Alex on the approach.
Turns out there really is a trail, and a trailhead, although we didn't find it. There is a paved parking strip about a hundred yards long on the north side of highway 20, just below where Cutthroat Peak looms above you. You descend down off the road and somewhere around the middle of this parking strip the trail emerges, marked (today, anyhow) with a small rock cairn.
We didn't find it, though, and bushwhacked through the trees and over the creek. Alex was pretty disgusted, but he hasn't enjoyed the fruits of Whitehorse Peak, he has no idea what bushwhacking can be. Once out of the trees, after 20 minutes or so, we came upon the trail, which we followd up Cutthroat Basin, watching as it loomed up above us, bigger and bigger.
As we hiked up the trail, I puzzled over the contradiction that the basin reminded me so much of Boston Basin, while being so unlike it. It's much drier, less edenic, you can hear cars and trucks and look back and see the highway, but it does feel kind of similar. There are marmots, who are much more cautious than those in Boston Basin (while hiking in to do Forbidden, we passed within about five feet of a marmot who seemed completely disinclined to move) but there were little marmot trails in the grass, which I don't remember seeing in Boston Basin.
I've wanted to do the south buttress for quite a while, it's the obvious route. But it's a stiff 5.8, and involves route-finding and some poor pro, and Alex, who was battling a cold, convinced me to do the west ridge instead. In retrospect, it was the best decision, but at the time I was a bit disappointed.
The approach goes up the left side of the mountain, up tedious and frustrating scree and dirt, until finally you get up to the ridge. A bit like approaching the South Ridge of Ingalls Peak. After a break for a snack, Alex took the first lead, which I could have been talked into doing unroped, but the loose rock made the rope appreciated.
The route is pretty direct, the rock is pretty crappy, crumbly and insecure. Another unpleasant surprise was the frequent swarms of flying ants at a number of the spots you'd like to linger at -- like the summit. This was a first for me.
This climb was unusual for me, in that it was probably the first climb I've done where the route was not obvious from following footprints or other traces -- on Mt Stuart, for instance, you can easily see the route on the North Ridge, and the descent route down Cascadia Couloir, by the lack of the black lichen, scraped away by previous climbers. There were a couple of spots where this was a clue, but not many.
So, when we got to the base of the summit tower, we had two choices -- take the 'west ridge direct' route, which is 5.6 or so, and which the first summit party took, or the easier route around the southwest, which is a class 4 climb. The direct route has a chimney as its crux, and so after my humiliation yesterday, I felt like I had to at least give it a shot. The first look at the route really stimulated me -- it looked like Stuart granite, as firm and climbable as the rest of the route was crumbly and frustrating.
With the book in my pack but having read through the route description carefully half a dozen times, I proceeded the wrong direction, heading straight to the base of the wall about 20 feet below the chimney, and attempting to climb it. There were a few times I thought I could just about make it up there, given one more handhold or a bit better angle, but the rock was so scarey and crumbly that, protected only with a very small nut in not-very-firm rock, I finally gave up. Came back to where Alex was belaying me and we followed the proper route, around behind the ridge, and up to a good belay station (getting a clear view of the quite-direct sw ridge route) and I headed over.
No problems up to the base of the chimney, but I struggled, whimpered, and thrashed, trying to make it up the chimmey. Stronger forearms and hands, and I might have been able to pull myself up over the chockstone, distressingly like the chockstone I'd sworn at yesterday, and was at the cusp of giving up, when I figured out I could actually climb it like a chimney -- like the illustrations I've seen but never been able to try. My back and one foot against one wall, the other foot braced against the opposite wall, and just like they say, I was able to make slow but secure progress. Best of all, I was usng technique and legs rather than my pathetic arms, to climb.
7800' up on an alpine climb is a hell of a place to learn stemming, but I made it up, and was just totally happy with myself. I got to the rap anchor above the chimney and brought Alex up. It was a perfect belay spot -- right next to the slings was a flat rock exactly the dimentions of a living room footstool, ideal for comfortably sitting and belaying. We got to the summit without too much more trouble, except for the flying ants up around the summit.
I'd read a trip report of Triumph, our original destination, the previous week, which said that there was no summit register up there, so I'd picked up a summit register from the Mountaineers, and bought PVC piping to make a register tube and then, since it was black, painted "Summit Register" in white paint with a q-tip. Looked pretty pathetic, but I was ready. So I hauled it along up Cutthroat, and placed it there, and Alex and I got the honor of first signatures.
There were several forest fires burning over to the east and north, and enough haze that photo opportunities were not great, but we took a few, and took pictures of a forest fire smoke cloud that looked more like a volcano cloud, and then headed down.
A forest fire cloud. This was to the northeast, maybe as far north as Canada.
Monkey and I at the summit, another forest fire smoke cloud in the background.
It was a hot day, and I'd been drinking my water as sparingly as possible, and worrying about how much further I had to go. On the descent, I realized I had an entire bottle of Gatorade in my pack, and so I pulled it out and drank about half of it in one sitting. It helped enormously -- I was a bit dehydrated from yesterday, so I was starting a bit behind as it was.
We rapelled down the mountain, from one rap station to the next, and even belayed the more horizontal bits, both because the rock was so crumbly and covered with sand, like walking on cornmeal, and partly because Alex was feeling increasingly under the weather.
Off the mountain, we slid down the dirt, like plunge-stepping down snow, following the contour of the scree bowl to the left, rapelling where we could off trees (remarkably, the first two trees we chose had old rap slings on them. One we used, the other we didn't.) It felt like it took longer to get off the mountain and down to the trail, which we could see down below in the grass (we could see Alex's car, too, off in the distance by the highway, which was even more tantalizing.) I don't like descending anyhow, and I don't like scree, and when I'm tired and thirsty (the Gatorade long gone) it's even worse.
Once down in the grass, we followed along the trail. There was a couple over across the creek, camping, and it did look quite idyllic to me, not quite Boston Basin but still a nice, peaceful place to hang out. Clearly they were the only ones in a couple of miles (at least, after we left!)
Down, down, ever downward, past a marmot lying out on his rock, the highway seeming as far below us as ever, finally down out of the trees to the meadow (a bog, I expect, in the spring) and through the trees as the light was fading and I was beginning to rue leaving my headlamp in the car.
This isn't a climb I'd especially recommend, because I really detest slogging up through the scree and dirt, and detest even more slogging down through it. Just to the west is The Molar, which would look quite intriguing if it weren't guarded even more effectively by the scree slopes. Perhaps if it was covered with snow, it'd be more appealing; this might be a good May-June climb.
Equipment notes: Bug repellant is essential!