked too sketchy, but I was just hitting my stride and their lack of confidence buoyed me up. I knew exactly what I could and couldn't do. Minutes later I stood on the South Summit.

The next tower looks hard but when you get on it, it's easy, not to mention fun.

Looking at the North Summit from the South Summit... at least there are lots of options.

The direct down climb to the notch below the North Summit is called 5.7. I guess I do a lot of down climbing practice but it felt easy to me. I saw it and knew it would go. From the notch I mantled onto a sandy ledge. I looked around before finding the start of the left-leaning diagonal crack (it was behind me), that is the "crux" of the route. I looked at the crack for a minute before finally breaking out my rock shoes for the first time that day. The feet are not good and the moves are strenuous for 5.7 but luckily this part is short and the best quality rock on the route. A mere ten feet later I pulled onto a ledge and scrambled the easy remainder to the North Summit.

Looking back along the Matthes Crest from the North Summit.

I gave a whoop and and took some photos before heading over to look at the down climb. This next section was rated 5.8 but after the last down climb off the South Summit I felt it might be doable. I went down to a rusty piton/bolt stance and considered using it but instead continued. I laybacked off a hand jam (strenuous), and dropped down to a notch. One more committing step-across and that was it, I was done. I started up the next tower but suddenly felt unmotivated and tired of the ridge. I went back to the notch and looked down the west face. I saw some rap tat and easy slabs so I headed down there. I got to the tat and found it to be sun bleached on a hollow flake. I looked down again and made a poor decision... to down climb the rest of the slab. It took me 45 minutes to slowly move down 200 feet of rock. The flakes were thin, hollow, and some moved. The slab was grit covered and decomposing. It reminded me of rolling nubbins. I got to the bottom feeling less-than-stoked about the "classic" Matthes Crest. It was good, bad and everything in between.

Looking back up at the chossy down climb section.

Looking back south at Matthes Crest before I drop down to Budd Lake.

I knew I needed water and a look at the topo map showed the fastest way to Budd Lake was around the right side of Echo Ridge. Unfortunately, not being familiar with the area bit me in the butt and some sketchy glisading followed by wet-slab down climbing got me to Budd Lake later than anticipated. Having seen the north side of Echo Ridge now I would instead go over the high saddle between Echo Peaks and Peak 11,168 (USGS topo).

Looking back up at the convoluted terrain I had to come down to reach Budd Lake.

Budd Lake and Cathedral Peak... time for a drink.

At Budd Lake I looked up at Cathedral's SE Buttress, now imposing and dark in afternoon shade. I considered just heading back to the car but then ran into some National Park Service scientists on the far side of the lake fixing a fishing net. A girl in the group asked if I'd just done Matthes. We got talking and she told me she had already done Cathedral and reassured me that the rock was excellent and the climbing phenomenal. I headed over to at least take a look. Two parties were just retrieving their packs at the base and one of their number was kind enough to show me a topo. I waited til they left, ate a sandwich and put on my rock shoes. It was 5pm. I started climbing, traversing around to find the ideal route up the slab. By the time I passed the belay ledge at the top of pitch two I was absorbed. This was by far the most fun and interesting climbing of the day. I even followed the NPS lady's recommendation and climbed in the chimney despite having a pack on. I topped out on the summit less than an hour later, took some photos, down climbed, scrambled and B-lined for Cathedral Lakes.

Looking up at the SE Buttress of Cathedral Peak.

Relaxing on the ledge right after the chimney pitch. My socks portray a stick figure farting with the words "powered by burritos." Thanks for those TJ, they are pretty awesome!

Looking back on Budd Lake from the summit of Cathedral Peak. The peak's shadow is visible in the lower left.

Looking SW over Eichorn Pinnacle and the Catherdal Lakes from the summit of Cathedral Peak. My car is in the valley yonder and I need to get hiking.

I was elated and so pleased that I had topped my day with this perfect climb. I walk-jogged to the right of Cathedral Lakes in the setting sun and headed down smooth slabs next to cascades of water. I ran through the twilight forest singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman at the top of my lungs to scare away any bears. I hopped the creek and was back at my car at 8:01pm, having left at 9:06am. Almost 11 hours on the go and I even had time to take some pictures! It felt like Christmas, only better.

Looking back up at Tenaya Peak's NW Buttress, my first climb of the day, now illuminated by the setting sun as I run towards the car.

Back at the car and a little out of it. I guess I forgot to smile despite a sense of deep satisfaction.

