Big 4
Sunday, Mar 26, 1995. Solo

This was my third attempt on the dry creek route on Big 4; the first try was in July, and I followed Beckey’s book, and I got stuck in the swamps of despair; the second was in the fall, and I hiked in along the ice cave trail, but lost heart in bushwhacking around the left flank of the mountain. At that point, it seemed like a winter ascent made sense.

I got to Big 4 about 9:30 or so; mine was the first car there. Along the road I did pass a couple of people doing tripod photography of roadside waterfalls.

Big four from the road

It took a good hour and a half to cross overland to the "avalanche graveyard" at the base of the east face. It was a good deal colder than last weekend, and so the snow was harder, however, it was brilliant sunlight and I was a little nervous about my lack of sunscreen, so I kept my hat on and tried to keep in the shade.

I piddled around a little until I found the couloir on the right that Beckey says to climb up, and followed it up, tromping on the avalanche debris, listening carefully for sounds of an avalanche.

View down the first couloir. Note the trees scarred from avalanches.

Partway up, the route calls for traversing across the bowl. This was a long, slow trek, since even though the sun was behind the mountain now, the snow was soft. At this altitude, the snow was a deep powder, not very sticky at all, and I sank down thigh deep with every step. About halfway across, I checked my watch and saw that it was about 1:45, and I decided that if I wasn't across by 2:00, I'd abandon my attempt.

I finally made it to the other side of the bowl and began ascending again about 2:20 or so. I was beginning to feel a little tired, and wondering about turning around, but it seemed like there was still plenty of time to turn around and make it home in plenty of time.

Looking north to Twin Peaks.

As I climbed, the couloir narrowed into an ice chute, at time so hard that my ice axe went in half an inch, and my crampon points didn't fully bury themselves. The crampons work fabulously, though, I can put them on one-handed, and there was never a hit of a slip. I managed to bruise up my knuckles a little from the improper way I was holding the ice axe. It was a gas; I'd never front-pointed before, and I was glad to see that it seemed so straightforward.

As I climbed, there were occasional showers of pea-sized iceballs. It wasn't until the descent that I realized that these were different only in size and not in nature from the snow-and-ice balls strewn around, which varied up to a couple of feet across, though most seemed to be baseball to softball range.

Looking up the left couloir.

As I approached the top of the ice couloir, I kept thinking about turning back. It would be prudent, I was getting tired, I'd gotten most of the way up, I turned around an hour from the summit of White Horse and lived to tell about it... but I kept climbing. It was as though there were two of me, the actor and the policy maker, and until the policy maker told the actor to turn around, he was going to slog on.

Finally, at 4:30 I stood in the sun on the summit. The top of Big four looks like a fist with an array of knuckles, and I assume I was on the summit, although the next knuckle down seemed a little higher, because I found the summit book here, buried in rocks and almost covered by snow. I took a few photos and changed film, signed my name, ate my last bagel and half my apple (I couldn't finish it) and headed back down, a little spooked by the time.

The endangered summit book. Catch and release, please!

Looking down on Copper lake, to the south

The downclimbing was not much faster than the ascent. I couldn't glissade, clearly, down the ice chute, so I went down just as fast as I could. It turns out that it's a bit easier to front-point down, because you can use the toe-holes as handholds for your non-axe hand.

Eventually I got to where I could glissade, and went down pretty fast, stopping a couple of times for photos. It felt good to drop down, loosing altitude quickly. Unfortunately I glissaded too far. I was counting on following my tracks back across on the traverse, and kept watching for my footprints, but they were so faint in the hard snow that I missed them entirely, and by the time I decided to start the traverse, I saw my previous traverse, 100 yards above me. At that point I decided I just had to take off, it would be too much work to climb back up to my tracks. It was a little firmer now, having been out of the sun for a few hours, but the going was still pretty slow. I looked over at White Chuck mountain and saw it red in the sunset and I knew: I was going to be out after dark.

I started talking to myself, telling myself to keep calm, don't sweat it, one foot in front of the other, every step you take is a step closer to the car, just a few minutes and you'll be at the other couloir where you can glissade down and save an hour...

Once I got to the couloir, I was able to glissade about halfway down, before the angle flattened out. I saw my footprints heading off the to right and I thought: okay, here's where a save 20 minutes, and I kept going straight down the couloir. Except that it ended up on a waterfall, about 50 feet up. There was no way I could see to get down. I was going to have to turn around and head back up and follow my footprints again.

I got to the avalanche debris in the last waning of the light. I had brought my headlamp, stoked with rechargables, and I worried about how long they'd last, after the Rainier experience two years ago. So, I went as long as I could without using the light.

Here (for a change) I reaped the rewards of thorough reconnaissance. This was the third time I'd been out here - the second time in a week, and I was familiar with how long it would take and generally what the terrain would be like. Also the snow helped immensely.

I worried a lot about bears. Other animals too, but mostly bears. In the morning trip in, I'd managed to spook myself that a particular pile of large boulders was a prime bear den spot, and gave it a wide berth. Now I kept talking out loud to the "bears", telling them how I didn't believe in hunting, that my ice axe was also a 45-70 rifle with eight shots, because the rangers make us carry them, that I hated to bother them; just talking, talking, talking, hoping that the sound of my voice would scare off any animals there, and, I suppose, to hear the reassuring sound of my voice.

Each time in the past I'd tried to make this overland trek, I'd gotten really frustrated and angry with the brush -- slipping and sliding and falling and grabbing devils club -- but tonight I kept myself calm this way, talking to myself, saying that every step was a step closer to the car. There was enough starlight that I could see the shape of the mountain to my left, and see enough of the brush that I only had to turn on my headlamp infrequently. I came upon my footprints three different times, which was a great relief.

Finally, as my arms were getting weak from pulling myself through the brush, I saw that I was approaching the ice cave area. I followed my footprints, again turning the headlamp on and off as I needed to, since what I feared most was loosing the light on the trail, where there was little snow and plenty of tree cover.

In the starlight the place looked even more like the ancient religious arena that it does in the daytime. Quiet, huge, stately, a rock amphitheater 3000' high. Despite the danger and the worry I gave Heidi, I am glad I was able to experience that.

The headlamp lasted all the way to the car, even though I lost the trail at a switchback. Fortunately I was close to the river, and was able to locate the bridge and get to it.

At the car, I put my ring back on, unlocked the back, took off my rainpants, boots and socks, and windbreaker. I had lost one of the gaiters, but that's a cheap price to pay. It felt really good to get into the car and head off down the road. It was 8:30. I started driving like a maniac, wanting to find a phone to call Heidi to tell her I was okay, until it occurred to me how foolish I’d look if I got in a crash now, and I slowed down.

I left the headlamp on the rest of the ride home, and it lasted, bright and clear the entire way. I stopped at Ike's in Granite Falls just after 9:00 and called Heidi, but got the voicemail, so I left her a message and continued down the road. That five minutes outside the car I got colder than I'd been the entire day.

I’d told Heidi that I would be home by 7:00; I've since learned that practically everyone underestimates just how big the mountain is, and I did too. It was a bit more of an adventure than I'd really planned on, but I felt a great deal of satisfaction at it's accomplishment. It still stands as one of the most fun and rewarding climbs I’ve been on, and about the only one I’ve done which impresses climbers I respect.