Sierra Solo part 1: Conness, West Ridge

I grew up on the east side of the Sierra Nevada mountain range with parents who valued outdoor activity. It's no surprise then, that when I think of summer I remember hiking up through endless glades of aspen, refreshing plunges into clear alpine lakes, and scrambling around on flawless granite under a perfect blue sky. While I love the Northwest, I often find it lacking in this particular flavor of mountain environment.

Desolation Wilderness, one of those places I grew up exploring.

Still, I am an alpinist, drawn to big icy walls and self-knowledge derived from suffering. With a week-long chunk of time in June I was set on going north to Washington, but after a winter of climbing on Oregon's volcanoes my initial plan looked less and less appealing. After looking at side-by-side weather reports for the High Sierra and the North Cascades I could no longer deny the logic or the allure. I gave into my childhood memories. I was going home.

Sawtooth Ridge, the northernmost part of the High Sierra and possibly my favorite part of the range.

I finished work on Thursday and packed the car that night. I awoke and drove. Dad's house for dinner: ribs. I slept like the dead. Was I too tired? Was my body ready? Should I have waited? Rested? Too late...

The next morning my dad and I drove down 395 to Tioga Pass. We found a campsite and then drove into Yosemite National Park. We arrived at the May Lake Trailhead and leisurely strolled up Mt. Hoffman. I took the binoculars and we discussed my plans while I trained my sights on Mt. Conness. I felt both lucky and burdened by my father's support and acceptance. Sometimes you just want to tell everyone to screw off before a big climb, especially a solo. But I also believe that the only way for me to do this sustainably is in balance with the rest of my life. For me that means I need to accept my relationships into my psyche when climbing, not push them away. If I can't achieve inner peace with my whole self while climbing then the experience will be worthless in the end.

Mt. Conness from the summit of Cathedral Peak two days later. The West Ridge is on the left, following the edge of the shaded face.

My dad and I hiking into the Conness Lakes Basin.

The next morning we drove to the Saddlebag Lake Trailhead and hiked around the lake. We started heading up into the Conness Lakes basin before stopping for a snack. I said good-bye to my dad and started a brisk pace up to North Peak Pass. This pass is given a class 2 rating in the Secor Guide but this requires a careful traverse of steep talus from the east. Instead I went the other way around a small tarn and across the glacial moraine before scrambling up a cliff face. This was definitely a pitch of 5th class. I followed slab up a corner until it blanked out and then traversed out a horizontal crack to blocky arete. A high-step foot jam with significant exposure led to easier, albeit vegetated climbing. I then dropped down to Roosevelt Lake and walked around to the base of the West Ridge.

North Peak Pass, it's not class 2 from this angle.

The base of the West Ridge on Conness. Can you see the two climbers on the face?

A party of two was already on route so I took my time going over my gear and hastily ate a sandwich before starting upwards. The first two pitches involve easy "laybacks" on high friction slab. I passed the two guys as the second prepared to follow pitch two. After that the climbing eases considerably while still staying fun and exciting. I took my time and enjoyed the spectacular views of Tuolumne and the surrounding peaks. I had slept poorly the night before since it had been my first at higher altitude and was in no rush. I reached the summit just after 3 pm, a little over 6 hours after leaving the car. I took plenty of photos and sent text messages (atrocious I know) to a few people, letting them know I had safely completed the "technical" section. I then hiked down the East Ridge back to Greenstone Lake, which involved some soft sun-cupped snow, and made my feet pretty wet in their guide tennies.

Looking up at pitch 2 of the West Ridge route as I prepare to pass the party of two.

Looking up at the upper portion of the West Ridge.

Looking down into Tuolumne Meadows and Yosemite Valley.

Summit selfie!

Looking down to the north at the Conness Lakes Basin that I had hiked through earlier in the day.

The huge SW Face with the West Ridge behind it.

I was on the go for just under nine hours, a little more than expected and I felt dead tired. I ate as much as I could and passed out in the back of my truck. I slept heavily for over ten hours and woke up feeling great. Time for a rest day and then on to the next objective!

Training for my New... Whatever-I-Want

Before I started climbing I had spent over a decade of my life training for distance running, races ranging anywhere from 2 to more than 30 minutes. During that period I also studied human physiology at university. As a result, the method and science of how you train is more than just a passing interest for me.

When Steve House and Scott Johnston came out with their book, Training for the New Alpinism, I immediately got a copy and read it cover to cover. At this point if you're interested in such things you've probably already flicked through it yourself. There have been plenty of positive reviews so I'm not going to review it here (though it is the best book I've read on the subject, and I've read every single text that they reference and then some). Instead I'm going to briefly discuss how I used their expertise to create my own training, which is essentially why they wrote the volume. So, here after I will assume that you are familiar with Training for the New Alpinism or are at least familiar with endurance and strength training concepts.

Since starting climbing my training has definitely been a little ad hoc, though somewhat consistent. I had a list of workouts that I felt I should be doing and I tried to do each one once a week. The list included endurance laps at the gym, climbing outside, hill running, general strength maintenance exercises, etc. I would then try to get out in the mountains to tick off objectives whenever the conditions were good and I had time. I kept a training log during this time, mainly because it helped me stay consistent, but I rarely reviewed it. After reading Training I went through my log and tallied my weekly volume, something I haven't done in a few years. I immediately noticed that my random mountain adventures were making my volume very inconsistent. A weekend climb tagged on the end of a week of training would double or triple my volume. I would then be so run down the next week that I would be forced to miss a lot of training. As a result I started to plan ahead so that things evened out and my body didn't get over-stressed.

The next thing I did was to go through all the exercises in the book, I took a week to teach myself some new tricks and assess my over-all strength. I then assumed that my regular regimen was a more than sufficient Transition Period and started the Max Strength Base Period recommended in the book. I selected to use hill sprints and pullups once per week, and squat hops and pullups for my second workout. I also decided to forgo any Zone 3 (threshold) workouts and crag an extra day instead. This is against the advice of the authors but they were writing for an experienced climbing audience. I've only been climbing for two years but I've probably averaged at least one threshold workout a week for the last 13 years. Do the math, I can benefit way more from working my way through new movements on another 5.10 than I can from doing the 763rd 60 min threshold run of my life.

I did this base period for eight weeks, slowly building my volume. That just finished and now I am doing three weeks of Muscular Endurance Base (gym laps with weighted pack and boots, and ski touring with a weighted pack). My goal is a week of productive moderate alpine solo climbing in mid-late June. I will rest one week after my shortened Muscular Endurance Period before starting the trip. 

My last week of Max Strength finished with a squat/pullup workout Friday, a 20 mile run Saturday, and then Sunday I exceeded my weekly volume by hiking up to the Trout Creek cliffs and climbing Goldrush. This is a sustained 5.10- hand crack, capped with an overhang that I struggled to climb six months ago, but now feels quite easy. I guess that's progress for you.

This past week I climbed for 41 min in the gym without coming off the wall while wearing a 30+ pound pack and some Nepal Evo leather mountaineering boots. Saturday I was hoping to get in an easy two hour workout skiing up Mt. Bachelor with a pack weighted with extra water bottles. Instead I got to the summit (~2,500 ft of gain) in 68 minutes and it felt like the easiest thing I'd done all week. So instead of taking Sunday off, as planned, I went multi-pitch climbing. This week is my last week of hard training, but honestly I'm so excited for a week in the mountains that it's hard to not start packing the car already... at least I know that my patience is paying off.

Sisters and Broken Top from the summit of Bachelor.

Tumalo and Bend from the summit of Bachelor.

Myself, confused by how I got here so quickly. Obviously cotton t-shirts count as high performance apparel.

Absolute Certainty on North Sister

Two summers ago I had just started really climbing (rock climbing and pursuing goals on alpine peaks). My friend Mike and I went up to try climb Middle and North Sister in a day during late summer. We started with North and got sketched out by all the loose rock. Looking towards the summit pinnacle we decided that it was probably too dangerous and turned around without even getting a closer look. I learned an important lesson in climbing from that outing: don't turn around until you have checked all possibilities and verified (with your face an inch from the rock or ice) that there is no way the route will go, or go safely in your chosen style. Based on my limited experience as a beginner in this sport, I would say this perseverance is what most often separates success from failure.

Since that trip with Mike I had not attempted North again. I knew that I could easily climb it in summer if I wanted to, but I have high standards in rock quality for an Oregonian (mainly that it be solid and support my weight over 90% of the time). As a result I was set on climbing it in winter conditions when I could climb ice and snow instead of rock. This means a long approach most of the year and so I put it off (next month, next year, etc.). However, if you try hard enough, you eventually run out of excuses...

I knew I had the weekend free. A friend suggested North Sister. I said yes. The friend bailed, but I was already psyched (impending storms just make sends more epic so screw it). I called another friend. He was already planning on going with his wife, did I want to tag along? Well, ideally I'd be climbing WI4+ runnels on my way to a direct new route up the East Buttress, but this is Oregon. Temps had been high and not cooled down yet. A storm was rolling in that night. I guess I could compromise my lofty ideals (read bloated ego) to climb an "easy" route.

Pole Creek Trailhead... yay for carrying skis on your back!

The East Buttress and SE Face of North Sister on the approach.

Anyway, that's pretty much the back story to meeting Travis and Bethany in Sisters at 5am and driving out to the Pole Creek Trailhead. We brought the skis and had hoped to skin from the car, but like I said earlier, this is Oregon. We hauled our skis on too-small packs (super jengis) to the Green Lakes Trail. At this point Bethany turned back (she started getting sick the night before and pretty much looked like an unearthed corpse). Travis and I showed her our sympathy by making her carry all the extra gear back to the car. We then powered up to North Sister on our skins super fast, kind of... actually pretty relaxed. We hit massive wind blasting down valley to meet us and watched clouds doing roller coaster loop-de-loops over the summit. To the south all the other mountains were hidden in clouds and appeared to be getting rained on. At this point I was just hoping to get some mileage in on the skis and scope routes for another time, BUT I don't turn back until I am absolutely 100% sure something is a bad idea.

So we started up the snow field to gain the South Ridge. I made the mistake of skinning and almost lost it in the "V of Death" when a 40mph gust ripped down hill. Travis made the mistake of not skinning and post holed to his waist in mashed potato snow for several hundred feet. Eventually we reached the ridge in deteriorating visibility and winds that prevented verbal communication, BUT I did not turn back because I had to be 100% certain that this was a bad idea.

Looking towards the summit as we climb sun baked snow to the ridge top.

We slogged along the ridge, and looked at the rimed up summit pinnacle that was going in and out of cloud. It seemed that the storm on the west side of the ridge fought with desert heat on the east side. One minute the clouds would roll back and we'd pass behind some rocky ledge to block the wind. I'd rip off my hood and shell as my body soaked itself in sweat and my face turned the color of strawberries in the sun. Within five minutes the clouds would roll back over the ridge. Wind would blast spindrift down my neck, my beard would ice up and my nose would go numb. This continued with the sunny intervals growing shorter, BUT we figured we might as well go all the way to the summit pinnacle because we should just make sure that this was not going to work no matter what.

Travis on the ridge after climbing over the gendarme behind him.

Travis is psyched... I forget why.

At the base of the summit pinnacle, sheltered behind some rocks, we figured we might as well start the traverse to the gully that gains the summit. We ate, drank, zipped everything tight, put on our goggles and moved around the corner into the freezing intestinal fury of a hundred angels breaking wind in our precise direction. We started the traverse, and realizing the wind wasn't so bad off the ridge crest, kept going. We climbed up through the gully on some fun, solid rime ice and reached a "safe zone" (read small nook in the ice where the wind was somewhat abated). We made sure our cameras were easily accessible because every good climber knows that if you don't have a summit selfie to post online then your climb doesn't count. Then we dashed to the summit as the clouds broke to reveal blue sky above. I snapped some photos and then we down climbed everything really fast to prevent excessive spindrift getting blown up our noses (I'm pretty sure I could sneeze out a snow cone right now). We got back on the ridge as the visibility finally went to shit for the last time and slogged down the now even wetter, softer snow to our skis. We skied some uber slushy corn as far down as we could and eventually found the trail. It started to mist rain as we hiked down the last mile in our ski boots, and looking back the entire mountain was engulfed in black cloud.

Looking up at the summit pinnacle during the "Terrible Traverse"

Travis on the "Terrible Traverse"

This photo is oriented as accurately as possible, the rime ice and snow is completely vertical.

Travis exits the "Bowling Alley" gully on our way up the summit pinnacle.

Travis on the left, nearing the true summit.

Travis closing in... will he make it?

A crazy wind gust knocks him off his feet!

But he sticks the move and finishes with a piolet flourish... such style!

Summit selfie... because we were there and now I can prove it on the internets!

So, there you have it, the story of my years-long quest to climb this epic mountain. My exploits of death-defying bravery and unparalleled athleticism and, I'm joking. Seriously though, it was actually a pretty fun climb... BUT lets remember the lesson to be learned here: that we wouldn't have gotten up any of it if we hadn't persevered in becoming absolutely 100% certain that it was in fact quite doable and entirely possible. I guess that's plus one for hubris.

Travis descends from the summit with blue skies above.

Back on the glacial moraine and now the whole mountain is socked in by the storm.

Hood's Nordwand

It seems like the North Face on Mt. Hood, especially the Right Gully, is considered an excellent route and I had built it up in my head as a big deal. My logical side had quickly realized that it was well within my limits but I had stared at pretty pictures of the face for too long and it had started to become more dream than reality. I assumed it would get done "one day," after all those other climbs I wanted to do. However, things aligned more quickly than I suspected. A friend decked soloing, making me less likely to climb alone, and the obscure nature of other routes made partners hard to find. So I made the North Face a priority and ended up hiking out of the Tilly Jane Trail Head with Travis on the first sunny and free weekend I'd had in a while.

Travis setting up the tent with the North Face of Hood in the background.

Looking up the Cooper Spur with the Eliot Glacier and Hood on the right.

A room with a view... to pee now or pee later, that is the question.

We hiked up to the Tilly Jane cabin and on to Cooper Spur before making camp on some exposed rocks. We brewed up, ate dinner, relieved ourselves among the boulders and stunted trees, and went to bed with warm water bottles between our feet. We awoke at 3am and brewed up again while snacking and getting dressed. Started hiking out onto the Eliot Glacier at 4am as a party of three crossed over to try Sunshine or some other route in that vicinity. We skirted the Eliot's crevasses on the left and got buffeted by wind coming down the mountain as we neared the face. Climbing too high, too early we ended up on snow ramps left of the Left Gully and had to down climb over the schrund and traverse past a rock rib and over to the start of our route.

Hood's North Face (taken that afternoon): our approach in green, the route in red, steps in blue boxes.

Travis approaches the first step (water ice) with the Eliot Glacier below.

We racked up inside the schrund as the sun started to rise. I lead over a precarious looking (but actually quite stable) ice block to reach the entrance to the gully and the base of the first step. Travis then lead up step one on solid, slabby ice. He made quick work of it, placing two bomber screws. He then did the grunt work, hauling the rope and breaking trail, as we simuled up the middle snow gully. This is the longest section of the route and had the most rock fall as the gully turns beneath a shattered rock rib.

Travis kicking his way up the middle section of the gully towards the second step.

Looking down on the Eliot Glacier from halfway up the face.

Bomber anchor below the second step.

At the base of the second step I racked the only rock pro (tricams) and considered the completely bare rock. I tried a direct line but down climbed from before the mossy crux when I saw that there was no pro. I then went left up some slabs, placing three solid pieces and pulling a bulge at the top. After that I lead as we simuled straight up (right of the rock headwall) and pulled right onto the summit (no cornice!) to the surprise of several other climbers.

Looking up at the second step. I tried the direct line up with the moss and snow, but ended up going out left.

Travis, happy to be past the second step.

Pockets galore on this tower. Sport climbing at 11,000 ft anyone? Where's a bolt kit when you need it?

Looking out to the East. Cooper Spur is the snow ridge below.

Travis approaches the summit of Mt. Hood.

We chatted with other climbers on the summit, including two who had just had a full-on experience climbing the Sandy Headwall in high winds and constant ice fall. Everyone on the South and West side routes spoke of crazy wind. It was hard to imagine this having been warm in the sheltered and slightly East facing gully all morning. We then headed down Cooper Spur and got blasted by said winds while back-daggering the first thousand feet. Once below the shoulder on Cooper it cut out and was nice and warm. We sped down to the flat section and quickly stripped off our shells before slogging back along the ridge to camp. We snapped photos of the face, packed up camp and hiked out fairly fast. We were back at the car by 2:30, washed the mud off our boots in the creek and drove straight home.

Travis and I on the summit. Perfect weather with Mt. St. Helens behind Travis' leg and Rainier on the right.

Travis descending Cooper Spur. The North Face is on the right and the Black Spider is the wall on the left.

Travis rests his feet and repacks before hiking out to the car. Eliot Glacier and the North Face of Hood in the background.

The whole route was a blast and I understand why people speak so highly of it, but it was definitely shorter and less involved than I had imagined. Certainly we had excellent conditions, except for mixed climbing on the second step, but if not for the exciting mixed section I would have been disappointed by how easy the route was. I will certainly return to the Eliot Glacier and the North Face of Hood again. It is absolutely beautiful with ice cragging, alpine routes, and ski touring (plus a fricking hut to stay in!!!) that make it very appealing. Cooper Spur would make a phenomenal ski descent and it would be fun to attempt a link-up of both gullies in good conditions or climb something on the Black Spider.